The play on which this movie is based works well on stage. A couple of actors bring to life the letters of Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West. It's simple and effective. The flim also uses the letters as the basis of the script, but the screenplay hasn't converted the literary tone into something speakable. The result is a thick porridge of words that doesn't sound remotely like living language . Even the best performance -- and it really is excellent -- by Elizabeth Debecki as Mrs Woolf, can't escape from the impossible pretension of the stuff coming out of her character's mouth. The accents, too, even Debecki's, have clearly been tirelessly worked on and worked over: few people sound real or believeable. Less accomplished cast members (of whom there are several) haven't a hope.
The film as a whole is similarly stilted. In spite of occasional (and welcomely effective) poetic visual flourishes, the film is so freighted with the weight of period frocks, settings and props, that it never takes flight. Only Isobel Waller-Bridge's music, liberated from period accuracy, escapes the self-consciousness that paralyses other departments.
The worst aspect of this tedious movie is that it takes the Bloomsbury set at their own estimate. This one's a genius, that one's a rebel, she is daring, he is boring....Whatever their talents may or may not have been, they are presented, uncritically, as so wrapped up in themselves, so hopelessly removed, in their privilege bubble, from the daily grind of the society around them, that there's no reason at all to be interested in their self-regard and self-induced melodramas.
A very poor effort indeed.