St. Louis Eats and Drinks With Joe and Ann Pollack

An Unfortunate Episode

Watch those credit cards. While most errors are innocent, they can still lead you into a trail of confusion and irritation. This is from the St. Louis Magazine blog Relish.

Frontenac Grill

And so a restaurant that began as a Coco's, that mid-price, polite version of Denny's, has gone through a few name changes, like a Las Vegas grass widow, and now it's come full circle to be the Frontenac Grill. The project was mostly completed by the late Mike Faille, whose more-or-less full story appeared in St. Louis Magazine last year; he was the man who brought us Talayna's Pizza, stained glass and overwrought statuary. Lawyers for the Sinatra estate, and the very aura of Frontenac eliminated much of that heritage, showing its ancestry in many, emphasis many, large photographs of Frank Sinatra and his Rat Pack pals. We're great admirers of Francis Albert Sinatra's singing, but this is not (yet) a spot for the cabaret tunes of the swingin' life he exemplified.

Lights are romantically low, and there are two bar areas, with tables between. Prices are on the high side, but note the location and the name, which define high rent district.

However, primarily -- and happily -- the Frontenac Grill is about the food. Restaurants that are an excuse for something else are, well, poor excuses for restaurants. “Steaks Pasta Pizza” says the sign on Lindbergh Boulevard, and that mostly covers things. And yet there are plenty of details that make sure this isn't taken for just another old-fashioned St. Louis Italian restaurant. And in the kitchen is the executive chef David Timney, who has been successfully feeding St. Louisans more than 20 years

At the top of the appetizer list, for instance, is calamari, and right next to it are crab beignets. The calamari's breading is crunchy and extremely well drained. Alongside are a warm tomato sauce, a little chunky and garlicky, not surprising but pleasant, and aioli, garlic mayonnaise that had been spiked with sriracha, the Southeast Asian hot sauce. Good stuff. In the dimly lit dining room, we thought perhaps it was a remoulade, but whatever the name, it was terrific.

Crab beignets? Ping pong-ball-sized orbs, crumbed on the outside before a trip through the fryer, and inside a gooey center, probably the fontina cheese the menu mentions, with the crab meat and a dab of crab seasoning ala Old Bay. A real winner, making the accompanying sauce superfluous.

Given the restaurant's heritage, pizza was a must as an appetizer to share. Four kinds, St. Louis thin crust, Chicago deep-dish, New York, described as thick bread dough, and Boston, a new one to us. Ann ate a fair amount of pizza in western Massachusetts many years ago, but there was little to distinguish from its counterparts elsewhere. Today's Frontenac version is partially baked and finished on a grill. We found it extremely tasty. Thick by St. Louis standards, it wore a chunky tomato sauce, a light hand with mozzarella and “other cheeses,” and our addition, some salami. Salami is under-appreciated as a pizza topping; it adds the same saltiness as anchovies, plus a little more chew. Cut into julienne, it almost disappeared into the chunky sauce, but showed in the flavor. This was a first-rate pie, one we'd happily order again and again. Just don't let us hear anyone moaning because it's different. Grandma's apple pie and the one made by the cousin who lived in Virginia apple country were different from each other, too.

Most enjoyable among our entrees was the pork chop. Brining is the best thing to happen to pork since the barbecue pit, virtually guaranteeing a juicy, tender piece of pig. This guy was perfectly cooked – the kitchen prefers to do it medium, which is quite acceptable – and topped with a salad of shredded arugula, tart and slightly bitter. The other ingredient was slivers of something slightly crisp, a little sweet, and a faded red color. Too dark for us to distinguish with accuracy, the light of day on the leftovers proved Joe right; it was tomatoes. The sweetness was a good contrast to the greens, which wilted slightly from the chop's heat, and worked well with the meat. We chose an alfredo sauce to go with the pasta side, and it was mild, benefiting from salt and black pepper.

