This final Fred Zinnemann film was pretty much trashed by the critics when it came out in 1983 which is puzzling, in my opinion. I mean, it's certainly not a great or even very good film but it's just as good or better than a lot of the stuff DePalma was churning out at the same time over which the same critics swooned. Of course, by 1983 Zinnemann was long out of favor with the auteurists who dominated film criticism, having been consigned to the realm of "impersonality" by their hero and mentor, Andrew Sarris who, as usual, confused moral earnestness and craftsmanship with anonymity, as if Zinnemann were no better than, say, Robert Z. Leonard. Or Delbert Mann.
So let me do my small part to mildly rehabilitate this sad tale of a love affair crumbling amid the Alps that could have been told by Hemingway, Irwin Shaw or James Salter. Problem is that scenarist Michael Austin is considerably less talented than those three scribes and makes the fatal mistake, I'm sure with Zinnemann's input, of having the affair be between uncle and niece, thus giving the proceedings an un-needed "yuck!" factor when the story could have worked just as easily or better as older man/younger woman.
If, however, you can overlook the above failing (a tall ask, judging by the IMDB responses below) there are many things that are appealing in this good director's swan song, including fine performances by the three leads, especially the too seldom seen Betsy Brantley who imbues her character with poignancy, intelligence and grace. I also liked the story within the story of the old woman who gazes upon the perfectly ice-preserved body of the handsome young man she was to marry forty years ago. A lot of film makers would have stuck this in awkwardly as a clunky, moralistic sub plot. Not Zinnemann. In his hands it is woven seamlessly into the movie's fabric and does not hit you over the head with "message" about true versus false love.
Then there is the lovely score by Elmer Bernstein, and the even lovelier cinematography of Giuseppe Rotunno.
Bottom line: Sarris was wrong about Huston and Wilder. I maintain he's almost as wrong about Zinnemann. Give it a B minus.
