Freddie Francis

THE post-World War II British cinema produced brilliant comedies from quirky Ealing Studios, titles such as "Kind Hearts and Coronets" and "The Lavender Hill Mob" as well as gritty "kitchen sink" dramas helmed by angry young filmmakers such as Tony Richardson, John Schlesinger, Lindsay Anderson, Clive Donner and Karel Reisz. Every so often a horror film such as "Dead of Night" or "The Queen of Spades" would pop up on the landscape.

Witty and hilarious, "Princess Caraboo" is at once a romantic adventure and a comedy of manners in the finest tradition of British screen humor, a sophisticated entertainment that should be a delight for older children as well with its Cinderella-like story. An outstanding international cast, impeccable period design, a lovely score and an inspired screenplay have been blended to perfection by astute director Michael Austin to create a lively and constant pleasure.

The chain of circumstance by which a movie ultimately gets made can be a lively tale in itself. If the ballet entrepreneur Lincoln Kirstein had not grown up on Beacon Hill in Boston, if a young actor-screenwriter named Kevin Jarre had not been given some Civil War lead soldiers one childhood Christmas and had not learned to ride well during his growing-up days in Wyoming, and if the two men had not met at Mother Goldsmith's restaurant in Saratoga, N.Y.

"Cape Fear" is a film as sadistic as its star player. What venomous psychopath Max Cady (played as only Robert De Niro can) does to his victims is exactly paralleled by what director Martin Scorsese does to his audience. We squirm, we squeal, we squeak for mercy as Scorsese and company wring us out like an old washcloth. Is it done with the expertness of a contract killing? Absolutely. Is it something we should applaud? That remains to be seen.

"A LIFE IN THE THEATRE" An Interview in Three Acts THE PLAYWRIGHT: David Mamet THE PLAYERS: Jack Lemmon and Matthew Broderick THE DIRECTOR: Gregory Mosher ACT I The curtain rises on the Mayfair Music Hall in Santa Monica. It's late afternoon. "Everyone applaud," orders Gregory Mosher. Crew and visitors sitting in the audience begin wildly applauding and cheering as Matthew Broderick and Jack Lemmon walk out on the stage and bow in front of the camera.

The sprawling two-story house, with white columns out front and a greenhouse-turned-artist's studio in the rear, urges a feeling of quiet dread, even when the sun is shining. A perfect setting for a film about a seemingly happy family terrorized by an ex-con, a menacing figure returning from an anguished past. In fact, with an actor walking around the yard with a hole in his head and blood draining down his shirt, it could be the setting for the remake of "Night of the Living Dead."