As a footnote to the improvisational structure of the film-which follows the rough chronology of Fonda's preparation for her first starring role on Broadway-it is curious how the real Jane (whatever that implies) never emerges to controvert the disarmingly contrived personality which Miss Fonda flashes during even the most intimate or catastrophic moments. In Jane, and to varying degrees in all Leacock's films, one is struck by what is really a social-anthropological find: to escape the moral imperatives of a face-to-face encounter (with the be it human or otherwise), all men remain their own understudies. No crisis-moral or physical disability-is sufficient to keep them from going on stage. For example, it comes as a startling revelation of character when the condemned author of Burn Killer Burn is pushed by his visiting editor past the limits of propriety to squirm: How do you expect me to really think about that sentence now? Then, conscious of overstepping himself, and embarrassed by all the helpless feeling he's packed into that now,' he quickly adjusts himself to assume the guise of the artist whose syntax is being questioned. Now we see him, now we don't. What we saw, we saw not by the tell-tale power of the candid camera (Leacock's camera is not hidden), but by the candid intrusion of the Other, the unfortunate female editor who chanced to invade Crump's private sanctum, humanizing him for a fleeting moment of recognition. During the office sequences where Crump's lawyer, Don Moore, consolidates his defense, it is the camera which momentarily acts as the catalytic intruder (perhaps unintentionally), throwing Moore into moments of acute self-consciousness where he loses track of his professional role. Not all of Leacock's subjects will be equally approachable, as certainly the Kennedy