UK/France/USA, R, 131 m, 2001
Directed by John Madden. Stars Nicolas Cage, Penelope Cruz, John Hurt, et al.

I’m not sure why, but director John Madden received a lot of critical acclaim for his negligible romantic comedy Shakespeare in Love. What compels the press to dutifully rally behind such commonplace fare instead of more probing work remains a closed book to me. But I find Shakespeare’s string of Oscar nods far less puzzling: the damned thing was specifically crafted to win awards. That’s a sadly depthless approach to filmmaking to be sure, but it’s easy to spot the incentive because the little golden men that the Academy doles out ever Spring seems to validate talent in Hollywood, and Lord knows Shakespeare’s Best Picture win made it possible for Madden to helm more richly-budgeted projects. (Rest assured, though, fifty years from now we will still be discussing Mr. Spielberg’s terrifying recreation of D-Day, not Joseph Fiennes’ flowery orations.) It’s easy to see what Madden saw in Captain Corelli’s Mandolin as the source for his big follow-up, but I wish he had settled on something less vaulting. I gather that Louis de Bernieres’ novel is an exhausting read, chock full of sub-lots that require some distilling in order to fit within the running time of a feature film. The picture feels like it was reticent about dispensing with such minor planes of action, though, for what should be its focal point becomes just another interlude in an overly episodic structure. Madden has a flair for the idyllic, but he’s working with too big of a canvas here; the story’s axial love affair begs for a smaller scope. Between Shawn Slovo’s busy script and the endless roster of supporting players, the film’s seat of passion is dissipated. (The adapted screenplay could have used a few more revisions.) I don’t think the screen is Madden’s strong suit; the medium of radio is where he excels. (Listen again to the brilliant Star Wars radio adaptation if you doubt me.) That talent may be evident in Corelli’s opening title sequence as we’re treated to an aural bit of comedy that bookends the picture, but Madden seems indecisive about which direction to take the two hours in between.  

The film’s action takes place circa 1940 on the small Greek isle of Cephalonia, and by electing to actually shoot there, the filmmakers have achieved an exuberant genuineness. (And John Toll’s cinematography has a succulent intensity.) The opening shot in Corelli reveals the interior of a cheerful hovel, which is the first of only two existing island structures employed in the shoot. (Just about everything else was destroyed in the earthquake of ’53, so the great production designer Jim Clay had it all built back up from scratch.) We meet the island’s resident physician, Dr. Iannis (an unrecognizable John Hurt), who’s in the process of dislodging a pea from a local eccentric’s ear canal. I like Madden’s approach here: he’s starting things off on a deceptively inconsequential note, unveiling the movie’s extensive landscape incrementally. He directs with an easy hand, unafraid to season the film’s epic romanticism with bits of throwaway humor. 

Pelagia (Penelope Cruz), the enchanting daughter of Dr. Iannis, is betrothed to Mandras (Christian Bale), a big, rumpled palooka with a habit of getting into injurious scrapes. (His mother, played by Irene Papas, thrashes him mercilessly when he does something she disapproves of.) On the day before Mandras goes off to fight the Italians in Albania, he and Pelagia declare their engagement. Dr. Iannis quietly disapproves of Mandras, whom he thinks is beneath his daughter, but during the engagement party, something in Pelagia’s demeanor—a indistinct look of detachment—suggests that her heart isn’t overflowing with the idea of getting hitched to Mandras, either. (Though, dammit, who could refuse the big lug’s sad, puppy-dog eyes?) Her decision to compromise with less than stellar husband-material may be grounded in the deficit of proper gentleman callers on the island. But with hostilities looming so close to the beaches of her homeland, I suspect her settlement relates more to her future’s uncertainty. (In times of war, the possibility that you may snuff it at any time compels you to jump into things that you may not even consider otherwise.) Pelagia writes dutifully to Mandras while he’s off to war, but her letters go unanswered, and he is feared dead. Worse, the freedom fighters’ victory over the Italian army proves all for naught as an incensed Hitler splits control of Greece with Mussolini, placing Cephalonia under Italian occupation. 

