The Beggar's Opera

Unlike its Italian counterparts, The Beggar's Opera thrives on provincialism rather than pomp. British poet John Gay first wrote the operetta to chide government corruption and provide jobs for the vaudevillians displaced by sopranos and baritones from across the Channel. He felt that simple folk ballads sung with a minimum of gesticulation and vibretto could be as effective as full-range opera. With some perceptive acting, imaginative directing and photography the film version of Gay's work just about proves he was right.

As a handsome highwayman Laurence Olivier is in the exhausting position of having too many women after his heart and too many police after his head. But Olivier is not an invincibly haughty brigand. In one delightful scene a former lover deters him from a robbery with a school-teacher-type lecture. He switches from bravado to bashfulness with aplomb and later in numerous slapstick scenes, he cavorts about the set with admirable grace. In all, he demonstrates that he is an expert actor of convincing versatility, and also, that he cannot sing.

Although his voice is passable in the heroic ballads, it falters seriously in the love songs. However, Arthur Bliss, who amended the original Pepusch score, has deftly arranged the music so that Olivier's limitations are a minor factor. Only one of the other principles--Stanley Halloway as the jailer--sing his own part. Alternately snickering and sneering, his display suggests the humorous charm of Martyn Green.

Of those with counterfeit singing voices, Dorothy Tutin is the lone disappointment. Playing an ingenue her exaggerated facial contortions and adolescent soliloquies lack the subtlety that punctuates the other performances.

Director Peter brook's color camera prowls quietly through each scene emphasizing details that bring realism to the film. Concentrating on facial expressions, his close-ups and angle shots are typical of his bet work.

The Beggar's Opera is a far better film than the name Gay gave his work implies. For any lack in magnificence is more than made up in the vigour of its British balladry.