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In the ill-judged execution of the well-judged plan of triumph, the call seldom produces a comer, and truth rarely coincides with the hour of justice . . . so begins 'Night at the Museum,' a film sure to knock the proverbial socks off of those who are (A) between the ages of 8 and 14, and (B) wearing socks at the time they watch the film A more generous man than I could name 'Night at the Museum' a Ben Stiller project for Generation Wii; for those too young and dear to suffer the improprieties of his previous works. While I like the balance Ben's work, this film will never wiggle its way into my DVD collection. It challenges 'Bobby' for its number of needless cameos and seems to believe that simply "seeing" an elder and well-loved actor is near as good as seeing that elder and well-loved actor act. To offer us Dick Van Dyke, Bill Cobbs and Mickey Rooney, and then to give the lot nothing more to do than bark, growl and furrow their beefy browns is a clear waste of three precious and non-renewable natural resources. Something better might've been made of this adiaphorous mess, but marking that which we've been given and not what we could have got, it's hardly a bad film.
'Night at the Museum' moves from scene to scene with some delightful frenetic energy, some typical and not unwanted Stilleresque silliness and perhaps one or two rather oddly fashioned moments of sentimentality. Taken for what it is and not for what it could've been, 'Night at the Museum' is, at the very least, bloody good fun for anyone on the inferior side of sixteen.
3 bananas out of 4.
'Night at the Museum' moves from scene to scene with some delightful frenetic energy, some typical and not unwanted Stilleresque silliness and perhaps one or two rather oddly fashioned moments of sentimentality. Taken for what it is and not for what it could've been, 'Night at the Museum' is, at the very least, bloody good fun for anyone on the inferior side of sixteen.
3 bananas out of 4.
If a small man with a mustache could choose any decade from which to film all 37 of Shaky Bill's stage plays, the decade from which the BBC chose the RSC to make this and other 36 is the best decade between "this muse of fire that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention" and "Dune Buggy Capers 9: The Hunt for Booberella." "The History of Henry IV, Part 1" is this: a staged drama with identifiably staged scenes . . . identifiably staged scenes being an ailment that every partisan of Shakespeare's suffered before the invention of film. Ask yourself: Are you able to make believe? Can you suspend your disbelief? Can you convict yourself of things that you know to be not real? If you: "Yes, of course I can, who would mark the better value of Shakespeare as that which would* make a presentation a mere swifter sale of the goods? Whatever it may take to spare me from a long and labored reading!" . . and if you care to ask "Who's who in what?" you will be Bushy, Bagot and/or Green to find yourself unamused'd watching this mise en scène.
* "Which would" - a common root used by IMDb.com users to render readers fristed, fitch and foul.
* "Which would" - a common root used by IMDb.com users to render readers fristed, fitch and foul.
TARTUFFE, OR THE IMPOSTER by Molière, (Jean-Baptiste Poquelin)
Comedy is notorious for its inability to properly translate from one language to another or from once upon then to the here and now. It is quite undeniable that the fitful psycho-familial rantings of King Lear do move us so; as do other 17th Century sensations such as Henry V's Azincourt call-to-arms or our Jew of Malta's enkindled response to a naughty daughter's apostatizing Semitical dis (the burning down of her nunnery to kill NONE but her; but instead killing ALL but her) . . . alright...that has the merit of mirth in a rather sick, sad, base, colour and hue. But genuinely intended time-worn giggles and humour from yesterday invariably fall flat upon contemporary ears and sensibilities. Flat they fall invariably, BUT FOR Jean-Baptiste Poquelin a.k.a. the grand French playwright of clever comedies, Molière.
Without too much contemporary tinkering, Molière's 17th century play 'Tartuffe, or the Imposter' is the Royal Shakespeare Company's brightest and most pleasant production. Chris Hampton's adaptation from the original French text is faithful AND funnythe text DOES translateand this a supreme credit to Molière's transcendent creative merit.
The casting is as good as for one could wish for such a production. Nigel Hawthorne is Orgon, the inforbearant father taken twice by our imposter Tartuffe. Alison Steadman is Elmire, his wife and better-minded better half into whose knickers our principal wishes to get. Try as she might, Elmire can not nearly sway away or temper Orgon's supplicative genuflexions for Tartuffe.
Lesley Sharp and Ian Talbot play Mariane and Valère, the in-and-out-of-love, might-be, could-be lovers; and Stephanie Fayerman plays (and quite obviously love to play) the family's impertinent maid. A girl, by her low birth and ignoble breeding, so often improperly punctures her way into any and nearly all conversations her opinions, which as invariably as her interruptions are in opposition to father Orgon's. And then there is our principal; the man to which this play lends a title: Antony Sher: the Imposter.
