The concept of this 1999 Norwegian production, based 
          on the troubled life of Grieg, is worthy enough. It uses two of his 
          compositions, both very personal: the Ballade and the String Quartet, 
          shown played in full before an unenthusiastic audience of publisher’s 
          reviewers. This concept is used as a background to a series of flashbacks 
          as the elderly Grieg looks back over his turbulent life. I surmise that 
          in trying to satisfy an international audience, the producers decided 
          to eschew any commentary and dialogue in favour of an occasional quotation 
          from the off-screen "voice of Grieg." The trouble is that 
          these quotes, spoken in such a whisper, and in over-awed tones by Derek 
          Jacobi, are so infrequent that they are of limited assistance in fathoming 
          out the story to one’s complete satisfaction. Too much is left to the 
          imagination. For instance, we recognise - just – glimpses of Tchaikovsky, 
          Liszt and Brahms (the latter, I think, rather puzzlingly holding a paint 
          brush) in salons and other gatherings, but there is little, or no explanation 
          of their significance in Grieg’s story 
        
The photography is sumptuous: beautiful views of Norway, 
          Germany, Italy and Denmark. Staffan Scheja is persuasive in his mute 
          acting role as Grieg, as a man, (Philip Branmer plays the boy Grieg) 
          but he is constantly upstaged by the more animated and beautiful Claudia 
          Zöhner as his long suffering and neglected wife Nina. The music 
          is sensitively blended with the on-screen story taking us jerkily backwards 
          and forwards through the composer’s life. We witness Grieg’s boyhood, 
          his loving relationship with his mother who was also his first music 
          teacher, and the overshadowing jealousy of his brother John. We see 
          his student days and his close friendship with Rikard Nordraak who died 
          tragically young in Berlin, and his love affair and subsequent marriage 
          to his cousin Nina Hagerup. The scenes of their courtship are lyrical 
          and beguiling. But the music becomes anguished as the on-screen images 
          show death taking his parents and the infant child he adores, and as 
          he realises Nina’s infidelity. The music is disturbed as he himself 
          succumbs to the painter Sabine Oberhorner and as Grieg’s obsession with 
          his music and his busy touring schedules deepens and becomes all pervasive. 
          You are left with an impression of a life unfulfilled – as Grieg, himself, 
          put it "a life fractured" by so much tragedy. 
        
A worthy concept filmed in glorious locations with 
          more than acceptable mute acting but just that bit too enigmatic for 
          complete satisfaction. 
        
          Ian Lace