As one local theatre buff remarked after the final showing of No Sun in Venice last night, "This is the kind of film a Harvard freshman might have directed." It contains a liberal sprinkling of sex, a rooftop chase, a little violence, good guys, bad guys, suave continental types, a dash of philosophy and more than the usual sprinkling of psychological insights: in short, it's just the kind of movie a Harvard freshman--or senior, or graduate student--might have directed.

The story itself sounds like an old Greenstreet-Lorre situation, and had those two lions of the art of cinematic suspense been on hand for No Sun in Venice the film would have been much more entertaining than it was. It would appear, however, that the particular cops-and-robber types in No Sun have been reading their Graham Greene and consequently have all sorts of fascinating psychological monkeys on their backs.

The girls, Sophie, played by Francoise Arnoul, has a mysterious fixation for a clubby, killer type named Sforzi (you can tell he's a bad guy because he wears a vest). Sforzi has deep seated homocidal designs on an evil father image, Baron von Bergen, who has made his fortunate counterfeiting British pound notes during the war and turned Sforzi from a nice, simple peasant lad into a well-groomed unhappy killer. Into the midst of this sick triangle comes big suave Paris photographer Michel LaFaurie, played by Christian Marquand, who immediately falls in love with Sophie and gets caught up in all the various problems, both personal and international, which occupy most of the film.

Now all of this is really quite dull, and unfortunately most of the blood and-thunder afficionados will be disappointed by the obvious fakery which transpires in the action scenes, of which there are all too few in the first place. You conclude, then, that No Sun is not worth 120 minutes of your valuable time? Well, you're wrong again. What saves No Sun in Venice is that it's cool, and for this reason alone you should see it (actually, I must admit that Mlle. Arnoul is quite fascinating, and this probably constitutes another reason).

The background music was written by John Lewis and played by the Modern Jazz Quartet (cool), the photography involves no bright colors or spectacular panoramas (cool), and the characters for the most part act quite coolly inded. Von Bergen calmly informs Sforzi, even as the latter is in the process of killing him, that he (Sforzi) is strictly small time and a crapule to boot. Sforzi himself is the very image of coolness until after the murder; at one point he saunters into the room shared by Sophie and Michel, looks on as Michel assists Sophie with her bath, has a try himself at seducing Sophie, and then leaves. All this without so much as batting an evelash.

In the end, Sforzi dies, but one leaves the theatre feeling somewhat sorry for him--in a cool, philosophical sort of way, naturally. Such is the inevitable result of sophistication.