Good heavens! It’s scandalous! It’s unthinkable! It’s not something one should discuss openly in polite society! It’s … oh, it’s too dreadful to speak of! It’s the expensive new version of “Vanity Fair.” Regrettably, sirs and madams, it is my duty to inform you that the first major contender of Oscar season is, alas, a smelly hunk of rotten period cheese. What went wrong?
William Makepeace Thackery’s prose has been the seed for at least one great film of the past (Stanley Kubrick’s 1975 “Barry Lyndon”), and the author’s “Vanity Fair” is far more beloved and renowned source material to mine into cinematic gold. This critic has never read Thackery’s famous 19th century masterpiece of the same name, nor now will he ever. The plot was probably scandalous stuff in 1828, but in the year 2004 it’s fairly tame even by costume-drama standards.
“Vanity Fair” revolves around Becky Sharp (Reese Witherspoon), a comely young lass bent on clawing her way to the top of the British aristocracy despite her humble (i.e. poor) beginnings. Fresh from finishing school, Becky gets a job in the household of seedy old Sir Pitt (an amusingly scruffy Bob Hoskins) and sets her energies to impressing her noble employers and landing herself a wealthy husband. Sure, Becky gets sidetracked by occasional notions of love and honor, but they’re fleeting speed bumps on her desired road to riches and
royalty. For shame!
Despite the creakiness of many of Thackery’s plot machinations (let’s give the man a break; the book’s 175 years old!), “Vanity Fair” has a story full of enough betrayals, barbs and bulging bodices to keep a modern filmgoer glued to his or respective theater seat. In theory. Just add a respected director, a pedigreed cast, an award-winning screenwriter and a whole lot of money for sets and costumes, and you’ve got a surefire smash on your hands. In theory, at least. The new “Vanity Fair” must have looked great on paper (it even felt like a sure thing to this critic), but the resulting film is such a mess that it makes one want to swear off theoreticizing for good.
What a misstep for director Mira Nair (“Monsoon Wedding”) and a backstep for Focus Features, which was riding high on a banner year which began with last year’s “Lost in Translation” and coasted through with the critical darlings “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” and “The Door in the Floor.” Early in the year, Focus looked poised to rally its full awards season clout behind “Vanity Fair;” in recent weeks, however, the bulk of their campaigning seems to have shifted to the as-yet un-released “The Motorcycle Diaries.” Smart move. If they’re really smart, they’ll cut their losses on this shaggy dog and throw their weight behind the performances of Jeff Bridges and Kate Winslet for a shot at Oscar gold. Mentioning Focus’s other gems feels like a digression, but it’s merely a recognition of the quality of their usual output and a lament for this critic’s dashed expectations for their latest release.
Indian-born Nair simply isn’t a snug fit for the decidedly British “Fair.”
She tends to fetishize the characters’ references and excursions to India, which would be fine if she could establish any of her European locales with the same urgency or concrete sense of geography. Indeed, much of “Vanity Fair” seems trapped between two worlds. The text favors an intellectual examination of the plot and its often shady protagonists, yet the director seems bent on keeping things frothy and sappy to the point where Becky’s innate goodness and potential for a happy ending seem less like intriguing question marks than foregone conclusions. Nair and Thackery are a marriage in need of annulment; the resulting merger of Bollywood sentiment and English stodginess is not only choppy and unfocused but also immeasurably dull.
How could Julian Fellowes, the Oscar-winning scribe behind 2001’s splendid “Gosford Park,” lost so much of his lacerating wit in his translation of Thackery’s acerbic social commentary? Some verbal jabs connect (Becky isn’t merely a social climber; she’s a “mountaineer”), and some of the interactions are as saucy and laced with subtext as Thackery probably intended. Moreover, though, this “Vanity Fair” buckles under the heft of its own thick-headedness. A saucy tale about smart schemers of questionable morality devolves into a plodding melodrama of lovers lost and found and revealed reunited, and it’s all so eye-rollingly obvious that this critic couldn’t suppress an “Oh, COME on!” when secondary couple Amelia and William finally overcome all obstacles and fall into each other’s arms at long last.
At long, LONG last, one should mention, since “Vanity Fair” clocks in at a squirm-inducing 2 hours and 20 minutes. Leading lady Witherspoon does her level best to make the time pass as painlessly as possible, approaching a daunting role with effortless charm and grace. Her greatest obstacles are mis-casting and Nair’s wavering take on Becky’s character. Nair seems so bent on Becky being liked by audiences that she’s created a virtually un-playable part for Witherspoon to fill-a morally ambiguous social climber… with a heart of gold? It’s hard to tell, and it doesn’t help that Witherspoon’s contemporary American twang stands out like a sore thumb amidst all the lilts and trills of the king’s English spoken by performers who’ve done Shakespeare with their hands tied behind their backs. It’s odd to see Elle Woods strutting around in corsets and Tracy Flick riding through the European countryside in frilled carriages.
Still, Witherspoon’s raw talent and sparkling intelligence shine through often enough to keep Becky interesting even when everything around her is as bland as mushy oatmeal.
While the younger guard of performers in the film seems largely baffled by the material (Jonathan Rhys-Meyers is notably awful as preening egotist George Osborne), old dogs like Hoskins and Jim Broadbent acquit themselves nicely in character roles they could probably play in their sleep. Rhys Ifans is a good stoic, and Gabriel Byrne is a good creep. And Eileen Atkins is especially fine as Sir Pitt’s brittle spinster sister, but the actress’s wit and precision are overshadowed (in this critic’s memory, at least) by a scene in which she bares her bottom for the sake of a cheap laugh. Does the gag work? Sure, but it makes you feel dirty afterward.
If only that were true of the rest of the film. For the ribald tale of a cunning vixen who works her curves to their full potential to get what she wants, “Vanity Fair” is a surprisingly sexless affair. There are some naughty innuendos early on (the camera lovingly zooms in on Becky’s lips as she swallows a spicy Indian pepper at a stuffy dinner party), but the sexual tension in the later episodes is virtually non-existent. Instead of seeing Becky give into her burning animal passion for studly-but-not-exactly-rich military man Rawdon Crawley (the studly but not exactly engaging James Purefoy), the audience sees them exhange a few furtive glances, a few pointed words, and suddenly they’re in bed basking in the afterglow of what seems like some truly banal sex. And this is the lust that’s supposed to deviate Becky from her quest for riches at any cost? Yawwwwnn.
“Vanity Fair” isn’t a total loss, but it is a monument to wasted potential. By all accounts it should work, and occasionally it does. The costumes and sets are opulent. The cinematography is lush, the stars attractive and the production value is uniformly excellent. The story has a sweep that’s hard to sabotage completely. And many of Thackery’s social ideas are still relevant, despite nearly two centuries of overthrown sexual politics and diminishing class barriers. If you want to experience the wit and sweep of Thackery, however, don’t look too hard for it in your local megaplex. Go to a bookstore and buy the novel instead. Heck, go to the supermarket and buy the magazine “Vanity Fair.” It’s got to be money and time better spent than going to see this glaring disappointment. Easy on the eyes, numbing to the brain and vacuous to the soul, “Vanity Fair” is the first must-miss of this year’s fall movie season.