Conrad’s Kurtz is a man who failed in anmysterious way: we cannot penetrate thenprofundity of his defeat for we are notnsubjected to his fate. Coppola’s Kurtz is ansort of habitue of horror, and the wordndoes not sound altogether inscrutablenwhen he finally pronounces it. It soundsnmerely pompous and pathetic.n* * *nWith that typical, darling, feministninsouciance for the teachings of history,nMs. magazine describes, quite gleefully,nthe recent rash of women abandoningnand divorcing men as a new and legitimatenphenomenon. It is as if Helen didnnot ditch Menelaus for another man, asnif Emma did not dump Charles for “believingnoneself other and better than onenis,” and as if Moll Flanders did not coollynrun away from five legitimate husbandsntoward what can now be perceived as anlegitimate vocational call. In StartingnOver, the protagonist’s wife kicks outnher husband so she can pursue a careernof writing asinine rock lyrics. Throughoutnthe movie, however, we are not surenwhether its creators are spoofing her, ornif they consider her imbecilic dedicationnto platitudes a legitimate advance towardnwoman’s destiny.nStarting Over is generally seen as ancomment on America’s sexual revolution.nThe latter, as the more sobernamong us know, is a contrived, hyped-upnand mistreated social occurrence whosenleaders, apologists, and bards in nationalnmagazines, on TV talk shows, and innacademe want us to believe that beforenits outbreak babies came into beingnthrough distribution by parish priestsnrather than through a set of exertionsnknown since the dawn of mankind. Atnthe end of the 60’s, at the outset of then”upheaval,” a dimwitted radical clergyman,ninterviewed hy Playboy, said: “Onenof the things we are discovering is thatnwoman is not sexually passive …” Thenhumanoids educated at Berkeley, supposedlynthe fathers of the sexual revolution,nwere discovering what Babyloniannpoetry already had dealt with inndepth, but which Time and Newsweekn34inChronicles of Culturenhailed as the Second Revelation. Thesenpathetic, half-educated “revolutionaries”nbecame an unheard-of bonanza fornthe Madison Avenue spielers, the biggestnin a long history of fleecingnignoramuses. The Berkeley ideologistsnclaimed that before Screw magazine explainednit in detail, children were a resultnof parthenogenesis, while carnal delightsnwere prohibited by the Constitution, thenFBI, Chase Manhattan (which was suspectednof refusing mortgages to the sexuallynactive), and Lyndon Johnson, whonsaw them as a threat to the war. Then,nthe darkness of feminism descendednupon the nation and the learned femalenprofessoriat with a deviate bent declarednthat any sexual rapport was rape. Journalisticnexperts on libido and drives acceptednthis as gospel and interviewednleathery ladies who attributed this statenof things to the male rulers of Mobil Oil,nthe Catholic Church, and the Patrolmen’snBenevolent Association. Therefrom,na generation has emerged thatntends to believe that man’s sexual sensitivitiesnare products of beef protein,nWheaties, and the military-industrialncomplex. Unspoken, sordid minitragediesnplagued normal human beingsnthroughout the 70’s, and signs can benspotted that a new, earthshaking discoverynby Betty Friedan and Hollywoodnwill soon bedevil the mid-Manhattanncollective mind: men also have feelings.nThe feminists’ profound faith that masculinensexuality is made of cheap polyester—providednby DuPont and designednto facilitate the treatment of women accordingnto the instructions of major corporations—seemsnto be slowly receding.nWith time, someone, perhaps, will comenup with the mind-boggling discoverynthat Petrarch publicly wept because ofnLaura, Werther committed suicide becausenof Charlotte, and Theocritus keptnreminding everybody that unrequitednlove was worse than a meteorologicalndisaster.nStarting Over deals with these matters,nbut in an infinitely more clumsy,nbanal, shallow, and obtuse way thannPetrarch, Goethe, and Theocritus. How­nnnever, the very genuineness and warmthnof the subject lends it a feeble cinematicnglow which makes two hours in thenmovie house bearable.nIf Starting Over tries to dabble innthe falsifications endemic to the “sexualnrevolution,” 10 deals with its sleazynresults. It is a telephone comedy—an oldnHollywood saying for a movie in whichnthe telephone rings whenever the directornand scriptwriter do not know what tondo next. 2 0 is vulgar without beingnsmart and stupid without being naive. Itnhas a repulsive hero, puny-looking andndull, and a heroine who’s supposed to benthe ultimate in 1979 feminine pulchritudenbut somehow seems to be fabricatednfrom cheaply varnished oak. Her spiritualnequipment resembles that of anPavlovian dog: whenever she hearsnRavel’s “Bolero,” she’s ready to performnsexually with whoever happens to benaround, regardless of her marital status.nThe protagonist, who desires her madly,nfinds himself unable to realize hisndreams when he finds out about her nondiscriminatorynstance. His would be anmorally edifying weakness except for thendirector’s utter primitiveness in handlingnthe story: the authors of the movienseem to wish to condemn the new sexualndehumanization and depersonalization,nbut they do it in such an inept and ambiguousnway that most of the liberalncritics wound up adoring the movie andndefining the girl’s attitude as “sexually,nrelaxed.” As the film oozes with sexualnrelaxation, and finally drowns in thenheavy gravy of fleshpot trivialities, it cannbe safely assumed that the attemptednmessage will be easily ignored, whilenAmerican girls will try to look likenwooden Barbie dolls and carry cassettenrecordings of Ravel in their bags. Theynprobably will describe these little thingsnas their moral crutches, or securitynblankets.nThe director tells this tale in a slapsticknstyle of hectic aimlessness: one getsnan impression that nothing would makenhim happier than to have the Keystonen