Reviews

There are very few things more tragic than to see a good book spoiled by a poor movie. Occasionally such problems are accidental, or simply unavoidable in an attempt to fit a large story into a small space. In the case of this mini-series, however, the mistakes do not seem accidental--they seem malicious. The impression is created and steadily enforced that the authors of the screenplay (Stephen Mallatratt and Jan McVerry) despised Galsworthy's novel, and made every effort to disfigure it. Some may say that to follow the outlines of the book is old-fashioned and irrelevant. Some may say that the above named authors were forming their own interpretation of Galsworthy's work. I cannot agree. A book, incidentally one of the greatest in the long and glorious history of British literature, has been written. The author created his own world, his own interpretation of the Forsyte clan, their lives, their country, their time, and the overwhelming, dominating instinct of Property which was responsible for so many of the achievements of the Victorian era. If S. Mallatratt and J. McVerry did not agree with his interpretation, if they saw these people and these times differently--eh bien, it was possibly within the scope of their powers to write their own book on the subject. Instead, they preferred to mangle a masterpiece, and to mangle characters loved and respected by generations. Old Jolyon Forsyte (played here by Corin Redgrave) is presented by Galsworthy as a magnificent example of an honorable, and kind man, led through life not merely by the social structure of his class and age but by a particular love, a gentleness and affection for the small and helpless. He is shown as a portrait of supremely decent, wise, and respectable old age. That is why the scene of this Victorian gentleman, ordering Helene Himler (Amanda Ooms) out of his house is manifestly impossible. Many things can be imagined in the context of an old, domineering man's rage and sorrow--but one thing that is truly impossible to imagine, is the Old Jolyon, Galsworthy's Old Jolyon, be rude to a woman. When Irene Forsyte (Gina McKee, a good actress, albeit monstrously, mockingly miscast here) comes to the empty flat of her lover Philip Bossiney (Ioan Gruffudd) after leaving her husband, she meets his fiancée, her husband's niece June Forsyte (Gillian Kearney). Galsworthy gives us the scene in full--from first word to the last. Why, in the name of what mockery or malice did the screenwriters add a vulgar brawl, screaming, physical beating to this picture?! Not only did they maul the outline of the book, they mauled the characters of the women involved, the character of the age and society of which both 19 year-old June and 23 year-old Irene were products. I am perfectly willing to believe that disputes in the style of Jerry Springer are well known to the authors of the screenplay. But they were not known to the Forsytes, to their class or era. To introduce these elements into the scene was a pointless exercise, or perhaps worse; a misguided or malicious attempt to make the book "closer" to the viewer? Possibly--but if so, this was a hideous and unpardonable error. The late-Victorian society, for all its faults, was an age of courtesy, of self-restraint (a major theme in the book), of manners and propriety, maintained even under the most difficult circumstances. To disfigure the society Galsworthy knew and wrote about in an attempt to make the film more acceptable to today's less restrained audience is an insult both to the book and to the author, as well as to the era portrayed. The near-divorce of Soames' sister Winifred Dartie (Amanda Root) from her foppish husband Montague (surprisingly well portrayed by Ben Miles) is a secondary, but nonetheless important plot line. The sympathy and mutual support between Soames and Winifred, their affection for each other, their understanding and common core of sense and the Forsytean proprietary instinct is one of the more touching and gentle elements in the book. Why, for what purpose did the screenwriters introduce a similar scene to the one described above? Why does Winifred scream and rail at her brother? Why does she slap him and start throwing dishes hither and yon? I neither know nor care if this is the way the sisters of the screenwriters react to adversity--but this is entirely counter to the sensible, sympathetic, stable, supremely self-controlled (pardon the alliteration) character presented by Galsworthy. Is there a purpose in this vulgarity? It hardly seems so. Then why was it introduced? There are many such examples in this series. The upshot of this rather long review is a simple piece of advice to all who find themselves interested either in the Victorian era, in the story of the Forsyte family, or in a good movie to watch of an evening. The advice is this; Don't see this film. It provides none of the above. And in the process manages to mangle, sickeningly, maliciously, and pointlessly one of the greatest achievements of the British literary tradition.

