Persuasion

Attend a screening of this adaptation of Jane Austen's last (and posthumously published) novel expecting the lavish likes of an Merchant-Ivory period extravaganza and you'll be sorely disappointed -- or inordinately pleased depending on your bent. Entirely devoid of dewy-eyed, luscious-lipped, heaving-chested heroines, Michell's Persuasion makes us work a bit at Austen's story rather than serving it up to us on a big silver platter. Amanda Root's portrayal of Anne Elliott is so restrained and so unmovie-star-like that we are compelled to plumb her depths to see how a bird with such dull plumage flies. Anne has had eight-and-a-half long years to reflect on her dismissal of Frederick Wentworth (Hinds), the man she'd meant to marry. Anne's neighbor and surrogate mother, Lady Russell, persuaded her that Wentworth, “having nothing but himself to recommend him,” was an unsuitable suitor. In a deliciously ironic twist of fate (the sort that fuels all really great romances), Anne's foppish father (Redgrave) and peevish dilettante of a sister (Nicholls) have squandered the family fortune, forcing them to “retrench.” Thus, the family manse, Kellynch, is sublet to Admiral Croft and his wife, who just happens to be… Wentworth's sister. Now Captain Wentworth of the Royal British Navy (and if you don't think that's a glorious station in 19th-century life, just check out his hat), his star has risen just as precipitously as the Elliotts' has fallen. Michell's treatment of Anne's story is spare and muted, a movie of small moments. Whitened fingers gripping the back of a chair, a red velvet cape billowing in the sea air, a gloved hand on the small of a back. These are the images that set our pulses racing, and race they do even though we know perfectly well the outcome of the story. Even the comedy, which is quite subtle and likely to elude the inattentive listener, is capable of producing audible laughter. Persuasion is nearly a lesson in understatement, with fine, controlled performances, and a pace that quickens your interest in inverse proportion to its speed. I can't help but think that Austen would be pleased that this seeming Plain Jane of a picture could be a thing of such beauty and spirit.