A deaf mute comes to a Southern town, touching the lives of those he meets.
Singer is something of a mystery man. We know little about him, where he comes from, who's in his past, or what his attachments are, (except for the simple-minded Spiros and the fact that he's an engraver). In that sense, he's more like an idea than a man, maybe one of those mythical western heroes of the past. But instead of a six-gun to right wrongs, he communicates goodness in odd mute fashion, something like a silent universal conscience. That is, of course, until the end when we're reminded that he was more than an idea, after all.
But the movie's real dramatic center is young Mick (Locke) trying to find herself amidst stifling surroundings. That scene of her sitting alone on the concert hall stairs, transfixed by the strains of Mozart is a sublime moment lifted by both the great music and Singer's mutely understanding gaze. In a sense, I think, he's been hearing those same sublime chords for some time, despite the physical deafness. Later, when the two communicate wordlessly with the recording, Mick enters a liberating world she will only come to appreciate graveside. And it's not surprising that a triggering event would come from her thoughtlessly brushing him and his music aside following a romantic interlude with her first boyfriend.
But Singer's impact is not limited to the personal. His wordless ability also crosses racial lines as portrayed in getting an embittered Dr. Copeland to get beyond his prejudices. Again Singer opens up a better world, this time for the doctor, by using a different language, i.e. signing, in order to communicate with one of the doctor's deaf and dumb patients. As a result, the proud black man bends toward the goodness that Singer communicates. And, by doing so, he establishes the means for reconciling with his estranged daughter and son-in-law. The scenes of their reconciliation are among the most touching of the film.
Frankly, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the rotund Spiros (McCann) gobbling down the goodies like there's no tomorrow. That he's also simple-minded, of course, lends these scenes their peculiar pathos. He's Singer's one conversational partner, and watching them rapid fire their signing puts the audience on the outside, for a change. Whether intentional or not, it's a shrewd move to make us experience something of what Singer routinely experiences in being closed out of normal conversations.
These are the three main vignettes making up the movie. In each case, the other person experiences a sense of isolation and loneliness that can only be bridged by opening up through communication; and, as the movie shows, there are many such languages for bridging the gap. And though Stacy Keach's down-and-out drifter is given less screen time, when he looks longingly through the windowpane at others enjoying themselves in the diner, his isolation speaks volumes.
Of course, the central irony occurs at the end, when Singer too finds himself alone now that the others no longer need him. He who has built so many bridges to others is thrust back to his own island. Bridges, we find out, are no good unless they go somewhere, and now, for the silent Singer, they don't.
The cast is uniformly excellent, especially the big-eyed Locke, whose skinny, almost-pretty teen-ager looks totally unlike the Sandra Dee's, Annette Funicello's, of the time. It's that, plus the fact she seems totally unselfconscious in a really difficult role. Arkin's also effective, as the mute Singer. Still, I hope they weren't paying him by the word. And even though he had no dialog to learn, he did have segments of sign language to master, no easy task, I'm sure. Add to them the leonine Percy Rodrigues, an impressively strong and dignified presence, and it's an apt cast both visually and artistically.
The movie is a superb adaptation from a Carson McCullers novel. I'd be surprised if its downbeat subject matter made any money. Still, the movie deals powerfully with a common experience in such a way that makes us contemplate what some folks call the human condition. And that's a noble achievement for any movie.
Singer is something of a mystery man. We know little about him, where he comes from, who's in his past, or what his attachments are, (except for the simple-minded Spiros and the fact that he's an engraver). In that sense, he's more like an idea than a man, maybe one of those mythical western heroes of the past. But instead of a six-gun to right wrongs, he communicates goodness in odd mute fashion, something like a silent universal conscience. That is, of course, until the end when we're reminded that he was more than an idea, after all.
But the movie's real dramatic center is young Mick (Locke) trying to find herself amidst stifling surroundings. That scene of her sitting alone on the concert hall stairs, transfixed by the strains of Mozart is a sublime moment lifted by both the great music and Singer's mutely understanding gaze. In a sense, I think, he's been hearing those same sublime chords for some time, despite the physical deafness. Later, when the two communicate wordlessly with the recording, Mick enters a liberating world she will only come to appreciate graveside. And it's not surprising that a triggering event would come from her thoughtlessly brushing him and his music aside following a romantic interlude with her first boyfriend.
But Singer's impact is not limited to the personal. His wordless ability also crosses racial lines as portrayed in getting an embittered Dr. Copeland to get beyond his prejudices. Again Singer opens up a better world, this time for the doctor, by using a different language, i.e. signing, in order to communicate with one of the doctor's deaf and dumb patients. As a result, the proud black man bends toward the goodness that Singer communicates. And, by doing so, he establishes the means for reconciling with his estranged daughter and son-in-law. The scenes of their reconciliation are among the most touching of the film.
Frankly, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the rotund Spiros (McCann) gobbling down the goodies like there's no tomorrow. That he's also simple-minded, of course, lends these scenes their peculiar pathos. He's Singer's one conversational partner, and watching them rapid fire their signing puts the audience on the outside, for a change. Whether intentional or not, it's a shrewd move to make us experience something of what Singer routinely experiences in being closed out of normal conversations.
These are the three main vignettes making up the movie. In each case, the other person experiences a sense of isolation and loneliness that can only be bridged by opening up through communication; and, as the movie shows, there are many such languages for bridging the gap. And though Stacy Keach's down-and-out drifter is given less screen time, when he looks longingly through the windowpane at others enjoying themselves in the diner, his isolation speaks volumes.
Of course, the central irony occurs at the end, when Singer too finds himself alone now that the others no longer need him. He who has built so many bridges to others is thrust back to his own island. Bridges, we find out, are no good unless they go somewhere, and now, for the silent Singer, they don't.
The cast is uniformly excellent, especially the big-eyed Locke, whose skinny, almost-pretty teen-ager looks totally unlike the Sandra Dee's, Annette Funicello's, of the time. It's that, plus the fact she seems totally unselfconscious in a really difficult role. Arkin's also effective, as the mute Singer. Still, I hope they weren't paying him by the word. And even though he had no dialog to learn, he did have segments of sign language to master, no easy task, I'm sure. Add to them the leonine Percy Rodrigues, an impressively strong and dignified presence, and it's an apt cast both visually and artistically.
The movie is a superb adaptation from a Carson McCullers novel. I'd be surprised if its downbeat subject matter made any money. Still, the movie deals powerfully with a common experience in such a way that makes us contemplate what some folks call the human condition. And that's a noble achievement for any movie.