Greene pastures

In a change to the scheduled programme, I will not be reviewing Lady in the Water (PG) this week because it simply doesn’t deserve 800 words of either praise or damnation. Actually, I will just give it a little review: it’s ridiculous and awful. Mr M. Night Shyamalan, you should be ashamed of yourself. There. Nor will I be reviewing Nacho Libre (12A), since it’s another madcap, high-octane comedy (Jack Black as a wrestling champ) and I feel that over the past few weeks we’ve covered the blockbuster territory quite extensively. I shall not review Monster House (PG) because my inner child is taking its annual break, and I would much rather not review Alpha Male (15), the British offering of the week, because sitting through it was more painful than sitting at my school desk through double physics followed by double chemistry.

No: it’s August, it’s hot out, and we shall be a little more contained. This week a film made 57 years ago is enjoying a  reissue as part of a Carol Reed retrospective at the National Film Theatre, and since it is still one of the best films ever made, let us treat ourselves and have another look at it. It is The Third Man.

Post-war Vienna. An American, Holly Martins, arrives to see an old friend named Harry Lime. Lime has offered an incentive — some sort of job — to come and visit, and so Martins pitches up with an overnight bag and a hopeful, open demeanour. Arriving at Lime’s address, Martins is told by the caretaker that he’s ten minutes too late: Lime’s friends have already left — with Lime’s coffin. Harry Lime, Martins is told, has been knocked down and killed by a car in front of his house.