Veal piccata, one of those St. Louis classics by which Italian restaurants should be judged, brought tender slices of veal, hammered thin and sprinkled with the traditional capers. The pan sauce, thickened with flour from the meat's preparation, could have shown a little more lemon, but that's a matter of personal preference. Tutto mare pasta can be sauced with a cream sauce or olive oil. Mussels and clams, plus good shrimp but a minimal amount of crab topped the pasta, but the olive oil option was just not flavorful enough. The ribbons of pasta were reasonably close to al dente, but overall this dish was a miss. Given Timney's prowess. we think that the unassertive seasoning will eventually shape up.

On the dessert front, an apple tart with streusel topping worked well, displaying an excellent crust and nicely tart apples with a little nutmeg to offset the sweet streusel, all topped with cinnamon ice cream. A light, tender bread pudding was scooped into three small balls and drizzled with raspberry and chocolate. Both tasty.

Weekend nights, the Grill offers live music, and as the tables in front of the musicians empty, the tables are removed to make way for dancers. During our visit, a trio began with Al Jarreau and Al Green, and morphed into nostalgic music of the '60's and '70's. Plenty of dancing from a crowd whose dress varied from sparkly tops to pressed jeans and cowboy boots. Our server was pleasant to deal with but slightly disorganized; we guess he was pretty new to the game.

 

Frontenac Grill

731 S. Lindbergh Blvd., Frontenac314-569-4115

www.frontenacgrill.com

Lunch Mon.-Sat., Dinner nightly

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Good

Smoking: No

Entrees: $13-$37

Way to Heaven

The theater is an excellent place to look at what is real and what is false, and whether what is occurring on stage actually happened, and why, or if the playwright is taking us along on a leap of fantasy directly from his, or her, imagination. "Way to Heaven," which opened last night as a New Jewish Theatre production at the Jewish Community Center, is another view of an extremely strange event that took place during World War II, written by Juan Mayorga, a Spanish playwright.

In the middle of the war, reports of the Holocaust, of concentration camps and furnaces and extermination of large numbers of people, began to leak out into the American press. The International Red Cross heard the reports, too, and decided to send investigators to see if civilian prisoners were treated as well as military prisoners, to see if the Nazis were following the rules of the Geneva Convention. When the Germans heard this, they developed a scenario. The camp at Theresienstadt, Czechoslovakia (Terezin is the Czech word), became a small village, with a soccer field, a town hall, houses, even a synagogue. Inmates were given roles, and scripts, and direction, and when the inspectors arrived, in June, 1944, they saw a play, went home and wrote reports that all was well. The "actors" were shipped to Auschwitz or Dachau and murdered.

Mayorga's play bounces here and there in a non-sequential, non-linear fashion, but it's very strong, and Doug Finlayson directs without flair or furbelow, but with real style. The three main characters are excellent. Jerry Vogel is the Red Cross investigator, Jason Cannon the German commandant of the camp and Terry Meddows the unofficial leader of the prisoners, given the task of being what amounts to the "director" of the play created by Cannon. And there is a chilling, heart-rending performance by Elizabeth Teeter as a little girl who tries to teach her doll to swim in a small stream that crosses the stage, and who sings, too.

The play is divided into five sections: Vogel's lengthy monologue opens things. It's years later as he talks about what he saw and how he responded, and how he was a victim of an awesome snow-job by the commander, who quoted Spinoza and Shakespeare and showed off his library. Vogel remembers how Cannon told him about the town clock, more than 400 years old, and how Meddows accompanied them as they strolled through tow n.

We then jump backward in time to a scene by the townspeople. Boys play with a top; one asks his friend what his sister looks like when she takes her clothes off. A young couple (Scott McMaster and Julie Layton) talk about their future, bicker about their present. Young Teeter is very patient with her doll-student, reminding her to breathe, to use her arms and legs. The boys are played by Braden Phillips. Parker Donovan, Matthew Howard, Leo Ramsey and Drew Redington, and Shaina Schrooten portrays another young woman.

