Take the war out of this story and you've got a simple tale of a 17-year-old nurse, Felix, torn between two young fellows in 1930s London: Nat, a politically engaged, working-class Jewish boy, handsome, and with artistic intentions; and George, a kind, stout-hearted, decent chap, a young journalist good at mending things, probably destined to mow his lawn in an affluent London suburb.
"When someone's got a juicy tale to dish,/I have to add some sauce, respice the fish," Dorante explains to his newly hired servant, Cliton (Kevin Isola), a fellow who cannot tell a lie.
So the Hansel and Gretel house got a fairy-tale ending.
Throw in a manicured hand being eaten by crabs, a kid's raft floating to shore with bite marks in it and a young son dragged from the water in shock as his mother yells, "He's dead!" and you've got an unnerving tale of beach-town bliss gone horribly awry.
Give or take the occasional overstatement of his geezer worldview (such as when he moans about liberal parenting, say), Steel makes a companionable guide through this piece of family detective work, deploying his revelations to maximum dramatic effect, visibly revelling in the knowledge that he has got an amazing tale to tell.
David's got a particularly great tale about being "deflowered" on the hood of car.
Like King or Valli, she's got a lot of tale to be told in two and a half hours.
Ninja's got a particularly wild tale about the time he and Kanye West beat Drake in a game of basketball before getting to try Kim Kardashian's banana pudding.
