Word: miscasts
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...film's main interest lies in the novelty of a grubby Grant. He is miscast as a Bogart, but he makes a sprightly stab at crudity. When his dinghy starts to capsize with a full cargo of sweet young things, one tiny mutineer bites him, and he throws a capful of water in her face. When Caron slaps him, he lets her have it too. When Trevor Howard informs him that the island has a hidden treasure-trove of good Scotch whisky, Grant starts pawing the turf like Pavlov's dog. His engaging brand of rough-house finally...
...Wheeler has as much trouble with more practical matters. Most obviously, very few of his actors are suited to their parts. Paul B. Price has been terribly miscast as Edward; his voice is all wrong, his gestures are all wrong, his appearance is all wrong. Lisa Richards' plays Celia Coplestone as if she thinks Eliot imagined his saintly heroine to be a Vassar senior with a stuffed-up nose. Not surprisingly, the conversation between Edward and Celia at the end of the first act is painfully botched...
...regular characters for the most part employ one acting technique: they speak rapidly and clearly in a variety of accents. The leading man, Spalding Gray, who plays Mirabell, is particularly poor. He has either been miscast, or misdirected. Supposedly the most attractive man in London, a wit and a charmer, he talks like a self-satisfied New England prep school master. Next to him the supposedly boorish Sir Wilfull Witwoud (John Peaks) is a gallant gentleman...
...substance of a story that was all shadows, revealing a sure instinct for the nonessential. In this version, Governess Kerr and Butler Mills are obviously made for each other and for a formula fadeout. The younger Mills, abrim with mental health and ebullient spirits and thus strikingly miscast, suggests that she alone knows what it is that makes this Garden grow. Potash? Peat moss? Lime? No, just gobs and gobs of Pollyannalysis, laid on with a silver trowel...
...Hanged by Words. As a source of controversy, Lillian Ross seems totally miscast. Seated in the Algonquin Hotel lobby, a favorite and convenient haunt -it is just around the block from The New Yorker-she becomes just any 37-year-old woman, as inconspicuous as her chair. Her private life is a carefully protected secret: she once expressed regret at having made the mistake of publicly admitting as much as the place of her birth...