Reviews

SUMMERTIME is a story of a closet lesbian, Katherine Hepburn, who passes on an opportunity of having an affair with openly lesbian Isa Miranda, owner of the hotel she is staying at. Instead, she reluctantly ends up sleeping with Rosanna Brazzi, whom she runs always from. In all, a lesbian story penned by very openly gay Arthur Larents,, told within the confines of 1950s hypocritical morality and censorship codes. Notwithstanding, Piazza San Marco and Venice in general provide the usual fairly "decadent" backdrop. A highly romanticised and quite tamed precursor to Luchino Visconti's DEATH IN VENICE.

A desperate attempt to cash in on William Holden-Audrey Hepburn success of SABRINA. Sadly, minus Billy Wilder a still born movie.

Based on Nobel nominee Turkish writer, Yashar Kemal's novel, MEMED is a movie with strong Marxist message, alongside movies such as VIVA ZAPATA and BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN. The movie tells the story of simple village folks in 1930s Anatolia, exploded by a ruthless feudal landlord, Abdicate Agha, played by Peter Ustinov who also wrote the screenplay and directed. The cinematography by Freddie Francis is superb, and the music by Manos Hadjidakis haunting and dramatic as the scripts demands it.

There are great performances by veteran British actors- Eileen Waye, Siobhan McKenna, Dennis Quilley, Walter Gottel and Herbert Lom.

Sadly, the the Turkish government of 1982 refused permission to shoot MEMED in Turkey, and later permission to exhibit was, and remains, denied.

This remake is nothing but a showcase for Kenneth Branagh's gigantic ego, namely, to him nothing is sacred. The original SLEUTH, written by Anthony Shaffer, directed by Jo Mankiewitz, with Laurence Olivier and Michael Caine was, as far as the art of cinema is concerned, "perfection", if such a notion can be defined. It was a masterpiece of a play, ingeniously adapted to the screen by its author, and directed with great elan by Jo Mankiewitz, coming to this two hander, fresh out of having directed Cleopatra. It is obvious that there is absolutely nothing sacred to Mr Kenneth Branagh when it comes to his gigantic ego, and he really does not care what he rapes, as long as he can put his own stamp on it: in this case, that of perfect mediocrity.