Green Lights

Of all that’s been written about the latest film adaptation of one of the most iconic works in American literature, this much is true: it is inherently faithful to the spirit of the novel — or, as the headline for critic David Edelstein’s review in New York magazine put it, “The Colossal Vitality of His Illusion.” And that’s no small thing.

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby is all about illusion, and though I approached director Baz Luhrmann‘s depiction of the piece I most cherish in American fiction with trepidation, it is that very faithfulness that won me over. At its heart, the film very much captures those elements so integral to the novel’s lasting hold on generations, and which keeps this sometimes over-the-top interpretation by the maker of Moulin Rouge! from being a sort of hip-hop Gatsby Bergère. (Movie trailer to the contrary.)

Gatsby’s “green light” at the end of the pier has never become a hackneyed concept to me. The poignancy of this enigmatic character, who so doggedly places all his hopes and dreams in someone intrinsically unworthy of the purity of his inspiration, has always had tremendous resonance. Far beyond its significance as a paragonic parable of American culture in the 1920s, and its timeless truths about the callousness of the rich, Gatsby is at its core about one man’s mythical invention, which, though folly, reflects a touching dignity that stands as a testament to the tenacity of the soul.

The beauty of Fitzgerald’s writing carries a luminescence that hovers over any reading (and I think I’ve read it at least half a dozen times). In an article that appeared in the same issue of New York as the Edelstein movie review, writer Kathryn Schulz debunks the novel from a literary perspective with particular relish, yet nevertheless describes Gatsby as “a single crystal, scrupulously polished.”

She also alludes to an interesting aspect that struck me as I watched the film, which has to do with the pronounced lack of romantic chemistry between the actors at the center of the story — Leonardo DiCaprio and Carey Mulligan in this case, for those who’ve been hiding in a cave — and which I intellectualized as being perhaps not an important thing, because in the end, the character of Daisy Buchanan is no more than a blank canvas upon which Gatsby alone sketches his solitary and imperturbable imprint.

As it turns out, Schulz writes that Fitzgerald himself had once admitted that he “gave no account (and had no feeling about or knowledge of) the emotional relations between Gatsby and Daisy.” It really was all about the green light, bigger in mind and memory than any of the more pedestrian aspects of love and desire.

Call me idealistic (or sentimental), but I’m always moved by those lines at the conclusion of the book about how “tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther,” before it ends with what I think is the most perfect closing in American literature. (Something about boats and currents…)

Gatsby believed in that green light. And he wasn’t the only one.

Film: Alfred and “Anna”

The problem with Hitchcock, an ironically harmless retelling of the making of the 1960 horror classic, Psycho, is both the largeness (girth aside) of its protagonist, and the prodigious talents of the actor who portrays him. Though a hugely successful chapter in the career of the “master of suspense,” the film’s focus is way too limited to adequately accommodate a legend of Alfred Hitchcock’s magnitude, and — apart from one or two noteworthy moments which rise above caricature — a performer of Anthony Hopkins‘ caliber.

Helen Mirren (who’s already garnered both SAG and Golden Globe nominations) plays the no-nonsense spouse who provides indispensable grounding for the corpulent and driven director, in her role as Alma Reville, his partner of eventually 54 years. In truth, Mirren really has only one important scene in the production, so it’s baffling as to why Hopkins is not similarly feeling the love as far as award-season plaudits are concerned. His orchestral-like conducting of the screams from the audience at the Psycho premiere, as he surreptitiously stands outside the doors to the theatre, is inspired.

But a handful of good moments do not a memorable movie make, and in the end, Hitchcock is a missed opportunity for what could have been a fascinating combination of great actor and subject material.

If I was anticipating more from Hitchcock than was delivered, I have to say that Anna Karenina in some ways surpassed expectations. Director Joe Wright’s imaginative interpretation of the epic Tolstoy novel demands suspension of disbelief from the beginning: its theatrical setting serves as a fluid backdrop that continually transforms itself in quite remarkable ways, and though perhaps initially cumbersome, you soon adapt to the creative transitions of the unorthodox mise-en-scène without a second thought.

