Household Saints

You can always tell a good Italian-American neighborhood joint by the two oil paintings hanging over the bar: one is of the Pope; the other is of Frank Sinatra. This vision of life, split between the Catholic church and life according to Frankie, is one of the underlying elements in Household Saints. The movie is sort of a mix of the sacred and profane stirred together with spicy sausages and household cleaning tips.

Vincent D'Onofrio is a neighborhood butcher in New York's Little Italy who wins his wife (Tracey Ullman) in a pinochle game. Ullman isn't altogether happy with her new life. Specifically, she has problems dealing with her mother-in-law, a vulture-eyed woman of the Old World who has an icon for every ailment and a superstition for any situation. Mama also goes for advice from her dead husband, who pops up in the living room and dispenses wisdom about god and playing cards.

Ullman's family is just as odd. Her father, unlike that of her new husband's, is alive, but he's normally two sheets to the wind (in which state he used her as a bet in the pinochle game). Her brother is equally odd, being obsessed with the opera Madame Butterfly and Japanese women. Stranger still, Ullman is destined to give birth to a daughter who will become an unofficial saint of housework and religious faithfulness. (The child's power is so great that even the sausages made in her father's shop become legendary for their curative powers.)

Household Saints is a rambling tale that veers unexpectedly between moments of surreal splendor and grim realism. It also walks a fine line between ethnic humor and crazy tragedy. The movie's strong first half gives way to a moody, slower finale. The whole movie's genuinely off-beat in ways that are both touching and amusing. Consider, for instance, the image of Christ at an ironing board, which works as an appropriate and lasting irony.

Angie

Martha Coolidge has served enough time in the Hollywood grind mill to apply for workers' comp. Despite her directorial debut with the con­troversial documentary Not A Pretty Picture, and the highly praised romantic comedy Valley Girl, Coolidge has spent nearly a decade trying to gain commercial footing. She did her time on TV with Sledge Hammer, and she barely survived directing several forgettable teenage flicks. Rambling Rose finally returned her to critical favor, and Lost in Yonkers made her bankable, Now, with Angie, Coolidge finally has found that magical mix of feminist concern and money-making mirth that will place her in Hollywood's front rank.

In many ways, Angie seesaws so wildly between orig­inality and cliche that it repeatedly threatens to implode into a sticky mess of predictable moments. It's littered with enough typical statements about Italian-American culture and slightly dumb male behavior to qualify as a talk show topic. Most of this material rings true, although we've seen it too many times before. But under Coolidge's direc­tion, Angie maneuvers some neat, sharp turns through this familiar landscape.

The story focuses on the lead character's (Geena Davis) discovery of her out-of-wedlock pregnancy — and, more impor­tantly, her realization that the circumstances offer an opportunity for her to finally understand both herself and her parents.

Which isn't easy. Angie's father refuses to say anything about his first wife — her mother — who fled the family when Angie was only three. But then, her father has the habit of not saying much about anything until it's too late to matter. Much the same is true of her boyfriends, Vinnie and Noel.

Davis successfully plays her part with a sure mix of innocent charm and well-placed despair. But it's Coolidge who should finally earn some popular recogni­tion, as a filmmaker who knows that being mainstream doesn't mean being brain dead, Angie is a delightful surprise.