Cyclamate Substitute

Almost by definition, the several segments of an "anthology" film are forced to huddle under a thematic umbrella. Most often, the umbrella is a single author, as in O. Henry's Full House, or Somerset Maugham's Quartet, Trio and Encore. Or Truman Capote's Trilogy. In Capote's case, the effect is magnified by Director Frank Perry (Last Summer), working from scenarios by his wife Eleanor in collaboration with the author.

In Miriam, a ghost tale in the manner of Henry James, a loquacious Nanny (Mildred Natwick) is persecuted by a dead-eyed little girl (Susan Dunfee). Capote, who wrote the story at the age of 17, may be excused for an inability to distinguish between the gothic and the baroque. The Perrys, who clutter the episode with hollow scenes, flat performances and melodramatic terror-music, cannot be so easily let off.

Among the Paths to Eden, by contrast, makes much of its plainness. A widower, Ivor Belli (Martin Balsam), brings flowers to his wife's grave. Tending her father's nearby tombstone, Mary O'Meaghan (Maureen Stapleton) strikes up a conversation. Within moments, it is obvious that the meeting was no accident--the female mourner has been haunting the cemetery because it is a convenient place to meet unattached men. When Belli confesses that he has a mistress, Mary O'Meaghan bids him polite farewell--and pursues another widower taking another path to his wife's graveside.

Stapleton and Balsam are two of the most seasoned professionals in show business; both listen and react with a skill that lends the slender script warmth and pathos. They receive scant help from the Perrys. In the original story, Belli, despite his name, is Jewish. Here he is simply "Russian." In the story, Miss O'Meaghan sits atop a gravestone and imitates Helen Morgan singing Don't Ever Leave Me--and is interrupted by a file of shocked Negro mourners. Here she is given a bland song (lyrics supplied by Eleanor Perry because rights to the original were prohibitively expensive) and is interrupted by shocked whites. The erosion of such fine details leaves the viewer with admiration for performances rather than the movie; for surface rather than substance.

A Christmas Memory should need no introduction; it has become a seasonal television favorite, something like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. As Capote's simple-minded cousin, Geraldine Page acts with unforced poignance. She is totally enveloped by the author's narration, which contains such passages of ostentatious sensitivity as "I keep searching the sky. As if I expected to see, rather like hearts, a lost pair of kites hurrying toward heaven." Those people who have been forced to give up cyclamates may find this an admirable substitute.

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