Inspired by Albert Camus' seminal work of 1942, one is hardly likely to see a more faithful or indeed reverential adaptation than this.
It is easy to get bogged down in discussions as to whether or not Camus' piece is Existentionalist. He himself denied this and it is probably safer to say that if anything, it represents the philosophy of the Absurd.
The novel is written as a first person narrative by the 'Stranger' of the title although I have always felt the alternative title of 'The Outsider' to be far more appropriate. Arthur Meursault by name, he is the sheikh of apathy and his total indifference is evident in both his manner and such utterings as "It doesn't really matter" or "It makes no difference one way or the other." He cannot bring himself to show any grief at his mother's funeral and reacts impassively to his adoring girlfriend's suggestion of marriage. He is even unable to give a reason for his apparently motiveless shooting of an Arab other than "I think it was the sun." He simply does not behave as society dictates he ought and for his inability to play the game he pays the ultimate penalty.........
I cannot agree with the view that Marcello Mastroianni is miscast in the role. He had previously worked with Visconti in the cruelly underrated 'Le Notte Bianchi' of 1957 and during the intervening years he had become the finished article and excelled for Fellini, Antonioni, Bolognini, Germi and de Sica. Very few actors convey blankness or lassitude quite as well as he which makes his final rant against the religious platitudes of the prison chaplain so dramatically effective. By all accounts he lobbied for the role and turns in a splendid performance.
Visconti is the most 'operatic' of directors which is why he seems an odd choice for this austere, almost Bresson-esque material. He has of course the services of a fine cast, notably a touching Anna Karina as Meursault's lover, Georges Geret as a pimp, Bernard Blier as Meursault's feeble defence lawyer, Georges Wilson as an evangelical examining magistrate and Bruno Cremer as the prison chaplain.
The sun-baked imagery and oppressive heat are wonderfully captured by Visconti's chosen cinematographer Giuseppe Rotunno whilst Piero Piccioni, much favoured by Bolognini, contributes one of his most offbeat scores.
This is not really to do with plot but is all about 'mood'. Both novel and film are pervaded by a sense of 'Ennui', that evocative word that covers so many negative emotions.
The ultimate challenge is to make a film about boredom without its being boring. Has Visconti succeeded? On balance, with minor reservations, I think he has.
