Perhaps it's because I've always admired Hemingway and his works, but I found this glossy studio effort more enjoyable than it really is judging from other reviews. Hemingway's deceptively simple style of prose belied an understanding of human nature at odds with the macho exterior Papa presented to the world, and whether intentional or not, this film manages to capture something of Hemingway's style while largely failing in terms of dramatic content.
Much of the blame for this lies in a treatment which is inadequate to the scope of the story it attempts to relate. Largely - if not wholly - based on Hemingway's own life experiences, the film fails to capture the bluff, larger-than-life essence of the man. This is largely down to a poor choice of leading man in Gregory Peck. For my money, Peck was never more than a pretty face, and possessed an extremely limited talent. He's certainly not up to the demands made of him by the character of Harry Street, world-travelling writer, lover and heavy drinker, whose material success is tempered by a feeling of failure, both artistically and emotionally.
Also culpable, though, are the shoddy standards with regards to the location shooting - second-unit only, so all the actors travelled no further than to the Fox backlot in Hollywood. This means we see Peck, lying on his 'deathbed' on what is obviously a stage set gazing out at a group of vultures perched in anticipation on a tree in the shadows of the eponymous mountain. This is so distracting that it destroys all semblance of verisimilitude.
Add to that possibly the world's worst death scene - Ava Gardner does her 'woman driver' bit in the midst of a Spanish Civil War battlefield and prays for the lost love of her life to come find her only for - guess what - the love of her life to find her. Her death, also, is badly botched, occurring off-screen and referred to only once in passing afterwards.
Despite all this, the film still does manage to be fairly absorbing while never scaling the heights its producers were obviously aiming for.
Much of the blame for this lies in a treatment which is inadequate to the scope of the story it attempts to relate. Largely - if not wholly - based on Hemingway's own life experiences, the film fails to capture the bluff, larger-than-life essence of the man. This is largely down to a poor choice of leading man in Gregory Peck. For my money, Peck was never more than a pretty face, and possessed an extremely limited talent. He's certainly not up to the demands made of him by the character of Harry Street, world-travelling writer, lover and heavy drinker, whose material success is tempered by a feeling of failure, both artistically and emotionally.
Also culpable, though, are the shoddy standards with regards to the location shooting - second-unit only, so all the actors travelled no further than to the Fox backlot in Hollywood. This means we see Peck, lying on his 'deathbed' on what is obviously a stage set gazing out at a group of vultures perched in anticipation on a tree in the shadows of the eponymous mountain. This is so distracting that it destroys all semblance of verisimilitude.
Add to that possibly the world's worst death scene - Ava Gardner does her 'woman driver' bit in the midst of a Spanish Civil War battlefield and prays for the lost love of her life to come find her only for - guess what - the love of her life to find her. Her death, also, is badly botched, occurring off-screen and referred to only once in passing afterwards.
Despite all this, the film still does manage to be fairly absorbing while never scaling the heights its producers were obviously aiming for.