A Wrinkle In Time (2018)

Since its publication in 1962, Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle In Time has gained a reputation for being unfilmable… for good reason. The book mixes science fiction and Christian theology in an epic odyssey across time, space and the universe – in ways that are endlessly charming to fans, and frustratingly messy to detractors. L’Engle’s defiantly episodic tale provides as many pitfalls as opportunities for aspiring filmmakers – accordingly, director Ava DuVernay winds up getting about as much right as she gets wrong.

Meg Murry (Storm Reid) – full of youth, self-loathing and abandonment issues – is the prickly heart of the film. It’s been four years since her physicist dad (Chris Pine) disappeared, and Meg is still falling apart. But everything changes when her precocious six-year-old brother, Charles Wallace (Deric McCabe), invites a most peculiar stranger into their home. Before long, Mrs Whatsit (Reese Witherspoon) and her two equally unusual friends, Mrs Who (Mindy Kaling) and Mrs Which (Oprah Winfrey), invite the Murry siblings and their new friend, Calvin (Levi Miller), on a journey that will take them to the darkest corners of the galaxy – which might well include the very depths of their own souls.

In narrative terms, A Wrinkle In Time makes the canny decision to focus firmly on Meg in moving the story forward. While Meg was also the primary protagonist in the book, L’Engle spent almost as much time dwelling on what made her two male companions so special. The film chooses to lavish more attention on Meg, allowing her and all her insecurities and contradictions to anchor the entire adventure. It’s Meg whose undying devotion to her father knocks the travellers off-course, and Meg who refuses to give up when loss threatens to claim her loved ones.

On this count, at least, the final result is something quite lovely. Meg is achingly real – an awkward young girl who can neither take nor believe compliments about herself, but who has the potential to change the world if only she can find her confidence and voice. Reid is fantastic in the part, credibly convincing audiences that Meg’s faults might also be her gifts – that the outsized amount of love in her heart is not something she needs to hide or play down. It’s an empowering message for girls and boys, and probably the best thing about DuVernay’s otherwise uneven adaptation.

Unfortunately, the rest of A Wrinkle In Time lingers somewhere in the key of mediocre. For a book like L’Engle’s, every choice made in changing or updating the novel for the screen will invariably invite debate. Viewers and readers will be discussing for years to come whether Meg’s perfectly ordinary twin brothers should have been cut out of the family, and if the film’s glamorous, purely Hollywoodian depiction of the three mysterious Mrses somehow makes them less – rather than more – interesting.

Where it really counts, however, Jennifer Lee’s screenplay seems determined to avoid as much controversy as possible. The film steers almost entirely clear of what made the book such a seminal work of children’s literature, paring away the Christian themes and allegories L’Engle embedded in her story and characters. And yet, it retains a lot of the more peculiar detours taken by the book, from visiting a Happy Medium (Zach Galifianakis) to encountering a sinister man with red eyes (Michael Pena). As a result, A Wrinkle In Time is almost as random and weird as the book on which it’s based – but lacks the layers and soul that help make the weirdness work.

To be fair, there are plenty of enjoyable moments threaded throughout DuVernay’s film. If you accept it for what it is, Meg’s hero journey is irresistible and important for generations of young girls who will see themselves in her as she steps up and takes charge. Some of the modern updates are hugely welcome – from the diversity of the characters to a quite wonderful Hamilton reference. The cast, too,  is uniformly appealing. Witherspoon, in particular, is having the time of her life as the chirpy, chatty Mrs Whatsit;, while Chris Pine continues his streak of playing white, male characters that we don’t often see on screen by injecting his performance with a dark fragility.

Nonetheless, it’s hard to shake the feeling that A Wrinkle In Time could have been so much more. In the hands of DuVernay (and, of course, Disney), the film is visually arresting, turning up the gloss, colour saturation and special effects to elicit full eye-popping wonder. But all the visual resplendence in the world can’t disguise the messiness of the film’s central themes and ideas. In effect, DuVernay’s adaptation – a blockbuster that comes across as safe and generic when it should be bold and unusual – has things of its own to say but, in so doing, it largely misses L’Engle’s point.

Basically: A well-intentioned mess that manages to be weird – and yet also not weird enough.

Carol (2015)

These days, it’s hard to be surprised by a love story in a film. We’ve seen endless permutations of romantic relationships – running the gamut from doomed to fated, blissful to tragic, underscored by varying degrees of love, lust and chemistry. There shouldn’t even be much of a surprise to the love story that forms the heart and soul of Carol – anyone who walks into the cinema will know that this is The Movie In Which Cate Blanchett And Rooney Mara Play Lesbians. And yet, Todd Haynes’ masterful, intoxicating film unfolds in a series of small, subtle surprises, culminating in one of the most profoundly affecting romances ever committed to film.

The film opens in New York, in the early 1950s. Christmas is right around the corner, and Therese (Mara) is working as a shopgirl in the toy section of a department store. She meets and serves dozens of people, but only one catches her eye: Carol (Blanchett), a poised, polished and seemingly perfect example of the many wives and mothers who frequent the store. On Therese’s recommendation, Carol buys a model train set for her daughter Rindy: an unusual Christmas present for a little girl that swiftly draws a connection between the two women.

