THE CHINESE FEAST (1995), dir. Tsui Hark

After Two Hours, You'll Be Hungry Again

“The Chinese Feast” is like a 12-course banquet dinner, which serves up a little something for every taste. Director Tsui Hark, best known for crafting elaborate wire-fu epics throughout the 1990’s, blends together slapstick comedy, martial arts, sports flick conventions, and even the “Iron Chef” TV series into one tasty fusion cuisine.

Leslie Cheung, a popular Hong Kong singer and accomplished actor (his credits include the very different “A Chinese Ghost Story,” “Farewell, My Concubine,” and “Happy Together”) plays Chui, a small-time gangster who wants to become a chef so he can travel to Canada, where his girlfriend has gone. After being disqualified from the cooking exam of a Canadian hotel chain, he takes a job at the Qing Han, the oldest local restaurant. The much put-upon owner of the restaurant, Au (Kar-Ying Law), makes Chui perform a variety of ridiculous tasks for the amusement of the kitchen staff. But the last laugh is on him, as romantic sparks begin to fly between Chui and V.V. (Anita Yuen, behaving outlandishly), the owner’s rebellious daughter.

Wacky hi-jinks involving a giant fish, followed by a Mexican standoff between Triad gangs precipitated by a gun hidden inside a straw basket, give way to a slightly more dramatic central plot: Wong Wing (stuntman/actor Xin Xin Xiong), leader of an upstart restaurant company called the Super Group, challenges the owner of the Qing Han to a battle between master chefs. The duel will take place within 30 days, as part of the third annual Qing Han Imperial Feast. While the winner will earn a sum of $60 million HK, the loser must shutter his restaurant. As an added injury, in the tradition of the martial arts flick, the losing chef must call his opponent Master.

The Qing Han’s staff convinces their boss to accept the Super Group’s challenge. Unfortunately, it turns out they have been bribed by their master’s enemies, and their subsequent betrayal causes the old man to have a heart attack. At this point, V.V., like Cordelia in Shakespeare’s King Lear, proves to be a loyal daughter after all. She pledges to prepare the Qing Han Imperial Feast, thus saving her father’s restaurant.

Unfortunately, neither she nor Chui, who wants to help her win the upcoming contest, can so much as boil water, much less prepare a complicated series of dishes featuring truly exotic ingredients. Enter Lung (Man Cheuk Chiu), a kind-hearted local chef. He relates the history behind the event, but admits he cannot help with the actual preparing. However, he knows someone who can: Kit (Kenny Bee), a onetime culinary prodigy turned lost soul.

Kit had been a contender for Hong Kong’s greatest chef until personal tragedy struck. Since then, he has retreated into a cocoon of alcohol and regret. He works a menial job at a supermarket, and ruins his once-formidible taste buds with drink. The character of Kit is in the tradition of countless movie athletes who fall from grace, and must pull themselves up again in time for the requisite happy ending. Naturally, his newfound friends put him through that familiar staple: the training montage. Only in “The Chinese Feast,” relocating one’s Eye of the Tiger means engaging in some pretty over-the-top activities, such as being forcefed a funnel full of ice cubes, acupuncture, and even a smoke-filled “death chamber.”

Can two fledgling cooking assistants, a recovering alcohol abuser with rusty kitchen skills, and a master chef confined to a wheelchair manage to upset the supremely-confident and technologically-advanced Super Group? If you’ve ever seen a sports movie, you don’t need me to tell you the answer. However, even if you’re familiar with every gridiron inspirational or “Karate Kid”-knock-off made to-date, you probably haven’t seen their conventions presented in Tsui Hark’s particularly active style.

Also, even if you’ve already watched Ang Lee’s “Eat Drink Man Woman” or Juzo Itami’s “Tampopo,” “The Chinese Feast” gives the food movie a wholly different look and feel. The camera still lingers on the texture and color of prepared dishes, but Hark places particular emphasis on how his chefs do their thing. From the very beginning, they seem to possess superhuman cooking ability, the same way Jet Li and Man Cheuk Chiu had elemental agility and speed in “Once Upon a Time in China” and “The Blade,” respectively. True, Kit and Wong Wing are culinary artists, not martial artists. But the director frames them in the same bold fashion, angling the camera upwards toward their faces. It’s a point of view that flatters them, even when the angle is slightly canted. And Hark uses slow and fast-motion to make their proficiency with fire and kitchen tools akin to a master’s skill with weapons.

