Figures that on the day I publish an article on The House Next Door stating my preference to rarely, if ever, walk out of a movie, I go and do exactly that. I endured a little over an hour of Otar Iosseliani's Gardens in Autumn (a single distended joke—with all the rough draft material left in—concerning the aimless aristo-to-bohemian wanderings of Séverin Blanchet's ousted politician) before the sight of Michel Piccoli in a Mother Bates wig and dress drove me to the exit. That's the only gag in this excruciating comic whatsis that's worth a damn and it was the shock to the system I needed after suffering in glaze-eyed silence through Iosseliani's tedious, overlit mise-en-scène, a bastard hybrid of Tati-esque structuralism and Demy-like whimsy, all pitched-like a day in the life of Spalding Gray-at the same flatlined timbre.   Keith Uhlich