SCREENncontinued from page 44nmovie-makers’ sense of intellectual andnartistic tact. The very outcome of thenmystery is sloppy—in contrast to thencustomary logical neatness of the noirnmystery thrillers of the past, whosencraftsmen would have considered itnbeneath their dignity to leave the mainndenouement floating in a.haze of dubiousnmetaphysics.nClash of the Titans; Written by BeverleynCross; Directed by DesmondnDavis; United Artists.nThe drive-in movie is unlike anynother form of entertainment as thenviewer is, in a sense, simultaneously indoorsnand outdoors, private and public.nFilms shown at driveins should differnfrom those shown in conventional thenaters in a very specific way: they shouldnmake sense to a viewer who has missednlarge portions of them. It is helpful ifnthey are full of excitement that will keepnthe kids (often wearing pajamas andnshoes so they can play on the playgroundnbelow the screen before the first featurenand snooze through the second)nwatching. The reason that these filmsnmust be understandable in an abbreviatednform is that parents are usuallynbusy cleaning up spilled cooked-at-homenpopcorn and other goodies and the otherndrive-in frequenters, the teen-agers,nare busy in the back seat and don’t comenup for air too often.nClash of the Titans is a drive-in film.nIt cannot be taken seriously in a room.nReasons: imagine a reinforced concretenstatue of Maggie Smith robed like anGreek goddess that towers about 60nfeet high. Further, picture the head ofnthe statue broken off, on the ground,nwith Maggie Smith’s talking face super-n46inChronicles of Culturenimposed over the stone. Or Olivier asnZeus with a penchant for playing withnPlay-Doh. Or a vulture bigger than anMr. Ray CharlesnWe had a recent opportunity—afterna’long, almost existential interval—tonlisten in person to Mr. Ray Charles,nwhom we like and respect. We well remembernthe force of innovation he hadnwhen he burst on the jazz-pop scene innthe 50’s, the difference he immediatelynmade, how firmly he assumed a role of anfresh voice—both literally and figuratively.nBut now we are a bit perplexed.nAt the peak of his superstardom andncelebrity his charm, vivacity, musicalness,nthe excellence of his inflectionsnand the inimitable intensity of his performancenare still there, perhaps morenimpressive than ever—but the freshnessnis gone. What’s worse, the disappearancenof freshness is not a matter of overfamiliaritynwith Mr. Charles’s personanand music. It’s a matter of a certainncheapeningof style—which has afflictednmany seminal musicians who began withna sense of individuality, later began tonpursue change, development, progress,nto chase after being “with it,” en vogue,nand ended with an amalgam of stylesnbordering on cheap eclecticism.nMr. Charles still maintains his ownnbrand of melodiousness which predicatesnthe seductive features of his de­nnnMUSICn’65 Cadillac. Long portions of this filmncan (and should) be missed without anynloss of comprehension. {GSV) Dnlivery. But he has lost his yellow basketnof simplicity, directness, trenchantnessnof a musical trademark, and now whennhe sings “Georgia on My Mind”-hisnhymn—the convolutedness of his interpretationnburies all emotion in vocalnfioritura and arpeggios, and nothingnhovers over the audience but the memorynof simpler, better times. One yearnsnto hear his unforgettable “Hit the Road,nJack,” and instead one floats on thenfoam of mechanical ballads in which Mr.nCharles’s magic flexibility of voice impressesnbut no longer enraptures. Henhas a band which is technically impeccable,narrangements which are imposingnin their professionalism, but neither thenmusicians nor the orchestrations demonstratenanything but slick showmanshipnand the smug cliches of post-Kentoniannswing.nFreshness is a strange component ofnart, talent, genius, creativity. In jazznLouis Armstrong, Sidney Bechet, Lio-n