Times have changed since DH Lawrence’s infamous novel scandalised society in 1928. But if modern morality has little to fear from this Karl Marx meets Girl Power tale of the affair between an aristocrat, Constance (Marina Hands), and her husband’s gamekeeper Parkin (Jean-Louis Coulloc’h) what does Pascal Ferran hope to achieve with this new adaptation?
If it’s a demonstration of his technical chops then by all means take a bow. This is a lush, sensuous film full of vivid landscapes and the mossy, musty smell of the forest, reminiscent of that other English naturalist/novelist Thomas Hardy.
Like Hardy, Ferran believes in the poetry of nature, especially as a mirror of human passions – the tale of this torrid affair is told in frozen fields, brooding skies and rolling thunder. Lawrence’s famous scene in which the lovers cover their bodies in flowers is the film’s standout moment – Eden-like in its innocent beauty.
But there are problems in paradise. Ferran is prone to making his point with heavy-handed symbolism, endlessly paring Constance’s scenes with her paralysed husband and vigorous new lover. But when it gets down to the nitty gritty Lady Chatterley lacks any kind of erotic spark. Call it realism, but Constance’s sexual revolution amounts to little more than digging splinters out of intimate places. Perhaps some things never change after all; look no further than the panic in Parkin’s eyes when she starts to make herself at home.
Though intertitles, voice over and repeated fades give the film the intelligent, chapter-like impression of a novel, tonally it’s a strange beast, caught uneasily between France and England. While retaining the original milieu (miners, class, travelling to Southampton) everybody twitters on in French without batting an eyelid, and Parkin’s ‘tu/vous’ is ridiculously subtitled as ‘yer’.
Despite hitting these shores with a big reputation and a clutch of Césars, Lady Chatterley is a major disappointment.
