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Meet Kate Croy, a designing lass exquisitely played by Helena Bonham Carter. Her beauty is matched only by her cunning. It's how she must be, or so her profound desperation would leave you to believe. After all, she's the quintessential poor relation, and London circa 1910 isn't exactly swarming with job opportunities for women.
With no great expectations in sight and a sick sot for a Dad, it behoves Kate to do as rich Auntie Maude (Charlotte Rampling) says. Problem is, of course, she loves Merton Densher, handsome rake and idealistic journalist intelligently portrayed by Linus Roache. And, no surprise again, the crusading Mr. Densher is hardly well heeled. The wilful Miss Croy is forbidden from seeing him, at risk of losing her equally headstrong aunt's patronage. Kate grudgingly breaks it off, hoping against hope that fate will somehow intertwine their lovelorn souls again.
Fate doesn't take long, soon arriving in the personage of Millie Theale (Alison Elliott), Kate's wealthy antithesis from the United States. As one wag at a cocktail reception for the heiress observes, "She'd be the queen in America, if they had one."
Anxious to spy his delinquent love, Merton latches onto an invited guest and happens on the scene. The taboo relationship is renewed, and there's a wicked twist in the offing; that is, once the troika becomes familiar enough to form a proper love triangle. First, all three become fast friends, in rather short order at that; but Millie quickly reserves a special place in her heart for Merton. Whenever Millie inquires, Kate and Merton, ever so cautious, contend that they are merely old friends.
Becoming their willing benefactor, the affluent American bankrolls a romantic sojourn to Venice. Aunt Maude is nonplussed. For the time being, Kate has found a new patron.
Unbeknownst to Millie, Kate discovers a sadly compromising truth about her fragile young sponsor. It could be a way out for the calculating wench. Just how guilty Kate feels when she hatches her deceitful little scheme is a matter for conjecture, Henry James style. Righteous Merton's unwitting (or maybe not so unwitting) culpability in the plot may be a bit more complex. The literary father of modern psychology, perhaps author James knew that only a madman truly knows his mind. That the rest of us tread water in a pool of emotional uncertainty. And so it is with the conscience-wracked friends in The Wings Of The Dove.
In this highly studied film, where plot action is remarkably distilled to subtle facial gestures - real, inferred, or just imagined - the key words are askance, furtive and deliberative. They gain fine visual definition via the eloquent visages of the talented three principals. Though cinematographer Eduardo Serra does a fine job of capturing the haunting uniqueness that is Venice, the detailed intricacy required to record the aforementioned facial expressions, in tandem with editor Tariq Anwar's peerless effort, represents the real photographic coup.
For those overly accustomed to the raucous razzmatazz of Hollywood filmmaking, this sophisticated change of pace might at first feel like being dragged to the opera. But the thrust into a higher gear, a reinvigorating dollop of culture, pleasantly reminds how good a tonic intellectual cinema can be, given the proper dosage. And it's much tastier than cod liver oil.
However, viewers who binge on a steady diet of art films may be stymied. Unlike the mass of Ivory-Merchant films - the Classic Comic books of the movie world - The Wings Of the Dove co-opts little of that genre's dress-up party pretension. In highlighting the mixed emotions and ambiguity of human relations, director Iain Softley details the quandary without necessarily making some ostentatious fashion statement. That isn't to say that John Beard's production isn't visually appealing; the evening scenes in Venice are particularly enticing. It's just that the thrifty script's emphasis is on less being more. Hence, The Wings Of The Dove glides to its thoughtful conclusions with surprisingly little flap and even less flutter.
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