If Gillian Anderson’s engagingly subtle work on The X-Files has always hinted at an untapped depth of talent, her performance in this film demonstrates how astonishingly deep that talent runs. As Lily Bart, the tragically downward-spiraling socialite at the heart of The House of Mirth, Anderson has all the strange beauty, strong-yet-delicate femininity and mysterious allure of a Sargent heroine. With seemingly every expression, she draws on an entire spectrum of emotions; behind the captivating smiles, coquettish glances and mannered poise lies a woman gradually becoming aware of her diminishing prospects, the woman she can’t let anyone see—not even the man she loves. Rising to the occasion of playing one of the great female characters in literature, Anderson gives one of the great performances of this (or any) year.
Set in New York in 1905, the film depicts Lily Bart’s slow but steady social descent from the drawing room to the boarding house. Still Miss Bart at 29, Lily is rapidly approaching the age where she needs to “marry well,” into the kind of money that will keep her in the lavish lifestyle of her fashionable set. She spends her summers as a living accessory at the parties of the idle rich, acting as the object of desire to married men while their wives indulge in little affairs. Unable to reconcile herself to marrying the boring Percy Gryce (Pearce Quigley) or the coarse, nouveau-riche Simon Rosedale (a rotund Anthony LaPaglia), Lily turns to her longtime friend and reluctant would-be lover, Lawrence Selden (Eric Stoltz). Stealing moments in his apartment or on afternoon walks, they come tantalizingly close to admitting their mutual love, but Lily’s ambition, and Selden’s awareness that he can’t fulfill it, prevent them from acting on their feelings. Meanwhile, she accepts money from her friend’s husband, Gus Trenor (an even more rotund Dan Aykroyd), without realizing there are strings attached. Before Lily knows it, her reputation has become precarious in a society that values reputation above everything except pleasure.
British director Terence Davies, adapting Edith Wharton’s classic tragicomedy of manners, is finely attuned to the nuances of Wharton’s urbane prose. Though he’s admirably faithful to Wharton’s dialogue, certain characters and events are necessarily sacrificed for the sake of running time; those coming to the film straight from the book might find it a bit like a Reader’s Digest condensed version. But Davies’ omissions never feel arbitrary, and his carefully considered work-arounds remain true to the spirit of his source material. (There is one notable exception to this: in the novel, Lily’s tableau vivant is central to her character; Davies tinkers with the visual metaphor, and abbreviates what should be a breathtaking scene to the point of near-irrelevance.)
One of the novel’s distinguishing features is the intimacy afforded by Wharton’s insider’s-eye view of New York high society. Davies and cinematographer Remi Adefarasin achieve the same intimacy by keeping the focus tight, on both actors and sets. His style, free of the set-piece excesses and overly affected high comedy of any number of recent Jane Austen adaptations, is as elegantly effective as Anderson’s performance. Apart from a few gorgeous exterior shots, he suggests the New York of 1905 with intentionally claustrophobic interiors, from the Trenors’ opulent Bellomont mansion to the sepulchral house where Lily’s old aunt listens to jealous gossip about her “conspicuous” niece. The stifling effect heightens our perception of Lily’s upper-crust world as a “great gilt cage,” a prison she can’t escape because she’s been conditioned to believe she belongs in it. It also multiplies the weight of Lily’s shock and embarrassment when she is publicly shunned by the influential Bertha Dorset (Laura Linney)—a callous and unfair betrayal that brings about Lily’s tumble down the rungs of society.
Ultimately, the ironic truth Davies reveals about Lily Bart—her tragic flaw—is that she is too good for the society to which she aspires. By the end of the film, Anderson makes us feel the full, devastating force of that tragedy.
(3.5/4)