Nestled away in Martin Scorsese's 1993 adaptation of Edith Wharton's THE AGE OF INNOCENCE, almost unnoticed amidst the opulent and meticulously crafted food, the fabulous costumes, and Joanne Woodward's calm narration, was an aura of stifling oppressiveness. Edith Wharton, the Thomas Hardy of American Gilded Age aristocracy; revealed the sordidness, the superficiality, the oppression that is the flip side of the privileges of wealth. Yet in that film, the lush treatment of romance subjugated to convention served to lighten the tone somewhat, much the way John Schlesinger's happy ending in his adaptation of FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD eased the pain of Hardy's grim worldview.
In Terence Davies' adaptation of Wharton's THE HOUSE OF MIRTH, there is no such leavening. Scorsese's aristocrats, even the unfortunate Countess Olenska, accept, if not embrace, the restrictions of their lives. Wharton's Lily Bart, the protagonist of THE HOUSE OF MIRTH, however, does not. Inside Lily is a bohemian screaming to get out, but she is too fond of the luxuries of the aristocratic life to allow it to take flight. At twenty-nine, desperate for a wealthy husband and sabotaging opportunity after opportunity because in her heart of hearts, she really doesn't want one, she has placed herself between a rock and a hard place.
Limited to a small income and what little largesse her maiden aunt, Mrs. Peniston (Eleanor Bron) is willing to provide, Lily attempts to add to her income by gambling at cards, with little success. When Gus Trenor (Dan Aykroyd) the husband of one of her friends, offers to invest some money for her without explaining in advance the "payment" he expects in return, she ends up in a compromised position, the first step on a relentless spiral downward into poverty and despair.
Davies laconic pace, dark sets, and careful lighting set THE HOUSE OF MIRTH right up there in the Annals of Depressing Cinema, alongside such films as MIDNIGHT EXPRESS, THE SAINT OF FORT WASHINGTON, and JUDE, in the How Much Misfortune Can Be Heaped Upon the Protagonist With Absolutely No Redemption sweepstakes. The problem is that such protagonists need to be able to tug at the viewer's emotions, and the always distant Gillian Anderson is just not up to the task. Anderson, who has taken the laconic Scully character from TV's X-Files too much into herself, seems too old, too large-boned, and much too strong to be the hapless victim of both her own folly and the judgments of her social class. She looks wonderful, like a Charles Dana Gibson drawing, and wears Monica Howe's fabulous turn-of-the-century costumes with aplomb. But in the first half of the film, her carefully clipped enunciation is reminiscent of Jon Lovitz' "master thespian" character, and I half expected her to say, "ac-ting!". As the film wears on, and Lily wears out, she seems to become more comfortable in the role, but remains opaque, and we never really understand what drives her.
Most of the other characterizations are similarly muddy. Dan Ackroyd's Gus Trenor seems to be Elwood Blues in a waistcoat, and Eric Stoltz as Lily's would-be lover and perhaps husband, were it not for his lack of material assets, is as opaque as Anderson herself. This mutual distancing might make an interesting story, but here we are merely left to scratch our heads and wonder just what the nature of this relationship might be . Anthony LaPaglia, as the social-climbing Sim Rosedale (whose Jewishness is never mentioned, only very obliquely referenced) never quite succeeds in conveying Rosedale's essential decency. Even when he is being kind, he has a gangsterish oiliness that makes us understand why, even in the face of her spiralling misfortunes, Lily still believes him to be beneath her. Elizabeth McGovern, who has aged into a moronically bovine-looking presence, reprises what appears to be her role in THE WINGS OF THE DOVE as the insufferably contented (and interestingly named Carry Fisher. Only Laura Linney as the evil Bertha Dorset, a master adept at the gamesmanship required to maintain not just one's station, but one's sanity in the midst of this stultifying society, livens up the proceedings. Linney's brittle perkiness, so chilling in THE TRUMAN SHOW and mercifully stifled in YOU CAN COUNT ON ME, makes Bertha a smilingly vile villainess in a white voile tea-gown. Linney is so accomplished an actress that she appears to be giving the rest of the cast a lesson in How It's Done.
Joanne Woodward's relentless narration in THE AGE OF INNOCENCE seemed distracting at the time, but if that film was guilty of too much narration, Davies's screenplay for THE HOUSE OF MIRTH certainly cries out for some background explanation. From the film's opening moment, in which Lily exits a train station to encounter Lawrence Selden, one has the sense that one has just walked into the middle of the movie and missed all the character development. This is a feeling that never quite leaves you.
And yet for all its weaknesses, THE HOUSE OF MIRTH is strangely compelling It is beautifully wrought, lit like the John Singer Sargent paintings that inspired its design. Filmed in Scotland, though set in New York, it looks like New York never did. The period details are meticulous, from the hand-rolled cigarettes to the perception of the telephone as something new and unfamiliar. Yet these details constitute a triumph of style over substance, and at the end, we are still left wondering who this Lily was, and why she chose such a self-destructive path.
The glittering yet treacherous world of New York high society comes to brilliant life in the heartbreaking story of Lily Bart (Gillian Anderson, TV s ...More at Buy.com Marketplaces
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