Watching Stephen Fry making his directorial debut is a little bit like watching a toddler the first time he rides a bike without stabilisers. Things are dangerously wobbly to begin with then smooth out nicely as self-belief grows before everything comes crashing down due to over-confidence.
Based on Evelyn Waugh's 'Vile Bodies', this film chronicles the debauched lifestyle of a group of paradoxically penniless rich kids (i.e. they're mostly lords and ladies but have no visible means of income) in a Britain of the 30s that would be unrecognisable to all but the impoverished aristocracy. This is a rarefied world that no doubt existed and seemed real to the likes of Waugh but which is unrecognisable to the majority of British people. Without doubt, however, this movie, in its representation of that period and lifestyle, provides us with an absorbing and entertaining tale.
Apart from our hero Adam Fenwick-Symes (Stephen Campbell Moore, another débutant giving a good account of himself) the characters in this film aren't so much introduced as wander in like party guests you drunkenly met in another room ten minutes ago. They all share a propensity for decadence, and the affectation of declaring most everything to be a frantic bore, and are all, without exception, empty shells. We've seen it all before in the likes of Brideshead Revisited and The Sun Also Rises, but Fry manages to keep us hooked despite the clumsy manner in which he films those opening scenes. Perhaps it's because of the sumptuous production design that captures the feel of these bright young things' hedonistic lifestyle, or perhaps it's because of the amiably random manner in which Fry begins to pull the threads of his story together. Either way, despite Fry's apparent determination to use every scene transition known to the film world, and to make use of at least a little snippet from each of a multitude of cameras used to shoot many scenes, the story manages to hold your attention and drag you along with it, leaving you asking yourself why you're interested in a bunch of characters who are all about as deep as lemon peel.
The story and the characters follow a predictable arc, but Fry fills the film with enough detail and ingenuity to at least keep us entertained. A host of famous faces provide a series of cameos that last little more than seconds in some cases and this is without doubt the only film in which you will see the redoubtable Sir John Mills snorting cocaine. Fenella Woolgar outshines everybody in her scenes as the agreeably dippy cokehead Agatha, who brings a whole new meaning to the term 'powdering one's nose' and eventually parties herself into an insane asylum. In a role that strays into parody every now and then, she manages to provide a brief glimpse of a lost soul behind the party face, and her 'dream' speech pretty much sums up the entire social scene in which the characters are embroiled. James McAvoy, as the ill-fated Lord Balcairn (AKA Mr. Chatterbox) also stands out in one of few sympathetic roles.
The film loses its momentum in the final act, when Fry moves from adapting Waugh's story to altering it completely, and we are left with an ending that is not only contrived but stretches credibility beyond its limits. Having managed to have steered a path that at least avoided conventionality in terms of plot, Fry suddenly makes a complete about-turn and presents us with a finale that stands out as a monumental piece of misjudgement. Perhaps Waugh's ending was too downbeat for the backers. It's a shame if that is the case, because it will mean that Fry most likely compromised himself. Somewhere down the line someone needs to show an ounce of integrity and fight for an ending that is true to the nature of the story, rather than compromising with a soap-opera climax that tarnishes the good work that has gone before.
Bottom line: BRIGHT YOUNG THINGS is a worthy directorial debut from Stephen Fry and, while it's no classic, has a lot going for it. It's probably not worth seeking out, but if it happens to cross your path it's definitely worth watching. Just be sure to stop watching after the war scenes .
Based on Evelyn Waugh's 'Vile Bodies', this film chronicles the debauched lifestyle of a group of paradoxically penniless rich kids (i.e. they're mostly lords and ladies but have no visible means of income) in a Britain of the 30s that would be unrecognisable to all but the impoverished aristocracy. This is a rarefied world that no doubt existed and seemed real to the likes of Waugh but which is unrecognisable to the majority of British people. Without doubt, however, this movie, in its representation of that period and lifestyle, provides us with an absorbing and entertaining tale.
Apart from our hero Adam Fenwick-Symes (Stephen Campbell Moore, another débutant giving a good account of himself) the characters in this film aren't so much introduced as wander in like party guests you drunkenly met in another room ten minutes ago. They all share a propensity for decadence, and the affectation of declaring most everything to be a frantic bore, and are all, without exception, empty shells. We've seen it all before in the likes of Brideshead Revisited and The Sun Also Rises, but Fry manages to keep us hooked despite the clumsy manner in which he films those opening scenes. Perhaps it's because of the sumptuous production design that captures the feel of these bright young things' hedonistic lifestyle, or perhaps it's because of the amiably random manner in which Fry begins to pull the threads of his story together. Either way, despite Fry's apparent determination to use every scene transition known to the film world, and to make use of at least a little snippet from each of a multitude of cameras used to shoot many scenes, the story manages to hold your attention and drag you along with it, leaving you asking yourself why you're interested in a bunch of characters who are all about as deep as lemon peel.
The story and the characters follow a predictable arc, but Fry fills the film with enough detail and ingenuity to at least keep us entertained. A host of famous faces provide a series of cameos that last little more than seconds in some cases and this is without doubt the only film in which you will see the redoubtable Sir John Mills snorting cocaine. Fenella Woolgar outshines everybody in her scenes as the agreeably dippy cokehead Agatha, who brings a whole new meaning to the term 'powdering one's nose' and eventually parties herself into an insane asylum. In a role that strays into parody every now and then, she manages to provide a brief glimpse of a lost soul behind the party face, and her 'dream' speech pretty much sums up the entire social scene in which the characters are embroiled. James McAvoy, as the ill-fated Lord Balcairn (AKA Mr. Chatterbox) also stands out in one of few sympathetic roles.
The film loses its momentum in the final act, when Fry moves from adapting Waugh's story to altering it completely, and we are left with an ending that is not only contrived but stretches credibility beyond its limits. Having managed to have steered a path that at least avoided conventionality in terms of plot, Fry suddenly makes a complete about-turn and presents us with a finale that stands out as a monumental piece of misjudgement. Perhaps Waugh's ending was too downbeat for the backers. It's a shame if that is the case, because it will mean that Fry most likely compromised himself. Somewhere down the line someone needs to show an ounce of integrity and fight for an ending that is true to the nature of the story, rather than compromising with a soap-opera climax that tarnishes the good work that has gone before.
Bottom line: BRIGHT YOUNG THINGS is a worthy directorial debut from Stephen Fry and, while it's no classic, has a lot going for it. It's probably not worth seeking out, but if it happens to cross your path it's definitely worth watching. Just be sure to stop watching after the war scenes .