Recent releases show two approaches to filming the novels of Henry
James. Jane Campion's The Portrait of a Lady emphasizes theme over
character and production design over all else, and the result is cold and
lifeless. Iain Softley's The Wings of the Dove emphasizes character
over theme, and it succeeds in finding the chilly tragedy at the heart of
its romance.
Of the two models, director Agnieszka Holland and writer Carol Doyle
wisely choose the latter for their adaptation of Washington Square, an
exploration of the struggle between familial and romantic love. Its
unforgiving close-ups of Jennifer Jason Leigh, Albert Finney, and Ben
Chaplin communicate the essence of the expectations and pressures that bind
these very ordinary people. If the production lacks the emotional sweep and
passionate fire of Softley's interpretation, it is because Holland
consciously refuses to cast beautiful people on a grand stage. Instead, her
clinical camera records warts and all, leaving it up to us to allocate our
sympathy among the characters--and to realize, soberingly, that we cannot
judge any of them by their actions alone.
James' novel was previously filmed by William Wyler in 1949 as The
Heiress. Those familiar with that version will barely recognize Leigh
as Catherine Sloper, the socially inept and terminally nervous young woman
whose father (Finney) has never forgiven her for living through the
childbirth that killed her mother. When handsome Morris Townsend (Chaplin)
courts the plain, unaccomplished girl, her father denounces the penniless
orphan as a fortune hunter and threatens to disinherit Catherine if they
wed.
Washington Square's early scenes play up Catherine's comic
clumsiness and mouth-breathing terror in casual conversation. Her father's
callous assessment of the girl as without charm, wit, or beauty seems
entirely warranted, especially when Holland places Leigh's sharp, unadorned
features next to natural beauties. The romantic illusions of Catherine's
aunt (Maggie Smith), who wants to manage the young lovers' assignations,
warp her own weird attachment to Morris while Catherine and her father
travel in Europe. And Morris himself seems sincere, but the film
encourages us to ask what, in fact, draws him to the colorless heiress. At
various times, every character is able to justify him or herself in our
eyes, allowing the construction of a remarkably balanced portrait that
keeps us interested throughout.
It's tempting, when a movie is more difficult and demanding on an
audience, to attribute more depth to it. But Holland's shadowy, tightly
buttoned New York is no more revelatory a stage for James' obsessions than
Softley's golden, dishabille Venice. Perhaps Softley's material has greater
inherent depths; the plot of Washington Square is the by-now
familiar Austen-esque tale of a woman who thinks love is denied her. But
Holland's exercise in the omniscient point of view, which forces us into
loyalty with first one character, then another, is a fascinating technique
in its own right, and uniquely appropriate to this material. A double
feature of The Wings of the Dove and Washington Square has
enough first-rate acting and incisive characterization to last, in memory,
through the long, looming winter of epics and billion-dollar
budgets.