Whatever pathos and drama the director was striving for craters at each turn. Where Lean's 1945 b-and-w masterpiece had elegant pacing, Rachmaninoff's concerto and the inspired casting of Trevor Howard and Celia Johnson as conflicted lovers, this clam of a remake fumbles every pass: a so-so musical leitmotiv, editorial cutting that destroys any sense of a natural unfolding of Burton and Loren's passion, updated screenplay that murders Coward's original dialogue, pointless subplots.
Burton's professions of love might sound convincing if they had been delivered by Irwin Rommel. Sadly, Troilus with a medical degree Sir Richard is not. Loren's performance veers from comatose passivity to frenetic turmoil. And the lovers' interminable stroll through the countryside is better suited to a Xanax infomercial than to the requiem of a love affair.
The ending is such an emotional nonevent compared to Lean's, this remake would have fared better as a parody in the hands of Monty Python.
Verdict: don't improve on perfection.
Burton's professions of love might sound convincing if they had been delivered by Irwin Rommel. Sadly, Troilus with a medical degree Sir Richard is not. Loren's performance veers from comatose passivity to frenetic turmoil. And the lovers' interminable stroll through the countryside is better suited to a Xanax infomercial than to the requiem of a love affair.
The ending is such an emotional nonevent compared to Lean's, this remake would have fared better as a parody in the hands of Monty Python.
Verdict: don't improve on perfection.