Bernardo Bertolucci combines a pamphleteer's penchant for straight, party-line ideology and a best-selling novelist's flair for wanton sensation: heaps of flesh, blood, and excrement (of both the literal and figurative sort). In its breadth, if not in its detail, this maxi-budgeted extravaganza could loosely be termed "novelistic." But just whose novels is it like? A left-wing Taylor Caldwell, perhaps, or even less reputable than that -- John Jakes, Jack Hoffenberg, Kyle Onstott. The jaggedly edited opening is quite exciting. And over four hours later, the movie hits its high note, a delirious vision of a picturesque peasant girl standing atop a haystack as the wind and Ennio Morricone's music swell simultaneously -- something like a 1920 Bolshevik propaganda poster come magically to life. Donald Sutherland, with his comic-book leer, his feminine makeup, and his Raymond Massey haircut, delivers one of the worst performances of his or anyone else's career, as one of Mussolini's minions. Dominique Sanda, as a Lost Generation flapper ("she smokes, she drives, she writes poetry, she's very modern"), gives Sutherland some close competition for a time, but she drops back once her character begins to develop some sobering anti-fascist political scruples. With Robert De Niro, Gerard Depardieu, and Burt Lancaster. (1977) — Duncan Shepherd