3.5 stars. Rated PG, for dramatic intensity
By Derrick Bang
Director/scripter Isabel Coixet coaxes moments of sublime cinematic poetry in her thoughtful adaptation of Penelope Fitzgerald’s spare 1978 novel; the setting and characters — the sense of time and place — have been lifted lovingly from the page.
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| Beware the practiced insincerity of aristocratic hauteur: Not yet realizing that she has been suckered into the spider's web, Florence (Emily Mortimer, left) thanks Violet (Patricia Clarkson) for being invited to so lavish a gathering. |
It couldn’t have been easy, in this instant-gratification social media era, to convey the unique warmth and comfort that derive from settling down — with no sense of time — to enjoy an absorbing book.
But viewers anticipating a typically light-hearted slice of eccentric, small-town British whimsy — a droll turn along the lines of, say The Closer You Get or The Englishman Who Went Up a Hill But Came Down a Mountain — are in for an unpleasant shock. Fitzgerald had much darker, class-conscious fish to fry, and Coixet has honored the subtext that unflinchingly skewers the small-minded malice of old-world aristocrats who — fully aware that they’re an endangered species — are determined to ruin the lives of their “lessers.” Simply because they still can.
To be sure, Coixet wields a brush of many colors; portions of her film are amusing, at times even laugh-out-loud funny. But such levity is subtly, mercilessly asphyxiated by the machinations of cold, calculated villainy; this is dark drama, not romantic comedy, and you will not exit the theater with a smile.
The setting is the small, East Anglican coastal town of Hardborough, Suffolk; the year is 1959. Florence Green (Emily Mortimer), widowed since losing her husband during World War II, decides to open a bookshop in a damp, long-abandoned building known as Old House.
It’s not clear how long Florence has been in Hardborough, although she seems a recent arrival. On the one hand, many of the locals greet her pleasantly enough; she’s familiar with the community, and aware that Old House has lain dormant for seven years. And yet there’s also a sense that she exists slightly out of phase with many of the townsfolk, who remain wary in her presence.
We do get a sense that Florence has emerged from a long period of grief, newly emboldened to give Hardborough its first bookstore as a gift, and as a means of sharing the special sort of magic that Fitzgerald described so well: “A good book is the precious life-blood of a master-spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life, and as such it must surely be a necessary commodity.”
On a personal level, Florence intends the gesture as a means of preserving important memories of her husband: They met at a bookstore, and bonded over their shared devotion to its contents.
Her fatal mistake is the belief that this is a town that wants a bookstore, as much as she thinks it does.
Woe to those foolish enough to stroll public streets with their hearts worn so visibly on one sleeve: naïve idealists destined to become prey.
As plans proceed, Florence is surprised to receive an invitation to a lavish party hosted by Violet Gamart (Patricia Clarkson), the imperious wife of a fusty retired general (Reg Wilson) given to quoting obscure poetry. Florence is doomed before she even sets foot on the opulent estate, sabotaged by a bright red outfit selected by a local dressmaker who knows full well that it’ll clash with what everybody else will be wearing.
Violet, the local grande dame accustomed to getting her way, greets Florence cheerily, prattling on about how she has long planned to transform Old House into a local “arts center,” and how wonderful it would be to collaborate on such a venture. Florence, although taken aback, bravely stands her ground: No, it’s to be a bookstore. Papers have been signed, bank loan secured. Besides, she (Florence) also intends to live in the back rooms. It’s her home.
Would Violet have expressed interest in a so-called arts center, had Florence never set foot in Hardborough? Likely not. In Clarkson’s marvelously creepy performance, Violet is the sort of entitled tyrant who tortures the unwary for kicks and grins; it’s her oxygen. Clarkson’s feral smile is the stuff of nightmares, particularly since it’s unfailingly attached to such hypocritical surface graciousness. She’d smile while cutting your throat.
For a time, though, Violet Gamart fades into the background; we share Florence’s delight as eager young scouts help set up shelves, which she soon fills with books that arrive carefully packed in large wooden cartons. Cinematographer Jean-Claude Larrieu’s camera lingers as lovingly as Florence’s fingers, as both slide slowly across the jacketed titles, from one shelf to the next.
It’s a moment — an image, a feeling, an atmosphere — that every bibliophile has experienced. Mortimer’s quiet, delighted smile is a thing of beauty.
The saga also expands to involve her in two key relationships: the first with young Christine (Honor Kneafsey), the poised, precocious adolescent who confidently talks her way into after-school employment as the shop’s assistant. Not that she actually likes books, mind you, but because she’d be ever so much better at the job, that either of her two flightier sisters.
Kneafsey is a stitch, her solemn, often fixed gaze missing nothing. Christine is her own person, even at this young age: clearly emblematic of the tidal shift her generation will foment within the next decade. But not yet, and not in Hardborough. She may be an ally, but she’s just a child.
Far more intriguing is the reclusive Edmund Brundish (Bill Nighy), so cocooned within his massive estate that the locals are reduced to sharing rumors, since they really know nothing about him. But we’ve already seen that he’s a voracious reader, and the event of a new bookshop prompts him to break silence with a note requesting that Florence send over a few examples of what she considers to be “good stuff,” for which he’ll pay.
It’s clearly a test, which Florence understands. She dithers, finally including Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 within a small, carefully brown-papered parcel. The choice proves inspired, and they subsequently bond over Bradbury and Vladimir Nabokov. Books and payments flow back and forth, until Brundish extends an invitation to tea.
Mortimer and Nighy both have a gift for conveying a wealth of complex emotions — often simultaneously — with little more than a slight smile; a flickering gaze; a modest, half embarrassed gesture. Nighy imbues Brundish with a degree of grief that transcends even Florence’s. But it’s more than personal anguish; Brundish’s isolation has been maintained by disappointment and disapproval. It’s not just that people have let him down; he silently rails at the casual cruelty that allows courageous, decent folks — such as Florence — to be beaten down by callous indifference. Or malice.
There’s a moment of silent connection — when they later meet on a cliff overlooking the sea, where Florence often sits to read or brood, and where Brundish takes long walks — that ranks as one of cinema’s all-time most tender, and deeply romantic encounters. I was reminded of the similarly wordless exchange between Anthony Hopkins’ rigidly formal Stevens and Emma Thompson’s Miss Kenton, in 1993’s The Remains of the Day. The same powerful depth of feeling: of something even stronger than love.
Mortimer and Nighy are transcendent. Our hearts ache for these two, because we know — they know — that such a “relationship” never can be. Bad celestial timing.
Meanwhile, Violet has been busy…
The script’s one false note — and it’s glaring — is the degree to which Florence continues to tolerate the oily, unctuous Milo North (James Lance, persuasively unpleasant). He’s obviously not to be trusted — even young Christine knows that — and just as clearly in thrall to Violet. Mortimer makes Florence far too intelligent, and savvy, to grant Milo the access that he gets in the third act.
The production design and setting — Larrieu’s gorgeous long shots of wooded coastline and roiling ocean — emphasize the degree to which Hardborough likely hasn’t changed for generations … and probably isn’t ready to. (Filming actually took place in Northern Ireland and Barcelona.) We can’t help feeling that Florence’s dream is quixotic, and that she’s destined for additional heartbreak. (The presence of Bradbury’s oeuvre also isn’t accidental.)
But while first-gen “little voices with giant ideas” often get squashed, true victory sometimes emerges later, if such ideas prove inspirational. Whether that’s enough to mitigate this film’s increasingly gloomy tone will, I suspect, be in the eye of the individual viewer.
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