The End of the Affair Reviewed

ROVIN' AND RAVIN' WITH MIKE

The End of the Affair: At Last, an Adult Movie!

Brothers and sisters, ladies and gentlemen, rejoice. (Let the congregation say, "amen.") We have found at last a movie, a film, a piece of cinematic art that is truly for mature audiences only—not for audiences for whom a glimpse of skin is worth the price of admission or for whom any references to the functions and fluids of the body are funny.

No, here we have a film that takes seriously (perhaps even too seriously) the functions of the body—and of the heart and of the soul as well. Yes, I said (or wrote) soul. Neil Jordan’s haunting, exquisite, miraculous, in so many ways, simply wonderful little film of Graham Greene’s novel The End of the Affair pushes the envelope. Yes, in a year of falling frogs and cheerleaders wrapped in rose petals, it tackles a truly taboo subject—religious faith... and, in equally mysterious ways, human faith in human relationships.

Set in rain-drenched post-war England, Affair has almost everything we want to love in movies—a glamorous woman, an elegant man, almost stereophonic visual texture, music that fits so perfectly that it seems not to be heard… and love, love, love. Physical love, emotional love, and, yes, spiritual love! That’s truly, nowadays, the love that dare not speak its name. This is meller-drammer with a capital m and a capital d and that stands for medical doctor which is what—OK, I’m rambling, I’m delirious, I’m in love with a movie, with movies again, after getting to the point that the smell of popcorn every Friday has almost triggered panic attacks. Falling frog alert!

Neil Jordan, who shaped wonders in Mona Lisa (1986), The Crying Game (1992) and others, has actually improved on the original tale (which was made into an apparently forgettable film in the mid-fifties). For one who would light candles at the shrine of novelist Graham Greene, to admit that is just about blasphemy. Events are rearranged, some characters are dropped, and there is at least one outright comic substitution of names (for those who know the original novel). While in the novel the climactic death (I won’t say whose) occurs about at the midpoint, and every chapter thereafter ends with a decided lack of fulfillment, this film comes winding gently to a halt considerably under two hours (bless it) with everything just where it should be.

To get the basics out of the way: worldly novelist Maurice Bendrix (Ralph Fiennes) strikes up a friendship with boring civil servant Henry Miles (Stephen Rhea) and an affair with his wife Sarah (Julianne Moore). Somebody dies. But, this is miles away from the soap opera it sounds like—miles, that is, as in Henry and Sarah Miles, and I’m off, I’m ravin’ again. As I’ve mentioned, there are some films that I’ve watched that I have not reviewed, because I felt that I did not have the experience or equipment to give them their due appreciation. With The End of the Affair, I have faced a new challenge: I so thoroughly adore this film that I may not be a fit judge of it.

But, even from my very biased perspective, I know that many people will not like this film. There are things about it that I do not like. At times, it is more verbal than visual. (So, why not just read the novel?) These folks don’t cuss—they discuss. There are passages in the film that are more visual aids to the text than integrated film—imagery with words. Begging the pardon of our sisters and brothers across the pond, there is in this film a certain British kind of dreariness (not just the rain), which may send many Americans to the latest Adam Sandler opus to dry out.

To be honest, I’ve never been as embarrassed by sex scenes in a film as I am by the sex scenes in The End of the Affair. Jordan seems to be creating not just a film about the forties so much as a recreation of a forties film—with all the freedom and all the responsibility that such a film would have. (When was the last time you heard the word mistress in a film?) The sex scenes work against the ambiance of the film, and they may work against the popularity of the film. Many people who would be drawn to a film about faith will be put off by the explicitness of the sex scenes, just as many people drawn to a film about sexual love will be put off by the explicitness of the religious scenes.

I’ve tried to imagine what happened on the set. "Now Ralph," pronounced Rafe, since this is not English but British, director Jordan would say, "we need to see your bum." (Not homeless person but behind, since this is not English but British). But, do we need to see his bum, or Julianne Moore’s breast either (although in 1993’s Short Cuts, she kicked off her knickers)? Wouldn’t we have been better off with two such magnificent actors with such expressive faces to have seen… their faces?

This is a thought I’ve never had after a movie before now, but I find myself wondering how I would react if I ever met either of them. Gee, I saw your— Much more consistent with its tone, the film has one of the most erotic passages I’ve ever seen, when Bendrix lovingly helps Sarah dress and pauses to express his jealousy of each item of clothing, as he demonstrates a knowledge of stockings and garters that is not so much archeological as fetishistic.

Julianne Moore, again? So, what is next week’s Julianne Moore film? Well, one could do much worse than watch the always watchable Ms. Moore. Is it a gift from God, plastic surgery, lighting, or what that lets her close-ups melt the celluloid? As I look back on her career, I realize that she has illuminated three of my all time favorite films, Cookie’s Fortune (1999), Surviving Picasso (1996), and Vanya on 42^nd Street (1994), not to mention commercial successes like The Big Lebowski (1998), Lost World: Jurassic Park (1997), and Nine Months (1995).

Ralph Fiennes goes beyond the obsessive anger of the script to show the pain behind that anger, raging against the pity that is as omnipresent as rain in Graham Greene’s works. Stephen Rhea manages an almost impossible task—an interesting portrayal of a boring character. But, pity the poor gentlemen, Moore is more.

And then, there is Graham Greene, whose works have been the springboard for films ranging from such classics as The Third Man to a lamentable mess like Beyond the Limit, a very loose sketch of Greene’s novel The Honorary Consul. Greene was a film reviewer himself, but don’t hold that against him. A notorious essay of his on the eroticism of Shirley Temple movies led to a lawsuit and the closing of the magazine in which the article appeared. He pushed many an envelope himself, often in trouble with the hierarchy of the Roman Catholic church (exploring in The Heart of the Matter the possibility of a saint committing suicide) while at the same time being criticized for being too Catholic.

Since I saw The End of the Affair, one of the resident Rovin’ and Ravin’ cats has had surgery. I remarked to a friend that I wish there were some way I could explain the pain to the cat. It occurred to me, as soon as I said it, that throughout his novels, and especially in The End of the Affair as in this incredible film that I’ve been raving about, Greene was trying to explain the pain that we do not understand.

It will be hard to keep your feet dry with all the rain in this film, but I do hope you will point them toward the nearest theater where The End of the Affair is showing. And as for the noble thoughts with which I usually recommend you fill your heart… well, just this once, keep a little corner of your heart empty, and see what this movie about the emptiness of hearts will fill it with.