Word: dunaway
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Occidental moviemakers perceive her as a fashion photographer (Eyes of Laura Mars) or a ratings-mad television executive (Network). But Tokyo Art Director Eiko Ishioka, casting around for a Japanese TV commercial, saw in Faye Dunaway something of Kannon Bosatsu, the Buddhist goddess of mercy. Rigged in sail-like goddess attire, the inscrutable pitchperson has no lines, but she kisses and caresses two tiny girls in a fetching commercial for a chain of boutiques, galleries and theaters that airs next month...
...evening news at UBS is commentator Peter Finch's letter-perfect imitation of Eric Sevareid. But once you get over your amusement at that stentorian phrasing you find nothing. This film is as sterile as a 30-second clip of Amy Carter walking to her integrated school. Faye Dunaway won her Oscar for Chinatown, not this lemon. Peter Finch is dead, and far be it from me to talk about the dead. A dignified William Holden as network news chief comes off rather like a Shetland pony in an 8 x 11 porno still--he looks more dignified than...
...sets and atmosphere, even the ambience of The Champ seems bogus. The low-life Florida sporting hangouts frequented by the champ (Jon Voight) and his son (Ricky Schroder) are a tad too pretty; the extras look like a musical comedy chorus. The florid digs of the mother (Faye Dunaway) are so opulent that one expects Astaire and Rogers to appear on a staircase. Such decorative exaggeration is paralleled by Zeffirelli's treatment of his story. Each time The Champ hits a melodramatic climax, which is roughly once every five minutes, the director brings up soppy music and goes...
...thinking too hard, and so is Dunaway. This actress's repertoire of neurotic mannerisms brings back unwanted memories of her performance in Chinatown, even to the point of imbuing The Champ with bizarre incestuous undercurrents. As the young object of Dunaway's affections, the freckle-faced Schroder cries on any and every cue. Tears flood the screen, but at theaters where this Champ is playing, there won't be a wet eye in the house. -Frank Rich
...script--which could only have worked under a flaky, crazy director with a sense of visual satire, not Lumet, who ridiculed television far better in Dog Day Afternoon. He does, however, evoke magnificent performances, especially from Peter Finch (who seems to have dropped out of sight lately), Faye Dunaway (well cast) and Robert Duvall. In any case, you would do well to pass this...