It’s a lush, captivating experience, which may have proven even more so had it not been for an essential lack of chemistry between the principals at the heart of the time-honored drama. Keira Knightley‘s beauty serves her well in the role of the tragic heroine, and I was looking forward to seeing who would be paired with her as the fateful paramour, Count Vronsky. Alas, Aaron Taylor-Johnson sorely disappoints (yes, I like my Vronskys tall, dark, and handsome — not inauthentically blond and pouffy) — and though shallowness is not necessarily a bad thing for this part, Taylor-Johnson has nowhere near the kind of magnetism that can make you believe that the title character, living a highly comfortable and respectable life in 19th-Century czarist Russia society, would leave her husband and young son, bear a child out of wedlock, and endure the ostracization that ultimately ends in her suicide, all for the sake of being at his side. (Fortunately, the real depth in the acting department is provided by a nearly unrecognizable Jude Law, as the long-suffering husband, Karenin. It’s a performance that’s stoic, understated, and quite moving.)

Despite the key miscasting, the film is grandly transporting, and unexpectedly lingers in the mind. It’s gorgeous to watch and a standout addition to the crowded list of Karenina remakes.

The Kubrick Eye

An exhibition setting from “The Shining” (1980)

It’s a testament to the breadth of the genius of film director Stanley Kubrick that even the most comprehensive exhibition ever devoted to his work barely touches on one of his most extraordinary ancillary talents: the uncannily perfect choices in music he so exquisitely utilized for his classics, from 2001: A Space Odyssey to his final opus, Eyes Wide Shut. Just this aspect alone would probably require an exhibit in itself.

Diane Arbus, “Identical Twins” (1967)

So we’ll leave his brilliant musician’s ear for another occasion and take in some of the visual-arts influences that permeated his films and are among the themes explored in Stanley Kubrick, which has opened at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art for a six-month residency, after appearing at a number of European cities before landing in the U.S. this month.

An installation comprised of over 600 objects and materials including props, cameras, scripts, and sketches, it’s the largest compilation to date of the director’s contributions to modern cinema. (Kubrick died at the age of 70, in 1999.)

It’s no surprise that the relationship between the filmmaker and art would permeate any examination of the Kubrick legacy. A striking example is revealed in the ghostlike twins who made a memorable appearance in The Shining; it’s safe to surmise that the seminal photograph, Identical Twins by Diane Arbus, made an impression on the director, who was a photojournalist early in his career.

Likewise, another scene from the same film, which has Jack Nicholson slumped over next to his typewriter before he begins a nightmarish descent into psychosis, harbors elements of the creepy 1799 etching by Francisco Goya, with the unforgettable title, The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters. (Also featured in the collection are the geometric planks by artist John McCracken that are believed to have influenced Kubrick in the creation of the mysterious black monoliths that figured so prominently in 2001.)

Film as canvas: “Barry Lyndon” (1975)

But the artistic apotheosis is probably the long-neglected masterpiece Barry Lyndon, now considered one of Kubrick’s greatest achievements, where the 18th Century was brought gorgeously to life in settings — inspired by such painters as Gainsborough and Watteau — that are stunning in their period beauty. Kubrick scoured numerous art books devoted to the epoch in order to accomplish the effect.

I can’t think of another director with quite as many levels of sensibility as Kubrick. I ran across a quote from fellow director Martin Scorsese where he said, “Watching a Kubrick film is like gazing up at a mountaintop. You look up and wonder, how could anyone have climbed that high?” And how lucky for film lovers, who’ve been privileged enough to share the incomparable views.

A young Kubrick with camera, in the ’40s

At Hitchcock’s Place

Whenever I think of the films of Alfred Hitchcock, I think of… apartments. Not out-of-control birds or psychos in showers, but apartments — in all their Hollywood-constructed artifice. I was reminded of this as I saw Vertigo again, recently voted the greatest movie of all time by the British Film Institute, supplanting Citizen Kane, which had held that slot for the last 50 years.

In Vertigo, it’s Barbara Bel Geddes’ faux bohemian pad, right, with San Francisco’s Coit Tower as a backdrop, where the easel she employs as an aspiring artist is center stage when Jimmy Stewart drops by to chat. Likewise, Stewart’s own bachelor abode, where his character likes to toss throw pillows in front of the fireplace, especially when Kim Novak comes for an unexpected visit.

Rear Window, of course, would provide a justifiable explanation for my Hitchcock apartment fixation; after all, the film revolves entirely around Stewart’s voyeuristic snooping on the strange occurrences transpiring at a building across the way. And how about Grace Kelly, right, lounging languorously on that incongruous bed in the living room as Stewart nurses a broken leg in the wheelchair?

There’s also Dial M for Murder, with its overpowering desk where the pivotal telephone resides, as well as the always-drawn drapes that signal the claustrophobia of bad things waiting to happen.

