British television has a mystique among some American viewers. This version of "War and Peace" is a useful corrective. Parts of it are quite good, but much of it is barely competent, and some is even less than that.
Many scenes combine lackadaisical pace with yelling and over-acting, a lethal combination. Some of the acting would be OK on the stage, but the camera is merciless in revealing miscalculations. "Faster and softer" across the board would have helped a lot.
It is not always the actors' fault. Sometimes the players look like some firm guidance from the director might help a scene, but that help often doesn't come. I suspect the director had his hands full just getting stuff in the can on schedule and under budget.
"Excuse me, can we do that again? I think I can do it better." "Sorry, we haven't the time. That take was good enough." Over and over again.
The one actor who covers himself with glory is Anthony Hopkins as Pierre. Hopkins could be awful elsewhere ("Legends of the Fall"), but here he rarely puts a foot wrong. He is what you will remember from all this.
Alan Dobie fails to convey Prince Andrei's aristocratic bearing, and looks lumpish and unattractive at the Great Ball where he is supposed to dazzle Natasha. But after fitful attention earlier, Dobie focuses wonderfully in his deathbed scenes, and winds up quite moving.
Angela Down makes an unexpectedly effective Maria, making the most of a part that often recedes into the woodwork.
Morag Hood is unbearable as the young Natasha. As the character ages, she quiets down considerably, and by the end she is merely annoying. But the giant shadow of Audrey Hepburn has stunted her growth, and Hood's inadequacy is a central concern.
Faith Brook is generally good as Mama, though she goes seriously off the rails when the Rostov house is emptied out ahead of Napoleon's occupation. Rupert Davies as Papa seems to think he's playing Dickens, not Tolstoy. When the Rostov family gathers noisily, I wind up looking for Tiny Tim.
David Swift's Napoleon is neither charismatic nor evil, just baleful. Frank Middlemass buries Kutuzov's humanity in a welter of eccentricities, in a performance that never quite adds up. Harry Locke is a blessedly underplayed Platon Karateyev - perhaps the best in that part that I've seen, but that doesn't make up for the other 12 hours.
The filmed Serbian exteriors are dreary without being impressive, and the muddy color doesn't help. The battle scenes boast a cast of hundreds rather than thousands, but they are sabotaged by clumsy staging and the lack of background music. Somebody's decision to restrict music to balls and salons was a major mistake - the dramatic scenes are rarely good enough to survive without orchestral support.
The sense of strain never leaves this enterprise. Actors force some encounters and trudge through others. All too often, we look at something that is one take short of merely OK.
You're far better off with the Vidor or Bondarchuk versions. This second-rate attempt is for completists only.
Many scenes combine lackadaisical pace with yelling and over-acting, a lethal combination. Some of the acting would be OK on the stage, but the camera is merciless in revealing miscalculations. "Faster and softer" across the board would have helped a lot.
It is not always the actors' fault. Sometimes the players look like some firm guidance from the director might help a scene, but that help often doesn't come. I suspect the director had his hands full just getting stuff in the can on schedule and under budget.
"Excuse me, can we do that again? I think I can do it better." "Sorry, we haven't the time. That take was good enough." Over and over again.
The one actor who covers himself with glory is Anthony Hopkins as Pierre. Hopkins could be awful elsewhere ("Legends of the Fall"), but here he rarely puts a foot wrong. He is what you will remember from all this.
Alan Dobie fails to convey Prince Andrei's aristocratic bearing, and looks lumpish and unattractive at the Great Ball where he is supposed to dazzle Natasha. But after fitful attention earlier, Dobie focuses wonderfully in his deathbed scenes, and winds up quite moving.
Angela Down makes an unexpectedly effective Maria, making the most of a part that often recedes into the woodwork.
Morag Hood is unbearable as the young Natasha. As the character ages, she quiets down considerably, and by the end she is merely annoying. But the giant shadow of Audrey Hepburn has stunted her growth, and Hood's inadequacy is a central concern.
Faith Brook is generally good as Mama, though she goes seriously off the rails when the Rostov house is emptied out ahead of Napoleon's occupation. Rupert Davies as Papa seems to think he's playing Dickens, not Tolstoy. When the Rostov family gathers noisily, I wind up looking for Tiny Tim.
David Swift's Napoleon is neither charismatic nor evil, just baleful. Frank Middlemass buries Kutuzov's humanity in a welter of eccentricities, in a performance that never quite adds up. Harry Locke is a blessedly underplayed Platon Karateyev - perhaps the best in that part that I've seen, but that doesn't make up for the other 12 hours.
The filmed Serbian exteriors are dreary without being impressive, and the muddy color doesn't help. The battle scenes boast a cast of hundreds rather than thousands, but they are sabotaged by clumsy staging and the lack of background music. Somebody's decision to restrict music to balls and salons was a major mistake - the dramatic scenes are rarely good enough to survive without orchestral support.
The sense of strain never leaves this enterprise. Actors force some encounters and trudge through others. All too often, we look at something that is one take short of merely OK.
You're far better off with the Vidor or Bondarchuk versions. This second-rate attempt is for completists only.