I spent the month of July reading Anthony Powell's 'A Dance to the Music of Time'; books that are uneven in quality but afford a long, fascinating read resulting in a strange poignance akin to but also quite different from Evelyn Waugh's war trilogy 'Sword of Honor'. Powell also seemed determined to out-Proust Proust but fails in that regard as Proust was a much better writer. Some have thought this to be Powell's version of Waugh's 'Brideshead Revisited'. I can see no correlation at all beyond, perhaps, the early scenes at Oxford and the drunken character of Charles Stringham who is vaguely reminiscent of Sebastian Flyte in Waugh's famous book.
I have reached a point where I am no longer simply grateful for someone taking a stab at filming great or near-great literature. This adaptation of Powell's massive epic is so poorly done that I can find no mitigation for it having been attempted at all. I didn't expect much, even from a longish mini-series, but these books deserved detailed treatment, however many episodes it might have entailed. But the producer, Alvin Rakoff, either didn't have a clue as to the spirit of this story or was sorely curtailed in his budget. Given the often inept casting (something for which the producer is responsible) and the slipshod editing and hacking about of both the story line and the excision of many characters, I suspect the former case to be true. Mr Rakoff managed to miss the heart and soul of this tale and has merely created an interminable bore of a film.
And the switch of actors in several roles was not only unnecessary but clumsily done. On the other hand, given the horrible make-up jobs on the characters of Mark Members and J.G. Quiggin who both look 100 years old when they are only in their 60s it is probably good that there weren't more characters to have to age in such a way.
There are two performances that are absolutely true to the originals and they are Simon Russell Beale ('Persuasion') and Miranda Richardson who play Lord and Lady Widmerpool. There is no explanation for Pamela Flitton Widmerpool's behavior in the books and she is just as much an enigma in the film. It is terrible that Beale's amazing performance has been wasted on such a lousy screenplay.
Most of the acting is very good, such as it is, but several performers are badly miscast. Paul Rhys is especially annoying as Charles Stringham, a man who is depressive but not a lobotomized, grinning buffoon. And poor Lord Erridge Warminster is turned into a goofy clown.
Rakoff has added little political bits of his own for some reason; for instance, it was deemed necessary to include an attack on the Marxists in the demonstration by Oswald Mosley's Black Shirts. This is not in the book and adds nothing to the story. There are many other instances of wasted celluloid that would have been better utilized in telling the original story and creating rounded characters. Only Widmerpool and Pamela Flitton are rounded out, the rest are all cardboard cut-outs whose behavior makes little sense as a result.
The producers also play fast and loose with time sequences. And characters run on for a scene or two and then vanish never to be seen again. This was even confusing to someone who knows the books!
I doubt if I will live long enough to ever see this gargantuan tale presented as it should be so I'll have to stick to the books, which are fascinating.
I have given this effort 3 stars, one for Beale, one for Richardson and one for production values which are high. No expense was spared on hiring out vintage automobiles and beautiful houses, not to mention a nice junket to Venice for the production team.
Skip this piece of rubbish and try and find the books, if you can. Little Brown published them in a four book omnibus which can still be found from time to time on ABE.com. or if you are lucky and live in a large city, in a good used bookstore with a rare books section.
This was a MAJOR disappointment even when I was prepared for a watered down version. I didn't think it could possibly be this bad. Reader's Digest would have been proud but the BBC should hang it's head in shame.
I have reached a point where I am no longer simply grateful for someone taking a stab at filming great or near-great literature. This adaptation of Powell's massive epic is so poorly done that I can find no mitigation for it having been attempted at all. I didn't expect much, even from a longish mini-series, but these books deserved detailed treatment, however many episodes it might have entailed. But the producer, Alvin Rakoff, either didn't have a clue as to the spirit of this story or was sorely curtailed in his budget. Given the often inept casting (something for which the producer is responsible) and the slipshod editing and hacking about of both the story line and the excision of many characters, I suspect the former case to be true. Mr Rakoff managed to miss the heart and soul of this tale and has merely created an interminable bore of a film.
And the switch of actors in several roles was not only unnecessary but clumsily done. On the other hand, given the horrible make-up jobs on the characters of Mark Members and J.G. Quiggin who both look 100 years old when they are only in their 60s it is probably good that there weren't more characters to have to age in such a way.
There are two performances that are absolutely true to the originals and they are Simon Russell Beale ('Persuasion') and Miranda Richardson who play Lord and Lady Widmerpool. There is no explanation for Pamela Flitton Widmerpool's behavior in the books and she is just as much an enigma in the film. It is terrible that Beale's amazing performance has been wasted on such a lousy screenplay.
Most of the acting is very good, such as it is, but several performers are badly miscast. Paul Rhys is especially annoying as Charles Stringham, a man who is depressive but not a lobotomized, grinning buffoon. And poor Lord Erridge Warminster is turned into a goofy clown.
Rakoff has added little political bits of his own for some reason; for instance, it was deemed necessary to include an attack on the Marxists in the demonstration by Oswald Mosley's Black Shirts. This is not in the book and adds nothing to the story. There are many other instances of wasted celluloid that would have been better utilized in telling the original story and creating rounded characters. Only Widmerpool and Pamela Flitton are rounded out, the rest are all cardboard cut-outs whose behavior makes little sense as a result.
The producers also play fast and loose with time sequences. And characters run on for a scene or two and then vanish never to be seen again. This was even confusing to someone who knows the books!
I doubt if I will live long enough to ever see this gargantuan tale presented as it should be so I'll have to stick to the books, which are fascinating.
I have given this effort 3 stars, one for Beale, one for Richardson and one for production values which are high. No expense was spared on hiring out vintage automobiles and beautiful houses, not to mention a nice junket to Venice for the production team.
Skip this piece of rubbish and try and find the books, if you can. Little Brown published them in a four book omnibus which can still be found from time to time on ABE.com. or if you are lucky and live in a large city, in a good used bookstore with a rare books section.
This was a MAJOR disappointment even when I was prepared for a watered down version. I didn't think it could possibly be this bad. Reader's Digest would have been proud but the BBC should hang it's head in shame.