Deceit

Having just visited Britain for the first time a few weeks ago, I thought that this was quite a "charming" movie. Surely, oh-so-critical-previous-reviewer, it wasn't THAT bad, was it???? The scenery was wonderful, the manor house was spectacular, the people looked a lot more "real" than both the men AND women in that dreadful piece of British crap "Footballer's Wives". The plot was not that original, the acting - well, not a lot of acting was required, was it???? Especially given that modern standards wouldn't allow a great deal of "realism" in the more "dramatic" scenes (can't be any more explicit without giving away the punchlines).

All in all, I thought it a fairly pleasant and innocuous mini-series, easy on the eye and the brain. Is it so wrong to not expect any more for something shown at 1 am?

Summary: Apart from `welcome to Felixstowe' there is not very much more original to be said about this set of variations on an overdone theme in this BBC TV-film. Despite a fairly good performance from Francesca Annis and even `her son' Charlie Lucas. The telefilm centres round a well-to-do family and the `mysterious' disappearance of the father aboard his yacht. As the story unfolds you find yourself deducing and getting right what is going to happen next and the final outcome. Such exercises in dejá-vu are hardly appetising whilst unravelling a supposedly mysterious and murderous vanishing act. Not even the `daughter' - Sammy Glen, saves the film from slipping into unstylish revamping of oft-told stories.

The result is a big yawn and off to bed when it finishes, if, that is, you have been unfortunate enough to sit through the four episodes in the version for Sweden or even the 145 minutes of the UK version. Strangely, on our regional channel, it turned up in two fifty-minute parts shown together, confusing the title with `Silent Lies' (1996) and giving us the names of the director and prinicipal actors and the synopsis of this film!

The original music by Colin Towns was nothing of the kind and limited itself to some repetitious soft double chords and not much else, which only served to intervene unnecessarily. Not even the great master of photography, Witold Stok, could do anything to rescue this piece from being something hugely forgettable. I am surprised that the BBC bothered to sign it and show it to anyone. Expected much more from a BBC production.