'The Night Porter' almost carries off its shocks

I yield to fisW in my admiration for Dirk Bogarde, and in particular for his determined, brave transition — as described in the admirable book on his films by Margaret Hinxman and Susan d'Arcy — "from screen matinee idol to respected character actor," After "The Servant" and "Death in Venice", Bogarde had already proved his ease. Now after The Night Porter ('X', Odedn, Haymarket) methinks he need protest no more. "The Night Porter" arrived here after nieces de scandak and battles. with the censorship in both Rome and Paris.
The first time I saw the film it shocked and appalled me to the extent of seeing it again to try to discover whether the film were a serious enough work of art to carry off its shocks. I did, and T think it very nearly is.
It still poses the film critic and the film fan much the same problem as "Last Tango in Paris" — principally one of balance, of proportion: whether the sexy sequences are sufficiently integrated or subordinated to the theme or whether they remain exaggerated sensationalism.
The setting of "The Night Porter" is post-war Vienna. As in the less interesting film of "The Odessa File", a league of former Nazis try to exorcise their guilt through group psychiatry and mock trials. Liliana Cavana, the gifted Italian director and part-author soon makes clear that Max (Dick Bogarde) night porter at the grand Vienna hotel, had been an SS commandant of a Nazi concentration camp.
He is not keen to stand his mock trial even for the opportunity to destroy all evidence, hut only hopes to lead a quiet life. Then the American conductor (Marino Mese) arrives with his wife Lucia (Charlotte Rampling) at the hotel.
Fluent flashback explains that the previous acquaintance of Max and Lucia had been in the camp where, as an inmate, she had been subject to his every indignity. The perverse passion of their past pours into the present.
"What a romantic story!" comments the exotic countess (another ex-Nazi hotel resident, richly played by Isa Miranda) before they are besieged in their hotel bedroom by Max's SS excolleagues. But there is scant romance in the liebestod ending.
"The Night Porter" could not have been a pretty film even had it been less explicit. But it is a formidable and brilliant one. Bogarde's, performance is impeccable; and Charlotte Rampling comes nearer to oldfashioned glamour than any other young British film actress. Anybody old enough to be interested in the Nazi history may feel it worth a visit to The Screen on islington Green for the late show (11.15 pm) tomorrow to compare Bogarde's (and Rampling's) performance in "The Damned", Visconti's film about the Nazi hierarchy.
Somehow I never saw "That'll Be The Day", starring
DOD singer David Essex. But its sequel, Stardust ('AA', ABC 2, Shaftesbury Avenue and general release) suggests a rock version of "A Star Is Born".
I am not sure whether the worshippers of the idol will appreciate the dustiness of the answer given by squealing fans, bullying promoters and savages capable of wrecking not only football grounds but funerals. But Michael Apted's noisy, energetic movie has much to offer both the supporters and the opponents of the type.
For neutral me the most enjoyable part of' it all is Adam Faith's half touching, half sinister performance as the idol's devoted but possessive friend who accompanies him to the castle in Spain which provides no real escape but only the tedium of exile.
The Russians turned "'Hamlet" into an exciting film with a stupendous performance by Innokenti Smoktunovsky. Chekhov's Uncle Veiny& ('A', Paris Pullman) with the same star remains stolidly a stage pay, despite the attractive setting of the house. For connoisseurs this is an occasion not to be missed. For an audience unfamiliar with the Russian language, or with Chekhov in translation, it may he difficult to appreciate. Then again the Russians take their Cheekhov more stolidly than we are accustomed to do. The whole production reminded me of the version "The Cherry Orchard" which Moscow sent here some years ago — dignified, decorous, expert, but without the flexible poignancy we associate with Chekhov, There is no doubting the magnificence of Smoktunovsky' ll acting, and I was glad to heaf-Itim generously admit that the English interpretation of Chekhov's plays as comedies was right.
When he spoke to some of us after the film this great Russian actor proved a man of endearing simplicity. He spoke with enthusiasm of his film-making round the world where the most exciting prospect sounds the film biography of Dostoievsky he is to make in Italy. (Smoktunovsky, of course, played here in Dostoievsky's "The Idiot" at the Aldwych Theatre).
It may be heretical of me to prefer Verdi's Otello (ABC, 13loomsbury) to Shakespeare's — on which of course it depends. But I can't help feeling EMI deserve encouragement for trying to involve the cinema in Britain's new-found enthusiasm for opera.
Herbert von Karajan's notable film starring such favourites as Jon Vickers as Otello, MireIla Freni as Desdemona and Peter Glossop as lago had its premiere at the Royal Festival Hall in the presence of von Karajan (Mr Heath was also in the Royal Box).
Von Karajan's recent recording with the Berlin Philharmonic supplied the film's sound track, and despite some mishaps with the postsynchronisation this is a distinguished illustration and recording of some of Verdi's most glorious music.
London now sustains two opera companies for a smaller subsidy than any other European capital. Even a tip-toeing effort to share this enthusiasm with the cinema deserves support.