Pat O'Connor's adaptation of the J.L. Carr novel (not the Turgenev play) tells the one about the battle-scarred Tommy and the vicar's wife, the very one that David Lean told, rather more eventfully, in Ryan's Daughter. The mystery elements here -- what lies behind the coats of paint on the church wall? what lies buried outside hallowed ground? -- add any number of things to the story (atmosphere, mood, symbolism, parallelism) but not much in the way of incident. And O'Connor's means of expression are not the freshest: war is having your face in a mud puddle, nature is sunlight seeping through tree leaves, stifled passion is a white rose pressed in the pages of a book; and the image on the whole has a sickly yellow-brown cast. But Colin Firth, in the role of the WWI veteran so hydrophobic about getting back into the swim of life, is very fine, with a convincing and affecting stammer, and a still more affecting absence of self-pity (where pity from someplace is so obviously and richly deserved). He almost makes you feel you are watching more of a movie than this one. (1988) — Duncan Shepherd
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