Memories of the first act of Ira Levin’s play, Deathtrap — transformed into a terrific 1982 film by director Sidney Lumet — surfaced while watching this nasty little character piece.
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| While Liam (Daryl McCormack, background) watches with dismay, Sinclair (Richard E. Grant, left) crueslly tells his son, Bertie (Stephen McMcillan) that he'll never amount to anything. The boy's mother Hélèle (Julie Delpy) offers no rebuttal. |
The only questions are who will do the stealing, and from whom. And while both answers soon may seem obvious, it’s best not to make assumptions.
Classics scholar Liam Somers (Daryl McCormack) is hired by Sinclair’s wife, Hélène (Julie Delpy), to help their son Bertie (Stephen McMillan) sharpen his writing skills, in order to improve the young man’s chances for university admission. After establishing a worthy talent for this assignment, Liam is hired full-time, and invited to live in the lavish Sinclair estate’s guest cottage.
Although at first blush this seems an average posting, the atmosphere is tense, the family dynamic quite brittle. Sinclair enjoys belittling his wife and son; the former responds with calm detachment, while the latter clearly fears his father. Liam is warned, early on, never to mention the Sinclairs’ older son, Felix.
Bertie’s cowering nature in his father’s presence notwithstanding, the boy is uncooperative — even dismissive — under Liam’s gentle efforts at guidance, although the boy is grudgingly impressed by his tutor’s “party trick.”
Liam has a form of eidetic memory that allows him to remember a complete literary work — sonnet, poem, short story — if triggered by a brief quoted passage.
Although an acknowledged fan of Sinclair’s work — Liam wonders if that has any bearing on why he was hired by Hélène — his relationship with the author initially remains formal and distant. Sinclair is trying to finish his newest novel — after a lapse of many years — and, after hours, Liam also is struggling to complete his first novel, titled Tower 24.
A droll scene follows: Liam — able to see Sinclair in his study, from the guest house’s bedroom window — tries desperately to match the author’s late-night pace … but, ultimately, falls asleep at his desk. Upon waking the following morning, Liam is chagrined to see that Sinclair still is hard at work.
Bertie eventually thaws. Warning Liam not to touch the poisonous blossoms of a particularly lush rhododendron, the boy further explains that “It’s basically a weed; nothing can grow around it.” Liam realizes — as do we — that the boy isn’t really speaking about the bush.
A rhododendron also is known as a Rose Tree, which just happens to be the title of Sinclair’s novel-in-progress.
MacKeith delights in parallel structure. His narrative is divided into three acts, as is Sinclair’s novel; the author has been having trouble with the third act. Much the way Bertie begins to trust Liam’s patient guidance and efforts at genuine friendship, the latter is surprised to find Sinclair being more generous with his time: acting downright gracious, and expressing interest in his guest’s literary efforts.
Much later, a brief epilogue echoes an earlier key scene: given greater impact via this repetition.
Sinclair and Liam finish their novels at the same time. When the former magnanimously suggests they proof-read each other’s work, it’s a serious uh-oh moment. What is Sinclair up to?
Alas, Liam presumes too much from this apparent camaraderie; he crosses an invisible line, prompting one of Sinclair’s most caustic replies, delivered with Grant’s dismissive sneer: “We’re not peers. You’re my proof-reader.”
Grant clearly enjoys inhabiting this egotistical tyrant, hurling thinly veiled abuse and contemptuous gibes with the cruel glee of a small boy dropping bricks on helpless mice. Grant’s hawk-like gaze is equally intimidating, as is his combative posture. This man gets off on humiliating his inferiors (which, in his mind, is everybody else).
It’s hard to get a bead on Liam, which I’m sure is deliberate. At times McCormack’s gaze is thoughtful, analytical and shrewd; we get a sense that Liam knows precisely what sort of person his host is. Yet Liam also is capable of naïveté, and McCormack makes that just as genuine. Then, too, Liam is genuinely calm, patient and caring with Bertie.
McMillan’s Bertie has the fragility of a porcelain doll, about to shatter at the slightest disturbance. The young actor persuasively sells his character’s developing trust, in Liam’s presence, ultimately becoming even more tragic … because then, when Bertie drops his defenses, we see how truly miserable he is.
Delpy’s Hélène is a fascinating study. She never raises her voice, never succumbs to her husband’s constant attempts to bait her. We initially wonder if Hélène has been cowed into submission, and takes the path of least resistance. But something in Delpy’s gaze suggests contemplative amusement, as if Hélène is biding her time until … what?
Crispin Letts is note-perfect as the family butler, Ellis, polished and professional to a fault. He persists in calling their guest “Mr. Somers,” despite the latter’s friendly suggestion that his first name is fine. “It’s Liam,” he insists, one final time. “I know, sir,” Ellis blandly replies. (And we wonder: refinement … or passive/aggressive?)
Director Alice Troughton definitely holds our interest, as this saga builds to its climax, although some of her sidebar touches are an eyebrow-lift. Cinematographer Anna Patarakina frequently focuses on the furry water voles that inhabit the estate’s large lake, for no apparent reason.
Following Liam and Sinclair’s exchange of novels, the latter relaxes by watching 1956’s Yield to the Night, a lurid British noir thriller starring Diana Dors as a convicted killer about to be hanged. An odd choice, to say the least.
Isobel Waller-Bridge’s primary keyboard score is dominated by a waltz theme handled by piano and violin; it’s a fairly constant presence, adding to the story’s isolated, otherworldly quality.
That “isolated” nature obviously results from this having been a pandemic shoot, with all but a few scenes — prologue and epilogue — staged in an estate location, with only the aforementioned five characters. (I chuckled when the end credits including billing for “Covid Compliance Officers.”)
Troughton’s film definitely held my interest, but her languid and unrushed pacing — and the very slow character development — may annoy viewers with less patience. I suspect The Lesson would have worked better as a stage play (and I wasn’t surprised to learn that MacKeith began his career as a playwright).
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