Camelot

Although I have written dutifully about every book I have read for five years now, it is rare that a movie is either so perfect or so terrible that I feel compelled to write about it. Camelot is, sadly, one of the latter. From Richard Harris' blue eyeshadow to Vanessa Redgrave's warbling, flat singing, it is inferior to the stage production. Whose idea was it for Lancelot, the consummate Frenchman, to have a Scottish accent? Mon Dieu! It is all the more sad to think of the obscene amounts of money that must have been spent on the film. Everything about it speaks of excess--the sets may as well have been made of gold. Holy Mother Julie Andrews, what a shame that I feel compelled to finish it.