There's nothing quite like discovering a talent that you've never seen before. That's what I got from Melina Mercouri. Directed by her then fiancé Jules Dassin. Not classically beautiful but possessing a smile and a personality that could light up Chicago, Mercouri plays Ilya, a prostitute in a small Greek village of Piraeus who brings life and music to those around her. Surrounded by a small troop of male groupies, she is a fountain of joy and life.
Into the picture comes Homer Thrace (Dassin), an American who is smart but does not possess a great deal of common sense. Watching her turn a local tavern into a place of life and music, he explains that he has become disillusioned by the sadness in the world and has returned to Greece, the cradle of civilization, in an attempt to discover what went wrong. Through this woman, brimming with happiness, he hopes to find out.
Homer loves Ilya's spirit but he's troubled by her profession which he finds demeaning. He also finds it a little troubling that she reinterprets the Greek tragedies she attends, having misconceptions about Oedipus Rex. He asks for a little time to be alone with her, to educate her on the great philosophers who walked on the very same ground under her feet. He rearranges her apartment, giving her the books to educate her and trying to turn her toward Greek intellectualism. But, as we see, a little knowledge is a good thing but too much knowledge turns away the jollier sides of her personality. He doesn't realized it but by pruning her, he has cut away the bits of her mind that make her happy. She becomes modest and more serious . . . but not for long.
Mercouri gives a performance of a character we don't see much in American films, the kind of person with a lust for life, the kind of person who absolutely lives to get out of bed in the morning. Her looks wouldn't get her work as a fashion model, but standing at the center of this film it is impossible to resist what she brings to the screen. When she dances, it isn't choreographed; it bubbles up from inside her. When we see her in the throng of men at the tavern, there is a reverence in their eyes. They don't see her as a sex object but more of a fountain of happiness; they respect her even though she engages in a profession that doesn't warrant it. There is a moment late in the film, a beautiful moment, when we see her in her apartment. She pulls out her record player and puts on Manos Hadjidakis's "Never on Sunday" and dances about her apartment like she is propelled by something wondrous. It is a moment when we see the seriousness that Homer had instilled in her, and the flower begins to bloom once more.
Into the picture comes Homer Thrace (Dassin), an American who is smart but does not possess a great deal of common sense. Watching her turn a local tavern into a place of life and music, he explains that he has become disillusioned by the sadness in the world and has returned to Greece, the cradle of civilization, in an attempt to discover what went wrong. Through this woman, brimming with happiness, he hopes to find out.
Homer loves Ilya's spirit but he's troubled by her profession which he finds demeaning. He also finds it a little troubling that she reinterprets the Greek tragedies she attends, having misconceptions about Oedipus Rex. He asks for a little time to be alone with her, to educate her on the great philosophers who walked on the very same ground under her feet. He rearranges her apartment, giving her the books to educate her and trying to turn her toward Greek intellectualism. But, as we see, a little knowledge is a good thing but too much knowledge turns away the jollier sides of her personality. He doesn't realized it but by pruning her, he has cut away the bits of her mind that make her happy. She becomes modest and more serious . . . but not for long.
Mercouri gives a performance of a character we don't see much in American films, the kind of person with a lust for life, the kind of person who absolutely lives to get out of bed in the morning. Her looks wouldn't get her work as a fashion model, but standing at the center of this film it is impossible to resist what she brings to the screen. When she dances, it isn't choreographed; it bubbles up from inside her. When we see her in the throng of men at the tavern, there is a reverence in their eyes. They don't see her as a sex object but more of a fountain of happiness; they respect her even though she engages in a profession that doesn't warrant it. There is a moment late in the film, a beautiful moment, when we see her in her apartment. She pulls out her record player and puts on Manos Hadjidakis's "Never on Sunday" and dances about her apartment like she is propelled by something wondrous. It is a moment when we see the seriousness that Homer had instilled in her, and the flower begins to bloom once more.