The Prisoner

Though author Bridget Boland says she draws no direct allusions to the Cardinal Mindszenty case, the parallels in her screen play are striking. The effects of psychological torture on men of intelligence and faith have been recurrently evident in mock trials, both in Poland and Nuremberg, which first suggested the idea to her. The Prisoner, however, identifies no nation nor name. It is essentially a film which reaffirms a Christian ethic in any totalitarian state in any time.

This kind of story-telling is a touchy business. Though some of the early psychology is somewhat obscure, the evolving, tortuous effects upon the Prisoner, played by Alec Guinness, are uncommonly convincing. Probing into his subject's mind, which he must capture, the Interrogator is cooly restrained. At last he uncovers weakness: the noble cleric, believing pride to be his own defense, is in truth a very humble man. The twisted confession is extorted. But the lesson is the Interrogator's, who, in the torture sessions, has realized his moral foundering and come to love the Prisoner.

In his first attempt at directing a movie, Peter Glenville is adept at sustaining tension. He directed Alec Guinness in the London stage success of The Prisoner, and he fully develops all its dramatic implications on film.

Alec Guinness knows his part as well as Glenville. He exudes the peace of soul and mind, the penetrating wit, adaptability and humility which his role demands. Scarcely ever before has death seemed so glad a prospect as when Guinness faces his God. The performance is the triumph of his career.

Jack Hawkins, whose part in itself could be the subject of a movie, is perhaps a trifle unsteady for the calculating position of the Interrogator. But his incisive dialogue, and later, his moral resolution, are carried with distinction. Benjamin Frankel's music--vital, transcendental, and in the style of Honneger--adds significantly to the composite. The Prisoner may well prove to be the best movie of the year.