Rigidly sectarian novels or films, particularly if they are at once both French and Catholic, are often difficult to evaluate, presenting, as they do, a narrow, dogmatic view in the guise of universality. Robert Bresson is French and Catholic (the Brattle also touts him as "a former painter, a maverick, a mystic, and a solitary"); his pre-war Diary of a Country Priest, even at its most honest, often seems wildly improbable and faintly absurd.

If Bresson's theme, the first parish assignment of a young French curate, is sufficiently mundane, his treatment of it becomes increasingly unconvincing. The priest himself suffers from all manner of physical and mental ills (he doubts his faith, and is ultimately a victim of cancer of the stomach), but his parish is sick beyond belief. A grieving countess follows him at a respectful distance; haggard crones put knock-out drops in his wine ("they only do it for fun," explains one of his less demented parishioners); and his nine-year-old communion class ignores the catechism to devise methods of tormenting the priest and his faith ("Why must they do this to ine?" is his only response). Why, indeed?

Mr. Bresson, his priest, and his parishioners are trapped in an embarrassing slough of original sin. And there seems little hope for any of them. The countess dies with a renewed faith, but the priest confesses that "I have imparted a peace I do not myself possess." The central figure of the priest is disturbingly ambiguous: lonely and unable to communicate, he becomes increasingly certain of his own ineptness. But one feels that successful communication with these parishioners would only insure eventual damnation; the failure of his mission cannot, ultimately, be called a tragic one. The curate's confusion leads him to anguish; the viewer's confusion is unresolved.

The program is augmented by a fatuous short, Dances in Spain. High-decibel castanets, surrealist sets with real tinsel trees, effeminate gypsies chasing Tinkerbellesque points of light--these, one is led to conclude, are the cultural outpourings of Franco Spain. Uninspired photography alternates with extraneous quotations by Garcia Lorca. An unfortunate program--but don't miss the music between the showings. The 1812 Overture has gone forever; and the Brattle's all new Altec-Lansing Hi-Fidelity Sound System is devoted to reproducing the brass canzonas of Giovanni Gabrieli. They're restful and reassuring.