I couldn't imagine a more boring plot than the one introduced by Edith Wharton. Although, I haven't found myself overwhelmed with Wharton's stories so I shouldn't be too shocked.
It's a turn-of-the-century American novel set in New York about high society and young gentleman, Newland Archer, who is engaged to and eventually marries May. But he falls in love with May's cousin, Ellen Olenska.
There are years of give and take as Ellen struggles with the social implications of a divorce and Newland wrestles with his desires while maintaining his own status and that of his family and wife, May.
It's a criticism of the institution of marriage or the way society forced certain norms upon us no matter how unnatural those maxims actually were to the human soul.
Ellen prevents Newland from making the sacrifice of his wife (and, as we find out, family) and the story ends 30 years later after May is dead, Newland is old and their children are grown. Although time and the joy of family has filled the hole left by Ellen's love, there's still an emptiness there.
There's a lot of fluff in both the book and the film. Costumes, name dropping, the opera, reading rooms and this snobbish, over-the-top way of explaining even the simplest of notions.
It's this fluff that drives me bananas and bores my pants off. It's the evidence of a bygone era and a bygone way of writing. Thankfully, it's as extinct as the dinosaur.
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