Three stars. Rated R, and rather harshly, for fleeting sexuality
By Derrick Bang
As a setting, Southern Gothic is
a character in its own right: drooping, moss-draped trees enclosing antebellum
mansions, their white paint edged with gray and slightly peeling; a keening,
high-pitched whine of insects driven into a constant frenzy by shimmering heat;
the miasma of humidity so unrelenting that everything — flora, fauna and
dwellings — sags beneath a soggy layer of warm moisture, and the mere act of
drawing breath is a weary challenge.
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| Sensing that Edwina (Kirsten Dunst) is self-conscious about her appearance, McBurney (Colin Farrell) lavishes praise about her features and deportment, knowing full well that she'll melt under such flattery. |
A sense that evil spirits prowl
during a night so enveloping that stars and fireflies do little to keep the
darkness at bay.
Director/scripter Sofia Coppola’s
fresh adaptation of Thomas Cullinan’s The
Beguiled certainly wins points for atmosphere. Cinematographer Philippe Le
Sourd frames every inch of production designer Anne Ross’ tableaus — interior
and exterior — with the reverence of a painter agonizing over each individual
brush stroke.
The characters in this unsettling
morality play also are well cast, with Nicole Kidman, Kirsten Dunst and Colin
Farrell delivering a level of quiet intensity more frequently experienced with
a live Broadway performance. Which also feels appropriate, given that the
story’s claustrophobic setting could be realized equally well on a theater
stage.
Coppola directs her cast with a
sure hand, coaxing performances that fascinate just as much for their
protracted silences, as for carefully selected snatches of dialog. Kidman, in
particular, conveys a wealth of emotion during moments of circumspect silence.
If only Coppola’s script equaled
the rest of her film’s carefully assembled elements.
The tale unfolds in 1864, midway
through the Civil War, within the confines of the Farnsworth Seminary, a Southern
girls’ boarding school nestled deep in the Virginia woods. The institution is
run by Miss Martha (Kidman) and her colleague Edwina (Dunst); they share
classroom instruction and the daily reading of prayers.
The student population has
dwindled to five, all girls with nowhere else to go. Amy (Oona Laurence), Jane
(Angourie Rice), Marie (Addison Riecke) and Emily (Emma Howard) are adolescent,
vulnerable and trusting; teenage Alicia (Elle Fanning), hastening the onset of
a womanhood she has no means of embracing, carries a whiff of temptress about
her.
These seven have become a family,
Miss Martha just as much a surrogate mother as a formal teacher. The dynamic,
with its daily rituals, feels timeless; they may have sheltered in this vast
mansion for mere months, or perhaps years. (The action actually takes place at
the Louisiana-based Madewood Plantation House, also borrowed by Beyoncé for her
“Sorry” music video.)
The carefully structured
environment shatters one morning, when Amy, foraging for mushrooms and other
edibles, stumbles across Corporal McBurney (Farrell), a badly wounded Union
soldier suspiciously absent from his regiment. The girl is startled but not
scared; he’s in considerable pain but nevertheless courteous.
She helps him back to Farnsworth,
where Miss Martha’s first impulse is to hang a blue cloth on the school gate,
alerting the next passing Confederate unit to collect a prisoner of war. But
Amy, a kind-hearted girl inclined to make pets of birds and turtles, objects on
the grounds of Christian charity: Surely it would be more compassionate to
first heal his damaged leg, and make him fit for travel.
Miss Martha acquiesces,
suggesting that this is a God-sent opportunity to test their kindness, and
perhaps see the individual human being concealed beneath the nebulous “enemy”
designation of his “blue-belly” uniform. But something else — a stirring, of
sorts — flickers behind Miss Martha’s eyes, as she makes this statement. Alicia
catches it; the others do not.
The complexity of Miss Martha’s
response to this visitor climaxes a bit later, after she stitches McBurney’s
wound, the pain driving him into unconsciousness. Edwina assists during this spontaneous
nursing, but then — after an abrupt edit — Miss Martha is alone with the
oblivious man, having stripped him to his shorts, in order to bathe him.
What follows is the film’s
strongest scene, thanks to the astonishing delicacy of Kidman’s performance. We
see a wealth of emotions flicker across her face, as Miss Martha approaches
this task with a blend of revulsion, stoic determination and — as she guides
the washcloth southward — curiosity, apprehension and breath-catching awareness.
Of the very essence of him, and her intimate proximity.
The story draws its subsequent
dramatic tension from the expanding length of McBurney’s “short stay.” Farrell,
his Irish charm at full throttle, coaxes, cajoles and connives his way into the
good graces — if not the actual hearts — of each woman in turn, regardless of
age. The prissy Jane, insisting that he should be turned over to “our boys,” is
the toughest challenge; even she eventually succumbs.
McBurney becomes the proverbial
fox in the henhouse, perceptive enough to play to each of his new companions’
weaknesses or vanities. Miss Martha soon regards him as a cultured equal; Amy
believes that he shares her interest in wildlife. The reserved Edwina, long
unsure of her own beauty, melts beneath his compliments. Alicia simply can’t
wait to kiss him (and, if she can figure out how to arrange it, much more).
But what happens next, happens much too quickly. I rarely believe that
a film should run longer, but Coppola does herself no favors by limiting this
saga to a needlessly hasty 93 minutes. Cullinan’s 1966 novel runs a leisurely
399 pages, depicting a passage of time that’s essential to our acceptance of
the spider’s web of deceit, manipulation and rivalry that eventually rivens the
Farnsworth Seminary’s carefully structured world.
But after spending an hour to
carefully establish setting, characters and budding interactions, Coppola
virtually ruins the mood by having McBurney overplay his hand too hastily.
Indeed, the late-night betrayal — which prompts a fresh crisis — is
uncharacteristically imprudent behavior for a man who, up to this point, has
been so cautious, careful and crafty.
And, in that stroke, Coppola
loses us. The story suddenly becomes contrived and unbelievable, even more so
with a hastily constructed third act that feels like a race to the finish line.
The 1971 adaptation — with Clint Eastwood, Geraldine Page and Elizabeth
Hartman, directed by Don Siegel — is far more successful with its handling of
build-up, climax and resolution.
All of which is a shame, because
we exit the theater with this unsatisfying third act freshest in mind. Coppola
thus squanders the carefully nurtured trust that we’ve given her, and — more
tragically — undercuts the many fine performances. Dunst surrounds Edwina with
a protective shell of inhibited vulnerability so brittle, that we genuinely
worry that she might shatter at any moment, like a porcelain doll bumped from a
shelf.
Fanning’s Alicia smolders with budding
sexuality, her boldness subtly rising until she no longer fears being noticed
by Miss Martha or the others. Fanning’s high-voltage smirk could power a
good-sized city.
Laurence’s Amy is achingly sweet
and naïve, her face always the first to contort into worry at the slightest
hint of conflict. We sense, despite Amy being among the youngest, that she’s
always the one who tries to maintain calm, or mend fences.
The other girls, while distinct,
aren’t given much to do ... although Riecke also gives Marie expressive
features, suggesting an effervescent nature that has yet to emerge.
Ultimately — sadly — Coppola
fails to honor the first rule of a remake: There’s no point, if the new version
doesn’t surpass, or at least equal, its predecessor. This new film’s strong,
sensitive performances notwithstanding, it doesn’t come close to the creepy,
disturbing and climactic impact of Eastwood’s version.
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