







There’s nothing wrong with Anastasia, but nothing especially right about it either. It’s one of those films that looks lovely, moves briskly, and slips from the mind almost immediately after. It’s the kind you admire more than enjoy — polished, stately, and curiously unmoving. Ingrid Bergman gives it grace (and earned her Oscar for it), but even she can’t disguise how stagey and predictable it all feels.
The story of a woman who may be the lost daughter of Russian royalty should bristle with mystery, yet the ending is telegraphed from so far off you could signal it with a flare. Yul Brynner struts and schemes, but the film never decides whether it’s a romance, a con, or a historical melodrama.
It looks lovely, the dialogue is fine, and the performances do their job. But for all its regal trimmings, Anastasia never quite comes to life. The crown fits — but the head beneath it seems only half awake.