Over the next hour, Carol shades colour and complexity into the world in which Carol and Therese live. When they find each other again through a pair of gloves misplaced by accident (or, perhaps, design), the two women share lunch, and a tune played on a piano. Carol invites Therese to her family home and, eventually, on a road trip that changes everything. Therese confesses her love of photography, and begins to ask awkward questions of Richard (Jake Lacy), her devoted, if somewhat callous, boyfriend. Through it all, Carol’s marriage to Harge (Kyle Chandler) crumbles apart, despite the fierce love they share for their daughter.

For much of its running time, Haynes’ film – an adaptation of Patricia Highsmith’s groundbreaking second novel, The Price Of Salt – unfolds at a deliberately unhurried pace that might alienate some, and bore others. Dramatic outbursts are kept to a bare minimum, chiefly coming from a raging Harge as he tries ever more desperately to cajole (or bully) Carol into remaining by his side. The growing tenderness between Carol and Therese deepens, not through flowery confessions of undying love, but in the exchanging of tentative glimpses, glances and smiles.

And yet, the heartbreaking magic woven throughout Carol comes from precisely these understated, measured moments. The aching, all-consuming affection between Carol and Therese blossoms in the film’s pockets of silence, as they study each other in a mirror, or share a conspiratorial smile over breakfast. Threats of death and danger surface, but in purely emotional terms, resonating all the more powerfully for never being literal. Indeed, it’s only when the film slips into its devastating final act – which simultaneously manages to warm hearts and shatter souls – that one begins to realise just how bewitching a spell Carol has cast in the silences and in-betweens.

To top it all off, there is so much at work in Phyllis Nagy’s wonderfully spare script that Carol practically begs to be excavated, pored over and studied at length. The love story at its heart works because Carol is a film about two women who are making their way towards each other through a world that often refuses to understand, accept or acknowledge them: not just as potential lovers, but also as people.

While never flaunting its excellent feminist and queer credentials, the film surprises by shining a spotlight so firmly on its women and their relationships, including a powerful supporting turn by Sarah Paulson as Abby, Carol’s best friend and erstwhile paramour. The stories of these women are the backbone, the meat, the heart, the soul and the entire central nervous system of Carol. As characters, they alternate between strong and weak, tough and tender, as they make choices and sacrifices – between heart and home, family and self – that women are still making today.

It seems profoundly unnecessary to say that Carol’s trump card is Blanchett. It should be self-evident, a given – after all, for as long as she has made movies, she has unquestionably been the best thing about any film she’s in. And yet, she is completely transcendent here. In Blanchett’s hands, Carol manages to be unearthly – an exalted goddess on a pedestal – and utterly, completely human at the same time. In a wonderfully layered final scene with Harge, Carol’s controlled composure cracks apart, revealing the punishing depth of the pain she must undergo in order to be true to herself. Blanchett conveys it all with heartbreak to spare, radiating love, joy, misery or despair with barely perceptible changes in expression.

Mara, meanwhile, gives her finest performance to date, as a young woman teetering on the edge of becoming who she perhaps never realised she always wanted to be. Her Therese lingers quietly at the edges of her own life, not so much pushing limits as slipping past them to find her own way. It’s hard to shake the feeling, though, that Mara remains outclassed by her co-star. Unlike Carol, Therese never completely coalesces as a character in her own right. To be fair to Mara, that’s partly due to one of the script’s few flaws. In a film that is otherwise so subtle and considered, we are too often told rather than shown that Carol finds Therese irresistible. (There is no such problem in believing that anyone could fall head over heels for Carol.)

Nevertheless, the chemistry between Blanchett and Mara burns, slowly but brightly. The electricity between them throws off more sparks as the film goes on – to the point that audiences will find their hearts stuttering and stopping at the tiniest of moments: when Carol presses her hand lightly on Therese’s shoulder, or when their eyes meet, finally, across a crowded room.

In all of these elements, and in ways big and small, Carol constantly surprises. It could have been ripely melodramatic (in the style of Far From Heaven, Haynes’ deliberately arch tribute to the films of Douglas Sirk); instead, it lingers in a key of melancholy realism. In another universe, Carol might have been more manipulative, Harge more villainous, Therese more coquettish, the love story less compelling and more titillating. The film’s themes could have overwhelmed its central romance. And yet, in every gorgeous frame (composed with impeccable grace by cinematographer Edward Lachman), Carol sings of its love story: one that is as sweet as it is bitter, as simple as it is complex, and as real as it is magical.

Basically: A masterpiece that’s tough, tender and thoughtful, anchored by a love story for the ages.

 

Far From The Madding Crowd (2015)

How do you solve a problem like Bathsheba Everdene? It’s a question that has plagued literary enthusiasts since 1874, when Thomas Hardy first introduced her to the world in one of his classic novels, Far From The Madding Crowd. Today, 141 years later, that same question haunts Thomas Vinterberg’s sumptuous, smart adaptation – one that tries valiantly, but doesn’t wholly succeed, in celebrating the strength of a character that was always somewhat illusory to begin with.

In a time ruled and defined exclusively by men, Bathsheba Everdene (Carey Mulligan) stands apart as a free-spirited, independent young lass who refuses to bow to convention. When she inherits the farm belonging to her late uncle, she insists on running it herself – working in the fields and sacking the male workers who disrespect her authority. Small wonder, then, that Bathsheba draws the attention of three suitors, each one representing a different social class and a unique brand of manhood: stoic farmer Gabriel Oak (Matthias Schoenaerts); stern, serious-minded landowner William Boldwood (Michael Sheen); and sexy, emotionally scarred sergeant Francis Troy (Tom Sturridge).

