Few films command the lasting affection of A Little Romance. An indictment of the cinematic cynicism of the 1970s, here is a wonderful, often magical film awash in sentiment, but never sentimental. In spite of its title and even the story itself, its genre is somewhat ambiguous. It is, rather, an evocative survey of several: romance, melodrama, mystery, comedy, and above all, fantasy.
Set in Paris, it's the story of two children (Diane Lane and Thelonious Bernard) who meet by accident at Versailles amidst the confusion and hubbub of a film shoot. One is the prodigious, mathematically savvy young son of a cab driver, while the other is the equally facile daughter of a wealthy, vivacious, and spoiled American woman (Sally Kellerman) and her new husband, an ironically compassionate corporate executive (Arthur Hill). The two kids "click", but their burgeoning love is soon compromised by a kind, well meaning, if incompetent petty thief. (Laurence Olivier)
If there is a single theme upon which its endearing appeal continues to thrive, nearly thirty years after its release, it's innocence: the innocence of children, the innocence of adults who behave like children, and the surprising innocence -- naiveté, really -- of a society that would still, in the end, respect it. It's about fate, too, and how it favors and rewards innocence uncorrupted, even if it is only in the movies that such an emotional Shangrila is possible. That the filmmakers send up, with comical gentility, the film industry itself as a source of such corruption is certainly testimony to that.
The legendary, fairy-tale quality that informs A Little Romance was no accident. Removed from the splendid châteaux and opulent gardens of Versailles, or the gentle slopes of rural Italy, or the pristinely elegant, aquatic antiquity of Venice, A Little Romance would have been shorn of its resonance. Director George Hill was nothing if not savvy, exploiting as he did the rich geographical and architectural environments as characters in their own right. Had this story been set in New York, for example, along with a more indulgent, self-conscious script populated exclusively with adults, it would have ended up emulating the gooey sentimentality of Love Story.
The 13 year old Diane Lane's radiant debut was complimented by the no less engaging Thelonious Bernard, who has long since disappeared from film, and from public view altogether for that matter. (Word has it he is now a dentist in Nantes, famous for its opera company). Of course, neither of them had to move too far out of their own gifted skins to portray the prodigies they do here. Their abundant intelligence and wit take no time at all to succumb, in this story of real and not merely puppy love, to adolescent longings. In fact, Ms. Lane and Mr. Bernard are so convincing as to lead to speculation about their relationship off screen. That's probably unfair, though; the odds are that they, like their characters, were just two brainy, fabulous kids and consummate professionals who had mastered the craft of acting and grasped, with unerring precision, the subtext of the Allan Burns' superbly crafted screenplay.
The wonderful Arthur Hill, who died just today (and whose passing inspired me to write this), exudes firm but caring authority in his role as Ms. Lane's father and the beleaguered husband of the philandering Sally Kellerman, seen here in one of her edgier, bitchier performances. Both Hill and Kellerman's thoughtful readings, deftly defined, provided the perfect counterpoint to the developing feelings explored by Ms. Lane and Mr. Bernard. But rather than glibly extolling, like two proud parents, the innocence of those feelings, both actors expose instead what spoiled cynicism and lack of faith can do to corrupt them.
The miracle of this movie, its heart, if you will, is Mr. Olivier. His performance is pure confection, as delicious as the French pastry he fawns over in a café early on in the film, yet no less detailed and picaresque than the Doge Palace in Venice where he ends up. As he confessed in his autobiography, acting was, for Mr. Olivier, an artificial construct; he was no fan of the method or realism. He preferred to invent a character from the outside, like a painting, rather than cultivating it from the inside whilst tipping his hat to every possible motivation. Whatever attendant techniques he engaged to create his Julius, no matter. It is in the end a most remarkable bit of thespian virtuosity, a performance of enormous buoyancy at once playful and passionate, vulnerable and astute. Mr. Olivier is the angel of this fantasy, while Ms Lane and Mr. Bernard are the cherubs under his wing, making a perfect match and underlying metaphor for the old world paintings and frescoes to which the viewer's gaze is often drawn. The final scene -- the penultimate "adieu" you might say -- remains in memory long after the last celluloid flicker for the unmistakable authenticity of its poignant denouement.
