The Tales of Hoffman

Moira Shearer - Stella and Olympia
Robert Rounseville - Hoffmann
Robert Helpmann - Lindorf, Coppelius, Dapertutto and Dr Miracle
Frederick Ashton - Kleinzach and Cochenille
Pamela Brown - Nicklaus
Meinhart Maur - Luther
Edmond Audran - Partner to Stella in Dragonfly ballet
Philip Leaver - Andreas
Léonide Massine - Spalanzani, Schlemil and Franz
Ludmilla Tchérina - Giulietta

Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger met with Sir Thomas Beecham, who suggested that they film Offenbach's The Tales of Hoffmann. The real Hoffmann, born in Koenigsberg in 1776 and raised by his uncle and grandmother, found refuge in writing bizarre tales which have been compared to those of Franz Kafka. These tales were adapted into an opera by Jacques Offenbach in 1880 as the composer's final completed work; he died just a few months before the premiere in February 1881. Sir Thomas had given the first UK performance of the work in 1910 and, as its leading authority, became musical director for the film, personally auditioning over 50 singers.

At Beecharn's invitation, American opera star Robert Rounseville made his first trip to Europe and his film debut as Hoffmann. His only other screen role was to be in Rodgers and Hammerstein's Carousel, five years later. Ann Ayars also made her debut as a vocalist, despite having previously made six (non-singing) appearances under contract to MGM. All other vocals would be dubbed and mimed by dancers and actors while, in addition to most of The Red Shoes ballet company, the production secured the services of Sadler's Wells choreographer Frederick Ashton - his first work for the cinema.

The Tales of Hoffmann is undoubtedly the most opulent, most expensive, most courageous and most exhausting effort yet made to bring opera to the screen. The obvious care and effort that have gone into Hoffmann, the sometimes memorable contrived passages of virtuosity in the first half make one reluctant to insist on the collapse of the work as a whole. Sometimes the sensation is like hurtling through an art gallery in an express train with the steam whistle at full blast. Sometimes it is like sitting on a whirling roundabout sucking a peppermint stick. Not for a single moment will The Tales of Hoffmann move you to laughter or tears. Probably the material itself is quite intractable, but the trouble is that behind all the effects, the strivings, the opulence and the apparatus, there seems no clear sense of direction, no single purpose at all. In this nay it is the most spectacular failure yet achieved by Powell and Pressburger, who seem increasingly to dissipate their gifts in a welter of aimless ingenuity.