Near the end of Nobody Waved Goodbye, Julie tells Peter that she is pregnant. (The director, in secret, told her to spring it on him. Peter, the actor, had no idea a baby was in the script--no idea, in fact how the movie was supposed to end.) He grins, disbelieving, confused, a little silly, "You're kiddin' me." No shock, no despair, no emotional fireworks. It's a beautiful moment. Real.

The film is studded with real moments. Scenarios are deceitful, improvization honest. Concomitantly, improvization--the actors go through a scene line for line, then throw away their scripts and play the situation out of their heads--is fumbly, halting, erratic. Nobody Waved Goodbye has less gloss than Jake Wirth's floor. It's a sort of artistic Candid Camera, a really terrific home movie.

Those who like their entertainment well-slicked with Hollywood grease with find the documentary technique irritating. Characters stammer, tangle lines; the photographer zooms in for close-ups with all the subtlety of a TV camera chasing a foul ball into the bleachers; nothing climatic, or scary, or terribly funny ever happens. Me, I thought the method, endlessly exciting--if only as a harbinger of low-budget honesty to come. (The distributors insist on classing their films with David and Lisa. It's much, much better.)

The story concerns Peter, a comfortable 18-year-old, very upper-middle class really, but filled with rebellious contempt for the booboisie. He has no particular values of his own, so he resists the split-level syndrome by acts of petty delinquency. He cuts school, fights with his parents, puts on his sister's with fiance, short-changes customers on the job. With his girlfriend Julie he makes out, acts goofy, and has serious discussions about Life and Culture.

Control slips away from Peter slowly. Finally, after the steals some money and a car, even Julie wants out. He drives off alone to decide, presumably, what he's going to do about his life. No message.

Or rather the audience supplies the message. When Peter's father refuses hem $200 bail and lets him cool off for a night in jail, parents in the theatre break into spontaneous applause; just what the young punk needs! Teenagers, certain that it's just what he doesn't need, hoot.

That's the sort of tabula rasa author-director Don Owen has constructed. His ill-concealed secret is that he himself hasn't the foggiest what poor Peter needs. Nor have any of his actors. More discipline? More freedom? Less pressure? More responsibility? Love and approbation? A swift kick in the rear?

So runs the post-movie debate. The fans want guilt assigned for them. Blame Peter, Blame Mummy and Daddy. Blame somebody. Blame society, for chrissake.

Sadly Nobody Waved Goodbye lacks more than blame, which we can do very well without thank-you. It lacks comment and insight. It remains on the level of observation--sensitive, artful, frequently touching--but no more illuminating than a Soc Rel 120 case history.

Mr. Owen chanced upon two enormously gifted young actors. With them, he has made an affecting, absolutely believable film. Had he understood his situation more deeply, more intimately, he might have offered us more. What was required behind the camera was not dogmatism; only a point of view.