text: It takes a little while to get used to Nick Nolte's Nebraskan locutions before we can easily accept him as a famous intercontinental playwright. Once you get past the bar, it turns into a fascinating story of a man who loses everything while trying to do good.<br /><br />Nolte, an American, moves to Germany, marries a famous actress, and is a satisfied success in every respect until war is about to break out. He's visited by a jovial American, John Goodman, who persuades him to accept a post as an anti-Semitic radio broadcaster for the Nazis. Nolte has no politics but thinks it's a challenge to write a role that's almost impossible and then play it himself. Another American secret agent will modify Nolte's radio scripts -- inserting a cough here, a sneeze there -- that will serve as a code for the transmission of intelligence to the Allies. There's a catch, though. Nobody will know about Nolte's real role as an American agent except Goodman, Donovan, and Roosevelt himself. If he's ever uncovered, he'll be refused recognition by the Americans.<br /><br />Nolte plunges ahead and his vicious broadcasts are wildly popular in Germany. His adored wife, Sheryl Lee, knows nothing of what's going on, nor does she care. Nolte and Lee live in what he repeatedly refers to as "a nation of two." The war ends and the trouble begins. He's captured by Americans who are bitter because of his betrayal. They beat him and leave him in the mud. He's rescued by Goodman, his "fairy godmother", who sends him to an anonymous existence in Greenwich Village and sends him a little cash now and then.<br /><br />By 1960, he manages to cultivate a friendship with his neighbor, the painter Alan Arkin, who has also lost his family and claims the two now belong to a secret brotherhood. But his location and his identity somehow leak out and he is more or less adopted by a group of ancient Aryan racists -- led by a dentist and a priest. His house front and mailbox are painted with swastikas and accusations. He's beaten senseless by an ex-GI. But -- miraculously -- his beloved wife is returned to him by the ancient Aryans. Another catch: it turns out later that it's not his wife, but rather her younger sister who has loved him since adolescence.<br /><br />The ending has him typing his memoirs in an Israeli jail in 1967 before his trial for crimes against humanity. It's not a happy ending.<br /><br />Nolte can talk with, but not see, the occupant of the cell above his in jail. It's Adolf Eichmann. Eichmann seems pleasant enough. He advises Nolte that it's a bad habit to type for fifteen straight hours. "It's important to relax. You must learn to relax." Nolte laughs out loud and shouts, "That's how I GOT here." The film is filled with such ironies. At one point in their relaxed conversations, Arkin tells him that "in spite of everything I still think people are good at heart." I don't know if the movie was a commercial success but if it wasn't, that's the sort of thing that might have torpedoed it for a younger audience of theater-goers who may never have heard of Anne Frank let alone that supposedly final statement in her diary.<br /><br />The fact is that it's a movie for adults, and patient adults at that. The story moves slowly, there's very little violence, no car chases, no shootings, and people don't seem subject to manic speech pressure. A lot of it will probably slip past viewers who don't open themselves to its deliberate approach. Nolte refers to the war-time relationship between him and his wife as "a nation of two." This is a pretty compact phrase. No doubt anyone could come up with a glib definition but it takes a little concentration to grasp its emotional import.<br /><br />It's a story of a man who loses everything -- his ability to write, his identity, his wife (twice), his sole friend, his country, his self respect. At one point he stops walking along a crowded New York street and simply stands there until after dark, when he is moved along by a curious cop. The reason he stopped is that he simply has no place to go. What Vonnegut is describing is far more than depression. I don't mean to sound condescending but it's the sort of feeling that's hard to understand in your youth. Adolescents might like to THINK they know what's holding Nolte in that one spot, but it really requires maturity and the quickened sense of finiteness that only maturity can bring.<br /><br />Remember Robert Frost's line about home being the place that when you go there they have to take you in? Well no place will take Nolte in.