(Speaking of weapons, more than one signature dish is punctuated with a shot of a trembling knife. If you decide to watch this movie, keep a tally of how many times one of the chefs completes a masterpiece, then flings his knife into the cutting board, where it vibrates with exhausted power. Talk about showmanship.)

Like “Eat Drink Man Woman” and “Tampopo,” this movie celebrates food and the way it brings people together. Food serves as the link in a variety of relationships: between burgeoning romantic partners (Chui and V.V.), former lovers (Kit and the woman he is estranged from), parent and child (Au and V.V.), and ultimately, a large group of friends (everyone who teams up against the Super Group). The cast is uniformly great, and the director juggles them well enough that everyone gets at least one good scene.

It probably helps that all the central characters are motivated by redemption. Chui must learn the chef trade honestly to make up for his early cheating. V.V. must save her father’s establishment to make up for her poor behavior in the past. And Kit must win the Qin Han Imperial Feast in order to prove to his girlfriend that he can feel again. But at the same time, the film has enough off-beat humor—the aforementioned giant fish scene, a screaming contest at a karaoke bar, a car-and-motorcycle chase set to Italian opera, and some business involving particular organs belonging to a monkey—that it never veers into schmaltz.

On the contrary, “The Chinese Feast” manages to balance itself between crowd-pleasing and whimsical. Among its possible audience are fans of Asian movie stars Leslie Cheung and Anita Yuen, not to mention martial arts aficionados (Those familiar with Hark’s even better 1995 feature, “The Blade,” might get a kick out of seeing Man Cheuk Chiu and Xin Xin Xiong in showy supporting roles). In turn, those with an appetite for MTV-style, rapid-fire filmmaking (only done right) are also in for a treat. So are those parties with a taste for the exotic. Meanwhile, the film’s universal themes of love and friendship may coax the not-so-brave into giving it a try.

Finally, foodies should be happy with this one. The highest compliment I can pay “The Chinese Feast” is to say that, after being amused, stimulated, and very much impressed by it, I also found myself hungry. A lot of the food cinematography is excellent, but the most tantalizing image occurs towards the end: a juicy piece of roasted meat, slowly dripping with honey. Despite the big meal of Thanksgiving leftovers I had just eaten two hours before, it suddenly felt like my only choices were “Feast” or famine, and I barely stopped myself from taking a bite out of the TV screen.

Overall rating: ***1/2 (out of ****)

GOOD BYE, DRAGON INN (2003), dir. Tsai Ming-liang

A Movie-going Experience about, among Other Things, the Movie-going Experience

Tsai Ming-liang’s follow-up to his breakthrough film, “What Time is It There?” is an absorbing visual poem about the pros and cons of going to the movies. While it is less expansive than his previous outing, it clearly belongs alongside the director’s other films. Like the rest, it features lonely characters in an urban setting, as well as long, static shots.

“Good Bye, Dragon Inn” takes place in an old-fashioned movie house, which has one screen, shows revivals of classics, and suffers from a lack of customers. The Fu-Ho Grand Theater, as it is called, doesn’t quite live up to its namesake anymore. Much of the interior seems dilapidated, and the overall mood approaches sadness.

The movie alternates between a ticket woman with a bad leg (Shiang-chyi Chen), who seems to be the only employee of this vast theatre, and a young man (Kiyonobu Mitamura) who has come to enjoy King Hu’s martial arts epic “Dragon Inn.” She happens to be away from the booth when he wanders in, so he sneaks into the theater sans ticket. The two characters remain on separate paths: she performs her nightly routine, while he attempts to enjoy “Dragon Inn." Through the course of the film, they never connect with each other. Nor anybody else, for that matter.

Practically half the movie is spent showing the ticket woman hobbling to her locker, a Herculian task given the Fu-Ho's size. Often, the director will let the camera linger until the character retreats from the frame completely. This technique slows down the rhythm of the editing, which affects the speed at which the audience perceives events. But it also emphasizes the solitude of the character, since she remains the sole subject of Ming-liang's interminable shots.

