Big City doesn’t have much ambition, so it should be hard to screw it up. But director Dixon manages. He’s not much for creative composition. City looks like a bunch of moving postcards, which is fine… it’s a travelogue after all. There is one sublime sequence of storefronts, but it’s not indicative of the rest.
So while Dixon is generally blame free for the boring composition, the narration is anything but. Neither the writer nor the narrator get a credit, hopefully because no one wanted to be associated with such terrible work. The narrator doesn’t just lack personality, he doesn’t even sound British. As for the writing… Big City seems to be written for the upper middle class. While the intended audience isn’t royalty, they can laugh at the morlocks.
Then there’s the music. DeWolfe’s grating music is an offense.
Big City is astoundingly bad; it doesn’t need to be.
Directed by Paul Weld Dixon; director of photography, Alan Pudney; edited by Peter Vincent; music by DeWolfe; produced by Harold Baim.
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