Smart turns by an eminently sober Broderick Crawford as himself, Graham Fletcher-Cooke as Daniel's randy young friend, and Jacques Maury as a deadpan, unintentionally hilarious police inspector round out one of the most charming G-rated films of the 20th century.
-John Bell Young
Set in Paris, it's the story of two children (Diane Lane and Thelonious Bernard) who meet by accident at Versailles amidst the confusion and hubbub of a film shoot. One is the prodigious, mathematically savvy young son of a cab driver, while the other is the equally facile daughter of a wealthy, vivacious, and spoiled American woman (Sally Kellerman) and her new husband, an ironically compassionate corporate executive (Arthur Hill). The two kids "click", but their burgeoning love is soon compromised by a kind, well meaning, if incompetent petty thief. (Laurence Olivier)
If there is a single theme upon which its endearing appeal continues to thrive, nearly thirty years after its release, it's innocence: the innocence of children, the innocence of adults who behave like children, and the surprising innocence -- naiveté, really -- of a society that would still, in the end, respect it. It's about fate, too, and how it favors and rewards innocence uncorrupted, even if it is only in the movies that such an emotional Shangrila is possible. That the filmmakers send up, with comical gentility, the film industry itself as a source of such corruption is certainly testimony to that.
The legendary, fairy-tale quality that informs A Little Romance was no accident. Removed from the splendid châteaux and opulent gardens of Versailles, or the gentle slopes of rural Italy, or the pristinely elegant, aquatic antiquity of Venice, A Little Romance would have been shorn of its resonance. Director George Hill was nothing if not savvy, exploiting as he did the rich geographical and architectural environments as characters in their own right. Had this story been set in New York, for example, along with a more indulgent, self-conscious script populated exclusively with adults, it would have ended up emulating the gooey sentimentality of Love Story.
The 13 year old Diane Lane's radiant debut was complimented by the no less engaging Thelonious Bernard, who has long since disappeared from film, and from public view altogether for that matter. (Word has it he is now a dentist in Nantes, famous for its opera company). Of course, neither of them had to move too far out of their own gifted skins to portray the prodigies they do here. Their abundant intelligence and wit take no time at all to succumb, in this story of real and not merely puppy love, to adolescent longings. In fact, Ms. Lane and Mr. Bernard are so convincing as to lead to speculation about their relationship off screen. That's probably unfair, though; the odds are that they, like their characters, were just two brainy, fabulous kids and consummate professionals who had mastered the craft of acting and grasped, with unerring precision, the subtext of the Allan Burns' superbly crafted screenplay.
The wonderful Arthur Hill, who died just today (and whose passing inspired me to write this), exudes firm but caring authority in his role as Ms. Lane's father and the beleaguered husband of the philandering Sally Kellerman, seen here in one of her edgier, bitchier performances. Both Hill and Kellerman's thoughtful readings, deftly defined, provided the perfect counterpoint to the developing feelings explored by Ms. Lane and Mr. Bernard. But rather than glibly extolling, like two proud parents, the innocence of those feelings, both actors expose instead what spoiled cynicism and lack of faith can do to corrupt them.
The miracle of this movie, its heart, if you will, is Mr. Olivier. His performance is pure confection, as delicious as the French pastry he fawns over in a café early on in the film, yet no less detailed and picaresque than the Doge Palace in Venice where he ends up. As he confessed in his autobiography, acting was, for Mr. Olivier, an artificial construct; he was no fan of the method or realism. He preferred to invent a character from the outside, like a painting, rather than cultivating it from the inside whilst tipping his hat to every possible motivation. Whatever attendant techniques he engaged to create his Julius, no matter. It is in the end a most remarkable bit of thespian virtuosity, a performance of enormous buoyancy at once playful and passionate, vulnerable and astute. Mr. Olivier is the angel of this fantasy, while Ms Lane and Mr. Bernard are the cherubs under his wing, making a perfect match and underlying metaphor for the old world paintings and frescoes to which the viewer's gaze is often drawn. The final scene -- the penultimate "adieu" you might say -- remains in memory long after the last celluloid flicker for the unmistakable authenticity of its poignant denouement.
Smart turns by an eminently sober Broderick Crawford as himself, Graham Fletcher-Cooke as Daniel's randy young friend, and Jacques Maury as a deadpan, unintentionally hilarious police inspector round out one of the most charming G-rated films of the 20th century.
-John Bell Young