But the real reason is Rope, right, my all-time favorite Hitchcock film. It’s hard to match a setting that features a buffet arrangement atop a chest that’s really a repository for a just-committed homicide. As a panoramic Manhattan looms in the background, the ‘40s-chic dinner guests (a little blood with that champagne, please) are oblivious to the surreality of their situation as unknowing visitors at a murder scene. For the viewer, the tension in the air is almost as strangling as the actual crime. (Recalling one of the director’s mordant quotes: “Some of our most exquisite murders have been domestic, performed with tenderness in simple, homey places like the kitchen table.”) Rope is, for me, Hitchcock at his most sardonic.

I couldn’t come up with a consistent name responsible for the subtle genius behind the creation of these memorable set designs (no Bernard Herrmann-like collaborator, who scored several of the great Hitchcock films), as the director worked with so many. Which makes it obvious that most of the myriad architectural motifs were probably a result of the master’s own singular imagination. Imagination, one is reminded, that was as wonderfully creative as it applied to the mysterious as well as the mundane. Like apartments.

(Illustration / top: Stanley Chow)

Pop Culture Musing for a Thursday 6/7/12

Passage to India: Having the option of seeing either The Avengers or The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel was a no-brainer for me (and it has little to do with “demographics”). The opportunity to watch actors of the caliber of Judi Dench, Tom Wilkinson, Bill Nighy, and Maggie Smith at the top of their games shouldn’t be passed up no matter what your age. (Witness how the film has quietly made its way to the top ten in U.S. box-office receipts.)

Set in Jaipur, Marigold tells the story of a group of retirees who by choice or necessity (mostly necessity) leave England for (unbeknownst to them) misleadingly photoshopped lodgings in the center of the bustling Indian metropolis. Plot really matters not that much, as the film focuses more on the spiritual awakenings they undergo when faced with the tumult and fascination of the Hindu culture. The quality of the acting is such that one feels less an observer than a participant in the zone of emotional realism occupied by these seasoned veterans.

What more can be said about Dame Judi (shown left and reunited here with John Madden, who directed her Oscar-winning performance in Shakespeare in Love)?  Her intelligent eyes raise the bar for the IQ of actors allowed in her presence. Bill Nighy, who has probably the singular dramatic moment in the movie, as a sensitive man senselessly clinging to a loveless marriage, is typically excellent (though alas, he and Dench lack the chemistry to make their eventual attraction to each other believable.) Maggie Smith is Maggie Smith, dry and wonderfully wry as always. And then there’s the awesome Tom Wilkinson, who provides the most moving and understated performance of the whole lot. His character’s sad yet ultimately liberating reasons for returning to the country of his youth make for a memorable and haunting segment of the film. (For the younger crowd, Dev Patel, previously of Slumdog Millionaire, provides Red Bull-fueled freneticism as the novice manager of what was once his father’s hotel.)

A celebration of all the changes that can be possible no matter how late in life, Marigold is also an affirmation of human resiliency, or as the Dench character narrates at one point, “The only real failure is failure to try, and the only measure of success is how we cope with disappointment.” An uplifting message at the heart of a sweet and satisfying film.

Color Her Barbra

Among the goals since the beginning of this blog has been to try to hit all the “marks,” so to speak, as far as creative heroes whose work has impacted me in ways I carry around to the present day. I’ve been meaning for some time to get around to one of those who multitasked in the entertainment category, Barbra Streisand; I think the occasion of her 70th birthday this month is more than perfect timing.

It’s a vivid childhood memory; everyone has one, a moment when a movie star or pop star or whatever star is etched in your mind in a way you understand is permanent. Such it was with me at the age of nine, seeing Funny Girl for the first time in a dark and cavernous 1960s movie theater, like so many that disappeared with the advent of the multiplex. I was mesmerized by what I saw (and heard) on the huge screen; so much so, I stayed for a second showing (guess I was spared the typical kid’s ADD), despite its clocking in at nearly three hours – with intermission.

As the encomiums for this real legend (not a throwaway description here) follow in April, I think of Streisand as such a constant along the road of life, with unbound admiration for her artistic courage, tenaciousness, and passion. But most of all the talent.