The acutely brilliant Sir Antony Sher is herein as acutely brilliant as ever before or since. Sher is unquestionably a Tartuffe that would find love with Molière himself. He is the ever-so-well-played clever Tartuffe; he is the ever-so-well-played wicked and dissembling Tartuffe. But standing tall and inclining in oblique coital preparedness above all, he is the Tartuffe hopelessly aroused by Elmire's (Steadman's) ample merits. Setting is eyes and other assorted bits upon Orgon's wife, Elmire, the perfidiously prophetically wise Tartuffe wages all earned faith and currency from the family for a less ecumenical inclination toward Elmire.
The 1983 BBC Royal Shakespeare Company's production of 'Tartuffe, or the Imposter' is, I'm sure, available at better libraries and rental outlets. It is well worth the effort of renting; and for others better worth the effort of purchase.
Molière's worksthis Tartuffe MOST among all othersshall never corrode. It is a clever play and a funny play that is rendered so well by the Royal Shakespeare Company; and not a play without some distinct relevance to today's world of demiprophets, prevaricators, shanks, shysters and story-tellers. As comedy is the voice the clever mind at muse, so Antony Sher is the voice, and Molière his muse; and this is a clear masterwork of humour.
Comedy is notorious for its inability to properly translate from one language to another or from once upon then to the here and now. It is quite undeniable that the fitful psycho-familial rantings of King Lear do move us so; as do other 17th Century sensations such as Henry V's Azincourt call-to-arms or our Jew of Malta's enkindled response to a naughty daughter's apostatizing Semitical dis (the burning down of her nunnery to kill NONE but her; but instead killing ALL but her) . . . alright...that has the merit of mirth in a rather sick, sad, base, colour and hue. But genuinely intended time-worn giggles and humour from yesterday invariably fall flat upon contemporary ears and sensibilities. Flat they fall invariably, BUT FOR Jean-Baptiste Poquelin a.k.a. the grand French playwright of clever comedies, Molière.
Without too much contemporary tinkering, Molière's 17th century play 'Tartuffe, or the Imposter' is the Royal Shakespeare Company's brightest and most pleasant production. Chris Hampton's adaptation from the original French text is faithful AND funnythe text DOES translateand this a supreme credit to Molière's transcendent creative merit.
The casting is as good as for one could wish for such a production. Nigel Hawthorne is Orgon, the inforbearant father taken twice by our imposter Tartuffe. Alison Steadman is Elmire, his wife and better-minded better half into whose knickers our principal wishes to get. Try as she might, Elmire can not nearly sway away or temper Orgon's supplicative genuflexions for Tartuffe.
Lesley Sharp and Ian Talbot play Mariane and Valère, the in-and-out-of-love, might-be, could-be lovers; and Stephanie Fayerman plays (and quite obviously love to play) the family's impertinent maid. A girl, by her low birth and ignoble breeding, so often improperly punctures her way into any and nearly all conversations her opinions, which as invariably as her interruptions are in opposition to father Orgon's. And then there is our principal; the man to which this play lends a title: Antony Sher: the Imposter.
The acutely brilliant Sir Antony Sher is herein as acutely brilliant as ever before or since. Sher is unquestionably a Tartuffe that would find love with Molière himself. He is the ever-so-well-played clever Tartuffe; he is the ever-so-well-played wicked and dissembling Tartuffe. But standing tall and inclining in oblique coital preparedness above all, he is the Tartuffe hopelessly aroused by Elmire's (Steadman's) ample merits. Setting is eyes and other assorted bits upon Orgon's wife, Elmire, the perfidiously prophetically wise Tartuffe wages all earned faith and currency from the family for a less ecumenical inclination toward Elmire.
The 1983 BBC Royal Shakespeare Company's production of 'Tartuffe, or the Imposter' is, I'm sure, available at better libraries and rental outlets. It is well worth the effort of renting; and for others better worth the effort of purchase.
Molière's worksthis Tartuffe MOST among all othersshall never corrode. It is a clever play and a funny play that is rendered so well by the Royal Shakespeare Company; and not a play without some distinct relevance to today's world of demiprophets, prevaricators, shanks, shysters and story-tellers. As comedy is the voice the clever mind at muse, so Antony Sher is the voice, and Molière his muse; and this is a clear masterwork of humour.