The main problem with Hardy’s novel, which is largely replicated in Vinterberg’s faithful adaptation, is its awkward attitude towards its lead female character. To be sure, Hardy gives Bathsheba a modern voice that still rings true today: “It is difficult for a woman to define her feelings in a language chiefly made by men to express theirs,” she declares. It’s a line so delicious that screenwriter David Nicholls nicked it wholesale for the film. And yet, on a deeper reading of the novel, it becomes far harder to tell whether Hardy is celebrating Bathsheba’s independence, or punishing her for it.

To their credit, Vinterberg and Nicholls do try a little harder to add a truly feminist bent to their version of Bathsheba’s story. More care is taken to forge a genuine emotional connection between Bathsheba and Gabriel, even as her seduction of William Boldwood is made less purposeful. Bathsheba still finds herself approaching Sergeant Troy with lust rather than caution, but she does so in a more clear-eyed manner. In effect, Mulligan’s Bathsheba seems bemused at and somewhat resigned to the sillier decisions she makes in her romantic pursuits.

The trouble is that, while these little changes do add up to a stronger character, they also result in thematic and tonal confusion. The truth of the matter is that Hardy was not always concerned with celebrating Bathsheba as a character in her own right – he was frequently more interested in commenting on the ideal romantic suitor, the kind of man to whom Bathsheba should give her heart. There’s never any doubt, in Hardy’s mind at least, what her choice should be. After a point, then, Vinterberg’s film flounders because there is, truthfully, no real tension in the romantic dilemma that stares Bathsheba in the face.

It’s a shame, because Vinterberg has brought Hardy’s world to life with a very good cast indeed. Mulligan plays the fire and spirit of Bathsheba well, although she’s trapped as much by the script as her character is by Hardy’s words and ideas in the novel. As the sturdy Gabriel Oak (his surname says it all), Schoenaerts turns a rather dull but handy lump of a man into a semi-credible romantic prospect. The ever-reliable Sheen doesn’t have quite enough screen-time, but nevertheless packs a great deal of depth and despair into the loss of William Boldwood’s heart (and, perhaps, mind) to the charms of Ms. Everdene. There’s almost more to be enjoyed in the semi-confessional scene shared by these two very different men as they sheepishly dance around their feelings for the same woman. Sturridge, meanwhile, is the relatively weaker link in the cast; his performance is fuelled more by his sexy moustache and saucy swordmanship than anything else.

At a point in time when female-led films are being discussed, dissected and celebrated more than ever before, Far From The Madding Crowd would – at least on the surface – appear to be part of this growing tradition. The filmmakers have certainly tried to create a version of Bathsheba Everdene that’s unequivocally appealing to a modern audience. But it’s an effort that, ultimately, doesn’t quite work, since the point of Hardy’s novel was arguably more about the man Bathsheba should marry, and less about Bathsheba herself.

Basically: A decent adaptation of a problematic novel, which awkwardly tries to find a feminist angle where there isn’t much of one to begin with.

 

The Maze Runner (2014)

It’s rare for a big movie studio to trust the future of a potential blockbuster franchise to a brand-new director. You’d imagine that there would be just too much at stake when it came to translating James Dashner’s series of best-selling dystopian novels to the silver screen. But it’s easy to see why Wes Ball got the job – with this one film, he graduates from short films to blockbuster movies with flair to spare. Indeed, The Maze Runner is such a cool, confident and thrilling blend of action beats and character work that it’s hard to believe Ball has never before commandeered a full-length feature film. It’s true that the narrative gets a little away from him by the end, making less sense as more secrets are revealed. But this is more a problem with the source material than Ball’s own skills as a director.

Thomas (Dylan O’Brien) finds himself thrust rudely into the world of the Glade: a community of boys who have figured out how to live while encircled by a giant, constantly changing maze, within which dwell giant, boy-eating monsters known only as Grievers. Many of the boys, including benevolent pioneer Alby (Aml Ameen) and champion of the old ways Gally (Will Poulter), are content with just surviving day to day. Thomas winds up unsettling the entire camp with his refusal to follow the rules and determination to ask questions: he wants to explore the Maze with designated runners like Minho (Ki Hong Lee), and figure out a way to get free. Life in the camp gets more complicated when, weeks before the next boy is due to be sent up to the Glade, a girl in the form of Theresa (Kaya Scodelario) arrives instead.

There’s a lot of blockbuster potential to be squeezed out of this premise, and Ball does so quite wonderfully. The Maze encircling the Glade is a stonily grey, massive enclosure, and the Grievers – when the boys encounter them in increasingly close quarters – are odd marvels made as much of machine as flesh. Ball cuts scenes of great, heart-stopping tension together masterfully: whether it’s Thomas running through walls that are fast closing in on him, or Thomas and Minho trying to outrun a Griever while burdened with an unconscious Alby.

