This isn't bad. As far as that goes, it must be hard to botch the story, but this version does have its weaknesses. On the DVD I watched, the sound was poor, for one thing. It's not a minor flaw either, because the characters speak with Russian accents, and some of them are a little difficult to decipher to begin with. The recording lends the film a kind of cheesy feel.
And some illuminating instances from the novel, if I remember it accurately after many years, are dropped. A villain slipping a coin into a young woman's dress to make her seem a thief, for instance. I understand that all adaptations have to shorten the original material but, as usual, what gets dropped is the subtle stuff that makes the characters more than categorical types. And not just that. When the drunken old neighbor dies in an accident, the poverty is such that his wife doesn't have enough money to bury him, so she packs up the children, dresses them in rags, and they dance on the street as clowns, hoping for a few coins. They don't make it, and the body in the bed begins to decompose. Man, that's tragedy not just hard times.
Patrick Dempsey is all hairy and sweaty as Roskolnikov. He's projects the guilt alright but lacks the bravado that ought to mask it. Julia Delpy as Sonia the whore does a fine job. As Dunya, the sister, Lili Horvath is pretty but a cipher. Her expression never seems to change, her features frozen.
Outstanding is Ben Kingsley as Porfiri, the police inspector who intuits Raskolnikov's guilt and plays on it with good-natured hospitality and reassurances that he, Raskolnikov, is not a suspect. Until finally Porfiri reveals that he knows who did it. In the translation I read, I remember that exchange. Porfiri and Raskolnikov have been discussing the murder for some time and, piqued, Raskolnikov asks who committed the crime. Porfiri looks up in surprise and says with some wonderment, "Why, YOU did, Raskolnikov." In this movie, the conversation is different and Kingsley gets to toss the accusation off with a reference to "the murderer, who is, of course, you." There is a close up of Kingsley's face when he makes this statement but there have been so many close ups previously that some of the power is drained from the shot. Still, that game of cat and mouse between the murderer and the inspector is a delight, especially among so much gloom.
You know who handled the role of Porfiri as well as anyone else -- in any version of this chestnut? Okay. Hold on, because I'm about to reveal my perversions. Well, one of them anyway. Frank Silvera, in "Crime and Punishment, USA," that's who. And, believe it or not, George Hamilton was a perfectly reasonable Raskolnikov too. I'd better stop sharing my perversions now or before I know it I'll be into my collection of fancy goldfish bowls.
Everybody tries hard here. Earnestness is written all over this production. And it isn't terrible. I just wish it had been better, because it's almost like looking into a time capsule -- all the way back to when criminals still had guilt.
And some illuminating instances from the novel, if I remember it accurately after many years, are dropped. A villain slipping a coin into a young woman's dress to make her seem a thief, for instance. I understand that all adaptations have to shorten the original material but, as usual, what gets dropped is the subtle stuff that makes the characters more than categorical types. And not just that. When the drunken old neighbor dies in an accident, the poverty is such that his wife doesn't have enough money to bury him, so she packs up the children, dresses them in rags, and they dance on the street as clowns, hoping for a few coins. They don't make it, and the body in the bed begins to decompose. Man, that's tragedy not just hard times.
Patrick Dempsey is all hairy and sweaty as Roskolnikov. He's projects the guilt alright but lacks the bravado that ought to mask it. Julia Delpy as Sonia the whore does a fine job. As Dunya, the sister, Lili Horvath is pretty but a cipher. Her expression never seems to change, her features frozen.
Outstanding is Ben Kingsley as Porfiri, the police inspector who intuits Raskolnikov's guilt and plays on it with good-natured hospitality and reassurances that he, Raskolnikov, is not a suspect. Until finally Porfiri reveals that he knows who did it. In the translation I read, I remember that exchange. Porfiri and Raskolnikov have been discussing the murder for some time and, piqued, Raskolnikov asks who committed the crime. Porfiri looks up in surprise and says with some wonderment, "Why, YOU did, Raskolnikov." In this movie, the conversation is different and Kingsley gets to toss the accusation off with a reference to "the murderer, who is, of course, you." There is a close up of Kingsley's face when he makes this statement but there have been so many close ups previously that some of the power is drained from the shot. Still, that game of cat and mouse between the murderer and the inspector is a delight, especially among so much gloom.
You know who handled the role of Porfiri as well as anyone else -- in any version of this chestnut? Okay. Hold on, because I'm about to reveal my perversions. Well, one of them anyway. Frank Silvera, in "Crime and Punishment, USA," that's who. And, believe it or not, George Hamilton was a perfectly reasonable Raskolnikov too. I'd better stop sharing my perversions now or before I know it I'll be into my collection of fancy goldfish bowls.
Everybody tries hard here. Earnestness is written all over this production. And it isn't terrible. I just wish it had been better, because it's almost like looking into a time capsule -- all the way back to when criminals still had guilt.