Notes on "On Chesil Beach (2018)"
22 June 2018 (around 1:30am)
I read, and it strikes me as no surprise, that the sort of double-epilogue of On Chesil Beach, which is easily the weakest part of the movie, for all its quasi-earned emotion and melodrama, was not originally part of the story, as McEwan's novel had it. Why he chose to add it is beyond me, aside from it providing an idea of closure, in the sort of sad-sap way that La La Land ends. Now that I mention it––it's exactly how La La Land ends, except in this, Edward gets nothing, as he deserves. I must say, I went into this film with middling expectations, and more out of the desire to indulge in both the wonderful Saoirse Ronan and a bit of Britishness. For those who want those things in life, this film provides them. The problem with On Chesil Beach is that it seems to think that Edward is the main character, that his perspective is the most interesting, or the most sympathetic. I suppose in many ways that is true. He's boring, his enthusiasms in life are far less precisely made clear than Florence's. Indeed, it can't be said that he's unsympathetic for much of the film, but when it ultimately comes down to the meat of the film, Florence is by far the more fascinating and dynamic character. Her exuberance as an individual seems to break the film, actually, as her suggestion of an asexual marriage breaks her relationship with Edward. Whether true or no, McEwan and Cooke seem incapable of spending any more time with Florence after her heartbreakingly introspective plea to Edward, they seem unable to comprehend what a young woman like this would be like. (I speak more for the two as they are reflected in the film, not as individuals in day-to-day life.) The meat of the film––the protracted tragicomedy of trying to have sex; the subsequent panic attack that Florence has; and the fight they have on Chesil Beach––are brilliantly nuanced. To a lesser extent, Florence's father's meltdown after tennis and the underdeveloped loose-tether of Edward's mentally handicapped mother also shine in terms of their interest. The problem with the film is, is that it's Edward's story. It's Edward's story in its brashness, its lack of cinematic nuance, its conventionality, and its only occasional dip into the female-perspective. Florence's film would be quieter, slower, with less intrusive detours into the past, without the hideously sentimental (if, like I said earlier, resonant) end-scenes. One of the things the film doesn't seem to even think about is the fact of Florence's having children after she and Edward dissolve their marriage. If Florence was repulsed by sex, then there is a a hovering question of a sort of sexual trauma that hovers over the existence of her children. Moreso, in skipping so far ahead in time, there's no ability to recognize the lived struggle of Florence, almost certainly a survivor of sexual abuse by her father, who then had to get married and had to have sex, despite the likely fact she would never have warmed up. The film threatens for much of its runtime to be very bland. That it isn't is a major accomplishment. I keep returning in my mind to Florence's suggestion to Edward. Her outburst that there's two homosexuals who live together. That people don't have to know what goes on behind closed doors. That Edward can sexually have anyone else. It's all very queer. Seeing it elated me. It's a sort of formulation of how to understand these things in 1962, when the faculty of language was far less equipped. That Edward responds so disgustedly is not surprising, and, indeed, obligatory to endear us to Florence. I sat alone in a theatre as I watched it and wondered would other people take his side? Would other people find her suggestion ridiculous, disgusting, etc.? In our day and age, probably less than most. Yet we never know Florence's interiority after that point. That's a major failing. That the ultimate theme is precisely articulated is a major success. It's akin to Atonement's. When we are faced with things, and make the wrong choice. Regret. That after the 1975 and 2007 epilogues we return to the scene on the beach and rewatch the moment that Edward fucks it all up and loses Florence forever was a good decision. Yet, in the protracted sweeping camera movement, there's a melodrama to it that leaves one feeling a little played-out. The film needs to be an inditement of Edward, and it fails to be–––it only ends up commiserating. McEwan wrote the film this way but Cooke directors it another way–––it should be a recognition of the violence and destruction of Puritanical patriarchy. Florence's asexuality is obliquely but strikingly portrayed as a reaction to childhood sexual abuse by her father. The reveal of this––during Edward's climaxing––reconstructs the entire film. Perhaps others wouldn't feel this way, but I found the troubles the couple was having in bed rather funny. Florence's holding her dress down came off as her being nervous, rather than anxiety mounting. Edward's inability to undress just the same. It's striking how quickly and vividly the film switches paces, and I watched, jaw adrop, as the humor of Edward awkwardly orgasming on top of Florence turned from ridiculous body-humor to a horrific dissociation into internalized shame and trauma. Florence's commanding him not to look at her as she wipes away the come from her thigh, as she scrambles off the bed (the camera perfectly, perfectly following laterally) and fumbling with the door as she dashes out are the aesthetic peak of the film. It's a sudden jolt from the first half, which does little to suggest this is on the agenda. It really is a shame that the film pivots to focus on Edward, who knows little and understands less, who is played by a perfectly capable Eddie Redmayne lookalike who can only try and do much with his material, when Saoirse Ronan, the finest young actress working today, playing one of the most fascinating and tender individuals on screen in 2018, gets shafted by a film which gains its most vital moments when it identifies closest with her.
