Even to the more intellectual
film-goer, Marcel Proust is probably better known through Monty Python's
famous "Summarise Proust" game-show than through any actual knowledge of
him. At least the makers know few are going to challenge their adaptation,
since I know of no-one who has actually read all of his 16-volume
monster of minutely-drawn character detail, "A la recherche du temps
perdu". And on the basis of this film, I won't be rushing to buy the
collected works, though one has to admire what looks like a brave stab at
filming the unfilmable: a dying writer reviews his life and loves, scenes,
eras and characters drifting in and out and intermingling like fragments of
half-remembered dreams.
This leads to a severe deficiency on the coherence
front, and keeping track of it all for 155 minutes is more a chore than a
pleasure, despite the presence of Deneuve, Beart and Malkovich. Better to sit back and
watch some arresting imagery, as one sequence melts into another; for
instance, the sound of tea being stirred triggers memories of a train
journey. These visual flashes of brilliance help counter the narcolepsy
induced by some very talky scenes; if your cinema is even slightly
warm or stuffy, it may not be enough...
C-
