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hair such a heady part of the Pitt
Experience? At times here it looks
gilded, as if competing with Tibetan
art).
The film's central jewel (and luck)
is Jamyang Wangchuk as the budding
holy leader. He has a wonderful smile,
yet gravity is in his eyes. Poignantly
peeping down on Lhasa with his tele-
scope, wrapped in court ritual, anx-
ious to have a movie theater of his
own, even mussing up Harrer's hair,
the kid-god is a completely delightful
Buddhist potentate (and his mother is
played by the Dalai Lama's actual sis-
ter).
Annaud and writer Becky Johnston
tell the story in a direct, unstarched
way. There is little violence, almost no
sex, few speeches. A dying horse gets
cut open and its liver eaten raw, but
that's the big shock.
We breathe lofty air, sniff some
holiness, savor the art, hear those mas-
sive Tibetan horns, hate the Red
Chinese and relish the oddities of des-
tiny. The film is mostly about how
two boys grow up, the less mature
being the Austrian hunk who comes
to climb mountains as big as his ego,
then is politely humbled by the wise
juvenile who incarnates a unique cul-
ture.
A small cloud chasing the movie is
the recent revelation that young
Harrer joined the Nazi S.S., probably
in his case more a sign of bumptious
careerism than passion or bigotry. No
involvement in atrocities has been
alleged.
To have gone from opportune
admiration of Hitler to deep and use-
ful friendship with one of the world's
most benign religious heroes would
seem to say that Harrer really grew up.
And also gives him a ticket to our tol-
erance, at least if we are "Buddhist
enough" for Seven Years in Tibet. Rated
PG-13.
* * # 1/2

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— Reviewed by David Elliott

THE MYTH OF FINGERPRINTS
It is nearly always a warning sign
when a movie starts with old family
home movies, all grainy and jumpy
and nostalgic. We sense we're in for a
solemn flood of soapy water. The Myth
of Fingerprints is a soap opera without
arias. With no big bait of budget, a
deluxe cast was assembled by writer
and debut film director Bart
Freundlich. Result: they meander
through a family Thanksgiving
reunion, a moldy maze of nudges and
winks and sulks and whispery crises.

Phyllis C Richman
The Washington Post

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