I read, and it strikes me as no surprise, that the sort of double-epilogue of On Chesil Beach, which is easily the weakest part of the movie, for all its quasi-earned emotion and melodrama, was not originally part of the story, as McEwan's novel had it. Why he chose to add it is beyond me, aside from it providing an idea of closure, in the sort of sad-sap way that La La Land ends. Now that I mention it––it's exactly how La La Land ends, except in this, Edward gets nothing, as he deserves. I must say, I went into this film with middling expectations, and more out of the desire to indulge in both the wonderful Saoirse Ronan and a bit of Britishness. For those who want those things in life, this film provides them. The problem with On Chesil Beach is that it seems to think that Edward is the main character, that his perspective is the most interesting, or the most sympathetic. I suppose in many ways that is true. He's boring, his enthusiasms in life are far less precisely made clear than Florence's. Indeed, it can't be said that he's unsympathetic for much of the film, but when it ultimately comes down to the meat of the film, Florence is by far the more fascinating and dynamic character. Her exuberance as an individual seems to break the film, actually, as her suggestion of an asexual marriage breaks her relationship with Edward. Whether true or no, McEwan and Cooke seem incapable of spending any more time with Florence after her heartbreakingly introspective plea to Edward, they seem unable to comprehend what a young woman like this would be like. (I speak more for the two as they are reflected in the film, not as individuals in day-to-day life.) The meat of the film––the protracted tragicomedy of trying to have sex; the subsequent panic attack that Florence has; and the fight they have on Chesil Beach––are brilliantly nuanced. To a lesser extent, Florence's father's meltdown after tennis and the underdeveloped loose-tether of Edward's mentally handicapped mother also shine in terms of their interest. The problem with the film is, is that it's Edward's story. It's Edward's story in its brashness, its lack of cinematic nuance, its conventionality, and its only occasional dip into the female-perspective. Florence's film would be quieter, slower, with less intrusive detours into the past, without the hideously sentimental (if, like I said earlier, resonant) end-scenes. One of the things the film doesn't seem to even think about is the fact of Florence's having children after she and Edward dissolve their marriage. If Florence was repulsed by sex, then there is a a hovering question of a sort of sexual trauma that hovers over the existence of her children. Moreso, in skipping so far ahead in time, there's no ability to recognize the lived struggle of Florence, almost certainly a survivor of sexual abuse by her father, who then had to get married and had to have sex, despite the likely fact she would never have warmed up. The film threatens for much of its runtime to be very bland. That it isn't is a major accomplishment. I keep returning in my mind to Florence's suggestion to Edward. Her outburst that there's two homosexuals who live together. That people don't have to know what goes on behind closed doors. That Edward can sexually have anyone else. It's all very queer. Seeing it elated me. It's a sort of formulation of how to understand these things in 1962, when the faculty of language was far less equipped. That Edward responds so disgustedly is not surprising, and, indeed, obligatory to endear us to Florence. I sat alone in a theatre as I watched it and wondered would other people take his side? Would other people find her suggestion ridiculous, disgusting, etc.? In our day and age, probably less than most. Yet we never know Florence's interiority after that point. That's a major failing. That the ultimate theme is precisely articulated is a major success. It's akin to Atonement's. When we are faced with things, and make the wrong choice. Regret. That after the 1975 and 2007 epilogues we return to the scene on the beach and rewatch the moment that Edward fucks it all up and loses Florence forever was a good decision. Yet, in the protracted sweeping camera movement, there's a melodrama to it that leaves one feeling a little played-out. The film needs to be an inditement of Edward, and it fails to be–––it only ends up commiserating. McEwan wrote the film this way but Cooke directors it another way–––it should be a recognition of the violence and destruction of Puritanical patriarchy. Florence's asexuality is obliquely but strikingly portrayed as a reaction to childhood sexual abuse by her father. The reveal of this––during Edward's climaxing––reconstructs the entire film. Perhaps others wouldn't feel this way, but I found the troubles the couple was having in bed rather funny. Florence's holding her dress down came off as her being nervous, rather than anxiety mounting. Edward's inability to undress just the same. It's striking how quickly and vividly the film switches paces, and I watched, jaw adrop, as the humor of Edward awkwardly orgasming on top of Florence turned from ridiculous body-humor to a horrific dissociation into internalized shame and trauma. Florence's commanding him not to look at her as she wipes away the come from her thigh, as she scrambles off the bed (the camera perfectly, perfectly following laterally) and fumbling with the door as she dashes out are the aesthetic peak of the film. It's a sudden jolt from the first half, which does little to suggest this is on the agenda. It really is a shame that the film pivots to focus on Edward, who knows little and understands less, who is played by a perfectly capable Eddie Redmayne lookalike who can only try and do much with his material, when Saoirse Ronan, the finest young actress working today, playing one of the most fascinating and tender individuals on screen in 2018, gets shafted by a film which gains its most vital moments when it identifies closest with her.
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