Sadly enough, George Stevens' movie version of The Diary of Anne Frank is not up to the play. Perhaps he watered down the original impact to let sleeping animosities lie. But whatever his reasons for saccharine-coating the pill, (with tender smiles, violin music and so forth), Stevens turned out a slightly flabby film.

The drama, as so many know by now, takes place in a garret above an Amsterdam spice factory, where a group of Jewish refugees live in secret, under constant threat of discovery by the Nazis. Stevens' attempts to escape his spatial limitations, through open window spots and photographic tricks, are, on the whole, successful.

The fault seems to be with the over-all focus. For as the horror of the situation itself fades into a war movie cliche--complete with goose-stepping, bombing and all the rest of it--as the beauty of Anne Frank's character dissolves into naughty cuteness, we are left with eight people who flirt, fight, and fret in a disappointingly usual way. The play managed, without ever seeming to strain, to suggest how sustained tension and continuous confinement would affect them, while the film injects these changes artificially.

As compensation, Stevens concentrates upon Anne's metamorphosis from child to woman, on her love affair with Peter, a young boy confined with the Franks in the garret. While certainly present in the actual diary, these elements were in relatively small proportion.

Millie Perkins, a newcomer, lacks the necessary depth for the title role. Despite her poetic prettiness and exaggerated emaciation, she looks like an Ivory Soap ad instead of a tortured adolescent. The other actors do considerbly better; Shelley Winters, as Mrs. Van Daam, dispenses with glamour in favor of convincing frumpishness, while Ed Wynn, as Mr. Dussel, adds a fine touch of ridiculous humanity.

In fact, The Diary of Anne Frank far transcends most Hollywood movies. Only in comparison with its distinguished progenitors does it look pale.