The film even finds some welcome dramatic depth in this strange little community of lost boys in the Glade – Thomas’ growing antagonism with Gally is balanced against the mutual respect he and Newt (Thomas Brodie-Sangster) develop for each other, and the brotherly connection that he forges with the adorable Chuck (Blake Cooper). The politics of the situation is fascinating as well: as much as The Maze Runner is about, well, running for your life in a giant maze, it also raises big questions about identity and integrity. Is safety and security worth giving up your right to information and choice?

What works less well is the secret around which the Glade is constructed. As viewers, we aren’t given a whole lot of answers about why the Glade and the Maze exists, nor do we get many explanations as to why Thomas is so different and insatiably curious. But the ones we do get – all centred around the mysterious, severe figure of Ava Paige (Patricia Clarkson) in some kind of control centre – oddly render the film and its characters less, rather than more, interesting. It’s a strangely deflating experience to have the film’s rich ethical dilemmas and intense action sequences give way to an underlying dystopian narrative that isn’t really all that compelling.

Nevertheless, The Maze Runner remains quite an accomplishment. It’s an assured, impressive debut for Ball, one with enough electric tension and moody drama to intrigue throughout its running time. His young cast is fully capable of carrying their own weight, with Poulter – morphing from comic sidekick in We’re The Millers into hateful adversary here – the standout. Its story collapses a little into itself as it hurtles towards its climax, but Ball’s work is quite enough to leave viewers excited by the prospect of the inevitable sequel.

Basically: A tense, entertaining film with enough thrills and drama to cover up its narrative inadequacies.

The Giver (2014)

Jeff Bridges has wanted to make a movie out of Lois Lowry’s The Giver for years. It’s easy to see why he had trouble doing so (the book is dense, philosophical and refuses to wrap things up in a neat package); it’s also easy to see why Hollywood finally clambered on board (everyone wants their own mega-successful franchise – think The Hunger Games – based on a dystopian young-adult novel). The final film is an uncomfortable blend of big ideas and mass-market commercialism: the plot proceeds in broadly the same direction, but details small and large have been altered to make it palatable for as broad an audience as possible.

Jonas (Brenton Thwaites) has grown up in a gentle, rule-bound society in which everyone is polite and amiable and individual differences are kept to a minimum. When he comes of age, he and his best friends Asher (Cameron Monaghan) and Fiona (Odeya Rush) nervously await the job assignments that will move them towards the next stage of their well-ordered lives. But Jonas receives the shock of his young life when the stern, steely Chief Elder (Meryl Streep) announces that he will take on the single most important job in the community. As the next Receiver of Memory, he will work with the incumbent Receiver – now more appropriately called the Giver (Jeff Bridges) – who will impart to him the memories, and possibly wisdom, that have long been lost to time and everyone Jonas has ever known.

As a film, The Giver has a few things to recommend it. Though it loses much of the nuance of the novel, the complex ideas are still there. As Jonas peels away the cool, calm veneer of his old life, he comes to understand, appreciate and lament the sacrifices made to create the world in which he lives. The futuristic community is well-designed: people wander through a stainless-steel, white-washed network of modern buildings, clad in regulation clothing, clapping in unison with their left hands pounding their thighs. The use of colour – a key plot point within the book – is judiciously applied to Jonas’ awakening consciousness: he literally sees new bursts of red and green and blue, his home and his friends fading from monochrome into sepia and, finally, falling headlong into a riot of colours.

But the film never quite seems to settle into itself. Its more philosophical message is lost within the constant, confusing shifts in its storyline. At one moment, The Giver is a full-blown romance, as Jonas tries to save Fiona from the blinkered drudgery of his former existence. In the next breath, it’s a thriller tainted by the villainous shadow of the Chief Elder, who watches Jonas’ every move – with the help of his own mother (Katie Holmes) – to ensure that he doesn’t become a threat to the community. Finally, it morphs awkwardly into an action movie, pitting friend against friend in a brave, if possibly foolish, bid for some kind of freedom.

Fans of the book will know why the film plays out so strangely. Some of the changes made to the trajectory of Jonas’ story are more understandable than others: for example, Jonas is aged up, from twelve to sixteen (which nevertheless requires the 25-year-old Thwaites to play a decade younger than his real age). Others changes become problems for the plot. In the novel, Jonas’ romance with Fiona unfolds in hints and never develops into anything concrete. Similarly, the Chief Elder is more drone than tyrant, and barely registers as a presence in the book. Changing and beefing up both elements for the film creates a whole new set of contradictions. For instance, in a people shorn of genuine feelings, identity and memories, why does the Chief Elder behave in the way she does?

Of the entire cast, Bridges finds the most to say and do with the Giver – a man bent in two and nearly broken by the weight of the burden he carries: a mix of memory and tragedy. For a more-or-less made-up character, Streep also finds a surprising depth to the seemingly odious actions of the Chief Elder. In the flicker of an eye or a twist of her lips, she hints at a history with the Giver in which choices were made and opportunities were lost. Thwaites fares less well: he carries the film dutifully, but plays his pivotal role without much in the way of depth or soul.

That, in a sense, is the biggest problem with The Giver. It tells broadly the same story set out in Lowry’s book, but seems to have missed the point of it all. Instead of allowing its powerful ideas to deepen and grow organically, the film bluntly lays them out, one after the other, and shoves them towards an ending that might never have been there to begin with. Lowry’s book refused to give its readers any easy answers; the film, smart as it can be on occasion, too frequently feels as if it’s been constructed wholly out of them.

