Directed by Richard Attenborough. UK. 1993.
there is a complaint (and there isnít), itís that there doesnít seem a
need for Gresham to gatecrash Lewisí ivory tower; he leads a simple life
untrammelled by the slings and arrows that beset the likes of you and me.
But Lewis loves one thing more than anything: the truth. Attenborough and
Nicholson knew that (and Hopkins, it seems when watching him, has always
known that), and the majesty of this masterpiece is that truth is mortal,
and truth is sweat; truth is, indeed, a woman. And should we dare to truly
love, perhaps weíll feel the heat of it - all that reality.
At least we would, if
the Golden Age of British cinema wasnít over, and this film had been released
in 1952, when it was set, not 1993, like it says on the box. Phew. . .relief.
If this had been a modern film weíd be forced to think that we Brits did
this kind of thing better than anyone. And we canít have that.
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