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This exciting book is the fifth in the 'Jaimes Bond, 1/2, Ribald Tales' series. 'Spy Scramble', 'Teen Nympho Spy', 'Sultry Sulking Suzanna Succubus' and.
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The very idea of dubbing a film with serious artistic intentions is profoundly misguided; in this case, though the dubbing is technically fair, the Babel of tongues ranges all the way from the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art to the Neighborhood Playhouse, without a distinguished vocal performance in the lot of them. The translation, whether an already existing one or made up to match the lip movements, is not memorable prose.

What remains is still monumental—including, unfortunately, the most intimate, personal details. The actors, or, at any rate, those uneasy centaurs with Russian exteriors and Anglo-American insides, come across as horrendous bores. I suspect that even in Russian most of these performances are wooden; in the dubbed version, they are positively stony. Some other smaller parts are well handled: Kutuzov, Captain Tushin, and, at least in looks and deportment, Napoleon.

The leads, however, fall short of expectation. Vyacheslav Tihonov, as Andrei, has an extremely suggestive face, but he likes to keep it looking dashingly morose, except when he has it look morosely dashing. As Natasha, Ludmila Savelyeva looks agreeable from some angles and pudgily babyish from others; her acting seems to consist mostly of beams of bliss, pretty pouts, and, in moments of extreme tension, a palsied trembling of the head. She does her little dance rather well, but then she is a professional ballet dancer.

The worst acting comes from Anatoly Ktorov, who makes old Prince Bolkonsky into a petty tyrant, and Irina Skobtseva, who turns Helene into a large cow. The color photography is extremely workmanlike, but no more than that. The editing, costume and set design are all conscientious, albeit without particular brilliance. Nevertheless, the many battle sequences offer numerous moments that are—there is no other word for it—epic. But there is no getting away from the fact that they make the eye gape, that they give a sense of vastness and dazzlement if not awe, that they come as close to the Homeric as anything on film ever has.

This is where literalness pays off: if the Battle of Borodino was fought by , men, the film employs exactly that many; if there was reckless stupidity in contemporary tactics and extravagant throwing away of life, that, too, is recorded with fanatical fidelity. One of the prerequisites for a well-made film is texture: a certain density in the relations among the characters, a certain solidity of the setting, a topography you can feel in the soles of your feet. A town must hang together, so that you can sense how people get from one point to another. It is also rather dated in its social reportage about Negroes and poor whites, and it is the victim of sexual reticences that today make it seem even more of a period piece.

Yet it has the slightly demented authoritativeness of dreams brooking no argument. Thomas C. Ryan, who both coproduced and wrote the script, has updated the events and retarded the psychology and dialogue, so that we are served an unconvincing Southern society of the sixties blithely mouthing early Hollywoodese. Or he has the film ending with Mick sobbing on Mr. But where the film could have gone beyond the book is in the treatment of the homosexual motifs. Joseph Strick, the original director, wanted to make more of these, and was promptly fired for his pains.

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Strick is not much of a director, except perhaps by comparison to his successor, Robert Ellis Miller. Arkin has lately been used as an accent comedian, though some of his accents are rather poor. But his deaf mute is a genuine deaf mute coming from a spiritual isolation ward out of which only his brightness and decency have partly sprung him. While he does not look a bit Southern,- what he does convey is more difficult and important—- humanity and attractiveness, against the grain of the script, which would make Singer into a conventional do-gooder.

And he invests the part with a wonderfully unself-pitying, bittersweet humor. In one scene, perhaps the best in the film, the veteran cinematographer surpasses himself: Singer has taken Antonapoulos out to dinner on the terrace of a hotel in fake Venetian style; the way a neighboring church tower peers in between the arches is a triumph of the camera. Chuck McCann is adequate as the infantilized Antonapoulos; Sondra Locke just barely squeezes by as the adultified Mick.

Some of the juveniles are quite good, but most of the supporting roles are routinely handled, and Stacy Keach is surprisingly ineffectual as a tramp—a character, to be sure, rather more complex in the novel. A far from happy adaptation is The Killing of Sister George. The two have a sadomasochistic lesbian menage, which contrasts acridly with their outward lives, and particulary with the genteel Machiavellianism of the BBC potentates and the pathetic benightedness of the fans, whose mail and gifts keep pouring in.

The play was second-rate, but with its nice blend of the homey and the chilling, the absurdist and the perverse, it had the quality of a Krafft-Ebing comicbook.

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Robert Aldrich and his scenarist, Lukas Heller, have turned this material into a crawling tear-jerker, the lines spoken at a speed adjusted to non-English-or non-language-speaking audiences. For the record, Miss York possesses a lovely bosom that stands up remarkably even lying down and deserves to be bared in a less barren film than The Killing of Sister George. Chekhov was the musician of boredom. No one, not even Beckett, has drawn such recondite harmonies and such subtle discords from the motions, utterances, and silences of boredom. Yet sapling joys do shoot up from time to time, only to wither swiftly and sheepishly.