Basically: An ambitious adaptation of a difficult text, which tries but ultimately fails to find the troubled soul of its story.

The Fault In Our Stars (2014)

These days, young-adult fiction is everywhere: dystopian stories of moody youths undergoing strife, war and heartache, as in The Hunger Games or Divergent, are dominating the bestseller lists and popping up in cineplexes. What’s so unusual about The Fault In Our Stars, an adaptation of John Green’s best-selling novel, is that it locates the dystopia and war within the bodies of its teenage protagonists. These kids aren’t battling an evil regime or fascist overlords; they’re struggling to survive against the merciless onslaught of cancer. Green’s book is a bit of an odd beast: touching but manipulative, genuine and fake, all at the same time. The resulting film, being hugely faithful to its source material, thus manages to pull off the same curious trick of overwhelming and underwhelming the viewer, often in the same breath.

Hazel (Shailene Woodley) has been living with – or dying of – terminal cancer for years. Her concerned parents (Mike Trammell: under-used; and Laura Dern: wonderfully sympathetic) fuss around her constantly, wanting her to live what life is left to her after the treatments and exhaustion have taken their toll. And so Hazel attends a support group for kids stricken with cancer. One day, she meets Augustus Waters (Ansel Elgort), a charming, sweet kid whose remission came at the price of a leg. They share an immediate connection, one that deepens as they bond over Hazel’s favourite book: An Imperial Affliction, penned by reclusive author Peter Van Houten (Willem Dafoe). Knowing how much it means to Hazel, Augustus resolves to get her the answers she seeks about the novel – even if they have to travel all the way to Amsterdam to get them.

If that sounds like a recipe for melodrama, that’s because it is. There’s plenty of that in store, of course, because these kids are dealing with the worst and most traumatic of experiences, at a time when they should be healthy and carefree. But the film, as did the novel, does a pretty good job of maintaining a spark of cheeky life amidst all the doom and gloom. Hazel and Augustus trade banter as easily as they do insults, and the affection that grows between them is as entertaining as it is affecting. Woodley and Elgort share a gentle chemistry that works very well, whether they’re in the throes of first love or battling through the trenches of disease side by side. Their friendship with Isaac (Nat Wolff), the boy who loses his sight to eye cancer and his girlfriend to her self-absorption, is wonderfully bittersweet too – together, the trio ride the lows of Isaac’s depression, and the highs of his tiny moment of vengeance.

But, for everything that feels raw and real in the film, The Fault In Our Stars also comes across as overly plotted. Hazel and Augustus are designed specifically to break your heart and swell your tear ducts, which is why their relationship can sometimes feel painstakingly constructed. They are, quite literally, made for each other, which weighs down rather than frees the story in which they find themselves. Their interactions with the troubled, prickly Van Houten also lose some impact in the move away from the page, where his words, ideas and general depravity can take fuller form. In the film, Dafoe ensures that Van Houten remains tough to like, but the character’s rougher edges are sanded away in a half-hearted bid for redemption.

Ultimately, the film – which lifts entire lines and scenes wholesale from Green’s text – triumphs and suffers where the book does. The relationship between Hazel and Augustus, when stripped to its core, is a heart-breaking/warming account of a soul-deep connection that matters all the more for its tragic brevity. There’s a lot of welcome, saddening depth in the film, too, about the everyday heroism of children being forced to live on the brink of death everyday. But this is also a deliberately manipulative tale, one that hinges on an awkward twist (present in both book and film) that practically dares you not to care and cry about what’s going on. It’s an effective tactic, for the most part, but one that doesn’t earn so much as exhaust its audiences’ affections.

Basically: A very faithful adaptation of an affecting but troubled novel.

In Secret (2013)

In Secret could easily have tipped over into abject melodrama – a tragic soap opera of love and lust, of sexual yearnings mixed with guilt and an all-consuming desire to be free and happy. The bare bones of the plot, based on Émile Zola’s classic 1867 French novel Thérèse Raquin, are indeed assembled in gaspingly lurid fashion, as they should be. Where the film succeeds is in its creation of an atmosphere so thick with gloom and misery that the story unfolds more realistically than it otherwise might. In Secret occasionally drags and stumbles its way through the dark, bitter twists of its narrative but, buoyed by a strong and committed cast, it’s also rich with big ideas and filled with foreboding.

At a tender age, Thérèse (Elizabeth Olsen) is brought to live with her overbearing aunt, Madame Raquin (Jessica Lange), and her sickly cousin Camille (Tom Felton). Trained to fetch, carry and obey, Thérèse grows up as nursemaid, bed-mate and – finally – wife to Camille. Miserable and yearning to be free, she nevertheless dutifully follows her aunt and cousin to Paris, where she meets Camille’s childhood friend Laurent (Oscar Isaac). Before long, Thérèse and Laurent embark on a clandestine affair, so heated and desperately sexual that they convince themselves they must get rid of the one obstacle that keeps them apart: Camille.