Cannon takes the stage next for a long monologue, displaying his knowledge, quoting various philosophers, discussing the "Jewish problem," and, whenever he fails to understand something, falling back on, "It must be Jewish humor." He's physically perfect for the role and, like Vogel and Meddows, makes a vivid impression.

The fourth section involves Cannon and Meddows, selecting the cast, discussing problems. Cannon forces Meddows to reject some actors, though both know the rejects will either be on a train to a death camp or on "the way to heaven" (himmelweg in German), the name sardonically given a ramp from the railroad station to a building that the Commandant describes as an infirmary but which is a gas chamber that the Red Cross representative does not enter. And when Meddows resists, Cannon has a simple, irrefutable statement, "If they're working here, they're not on the train."

Along the way, Meddows asks Cannon why the Jews have been given shoes without laces, and Cannon does not answer. He doesn't refuse; he just goes off in another direction. Did he drop a line? Did the author lose his train of thought? My answers: It's difficult to run (away) when your shoes are flopping around your feet, and I wouldn't put potential weapons in the hands of my prisoners. Or maybe it's to prevent them hanging themselves.

And in the final section, Meddows talks to his cast, cajoling and supporting and teaching and praising. Knowing the results, it's heart-breaking.

It's a terrific evening of theater, sensitive, well-acted and powerful, and it will run through Feb. 12. Tech work is strong, with John Stark's twisted forest backdrop looking as if it had come from the Brothers Grimm and Michele Friedman's costumes looking quite proper for the time and place. And a quibble: With all discussion of the trains, and even though we're told that they arrive at 6 a.m., it would have added to the effect to hear a little more whistle now and then.

Way to Heaven opened last night (January 26) as a production of the New Jewish Theatre at the Jewish Community Center, to run through Feb. 12

-- Joe

Albert Nobbs

With Glenn Close and Janet McTeer providing dazzling performances, the sad, intimate, always-reaching-but-never-touching story that is "Albert Nobbs," falls short of excellence, a conclusion I intensely disliked having to reach. But the movie, which opens here today, fails to strike the necessary chord. Perhaps the brilliant Close is just too tightly wrapped, disappearing into herself too often.

It's a project that Close, such a the wonderful actor, has worked on ever since 1982, when she did an off-Broadway production of the play, written by Simone Benmussa and based on George Moore's 1918 story. Close also served as one of the producers, co-wrote the screenplay with Gabriella Prokop and John Banville, and contributed lyrics to Brian Byrne's original music.

St. Louis theater buffs may recall a production by Theatre Project Company, starring Fontaine Syer, in the 1980s, performed at the old Gatesworth on Union boulevard.

Close, tight-lipped and almost silent, poses as a man to be the title character, working as a waiter at Morrison's Hotel in Dublin. There is a strict pecking order among the staff, and there is an aura of politeness and tact. They speak formally to one another in strict adherence to late 19th-century manners and morals. Close, living in constant fear of being found out, seems to almost disappear into the wallpaper. She hides her savings under a floorboard in the depressing room, checking their safety at least once a day. And then Hubert Page (Janet McTeer) shows up. Tall and taking long, shambling strides, he's a house painter -- and also a woman. McTeer absorbs the role in glorious fashion, and in my opinion, both she and Close deserve the Academy Awards for which they have been nominated. They are so alike, and so different, that it's amazing, and to see Hubert try to teach Albert is a warm and wonderful thing. Their outing on the beach at Brighton is a sheer delight.

Pauline Collins is Mrs. Baker, who runs the hotel, flirts with the (male) customers, winks at any immoral thoughts by them, and has a splendid run-in with Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, who's a high-style guest. Brendan Gleeson, as a physician with richly developed carnal desires, is another acting highlight, as is Mia Wasikowska as Helen, a young waitress.

