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69 of 71 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Henry Fielding's immortality, June 17, 2001
"It is a pity he was not immortal, he was so formed for happiness." -- Mary Wortley Montagu on the death of her cousin, Henry Fielding. This dramatization of this most wonderful book is nearly perfect. I say nearly perfect because that are one or two little problems with the sound (no, Honour doesn't mean she wouldn't say a word if Sophia were to go to bed with Mr. BLIFIL instead of Mr. Jones, nor does Miss Western mean to say, "Brother, if you would only leave your NIECE to my care...") but never mind that. It doesn't matter because the director, Metin Huseyin, has his fingers on the pulse of 18th century England. It's not a "bawdy romp." It was really like this. Straight, nonintoxicated Englishmen hugged and kissed each other in public (a show of feeling was considered a mark of a gentleman). People talked more openly about sex than they did for another 175 years, the fact that women liked it too, and the fact that sex is, every once in a while, a motive for human behaviour. Women talked back and demanded respect. Hypocrisy was everywhere (and just like now, you could sometimes say so). About 140 crimes carried the death sentence. Money and property sometimes mattered more than people. Young people sometimes had to marry the person they were told to marry whether they hated them or not, and being kind, generous and amiable could get you in worse trouble than being greedy, grabby and nasty. Fielding wrote it all down and Huseyin delivers it wonderfully well here. Tony Richardson's Tom Jones was splendid, to be sure, and is full of brilliant acting, but in many ways it was, to quote a friend of mine, rather like, "Austen Powers does the 18th Century." This is Tom Jones as Fielding conceived him. A pretty, sweet fellow, probably based on Fielding's youthful self, who makes a few very human mistakes and, with the help of his enemies, nearly gets himself hanged. The casting in this production is marvellous and the director has, probably through his obvious great love for this story, allowed each actor to be infused with a faithful sense of character. Fantastic as Joyce Grenfell was, to the heavily Freudianized audiences of 1964, a character like Lady Bellaston could only be portrayed as a clinging nyphomaniac. Lindsay Duncan, on the other hand, is perfect as the mature, sexy, selfish, independently wealthy female who does exactly as she likes, a type of woman not unknown today and not unknown in the 18th century, either. (It was the Victorians and people in the first three quarters of the 20th century who claimed women like this were aberrations.) Peter Capaldi is great as the horribly funny Lord Fellamar. Partridge is rumpled, wronged and tender-hearted. The household parasites ARE odious, Brian Blessed IS Squire Western (complete with dog slobber and misguided parenting), Samantha Morton is perfect as Sophia, who in turn was based on Fielding's beloved wife, Charlotte; lovely, hot-tempered, brave and honest. As is true of all the casting, her long-suffering, imperfect maid and friend, Honour, is great. The child actors well match their grownup counterparts. Beesley is a good Tom and also has a nice bottom. John Sessions, who plays Fielding himself, our wry narrator, is a delight. This production is much closer to the original, including the dialogue, already in place by Fielding, who wrote dialogue for his novels like the dramatist that he was; so in a way it was already a screenplay. Some of the longer narrative passages had to be pared out, of course, but why both directors (Richardson and Huseyin) leave out the fact that Squire Allworthy sends his precious but disgraced Tom off, well provided for, with 500 pounds in his pocket, I don't know, but I'm sure they had their reasons. The sets may not be brilliant, but the costumes, make-up, acting and directing are. This is a wonderful production in the old BBC tradition. Get it and love it, because they aren't making them anymore. And if you think we won't suffer for this loss, then listen (as if you could avoid it) to the deafening whine that passes for so much of modern dramatic art. We need Henry Fielding as much now as they did then.
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