By no means should this movie be called "The Razor's Edge." That this movie uses that title demeans the excellent novel so well crafted by the novelist W. Somerset Maugham. Part of what makes the book wonderful is the frame narration by an outside source--so that Larry is always just a construction by another, a person we never really know, who remains as mysterious as his quest and his sense of enlightenment. With Murray's movie, we don't even have the character who is supposed to tell the story--it is like trying to film The Great Gatsby, except without Nick Carraway.
The movie transmogrifies the wonderful qualities that Maugham invests in Larry--an indescribable smile that shows the warmth and generosity of his heart; a spirit that never rises to anger, that gives in a Christ-like manor which suggests the purest version of altruism known, untainted by self-interest; an elusive sort that we never can encapsulate--and changes them into Murray's own strong suits: witty retorts directed at dull people, low emotion alcoholism coupled with outbursts, clowning for the camera. Murray's Larry is not the pure soul who captivated a famous writer--he is the man from "Ghostbusters," trying every now and then to be serious. Many of these qualities are anathema to the character he is to be portrayingand I was hoping to see some completely different side of Bill.
The plot changes are ridiculous: Larry drives an ambulance instead of flying a plane; he goes with Gray rather than by himself; Sophie and her husband are married at the beginning rather than later; Larry and Isabel sleep with each other; Sophie's a prostitute instead of a whore and she falls truly in love with Larry rather than dutifully, as she does in the novelthe only way that her leaving him makes sense. Isabel's indiscrete shouting in a dignified restaurant wrecks the grace of her character; the confrontation between Sophie and Isabel is maddeningly trite and destructive to any subtlety that the movie might wish to preserve. Gray, rather than being the commonplace everyman, is instead some spidery sort supposedly war-mates with Larrya foolish depth to a relationship better left at its tenuous state, as the book does. In order for Larry's character to make sense, he needs to be left alone during the war, rather than have some mate from Chicago there to observe his transition.
The end result is a palate of flat, rather dull characters who belong to a soap opera rather than the host created by Maugham, individuals who make poor decisions at times, but who, nonetheless, we can never wholly condemn. In the book, our ethereal vision of Larry is tempered by the compassionate portraits of Suzanne and Elliot and Gray and Isabel and Sophie. In the movie, we must subsist wholly on an unbelievable Murray playacting for the camera but never even approximating the earnestness and rigor of Maugham's Larry.
The movie transmogrifies the wonderful qualities that Maugham invests in Larry--an indescribable smile that shows the warmth and generosity of his heart; a spirit that never rises to anger, that gives in a Christ-like manor which suggests the purest version of altruism known, untainted by self-interest; an elusive sort that we never can encapsulate--and changes them into Murray's own strong suits: witty retorts directed at dull people, low emotion alcoholism coupled with outbursts, clowning for the camera. Murray's Larry is not the pure soul who captivated a famous writer--he is the man from "Ghostbusters," trying every now and then to be serious. Many of these qualities are anathema to the character he is to be portrayingand I was hoping to see some completely different side of Bill.
The plot changes are ridiculous: Larry drives an ambulance instead of flying a plane; he goes with Gray rather than by himself; Sophie and her husband are married at the beginning rather than later; Larry and Isabel sleep with each other; Sophie's a prostitute instead of a whore and she falls truly in love with Larry rather than dutifully, as she does in the novelthe only way that her leaving him makes sense. Isabel's indiscrete shouting in a dignified restaurant wrecks the grace of her character; the confrontation between Sophie and Isabel is maddeningly trite and destructive to any subtlety that the movie might wish to preserve. Gray, rather than being the commonplace everyman, is instead some spidery sort supposedly war-mates with Larrya foolish depth to a relationship better left at its tenuous state, as the book does. In order for Larry's character to make sense, he needs to be left alone during the war, rather than have some mate from Chicago there to observe his transition.
The end result is a palate of flat, rather dull characters who belong to a soap opera rather than the host created by Maugham, individuals who make poor decisions at times, but who, nonetheless, we can never wholly condemn. In the book, our ethereal vision of Larry is tempered by the compassionate portraits of Suzanne and Elliot and Gray and Isabel and Sophie. In the movie, we must subsist wholly on an unbelievable Murray playacting for the camera but never even approximating the earnestness and rigor of Maugham's Larry.