Word: bergmans
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...Donner most emphatically thinks his lovers are normal, magnificently normal. Sex breaks open the ground of their lives and in it plants the seed of love. The final scenes are subtly realized and beautifully touching, but in one of them Director Donner, a 31-year-old protege of Ingmar Bergman, unfortunately promulgates one of those long long thoughts of youth that may mildly embarrass him when he gets older. Marriage, his heroine announces earnestly, is merely a "lesson in resignation"; the only true love is free love. Oh, well. In a movie like this, what's one anticlimax...
...best, Director Leopoldo Torre Nilsson, Argentina's foremost film maker, studies his homeland with an unblinking poet's eye that invites comparison to Antonioni and Bergman. He deftly juggles modish effects, melding sun and skin into the languid what-next boredom of a summer afternoon or exposing the backbone of a scene with the blinding suddenness of a flashbulb popping in the dark...
Bradbury wrote the excellent script of John Huston's movie version of Moby Dick; and his novel Dandelion Wine was a firm, straightforward remembrance of a youth in Illinois. His science fiction, however, has drawn him into a world he never dreamed of entering. Ingmar Bergman corresponds with him. Fran?ois Truffaut is writing the scenario for the movie version of his novel Fahrenheit 451. Christopher Isherwood has compared Bradbury to Edgar Allan Poe. And Ilya Ehrenburg says that he is one of the five most popular American writers in the Soviet Union, along with Hemingway, Faulkner, Steinbeck...
Guided by Director George Cukor, who had played Pygmalion to many a Hollywood Galatea (Garbo in Camille, Ingrid Bergman in Gaslight), she exquisitely personifies "a squashed cabbage leaf" transformed into an English rose. Her comedy scenes are delectable, her charm ineluctable, and her first appearance among society folk at Ascot-in a gown created by Designer Cecil Beaton, whose art nouveau sets and costumes are a splendid show in themselves-is one of those great movie moments seldom accomplished without the help of brass bands and fireworks. And Hepburn tops that when she begins describing, in precise Mayfair accents...
Despite an occasional stab of wit, Bergman's portrait of the artist as the victim of his fickle followers and corrupt critics, if it is funny at all, is heavy, testy humor. Teeth clenched, he wields the apparatus of slapstick boldly, but draws neither laughs nor blood because his northern variations on 8½ do not lend themselves to pie-in-the-face comedy. Even the most accomplished cinema stylist can scarcely hope, perhaps, to be the Fellini of the frost belt and a Scandinavian Sennett at the same time...