succeeded in making a comedy which isnrooted in a doctrinaire outloolt. A doctrinairencomedy cannot use laughter asnits substance; it can operate on a scoffnor a sneer, but not on hilarity. But lifenis even more cruel to the creators ofnPrivate Benjamin: they wound up withna caricature of comedy—a feat in itself,nto be sure.nThe script of PB is based on the immutablenverity that all men are eithernidiots or lechers (even if they successfullynmask it) or both—the last categorynbeing the hard core of the PB’s auteurs’ntypology. The differentiation is only betweennpathetic idiots/lechers, menacingnones and creepy ones. As a subspecies tonthe idiot/lecher genus, we notice chauvinistnloudmouths, mental robots, imbecilesnand the animated pulp of ever-trottingnsoldiers. That’s the sum total of thenmasculine variety of humankind. Innhealthy contrast to this dispiriting notion,nwomen are good or bad, dumb ornclever, motivated by feelings, ignominiesnof existence, sophisticated impulsesnand beautiful sentimentalities. Lovemaking,naccording to this vision of thenworld, consists of instant writhing, melancholic,nexpressive feminine sighs andnbestial masculine grunts. What somehownevens out the analysis of both sexes’napproach to love-making is the firm convictionnof the authors that the simplenproximity of males to females is enoughnreason immediately to jump into bed—nor any other available facility.nLiberal CulturenSexology at WaynenWayne State University is anmodern site of learning, so it hasna sexologist, one Dr. CarolenMarks. This scientist should notnbe taken lightly by nonsexologists,nand we should all feel indebtednto New York magazine,nwhich reprinted her momentousndiscoveries. Among them:n’. . . oral sex is far more likelynto be practiced by politicalnliberals . . .’n3SinChronicles of CulturenSmall wonder, in a comedy structurednon such a deep vision of human affairs,nthat the only inducement to merrimentnis the heroine’s aptitude for wrinklingnher face, pouting her lips, grimacingnand kvetching. Everything else elicits ansort of cackle from the audience, butnnever anything like that which we callednlaughter in the bygone eras of Chaplinnand Keaton. After all, one is watchingna Three Stooges routine re-enacted by anplatoon of women. The singularly woodennhand of the director—who knowsnnothing about making a cinematic, letnalone comedic, point in a given situation—makesnthis kind of entertainmentnunbearable.nOne serious question emerges: is thenmovie a parody on the U.S. Army, or isnthe U.S. Army already a parody toutncourt, where sociosexual shenanigansna la Screw and Ms. magazine constitutenits rationale.^ We have no answer tonthat. Besides, it’s now Mr. Reagan’snproblem.nWatching this supposedly thoughtfulnpiece of movie-making, one soonnrealizes that what stands for “people”nin it is a peculiar breed, dispossessed ofnmankind’s weighty prerogative: the humannright to be both sensitive and sensible.nIn other words the people on thenscreen—rather decent and not particularlynstupid—are somehow unable tonandnDr. Marks said there’s anconnection between politicalnviews and sex. ‘Just asnDemocrats are more likelynto favor the Equal RightsnAmendment, so are theynmore likely to favor thenwoman-on-top position . . .’.nThe magnitude of the last observationnis in its imposing simplicity.nWe wonder what longnand strenuous research went intonobtaining this dazzling conclusion.nDnnndistinguish between sensitivity and sensibilitynin dealing with each other.nWhich, after a while, acquires the dimensionnof a metaphor. Unfortunately,nthe symbolism is stale, if not rancid.nThe youthful protagonist is traumatizednby the loss of an older brother inna boating accident. His conscience isntroubled, leading him first to attemptnsuicide, then to a psychiatric hospitalnand finally to a private psychoanalyst.nHe wants to regain control of himself,naccording to his own words. However,nwhat he is really seeking from the doctornis love and acceptance, which he isngetting only in a diluted way from hisnfather and not at all from his mother,nwho rejects him, apparently for the simplenreason that the drowned boy was hernmost beloved son. His is a valid quest,nif somewhat minimalistic—neither lovennor acceptance can ever quite bail outnany thinking man from the quandariesnof guilt and inadequacy. Religion, ornany codified system of moral standards,nmight be of some help, but Redford’sn”ordinary people” of wealthy Chicagonsuburbia are fully detached from suchnspiritual guidelines. Quarter-of-a-million-dollarnhomes, golf and the pseudocamaraderienof upper-class living mustnsuffice for moral framework. They donhave one philosophical recourse—psychology.nWell-to-do tax lawyers do notnponder principles of human conditions,nnor do they measure themselves againstnethical truths. They believe in jargon;npsychobabble is their liturgy. The youngnman’s search for moral and emotionalnrehabilitation seems, in the beginning,nquite honorable; his turning to a psychoanalystnfor solace strikes an objectivenobserver as a trivial letdown. In thisnworld of fancy drawing rooms and blazers,nnobody seems to have the resourcesnto live his or her own life. Even thenshrink, who initially appears to be anserious and trustworthy man, dives intonplatitudes once he begins to “help”:nsuddenly, we are looking not at people,nlet alone ordinary people, but at stupidnand vulgar features from the pages ofnEsquire and New York magazine. Then