Amazon.com
Here's the film of a novel nobody liked in high school (but probably succumbed to when they read it in later life, as they should). Based on the book by Edith Wharton, it's one of those repressed romances of longing and regret carried out in real time and real life. Liam Neeson plays the humble Ethan, manipulated into marrying a plain and sickly woman (Joan Allen, every bit as good as she is in
The Contender), who still manages to dominate him. When she grows so ill that Ethan requires help to care for her, they import her poor cousin (Patricia Arquette), who sparks thoughts in Ethan that never occurred to him with his wife. Neeson has a great fire within, as he confronts an array of possibilities that simply remain out of reach because the alternative is unthinkable in this tight-knit New England community. Arquette bubbles with life, while Allen can freeze blood at 100 paces with one of her icy glances. Slow-moving at times but worth it for the final payoff. Directed by John Madden (
Shakespeare in Love).
--Mark Englehart
Edith Wharton's novel was published in 1911, and it has taken a long time to reach the screen. Not long enough, though. John Madden's version, written by Richard Nelson, is a dull and dutiful affair; there's no reason that a movie should stay faithful to a text, but in this case the adaptation has taken everything that's woeful and wintry about the book and left behind the excitement-all the taut sexual restraint, and the headlong death wish of the final sled ride. Liam Neeson plays Ethan, with Joan Allen as his shrewish wife, Zeena, and Patricia Arquette as Mattie Silver, who tempts him into tragedy. Of these, only Neeson grips your attention; he lumbers through the film like a suffering Samson-somewhere in there you can see the ghost of old power and passion. You have to go back to Boris Karloff to discover a similar blend of brutishness and delicacy. If only the rest of the movie could pitch itself up to Neeson's level; this is cinema on its best behavior, guaranteed to wear you down. Back to the book. -Anthony Lane
Copyright © 2006
The New Yorker