A beautiful canvas, some exotic and romantic settings, two magnificent leads, a terrific villain. So what went wrong? Like many overly ambitious films, this was too long in its complete filming, so the choppy final print seems confusing, incomplete and missing important details. The story surrounds two star crossed lovers (Charles Boyer and Ingrid Bergman), meeting during the dark days of World War II Paris with a suicidal Bergman, politically involved doctor Boyer, and evil Nazi Charles Laughton, one of the most vile to appear on movie screens.
Every possible separation between Bergman and Boyer threatens to gaslight their romance, and it's only through a few miracles that they manage to have any type of romance. But when they're on screen and just walking through Paris streets, the romance seems perfect. It's just a shame that the plot line they are involved in is as choppy as the river Bergman constantly seems to want to jump into.
Dressed exotically and looking very chic (even when despondent, soaking wet or drowning in her own tears), Bergman is exquisite, this being the most Garbo like of her roles. Boyer is a dashing hero, and there's fine support from Louis Calhern as Boyer's confidante. As for Laughton, he seems to be there simply for name value, only appearing sporadically. Ruth Warrick's part is obviously chopped beyond recognition, making me ask why include her at all for such a wasted opportunity. She appears early in one scene then quickly disappears out of the care she was entering, making the continuity very jarring. Unlike films of the 1960's on up, edited footage was rarely, if ever, saved.
But this is so fantastic to look at, as fascinating as any failure and certainly not the fault of director Lewis Milestone. Certain edits make the characters inconsistent, and at times, they seem like different characters in another movie altogether. But as fast as you become perplexed, it grabs you right back as another reconciliation has Boyer grabbing Bergman. Never has there been a film that I wanted to condemn and praise within the same breath. Such was the state of confusion of the dark days of war, and if the flow of the film is a metaphor for that, then whoever thought of that scored a success.
Every possible separation between Bergman and Boyer threatens to gaslight their romance, and it's only through a few miracles that they manage to have any type of romance. But when they're on screen and just walking through Paris streets, the romance seems perfect. It's just a shame that the plot line they are involved in is as choppy as the river Bergman constantly seems to want to jump into.
Dressed exotically and looking very chic (even when despondent, soaking wet or drowning in her own tears), Bergman is exquisite, this being the most Garbo like of her roles. Boyer is a dashing hero, and there's fine support from Louis Calhern as Boyer's confidante. As for Laughton, he seems to be there simply for name value, only appearing sporadically. Ruth Warrick's part is obviously chopped beyond recognition, making me ask why include her at all for such a wasted opportunity. She appears early in one scene then quickly disappears out of the care she was entering, making the continuity very jarring. Unlike films of the 1960's on up, edited footage was rarely, if ever, saved.
But this is so fantastic to look at, as fascinating as any failure and certainly not the fault of director Lewis Milestone. Certain edits make the characters inconsistent, and at times, they seem like different characters in another movie altogether. But as fast as you become perplexed, it grabs you right back as another reconciliation has Boyer grabbing Bergman. Never has there been a film that I wanted to condemn and praise within the same breath. Such was the state of confusion of the dark days of war, and if the flow of the film is a metaphor for that, then whoever thought of that scored a success.