The Marvelous Meryl

With the start of the award-season accolades for Meryl Streep, which began Sunday night at the Golden Globes (this time for The Iron Lady), I’m reminded of how often this crown jewel amongst American actresses has been passed over for performances that her peers could only dream of aspiring to. The 2010 Academy Awards were the lowest case in point, when Sandra Bullock bested Streep and her flawless interpretation of Julia Child in Julie & Julia. Could anyone else, much less Bullock, have crafted such a memorable take on that idiosyncratic icon of the American kitchen? (Bullock’s role in The Blind Side could have been played by a younger Streep in her sleep.)

Likewise, it wasn’t until last month that the Kennedy Center finally made Streep an honoree at its year-end gala, despite previously bestowing it on others less obviously deserving (Steve Martin and Dolly Parton, to name but two).

And in another example of “overlooking the Streep,” one remembers that despite a record 17 nominations, 2012 will mark almost 30 years since Streep’s last Best-Actress Oscar (for 1982′s Sophie’s Choice) and that, incredibly, Hilary Swank (and Jodie Foster and Sally Field, for that matter) actually hold more Best-Actress statuettes (two) than their far more luminous colleague.

And while I’m on a roll, let’s not forget just a few of the films for which Streep did not win the Oscar (regretful trivia): Silkwood, Out of Africa, The Bridges of Madison County, and more recently, Doubt and The Devil Wears Prada.

Pop Culture Musing for a Tuesday 11/29/11

Is it Live or is it Marilyn?: What a daunting challenge to recreate an icon on the level of Marilyn Monroe and come away not only unscathed, but glorious. Of the few actresses I can think of who could attempt such a feat, Michelle Williams would not have been among the first to come to mind. In My Week With Marilyn, she pulls off an amazing performance that goes way beyond surface physical transformation to encompass the troubled psychological depths of a tragic legend. If Monroe’s luminous sexuality had a bit of a hard-edged tinge, Williams’ take is more softly scintillating, adding emotional contours that go a long way in helping to understand the woman who was the most famous of her time. A wonderful moment has Williams as Monroe asking “Shall I be her?” as she approaches an impromptu crowd, and in a blink of an instant, switches the light on her other self, the Marilyn the public always expected, in all her splendor. Oscar, anyone? (A shout-out also to Kenneth Branagh, in a masterly portrayal of the great Laurence Olivier.)

No Place Like It

Midnight in Paris reminds again that Woody Allen is the proverbial phoenix of filmmakers, often discounted after a less-than-stellar project or another, then hitting one out of the park that you didn’t see coming. Over just the last few years, for example, the terrific Match Point (2005) was followed by the forgettable Scoop and Cassandra’s Dream; and then… Vicky Cristina Barcelona (2008). Next, the minor-leaguers Whatever Works and You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger; and now… Midnight in Paris.

So the cycle continues. It’s difficult to not love a movie that opens as a visual paean to the beauty of Paris, an appropriate preamble to the chimeric confection that follows. Plot thin but fantasy rich, Midnight in Paris is held together by the Allen alter-ego here played by Owen Wilson, an actor I never thought to like as much I did in this performance – a soft, musingly dazy portrayal that is never less than enchanting. His character, Gil, a Hollywood scriptwriter who yearns to be a novelist, is in the City of Light on a business trip with his prosaic fiancée Inez (Rachel McAdams), a not-so-soulmate for an aspiring artist with a dream driving his heart.

It all unfolds with bells at the stroke of midnight, as a wandering Gil is picked up in a backstreet alley by revelers in a classic Peugeot that is clearly from another time. And then the real party begins. We’re back in 1920s Paris, with a cast of characters that makes Gil feel like the ultimate stranger in paradise. Scott and Zelda, Cole Porter, Ernest Hemingway…and that’s just the beginning.

“Eyre” – and Heirs

The latest– and umpteenth– remake of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre (with accolades for Mia Wasikowska as the title character) is a might-as-well moment to think about some other films based on classic novels that go ‘round in the cinematic carousel of the mind. A brief few:

Barry Lyndon: Took a very long time for the consensus to catch up with what was always the case: Stanley Kubrick knew exactly what he was doing with William Thackeray’s novel (though the 1975 film was parodied at the time as “Borey Lyndon”). Every nuance reflects the masterful director’s touch (and as usual, his choice of music was uncanny).

The Age of Innocence: Martin Scorsese’s 1993 interpretation of the Edith Wharton tome set in 1870s New York City was beautifully brought to life by his attention to period detail, as well as the simmering earnestness of Daniel Day Lewis’ performance as the tormented suitor obsessed with the unconventional Countess Olenska, played by Michelle Pfeiffer. (Which reminds me, what happened to her?)

