movie film review | chris tookey
 
death by raspberry
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  The Green Years (1946)
     
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Awful. I know: it is made with all the loving care that an Idaho housewife puts into a first novel that is going to win the Grand Prize at Biarritz; Shakespeare can never have been a thousandth as high-minded. I know: it deals with large, grave, stylish matters of religious faith, etc., in a manner to make me want to turn the handiest penitential novena mto a five-alarm call for the vice squad. I know: it is stuffed to the scalp and well beyond with 'characters', all of Dickensian proportions if only A. J. Cronin were Dickens and if only Dickens were writing soap opera. I know too, to my misery, that this must have been regarded, around the Metro lot, as a great and disinterested dedication to art, and it is no pleasure to sneer at those who so regarded it. But until a worse example comes along, this one will serve very nicely as an apotheosis of all that has gone most deadly wrong with movies since the people with the money learned to believe that the medium could aspire to what is printed on slick paper, and could read it right side up, even without illustrations.
(James Agee, Nation)

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