Adaptation
of a novel, especially one that floats back and forth in time and
meanders in the interior world of thought, feeling, and perception, is
notoriously difficult to bring to the screen. In reading, we often move
at a more leisurely pace, controlled by the speed of language often
sounded and played on the screens of our imagination. Films are an
action medium. They derive much of their dramatic punch by demanding of
the audience and storyteller a continuous pace and flow of events. The
strength of a film is in presenting to us what people do, how they shape
events, and how they interact. We have not read the novel upon which End
of the Affair is based, and, in any case, we believe that a film
should stand on its own. Whether due to the difficulties of the
adaptation process in moving from the interior world to the action
world, or due to decisions made in the editing room, we sadly report
that, despite important themes, End of the Affair falls short of
its potential. The film is repetitive, plodding, and ultimately
disappointing.
Despite all that, we duly
report that the movie had a significant emotional impact on both of us.
Cinematic, literary, and oral stories often have a deeply resonating
power because of something in the beholder that is ready to receive a
message regardless of how the message is delivered.
Writer/director Neil Jordan
weaves this London based World War II love triangle between Maurice Bendrix
(Ralph Fiennes), Sarah Miles (Julianne Moore), and Henry (Stephen Rea),
Sarah’s husband. Sarah and Maurice have recently been lovers. They are
separated by social convention, their flaws, and a third reason, which
must remain a surprise.
After a separation of two
years, Maurice and Sarah reunite. Through the elements of a love story,
a mystery, and a comedy of sorts, End of the Affair ever so
slowly and painfully reveals the difficulty of the lovers, as the forces
at work are a jumble of misconceptions, misunderstandings, and
miscalculations.
Filmed in Jordan’s
signature format with slow rhythm and subdued, moody lighting, the story
winds through numerous flashbacks that are often repeated to bring us
into the subjective perception of one and then the other character. The
pivotal flashback that illustrates the reason for Sarah’s sudden
break-up of the affair is diminished by the extent to which it repeats
the just screened flashback of the same scene illustrating Maurice’s
point of view.
Another poorly illustrated
element is the physical passion between the lovers. We did not for a
second feel that Maurice and Sarah were inflamed with love or even lust
for each other. Their coupling seems like a well-choreographed show with
not a spark of chemistry indicating that these people would even lock
eyes if they passed each other on the street. It was a pleasure to see
Julianne Moore’s bare breasts, but neither of us can think of a
non-porn flick in which lovemaking was so disenchanting.
The intertwined destinies of
the three characters unfold with clashes between fleshly desire, love of
God, and domestic marital ministrations. In an ironic twist, the
cuckolded Henry considers Maurice a trusted friend and confidant. He
tells Maurice of his suspicions that Sarah is having an affair. Hardly
concerned about Henry, with whom Maurice would trade places as Sarah’s
husband in an instant, Maurice hires a private investigator.
All the while, Sarah is torn
by her internal processes. She has only made two vows to God in her
life. She broke her marriage vow with Maurice in part because her
marriage is empty, and her husband is an emotionless shell.
Her second vow is never to
see Maurice again. With every breath, she yearns to be with Maurice, to
enfold him with her being and stay beside him forever, but if she breaks
the promise she made within her spirit and to God, she betrays herself
and loses her sense of truth, goodness, and integrity. To add to her
angst, Maurice is jealous to the point of driving Sarah away emotionally
if not actually. Sarah is thus suspended in an emotional dilemma between
her inclination toward passionate love and her promises to and love for
God. She can’t free herself to be with Maurice because of her marriage
vow and conventional propriety, and she can’t keep her promise to stay
away from Maurice because of her desire for him and the loneliness she
feels with Henry.
The exploration of passion
and the meaning of promises to God is interwoven with a series of funny
mistakes of fact gathered by the private investigator. The investigator
is a deadpan man (Ian Hart) assisted by a facially birth marked son (Sam
Bould). The son has a kind of working class English charm, and the
father spouts equal measures of wisdom and nonsense about the business
of proving marital infidelity.
The heart of End of the
Affair ponders on the human difficulty to reconcile the notions of
the Divine with the passions that make it impossible to know what is
really happening. We are so often deceived by our state of mind and
heart. We often make deals with God whereby we receive a benefit by
promising to do something virtuous or forgo vice. And yet, these deals
are often made based on human proclivities that cannot possibly be
determined or predicted with any kind of exactitude. We are usually in
the firm grip of despair or gushing sentiment when we utter them. When
we awaken to a harsher reality, when the bloom of emotion fades, or a
different perspective emerges, we are stuck without the impetus of the
emotional spike that prompted the promise. And so we find poor Sarah.
It is hard to imagine a
supreme being, the master and creator of the Universe who would care to
keep earthly beings bound to enslaving promises. We may have a spark of
divine intelligence, but we also embody a heavy dose of primal, social,
and biological programming. How could a One who knit the fabric of all
material, energetic, and spiritual creation possibly be so particularly
concerned with keeping us enslaved to a vow made in a moment of passion
or sentiment that defies the very nature of our perfection, a vow that
is, in some ways, more evil in its keeping than it would be in its
breaking?
Maybe, our concern for such
vows gives us a magical sweetness. Maybe, something within us is made
purer in the act of the promise, even a broken one. After all, a miracle
is attributed to Sarah because of her tender concern for others and her
fidelity to a higher nature. In the end, the sacrifices we make, and the
pain we suffer to be faithful to our promises might give birth to
reconciliation and beauty, and even unexplainable blessings that
transcend our death.
As compelling as these
elements may seem, End of the Affair buckles under the
considerable weight of its intentions. The conflicting forces the film
tries to illuminate; forces that ennoble us one level and tear us apart
on another are lost in the drizzling rain.
If you have a different take
that will help us and others appreciate the deeper significance of this
film, we would love to read your reactions and include them in our
AfterGlow.