In the case of the young man, the extended takes capture his growing frustration. He does not enter the Fu-Ho Grand looking to be an island onto himself. But petty annoyances, stretched out over the course of long, uninterrupted shots, go a long way towards alienating him from his fellow movie-goers. He hops from seat to seat, but everywhere he goes, he encounters couples who make loud snacking noises, or sneakers next to his head. Occasionally, his interest is piqued by a fellow patron. Unfortunately, his friendly approach often meets a cold shoulder.

The youth never acheives any kind of connection with anyone. There are men who cruise the Fu-Ho looking for dispassionate sex, but it's dispassionate to the point of being invisible. In one scene, which takes place in the men’s room, he never realizes sexual congress has been happening in a nearby stall until the surprise appearance of the second participant. The joke is how subdued, how unimpressively muted, both parties must have been to accomplish such stealthy relations.

Somehow, the youth locates a hidden labyrinth, frequented by men who wear yearnful looks. They wander through shadowy passageways, eyeing one another, squeezing against each other in narrow spots. These shots depict friction without actual heat. The youth's standards, being higher than some, explain why he holds out until meeting someone who tickles his fancy. He approaches a boyishly-handsome stranger in a blue button-up (Kang-sheng Lee, a Ming-liang regular since 1992's "Rebels of the Neon God"). But despite early indications, this one isn’t interested either. Once again, instead of hooking up, the young man finds himself left high and dry.

The way the director handles it, however, proves strangely amusing. He waits until the moment both characters appear most intimate—the stranger having ignited the youth’s cigarette, as well as his libido. When the former leans in as if to kiss the stranger, the latter nonchalantly states the theater is haunted, then walks away. One suspects that the youth has just encountered a ghost himself, but he is too busy being sexually frustrated to heed the message.

Could the Fu-Ho really be haunted, or was the stranger simply messing with the young man’s mind? Several scenes imply the former, such as the ghostly young woman who makes eating sunflower seeds seem like Chinese water torture. There is also the appearance of two actors from the film “Dragon Inn”: Shih Chun and Tien Miao (another veteran of Ming-liang's films). They mourn how no one goes to see movies anymore, and how the images of their younger selves have faded from the public mind. In either scenario, these characters could be people off the street, or they could indeed be spectres. Ming-liang never states anything explicitly.

Personally, I much prefer the ambiguity. The suggestion of ghosts completely changes our perception of shots at the beginning of the film. Remember those opening images: Countless heads staring forward at the projection against the movie screen. In later shots, what happened to those extras? Were they ever really there, or could Ming-liang have been implying something more mystical, that human beings leave part of themselves behind, even when they go to the movies?

Upon looking back, I wondered whether the ticket woman, who never interacts with anyone, could have been a ghost. Perhaps she is cursed to haunt the corridors of the Fu-Ho, a Sisyphus-like spirit who sweeps floors instead of rolling boulders. More likely, however, she’s a real person, whose condition restricts her to menial labor. But working at the cinema allows her certain privileges: There is that wonderful moment when she walks behind the theater screen, and stares up at the giant image of a warrior woman from “Dragon Inn.” The camera cuts back-and-forth between her and the female fighter, as lights from the silver screen play off her face. Not only does this moment perfectly capture the liberating power of the cinema, it offers insight into the ticket woman. We realize that, in spite of the difficult working conditions, she might have chosen to be here all along, in exchange for moments like this one.

“Good Bye, Dragon Inn,” is noteworthy enough for being filmed in the director's signature style. It's also set in an interesting place, and has something to say about movie-going experience. In addition, everything that happens to the youth while he tries to watch "Dragon Inn" adds up to a humorous assemblage of common moviegoer complaints.

Above all, the movie takes place in a theater, which Ming-liang turns into a microcosm of big city problems. The Fu-Ho itself is an historical edifice left to rot, and contains episodes about personal space (the “noise pollution” from the snack-eaters in the viewing room) as well as social alienation (the lonely ticket woman, the silent men in the labyrinth). There is also a crime issue, as deviant behavior has creeped into a place that welcomes young children (the bathroom liaisons, the gay men cruising the labyrinth).

