I hardly recognized Willem Dafoe in this biopic about T.S. Eliot and his mentally ill wife Vivian. His face was very long, thin, and gaunt; with every lean on his cane Dafoe managed to capture the weariness Eliot must have felt. Miranda Richardson plays his wife, his poetic inspiration, his chief critic; however she suffers from an illness given a ridiculously silly name and tries to kill herself often. Today she would have been put on prozac and given a spot on Ricki Lake. But since this was post WWI-era, we instead get to watch Viv wave a gun around and pour melted chocolate into a mailslot. The movie takes place for the most part in London, moving to America when Eliot takes a position at Harvard. The other characters, a priest, a family friend, and a few socialites, seemed cardboard and uninteresting. This is not a fast-moving film; at times the sound was terrible and the plot a little confusing. We're never really quite sure what is making Vivian nuts; but then, I guess that reflects real life. It made for a great rainy afternoon flick, especially for poetry lovers, art lovers, and biography lovers.
