David Bentley Hart‘s That All Shall Be Saved is a brilliant book of religious thinking, of universalist thought (and usually not perplexing). I too subscribe to the belief that all people will finally be saved through faith in Jesus Christ.

Hart nails it that most Christians do not really believe in hell. Rather they believe in their believing in hell: not the same thing. And in a predestination system, if hell exists, to saved people (Hart argues) God is love. To the damned he is hate. Yet the Bible doesn’t teach this. Nobody will see God as hate. Consider the inspiring translation of First Timothy 2:3-4 with which Hart opens his book—“Our savior God . . .intends that all human beings shall be saved and come to a full knowledge of the truth.” God-as-love intends this.

Almost nothing the British colonists of The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith (1979) say and do apropos of the Australian aboriginal natives is morally right, and this goes for the minister, the Rev. Neville, too. (An exception is a schoolmaster called McCready.) Among the natives, who are black, is Jimmie Blacksmith, half-white, a cheerful, sometimes coarse but intelligent young man guided by Neville. Jimmie is cruelly mistreated by white employers, given to withholding wages, references, etc. Things get worse after the self-improving fellow marries a white girl who unexpectedly gives birth to a white baby, a child of fornication. With three mouths to feed, including his own, Jimmie still encounters stinginess and exploitation until he snaps. He begins to murder with a gun the unfeeling whites.

The film, by Fred Schepisi, lacks a wholly satisfying plot, as when Jimmie hires on as a police officer. Its honesty sometimes slips. Usually having a brutal honesty, however, Chant rightly asks us to muster compassion for the desperate Jimmie. We do so, appreciating what is tragic and bloody art (based on a novel by Thomas Keneally). But the film is also “modern” enough to libel Christianity, for one character mentions that Jimmie has been buggered by the faith. I don’t see this as being the truth.

The picture stars Tommy Lewis, Ray Barrett and a magnificent Peter Carroll as McCready.

Happily married Frederic conducts a secret relationship with Chloe which is not an affair. By and by Chloe says she desires a child fathered by Frederic; nothing more. But this is a lie, for Chloe also admits she is in love with Frederic. Will Frederic be seduced?

Behold Love in the Afternoon (1972) by Eric Rohmer. Quiet and smart, it stars the husband and wife team of Bernard (Frederic) and Francoise Verley (Frederic’s wife) as well as Zouzou as Chloe. All three actors are credible, the women unconventionally attractive. There is nothing wrong with the buttocks they expose.

Rohmer knew how to write moral tales, no doubt about it: Love in the Afternoon is part of his Six Moral Tales series. It is both subtle and easy to understand. And successfully directed.

(In French with English subtitles)

The United States is more or less a loony bin these days, primarily due to the thinking of the Left. The 1979 Winter Kills is directed and screenwritten by William Richert, adapted from a novel by Richard Condon. Herein, too, the U.S. is more or less a loony bin, primarily due to the actions of political who-knows-what-they-are—the actions, in fact, of assassins.

But the film is as preposterous as it is convoluted. On the other hand, there is a lot of enticing footage. Pa Kegan is the immoral and insensitive Joe Kennedy of the film, and in the finest sequence here, Kegan’s son Nick (Jeff Bridges) rides a fast horse to several nice spots in order to vent his frustration over Pa. Comedy and tragedy in wild WK, however, fail to blend well. The movie bombs.

A once ugly young woman, Tamara Drewe, has always liked and fallen for men; and now beautiful, she turns their heads as well. She does so in the dull English village to which she returns, and what vexing scrapes—in Stephen Frears‘s film Tamara Drewe (2010)—the poor, straying girl gets into!

Based on a decent graphic novel, the movie is very enjoyable, even if it ends with a certain triumph for a disgustingly mischievous teenage girl (Jessica Barden). Gemma Arterton is pleasant as Tamara, but strikingly, delightfully true are most of the other actors, such as Roger Allam (Nicholas) and Bill Camp (Glen). I haven’t paid much attention to Frears’s direction over the years; here, it is excellent.