One of the tasks facing the adapter of famous novels is the transfiguring of literary metaphor into cinematic image. You cannot simply transpose a figure from one medium to another, but this is precisely what is done in RESTORATION. Rose Tremain's source novel has been acclaimed, not only as an excellent piece of historical recreation, but for embodying the consciousness of mid-17th century England, without reference to or taint of our own century.
This isn't strictly true - indeed it is impossible, you can't unknow what you know, and there is an early example of what would become Freudian psychoanalysis here - but she does write her novel using much of the figurative language of the time. For instance, there is a great play with opposites - light/dark; death/birth; wealth/poverty; sex/celibacy etc. - that become transformed into a whole; there are metaphysical conceits (all the play with the stars), especially the fundamental structure of the four elements - air, water, fire, earth, which play such a vital role in the plot.
The title itself is a bookish pun, signifying not only the restoration of the Monarchy after eleven years, as the inter-titles tell us, of 'bleak Puritan rule'; but also the restoration of its hero's humanity, decency and maturity; the restoration of London after the Plague and the Great Fire of London.
All of this is imported directly into the film, which is divided neatly in two, from the dazzling splendour of Charles II's court, and riverside aristocratic estates, to the austerity and misery of Quakers, medicine, madness, childbirth, death, plague, the Great Fire. This duality is figured in lighting (bright/dark), costume (gaudy, ornate/simple, threadbare), composition (noise, bustle, excess/spare, quiet), dialogue (witty aphorism/flatulent sincerity). You could even add entertainment (mildly amusing/torture).
This literary literalism extends to characters, eg the King is linked with the sun. The four elements are also included: the air that holds the stars, and carries the plague; the earth of Merivel's 'estate' (another pun), whose ownership is symbolically fragile; the water that connects his estate with the court, and also becomes a metaphor for Merivel's moral progress; the Great fire that signals a final destruction of corruption, the past etc.
The problem with all this is that these figures are all literary. In a book they have tremendous resonance, because they anchor the book firmly in its time, as well as the history of literature, Shakespeare, Spenser, the metaphysical poets etc. However, cinema has developed different metaphors and meanings. If you see a film with a river, you are less likely to think of Ben Johnson than Renoir or Vigo. By failing to make the film cinematic, to tie its theme of history with cinema history (as Ruiz does in the extraordinary LE TEMPS RETROUVE), the film's representation of history seems insubstantial.
RESTORATION's great glory is the art direction. Though not authentic in any meaningful sense - the plague scenes are as artificial as the ornate gardens - they give a very real intimation of the age's artifice. The sets quite literally swamp the story, from which it never recovers, and who can blame us when the characters are so unreal (a wonderfully camp Hugh Grant and moving Ian MacKellan excepted), while the buildings, the gardens, the vast halls, the statuary, the bric-a-brac, the drapery, the costumes, the colour seem so alive.
Merivel claims he is sick of death and wants colour, and who can blame him? Unfortunately, the film takes the opposite route and follows Merivel into abstention via some very queasy morality verging not only on pro-life, but in dispensing with women, mothers and sex altogether, as well as suggesting that the King's caprice was actually a very sophisticated moral test.
So the first half of the film is like wandering dazed through a very elaborate museum. However, the staticness (sic?) of the comparison begins to tell, and Hoffman's lack of cinematic nous soon makes us weary of finery, because he is unable to bring either his drama or decor to life, as Ruiz does. I cannot remember a single memorable shot, and as the plot drifts into dully lit, talky, historical-epic moral progress, I quickly lose interest. The largely pastiche score often seems anachronistic to the tune of 50 years. Amid so much mediocrity and timidity, you hunger for the iconoclastic vigour of a Greenaway.
This isn't strictly true - indeed it is impossible, you can't unknow what you know, and there is an early example of what would become Freudian psychoanalysis here - but she does write her novel using much of the figurative language of the time. For instance, there is a great play with opposites - light/dark; death/birth; wealth/poverty; sex/celibacy etc. - that become transformed into a whole; there are metaphysical conceits (all the play with the stars), especially the fundamental structure of the four elements - air, water, fire, earth, which play such a vital role in the plot.
The title itself is a bookish pun, signifying not only the restoration of the Monarchy after eleven years, as the inter-titles tell us, of 'bleak Puritan rule'; but also the restoration of its hero's humanity, decency and maturity; the restoration of London after the Plague and the Great Fire of London.
All of this is imported directly into the film, which is divided neatly in two, from the dazzling splendour of Charles II's court, and riverside aristocratic estates, to the austerity and misery of Quakers, medicine, madness, childbirth, death, plague, the Great Fire. This duality is figured in lighting (bright/dark), costume (gaudy, ornate/simple, threadbare), composition (noise, bustle, excess/spare, quiet), dialogue (witty aphorism/flatulent sincerity). You could even add entertainment (mildly amusing/torture).
This literary literalism extends to characters, eg the King is linked with the sun. The four elements are also included: the air that holds the stars, and carries the plague; the earth of Merivel's 'estate' (another pun), whose ownership is symbolically fragile; the water that connects his estate with the court, and also becomes a metaphor for Merivel's moral progress; the Great fire that signals a final destruction of corruption, the past etc.
The problem with all this is that these figures are all literary. In a book they have tremendous resonance, because they anchor the book firmly in its time, as well as the history of literature, Shakespeare, Spenser, the metaphysical poets etc. However, cinema has developed different metaphors and meanings. If you see a film with a river, you are less likely to think of Ben Johnson than Renoir or Vigo. By failing to make the film cinematic, to tie its theme of history with cinema history (as Ruiz does in the extraordinary LE TEMPS RETROUVE), the film's representation of history seems insubstantial.
RESTORATION's great glory is the art direction. Though not authentic in any meaningful sense - the plague scenes are as artificial as the ornate gardens - they give a very real intimation of the age's artifice. The sets quite literally swamp the story, from which it never recovers, and who can blame us when the characters are so unreal (a wonderfully camp Hugh Grant and moving Ian MacKellan excepted), while the buildings, the gardens, the vast halls, the statuary, the bric-a-brac, the drapery, the costumes, the colour seem so alive.
Merivel claims he is sick of death and wants colour, and who can blame him? Unfortunately, the film takes the opposite route and follows Merivel into abstention via some very queasy morality verging not only on pro-life, but in dispensing with women, mothers and sex altogether, as well as suggesting that the King's caprice was actually a very sophisticated moral test.
So the first half of the film is like wandering dazed through a very elaborate museum. However, the staticness (sic?) of the comparison begins to tell, and Hoffman's lack of cinematic nous soon makes us weary of finery, because he is unable to bring either his drama or decor to life, as Ruiz does. I cannot remember a single memorable shot, and as the plot drifts into dully lit, talky, historical-epic moral progress, I quickly lose interest. The largely pastiche score often seems anachronistic to the tune of 50 years. Amid so much mediocrity and timidity, you hunger for the iconoclastic vigour of a Greenaway.