There were lots of things to like about this film, mainly the set-decor for the interiors such as the the old men's rendezvous cafe and their cluttered flats. The Thames-side Regents Canal scenes, like the stately home film-set, the actors' memorial church and English seaside smacked of the tourism promotion shots familiar from Richard Curtis films.
The old men were well-portrayed in terms of contrasting characters, with a comic turn from Leslie Phillips and self-effacing support from Griffiths. Vanessa Redgrave turned her usual sterling performance as the deserted but forgiving wife.
I've endured enough Hollywood couplings of older men with younger women over the years to be prepared for a Spring/September romance, but Jessie, emotionally, educationally and financially vulnerable, was too easy a target for O'Toole's lechery. Shots of O'Toole's leering eyes and yellow teeth were too graphic, despite the face-lift ironing out some of the wrinkles, and I began to long for some soft-focus in the close-ups. I never thought I'd praise Hollywood for discretion, but we are usually spared the spectacle of geriatric tongues licking young flesh, and the hero's post-operative urine bag strapped to his leg. The spectacle of slobbering and groping was too nasty to be glossed over by waltzing to a church quartet or a seaside paddle.
What was all that stop-and-start camera work on the final journey at about? I'm sorry to say it, but I suspect it was so the tourists could look at the scenery.
Homage to aging actors are one thing, but when it's achieved with such cynicism and so little left to the imagination it leaves a nasty taste.
The old men were well-portrayed in terms of contrasting characters, with a comic turn from Leslie Phillips and self-effacing support from Griffiths. Vanessa Redgrave turned her usual sterling performance as the deserted but forgiving wife.
I've endured enough Hollywood couplings of older men with younger women over the years to be prepared for a Spring/September romance, but Jessie, emotionally, educationally and financially vulnerable, was too easy a target for O'Toole's lechery. Shots of O'Toole's leering eyes and yellow teeth were too graphic, despite the face-lift ironing out some of the wrinkles, and I began to long for some soft-focus in the close-ups. I never thought I'd praise Hollywood for discretion, but we are usually spared the spectacle of geriatric tongues licking young flesh, and the hero's post-operative urine bag strapped to his leg. The spectacle of slobbering and groping was too nasty to be glossed over by waltzing to a church quartet or a seaside paddle.
What was all that stop-and-start camera work on the final journey at about? I'm sorry to say it, but I suspect it was so the tourists could look at the scenery.
Homage to aging actors are one thing, but when it's achieved with such cynicism and so little left to the imagination it leaves a nasty taste.
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