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Washington
Square
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There is an odd notion possessing some filmmakers today that returning to certain classic novels in a faithful, dogged way will result in adaptations superior to those older versions which furiously condensed, rearranged and rewrote their sources. The folly of such a view is demonstrated by Agnieszka Holland's rendering of Henry James' Washington Square, which is infinitely inferior to William Wyler's robust The Heiress (1949). Like Jane Campion's woeful The Portrait of a Lady (1996) – but unlike the bold adaptation of The Wings of the Dove (1997) – this Washington Square is a shapeless, often pointless affair. The story of Catherine (Jennifer Jason Leigh), caught between her stern father, Austin (Albert Finney), and an ambiguously motivated suitor, Morris (Ben Chaplin), loses almost all of its triangular tension and bite. Holland, attempting to recover from the debacle of Total Eclipse (1995), again dives into the costume genre that has apparently now become her chosen métier. She takes a modern, skittish, busy approach to historical stories, in order to render them immediate and relevant to our time. In Washington Square, Holland again spikes the visual grandeur and lush orchestral score with moments of hysteria, perversity and melodramatic intrigue. The result, unfortunately, is just a turgid wallow in a superficial spectacle of female masochism – and Leigh is ever ready to provide the necessary mannerisms of jitteriness, embarrassment and withdrawal. What made The Heiress such a powerful drama – the crushing, patriarchal values of Austin and the shifty games of the pretty-boy Morris – is here squandered in both the direction and in Carol Doyle's sloppy screenplay. The casting of these roles in the two versions follows roughly the same principle – but the differences in interpretation and dramatic inflection are extremely telling. Finney stands, as did Ralph Richardson, for the upright, uptight British personality – killingly parsimonious with gestures of appreciation and affection for his daughter. Yet Finney and Holland seem reluctant to judge this character harshly, and so he becomes soft, indistinct. Chaplin has an even harder time measuring up to the memory of Montgomery Clift as Morris. This relative newcomer has little of the great star's erotic charisma, little-boy pathos or underlying scariness. Although there are passing moments of sharp humour, luxuriant colour and melancholic emotion in Washington Square, Holland can do little to cohere and energise this material. Fans of The Heiress will want to run to their videos to re-view the magnificent highpoints of that unfussy adaptation – like the repeated images of Olivia de Havilland weaving her tapestry, or the devastating ending. For once, the crowing cry of the nostalgic film buff is perfectly apt: I've seen it before, and it was better then. © Adrian Martin August 1998 |
