The pitfalls inherent to the use of visual symbolism in film are epitomized by Marion Hänsel's The Quarry, a loaded parable about religion, racial identity, and injustice in the new South Africa. In its disquieting opening scenes, a man (John Lynch) staggers through a massive field, desperate for food and water but clearly on the run, ducking for cover with each passing car. He comes across a stranger (Serge-Henri Valcke) who agrees to give him a lift and buys him breakfast. At this point, few words have been spoken between them, creating a tantalizing air of mystery: Who is this man? What is he running from? What does the stranger want in exchange for his charity? Soon enough, those and other questions are answered in capital letters. The man is really The Man, a white convict who kills the stranger (credited as The Reverend) and assumes his identity, posing as a visiting minister in a desperately poor South African village. When he arrives, a local black youth breaks into his stolen car and discovers the truth, but a racist Afrikaner cop (The Captain, played by Jonathan Phillips) protects him by blatantly disregarding the evidence. The Quarry is saturated with symbolic events and archetypal characters, but they don't play as well on the screen as they might have in the pages of Damon Galgut's novel, perhaps because prose can smuggle them across more gracefully than images. These problems are exacerbated by Hänsel's spare and precisely calculated direction, which forces living, breathing characters (embodied by a fine cast) to become cogs in her didactic scheme. In a world where The Captain, The Reverend, and The Man are meant to represent entire sections of the population, not even a buzzing fly can pass without significance.