In this scene they are in the kitchen of his shabby-genteel New York apartment, standing in awkward proximity when she dips her finger in a jar of honey and, fixing her gaze on his apprehensive eyes, daubs his forehead with the nectar. There is a frozen silence that contains a world of sexual ambiguity—the tiniest flickers of fear, wonder and arousal play across Langella’s immobile face—and then she runs her honey-dripping fingers over the aged, ailing novelist’s lips. You can feel the audience hold its breath. In my notebook, describing the scene, I write down: “!!” It’s the moment when Wagner’s quiet, psychologically supple character study (which could be a companion piece to Philip Roth’s new novel, “Exit Ghost”) snaps into place and takes you over. I won’t say what happens. But like most of this refreshingly subtle film, it’s not what you expect, and it’s not something you’ve seen before.
