Copyright © 2000 by Michael
Segers, All rights reserved
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 42nd 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. Graham Greene is well-remembered on the Internet
with one of the most elegant sites I’ve ever seen:
http://members.tripod.com/%7Egreeneland
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.
The Rovin' and Ravin' Film Reviews