What a shame.
Saw
Vanity Fair last night. It's a magnificent catastrophe. If the film had been an hour longer, had allowed the characters to breathe, had smoothed over transitions instead of hitting them like a car accelerating over speedbumps, and had somehow toned down Reese Witherspoon so she didn't stand out in technicolor relevant to the rest of the characters (most of whom are more interesting than her)... it might have worked.
Oh, it's well worth seeing, because the cast is extraordinary, and there are some wonderful scenes.
Above all, Romola Garai as Amelia is... how can I say this...
enchanting. Every time she arrives onscreen, I breathe a sigh of relief to turn my attention away from the caustic little Witherspoon and focus on an actress who knows how to disappear into a character. Unfortunately, the script doesn't allow her to shine the way she did in
I Capture the Castle, but she's so good that she steals every scene she's in. She's the beating heart of
Vanity Fair. Thus, it really hurts the film when she disappears for long sections, and when she returns it's always after an "eight years later," or "13 years later," and we've lost touch with her and her situation.
And, in spite of her performance, Romola Garai is also given the worst moment in the film... a moment of epiphany that rings so false and happens so abruptly that Croaker and I just burst out laughing in disbelief.
It's too bad, because she's the closest thing to a sympathetic character in the film. Rhys Ifans is actually quite noble and endearing, but we see so little of him that, at the end, when the film suddenly decides to take a sincere interest in him, it's too late. He gets a few big melodramatic moments that, because they come out of the clear blue, feel more like a parody of British drama than real British drama. (He also appears in increasingly laughable costumes, culminating in a hilarious British-aristocrat-in-India costume and then a laugh-out-loud pose in bright blue pants right at the ending, when we're supposed to be crying for him.)
That's a problem with the whole film. There are SO MANY characters and contexts, and just when we start to get our bearings, the film leaps ahead into some other place, some other time, and we have to scramble to figure out what's happened, who's who, how they relate, and who we even care about.
As for the concerns of those who have read the book, I suspect you'll find that Becky Sharp has been fashioned a bit to become a more sympathetic character. I haven't read the book, but it felt awkward to me. She spends most of the film in a power-hungry climb up the ladder of social status, and then, once in a while, the film gives her a moment of heartbreak as if the filmmakers assume we will weep for her and for the way the world is treating her. It doesn't work for me at all. I'm much more drawn to Amelia, who is delusional in her blind love for her foolish husband (the creepy-as-always Johnathan Rhys-Meyers), but who at least has a conscience and admirable ideals.
There is admirable supporting work from Bob Hoskins, Jim Broadbent, and an especially slimy Gabriel Byrne, half of the cast of
Gosford Park, and above all Eileen Atkins in the role that usually would have gone to Maggie Smith. Atkins may well earn a Best Supporting Actress nomination for this (and it would be about time!).
But Witherspoon fails for me in that I never once become aware of anything more than
REESE WITHERSPOON. She unmistakably a Movie Star, giving one of those unmistakable Oscar-Worthy Performances that never lets you forget just how Arresting she is. Thus, she sticks out like a sore thumb, brighter, whiter, and careening from one extreme of emotion to another.
If I were in this film, I would have whisked Amelia into my carriage and driven as far away from the rest of the characters in this film as possible.