What caused this downward spiral? Is the decline of the Fu-Ho Grand Theater predicated by the same factors that have affected the movie-showing business in America? Too much piracy? Too many entertainment alternatives? Has their industrialized culture broken too many communities into disparate islands onto themselves, for whom the thought of sharing space, time, and experience seems unbearable?

Overall rating: **** (out of ****)

THE DUELLISTS (1977), dir. Ridley Scott

Always Duel the Right Thing?

In 1977, a young director named Ridley Scott brought his painterly sense of beauty to “The Duellists,” based on Joseph Conrad's story about honor taken to absurd levels. The movie was shot across a wide variety of outdoor backdrops, which look spectacular thanks to Scott’s talent for framing and his frequent use of natural light. On a screenplay level, Gerald Vaughan-Hughes gets the adrenaline flowing early and rarely lets up afterward. This is a satisfying action-adventure, the best pure entertainment that year behind George Lucas’ “Star Wars.”

The movie centers around two French soldiers, who are opposites both in appearance and temperament: the tall, gaunt, but gentlemanly Leftenant Armand D’Hubert (Keith Carradine), and his counterpart, the stocky, mercurial Leftenant Feraud (Harvey Keitel). The film opens in Stratburg, France, during the year 1800, where Feraud has just skewered another man. D’Hubert is dispatched to escort him back to headquarters. Unfortunately, he makes a few off-hand remarks that incite the hot-headed soldier, who challenges D’Hubert to combat.

At first, D’Hubert does not take him seriously. Then Feraud draws his sword, and threatens bodily harm if D’Hubert will not draw his. “I believe you are really quite a madman,” the more reasonable man says. So begins their feud, which, thanks to Feraud’s skewed sense of honor (he does not consider the matter closed until one of them receives a mortal wound from the other), spans three decades, several countries, and notable changes in hand-to-hand weaponry. Outside forces constantly intervene to keep the feud boiling. During the first duel, for example, D’Hubert seems to be doing well, but Feraud’s wife leaps upon his back.

Shortly after that initial skirmish, Feraud goes looking for D’Hubert in the streets of Stratburg. D’Hubert, however, would just as soon forget the whole thing ever happened. He views himself as the unwitting participant of that first duel. Feraud had drawn, so he had to defend his reputation, if not his life. Since that regrettable incident, however, he has had to constantly look over his shoulder, in order to avoid the fatalistic rival and his associates.

“The enemies of reason have a certain blind look,” says D’Hubert’s friend Jacquin (Tom Conti), a surgeon who commiserates with him.

And this proves true. Harvey Keitel imbues Feraud with laser-eyed intensity, which seems to countermand any hope of being reasoned with. He challenged his last victim on the grounds that he supposedly “spit on the colors of the flag.” D’Hubert questioned whether this was reason enough to have fought, and earned Feraud’s undying emnity. Not about to skirmish a second time with someone so temperamental, D’Hubert explores his options. If he wants to keep his honor intact, Jacquin tells him, he must secure a promotion (officers cannot be challenged to duels by their inferiors), pray that his regiment stays far removed from Feraud’s, or hope that Napoleon keeps the wars going indefinitely.

“Keep away from him, keep ahead of him, and put your faith in Bonaparte,” sums up Jacquin’s advice. But alas, this proves easier said than done.

“The Duellists” follows D’Hubert as he continuously finds himself face-to-face with his old adversary. This means the brunt of the movie consists of the same two men fighting mano-a-mano in settings both secretive and picaresque. But the movie never gets repetitive, thanks to constantly changing locations and an ever-evolving choice of weapons. Also, D’Hubert undergoes personality changes, as he ascends in rank, endures much hardship, and clashes with Feraud again and again.

The movie culminates with both characters circling each other through the crumbled ruins of a castle outside Paris. Scott effectively draws in the viewer by leaving out background music, and applying a very patient pace. The climactic “dance of death” features a shot that greatly impressed me with its use of depth-of-field: Through the stationary camera, we can see D’Hubert stalking the foreground. A moment later, Feraud appears behind, although he lies in the distance. Neither man sees the other, and soon they pass out of the frame in opposite directions. Scott, a former art student-turned-filmmaker, has endured both highs and lows in the twenty-eight years since making “The Duellists.” Even then, however, he seems to have had a gift for building tension. His two subsequent movies, the much-lauded “Alien” (1980) and “Blade Runner” (1982) featured similarly-sonambulant, highly-effective last acts.

