But her work was not published until she was over forty, and most, like me, might be hard pushed to name any of her work save The Age Of Innocence and Ethan Frome. Perhaps in the wake of this film when it was released more became aware of The House Of Mirth.
Both works have been filmed and, I suspect, Wharton’s name will, for most, be more familiar as the author of the works which were filmed than the books themselves.
Both works have been filmed and, I suspect, Wharton’s name will, for most, be more familiar as the author of the works which were filmed than the books themselves.
One work, more a novella, was Ethan From and of the two, I’m sure the film The Age Of Innocence will be the better known, if only because it was co-written and directed by
The House Of Mirth was released eleven years later, scripted and directed by one Terence Davies – ‘one’ as in I’d not before heard of him.
It, too, had a starry cast of well-known thesps, not least featuring as the central protagonist Gillian Anderson, until then far better known to the great unwashed as Agent Dana Scully in The X-Files rather than ‘a serious actor’.
Broadly, though, I assume Scorsese’s work was and still is regarded as ‘the bigger film’, perhaps if only because he is ‘the bigger director’.
I watched Davies’ The House Of Mirth very soon after reading Wharton’s The House Of Mirth, too soon, in fact, and I now realise that might have been a mistake and that I should have waited, if only because I might, in theory, have approached watching it and writing this review more impartially.
However, I like to think I can still manage impartiality despite the eternal and always inconclusive debate over the rights and wrongs of ‘the film of the book and ‘how well the book was filmed’ and how closely a film should track a novel.
I honestly never take part in that debate (and increasingly find such debates not just fruitless, but wholly pointless and a waste of time). Essentially my view is that ‘the novel’ and the ‘film of the novel’ are entirely separate, autonomous works and that each has its own identity. Yes, they will be related, but that is as far as it goes.
I watched Davies’ The House Of Mirth very soon after reading Wharton’s The House Of Mirth, too soon, in fact, and I now realise that might have been a mistake and that I should have waited, if only because I might, in theory, have approached watching it and writing this review more impartially.
However, I like to think I can still manage impartiality despite the eternal and always inconclusive debate over the rights and wrongs of ‘the film of the book and ‘how well the book was filmed’ and how closely a film should track a novel.
I honestly never take part in that debate (and increasingly find such debates not just fruitless, but wholly pointless and a waste of time). Essentially my view is that ‘the novel’ and the ‘film of the novel’ are entirely separate, autonomous works and that each has its own identity. Yes, they will be related, but that is as far as it goes.
A film might take its cues from a novel, but films and written works of fiction not only have different imperatives and objectives, they face different artistic and technical problems. Essentially, ‘the film of the book’ is a new work which takes a novel as its raw material, but otherwise it can do what the hell it likes.
Good examples might be the two, very different, versions of The Great Gatsby: each is ostensibly ‘the film of the novel’, but the first, 1974, version starring Robert Redford (in my view miscast for the role) very different to Baz Luhrmann’s 2014 take.
That earlier version is far more conventional in its film-making and might, at a pinch, be regarded as ‘the film of the novel’. The second, however, is very much a different fish indeed and adds elements – successfully – which would have startled F. Scott Fitzgerald. If you like, it is an interpretation of the novel.
My view is that art – all art, whether written, ‘plastic’, aural or visual – is essentially just ‘manipulating’ the reader, observer, listener or viewer, and doing so for the artist’s own reasons to achieve what she or he is attempting to do.
I cannot be less obscure than that, simply because there as are many different artistic purposes as there are artist: that purpose will depend upon the individual artist, and a talented artist, whether writer, poet, painter, sculptor, composer or performer or actor and director, will ‘manipulate’ rather well.
What, after all, is music, essentially, whether ‘classical’ or ‘modern’? It is simply sound arranged and produced in a certain way. You might even, if the word did not have slightly unfortunate overtones, describe it as variant of ‘noise’?
Similarly, what is ‘a novel’ or a piece of verse, but marks on paper (or now a monitor)? What is a ‘painting’? Simply, usually though not always, paint or some similar substance smeared on surface? Gilbert and George, two darlings of the British art scene, allegedly used their own faeces as one material in several of their works. I still can’t decide whether that is true, just an odd piece PR marketing or just plain hooey. Answers on a postcard, please.