But have no fear, kiddies, for this has to be the most fun-loving bunch of fascist aggressors in the history of cinema. They sing, dance and make merry on the island’s sandy rim with a bevy of bare-breasted prostitutes. Captain Antonio Corelli (Nicolas Cage) is billeted in Dr. Iannis's house, and the mandolin-playing officer takes an immediate shine to Pelagia. (But if you don’t sense any real fire between Antonio and Pelagia, it’s because the screenplay shapes their courtship in the most obvious, paint-by-numbers fashion.) Though she initially resists, Pelagia gives into Antonio’s charms and falls deeply in love with him. (It must be the way he plucks his, er, instrument.) Antonio’s contagiously upbeat demeanor also endears him to the other villagers, never mind that his boss’s ambitions have wrought unspeakable horrors elsewhere around the globe. The film is at its most compelling when it explores this shifting relationship between the occupying German and Italian troops and the captive Greeks. As the two factions grow accustomed with one another, a shy comradeship evolves, particularly between the Italians and the Greeks. 

Those goose-stepping Krauts, however, are still viewed with skepticism. Buy why does a film that strives so laboriously to remind us that we’re all the same under the skin single out the Germans for vilification? Yes, Hitler was the lowest form of pond scum, but Mussolini was no choirboy, either. I frankly don’t see how you can chide one and give the other a pass. At least Nazi officer Gunther Weber (David Morrissey) isn’t reduced to the loathsome cliché we’d expect from Hollywood. (Though such stereotyping is often merited.) He joins his Italian collaborators in a round of “Santa Lucia,” and to the horror of some onlookers, receives a peck on the cheek from a local female admirer. (The Greek rebels eventually put the poor girl to death, though, for fraternizing with a Nazi.) After Mussolini is forced to withdraw from Greece, Gunther finds himself pitted against his former allies when Antonio and his company elect to stay and join the islanders in fighting the Nazis. The battle footage that follows is deftly assembled, but seems to belong to another picture. Corelli stumbles when it tries to be all things to all moviegoers. 

The acting, like everything else in Corelli, is a mixed bag. John Hurt stands out as Dr. Iannis, burying himself so deeply into the role that I wasn’t even aware that this was the same thespian that distinguished The Hit and 1984 until ten minutes or so into the action. His big, bushy mustache may have something to do with that, but his slight manner causes him to blend right into the movie’s reposed island backdrop. 

Cage, on the other hand, feels mishandled. The actor can certainly be blamed for affecting such a shabby Italian accent, but the biggest problem with his performance is that he’s given so little to do. Mind, Corelli’s gradual shift of allegiance should be enough of an arc for any actor to sink his chops into, but the character is made so marginal by the overburdened script that we don’t seem to care. When Corelli first appears on the scene, he is full of good-natured, sing-songy bravado, yet Cage doesn’t seem sure of where to take the character after the story’s events take a more dour turn. His work here feels stilted and hemmed in, and the boisterous laugh he puts on when flirting with Pelagia feels disingenuous. Cage can’t lock into Corelli and make his hopeless romanticism sing. When you recall his more stellar work (the miserable dipsomaniac in Leaving Las Vegas or the ambulance-driving insomniac in Bringing Out the Dead), you realize this actor is lost without his hump. In Corelli, all he has is a mandolin. (Though Cage spent untold hours learning to play it for the film, his notes were later dubbed over by a professional musician.) Still, watching a great actor like Cage fumble his way through Corelli is a more compelling sight than all the car chases and explosions at the multiplex these days. 

Captain Corelli’s Mandolin is far from terrible, but it lacks a through-line. It would be better served with a narrower margin and an undeviating point-of-view. The book, it seems, is too expansive to be concentrated into a satisfying motion picture. Corelli (a candied Mediterraneo?) is yet another example of why filmmakers shouldn’t trail after literature.

August 17, 2001

© Copyright 2007 by Edward Larsen Terkelsen. All rights reserved.