Having high hopes of any film made from a book is fatal, so I approached this movie with caution. But nonetheless only disappointment arose...
The novel by James Jones portrays small-town America as we have come to expect it to be shown - petty, small-minded, over-concerned with back-biting and the politics of social-standing. But the original novel has the depth and scope to paint a broad picture of each of the lives within it. The film, however, takes what we now call 'soundbites' of the events and characters, compressing a long story into a few key events. There is no chance to explore any of the characters - other than Sinatra's 'Dave' - in any depth and the subsequent result is a patchy film that irks the viewer into thinking "And..." every time you meet a new character, hoping that more will be given about their involvement in the story-line.
MacLaine plays her old stalwart role of tart-with-a heart to good effect, but Dean Martin seems to be reliving his old Rat Pack days as if for real, not contributing to his character as Sinatra's hard-living pal in any real sense. Martha Hyer as Gwen French seems particularly mis-cast as the 'high-class dame' Sinatra aims for: Dave declares his love for her having met her only once, and without knowing either his or her character's personal background this doesn't ring at all true. The final scenes of the film seem slipped in as if they only just had time, and rounds off neither the main protagonists' story nor the sub-plots that make the novel such an all-round success.
Overall Minnelli probably did his best with the limited play-time available, but as a successful director mainly of musicals someone with more 'bite' could have been chosen. James Jones had his chance with the script, but needed a good 20 minutes more to get some control over the final product (a play-time more-or-less unheard-of, except for biblical epics, in films of the '50s). It lacks the edge of 'The Sweet Smell of Success' or of a Tennessee Williams tale of suburban-America, and through no fault of the author.
Plus points are Sinatra's performance as a blocked writer, showing his ability to portray a character outside the sphere of musicals, a skill he developed in other films of that decade. And for those who haven't read the book, they might gain more from it than I did. Final advice, however, would be to read the book and forget the film.
The novel by James Jones portrays small-town America as we have come to expect it to be shown - petty, small-minded, over-concerned with back-biting and the politics of social-standing. But the original novel has the depth and scope to paint a broad picture of each of the lives within it. The film, however, takes what we now call 'soundbites' of the events and characters, compressing a long story into a few key events. There is no chance to explore any of the characters - other than Sinatra's 'Dave' - in any depth and the subsequent result is a patchy film that irks the viewer into thinking "And..." every time you meet a new character, hoping that more will be given about their involvement in the story-line.
MacLaine plays her old stalwart role of tart-with-a heart to good effect, but Dean Martin seems to be reliving his old Rat Pack days as if for real, not contributing to his character as Sinatra's hard-living pal in any real sense. Martha Hyer as Gwen French seems particularly mis-cast as the 'high-class dame' Sinatra aims for: Dave declares his love for her having met her only once, and without knowing either his or her character's personal background this doesn't ring at all true. The final scenes of the film seem slipped in as if they only just had time, and rounds off neither the main protagonists' story nor the sub-plots that make the novel such an all-round success.
Overall Minnelli probably did his best with the limited play-time available, but as a successful director mainly of musicals someone with more 'bite' could have been chosen. James Jones had his chance with the script, but needed a good 20 minutes more to get some control over the final product (a play-time more-or-less unheard-of, except for biblical epics, in films of the '50s). It lacks the edge of 'The Sweet Smell of Success' or of a Tennessee Williams tale of suburban-America, and through no fault of the author.
Plus points are Sinatra's performance as a blocked writer, showing his ability to portray a character outside the sphere of musicals, a skill he developed in other films of that decade. And for those who haven't read the book, they might gain more from it than I did. Final advice, however, would be to read the book and forget the film.
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