It is up to the skill of the individual artist to persuade us that the sound, the marks, the paint are far more than what they seem to be, that they somehow have ‘meaning’ and can often elicit emotion.
As for the ‘manipulation’ of the artist, she or he has any number of particular ‘tricks’ to which to resort to achieve what she or he is attempting to achieve, and although conventionally the word ‘trick’ often has a negative connotations, I certainly to not mean there is anything underhand or dishonest going one.
A good example might be one very obvious and very simple ‘trick’ a horror film will resort to, to manipulate the viewer: its soundtrack. I a horror film the ‘horror’, the sense of dread, dangers, discomfort and the rest is almost entirely created by the soundtrack. Watch the same ‘horror sequences with the sound off and is there is no horror. In fact, the film might become decidedly lame.
Filmmakers, though certainly with the help and experience of a good cinematographer, also establish the ‘mood’ of their film through the use of different film stock, choice of colour, camera angle and the rest: and all they are doing – though we cannot and should not undervalue the ‘all’ – is, to be blunt, manipulating those watching their film.
Good examples might be the two, very different, versions of The Great Gatsby: each is ostensibly ‘the film of the novel’, but the first, 1974, version starring Robert Redford (in my view miscast for the role) very different to Baz Luhrmann’s 2014 take.
That earlier version is far more conventional in its film-making and might, at a pinch, be regarded as ‘the film of the novel’. The second, however, is very much a different fish indeed and adds elements – successfully – which would have startled F. Scott Fitzgerald. If you like, it is an interpretation of the novel.
My view is that art – all art, whether written, ‘plastic’, aural or visual – is essentially just ‘manipulating’ the reader, observer, listener or viewer, and doing so for the artist’s own reasons to achieve what she or he is attempting to do.
I cannot be less obscure than that, simply because there as are many different artistic purposes as there are artist: that purpose will depend upon the individual artist, and a talented artist, whether writer, poet, painter, sculptor, composer or performer or actor and director, will ‘manipulate’ rather well.
What, after all, is music, essentially, whether ‘classical’ or ‘modern’? It is simply sound arranged and produced in a certain way. You might even, if the word did not have slightly unfortunate overtones, describe it as variant of ‘noise’?
Similarly, what is ‘a novel’ or a piece of verse, but marks on paper (or now a monitor)? What is a ‘painting’? Simply, usually though not always, paint or some similar substance smeared on surface? Gilbert and George, two darlings of the British art scene, allegedly used their own faeces as one material in several of their works. I still can’t decide whether that is true, just an odd piece PR marketing or just plain hooey. Answers on a postcard, please.
It is up to the skill of the individual artist to persuade us that the sound, the marks, the paint are far more than what they seem to be, that they somehow have ‘meaning’ and can often elicit emotion.
As for the ‘manipulation’ of the artist, she or he has any number of particular ‘tricks’ to which to resort to achieve what she or he is attempting to achieve, and although conventionally the word ‘trick’ often has a negative connotations, I certainly to not mean there is anything underhand or dishonest going one.
A good example might be one very obvious and very simple ‘trick’ a horror film will resort to, to manipulate the viewer: its soundtrack. I a horror film the ‘horror’, the sense of dread, dangers, discomfort and the rest is almost entirely created by the soundtrack. Watch the same ‘horror sequences with the sound off and is there is no horror. In fact, the film might become decidedly lame.
Filmmakers, though certainly with the help and experience of a good cinematographer, also establish the ‘mood’ of their film through the use of different film stock, choice of colour, camera angle and the rest: and all they are doing – though we cannot and should not undervalue the ‘all’ – is, to be blunt, manipulating those watching their film.
Writers also have an extensive range of techniques to which they can resort to achieve what they want to achieve, though by their nature these are subtle, and we – well, I don’t – usually are unaware of the technique and even the intended effect. I’m a great believer in ‘art consists in concealing art’ (for the pretentious among you ars est celare artem).
. . .
