Song of Norway

Ignoring the scathingly critical reviews for this bomb, I paid admission to the Cinerama Dome Theater in Hollywood, California during its first-run engagement because I knew that the 70mm/stereo presentation at that theater, especially designed for the viewing of big-screen extravaganzas, would be optimal. Norway is a country I have always wanted to visit and the agony of viewing this film was insufficient to lessen that lifelong dream. But what a nightmare it was! I note that Frank Porretta, listed in the credits, had appeared in a stage production of "The Song of Norway" in Los Angeles and he had received special praise for his expressive singing and masculine stage presence. But you will note that his filmography consists of just this one title. Talk about the proverbial "Kiss of Death"!

The only clear memory I have of that evening's experience at the Cinerama Dome were the loud and ecstatic exclamations emanating from some poor soul in the audience, unprovoked, as far as I could tell, by anything happening on the massively curved screen. She sat off to the side and her outbursts were the prime source of entertainment as the film's lengthy reels unspooled. Management did not eject her, perhaps because she sat through every showing, considerably boosting the meager box-office receipts. Her overwhelming pleasure, I shall always prefer to think, was, perhaps, due to her longing to revisit (I'm presuming here) her native Norway, this film's handsomest attribute.

Florence Henderson's karma must have been extraordinarily good, since her role as the matriarch on TV's long-running and insanely popular family sitcom, "The Brady Bunch," began its hold on the hearts and minds of so many American moppets while coinciding with the theatrical release of this surefire career-killer. She must be a tolerant soul for, were I to enjoy the residuals which must flood her bank account year after year during the syndication of "The Brady Bunch," I'd have long ago investigated the cost of permanently suppressing all evidence of this turkey.

Critically-lambasted musical adaptation of the successful play regarding the early years of Norwegian pianist/composer Edvard Greig (played by Toralv Maurstad, a Bruce Davison lookalike with oddly shaped eyes). Grieg--initially a rowdy scamp in the 1860s who pined after a lovely girl from a prominent family while trying to get his sonnets published--found himself frustratingly without a benefactor or any professional engagements in which to showcase his work, later marrying his cousin and barely scraping by giving piano lessons. For the most part, writer-director Andrew L. Stone has crafted a not uninteresting, frequently engaging romp with several intentionally funny asides and endearingly klutzy musical numbers. The on-location shooting in Norway and Denmark is lovely, even if the cinematography in general is poor and the editing mediocre. Frank Porretta is a robust presence as fellow composer Richard Nordraak (who sings to the heavens and, at one point, directly to Edvard while seated in a restaurant!). Yet, just about the time Grieg is gaining some prominence for his hard work, the narrative (loose to begin with) gets all balled up, with too many tragedies coming to a head at once. This patchy third-act, punctuated by a myriad of nature shots and sunsets, doesn't allow the viewer any emotional satisfaction, and the finale is flat. More genuine style and gloss was required, and classical purists will probably scoff, however the picture has a lively beginning. Results are far from terrible. ** from ****

Adjectives fail this film. "Dreadful" isn't enough. "Awful" seems mild. "Stupifyingly bad" can't convey the experience of it, either. If you are familiar with the poet Helen Steiner Rice, imagine one of her poems set to film and you will begin to dimly grasp how bad, how truly bad, how amazingly bad this motion picture is. Imagine a trailer park filled with lobotomized people sitting in lawn chairs watching a version of "The Sound of Music" made on the cheap especially for them. Imagine the film being projected on a bedsheet attached with clothes pins to a wash line. Imagine the wind blowing. Imagine no one paying attention. Then imagine you are there and you are shackled to a stake in the ground so that you cannot escape the evening's entertainment unless you chew off your own foot. If you can imagine all this, you can imagine the witch's brew of butchered classical music, litter-free travelogue sterility, and lifeless robotic acting that was captured for eternity on one unlucky batch of film stock from the Kodak factory and slapped with the label, "Song of Norway." It is truly the worst film ever made. The only advantage of viewing it is that from that day forth, ANYTHING you see at the movies will look passable by comparison. And I do mean ANYTHING.

I saw this one when I was in high school. I had been warned ahead of time, but I liked classical music, including Grieg, and ignored the warnings. I remember several things about it that really sum the film up, in my opinion.

1. The photography was stunning. Snow, fjords, and Norwegian towns and scenery were really pretty, as were the folk costumes.

2. Grieg's music was nice to listen to, though as in all films about composers, they only give samplings.

Those are the good parts. The bad parts were what sank the boat. There wasn't much of a story. Greig's life wasn't as exciting as many other composers lives, and a lot was padded to keep the story going for 2 or 3 hours. I remember a lot of overacting as well. But the worst part of all was the directing. Forever emblazoned upon my memory is the hideously clichéd scene where Grieg, his wife, and someone else spread their arms and run across a green field, stop on a hillock, and spin around to face the audience. Then they do the same thing again - and again! If that's not enough to make you give up, then nothing is.

This wretched film was inflicted upon me at a weekend house party, when the hosts insisted that we all watch this "absolutely lovely movie" together. Imagine being trapped for 2 and a half hours with a VIDEO of this travesty, on a small TV screen, seeking brief respites ("could you pause it while I visit the 'facility'?"), having to mumble polite monosyllables of assent in response to the hosts' appalling praise of what turned out to be absolute drivel. The film does have exquisite scenery...Norway's a beautiful country! It has lovely music...Grieg was a decent enough composer! It also has the most atrociously awful acting (the lead is one Toralv Maurstad, who has mercifully vanished from sight, Florence Henderson is in this, for Pete's sake---and what on earth are Robert Morley, Edward G. Robinson, Oscar Homolka, and Harry Secombe doing in this?), a sophomoric (or worse) script, amateurish direction, incompetent film editing. And it is SO BORING!!!! No, it's worse than boring, it is profoundly IRRITATING in its boredom.