Mr. Nobbs, who probably has never had a sexual experience, perhaps only a handful of sexual thought, has a goal for that under-the-floorboard stash, and "walks out" with Helen, adopting a protective air. Meanwhile, of course, she has no idea of what Helen is like and where her allegiance lies. For all her made-up life, for all her duplicity, she's an innocent.

Unfortunately, and despite a full complement of outstanding acting, and stylish direction from Rodrigo Garcia, there just is not enough story, not enough interaction among the characters, to fill a feature-length film.

Albert Nobbs opens today at several theaters

-- Joe

Man on a Ledge

We're not very far into "Man on a Ledge," when we realize that Nick Cassidy (Sam Worthington) is no more going to jump off the Roosevelt Hotel window ledge than you and I. But what's he doing out there?

That comes clear a little while later as this hodge-podge of a movie combines dozens of cops-and-robbers cliches in an often-turgid, occasionally lively tale, written by Pablo F. Fenjes , whose claim to fame is that he was the ghost-writer of the book in which O. J. Simpson "imagined" he was the perpetrator of the crime for which he was found not guilty.

Cassidy is a former New York policeman and a criminal who has served time, now taking the fall for David Englander (a wasted Ed Harris), a richer and smarter criminal. But Cassidy has figured a way to get back at Englander and enrich himself at the same time. So while he stands on the ledge and talks with the police psychologist (Elizabeth Banks), his kid brother, Joey (Jamie Bell) and his cute, brash, sexy-tough girl friend, Angie (Genesis Rodriguez) are doing a little work patterned after any (or every) episode of "Mission: Impossible." They're crawling through building pipes while taking instruction from the elder brother.

Director Asger Lath gets some extra mileage by shooting the crowd down below and getting some good work from Kyra Sedgwick as Suzie Morales, a brash TV reporter.

The acting is fine, and the pacing is good. The writing is just so sloppy that there's very little worthwhile entertainment going on, either on the ledge or the street corner -- or in the building's innards.

Man on a Ledge opens today (January 27) at several theaters.

-- Joe

Saffron

We wrote about Saffron for the print edition of St. Louis Magazine. You can read that review here.

Lester's Sports Bar & Grill

What does it take to make a sports bar? Many television sets, of course, all tuned to an all-sports station that features either games or loud conversations by groups of former athletes forever interrupting one another or questioning someone's manhood -- maybe both at the same time. And what about a sports bar and grill, like Lester's in the Central West End, just east of the intersection of Euclid and Maryland? Does the addition of "grill" mean better meals, or just more toasted ravioli, burgers and chicken wings?

Lester's certainly has the television sets, and a large U-shaped bar. And a dining room to the east of the bar, with plenty of television but a lower ambient noise level. And a patio and a rooftop terrace, in a neighborhood where dining and/or drinking outside is The Thing To Do, or will be when the weather warms a little. Lester's also has a key ingredient for success in St. Louis restaurants -- parking, right next door. Sadly, at least to us, the kitchen closes at 10 p.m., though it stretches to 11 on Fridays and Saturdays. We think that post-event (theatrical, musical or sporting) activities should lead with a drink and a snack, and a 10 o'clock close cuts everything too fine.

But Lester's offers a wider-ranging menu, like salads, barbecue and delicatessen sandwiches on rye bread it says is baked in house, in addition to toasted ravioli and chicken wings.

A conclusion: Yes, Lester's Sports Bar & Grill is a sports bar, and a grill, too, which seems to draw a slightly older, more mixed audience.

Lester Miller's aim, going back to his Clayton Road digs, apparently was for a delicatessen of the style of the Stage or the Carnegie, or the Second Avenue, in New York, or maybe Canter's, in L. A., but not enough St. Louisans are up for it. The compromise comes close to working, but the sports theme obviously was a necessity.