**Warning; some spoilers included.**

This is not a perfect film. It does not claim to be. While following (in most respects) the famous epistolary novel by Sholom Aleichem it tends to dip into the occasional weepy sentimentality. The line-up of actors, the careful and believable filming and the excellent music allows us to ignore that--or at least to bear with it. There are no bad actors in this film. To be more specific, there are no actors in this film who would look wrong, unnatural or uncomfortable in their roles. Their specifically Jewish theatrical world of the 1890's remains believable, while flowing from a Hungarian shtetl, to Budapest, to Vienna, to London, to New York. It is the music that makes this film particularly charming, and lets us forget about the occasional pathetic moment. Grigoriy Lyampe is wonderful as the elderly cantor, singing in duet with his daughter from the Song of Songs. The performances of the Jewish theater are lively, and specific to the culture of the time. The highlight of the film, however, is Irina Toma's debut in a cabaret, singing the poignant, vivid, and passionate "Every Jew is a King". The actors deserve special notice. It will be a waste of time to provide the entire list, but Mamuka Kikaleishvili, Irina Toma, Larisa Udovichenko, Grigoriy Lyampe, Sofiko Chiaureli and many others make this film worth watching. For all the occasional melancholy and sentimental whimper, this is a delightful film, with brilliant actors, luminescent music, and a glimpse into a world long gone, from the great novel of a man who remembered this world first-hand. Worth watching.

One sees few films made nowadays in which standard descriptions of plot and acting would be of little use. Sokurov's "Russian Ark" stands as one of the best in this category--defying description. Possibly the best way to categorize this film (if that is possible) is to call it a memory. Not so much a memory of the Marquis, that sardonic presence which moves throughout the film, conversing with the invisible host, but as a memory of the Winter Palace, of the Hermitage itself. We see it remember the past it witnessed: the fury of Peter I, the glamour and elegance of Catherine II, the stern grandeur of Nicholas I, the threatened domesticity of the fin-de-siecle under Nicholas II. We see the days of the Empire, one of the most powerful and glamorous that ever existed in the world pass through the memories of its most spectacular setting. Unlike Sokurov's "Taurus" this is not a terrifying film. More of a tragic one. We feel a deep sense of nostalgia for a world which we have never known, a world of grace and beauty, power and magnificence which have passed, disappeared, leaving behind for us these paintings, these beautiful halls and galleries in which today only tourists walk, feeling sometimes--if they are fortunate--the shadows of the past walk with them. In the shot (warning: possible spoiler ahead) of the aged Empress Catherine hurrying through the snow-covered walkway of the winter garden, we see more than an old woman with a valet disappear into the winter mist. We see the 18th century, with all its glamour and corruption, elegance and cruelty, grace and tragedy fade away into the snow with her. We see a beautiful world of the past in those grand halls, those formal ceremonies and gay balls--a world which in 1917 had ceased to exist.

I do not think that there has been a taped performance of Puccini's classic tragedy to equal this, not since the days of Maria Callas and Tito Gobbi. This "Tosca" is worthy of note not only for the power of the music and the skill of the singers, but also for the realistic and stunningly beautiful setting. Here the film is made on location, drawing us from the Baroque charm of the church of San Andrea, to the luxurious apartments of the Palazzo Farnese, to the dark stairwells and bleak, dawn-lit summit of the Castel San' Angelo. We see before us Rome of the year 1800, beautiful, overwhelming, and tragic.

Of even greater note are the performers. Everyone acts and sings flawlessly (so rare a combination), but we must pay special attention to the main trio.

Raina Kabaivanska is an exceptional Floria Tosca--a passionate and loyal lover, a professional singer and actress, a woman of enormous strength and courage who does not hesitate to commit murder in order to gain her lover's freedom. Her famous aria 'Vissi d'arte" shows the terrible tragedy of a woman who after a lifetime of seeking to do good in the world finds herself caught in a monstrous trap. The quality of singing and acting she displays is truly superb.

Placido Domingo as Cavaradossi shows vividly the strength of will and presence of mind needed by a man who--caught up in events beyond his control--confronts with courage and dignity all the power of the police state arrayed against him. We see him, at the sudden end of his life, recalling his first meeting with his beloved Floria in the third-act aria "E lucevan le stelle," a poignant and beautiful scene as the sunrise--his last sunrise--rises over the terrible battlements of the Castel San'Angelo.

Finally we see Sherill Milnes as the dread Baron Scarpia. He is, certainly, one of the best performers I have ever seen in this difficult and powerful role. He is everything Scarpia should be--handsome and courtly, elegant and a sincere man of the world, and yet . . . in his courtliness and elegance there is something of a beautiful snake, slippery and dangerous. The second act of this film is a real tour de force in which Scarpia slips back and forth from a charming gentleman, to a scheming seducer, to an all-powerful chief of police, to a torturer, to an ardent lover, to a determined rapist, to a kindly friend, to a deadly and ferocious rival.

Sherill Milnes manages to demonstrate all these qualities--making his performance as Scarpia a rare and precious gift to any opera lover. The scene of his death brings the acting skills of both Kabaivanska and Milnes to so high a level of dramatic intensity that one is unable to tear one's eyes away from them.

To conclude--in all aspects which the filming of opera demands, voices and actors, scenery and costumes, intensity and pacing, this film stands out as a true achievement.