Jodhi May is the unnamed mistress in this fine adaptation of Henry James' novela. She's about perfect for the part of the virginal governess assigned to manage two young children and the country estate of a distant magnate who finds kids boring.
She's not Deborah Kerr's frightened governess with the quavering voice in "The Innocents," but just as suitable. She has dark eyes that are liquid and perceptive, and two plump lips which are usually slightly open. This lends her features a slightly dazed look. Her movements are deliberate and her seraphic voice beneficent. She seems intent on bringing purity wherever she goes. May is quite attractive and she was educated at Oxford. I'm considering sending her a proposal of marriage. Well, after all, if she can't get the tycoon who hired her, why not get the next one that comes along? On the other hand, all that virtue --
I really like the character and the way James handled it -- just the right balance between corruption and madness. Mrs. Grose, the housekeeper, tries to help but she's illiterate and stuffy and has fixed ideas about the two children -- both of them are angels. Flora, the eight-year-old girl, is a cute blond out of Matisse. Miles, the ten-year-old boy who was just expelled from his boarding school for reasons never explained, is a handsome kid. Of course, if you believe the narrator, they're both pustular with unquiet spirits but then aren't they all?
Over time, the two little angels start acting queer -- standing like stone statues in the garden at midnight, cleverly ambiguous answers to straightforward questions, kissing May fully on the lips, things like that. May becomes convinced that there are two evil spirits, Quint and his pregnant paramour, Miss Jessel, that are sneaking around and giving the kids lessons on debauchery. The ghosts are closing in. The problem is that, although the kids act suspiciously, no one has actually seen or admitted seeing any ghosts. The unimaginative Mrs. Gross begins to doubt that anything sinister is going on. And May begins to look even more batty than Deborah Kerr did.
Then, by means of some anfractuous logic that I've never understood, May sends poor distressed Mrs. Grose and Flora off to London, saying, "Leave the boy with me." She informs the scullery maids that she alone is in charge now, "And I run a tight ship." Hmm. What is going on? Who's possessed around here -- and by what?
Before confronting Miles that night, she kneels and prays for victory over the spirits, pointing out to God that it only takes one more turn of the screw for virtue to prevail. "With your aid, Lord, I'll wring it out of him." At that point I began to wonder if "The Turn of the Screw" didn't belong to a sub-genre that was popular around the turn of the century -- a post-Darwinist but pre-Freudian pitting of suppressed impulses against strict Victorian custom , rather like "Dr. Jeykll and Mr. Hyde" or, more broadly, religion versus science.
The climactic reveal reveals nothing much. The death isn't organic to the plot, and the main question -- is May nuts or are the kids evil? -- is left hanging.
She's not Deborah Kerr's frightened governess with the quavering voice in "The Innocents," but just as suitable. She has dark eyes that are liquid and perceptive, and two plump lips which are usually slightly open. This lends her features a slightly dazed look. Her movements are deliberate and her seraphic voice beneficent. She seems intent on bringing purity wherever she goes. May is quite attractive and she was educated at Oxford. I'm considering sending her a proposal of marriage. Well, after all, if she can't get the tycoon who hired her, why not get the next one that comes along? On the other hand, all that virtue --
I really like the character and the way James handled it -- just the right balance between corruption and madness. Mrs. Grose, the housekeeper, tries to help but she's illiterate and stuffy and has fixed ideas about the two children -- both of them are angels. Flora, the eight-year-old girl, is a cute blond out of Matisse. Miles, the ten-year-old boy who was just expelled from his boarding school for reasons never explained, is a handsome kid. Of course, if you believe the narrator, they're both pustular with unquiet spirits but then aren't they all?
Over time, the two little angels start acting queer -- standing like stone statues in the garden at midnight, cleverly ambiguous answers to straightforward questions, kissing May fully on the lips, things like that. May becomes convinced that there are two evil spirits, Quint and his pregnant paramour, Miss Jessel, that are sneaking around and giving the kids lessons on debauchery. The ghosts are closing in. The problem is that, although the kids act suspiciously, no one has actually seen or admitted seeing any ghosts. The unimaginative Mrs. Gross begins to doubt that anything sinister is going on. And May begins to look even more batty than Deborah Kerr did.
Then, by means of some anfractuous logic that I've never understood, May sends poor distressed Mrs. Grose and Flora off to London, saying, "Leave the boy with me." She informs the scullery maids that she alone is in charge now, "And I run a tight ship." Hmm. What is going on? Who's possessed around here -- and by what?
Before confronting Miles that night, she kneels and prays for victory over the spirits, pointing out to God that it only takes one more turn of the screw for virtue to prevail. "With your aid, Lord, I'll wring it out of him." At that point I began to wonder if "The Turn of the Screw" didn't belong to a sub-genre that was popular around the turn of the century -- a post-Darwinist but pre-Freudian pitting of suppressed impulses against strict Victorian custom , rather like "Dr. Jeykll and Mr. Hyde" or, more broadly, religion versus science.
The climactic reveal reveals nothing much. The death isn't organic to the plot, and the main question -- is May nuts or are the kids evil? -- is left hanging.