“I have submitted long enough to your notions of honor. You will now submit to mine.”

Ridley Scott’s first four features—the costumed actioner “The Duellists,” the sci-fi/horror thrill ride “Alien,” the sci-fi film noir “Blade Runner,” and the Grimm-style fairy tale “Legend”—represent the period where he chiefly dealt with fantastic situations and characters. Production design quality, especially in the middle two films, was never less than groundbreaking. But given the close attention paid to the technical aspects, and how their sheer visual brilliance often garnered most of the accolades from audiences and critics, Ridley Scott-bashers took to pigeon-holing him as all-style, very little substance.

While I agree that characterization is weak in certain examples of Scott’s work (and this is more a result of genre constraints), any flimsiness in “The Duellists'” screenplay must be forgiven. After all, it compresses thirty years into a scant one-hundred minute running time. Perhaps Feraud could have been fleshed out more, but that’s like criticizing Spielberg’s “Jaws” because the shark never evolves past a one-dimensional eating machine.

D’Hubert’s nemesis, although enigmatic, is never less than effective. Also, notice how, in his final appearance, he resembles a certain French Emperor who had recently been exiled to Elba. Is Feraud, with his stocky build and broad hat, supposed to represent Napoleon? That depends on whether you think Ridley Scott had more on his mind than mere mise-en-scene.

I think he did. If I had to try and sum up the main theme of “The Duellists,” it’s that society, not individuals, define what is considered honorable. The military, for example, counts as a society. After surviving several pitched battles with Feraud--which he had to participate in even after being promoted (As fate would have it, his adversary received a promotion to the exact same rank)--D’Hubert understandably wants no more to do with the man who nearly killed him. But pressure from the soldiers under his command forces him to continue. “We’re now fighting this duel,” D’Hubert says incredulously, “as a compliment to the cavalry.”

Also, when Feraud chooses to make D’Hubert his lifelong enemy, he is acting more as an insulted Frenchman than as an independent individual. Going back to the original cause of their dispute, Feraud asks D’Hubert, “Would you have let this man insult Napoleon?” “Napoleon has nothing to do with it,” D’Hubert replies. But as far as Feraud is concerned, he has everything to do with it. France has achieved unprecedented military glory. The leader of those conquering forces shines like a beacon of national pride. Therefore, a slight at Napoleon is a slight against everything great about being French. Feraud did not reply to such insults as Feraud; on the contrary, he replied as a member of a proud society.

But inevitably, societies change. As they do, the rules governing honor also change. Honor by combat finds itself replaced with glory by contract. D’Hubert seems well-suited to this new kind of battlefield, as he succeeds at wooing the young daughter of his landowning neighbor, and thereby increases his fortune. Feraud, meanwhile, does not fare as well. No silver-tongued charmer like D’Hubert, he ends up in straits very similar to the general he served—marginalized, alone with no one to fight. Now he must submit to “new” notions of honor, as decreed by D’Hubert and a rising class of pro-royalists. Feraud must, or he will cease to exist. He cannot appeal to his foes for some alternative, even if they are not the enemies of reason, with that certain blind look.

Overall rating: **** (out of ****)

TOM JONES (1963), dir. Tony Richardson

It’s Not Unusual to be Loved by Anyone...

Likewise, it’s hardly surprising that a populist hit movie—and earner of five Academy Awards, including Best Picture, Best Director for Tony Richardson, and Best Adapted Screenplay for John Osborne—should be so darn entertaining. Again, look at the accolades “Tom Jones” earned! While Oscar rarely goes to the finalist that best stands the test of time, it’s equally rare for a prior “best picture” to make us scratch our heads and ask, “How did that even get nominated…?”

Now, of course, there have been exceptions. But in early 1964, when the much-venerated Academy voting body decided to honor this adaptation of Henry Fielding’s classic novel, they did their legacy no shame. “Tom Jones” is a thoroughly enjoyable romp, featuring beautiful scenery, witty dialogue, light-hearted direction that serves the material well, and a star-making turn by then-unknown actor Albert Finney.

