THAT COLD DAY IN THE PARK

When That Cold Day in the Park premiered in 1969, it was met with lukewarm, if not outright dismissive, critical reception.  Today, its Rotten Tomatoes score stands at a mild 50%, but I find that judgment sorely lacking.  As Robert Altman’s fourth directorial effort, and his first foray into psychological drama, the film may not reach the heights of his later masterpieces, but it remains a striking and quietly unsettling work that deserves some thoughtful reconsideration.

At the center of the film is a spellbinding performance by Sandy Dennis, an actress known for her neurotic precision and emotional vulnerability.  Here, she plays Frances Austen, a woman of means and propriety, seemingly untouched by the cultural upheavals of the late 1960s.  Frances lives a life of quiet repression, surrounded by older friends, isolated in her spacious Vancouver apartment, and tethered to a lonely routine… until she notices a young man sitting alone on a park bench in the rain.

Her decision to invite the silent, unnamed boy into her home marks the beginning of a slow-burning psychological unraveling.  Initially, her care for him seems maternal.  But as the young man remains mute and passive, her intentions grow murkier, and more disturbing.  She draws him a bath, removes his wet clothes, and soon begins to impose a kind of possessive intimacy that is less about connection and more about control.

Michael Burns gives a nuanced, almost wordless performance as the boy. With no dialogue, he relies entirely on subtle physicality and expression, and his presence carries an ambiguity that keeps the viewer on edge. His passivity veils a quiet cunning; while Frances sees in him a chance at companionship, or something more, he seems content to coast on her hospitality while keeping his emotional distance.  This unspoken power dynamic becomes the film’s central tension.

Altman, even in this early stage of his career, is already beginning to experiment with the stylistic flourishes that would later define his work. One particularly memorable scene takes place in a women’s health clinic, where Frances is being fitted for a diaphragm (a decision that confirms her sexual intentions toward the boy). Altman’s camera follows Frances, but the audio remains fixed on a trio of women in the waiting room discussing pregnancy and men’s penis sizes!  It’s a bold choice and one that cleverly draws attention to the film’s undercurrent of sexual repression and desire without spelling it out.

As Frances’s obsession deepens, the boy becomes increasingly manipulative, enjoying the comforts of her home while denying her the emotional validation she so desperately craves. Their relationship is a careful inversion of predator and prey; both characters are victims and villains in their own right, entangled in a psychological stalemate where each imagines themself the victor.

The film’s climax arrives with startling abruptness just minutes before the closing credits, a structure that may frustrate some viewers but is entirely intentional.  It evokes Psycho, another film centered on repression and disturbed identity, where the final twist lands just before the end.  Like Hitchcock’s classic, That Cold Day in the Park lingers long after it’s over, not because of a final reveal, but because of the quiet, creeping dread that permeates its every frame.

In retrospect, it’s unfortunate that the film was overlooked upon its release and has since remained on the periphery of Altman’s filmography. While not flawless, it is a daring, uncomfortable, and at times haunting film that deserves a second look, not just as an early Altman experiment, but as a compelling piece of psychological cinema in its own right.