The Touch is utterly ridiculous, the probable low point of Ingmar Bergman’s often trying but independent and distinguished artistic career.

Ingmar Bergman’s new film, The Touch, the best about love he has ever made, is a record of a man who brings into the existence of a calmly married couple his own feeling that death is something that has to be ambushed daily.

It could be -- and almost is -- pure novelette; yet Bergman's gift is to create real people with problems and sufferings real enough to be more than trivial, engage your concern.

Shallow and unconvincing as a love story, failing to make its characters emerge as anything other than the stock types in any random early '70s adultery drama.