That is the basic quality of The Sea Gull, and even if Sidney Lumet had captured it in his film version, it would probably have made for a cumbrous, oppressive film. But he captures nothing of the sort. Part of the trouble is the medium itself. The stage always affords full view of the arena of fumbles; every unsuccessful move can be seen in all its ramifications. Or, more precisely, the stage always shows you the space between the actors, the small but sufficient abyss into which their enterprises hurtle. The camera—except as handled by a master, which Lumet categorically is not—cannot capture the hollowness of space, the oppressive immovableness of a seemingly harmless enclosure, stasis settling on everything like a fine, corrosive dust.

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But Lumet is either too dazzled or too crudely confident to be at home in art. Adaptations 43 And, of course, there must be performances. Performances that can make demanding stage roles survive this transplanting into alien ground. Even from good actors, though, Lumet can extract glutinous or shrill, colorless or desperate, performances. Least excusable here is the casting of Simone Signoret as Arkadina.

While most of the actors speak in well-tailored English accents, Miss Signoret putters or sloshes about in a debraille French one not a stylish one a la Charles Boyer that is often incomprehensible. Her appearance has also become hard to take, especially when the text has her remark on how well she has kept her figure, and her acting is unsubtle—in part, I suppose, from exhaustion from her bouts with English. As Trigorin, James Mason acts dazed, uncomfortable, constrained.

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Yet that is the opposite of what characterizes this successful second-rate writer: postures of existential despair, affectations of bluff simplicity, and, underneath, complacency; if the actor is very great, he may be able also to show the genuine sense of emptiness at the core. Mason maintains an all-purpose remoteness, relieved only by faint but rather too genuine yearning, and makes Trigorin uninteresting.

Vanessa Redgrave is—by now, at any rate—too much of a raw- boned, thirtyish, English governess to pass for the vulnerably young, sweetly tremulous Nina. Her fourth-act scene which loses much by being shot outdoors remains wholly unmoving. As Konstantin, David Warner tries hard to compensate for his lack of sensitive looks and personal charm; what comes out is not a young Aleksandr Blok but a young blockhead with pretensions.

While Kathleen Widdoes acts Masha well enough, the aura of smugness and prissiness that always surrounds this actress erects a sympathy barrier. Elliott, who can be brilliant as a roue, weakling, or bounder, simply cannot cope with the decent, weary doctor—a sympathetic and perceptive man gone stale with age and provincial drudgery. It is not so much a question of individual shortcomings, however, as of what these actors jointly undo. Here Lumet is most to blame, And what preposterous directorial ideas he has! At the beginning, Masha and Medvedenko, totally out of period and character, are shown rolling around in the tall grass; as Masha adjusts her disarrayed undergarments, she declares that she wears black out of mourning for her life.

A long hammy silence, then blackout.

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The interiors are better. The Swedish house and lake used work in quite nicely, although one never gets a sense of exactly who lives in i. The translation by Moura Budberg is all right, but it has been carefully pruned of literary or cultural references that might puzzle the customers of less privileged neighborhood theaters. The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie lost a good deal in its stage simplification by Jay Presson Allen, and loses still more in its movie reduction of that stage version.

Allen s flatiron. This is, of course, as much the fault of the industry. Adaptations 47 which wrongly or alas! But I would have given his right arm for a better performance. There are, to be sure, two or three striking visual effects. Nicol Williamson is much too young and lower class to get the degradation and pathos out of Sir Edward More, as the hero is now called, but at least his performance has moments of intensity.

Jean-Claude Drouot, as his sneakily cruel rival, is beefy and stodgy.

And now we have Justine on film. Actually it is not so much Justine as The Alexandria Quartet without Alexandria and without any quartet. How far can you go on a The? The four books have a single protagonist whose name is not Justine or Clea or Darley but Alexandria, the loved and hated city, which alone pervades the pages of the work with its ruthless amorality and immutable variousness.

But not, it would seem, as far as Hollywood. Yet it is not so much the fact that the film was shot largely in Hollywood and slightly in 1 unisia that syphons Alexandria out of the screenplay; it is the scriptwriter, the director, and, behind them, the studio that see to that. Of course, it is devilishly hard to get the atmosphere of a place on film when that place is to take precedence over its people.

A message scribbled on the edge of a newspaper. Here I spilt wine on her cloak, and while attempting to help her repair the damage, accidentally touched her breasts. No word was spoken. While Purse- warden spoke so brilliantly of Alexandria and the burning library. In the room above a poor wretch screaming with meningitis. This is the sort of thing that our film dare not, will not, cannot, do. Such third and fourth dimensions, however, were stripped off the story and it now unfolds in linear conventionality.

What George Cukor, the director, and Lawrence B. Marcus, the scenarist, have left us with is the slick portrait of a fascinating woman of Alexandria, Justine Hosnani. In the interest of concentrating on this sinner and saint, the novel has been cut, simplified, and changed—to the extent that it would be idle even to begin to list the departures and simplifications of the screenplay. All the woes of the Iliad were for the sake of one woman, and Penelope was the cause of the Odyssey.

If only George Cukor were more than a commercial director! This becomes evident when you consider that the complexities and contradictions of Justine are no more brought out by him than are the anfractuosities of Alexandria.