The Pumpkin Eater, which for many years was my favorite movie, is a neglected masterpiece of the British New Wave. I'm not sure whether its lack of recognition is attributable more to its misanthropic point of view or to Jack Clayton's sparse filmography (he never developed the immediately recognizable personal style required for elevation to the auteur pantheon). It didn't help that initial reviewers badly misunderstood the film -- Dwight Macdonald thought it was a typical "women's film", meant to provide erotic titillation! On the other hand, feminist critics probably weren't eager to defend a film that could be interpreted as anti-abortion propaganda (also a misreading). Perhaps a more mature feminism will reclaim this film.
Admittedly, the movie is difficult to understand on a first viewing -- both because of its intricate flashback structure and its complexities of tone and attitude. It took me several viewings to fully sort out the plot, and several more to realize what I was actually seeing -- a very, very black comedy. In this respect it's worth placing with the darkest works of Evelyn Waugh or Henry Green.
The film catches its participants at the top of their form: Pinter never wrote a better screenplay, Anne Bancroft (arguably) never gave a better performance, Peter Finch certainly didn't, and Maggie Smith and James Mason are deliciously evil in supporting roles. There are too many marvelous moments to list them all, but watch especially for the zoo scene between Bancroft and Mason (who are clearly having a great time) and for the slyly-written scene where Finch learns that his wife is pregnant -- again.
So why is it no longer my favorite movie? My admiration for its technique is unabated, but as I get older I find the film's nasty tone harder and harder to take. There's not an admirable human being in the whole movie -- they're all foolish, duplicitous, or vindictive. I can't live with these people, much as I've enjoyed eavesdropping on them over the years.
Admittedly, the movie is difficult to understand on a first viewing -- both because of its intricate flashback structure and its complexities of tone and attitude. It took me several viewings to fully sort out the plot, and several more to realize what I was actually seeing -- a very, very black comedy. In this respect it's worth placing with the darkest works of Evelyn Waugh or Henry Green.
The film catches its participants at the top of their form: Pinter never wrote a better screenplay, Anne Bancroft (arguably) never gave a better performance, Peter Finch certainly didn't, and Maggie Smith and James Mason are deliciously evil in supporting roles. There are too many marvelous moments to list them all, but watch especially for the zoo scene between Bancroft and Mason (who are clearly having a great time) and for the slyly-written scene where Finch learns that his wife is pregnant -- again.
So why is it no longer my favorite movie? My admiration for its technique is unabated, but as I get older I find the film's nasty tone harder and harder to take. There's not an admirable human being in the whole movie -- they're all foolish, duplicitous, or vindictive. I can't live with these people, much as I've enjoyed eavesdropping on them over the years.