review: Isabel Allende's magical, lyrical novel about three generations of an aristocratic South American family was vandalized. The lumbering oaf of a movie that resulted--largely due to a magnificent cast of Anglo actors completely unable to carry off the evasive Latin mellifluousness of Allende's characters, and a plodding Scandinavian directorial hand--was so uncomfortable in its own skin that I returned to the theater a second time to make certain I had not missed something vital that might change my opinion. To my disappointment, I had not missed a thing. None among Meryl Streep, Jeremy Irons, Glenn Close and Vanessa Redgrave could wiggle free of the trap set for them by director Bille August. All of them looked perfectly stiff and resigned, as if, by putting forth as little effort as possible, they expected to fade unnoticed into lovely period sets. (Yes, the film was art directed within an inch of its life.) Curious that the production designer was permitted the gaffe of placing KFC products prominently in a scene that occurs circa 1970--years before KFC came into being. Back then, it was known by its original name: Kentucky Fried Chicken. Even pardoning that, what on earth is Kentucky Fried Chicken doing in a military dictatorship in South America in 1970? American fast food chains did not hit South America until the early 1980s. "The House of the Spirits" should have been the motion picture event of 1993. Because it was so club-footed and slavishly faithful to its vague idea of what the novel represented, Miramax had to market it as an art film. As a result, it was neither event nor art. And for that, Isabel Allende should have pressed charges for rape.