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The House of Mirth
-no
stars-
Rated on a 4-star
scale
Screening venue: Odeon (Liverpool City Centre)
Released in the UK by Film Four on October 27, 2000; certificate PG; 140
minutes; countries of origin UK/USA; aspect ratio 2.35:1
Directed by Terence Davies; produced by
Olivia Stewart.
Written by Terence Davies; based on the novel by Edith
Wharton.
Photographed by Remi Adefarisin; edited by Michael
Parker.
CAST.....
Gillian Anderson..... Lily Bart
Dan Aykroyd..... Gus Trenor
Elanor Bron..... Mrs Peniston
Terry Kinney..... George Dorset
Anthony LaPaglia..... Sim Rosedale
Laura Linney..... Bertha Dorset
Jodhi May..... Grace Stepney
Elizabeth McGovern..... Carry Fisher
Eric Stoltz..... Lawrence Selden
It is said that the book is usually better than
the movie. I have not read Edith Wharton's novel "The House of
Mirth", but it has got to be better than this film; if it wasn't,
not only would it not have been published, but the ink would have refused
to stay on the paper. It's impossible to describe the awfulness of this thing
-- still, for my own catharsis, I'll give it a shot.
The story involves a bunch of New York socialites
going through life miserably in 1905, either scheming against each other
in dark little rooms or putting on fake smiles when at the opera or drinking
tea on the terrace. That's about all I could gather. There's doubtlessly
more to it, but I couldn't see past the dreadful acting and filmmaking. Gillian
Anderson plays the lead role, a wannabe rich girl named Lily Bart; she's
supposed to be insincere, but Anderson, and most of the other actors, seem
possessed. Lingering over every word as if stoned, pausing in between each
one, staring off camera into space, they seem to think that just because
these characters live in another time, with different lexicon and fashions,
they must communicate like a different species.
I know, I know. The director is attempting to
highlight the morose milieu, and the phoney facades of the characters, yada
yada. He's failing. Martin Scorsese's direction of another Wharton adaptation,
"The Age of Innocence" (1993), was much more subtle and effective -- he knew
that the milieu and facades were made clear enough by the material, and devoted
his attention to recreating period and building story. "The House of Mirth"
exaggerates things further than a French & Saunders sketch. The only
reasonable reaction is to stare at the screen in appalled
disbelief.
The production design is sumptuous -- I notice
from the credits that the cinematographer was Remi Adefarisin, who got an
Oscar nomination for "Elizabeth" (1998). Other aspects of the filmmaking
are incompetent. You know how in most movies when two characters are talking,
there will be cuts from one to the other during the conversation? Here, a
character will get through a whole line, there will be an embarrassing pause,
then there is a cut to the other character, and another embarrassing pause
before that character says a line, and, well, you get the point -- it's like
a camcorder tape that's been edited as it's been filmed, by using that little
red pause button and shifting the angle when no recording is going on. At
other times the actors will be framed in two-shots, as they stand in forced
positions, don't face each other and shout their lines -- which would be
fine, if they were performing onstage, but they're not.
The screenplay doesn't have a clue about period
dialogue, so just uses bad grammar that sounds vaguely haughty and archaic.
At one point Eric Stoltz's character declares: "It is you yourself who are
cowardly!" Scenes have no arcs. Conversations don't develop, rise or progress;
they just begin, drift along, and eventually dissolve into new scenes. One
or two moments inspire desperate laughter, such as when Anderson is waiting
in her chamber, a zombie-like woman wanders in and says very slowly "This…
woman… is…. here…. to… see… you!", then another
woman wanders in and stares at Anderson, then Anderson stares at her for
about thirty seconds before letting out the words "Are… you…
here… to… see…me?" Memories of this film resemble those of
surreal dreams.
There will be people who think that if the movie
really is this bad, they have to go see it. Fair enough -- I haven't got
the energy to stop them. I should point out that although I have a policy
of never walking out of movies under any circumstances, I walked out of this
one. After an hour and ten minutes, I'd given it enough of my life, knew
that nothing could redeem it, and wasn't about to sit through another hour
and ten. If you've been watching the news this week you'll know Britain is
currently suffering the worst storms for five hundred years. During "The
House of Mirth", facing that weather seemed a more appealing option than
staying put.
COPYRIGHT© 2000 Ian
Waldron-Mantgani
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