Five Days One Summer

In general this last film of the director Fred Zinnemann has not met with much approval, and it is not difficult to see why. The plot is extremely simple, whatever tension is established towards the end is soon dissipated; and the emotional tensions between the leads are not fully resolved. The scenery is nice; the climbing scenes interesting or scary according to one's inclinations; but overall it is not surprising that some people have ended a viewing by saying 'Is that it?'

I still find it worth watching again after many years in the reissued Warner archive version, and not only for Betsy Brantley's big blue eyes - for example, there is a chance for Sean Connery to show more emotional range than usual in his roles, and the period detail has a good authentic feel of the 1930s.

Psychological melodrama goes a bit far combining the story of a complex and dubious love relationship with the thrills of dangerous mountaineering, but is mildly entertaining, if you can bear it.

A cinemagraphic masterpiece where all the relationships and tensions developed by the story (a tale of irrepressible love fulfilled, thwarted and betrayed) are conveyed in the exquisitely rendered images carrying the communications that you read as if they were a text; and with the verbal dialogue reduced to the barest minimum required.

The good points - beautiful scenery, and some viewers might appreciate the insight into mountain climbing in the 1930's.

Bad points - the flashbacks are tedious, the ending obvious (to this viewer anyway)and - apart from Connery, who plays himself, as always - the acting uninvolving. And personally I don't care much about mountaineering in the 1930's, and this film didn't do anything to quicken my interest.

There are some surprises, but I feel the movie really lacks from characters whom one can care about: in particular Betsy Brantley, who plays Kate, seems desperately out of her depth here.

I found it to be pretentious and glacially slow. I'd rather have that ninety minutes of my life back.

This final Fred Zinnemann film was pretty much trashed by the critics when it came out in 1983 which is puzzling, in my opinion. I mean, it's certainly not a great or even very good film but it's just as good or better than a lot of the stuff DePalma was churning out at the same time over which the same critics swooned. Of course, by 1983 Zinnemann was long out of favor with the auteurists who dominated film criticism, having been consigned to the realm of "impersonality" by their hero and mentor, Andrew Sarris who, as usual, confused moral earnestness and craftsmanship with anonymity, as if Zinnemann were no better than, say, Robert Z. Leonard. Or Delbert Mann.

So let me do my small part to mildly rehabilitate this sad tale of a love affair crumbling amid the Alps that could have been told by Hemingway, Irwin Shaw or James Salter. Problem is that scenarist Michael Austin is considerably less talented than those three scribes and makes the fatal mistake, I'm sure with Zinnemann's input, of having the affair be between uncle and niece, thus giving the proceedings an un-needed "yuck!" factor when the story could have worked just as easily or better as older man/younger woman.

If, however, you can overlook the above failing (a tall ask, judging by the IMDB responses below) there are many things that are appealing in this good director's swan song, including fine performances by the three leads, especially the too seldom seen Betsy Brantley who imbues her character with poignancy, intelligence and grace. I also liked the story within the story of the old woman who gazes upon the perfectly ice-preserved body of the handsome young man she was to marry forty years ago. A lot of film makers would have stuck this in awkwardly as a clunky, moralistic sub plot. Not Zinnemann. In his hands it is woven seamlessly into the movie's fabric and does not hit you over the head with "message" about true versus false love.

Then there is the lovely score by Elmer Bernstein, and the even lovelier cinematography of Giuseppe Rotunno.

Bottom line: Sarris was wrong about Huston and Wilder. I maintain he's almost as wrong about Zinnemann. Give it a B minus.