Sometimes a movie is more than the sum of its parts. Not this latest LCL. Here the parts stubbornly refuse to come together (pun intended).
In a culture ruled by intellect and divided by class, Lawrence advocated for connection and the body. But sex, for Lawrence, is not solely about climax; it is also a vehicle of self-discovery, a way to transcend class.
Unfortunately, the film demonstrates little of Lawrence's penetration. Instead, Lady Chatterley and her story languish under a frigid ideological lens.
Thus Corrin's Lady Chatterley can best be described as 'disembodied.' The director is more interested in her as an idea than a flesh-and-blood person. Her face registers, but what is missing is the experience of her awkward, boyish body. Honestly, if she manifested a new consciousness in the way she moved and held herself, I sure didn't notice it.
Similarly, she arouses no physical chemistry in a fine-looking O'Connell, who in turn does capture the accent, but not the ecstasy. Their nude scenes together, devitalized by the wan colors of the photography, are the reverse of joyously sensuous.
Speaking of which, has Venice ever been less sensuous?
In the end, the film makes the viewer an intellectual observer, not a partaker. The film's elements, though in ever such good taste, lack that lush, unashamed appeal to the senses that would have immersed us in Connie's and Mellor's awakening to what it is to be woman and man.
Qualified recommendation: despite its shortcomings, a springboard into a more personal, transgressive, and passionate imaginative experience.
In a culture ruled by intellect and divided by class, Lawrence advocated for connection and the body. But sex, for Lawrence, is not solely about climax; it is also a vehicle of self-discovery, a way to transcend class.
Unfortunately, the film demonstrates little of Lawrence's penetration. Instead, Lady Chatterley and her story languish under a frigid ideological lens.
Thus Corrin's Lady Chatterley can best be described as 'disembodied.' The director is more interested in her as an idea than a flesh-and-blood person. Her face registers, but what is missing is the experience of her awkward, boyish body. Honestly, if she manifested a new consciousness in the way she moved and held herself, I sure didn't notice it.
Similarly, she arouses no physical chemistry in a fine-looking O'Connell, who in turn does capture the accent, but not the ecstasy. Their nude scenes together, devitalized by the wan colors of the photography, are the reverse of joyously sensuous.
Speaking of which, has Venice ever been less sensuous?
In the end, the film makes the viewer an intellectual observer, not a partaker. The film's elements, though in ever such good taste, lack that lush, unashamed appeal to the senses that would have immersed us in Connie's and Mellor's awakening to what it is to be woman and man.
Qualified recommendation: despite its shortcomings, a springboard into a more personal, transgressive, and passionate imaginative experience.