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Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven (2011)

December 1959: Poe, a young writer, has locked himself inside his seedy Hollywood motel room. Astray in his projected memories, he gets a visit from a dark bird named, 'Nevermore.'

Directors:

Christopher Saphire (co-director), Don Thiel (co-director)
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1 win. See more awards »

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Cast

Credited cast:
Anna Healy Anna Healy ... Lenore
Christopher Saphire Christopher Saphire ... Poe
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Storyline

December 1959: Poe, a young writer, has locked himself inside his seedy Hollywood motel room. Astray in his projected memories, he gets a visit from a dark bird named, 'Nevermore.'

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Genres:

Short | Drama | Thriller

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Details

Official Sites:

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Country:

USA

Language:

English

Release Date:

28 August 2011 (USA) See more »

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Color:

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User Reviews

 
Modernized.
22 December 2016 | by rmax304823See all my reviews

This short film has Saphire reciting Poe's eerie verse and enacting the events in a shabby but modern room.

His recitation is okay but these modernizations -- of Poe, Shakespeare, or practically anybody else -- are disorienting. (An exception is "Bartleby", the one with Christian Slater.) I mean -- here we have the narrator who, judging from the poem, has a certain class bespeaking refinement. You and I don't have a bust of Athena anywhere in our living quarters. (Or DO you?)

And, even stoned, I'd hesitate before referring to "the night's Plutonian shore." As an actor, Saphire looks like a young guy starring in his own movie and doing his very best in a soiled singlet, beard, accompanied by booze and weed. It's hard to imagine that bust of Pallas because the single room he occupies is already so cluttered with furniture and an 8 mm. projector showing vacation shots of his lost love Lenore.

Yet, despite its weaknesses, it's not a failure. After all, how much can you do with the kind of budget that wouldn't feed a gerbil for more than a few days? And, as I say, his reading of the verse passes muster, filled though it is with resignation and regret rather than terror, Poe's usual coin.

The poet himself may or may not have been a nice guy and truly his lines at time may be repetitious (tinkle, tinkle) but for a madman he was a genius. His clever damnations of self often move me. Years ago I wandered through the house in Philadelphia where he'd written this poem. The interior walls were covered with whitewashed plasterboard but one corner had a tiny opening, barely noticeable, beneath which could be seen the primitive crumbling brick of 1840. I pinched a piece of that grainy dust.


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