Cinema: Hate Story

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There is nothing like a fierce, searing expose of a corrupted ideal. And that is precisely what Scenarist Erich Segal has written—nothing like it. Instead, he offers The Games, a limping fiction about that quadrennial glory trip, the Olympics. Segal, a fast man around the popular fiction track, is better known as author of the four-handkerchief bestseller, Love Story. In Games, audiences need only bring Kleenex. This time around, Segal has adapted Hugh Atkinson's novel of hate and added a naive undertone of "There-I-said-it-and-I'm-glad."

Several runners are followed from the moment they decide to compete in the marathon. Among them: an American (Ryan O'Neal) who concludes that Methedrine (also known as Speed) is the breakfast of champions; a retired Czech (Charles Aznavour) whose government compels him to give the West his back, just one more time; an aboriginal Australian (Athol Compton), goaded by two promoters; a Briton (Michael Crawford), protege of a former champion (Stanley Baker) who cannot forget the onliness of the long-distance runner. Among the coach's Segalese utterances: "We'll run through pain to the top of the world."

Real Faces. If the ear is thus assaulted, the eye does not fare much better. Director Michael Winner cannot be bothered with a sense of pace or place. The film proceeds by halts and staggers. Rome pants under 90° heat, but the audience is jacketed and as comfortably dry as the folks in a Right Guard commercial.

The movie does have one striking attribute: actors with real faces. Jeremy Kemp as a Down-Underhanded tout displays all seven sins between his forehead and his chin. Stanley Baker looks like a fist with sideburns. Michael Crawford is Buster Keaton redivivus.

But all the character in the world cannot make The Games worth playing. For truly disenchanted sportswriting, stay home and read Jim Bouton's Ball Four. It has genuine experience and authentic people in it.

— Stefan Kanfer