Sometimes I feel like walking around London’s theatreland in a cowled monk’s habit, ringing a bell and waving a sign that says: “Not Everything Has to be Turned Into a Musical.”
A case in point is this lacklustre adaptation of Graham Greene and Carol Reed’s 1949 film noir about betrayal in shattered postwar Vienna, which starred Orson Welles as the elusive, immoral Harry Lime, pursued by an insistent zither soundtrack.
