From the Archives: ‘Man’ becomes professional movie for all seasons

If only because it expands the audience from hundreds of thousands to millions, the motion picture of “A Man for All Seasons” would be an occasion for rejoicing. Here, surely, is the finest “classic” play — certainly the finest in the English language — bestowed on the world in the 1960s.

The film comes to us under equally fine auguries — and auspices. Robert Bolt made his own adaptation, Fred Zinnemann directed it and the English-American cast, headed by Paul Scofield in the role he originated, that of Sir Thomas More, has been impeccably chosen. The Technicolor production for Columbia will have its West Coast premiere Wednesday evening at the Beverly Hills musical.

His kind Rare

It has been said after Thomas that he was no “natural” martyr, yet martyr he became, dying under the hushed mantle of greatness. One need not believe what he believed in order to honor his integrity, for his kind is rare in any season. And its poignancy is the stronger because it would have been so easy for him to yield anywhere along the road to the headsman’s ax, since it was only a sequence of “small” steps that led him there.

Thus his story is one for our times as well as his, one for a reevaluation of our own consciences.

The parallel is always remarkably similar — whether it be with Thomas á Becket, Joan of Arc or Jesus Christ.

The motion picture is so professional, so brilliant an intellectual exercise and so moving an emotional one, so superior to the average “special” that it seems almost crippling to state that I believe Bolt and Zinnemann could have made it greater than it is. For a while I am unable here to compare the text play and film, I have the feeling that Bolt was almost too severe with himself as a writer, even though he has come up with a completely no-waste screenplay of two hours.

It may also be noted (though not necessarily as a criticism) that in his approach Zinnemann has played away from the cadence of lines which partly distinguish the stage version — this probably, to give a heightened sense of reality to events. Occasionally too — and this is less explicable — he has edited his camera away from the center of attention, as in the harangue addressed by his king to More on the lawn of the latter’s estate and during the climactic moments of the trial.

His king is Henry VII and the years are 1528 to 1535, that fateful period in which the young Henry sought to divest himself of his barren wife Catherine, widow of his brother, in order to marry his mistress Anne Boleyn. In this design he is tacitly abetted by his cardinal and chancellor, Wolsey, and at first openly opposed by More — a devout Roman Catholic and a former lawyer who, through a bitter twist of fate, finds himself appointed chancellor by the king upon Wolsey’s death.

Sir Thomas thus becomes impaled on a two-pronged dilemma: He refuses to recognize or condone the marriage but at the same time commits himself to a policy of utter silence, believing, in his lawyer’s mind, that he cannot be charged with anything — let alone high treason — as long as he maintains it.

Yet it is high treason for which he is finally condemned — on the perjury of a witness. Only then, when asked if he has anything to say, does he break his silence.

“The King in Parliament cannot destroy all supremacy over the church because it is a spiritual supremacy!” he cries. “It is not for the supremacy that you have sought my blood, but because I would not bend to the marriage!”

And, sadly: “I am the king’s true subject and pray for him and all the realm. I do none harm, I say none harm, I think none harm. And if this be not faith, I long not to live.”

Again, just before the executioners ax falls: “I die his Majesty’s good servant. But God’s first!”

Earlier in a tearing scene with his family in the prison cell, his beloved daughter Margaret has begged him, “Say the words of the oath (to the king) and in your heart think otherwise!” But he replies, “What is an oath then, but words we say to God! Listen, Meg, my Meg: When a man takes an oath he’s holding his own self in his own hands. Like water. And if he opens his fingers then ...”

She protests that “if you elect to suffer, you elect yourself a hero.”

More: “That’s very neat. But look now: If we lived in a state where virtue was profitable, common sense would make saintly. But since we see the avarice, anger, lust, greed, pride and stupidity commonly profit far beyond charity, chastity, modesty, patience and thought, perhaps we will stand fast a little. Even at the risk of being heroes.”

Margaret: “But in reason! Haven’t you done as much as God can reasonably want? “

More: “Well, finally it isn’t a matter of reason. Finally it’s a matter of love.”

Aging tragically as events develop, Scofield underplays superbly except when More’s indignation and anger spring forth; he is a philosopher, the model of moderation, and nearly at once we find ourselves going along with those who love him. His portrayal is a must for an Academy Award nomination, of course, and — equally, of course — will again raise the gnawing question of whether the Oscar should go to an actor for repeating, even if re-creating a triumph of the theater.

Merry monarch

To eight other principals, highest praise. Robert Shaw makes the eighth Henry a merry (save the mark!), ranting monarch on a par with Peter O’Toole’s Henry II in “Becket.” Leo McKern salves, schemes and storms as the kings emissary, Thomas Cromwell, who strives so vainly to break More’s will. Wendy Hiller is his wife Alice More, suffering stalwartly along with him, and Nigel Davenport is hearty (up to a point) friend and champion, the Duke of Norfolk. Orson Welles can scarcely be faulted as Cardinal Wolsey.

Three younger standouts are Susannah York as Meg More (redeeming herself after her shallow “Kaleidoscope”), John Hurt as Rich, the Judas in More’s passion, and Corin Redgrave as Meg’s “atheistic” suitor and husband.

More’s England alternately sparkles and scowls through Ted Moore’s color camera — on ordinary wide screen, incidentally. The production designer was John Parks and the executive producer William N. Graph.

Here, then, is a saint for all seasons. Had he listened to his own cardinal he never would’ve made it. Chided Woolsey, early on: “If you could just see facts straight on, without that moral squint!”