A film director is commonly considered to bear two primary responsibilities, which earn him or her unofficial "authorship" of the film: controlling its "look," from camera setups to other tonal qualities, and modulating the performances of the actors. When there's a radical gulf between his or her skill level in these two areas, a film like Dead of Winter results. Arthur Penn is the director in question, and he has quite a resumé to draw from, having helmed two Best Picture nominees (Bonnie and Clyde and The Miracle Worker). For what would turn out to be his last theatrical directing job, Penn starts out on the right foot, transporting the viewer to the wintry mystery of upstate New York. The scenario is juicy, too, as Mary Steenburgen's acting hopeful is whisked away to a film audition held in the remote mansion of an eccentric doctor, where she becomes prisoner, in a framework with slyly effective Dracula overtones. Penn generates a suspenseful creep factor through his control over the subjects of his shots, their framing, and the way the camera moves, with thanks also going to cinematographer Jan Weincke. But Penn loses control of his actors, who become over-actors in a way that explodes all his prior subtlety and restraint. Roddy McDowall, Penn's greatest asset to setting the tone in the first half, becomes his greatest deterrent in the second, his unseemly butler-like attentiveness crossing over into high camp. Steenburgen and Jan Rubes, who plays the wheelchair-bound doctor, fare slightly better, but they too succumb to a finale that reeks of falsity, drummed-up danger, and over-inflated consequence. A curious mix of strengths and weaknesses, Dead of Winter is ultimately snowed under by its weaknesses.