Independent, July 17, 1992,by Sheila Johnston
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<snip>

By a curious coincidence, two of the few British films 
opening this summer, "Waterland" and "Dakota Road" (no 
cert), are set in the Norfolk fens, which becomes a symbolic 
sump for the murkiest emotions. Duly present in both films: 
incest, simple-mindedness, teenage pregnancy, bodies 
swallowed up by the marshes. "Dakota Road" contrasts the 
lower depths of British life with a US airbase, whose youths 
soar, Top Gun-like, through the ether (and "Waterland" 
likewise opposes its blithe, carefree Americans and screwed-
up Brits).

"Dakota Road" glowingly photographs East Anglia's windy 
beauty, but the story is like those miserabilist kitchen 
sink dramas of the early Sixties, updated and sent to the 
country. There are endless family squabbles around the 
table; a tight-lipped landowner (Alan Howard) who keeps 
announcing that things are getting hard; various twisted 
individuals (sex always happens with someone looking on); 
and the obligatory doom-laden train (it's only a puny local 
train with two carriages, but no matter, it thunders past 
like the Orient Express).

The dialogue tries for that Pinter mix of portentiousness 
and banality. Sample exchange: "Raif?" "What were it like?" 
"What?" "What were it like? With Jen Cross, by the river?" 
(pause) "It were nice." "I bet it were." "It were real 
nice." (Pause). "Were it?" The writer, Nick Ward, is 
experienced in other media (theatre, radio and TV) but this 
tone and snail's pacing isn't right for film. It's a 
melodrama with the angst button set to full volume, all the 
way through.



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