Upon first arriving in theatres, much bally-hoo was made about this film's title. Though it sounds far too gruesome for viewing by decent people, the burial in the film's title is in fact one of a playful nature; children at the shoreline use bucket and spade to cover their father with a mound of sand. One could have inferred this from the re-placement title "Frolics on the Beach at Coney Island", so I feel as if I am not ruining a surprise for the reader-ship.
The film itself is a mockery of the very art-form! For threescore and ten minutes, the view-providers in the theatre are subjected to the camera's un-flinching gaze as the moppets mentioned above pour end-less spade-fuls of sand upon their target. The father figure barely moves through-out the entire ordeal! His role could have been filled by a man-sized rock! His very relation to the whelps is betrayed only by his beach-hat labelled "FATH R" {sic}.
With no dialogue or plot, this picture's only facet of re-demption is that it may be used to clear out a theatre when conventional methods have been ex-hausted.
The film itself is a mockery of the very art-form! For threescore and ten minutes, the view-providers in the theatre are subjected to the camera's un-flinching gaze as the moppets mentioned above pour end-less spade-fuls of sand upon their target. The father figure barely moves through-out the entire ordeal! His role could have been filled by a man-sized rock! His very relation to the whelps is betrayed only by his beach-hat labelled "FATH R" {sic}.
With no dialogue or plot, this picture's only facet of re-demption is that it may be used to clear out a theatre when conventional methods have been ex-hausted.
