Where does one begin to praise Ralph Richardson? English through and through, mad as a hatter, sane as Solomon.
Graham Greene apparently had a huge row with Carol Reed about the snake, McGregor, complaining about diversion from the original story (which is also excellent in its own way); but was won over completely when he saw the film.
I didn't know that about Reed and Greene had disagreed about McGregor. Very interesting. Reed, clearly, was right.
You are dead right about Ralphy, who is unspeakably, staggeringly, startlingly good. There is a wonderful potato face lunacy at work here that I defy anyone to better.
But the boy, Phillippe, is perfectly cast, too, ditto the beastly wife. Ditto in fact the French girlfriend and the hopeless British plods.
The paper dart, almost as much as the hair grip dropping onto the pillow, is just wonderful, narrative and drama instantly, grippingly condensed.
In short, near perfect in almost every way.
I could go on for ages, but 'tis time for beddy byes.
World-weary to a near-insufferable degree, jaundiced beyond parody and unutterably irritated by the antics of socialists of any hue, The Creator has but a single goal: to shed light where once there was only darkness. If, reasonably, he has no expectation of success, he is still quite looking forward to pissing off as many lefties as possible.
2 comments:
Where does one begin to praise Ralph Richardson? English through and through, mad as a hatter, sane as Solomon.
Graham Greene apparently had a huge row with Carol Reed about the snake, McGregor, complaining about diversion from the original story (which is also excellent in its own way); but was won over completely when he saw the film.
They don't make 'em like that any more.
Greetings on the nativity of your boy, BTW!
I didn't know that about Reed and Greene had disagreed about McGregor. Very interesting. Reed, clearly, was right.
You are dead right about Ralphy, who is unspeakably, staggeringly, startlingly good. There is a wonderful potato face lunacy at work here that I defy anyone to better.
But the boy, Phillippe, is perfectly cast, too, ditto the beastly wife. Ditto in fact the French girlfriend and the hopeless British plods.
The paper dart, almost as much as the hair grip dropping onto the pillow, is just wonderful, narrative and drama instantly, grippingly condensed.
In short, near perfect in almost every way.
I could go on for ages, but 'tis time for beddy byes.
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