Triumph of Love

A concoction of airy artifice, Pierre Marivaux's 18th-century French play Triumph of Love is all icing, with a few crumbs devoted to the notion that it is futile to resist the heart's desires. Unfortunately, somebody left the cake out in the rain in this film version of Marivaux's comedy of romantic deception and gender disguise. The story is the stuff of silly drawing room farce: A lovestruck princess infiltrates a secluded villa disguised as a man, for the purpose of gaining access to an exiled prince who is the rightful heir to her homeland's throne. The gender switch is not motivated by any sociopolitical notions -- this is, after all, 300-year-old gilt-edged fluff -- but rather due to the plot element that dictates that the prince would reject her if he knew her true identity, both because her father is responsible for the death of his parents and because she is a member of the “fairer” sex, for whom he has no need. In the course of her maneuverings to win the hardened heart of the prince, the princess also deceives the other two inhabitants of the villa, a rational philosopher and his spinsterish sister, into thinking that she/he is passionately in love with them as well. No doubt, Marivaux intended that these convolutions and their karmic aftermath whip his audience into a delighted frenzy, but director Peploe and her leading lady, Sorvino, can do little more than elicit a half-smile, if that. To convey the piece's theatrical affectations, Peploe fleetingly shows a group of spectators watching the dramatic action unfold, a directorial choice that would not seem so precious but for her failure to capture the essence of Marivaux's spiritedness. At a minimum, Peploe might have spent more time coaching Sorvino into a performance that at least made the faintest of impressions. Sorvino plays the part of the cunning princess as if she were the pretty star of a high school play who means well but has only a modicum of talent. (Her motivation here, for the most part, seems to be: “If Gwyneth can wear a codpiece and speak in an English accent, why can't I?”) Her scenes of seductive passion are unmovingly bland, and her idea of masculinity is merely to speak her lines in a louder voice. The amateurishness of Sorvino's performance is most pronounced when she shares the screen with Shaw, the only performer who has the slightest idea of what she's doing here. The bubbly joy of Shaw's Leotine, upon feeling the prick of Cupid's arrows for the first time, is both uplifting and heartbreakingly sad. Hers is a delicious performance in an otherwise soggy gateau.