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Review
Archives
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Today's
Date is:
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The
English Patient
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Reviewed
by: |
Charles
Tashiro |
| Genre: |
Drama
|
| Video: |
Letterboxed
1.85:1 |
| Audio: |
Dolby
digital |
| Language: |
English
|
| Subtitle: |
Spanish
|
| Length: |
167
minutes |
| Rating: |
R
|
| Release
Date: |
3-24-98
|
| Studio: |
Miramax
|
| Commentary:
|
None |
| Documentaries:
|
None |
| Featurettes:
|
None |
| Filmography/Biography:
|
None |
|
Interviews: |
None |
| Trailers/TV
Spots: |
None |
| Alternate/Deleted
Scenes: |
None |
| Music
Video: |
None |
| Other:
|
None |
| Cast
and Crew: |
Ralph Fiennes,
Kristin Scott Thomas, Juliette Binoche, Willem Dafoe, Naveen
Andrews, Colin Firth, J¸rgen Prochnow; director of photography,
John Seale; production design by Stuart Craig |
| Screenplay
by: |
Anthony Minghella,
based on the novel by Michael Ondaatje |
| Produced
by: |
Saul Zaentz |
| Directed
By: |
Anthony Minghella |
| Music: |
Gabriel Yared |
| The
Review: |
Sumptuously,
even immaculately produced, "The English Patient" begins hauntingly
as the delicate brushstrokes of a watercolor brush slowly trace
a figure on rice paper. Shot close enough to see the texture
of the paper, the shot gradually dissolves into the dunes of
the North African desert seen from above. Accompanied by the
plaintive voice of a woman singing in Hungarian, a bi-plane
slowly glides into frame, carrying the protagonist, Count Almásy
(Ralph Fiennes), and the love of his life, Katherine Clifton
(Kirstin Scott Thomas). As the credits finish, their plane is
shot down by a group of German soldiers, crashing in the desert,
apparently two more victims of World War II. The story then
jumps forward as Fiennes, the mysterious "English patient,"
hideously disfigured by the flames that engulfed the crashed
airplane, is cared for by a Canadian nurse (Juliette Binoche).
As he tells her more and more about his life, the film goes
into flashback, and we learn about his tragic affair with Thomas.
Binoche, who is herself recovering from the loss of her lover
and best friend, is gradually brought back to life by her ministrations
to Fiennes and by the attentions of an Indian soldier (Naveen
Andrews) serving in the British army. It is clear from the beginning
that the "English patient" (so called because he was brought
to an English hospital by a group of Bedouins who wrongly assumed
he was of that nationality) has something to conceal. Much of
the film is spent working up to his revelation. We begin to
get hints of the trouble when another Canadian, Caravaggio (Willem
Defoe) arrives. Consumed with a barely concealed hostility to
the patient, Caravaggio eventually reveals the reasons for his
bitterness. Maimed by German troops after the fall of Tobruk,
he is certain that the "English patient" is responsible for
that debacle and is determined to be avenged. The scenes in
Tobruk are, after the credit sequence, the high point of "The
English Patient." Abrupt, disjointed, frighteningly chaotic,
director Anthony Minghella capably provides a sense of the frantic
anxiety of a city torn by war. Even more harrowing is Caravaggio's
interrogation and torture by a German officer (J¸rgen Prochnow)
after the fall of Tobruk, an all-too-convincing evocation of
dust, squalor, tedium, pain and blood. Unfortunately, this winner
of nine Academy Awards in 1996, including Best Picture, is supposed
to be a romance, and at that it singularly fails. Indeed, aside
from the occasional flashes of brilliance like those noted above,
the film barely registers. Fiennes and Thomas certainly look
great together, and all concerned make a serious effort to make
this a sexy, sensual, bleakly pessimistic take on existence.
But the makers of "The English Patient" seem to be more interested
in reducing the dialogue to stylish, opaque shards than in doing
anything so vulgar as making us care what happens to these people.
(My nominee for scene least likely to ignite a romance occurs
early. Thomas asks Fiennes how he came to work in the Sahara.
He tells her a nearly incomprehensible story about his first
trip to the desert, then finishes it with a lock-jawed, flinty
stare forward as if to say "See?" Thomas seems to get it, but
I responded "Huh?") The romance between Fiennes and Thomas has
to be taken on faith. You don't feel anything yourself, and
the more frequently they state their undying love for each other
(or rather, fail to state it, for they're never that direct,
preferring instead to indulge in weighty parables and monotonous
recitations of Greek myths) the more tedious the film becomes.
There is a final twist to the story that I won't reveal that
is intricately bound up with the Count's secret. It is a measure
of the film's failure to engage us imaginatively that when the
secret is finally revealed, it barely registers, even though
it is central to both the story and the relationship between
Fiennes and Thomas. (After nearly three hours of this zoned-out
silliness, maybe I was simply too tired to respond.) It is also
a measure of the film's academic artiness that instead of responding
in awe at the photography and settings, we're more likely to
think: "Oh yeah, right, "Lawrence of Arabia." And that looks
like "Sheltering Sky."' Northern Europeans (and, to judge by
"The English Patient," Canadians) tend to make too much of the
desert. They mistake its heat, emptiness and stark simplicity
as a refuge for their fantasies, a place where they can let
loose and "be themselves" precisely because it is so different
from the worlds they know. But as Prince Feisal tries to explain
to T.E. Lawrence in "Lawrence of Arabia," "There is nothing
in the desert." There's nothing much in "The English Patient"
either, except a well worn Romanticism about the bleak expanses
and insufferable conditions of a world that any sane person
would seek to escape. Tired, self-loathing, incapable of recognizing
their sentimentality, these characters project their soulessness
on to the landscape and marvel that it's just as empty as they
are. In short, "The English Patient" is a film for those who
equate art with ponderous obscurity and joylessness with profundity.
It is nearly as arid as the Sahara itself with too few oases
to make the journey worthwhile. |
| Image
and Sound |
An early
DVD, "The English Patient" would be considerably improved by
a new, widescreen enhanced transfer. While the letterboxed image
is reasonably well transferred, it inevitably gets a little
grainy when blown up for a 16:9 TV. The transfer is fairly bright,
high key, relatively low contrast, soft at the edges, competent
without being exciting. The sound is crisply professional, but
again, nothing spectacular. (The sound engineers almost certainly
should not be blamed for Fiennes's frequently unintelligible
lines. He may be the most successful mumbler since the early
days of Marlon Brando.) |
| The
Extras |
None |
| Commentary |
None |
| Final
Words: |
Intelligent,
uninvolving, more than slightly opaque, the popular and critical
success of "The English Patient" is far more interesting than
the film itself. Handsomely produced with more than a whiff
of pointlessness, the film is clearly the product of people
who mistake lack of statement for understatement, obscurity
for subtlety, artiness for style. All concerned deserve credit
for at least trying to make something a cut above Hollywood's
current low standards, but good intentions are never enough.
Something as unbearably stuffy and full of itself as "The English
Patient" may not be quite enough to make one long for "Austin
Powers," but it certainly strains one's patience and is a classic
example of what gives "literary cinema" a bad name. |
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