The problem with this tender hearted and at times moving film is quite simple...there's no second act (appropriate since it's based on a play). Let's take the central conflict between Margaret Leighton's dipso, gadabout daughter and Ralph Richardson's loving but judgmental parson father. Screenwriter Anatole De Grunwald does a good job of setting up the struggle between these two and there is a properly dramatic clash at the end of Christmas Eve (act one) that promises much. But then in the middle of Christmas day (act three), following a rather bland conversation with her father about the universal need for faith, Leighton's character does a head spinning one eighty and is completely lovey dovey toward and devoted to dad. This precipitate change of course robs the audience (i.e. Me) of any sense of catharsis since we were denied the full emotional explication of each character's problems with the other that only a good second act can provide. I'm not advocating full on Eugene O'Neill here, mind you, with a four hour running time and multiple soliloquys, but maybe a Brit version of Lorraine Hansbury would have been nice, (or even Shelagh Delaney, for that matter). So what we're left with is an aura of goodwill toward men (and women) and a whole lot of fine acting from, among others, Richardson, Leighton, Celia Johnson, Denholm Elliot, Hugh Williams and, my fave, Maureen Delany as a crusty aunt who decides to stay over the holiday because it's goose instead of turkey on the menu. Give it a generous B minus for them.
Review of The Holly and the Ivy
