And it is a child's country, which is described by the water's
soft, ambiguous
edge, and it is bewildering to stand sentry there, unsuccessfully disguised as a heron, with your large white feet sticking out, to listen to (and wistfully try to recall) the wild laughter, the shrieks, the singular tuneless tunes children drone as they march in intent circles; and to watch them groping into their shadows for shells on the roily bottom or building improbable fortifications to keep the ocean where it
belongs («What arc - you doing?»
This is
soft focus stuff, a fuzzy film with all the wartime
edges knocked off that seems to
belong to a more innocent movie - going age.But Newell's film putters a little too sedately towards its denouement and doesn't always manage to make its uniformly cuddly characters seem credible.