As a human drama, In Secret works quite well. The sexual tension between Thérèse and Laurent is frequently electric, buried during their customary stolen lunch hour and kept out of sight of Madame Raquin. There’s a particularly powerful moment of decision for Thérèse: she hesitates before stepping onto a rowing boat with Laurent and Camille, well aware that doing so would consign her cousin/husband to a grisly demise. When Camille teases her, he seals her fate as well as his own. Thereafter, Thérèse and Laurent must suffer the consequences of their actions: a selfish bid for freedom that imprisons them all the more, curdling their lust and almost-love into a hateful, mutual loathing.

But In Secret is also grimly paced – its tale is so deeply overlaid with doom and gloom that it feels longer than it really is. It might be tempting to think of it as a comment on Thérèse’s tragic incarceration within her own family, where even a minute can feel like an hour, and a week like a year. The camera dwells so firmly and tragically on the dissolving household that some of the film’s bigger themes are hammered home with little subtlety. Madame Raquin, for instance, literally embroiders a dictum advising complete and utter silence into her needlework: a point that is blindingly relevant for Thérèse, of course, but also bludgeons itself with intense irony into Madame Raquin’s own fate later in the film.

The cast, at least, is strong enough to carry In Secret in its weaker moments. Olsen has consistently made interesting choices as an actress, and her fragile, spirited turn as Thérèse is no different. Isaac, so arresting in Inside Llewyn Davis, is initially bland but subsequently menacingly good, when Laurent’s darker,  meaner colours rise to the surface. Lange, meanwhile, chews the scenery with flair to spare, cooking up a character who’s equal parts mother and monster. Top honours go to the almost unrecognisable Felton, who disappears into the pasty, wilful skin of a character several light-years away from Draco Malfoy.

It’s hard to imagine that a story deemed scandalous when it was first published in 1867 can still be shocking today. Indeed, the sexual politics and stolen trysts of In Secret aren’t as titillating as they must have been almost 150 years ago. But the film, even with its problematic pacing and lack of subtlety, does go some way towards explaining why Zola’s story has endured to this day. Love and lust can drive people to do things for which they can never forgive themselves, and the film shines brightest when it heads into the murkiest of waters.

Basically: A competent, often compelling meditation on lust, love, hate and murder.

Divergent (2014)

When beloved books make their way to the silver screen, the resulting movies are usually met with much frustration and rending of clothes from amongst the literary faithful. A character is changed beyond recognition; a crucial plot-point excised; an important theme lost in the murk and swell of a film. Oddly, Divergent isn’t actually a bad adaptation. In fact, Neil Burger’s film is as good a version of Veronica Roth’s wildly patchy source novel as you’re likely to get. Whether that makes for a good movie – especially for people who’ve never read the book – is another matter entirely.

Divergent begins in a post-apocalyptic Chicago divided into five factions, each valuing one virtue – Dauntless (courage), Erudite (wisdom), Candour (honesty), Amity (kindness) and Abnegation (self-sacrifice) –  above all others. It’s an odd system, perhaps, but one that is apparently necessary to keep chaos at bay. Tris Prior (Shailene Woodley) has been raised in Abnegation but, try as she might, she cannot completely subsume her self or her desires. Indeed, the aptitude test that everyone must take at the age of sixteen suggests that Tris doesn’t belong in just one category: she is Divergent, equally at home in three factions.

Come the day of the Choosing Ceremony, she decides to forsake her family to become Dauntless: a decision that plunges her into a nightmare initiation process in which the weakest are summarily kicked out of the faction. As Tris navigates the politics and perils of her chosen world, trying all the while to hide the fact that she’s Divergent, she encounters her fair share of allies – Christina (Zoe Kravitz), Will (Ben Lloyd-Hughes) and possibly her charmingly broody instructor Four (Theo James) – and enemies, including the brutal Eric (Jai Courtney) and vicious Peter (Miles Teller).

Anyone unfamiliar with Roth’s book might find themselves trying to puzzle through this seemingly shapeless mess of a plot. It ebbs and flows in odd directions, dancing around Tris’ desire to be true to herself, before it gets a little lost in the dystopian clutches of Jeanine Matthews (a gleefully icy, evil Kate Winslet), an Erudite leader hellbent on bringing down the entire Abnegation faction. Along the way, Tris literally battles her fears under the influence of a simulation serum, toughens up physically, strikes up a sexy chemistry with Four and frets over her brother Caleb (Ansel Elgort). Within the confines of this universe, it makes an odd kind of narrative sense, but the logic of it all never really bleeds through.

Here’s the thing, though: this strange, frequently illogical plotting is very much a defining characteristic of Roth’s novel – and, in fact, becomes more of a problem as the trilogy progresses. (Anyone who’s read Allegiant, the controversial final novel in the series, will know just how difficult it will be to adapt.) The emotional and logical flaws present in Divergent the film, then, are – for the most part – already inherent in the book. Why does Jeanine, supposedly one of the smartest people in the community, plot and plan the way she does? How does the entire society function in this utterly dysfunctional way? Technically, Burger can’t really be faulted for failing to develop a coherence and logic that was never there in the first place.

In fact, Burger actually substantially improves upon the novel in several ways – he keeps the film mostly free of Tris’ inner voice, which becomes increasingly moony and silly as her crush on Tobias grows by the day. Burger plays up a zip-line sequence that highlights the joyful recklessness of the Dauntless, as Tris soars freely through the midnight air. He also handles the problem of Tris’ fear landscape very well: instead of simply willing herself out of the influence of the serum (as the Divergent can do), she must figure out how to face each of her fears in a non-Divergent way. These scenes are shot with quick, simple visual flair, dispensing with some of the novel’s trickier convolutions.

