Disappointment

On the rainy afternoon that was yesterday, I took the train into the city to see Joe Wright's new adaptation of Anna Karenina. I had to see it on opening day, being a lover of the novel and having had many of my own disappointments in love. The novel resonates with me on many levels.

I was excited to see what Tom Stoppard, that brilliant playwright, had made of the screenplay, and I had heard that there was some artifice involved in the way Wright conceived of the film. And even better, Matthew Macfadyen was in it (playing Oblonsky, it turned out). The picture below isn't from the film; just some gratuitous MM.

I walked upstairs in the theater, and looked out over Yerba Buena Gardens, gazing at SFMOMA through the huge windows, over the grass, in the grey light. I thought about my past, being an art historian (I had coincidentally run into one of my thesis advisers in Berkeley earlier) and living abroad and reading Anna Karenina in London in the fall of 1995. My friend S had been worried about my mental state at the time, knowing me, wondering if I was reading tragedy to feed some inner hunger for self-immolation. I wasn't, actually. I remember reading Anna Karenina when I was 18 and not really understanding much of it, thinking back. I admired the writing and the descriptions and feeling sad when Frou-Frou died, and wondering why Anna had to kill herself at all at the end. I did not understand passion or the social conventions that damned her, really. Then when I reread it in my 20's, I thought I understood, but at most I was getting at it from Kitty's point of view. I can now read it and understand it on many levels, and sympathize with many characters. In crueler moments, some of my friends call my husband Karenin. They do have some character traits in common, to be sure.

I last read the novel in the fever of uncertainty and sadness. I think I will reread it now, at peace, although I cannot be sure that it will not stir certain memories for me. I used to be envious of the Russian majors who would read Tolstoy as their senior thesis. Sometimes I think I should have continued and been a Russian major; one of our Russian professors was charming and sexy and fabulously brilliant. His Chekhov class in translation was always packed. He was an emigre from the USSR and people would follow him and around and become majors just to spend time with him. When my brother was in Afghanistan, I found a translation of Chekhov's stories by dear George Pahomov to send to him; I was so proud!

But back to Anna K. I wanted to love this film, I did. I cannot count the times I have watched Wright's Pride and Prejudice, faults and all. I appreciate how Wright doesn't want to do pure literary adaptation; that he respects the medium of film, and that he wants to be innovative. I appreciate that he wanted to point out the theatricality in the book in a quite literal way, as well as foreground that theatricality in the film. But somehow, despite some bravura performances, I could not connect with the characters in the way I wanted. The emotions were too distant, too clean.

I had thought the dramatics of the production were the result of the collaboration between Stoppard and Wright, but reviews such as this suggest otherwise. It was a brilliant stroke of genius, and brilliantly carried out, but somehow did not work to convey the depths necessary. Stylization (what was up with the dancing?) happens at the cost of something, and for me it was authenticity of feeling. That isn't to say I didn't believe what the actors were conveying; it's just that the vehicle bounded their expressions in a way that the book didn't, in my opinion.

I adore Jude Law, and for the first time I felt sympathy for Karenin, as he portrayed him, strain and forgiveness and all. Maybe that is an unexpected gain.