From the “birthplace of tragedy” we get a distinctive variation of Carmen, which the future Zorba the Greek director Michael Cacoyannis crafted specifically as the screen debut for Melina Mercouri, who had already made a name for herself in the theatre. Stella, a nightclub singer with a sexy, husky voice, dreams big in a small, grimy tavern, breathing love and wrapping men around her finger—a sensitive poet boy, a brutal footballer, a young parade soldier—without compromising her independence or passions.
Bouzoukis ring out in the night, and the political subtext seethes in the shadows (the wedding anniversary falls on the same calendar date when Greece rejected the advances of Mussolini’s fascists), but Mercouri’s soul-drenched performance shines like a dark diamond—a ruggedly beautiful combination of Magnani, Masina and a bargain-basement Hayworth lined with the karma of Gilda. The writing is on the wall from the very beginning.
While the intermittent dance and music sequences might initially appear to be disjointed local curiosities, they eventually draw the audience into their murky depths. Stella’s character can be interpreted however one likes: as a national symbol, a modern martyr, a herald of feminism, or even in the spirit of Sartre or Tennessee Williams. In its home country this work of art, crafted with intense passion, was dismissed by critics upon its release but is now widely regarded as one of the top five Greek films of all time.
Lauri Timonen