Kenneth Branagh could well have subtitled his second turkey in as many weeks and his third this year The Cranes Are Flying for yes, folks, our Ken has discovered a thing that you can mount the camera on and it will then climb in the air and allow you to shoot the film from the point of view of a cloud and that's his angle of choice for a good 30 per cent of the running time; if this was a ploy to detract from his lack of ideas then it doesn't work and only draws attention to the pretentiousness on display. It's got to be a prime gobbler when Liz Smith pointedly excludes it from her CV and presumably asked for her name to be removed from the credits. Stephen Fry has the chutzpah to take a bow for the lyrics; it's patently obvious that he has never heard of Cole Porter, Lorenz Hart, Frank Loesser, etc, let alone studied them, in fact if it comes to that he hasn't even bothered to study a Rhyming Dictionary and is clearly a paid-up member of the Kiss My Assonance School Of Lyric Writing. Branagh himself is clearly an advocate of the If It Ain't Broke, Break It, brigade for having set Shakespeare in Japan earlier in the year he now sets Mozart in the First World War but not the one you may have seen in the newsreels where the trenches were furnished with a melange of mud and rats; you could EAT off the floors of these trenches and though he allows an occasional rifle shot for authenticity infantrymen topple over without so much as a scratch let alone any of that nasty blood. This doesn't leave a lot on the positive side; okay, the singers Mime effectively enough, they are, after all, mostly trained opera singers but apart from that there's a two-hour gap where the film should be.
Review of The Magic Flute
