Hemingway's Garden of Eden Reviews
Vet British helmer John Irvin's mannered, bloodless and appallingly thesped filmization of Hemingway's posthumous novel, though unlikely to set the author rolling in his grave, may still have viewers rolling in the aisles.
Sex has never felt more repellent after watching Eden, a clumsy effort of eroticism and psychological gamesmanship that's utterly devoid of structure and feeling. It's an awful picture.
The question that occurs is not whether director Irvin hates actors but rather, how much. We can imagine him shouting to the cast: 'Once more, with less feeling. Get shallow! Can't you do worse than that?'
In this Riviera vacation atmosphere, all sun, sand, and skin, the dialectic of opposites the film attempts to enforce instead melts down to little more than kinky foreplay.