SEPARATE LIES
Directed by: Julian Fellowes.
Produced by: Steve Clark-Hall & Christian Colson.
Written by: Julian Fellowes, based on the novel by Nigel Balchin.
Director of Photography: Tony Pierce-Roberts.
Edited by: Alex Mackie & Martin Walsh.
Music by: Stanislas Syrewicz.
Released by: Fox Searchlight.
Country of Origin: UK. 85 min. Rated: R.
With: Tom Wilkinson, Emily Watson, Rupert Everett, John Neville & Linda Bassett.

What made Closer somewhat engaging was the focus on how people respond to traumatic human events rather than the events themselves. It's a kind of portrayal that screenwriter Julian Fellowes can excel at (Gosford Park) and sometimes miss the mark (Vanity Fair), depending on his director's translation. But with Fellowes taking the director's chair for Separate Lies, he is able to make a film that relentlessly follows the suffering of characters who make each other suffer and he does it well.

The central plot is over in about 20 minutes flat. Anne (Emily Watson) is bored because her husband (Tom Wilkinson) is boring. But when she goes to a neighborhood cricket match and meets Bill (Rupert Everett - not boring), she engages in an affair that quickly causes her to be drunk, driving, and deadly. These first five minutes of secrets take another five minutes to unwind, and that's when the real fun begins. This is not a film about how secrets unravel, but rather why we keep them and who we keep them from.

Fellowes' script penetrates these upper-crust characters by stripping all their irrational decisions down to their core selfishness and shows each nuanced flinching sob in the process, and his direction is equally overindulged. This would certainly be a bad thing were this any other kind of film, but this is a melodramatic movie of manners. If there's any genre that would allow for a wordless four-minute exchange between Tom Wilkinson and a scarf, this would be it.

The slow, indulgent pace of Fellowes' direction works well with the script and gives Watson and Wilkinson each the attention their brilliant acting deserves, but both the script and the direction can get a little too hokey at times. Throughout Fellowes over-exaggerates the mundane, such as with sounds of muffled television sets and tires in a gravel driveway. While these could have rooted his melodrama in palpable everyday life, the editing is so painfully over-enunciated (the sounds too loud, the visuals too obvious) that it ends up detracting from the film.

But it does work for what it is. And have I mentioned how good the acting is? It can't be mentioned enough. Watson hasn't been this good since Hilary and Jackie and Wilkinson hasn't been as on target as he is here since In the Bedroom. Surprisingly, it's Rupert Everett who drags with a below-average performance. Here the typical Everett style - superficial, wry comic relief - feels disjointed next to his two leads. He could have been swapped for Hugh Grant without anyone noticing. Watson and Wilkinson, however, are as integral to the film's success as any aspect of Fellowes' piloting, and they deserve a good deal of credit for this rather successful film. Zachary Jones
September 16, 2005