While already enjoying leading man status on the British stage, the movie made Finney an overnight star and sex symbol. Tom Jones appears to be the role he was born to play. With his strapping, bucolic build, boyish good looks, and guileless green eyes, he perfectly embodies the character. We believe that kindness and decency lie in his heart, as his adopted uncle, Squire Allworthy (George Devine), repeatedly claims. At the same time, the way Finney’s eyes seem to fog over whenever a lovely specimen of the female gender happens by, reminds us of Jones’ central vice, which nearly brings about his undoing.

Albert has been doing the Finney-ous fog thing for decades, most recently in Tim Burton’s “Big Fish," where their misty quality fit the dreamy nature of Edward Bloom. In “Tom Jones,” Richardson uses Finney’s eyes to reflect a man at the mercy of his own compulsion. Thanks to those orbs, we cannot hold Tom in complete contempt. We really believe this poor guy cannot help himself. Witness the scene between Tom and a woman with most seductive eyes and a coquettish smile. As the camera cuts back-and-forth between them, and the lady becomes increasingly interested in the hunky lad sitting across the table from her, he also goes through changes, which can be read off Finney's face.

At first, Tom seems possessed by a nervous tremble, which isn't fear so much as inner conflict. He fights against the lust which has begun working its way up from his loins. Each time the camera cuts back to Tom’s face, however, another layer of his defenses has been peeled away. Eventually, he goes too far to turn around, the redness of his face becoming too deep, the goofy grin curled too much at the ends. As for thoughts of his true love, Sophie, we can practically detect the moment when she temporarily vanishes from his mind, overwhelmed as it is by the urging of his gonads.

It’s Tom’s inability to control himself, exploited by Blifil (David Warner), his jealous half-brother, and a pair of scheming tutors named Thwackum (Peter Bull) and Square (John Moffatt), that lead to his getting tossed from his guardian’s estate. They catch him fornicating with Molly (Diane Cilento), a woman of ill reputation (Ironically, Mr. Square is one of the reasons for her compromised reputation). While Squire Allworthy has raised Tom like his own son, the boy has always behaved like a rascal. The news regarding Molly, sprinkled with a few lies from Thwackum and Square, leaves Allworthy at his wit’s end. Finding no alternative, he decides he must cast Tom out into the wide world.

Adding insult to injury, Tom learns before departing that Sophie (the fetching Susannah York), his childhood sweetheart and daughter of Squire Allworthy’s wealthy neighbor, Squire Western, has been betrothed to his unworthy half-brother. Sophie is hardly pleased by the news herself, despite the merits argued by her dull aunt (Dame Edith Evans), and the roaring approval of her bellicose father (Hugh Griffith, who steals many a scene pinballing back-and-forth between tranquil inebriation and utter bedlam). Being the rowdy, sporting type, Squire Western actually prefers Tom to Mr. Blifil. But the lad is no heir, and Sophie is his only daughter. While he yet draws breath, Squire Western refuses to allow her to marry some penniless bastard, and so Tom becomes his enemy (To the squire's credit, he also thumbs his nose at foppish city dandies).

Tom’s journey to London—where a reference from his uncle may yet bring him good fortune—gets sidetracked by some Christian soldiers, who relieve him of his moneypurse. Later, he stumbles across one of the more villainous soldiers attempting a rape beside the forest road. Tom rises to the occasion, and rescues the damsel in distress. The woman, who claims to be called Mrs. Waters, rewards our hero by dining with him at a quaint country inn. She moons over him most invitingly. Following the hearty repast, they retreat to an upstairs room for more spirited fun, which is interrupted by a cuckolded husband who bursts into their room.

The various characters Tom encounters reappear throughout the movie, some of them playing pivotal roles. Also included is the man long believed to be Tom’s father. He accompanies our hero to London, where Sophie has also escaped to. Unfortunately, at the previous town, she stumbled across Tom’s indiscretion with Mrs. Waters. Since she no longer wishes to see her former sweetheart, it is up to the lad to work himself back into Sophie’s good graces. His desperation brings him into contact with the manipulative society maven Lady Bellaston (Joan Greenwood). She takes a fancy to Tom, and under the pretense of helping him reunite with the girl he loves, makes him her boytoy, and further sullies his reputation.