Of course, Divergent isn’t a perfect adaptation either. To Roth’s credit, there are some truly dark, painful moments in the novel which transcend its loopy narrative. It’s no surprise, and yet it’s a little disappointing, that these bits simply vanish from the film, no doubt in the interests of securing a PG-13 rating. As a result, Peter is a far less repulsive antagonist than he is on paper. For instance, he doesn’t brutally (and casually) maul a fellow initiate who’s doing better than him in the rankings – an incident that’s crucial in the development of his character in the subsequent novels.

The young cast works hard and quite well together. Woodley makes for an intriguing screen presence, effectively playing both the steel and softness of Tris’ choices. James, heretofore best known for dying in Lady Mary’s bed in Downton Abbey, acquits himself reasonably well – he’s not as leaden as some of the trailers have suggested, and he forges a believable chemistry with Woodley. Of the supporting players, Teller is the standout, so good in his easy malevolence that he actually makes the thought of an Allegiant movie quite appealing.

In the final analysis, Divergent is likely to divide audiences. Fans of Roth’s books should be, on the whole, pleased. This is a frequently very good, intelligent adaptation of a rather problematic novel. Everyone else, however, might be less enamoured of the final product: a film that, just like the book on which it is based, boasts a compelling story and some great ideas, but is also messily executed, overly complicated and a tad nonsensical.

Basically: Watchable if odd and slightly confusing for newbies. For fans, it’s a good adaptation of a problematic novel – so good that it suffers from many of the book’s flaws.

The Book Thief (2013)

Many books have been deemed ‘unfilmable’ – but anyone who’s read Markus Zusak’s heartbreaking, thought-provoking The Book Thief would think it especially so. An often grim, unrelentingly dark and yet sadly uplifting novel about Nazi Germany in the throes of World War II – narrated by Death itself? Reviews for director Brian Percival’s lush, snow-swept movie adaptation have not been kind, suggesting that the book would have been better left alone. It’s true, of course, that Zusak’s story and characters suffer somewhat in leaving the page. But the film and its titular book thief nevertheless possess a bittersweet charm, buoyed by a host of unforgettable supporting characters.

As the clouds of war and death gather over Germany, Liesel Meminger (Sophie Nélisse) meets her new foster parents: kindly Hans (Geoffrey Rush) and the remarkably abrasive Rosa (Emily Watson). She tries to settle into her new home and school life, striking up a spiky friendship with kiss-hungry Rudy (Nico Liersch) and learning how to read by going through a macabre book about grave-digging with Hans. But, just as she’s starting to grow accustomed to her surroundings, Liesel’s life will soon change all the more, when Max (Ben Schnetzer), a young, hunted Jew, comes to stay.

As a film, The Book Thief works quite well. Liesel’s literary thievery is given a nice cinematic touch: when she snatches a forbidden book off a bonfire, the secrecy of it steams hot and red through her coat. The crucial relationships between Liesel and her extended family – including Rudy and Max – are also given plenty of depth and heart. By the time the bombs start raining down on their little town, the emotional stakes are as high as they need to be. Percival handles some crucial scenes with just the right amount of sentiment, particularly the snowball fight that erupts in the basement: a moment of pure, unexpected joy stolen from a world broken by war and genocide.

The Book Thief benefits greatly from its excellent cast. Nélisse – still so young and raw – wanders effectively through war-torn Germany: she is the focal point of both book and film; the child-like eyes through which we witness great love and also enormous hatred. She’s ably abetted by Liersch, a cheeky triumph as Rudy, a character so full of life and charm that he’ll warm and break your heart many times over. Rush and Watson, of course, are very good indeed – the former embodies Hans’ gentle, loving soul; the latter hides a huge heart beneath the prickly armour in which she cloaks herself all day.

To be perfectly fair, the film occasionally falters beneath the weight of one too many wartime clichés. Without the benefit of a stronger narrative voice (Roger Allam’s Death pops in only once in a while to propel the tale forward), The Book Thief feels safe and conventional when some of its ideas are anything but. It’s a story, really, of institutionalised death-mongering and the most dangerous and quiet of rebellions, but that doesn’t always come through as strongly as it should. The decision to sprinkle some German dialogue into the film feels jarring as well, although that’s how Zusak’s novel (originally written in English) unfolds.

As for its merits as an adaptation – by necessity, The Book Thief leaves out details galore and metes out tiny injustices to several supporting characters, many of whom arguably represent some of Zusak’s greatest insights and ideas. Tucked away in the background is the sad, bitter backstory of Ilsa Hermann (Barbara Auer), the mayor’s wife from whom Liesel also filches a few books. Stripped from the film, too, are those characters who have completely bought into the Führer’s worst philosophies – including Hans and Rosa’s biological son. That removes much of the brooding complexity of the novel, which takes time to consider the collective and individual burdens of guilt borne by Germany and its citizens in relation to the Holocaust. Worst of all is the loss of Death’s unique narrative cadences, his grasp of the English language both weird and wonderful.

