It is usually fashionable to attack film versions of famous novels for their indifference to their source. Certainly The Brothers Karamazov was not allowed to escape the critical treadmill. However, I do not propose to discuss how much greater the film might have been if it did this or didn't do that, but how it actually is:
Virtue number one is John Alton's photography - easily the finest in color yet seen. Notice how he contrives to illumine Katya's face as a pale, waxy texture; how Smerdyakov's features are lined with green, Feodor's with red; how he makes great play with shadows; how pleasingly he always lights the charming contours of Grushenka.
Virtue number two is William A. Horning and Paul Groesse's art direction: cluttered claustrophobic interiors contrast muddy streets and drifting snow.
Virtue number three: Bronislau Kaper's music with its richly reminiscent aura of Tsarist Russia.
Virtue number four: Richard Brooks, though hardly our choice for the production, handles his material with great assurance and considerable competence.
Virtue number five: Pandro S. Berman for his decision to film in Technicolor Metroscope rather than CinemaScope.
Finally, the acting: Lee J. Cobb's is a juicy amalgam of Johnny Friendly and the Yiddish Art Theatre; Yul Brynner's is forceful and sensually elegant; Claire Bloom's is effective as the somewhat unrewarding Katya. It is nice to see Richard Basehart in a role he can handle (after La Strada and Moby Dick I was beginning to doubt his ability).
Maria Schell is superb as the celebrated Grushenka: her hand-kissing scene with Katya is brilliantly realised.
Newcomer Albert Salmi makes Smerdyakov a notable example of creative interpretation.
As for Alexey, his position is somewhat honorary; he appears as a draped figure of hovering solicitude and some inscrutability; now and then he lays on a restraining hand, tears rise repeatedly in his eyes. He is impersonated, with no pretensions whatever, by a young actor named William Shatner, who, it is safe to guess, will have no truck with the teen-age trade.
To sum up: It may not be perfect Dostoveski, but as a film - a definite must.
Virtue number one is John Alton's photography - easily the finest in color yet seen. Notice how he contrives to illumine Katya's face as a pale, waxy texture; how Smerdyakov's features are lined with green, Feodor's with red; how he makes great play with shadows; how pleasingly he always lights the charming contours of Grushenka.
Virtue number two is William A. Horning and Paul Groesse's art direction: cluttered claustrophobic interiors contrast muddy streets and drifting snow.
Virtue number three: Bronislau Kaper's music with its richly reminiscent aura of Tsarist Russia.
Virtue number four: Richard Brooks, though hardly our choice for the production, handles his material with great assurance and considerable competence.
Virtue number five: Pandro S. Berman for his decision to film in Technicolor Metroscope rather than CinemaScope.
Finally, the acting: Lee J. Cobb's is a juicy amalgam of Johnny Friendly and the Yiddish Art Theatre; Yul Brynner's is forceful and sensually elegant; Claire Bloom's is effective as the somewhat unrewarding Katya. It is nice to see Richard Basehart in a role he can handle (after La Strada and Moby Dick I was beginning to doubt his ability).
Maria Schell is superb as the celebrated Grushenka: her hand-kissing scene with Katya is brilliantly realised.
Newcomer Albert Salmi makes Smerdyakov a notable example of creative interpretation.
As for Alexey, his position is somewhat honorary; he appears as a draped figure of hovering solicitude and some inscrutability; now and then he lays on a restraining hand, tears rise repeatedly in his eyes. He is impersonated, with no pretensions whatever, by a young actor named William Shatner, who, it is safe to guess, will have no truck with the teen-age trade.
To sum up: It may not be perfect Dostoveski, but as a film - a definite must.