It's easy, if you'll excuse the phrase, to chicken-out on appetizers. Chicken soup with a matzo ball was a winner, deep-flavored chicken broth with a few vegetables, some pieces of chicken and a fat, baseball-sized matzo ball in the middle. The ball was of the floater school, matzo balls traditionally being divided into floaters and sinkers, and it was light, even fluffy, and tender, a good example of that traditional dumpling. And the wings are available three ways, a dry rub, Buffalo-style or tossed with garlic, lemon and pepper. An order of dry-rubbed brought a good-sized serving of fat, juicy wings, nicely seasoned with subtle things beyond and pepper, very worthwhile.

If we want to continue the puns, we can talk about beefing up other appetizers. Quesadillas, something we've always thought of as an adult version of a grilled cheese sandwich, work well with Lester's smoked brisket added to the cheddar and pepper jack cheeses and grilled onions. The salsa was chunky and mild, and the guacamole was inoffensive. But the brisket's contribution was significant, raising these guys to first-rate. The same brisket appears in the house chili, another mildly spiced dish, very tasty but heavy on the vegetables and chunks of tomato, and therefore a little sweet.

On the sandwich side (there are no entrees, just sandwiches and some ribs), the menu features the deli offerings, sandwiches of smoked brisket, pastrami, corned beef or smoked turkey breast. Alas, the pastrami fails, too lightly seasoned and too lean by far. Diet-friendly, perhaps, but not what many of us prefer. The pulled pork sandwich was properly smoky, and reasonably moist, if not deeply pig-flavored. The barbecue sauce was pretty mild, tomato-based and sweet.

Fat half-pound hamburgers can be topped with grilled onions, bacon or cheese for an extra dollar; ours, with the grilled onions, turned out to be close to the as-ordered rare, and very juicy, better than many of its kin in similar establishments. But the so-called award winning grilled all-beef hot dog showed exactly one grill mark, and its internal temperature reflected that lack of acquaintance with the heat source. The bun, too, was cold (unlike the hamburger's). Uninspiring.

Except for the french fries, all the sides (potato salad, slaw and baked beans) were quite sweet. The potato salad, so cold it was close to frozen, lacked zip, and so did the slaw. Beans sported a bit of meat, but lacked acidity to offset the overdose of brown sugar.

Dessert goes a couple of steps up from some of the sports-bar cliches. A chocolate layer cake, cold but moist and rich, was dark and nicely moderate in its sweetness. We'd order it again. Cheesecake keeps to the deli theme. It arrived drizzled with some sort of red berry puree, almost but not quite raspberry, and thickened to nearly a gel. The inside of the cake was the texture of cream cheese, which Joe liked and Ann didn't. Closer to the edges (and thus the heat source), it was cake-ier, less gooey and with more of the classic cheesecake texture. Overall, it was satisfactory, with its graham cracker crust, but the puree subtracted a few points.

Good service, both early in the evening and later, though we fear the noise level would be almost lethal on certain game days. But that's a sports bar.

 

Lester's Sports Bar & Grill

4651 Maryland Ave.

314-932-6040

www.lestersrestaurant.com

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Fair

Smoking: No

Sandwiches: $7-$15

Oleanna

Clarence Thomas has been a U.S. Supreme Court Justice since 1991, approved by the Senate in a 52-48 vote, the narrowest confirmation margin ever, amid a lot of sexual harassment discussion involving Anita Hill. A year later, "ripped from the headlines" in "Law & Order" style, "Oleanna" opened on Broadway as David Mamet's take on the hearings and the confirmation.

The searing drama opened last night as the first play of Hot City Theatre's 2012 season, and regardless of gender, it will make your skin crawl with pain and your toes curl in terror. Annamaria Pileggi's never-a-pause direction, and solid performances by John Pierson and Rachel Fenton make the 90-minute-no-intermission play speed by like the City of New Orleans through the Mississippi countryside.

