It is faithful to Camus. But it is not Camus. It is Visconti, which is something quite different, but quite fine in its own, other way. That way encompasses a palpable, if not really oppressive, atmosphere, with delicate color work by Giuseppe Rotunno, and a leisurely but compelling pace. The last bookish pages of the book are a little out of reach. With Marcello Mastroianni as an overly sexy but properly nonplussed Meursault. (1967) — Duncan Shepherd
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