Ralph Fiennes's second outing as director tells the affecting tale of Charles Dickens's relationship with Nelly Ternan
Ah – Margate. The wide open sands, the mewing gulls. The whipping breeze and the green sea. And, beyond the sands, of course, the dunes thick with grass, giving way to field upon field of rugged, rural idyll. And behind them, Margate itself: a chocolate box English village with quaint church and immaculate topiary.
The first scene of The Invisible Woman is the worst. Rarely has one location done such a poor impersonation of another as East Sussex does of Thanet at the start of Ralph Fiennes's second film behind the camera, as well as in front. Pity the poor tourists flooding off the train and on to the prom. They're going to think Margate's been even more buggered about in the past 150 years than it actually has been. More than that: it makes you immediately suspicious. How many other liberties will be taken? Is nothing sacred? And what's wrong with actual Margate anyway?
In fact, this coastal faux pas is an anomaly (albeit one that sets the scene and is returned to at regular intervals). Abi Morgan's script, adapting the Claire Tomalin book about Dickens's relationship with aspiring actor Nelly Ternan, is largely sensitive and sane. Granted, it turns the dial up to 11 on Tomalin's thesis about the extent of the affair, embracing all soapiest contingencies. Its touch is not always light – there's a scene in which Dickens literally builds a wall between himself and his wife – and its period dialogue sometimes slightly questionable ("I'm done, Mr Dickens," says someone, absolutely cream-crackered). But the point of The Invisible Woman, it turns out, is no more porny Victorian confession than it is seaside verisimilitude. The point is romance. And, a bit, feminism.
Fiennes, lavish ham that he is, plays Dickens the same – game and charismatic, forever gadding about the garden with his endless offspring or staging some new play by pal Wilkie Collins (Tom Hollander, buried beneath beard). It's through one of these that he meets Nelly (Felicity Jones), youngest child of Catherine (Kristin Scott Thomas).
Anyone who sees the way Nelly eyeballs her director, or the way he, in turn, regards his tubby, vulgar wife (Joanna Scanlan, great in an overegged role) – or, in fact, anyone who's seen Jones's most recent film, Breathe In, in which she plays an English exchange student who swaps charged glances with Guy Pearce's middle-aged music teacher – knows where this is going. It takes its time, though, rightly. As those who have seen Breathe In will also know, there is a tendency for sag, post-consummation.
Morgan's secret weapon, deployed with nice timing, is Nelly's own reticence. It is the girl who turns out to be unprogressive: starched and judgmental when young (albeit with some justification), brittle and tricky when older (it's bookended by Nelly's post-Dickens story, hence the moping on Margate sands).
This stubbornness is the twist in a tale that needs it. And the unlikely power structure in their relationship is what makes The Invisible Woman affecting. Fiennes's Dickens is no silver fox whisking off a hot groupie; his pursuit is so tentative and shambling it's almost embarrassing. A scene in which he yearningly rests his whiskers on Nelly's cheek is slightly sexy, yes, and also borderline repellant.
Morgan's script stacks the deck, and Fiennes too forever gives his hero the benefit of the doubt, casting him as unhappily married victim, hobbled by sudden love. But The Invisible Woman shies from propaganda just as Nelly shies from impropriety. Fiennes has done the right and proper thing here. He has, at 50, made a mature movie, prudent in the best possible sense.
Rating: 4/5 Reported by guardian.co.uk 13 hours ago.
Ah – Margate. The wide open sands, the mewing gulls. The whipping breeze and the green sea. And, beyond the sands, of course, the dunes thick with grass, giving way to field upon field of rugged, rural idyll. And behind them, Margate itself: a chocolate box English village with quaint church and immaculate topiary.
The first scene of The Invisible Woman is the worst. Rarely has one location done such a poor impersonation of another as East Sussex does of Thanet at the start of Ralph Fiennes's second film behind the camera, as well as in front. Pity the poor tourists flooding off the train and on to the prom. They're going to think Margate's been even more buggered about in the past 150 years than it actually has been. More than that: it makes you immediately suspicious. How many other liberties will be taken? Is nothing sacred? And what's wrong with actual Margate anyway?
In fact, this coastal faux pas is an anomaly (albeit one that sets the scene and is returned to at regular intervals). Abi Morgan's script, adapting the Claire Tomalin book about Dickens's relationship with aspiring actor Nelly Ternan, is largely sensitive and sane. Granted, it turns the dial up to 11 on Tomalin's thesis about the extent of the affair, embracing all soapiest contingencies. Its touch is not always light – there's a scene in which Dickens literally builds a wall between himself and his wife – and its period dialogue sometimes slightly questionable ("I'm done, Mr Dickens," says someone, absolutely cream-crackered). But the point of The Invisible Woman, it turns out, is no more porny Victorian confession than it is seaside verisimilitude. The point is romance. And, a bit, feminism.
Fiennes, lavish ham that he is, plays Dickens the same – game and charismatic, forever gadding about the garden with his endless offspring or staging some new play by pal Wilkie Collins (Tom Hollander, buried beneath beard). It's through one of these that he meets Nelly (Felicity Jones), youngest child of Catherine (Kristin Scott Thomas).
Anyone who sees the way Nelly eyeballs her director, or the way he, in turn, regards his tubby, vulgar wife (Joanna Scanlan, great in an overegged role) – or, in fact, anyone who's seen Jones's most recent film, Breathe In, in which she plays an English exchange student who swaps charged glances with Guy Pearce's middle-aged music teacher – knows where this is going. It takes its time, though, rightly. As those who have seen Breathe In will also know, there is a tendency for sag, post-consummation.
Morgan's secret weapon, deployed with nice timing, is Nelly's own reticence. It is the girl who turns out to be unprogressive: starched and judgmental when young (albeit with some justification), brittle and tricky when older (it's bookended by Nelly's post-Dickens story, hence the moping on Margate sands).
This stubbornness is the twist in a tale that needs it. And the unlikely power structure in their relationship is what makes The Invisible Woman affecting. Fiennes's Dickens is no silver fox whisking off a hot groupie; his pursuit is so tentative and shambling it's almost embarrassing. A scene in which he yearningly rests his whiskers on Nelly's cheek is slightly sexy, yes, and also borderline repellant.
Morgan's script stacks the deck, and Fiennes too forever gives his hero the benefit of the doubt, casting him as unhappily married victim, hobbled by sudden love. But The Invisible Woman shies from propaganda just as Nelly shies from impropriety. Fiennes has done the right and proper thing here. He has, at 50, made a mature movie, prudent in the best possible sense.
Rating: 4/5 Reported by guardian.co.uk 13 hours ago.