The Broadway production, directed by the playwright, starred William Macy and Rebecca Pidgeon (Mamet's wife). The 1994 movie, also directed by Mamet, starred Macy and Debra Eisenstadt.

John's office, a small room with a desk piled with paper and the blue books even I used in college exams. He's seated at the desk. Carol, a rather plain co-ed, brown hair tied back, glasses on her nose, stands nearby. She doesn't understand, she says. What don't you understand, he asks. Everything, she says.

Turns out she claims not to understand anything from John's class, or John's book, or John's lectures. She says she's stupid. He insists she's not. They talk past one another. Neither appears to listen properly.

A phone interrupts often, mostly when tension is highest, or when an important statement is begun, a key question asked. From John's end, we learn that he and his wife are about to buy a fancy house, betting on the come that the college's tenure committee, meeting that day, will recommend him for tenure and a big raise. John, of course, is distracted. He tries to comfort Carol, but he's pompous and condescending, making foolish statements. She gets more and more frustrated; as she appears to lose it, he holds her arms, trying awkwardly to comfort her, but still keeping her at arms' length.

Confusion reigns. Disagreement? Certainly. Misunderstandings? Every phrase. Harassment? Damned if I know.

A blackout sends us into Act II. Or Scene II. It's a few days or a few weeks later (the program doesn't bother with a time line), and we're back in John's office. The tenor has changed. Carol, part of a group that sounds like one of Chairman Mao's truth squads, has protested to the university and to the tenure committee that John's behavior has been a clear case of harassment, ranging on the sexual. John is aghast. Stupid? Of course. Patronizing? Probably. Harassment? As I said earlier, Damned if I know.

Carol and her "group," their blood at a galloping boil, want John's scalp, and the rest of his skin, too. He's twisting in the wind, seeing his tenure gone, his house with it, maybe his job as well. Another blackout. John now is coming apart; his separation letter in his hands, Carol again in his office, gloating a little, but offering a deal. . . .

The acting is very good. Pierson, supercilious and pontificating in the early going, becomes a shadow. Fenton, whose star rises as his sinks, keeps everything simple, as befitting a college student, but power goes to her head as it did to his. Pileggi's direction is stripped clean of nonsense. Like a U-boat torpedo, it is on target and merciless. An excellent drama, not nearly as dated as I feared it would be. Mamet's dialogue crackles as sharply today as it did 20 years ago, and we'll get a chance to compare 1992 with 2009 when his drama, "Race," whose title makes the subject matter perfectly clear, opens at the Rep. on Feb. 10.

Oleanna, by David Mamet, produced by the Hot Ciy Theatre Company, opened Jan. 20 at the Kranzberg Theatre, to run through Feb 4

--Joe

A Steady Rain

The Chicago School of drama, led by such as David Mamet, Nelson Algren and Tracy Letts, involves pain, profanity and polarization, in almost-equal parts. It's well-represented in newcomer Keith Huff's "A Steady Rain," which opened last night in the Rep's Studio Theatre and will run through Feb. 5.

It's tough theater, directed in proper style by Steven Woolf, with powerful acting from Joey Collins as Denny and Michael James Reed as Joey. It plays out in a gloomy police precinct interrogation room, though the actors' conversations leads us to living rooms and other places, but the location is unimportant. We have two characters in a love-hate relationship, like so many two-handers, but it certainly holds our focus, or did mine until a softball ending left me squirming.

Denny and Joey are lifelong friends; Italian-American Denny and Irish-American Joey went to "kinnergarten" together. As grown-ups, at least physically, they're beat cops, passed over for promotion because they don't deserve it. Joey drinks, Denny is on the take from streetwalkers and pimps, which he defends as preserving the capitalistic system and protecting the girls from violence. And his almost-constant profanity, much of it close to being racially tinged, makes others uncomfortable, which is the mildest possible description.

As Denny says, "You got a problem with the bottle, I got a problem with my mouth. We're helping each other out, right?"