Will Sophie reconcile with Tom, or will she be dragged back to the country by her apoplectic father? Can she and Tom really live happily ever after, given his prior betrayal of her? About two-thirds of the way through the film, a strange twist of fate combined with youthful hotheadedness leads to blood being spilled. Then the main question becomes: Will Tom live at all?

Since the last thing I want to do is give away the ending, I will simply refer back to the beginning of this review, wherein I wrote that “Tom Jones” was an “enjoyable romp,” with “beautiful scenery,” “witty dialogue,” and “light-hearted direction.” What kind of ending do you think a movie of this sort would have? But since Tony Richardson helmed it, and John Osborne, who wrote Richardson’s first film "Look Back in Anger" for the stage, served as screenwriter, I did expect more social commentary. That earlier film focused on lower-class people, and found significance in their lives, nobility in their grittiness. I assumed this was the appeal of "Tom Jones" for Richardson, that the title character, despite being born a bastard, is far nobler than many of the movie’s more legitimate gentlemen. He saves Sophie from a runaway horse. He offers to pay the inn bill for the soldiers’ company, even though one of their number attacked him. When Mrs. Waters is being waylayed by a sexual predator, Tom runs to her aid.

Also telling is how Tom decides to take on, and provide for, the destitute man he thought was his father. The familial link isn’t his reason for doing this. Rather, the reputation of fathering a bastard child followed the man wherever he applied subsequent to being dismissed by Squire Allworthy. Tom cannot help feeling partially responsible, since he himself was the bastard. But his decision shows he has a sense of honor that belies his humble blood.

Meanwhile, Tom’s moral and social superiors engage in backstabbing and manipulation. Mr. Blifil and his tutors exploit facts at Tom’s expense. Lady Bellaston convinces a nobleman enamored with Sophie to force himself on her. Mr. Square is a moral hypocrite. True, several characters of equal social rank to Tom do questionable things, too. But the scale of regrettable behaviors seems to be proportional to the size of one’s coffers. Squire Western, though good for a laugh, is a total wreck. When he isn’t drop-dead drunk or fornicating amid livestock, he leads a deer chase that destroys some poor family’s farm. Watching “Tom Jones,” I began to have some inkling why Jimmy Porter, the main protagonist of “Look Back in Anger,” detested the upper class so much.

How strange then, that Richardson presents these contrasts, but withholds passing any final judgement. The dishonest half-brother and tutors never get foisted by their own petard. Not even after the truth about a certain document pilfered by Mr. Blifil gets revealed. There appears to be a total lack of punishment for immoral behavior in the film. The soldier who wronged Tom doesn’t get his comeuppance (Although, to the movie’s credit, he never wins out, either). Even Tom, though not a bad person, has a vice that never gets so much as a rebuke.

(WARNING! THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS DETAILS OF A SPOILOUS NATURE!—Sure, Sophie’s mad at him for a while for diddling Mrs. Waters. But could she really dump the lout and marry Blifil instead?. So the ending, while very upbeat, doesn’t seem convincing. Sophie’s honey never actually undergoes a transformation from ladies man to loyal lover. String music alone does not guarantee he can be faithful, even after a joyous reunion and inevitable marriage. )

Of course, the movie was made in the sixties. Being a cad might have been okay back then, since AIDS had yet to be a problem. Or it might just be Richardson’s aesthetic speaking. After all, he helped pioneer British “kitchen sink style,” which was partially-based on documentary. But even if Richardson decided not to make a statement film, preferring to observe from a distance, there’s no denying he brought a strong visual sense to Osborne's screenplay. “Tom Jones” is supposed to be a “fun” movie, and the director underscores that every chance he gets. As a result, the audience gets treated to wipes of all shapes and sizes, a narrator who says pithy things such as, “It is said that too much wine will dull a man’s senses. That much is true, in a dull man.” Richardson even speeds up a chase sequence, which guarantees it will tickle the funny bone.

Now if only he had chosen to make us think, and not only amuse us on a superficial level.

Overall rating: *** (out of ****)