Death in Venice: Hopefully, this will remain the last (and only) film rendition of the Thomas Mann novella, as it’s impossible to replicate the perfection of Dirk Bogarde as the tragic von Aschenbach (or the inspired use of the “Adagietto” from Mahler’s 5^th Symphony as the musical backdrop for this melancholy masterpiece, directed by Luchino Visconti).

The Great Gatsby: Feel strangely contrarian to the general opinion of the 1974 version with Robert Redford and Mia Farrow. Especially thanks to my bow-down admiration of the Fitzgerald novel. But always liked it! Even Farrow! The movie had a not-big-name director (Jack Clayton, though the script was written by Francis Ford Coppola) and forever widely panned, but still get pulled in whenever I run across it. Maybe I’ll be able to replace this guilty Gatsby pleasure when the latest adaptation, directed by Baz Luhrman, with Leonardo DiCaprio as Gatsby and Carey Mulligan as Daisy, eventually reaches the big screen. (It begins production this August.)

And lastly, Wuthering Heights, William Wyler’s 1939 Hollywood recreation of the Emily Bronte Gothic weepie, with the eternally lovely Laurence Olivier as Heathcliff. Merle Oberon was kind of pretty as well.

Pop Culture Musing for a Wednesday 3/23/11

A Taylor Moment: In another time, the passing of screen ______ (fill in the blank, as “legend” is so terribly overused, and small in this case), Elizabeth Taylor, at 79, would have been a wall-to-wall event on the cable-news-net planet. Watching the coverage on MSNBC this morning, stories like “Ways to Improve Memory” seemed just as important. Changing world, changing demographics. For me, the iconic Taylor image is at the end of 1951’s A Place in the Sun, as she appears in slow-motion memory in Montgomery Clift’s mind as he’s being led to his execution. Ethereally beautiful and elusive, the ultimate unattainable goddess fantasy. Freeze the frame, now forever.

Pop Culture Musing for a Monday 2/28/11

(Quick) Oscar Impressions:

– Best achievement award for not running overtime.
– Franco/Hathaway: Bit of a bipolar pair. Didn’t find them especially annoying, except for Franco’s silly drag moment.
– Over-the-top line: Hathaway introducing Oprah: “Lucky we can breathe the same air.”
– Tactful: Finally, no clapping/popularity contest during the “In Memoriam” segment.
– Nostalgia: The warm reception for Billy Crystal.
– Director: Should have been David Fincher. Social Network was the total package (zeitgeist included). Thankfully, Aaron Sorkin won for screenplay, Trent Reznor for music.
– Actress: And Annette Bening keeps waiting. Looks like she’ll follow Streep in the most-deserving-but-don’t hold-your-breath department. But what will it take to win her first? (And depressing how hubby Warren Beatty has deteriorated.)
– Actor: Colin Firth, no problem.
– Best Picture: Knew it was in the can when I heard the King’s speech-over in the nominees recap.

Of Swan Queens and Stuttering Kings

Demons of the Dance: I had heard that Darren Aronofsky’s psychological “thriller,” Black Swan, was an all-or-nothing proposition: either you loved it or hated it. It was a little of both for me. Some of Natalie Portman’s performance I loved; some not so much. As the (mentally) unbalanced ballerina Nina, she captures the rudiments of the visual vocabulary remarkably well for a non-dancer; the skinny silhouette is dead-on, and the beautiful face doesn’t hurt. And she is quite gripping in certain key scenes. (Still, the furrowed brow – and the sighing that seemed a supplemental soundtrack to the Tchaikovsky score – are distracting.)

She plays a girl/woman haunted by a duality of personality that echoes the White Swan/Black Swan roles in Swan Lake she is picked to perform by a demanding artistic director (Vincent Cassel), despite misgivings about her ability to portray the darker character. This launches an (inner) exploratory journey with descents into madness and gore that the hate-it crowd would cite as over the top. (Like Fatal Attraction, but the stalker here is the hidden side of Nina’s own self). Winona Ryder has a more or less cameo appearance as a fading ballerina, a reminder of what a shame that she’s had a dearth of parts since her shoplifting follies of several years ago, and I barely recognized Barbara Hershey, who plays Portman’s mother and frustrated former dancer (with a couple of screws loose herself).

I actually think Aronofsky was having some fun with all this, and if I’m not mistaken, I don’t remember another major theatrical film release dealing with the world of ballet since 1977’s The Turning Point. Maybe an unintentional by-product of this movie will be a renewed interest in the art, which has steadily declined over the past few years.

