Vile Young Things

When a first time screen writer and director sets about adapting a book by a beloved author, what does he think about? Creating a psychological tone of narration? Giving features, voices and attitudes to characters that had previously existed independently in the mind of each reader? Maybe.

Maybe he just really didn't want to blow his first writing/directing gig. He wanted a good omen. He needed a good name. Maybe he thought Evelyn Waugh's cutting Vile Bodies was too drab, too glass-half-empty. Maybe he wanted to set a lighter tone.

Why else would he take the novel's original title--which no doubt hints at Waugh's intended tone and moral--and water it down to something as limp as Bright Young Things?

The change is indicative of a series of stylistic and content choices that castrate potentially biting social satire into a bland period piece. Sure it's funny and cutting at times, but in a blithely sentimental way that obfuscates any condemnation of the characters and their cagey morals. As there's an ultimately happy[ish] ending, there can be no lamenting this particular lost generation. Theirs was excess without consequences.

Worst of all, though, it takes no pains to draw connections between Britain in the 30's and the world at large today--connections which are blindingly obvious.

It's Britain on the eve of World War II, a generation of young idle rich are doing the Gatsby from London to Dover and back. The press is having a field day. I don't know much about the history of journalism, but this era might mark the realization that celebrities and scandal tend to sell more newspapers than real news does. Bright Young Things is funny sometimes and painless almost always. Wackiness and orgies happen, then bombs drop, then everyone goes home happy. Somewhere, in the background, someone does a shot of Absinthe.

The parallels to 21st century America are blatant. For two years now millions of Americans have added to their waistlines watching Magnate's daughter Paris Hilton and her Top-40-spawned cohort travel around the country flirting with rednecks and chasing greased hogs.

Similar things exist in England, where reality TV was pretty much [re]invented and where celebrity worship there has reached the level of art form.

As it is, you could remove the actors from their starched collars and bowler hats, swaddle them in distressed denim, trucker hats and feathered boas, and you'd basically have an MTV beach party. Then give Jim Broadbent a pair of timbs and an afro just for my amusement. "What's all this," He'd ask.

If Arthur Miller could make resounding connections between the Salem of the 1690's and the Hollywood of the 1950's, then surely Fry could have taken the pains to underscore the obvious connections between the Bright Young Things and the MTV Generation. He doesn't.

He chooses instead to gloss over the deep and crippling moral and social constraints his characters live in. He deliberately and repeatedly balks at exploring vital and immediate topics like personal freedom.

Miles is a main character. Miles is also gay. Being gay in Edwardian England is a high crime. Miles' lover leaves some scandalous letters lying about. The police get ahold of them somewhere near the climax of the picture. Miles says he must leave England. Miles is never mentioned again.

In Steven Fry's Bright Young Things, characters like Miles are used as anecdotal filler, and are tossed off whenever he feels the need to reaquire the original plot--a trite comedy of errors involving a 1000 pound bet on a stakes race by a novelist you never care much about because he never really loses. Somewhere, in the background, someone does a shot of Absinthe.

All of this is supposed to mean something, it's all supposed to cohere into something about fast and pointless existence. Maybe Waugh's Vile Bodies does, but Fry's Bright Young Things definitely doesn't.

Weightless sound and occasionally funny fury