Vanity not-so-fair

"I had thought she was merely a social climber. I see now she’s a mountaineer," remarks an older woman of Rebecca Sharp, the iniquitous protagonist of Vanity Fair. Although Becky (Reese Witherspoon) is the central character in the film, she is far too conniving to be called a heroine. After all, the film’s basis, William Thackeray’s novel of the same name, is subtitled "A novel without a hero." And so with this grim prospect of weaving a tale entirely around dishonorable characters, Mira Nair’s visually stunning, if substantively disappointing, adaptation embarks.

The story follows Becky from her impoverished childhood to her life as a governess and eventual London socialite. Although for some reason none of the characters age physically, the three-decade span of the film transforms their hearts and minds. As Becky navigates the class ladder, alternately ascending and slipping, she grows from a charming if impetuous youth into a woman whose cynicism is outweighed only by her ambition. Like most people in the fictionalized society, Becky rarely considers others as anything more than a means to her ends.

It’s tempting to pin many of the distasteful elements of the film on its source material, which after all created the unprincipled Ms. Sharp. However, Thackeray’s novel has a unique appeal that is lost when transferred to film. In the book, Becky is even less likeable, but she is only one of an entire cast of interesting and important characters. The events are related to the audience by a witty narrator who, though he claims to travel in the same circles as Becky’s acquaintances, manages to stay entirely above the fray.

Without this valuable attribute of text, screenwriter Julian Fellowes (Gosford Park) is left to use dialogue to fill in the blanks, resulting in clumsy and unrealistic exchanges. In one particularly awkward scene, Becky’s husband asks his brother to care for his son immediately before he mounts a horse, as though these are discussions one leaves until the moment of departure.

Thackeray’s narrator also serves a thematic purpose. By recounting the goings-on of the characters with an attitude at once tender and wry, the narrator provides the reader an opportunity to distance himself from the individuals and yet gain greater understanding of the society itself. In the world Thackeray presents, ethics inevitably become blurred and integrity is the hardest of all things to maintain. In this context, Becky’s cynisism and resulting depravity seems understandable and almost justified.

The screen version, however, only provides opportunity to view the world from Becky’s perspective, eliminating much of the complexity of Thackeray’s supporting cast. This change of focus was intentional on Nair’s part, who sought to bring Becky Sharp to life as a modern and conflicted woman. Nair endeavors to create sympathy for her protaganist by immersing Becky’s travails in the context of feminism and class struggle. Unfortunately, whereas in Thackeray’s work we end up liking Becky in spite of ourselves, Nair’s attempts to force empathy from the beginning result in an immense feeling of dissatisfaction when the depth of Becky’s cruelty is revealed.

Nair’s unique perspective as a female Indian filmmaker is more effective when she teases out the novel’s passing references to British imperialism in India in some of her film’s most interesting scenes. Both in these brief exotic interludes and throughout, the film brings19th century England beautifully to life through brilliant art direction and costume design.

In this way, Nair’s Vanity Fair becomes itself a perfect metaphor for the classist society and scheming young lady at its heart: a magnificent package with nothing inside.