Movie |
Dublin, Ireland | Based On Short Story
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Best Foreign Film | 1989 | John
Best Foreign Film Melhor Filme Estrangeiro | 1990 | John
Best Foreign Film Mejor Pelcula Extranjera | 1989 | John
Best NonEuropean Film Bedste ikkeeuropiske film | 1989 | John
Best Foreign Film | 1989 | John
Director of the Year | 1989 | John
Best Film | 1988
International Competition | 1987 | John
Outstanding Artistic Contribution | 1987 | Stephen B.
Best Costume Design | 1988
Best Writing Screenplay Based on Material from Another Medium | 1988
Best Foreign Film | 1990
Best Cinematography | 1988 | Fred
Best Feature | 1988
Best Screenplay | 1988
Best Film | 1988 | John
Best Foreign Director (Migliore Regista Straniero) | 1988 | John
Best Foreign Film Miglior Film Straniero | 1988 | John
1987 | John
Best Film | 1987 | John
Best Film | 1987
Best Director | 1987 | John
Best Screenplay | 1987
Best Actress | 1987 | Anjelica
Best Supporting Actress | 1987 | Anjelica
The final shot is not of Ireland, but of snow falling in Joshua Tree National Park, California.
The character Mr. Grace does not appear in James Joyce's original story. He is an invention of John Huston and Tony Huston's, and was chiefly included so as to permit a reading of the eighth-century Irish poem Donal Og ("Young Donal"). Although it represents a departure from Joyce's text, the poem is nonetheless appropriate to the story's themes: like the song "The Lass of Aughrim" that follows it, "Donal Og" deals with the suffering that love can bring to young women...just as it has for Greta.
Final theatrical feature film directed by actor-writer-director John Huston.
John Huston was too ill to film in Dublin and all the Irish scenes were filmed by the second unit.
The picture debuted theatrically post-humously after the film's director John Huston had passed away.
"[last lines] Gabriel Conroy: [voice over] One by one, we're all becoming shades. Better to pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. How long you locked away in your heart the image of your lover's eyes when he told you that he did not wish to live. I've never felt that way myself towards any woman, but I know that such a feeling must be love. Think of all those who ever were, back to the start of time. And me, transient as they, flickering out as well into their grey world. Like everything around me, this solid world itself which they reared and lived in, is dwindling and dissolving. Snow is falling. Falling in that lonely churchyard where Michael Furey lies buried. Falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living, and the dead."
"Gabriel Conroy: [asking Gretta about Michael Furey] What was it he died of so young? Consumption, was it? Gretta Conroy: I think he died for me."