All Hail Colin Firth: The King’s Speech, directed by Tom Hooper, is in itself not terribly memorable, but one will long recall the king with the stammer, George VI, as a result of Firth’s performance. He should be a lock for the Oscar this year, and kudos also to Geoffrey Rush as the miracle (word) worker, and a sweet (and subdued) Helena Bonham Carter as the future, beloved Queen Mum.

Genius In That Midst

The French film, Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky, leaves one again amazed at those times in artistic history when geniuses waltzed and worked and loved amongst each other.

The magnificent opening depicts the premiere, in 1913, of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring at Paris’ Théâtre des Champs-Elysees, with a ballet (long since relegated to oblivion) choreographed by Vaslav Nijinsky. The jeers (“An insult to music!”) from the crowd evolved into chaos, the police brought in to restore order. So there’s Stravinsky…and Nijinsky…and Sergei Diaghilev (who consoles a despondent Nijinsky with “God tests those He loves the most’)…and Chanel, in the audience. (Enough geniuses for everyone?)

This is an elegant rendition of the relationship between the two titans of 20th-Century music and fashion, of which, frankly, I was not aware. A meeting of ice-on-ice personalities, whose respective fires only really burned for their work. See the passion of Stravinsky at piano, hammering out the chords of Spring; Chanel’s intense focus on the finalization of the scent that became “No. 5.”

The film is beautiful to look at, the actors, Anna Mouglalis (who crystallizes Chanel) and Mads Mikkelsen (who brings the sexy to Stravinsky), both up to the task of recreating path-blazing icons. Oh, to have been a fly on those walls…

An Actress and One Part

Jill Clayburgh stayed with me as a result of a single performance, in her break-out film, Paul Mazursky’s An Unmarried Woman (1978). When I heard she passed yesterday at age 66, I was unexpectedly saddened.

Her work was quirkily intelligent, and I respected that at the height of her fame she made the bold choice of appearing in Bernardo Bertolucci’s Luna (1979) when she easily had her pick of vehicles with more mass appeal. Last saw her in 2006′s Running with Scissors (in a sort of scary role, sad really) and was reminded of what a shame it was that the arc of her career fell to such mediocrity. So as “Erica Benton” she shall remain.

A “Furious Love”, Now Almost Forgotten

An anecdote included with the acknowledgments at the end of Furious Love: Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton, and the Marriage of the Century would startle anyone who remembers the couple as an iconic staple of the ‘60s and ‘70s: a recent college theatre graduate assumed a “Taylor-Burton” romance was a mating of Elizabeth Taylor and film director Tim Burton. For others, it’s difficult to remember those times and not conjure their images, much in the same way one does The Beatles. This dual biography of the two, sanctioned by Taylor, is intended as a way to keep alive the diminishing legacy of Burton, who died in 1984 at the untimely age of 58.

It really is hard to imagine a similar, endlessly fascinating story playing out in the public imagination today. [Sorry, but Pitt, Jolie, and Aniston just don’t cut it.] It was larger than life, and the excesses of their lifestyle could only exist in another time. It was that lifestyle that sadly distracted Burton from achieving a more memorable body of work to be analyzed by future generations. Perhaps had he spent more time in exploiting his God-given talents than chasing down baubles for his no-doubt extraordinarily beautiful and world-famous wife, we would have seen the performances that he was meant to excel in.

The denial of what was such an integral part of Burton’s artistic being did nothing but fuel the demons that eventually consumed him.

           

Of course, he pretty much abandoned the serious stage after connecting with Taylor, and for this moody, melancholic Welshman, the denial of what was such an integral part of his artistic being did nothing but fuel the demons that eventually consumed him. He had a touch of the poet: a line from one of his diaries describes a memorable moment in the Italian countryside as “being nostalgia before it was even over.” His letters to Taylor are particularly disarming as well, and capture some of the genuine chemistry, outside the manufactured glamour, between the two.

In the end, it’s a sad tale twice-fold: not only the truncated classical career and the personality remembered primarily for the opulent inanities, but the ultimate separation from the woman that he did it all for. Taylor reveals that Burton’s final letter to her, which arrived after his death, said that he wanted to “come home.” A lovely sentiment, but one comes away from this book with the feeling that for such a tortured soul as Burton’s, “home” was but a temporary refuge.

[Postscript: 3/23/11: Finally reunited.]