Uninspired direction leaves a decent cast stranded in a handsome but bland adaptation, in which dialogue seems recited rather than heartfelt, and cash strapped appearances by the ghosts fail to round up any sense of awe or magic; Edward Woodward, as the Ghost of Christmas Present, wobbles around on stilts and seems to be doing an impression of Bernard Cribbins. As Scrooge, George C. Scott is too wry, and he never seems to truly believe in it, which robs his performance of its effect. The scenes in which he's shown his past have as much impact as if he was half-heartedly flicking through his family album. No one else seems to be putting any effort in, except Frank Finlay, who chronically overacts.