Joey, who has been the victim of Denny's sadistic bullying since childhood, says nothing. He lives alone, with a bottle as a companion. Denny, honestly trying to keep his buddy sober, invites him for dinner a lot. Denny has a house and a family; he is so protective of them that he's willing to demonstrate to his wife, two children and a dog named Heinz what he is protecting them from. A classic controlling bully and abuser.

Denny also is having a feud with a pimp, partly over a girl named Rhonda, whom Denny also likes, invites to dinner, offers to Joey. A real buddy, right? And when the two policemen carelessly make a terrible mistake, the balloon goes up.

Both Collins and Reed offer strong performances; Collins' ice-blue eyes make some of his anger even more frightening, and Woolf's direction turns both men into fierce creatures. Robert Mark Morgan's set is magnificently drab, with window blinds that occasionally open to show a city out there, and Dorothy Marshall Englis' costumes are a perfect match. Peter Sargent's lighting helps create an impressive mood. It's a worthy production, but a shame that Huff didn't finish as strongly as he began.

A Steady Rain, a Repertory Theatre of St. Louis Studio Theatre production, opened Jan. 20 and will run through Feb. 5

--Joe

A Dangerous Method

Michael Fassbender has been on movie screens everywhere, it seems, playing a variety of characters and handling all of them very well. "A Dangerous Method," in which he portrays Carl Jung, "Haywire," an action flick, and "Shame," in which he's a cold sex addict, all open here today. ("Shame" will be the next review.) They bring to five the number of 2011 films in which he was prominent, including starring roles in "X-Men: First Class," and "Jane Eyre."

His breakout role came three years ago in "Inglorious Basterds," and he got a lot of very good notices when he portrayed Bobby Sands, the Irish revolutionary who starved himself to death, in "Hunger," in 2008. The 34-year-old actor was born in Germany to an Irish mother and a German father, grew up in Ireland and currently works out of London.

With Fassbender as Jung, Viggo Mortensen as a marvelous, very human Freud, and Keira Knightley as Sabina Spielrein, as complex and sexual a woman as the screen can show, "A Dangerous Method" highlights two things -- talking and making love -- that humans can do exceptionally well, and David Cronenberg's direction keeps ears and eyes riveted to the screen.

The first scene sets a strong tone as Spielrein, riding in a carriage to a mental hospital in Switzerland in the first decade of the 20th century, has a world-class temper tantrum. It's staggeringly powerful, and it sets up the young woman as a power to be reckoned with. She's to be treated by Jung, and she travels from patient to lover to peer in a series of brilliant scenes that show both Knightley and Fassbender as fierce performers on the screen.

And it's interesting that Fassbender, who plays sex addict (bad term, but it works) in "Shame," is involved with far more sensuality and the fanning of sexual appetites as he and Knightley go at it in "A Dangerous Method." Spielrein, a real person whose intellectual interaction with Freud is as powerful as her physical one with Jung, became a psychoanalyst in her native Russia and was murdered by German soldiers in the early days of World War II.

Cronenberg's direction is powerful, too, working from a screenplay by Christopher Hampton, adapted from his play, "The Talking Cure," based on a novel by John Kerr. Outstanding writing and direction make this a natural for fine actors, and Mortensen gleams like a rare gem as Freud, bringing him a delightful sense of humor. Jung treats Spielrein, who sits on a couch as one of the first people to undergo "psychanalysis," as Jung calls it. Freud convinces him to add an 'o,' turning it into the "psychoanalysis" we call it today.

The two men, Freud as the mentor, have a wonderful relationship, and hearing them talk as they walk in a series of beautifully-manicured gardens, is exciting. There's also fine acting from Sarah Gadon as Jung's wife, Emma, but exciting work from Fassbender, who is having Spielrein on the side, as it were, and Mortensen, as the man who may have been the 20th century's most famous -- certainly its most quoted -- physician.

A Dangerous Method opens today at several theaters

-- Joe