Why does every social movement get out of hand? Embracing a revolutionary ideology seems often to lead to a kind of game in which purity of belief, untempered by reason or common sense, becomes as powerful, frightening, and dangerous as the thing it replaces. Each revolutionary engages in a contest with others to see who can out-revolutionize whom. Fidel Castro executed the members of Bautista's brutally repressive government -- down to and including mailmen because they'd worked for the state. And France was worse and it lasted longer. It wasn't the best of times at all.
But, sociological queries aside, the movie itself is engaging and instructive. Seeing a period film released in 1935 one is impressed by how DATED it seems. The score constantly underlines the points we can easily see being made on screen. The acting tends towards the Smithfield ham end of the spectrum. Raised voices quiver with a vibrato we associate with the 19th-century stage. Gestures are broad enough to be seen from outer space. The sets are carefully constructed but are obviously sets. The wardrobe may or may not be entirely accurate to circumstances but seems schematic -- the aristoi wear frilly lace, the bourgeoisie wear dark clothing like the guy on the Quaker Oats package, and the poor are dressed in dirty rags.
This version of Dickens' novel isn't any different and yet it's just plain fine storytelling. It isn't the least pretentious. Everything about it is professional and designed to get the job done, like a Volkswagon Beetle. Some of the performances are more interesting than others, partly because of the actors and partly because the roles are better written.
Three prominent characters are memorable. Ronald Colman is a fine, distracted, disillusioned, drunken romantic. I wouldn't say that tis a far, far better thing than he has done, because I enjoyed his reluctant man of action in "The Prisoner of Zenda." Edna May Oliver can't help but impress, with her horsey face, prudishness, and harrumphing indignation covering up the warmth of her inner organs. Best of all -- sorry, but it's Basil Rathbone as the most faggoty and selfish of the aristocrats. How he minces! Sherlock Holmes prancing around in ruffles and lace, sniffing with irritation when his carriage runs over a child. "My horses might have been hurt!" Loved it! Weaknesses, though, kind of leap out at you. The character players are dependable and good -- Catlett, Bevan, and the like. But Elizabeth Allen as Lucy seems to bring a blank spot to the screen. And her husband, Evremont, displays a level of skill that you or I would take about a week to acquire. Maybe two weeks.
The movie isn't pregnant with symbolism, any more than the novel is, although we have to admit that Mme. DeFarge is knitting more than a pullover crew-neck sweater. Did she get it from Prossy in the novel too? I forget.
Anyway it's no-nonsense storytelling, a glossy black-and-white production that Hollywood was pretty good at. It could have come out of the Bauhaus. It's the kind of movie that suggests (but does not demonstrate) how much you could get away with while working inside the envelope. It's volcanically, elementally better than the billion-dollar CGI extravaganzas mostly on the screen now, and it cost little to produce, on a schedule of probably two months or so. ("Grapes of Wrath" took Ford 33 days to shoot.) I haven't seen the other versions of the novel that are more recent, but this one is more than adequate in its own way. I'd better quit. I'm coming down with an attack of acute nostalgia. See this if you can. And, Kids, think of it this way -- if you watch the movie you won't have to read the book.
But, sociological queries aside, the movie itself is engaging and instructive. Seeing a period film released in 1935 one is impressed by how DATED it seems. The score constantly underlines the points we can easily see being made on screen. The acting tends towards the Smithfield ham end of the spectrum. Raised voices quiver with a vibrato we associate with the 19th-century stage. Gestures are broad enough to be seen from outer space. The sets are carefully constructed but are obviously sets. The wardrobe may or may not be entirely accurate to circumstances but seems schematic -- the aristoi wear frilly lace, the bourgeoisie wear dark clothing like the guy on the Quaker Oats package, and the poor are dressed in dirty rags.
This version of Dickens' novel isn't any different and yet it's just plain fine storytelling. It isn't the least pretentious. Everything about it is professional and designed to get the job done, like a Volkswagon Beetle. Some of the performances are more interesting than others, partly because of the actors and partly because the roles are better written.
Three prominent characters are memorable. Ronald Colman is a fine, distracted, disillusioned, drunken romantic. I wouldn't say that tis a far, far better thing than he has done, because I enjoyed his reluctant man of action in "The Prisoner of Zenda." Edna May Oliver can't help but impress, with her horsey face, prudishness, and harrumphing indignation covering up the warmth of her inner organs. Best of all -- sorry, but it's Basil Rathbone as the most faggoty and selfish of the aristocrats. How he minces! Sherlock Holmes prancing around in ruffles and lace, sniffing with irritation when his carriage runs over a child. "My horses might have been hurt!" Loved it! Weaknesses, though, kind of leap out at you. The character players are dependable and good -- Catlett, Bevan, and the like. But Elizabeth Allen as Lucy seems to bring a blank spot to the screen. And her husband, Evremont, displays a level of skill that you or I would take about a week to acquire. Maybe two weeks.
The movie isn't pregnant with symbolism, any more than the novel is, although we have to admit that Mme. DeFarge is knitting more than a pullover crew-neck sweater. Did she get it from Prossy in the novel too? I forget.
Anyway it's no-nonsense storytelling, a glossy black-and-white production that Hollywood was pretty good at. It could have come out of the Bauhaus. It's the kind of movie that suggests (but does not demonstrate) how much you could get away with while working inside the envelope. It's volcanically, elementally better than the billion-dollar CGI extravaganzas mostly on the screen now, and it cost little to produce, on a schedule of probably two months or so. ("Grapes of Wrath" took Ford 33 days to shoot.) I haven't seen the other versions of the novel that are more recent, but this one is more than adequate in its own way. I'd better quit. I'm coming down with an attack of acute nostalgia. See this if you can. And, Kids, think of it this way -- if you watch the movie you won't have to read the book.