Terence Davies, who scripted and directed, The House of Mirth would seem by far not to have had as substantial a budget as Martin Scorsese who directed Edith Wharton’s The Age Of Innocence, and in comparison it shows, though frankly that is irrelevant. An imaginative director can do a lot with very little (and an untalented director can make the biggest budget a complete waste of money and time).
A good example of a film where budget was certainly not factor in its success is Alfred Hitchcock’s 1944 film Lifeboat: all the action takes place in a lifeboat.
As for Scorsese The Age Of Innocence, I doubt he had a huge budget, as would befit a the ‘big’ director ‘Marty’ was by 1944, but I’ve only seen about 20 minutes of The Age Of Innocence and - shoot me dead if you like - was not encouraged to see more of it.
I suggest that however experienced and talented Scorsese is as a filmmaker, Wharton’s novel really wasn’t the right material for him. In fact, if a director can be miscast, Scorsese was with this one. Davies, assumedly, had a far lower budget - he’s a Brit and not half as ‘famous’ as ‘Marty’ – and that was evident, to me at least throughout. And the kind of material available from Wharton in The House Of Mirth and The Age Of Innocence is far more Davies kind of thing. But I can still only give his take on The House Of Mirth two cheers.
As I point out above, a limited budget – limited compared to the $34 million (almost $79m in 2025) – certainly need not be a drawback but, well, for me it was, for one reason and another Davies does not strike me a a ‘natural’ filmmaker. The House Of Mirth is a long film at two hours and 14 minutes and it certainly does not drag but throughout it is all oddly static. And I’m not just talking about the camerawork but the performances Davies gets from his actors. And that ‘static’ element rather disappointed me All the actors were, without exception, excellent (and I disagree with other reviewers that some were miscast). But none seems to have been stretched and challenged, and that, as director, is Davies’ fault. Gillian Anderson as the heroine Lily Bart gives a very subtle and, in one of the final scenes, a very moving performance. But you feel Davies might have made more use of her talents and that of the others. As I’ve mentioned Anderson and her excellent performance, I should also mention the rest of the cast: Eric Stoltz, Dan Aykroyd, Anthony LaPaglia, Laura Linney, Terry Kinney, Eleanor Bron, Jodhi May as Grace Stepney, Elizabeth McGovern, Penny Downie, Pearce Quigley, Lorelei King, Morag Siller and Pamela Dwyer. All are exceptionally good, but as I say, Davies might well have given them more to work with. They all seem oddly underused. For one thing The House Of Mirth follows the ‘modern’ and it seems now usual trend of creating performances in the cutting room and that is a real shame. Actors have one skill: acting and they are always keen to use it and must be allowed to use it. So why do directors these days play it safe when two or three of actors, though usually two, share a scene, and usually almost in close-up? As far as I know actors - as they do on the live stage - work off each other and when it works, it is magic. So why not let them do so when their performances are not live, but being recorded on film or tape? But now in pretty much all the scenes with just two or characters are shot there in take after take after take. Later in post-production– (have I got the word right? – each take is examined and an actor’s ‘best’ performance it cut in (and that is why quite often we get continuity errors). Yes, I know why that’s how it’s done: it’s safer! Rather than waste time re-shooting a scene for some reason or another . . . But all the actors in this film have long stage experience of working off each other, so why not let them act! They can do it, and this gang I’m sure could have done it well. Perhaps I am nit-picking: Davies film is OK, but it did not blow my socks off. I like to think in the hands of another - more adventurous or more imaginative - director it might have been, well, better. One aspect I did like was that Davies retained a great deal of Wharton’s original dialogue. One aspect I did not like and can’t understand why it was done was that a whole, reasonably central, character and thus several, to my mind relevant and crucial scenes in the novel were junked. Why? One scene in particular was very relevant to the state of mind of the heroine. I’m sure Davies had his reasons, but I’m blowed if I know what they might be. Oh, and finally, my advice is to forget the film and read the novel. It is excellent in pretty much every way I can think of.
One aspect of Wharton’s novel this film loses is her sardonic wit and gentle satire. Another aspect of the novel which – obviously – is lost when her story is transferred to celluloid is Wharton’s writing and prose. At the risk of sounding pretentious, I would describe Wharton as a writer’s writer.
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