Adapted from a Graham Greene novel highly critical of American imperialism, this film was very nearly buried by a studio worried about its image in a year of flag-waving patriotism. To a British audience, more removed from, and therefore more realistic about, their own colonial mistakes, the politics are less controversial, but the fine performances and the very human story at the heart of the film are still enthralling.
Michael Caine makes a splendid Fowler; decayed, sentimental, and vulnerable, all too aware of the horrors his adopted country is capable of, but choosing to lose himself in its beauty for as long as he can. Brendan Fraser's Pyle is both his complete opposite, and eerily reminiscent of him; both are hopeless romantics, but Pyle applies his idealism to politics rather than individual relationships, and the results are genuinely tragic. The uncertain bond, part friendship and part rivalry, that develops between them binds together a sprawling narrative of war, espionage and personal betrayal that moves effortlessly from battlefield to bedroom.
This is old-fashioned Oscar nominee filmmaking; epic in scope, visually beautiful, finely acted, both political and very personal. That it was virtually ignored by the Academy says a lot about US politics in itself. Just don't let that put you off; this is a real treat.