But, on the whole, The Book Thief is incredibly faithful to the spirit – if not the letter – of Zusak’s book. With a few stumbles and omissions,  Liesel’s heartbreaking journey towards finding – and, inevitably, losing – a family of her own is preserved, and quite affectingly translated onscreen. In that sense, while the film may have lost quite a bit of the novel’s darker bite and punch, it remains a powerful tale of human connections: the ones we make out of love and fear, and the ones that sustain us in the darkest of times. 

Basically: The story loses some of its steam in migrating from page to screen, but it’s still a powerful tale, relatively well-told.

Percy Jackson: Sea Of Monsters (2013)

Bibliophiles have learnt to take movie adaptations of their favourite books with a pinch (or shovelful) of salt. Of course films can’t provide the same depth of detail as a novel; changes have to be made and liberties taken. But 2010’s Percy Jackson & The Lightning Thief was a particularly disappointing example of translating a story from page to screen – it deviated from the plot in ways irritatingly small and unforgivably large. Most glaringly, it completely ignored the larger overarching storyline threaded throughout the five books in Rick Riordan’s fantasy series about Greek gods living in modern times. To its credit, Sea Of Monsters is considerably more faithful to Riordan’s word, at least at the beginning, even if it completely loses sight of his spirit by the end.

Logan Lerman returns as the eponymous Percy Jackson, demigod son of Poseidon – this time, he’s wracked with self-doubt after his cataclysmic confrontation with demigod-gone-bad Luke (Jake Abel). But, when the tree guarding Percy’s home of Camp Half-Blood withers and starts to die, Percy mans up and ropes in his best friends, Annabeth (Alexandra Daddario) and Grover (Brandon T. Jackson), on a quest to find the fabled Golden Fleece: a magical artefact that can restore life to the dead and dying. The mission will take them – and the other people keen to lay their hands on the Fleece for far less altruistic reasons – into the dreaded Sea Of Monsters, where the most horrifying of antagonists awaits them.

For anyone who’s been scarred by the travesty that is Lightning Thief, Sea Of Monsters – at least in some respects – will come as something of a relief. The film stays considerably more faithful to Riordan’s book, at least at the beginning. Rather than cook up its own characters and narrative detours as Lightning Thief did, this sequel is a lighter, less convoluted affair all round – one that, at its best, conjures up a little of the lightness of touch and joy that have made Riordan’s books bestsellers all over the world. In particular, fans will be absolutely delighted by Stanley Tucci’s joyously sarcastic and hopelessly uncaring Dionysus, a wine god turned camp counsellor who would rather insult Percy than watch out for him.

It’s a shame that director Thor Freudenthal and his screenwriter Marc Guggenheim meet expectations only to shatter them – again – as the movie plods on. ‘Plod’, by the way, is an unfortunately accurate description for a film packed with so many action beats. Freudenthal doesn’t seem to know quite how to handle the pace of his film or the occasionally unwieldy script. Even when all his main characters wind up in the Sea Of Monsters (which surely isn’t a spoiler since it’s in the film’s title), it doesn’t feel like a particularly climactic or thrilling moment. As a result, the film’s brighter, funnier scenes and lines – of which there are actually quite a few – are buried beneath others that play just a little (or a lot) oddly.

Book fans who are lulled into a false sense of security by the relatively faithful first half of the film would be well-advised to be wary. About halfway through the entire enterprise, Freudenthal and Guggenheim apparently decided that they didn’t need to read, or could at least skim, the rest of the book. Once again, they deviate from the main storyline involving uber-villain Kronos, vengeful and rather evil father of the Greek Gods – this time erring on the side of too much rather than too little. It upsets the chronology of the franchise in less disturbing a way than in Lightning Thief, but that’s hardly a good thing. It’s the most egregious of Sea Of Monsters’ transgressions, but there are a few others littered throughout the film that rankle as well, such as the gorgeous Leven Rambin playing Clarisse – a daughter of Ares known more for her brawns than her beauty.

Lerman has proven with The Perks Of Being A Wallflower that he really can act, with great sensitivity and depth – sadly, there’s just something about this franchise that keeps him from showing that off. He’s saddled with awful, stilted ‘hero’ dialogue, for one thing, even as he wanders through the film in a daze. Daddario’s character Annabeth, so strong and independent in the books, is reduced here to a screaming damsel in distress, while Abel growls and broods menacingly – and not very convincingly – as the belligerent Luke, exuding approximately all of his literary counterpart’s sulkiness and none of his tragic wrongheadedness. There are a couple of nice surprises though: Douglas Smith is sweetly charming as Tyson, the Cyclops half-brother Percy never knew he had, and geek god Nathan Fillion pops up in a fun, chirpy cameo that fans of his work – especially Firefly – will really enjoy.

Watching both Lightning Thief and Sea Of Monsters is almost enough to convince anyone that Riordan’s books just don’t work very well on the silver screen. That would be contrary to one’s reading experience, though: his quick, witty novels fly by, packed with action, adventure and heart. The only conclusion one can arrive at – after the disappointing first two films in the franchise – is that it’s truly tough to bottle the lightning generated by the novels, especially if the film-makers concerned seem to treat the books less as blueprints and more as helpful but disposable guidelines on how to tell Riordan’s story.

Basically: A muddled adaptation that gets less faithful as it goes on. It’s much less of a travesty than the first film, but that sets the bar pretty low, so that’s hardly a huge accomplishment.