But in this instance it turns out he was bang on the money, because that’s exactly what On Chesil Beach is about. Adapted from the novel by Ian McEwan, with a screenplay by the same, and directed by theatrical stalwart Dominic Cooke, it is a lyrical and sorrowful examination of thwarted desire, sexual shame, and the folly of pride in the repressed England of the early 60s.
We follow young honeymooners Florence (Saoirse Ronan) and Edward (Billy Howle) on the night of their wedding in a seaside hotel in Devon overlooking the windswept pebble beach, the narrative creeping forwards over these integral few hours but spinning away in flashbacks at each locus of difficulty in the conjugal event - the two are still virgins - to explore the couple’s upbringings, their burgeoning relationship, and the decisions that lead to this point.
Florence is from a pompous upper-class family, Edward less well-to-do. She is a prim classical musician, he an intelligent but rumpled history graduate. Her parents are domineering and elitist, his mother is brain-damaged from a head injury, seemingly unable to make new memories, in need of constant care.
They are rich characters, pin-sharp in specificity, wide in universality. The script clearly benefits from its literary origins. The relationship is believable, the world of 60s Britain, on the cusp of change yet not there yet, is brought vividly to life, and the sense of the many lines of their lives converging on one mortifying moment in bed, then spreading out from it again afterwards, the feeling of life sometimes coming to a head in a single flash, the actions in that moment colouring and informing decades to come, is a powerful one.
If the story focus is on character, the filming is theatrical. Cooke’s background as a stage director (he was awarded CBE in 2014 for services to drama) gives scenes the feel of a play, the plot focusing on character interaction and dialogue more than visual event. It’s a good fit for the material, especially with central performances from Ronan and Howle so involved and complete. Ronan especially really inhabits her role, and a key event regarding Florence that explains much is only hinted at, handled deftly, the ambiguity and the uncertainty increasing the horror.
It’s a grand, sweeping film, about a single night but also about a whole life, with an ending crescendoing into such emotion that it is hard to hold back the sobs. To be honest, on paper it sounds like the kind of film I would despise - I have a prejudice against period dramas, I find them enervating; some voice in the back of my head huffs when it’s suggested I watch one - the cinematic equivalent of a bowl full of steamed broccoli. Boring! And anything with a whiff of worthiness or Oscar-baiting about it turns me off. And films that attempt to play on large, bold emotions I have a tendency to find false and manipulative.
On Chesil Beach is very nearly all of these things, but in the end is none. The characters are too well developed, for one. It looks fantastic for two: bunching graphite clouds, bobbing boats with peeling paint, tumble-down houses drowned in shadow, and a camera gliding through in measured movements as tightly controlled as the repressed emotional states. As you'd expect from a director of such theatrical calibre it has some wonderful staging, and much that matters unfolds through people talking to one another. But it is lively and vibrant as well, and certainly cinematic. And that ending is, yes, a touch cliched, and altered from the book, but it brings out the tears effectively as well.
Florence is from a pompous upper-class family, Edward less well-to-do. She is a prim classical musician, he an intelligent but rumpled history graduate. Her parents are domineering and elitist, his mother is brain-damaged from a head injury, seemingly unable to make new memories, in need of constant care.
They are rich characters, pin-sharp in specificity, wide in universality. The script clearly benefits from its literary origins. The relationship is believable, the world of 60s Britain, on the cusp of change yet not there yet, is brought vividly to life, and the sense of the many lines of their lives converging on one mortifying moment in bed, then spreading out from it again afterwards, the feeling of life sometimes coming to a head in a single flash, the actions in that moment colouring and informing decades to come, is a powerful one.
If the story focus is on character, the filming is theatrical. Cooke’s background as a stage director (he was awarded CBE in 2014 for services to drama) gives scenes the feel of a play, the plot focusing on character interaction and dialogue more than visual event. It’s a good fit for the material, especially with central performances from Ronan and Howle so involved and complete. Ronan especially really inhabits her role, and a key event regarding Florence that explains much is only hinted at, handled deftly, the ambiguity and the uncertainty increasing the horror.
It’s a grand, sweeping film, about a single night but also about a whole life, with an ending crescendoing into such emotion that it is hard to hold back the sobs. To be honest, on paper it sounds like the kind of film I would despise - I have a prejudice against period dramas, I find them enervating; some voice in the back of my head huffs when it’s suggested I watch one - the cinematic equivalent of a bowl full of steamed broccoli. Boring! And anything with a whiff of worthiness or Oscar-baiting about it turns me off. And films that attempt to play on large, bold emotions I have a tendency to find false and manipulative.
On Chesil Beach is very nearly all of these things, but in the end is none. The characters are too well developed, for one. It looks fantastic for two: bunching graphite clouds, bobbing boats with peeling paint, tumble-down houses drowned in shadow, and a camera gliding through in measured movements as tightly controlled as the repressed emotional states. As you'd expect from a director of such theatrical calibre it has some wonderful staging, and much that matters unfolds through people talking to one another. But it is lively and vibrant as well, and certainly cinematic. And that ending is, yes, a touch cliched, and altered from the book, but it brings out the tears effectively as well.
... I'm covered in grime and bin juice, again, from work, and I can't keep my eyes open, so that's it for tonight. On Chesil Beach is an admirable and deserving adaptation, an elegy to regret and clumsiness and tragedy. Much like my friend Michael. He picked well.
This is one of my favourite books
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