This is an appallingly boring film. Perhaps it was an interesting stage play...I don't know. But it doesn't work as a film because there is virtually nothing cinematic about it. It remains confined largely within the dimensions of a stage set (there is really only one set, a shabby-genteel apartment where "Stevie" (the real-life poet Stevie Smith) lives with her long-suffering aunt (played by Mona Washbourne). Stevie, you see, has problems---emotional problems, problems with her "muse," problems living with her dependent aunt, problems with lovers (one of them, Trevor Howard, bears the enigmatic name of "The Man.") And Stevie TALKS...all the time, a constant stream of arty, supposedly meaningful, but utterly self-indulgent jabber. Glenda Jackson plays "Stevie,"...she really liked talky parts, it would seem. This one fits her like a glove. She, Howard, Washbourne, and Alec McCowen are four of the finest actors Britain has produced. Yet they wallow in this mess for what seems like days (the film actually only runs a bit over the usual 90 minutes). Steer clear of this deadly dull bio-pic, unless you just can't do without the poetry and posturings of Stevie Smith, or you absolutely must see the entire "oeuvre" of Glenda Jackson, M.P.
