The House Of Mirth: The Remastering Of A Legacy
- Zarah Hashim
- 1 hour ago
- 5 min read
Terrence Davies was the iconic British filmmaker, known for his adept period adaptations such as A Quiet Passion (2016), Sunset Song (2015) and of course, The House of Mirth (2000). His recent passing in 2023 was a deep loss for the cinematic community. Davies’ legacy lives on through his art, and the BFI fosters that legacy as it commemorates him through the re-release and remastering of his works. We had the privilege of being invited to watch the first in this series: The House of Mirth.
Originally an 1890s novel by Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth is about the tragic demise of a wealthy socialite with a knack for gambling and in pursuit of a wealthy marital match. In the film adaptation, Davies stays true to this premise. He casts Gillian Anderson to play our tragic heroine, Lily Bart. Her performance truly excels as she articulates all the emotions of a woman shunned by society. Lily Bart entangles herself in many different avenues, which eventually lead to her downfall. However, I believe that Davies highlights that what happens isn't the fault of Lily herself, rather the society and the double standards, which, to this day, leave a foul taste in my mouth. I feel outrage for her, speaking to Davies' skill; he is able to create such pathos for a fictional character.
The story appears to be a woman in pursuit of love, but that seems a trivial understating of the film. Yes, love exists in this movie, but we should, under no circumstances, idealise the relations here. It is not romantic or passionate; rather, it is what we would nowadays consider ‘toxic.’ In order to understand, I have to explain the character Lawrence Selden (played by Eric Stoltz). Lawrence is a bachelor, first and foremost. He is arrogant, rich and very, very unavailable. So much so, he has an affair with a married woman, Bertha Dorset (played by Laura Linney) – more on her later – rather than pursue a relationship with a woman he could marry. From the beginning of this film, we are aware of a chemistry, a yearning between Lily and Lawrence. But Lawrence promptly shuts down any possibility of a marriage between them, with no reasonable explanation, a frustrating show of cowardice in the face of love.
However, Lawrence’s rejection catalyses Lily’s downfall. Her gambling tumbles her into drastic debt, a fatal mistake for an upper-class woman upon whom appearance is paramount. The perception of Lily becomes more and more blurred as gossip spreads (the source of which is none other than Bertha) about her interesting relationship with her best friend's husband, Gus Trenor (played by Dan Akroyd). Gus is a money man; he offers Lily a way to earn more through investing in “Wall Street”. She has a nice turn around, making around $9000 from these investments. But of course, Gus wants something in return – he corners Lily and insinuates that she owes him sexual gratification for all the money he’s made her, and, when she refuses, he tells her that she now owes him $9000 as he invested his own money instead of her own. This story is complex and layered; it is imperative that you understand explicitly just what he is asking for.
The New York imagined in both the book and film regards a time period in which money, wealth and social hierarchies held more weight to a person's literal place in society than they do in this day and age. Class consciousness was huge in this period, and, through it, we see the fragility of a woman’s position. Both Wharton and Davies remind us of the harsh inequalities which existed in this era alongside sexual politics. Sex, marriage and money were an entangled mess, leaving the most vulnerable to be subjected to the morality of the patriarchy. What was most interesting in Davies’ film is that sexuality felt rather innocent and romantic; anytime Lawrence and Lily broke the social laws, it was in the form of a kiss, nothing further. Their kisses were sweet and passionate, not lustful or based on carnal instinct. I think that this portrayal of the tenderness of Lily and her ability to love made this film all the more tragic. Even in the affair between Lawrence and Bertha, she writes him love letters, which raises the question of whether love and marriage are two different ideas. In this context, Lily’s marriage is about her security; her ability to support her own future in a society where women are prevented from even holding property. The context for these women, Lily, Bertha and even Mrs Carry Fisher (played by Elizabeth McGovern), was insecure, unkind, and unstable. They existed as accessories to a man, an object of their social status. It is a testament to Davies how he materialises these themes in unspoken terms. Wharton wrote about her disdain, constructing the building blocks which enabled Davies to materialize this text and use visual demonstrations of the oppression that took place in this society.
Davies is able to encapsulate the female experience, an uncommon achievement for male directors. I believe his portrayal of Lily and the rest of the female cast is some of the most honest and indignant dialogue I have witnessed in period pieces. As a man, Davies is aware of the power he holds in regard to the production and performance of his female characters. Yet, I found that Lily was well written and fleshed out - yes, her goals resided in marriage and wealth, but so did Lawrence’s. There was an equality of concepts between Lily and Lawrence as characters. Both were depicted as human; complicated and flawed. I think that Lily’s status as “the victim” was never depicted to us as who she was because her existence was grounded in the realities of human nature. She had weaknesses, strengths, quirks and feelings but in Davies’ portrayal of her, she becomes a victim. I think it is powerful that he allows her to stay human. Moreover, she isn't the “perfect victim” as we are shown that she is a product of her actions and circumstances. These factors made her death all that more tragic as we are taken from event to event, and within the 140 minutes, we become familiar with Lily; we feel for her, empathise with her and a part of us dies with her too. That is the marker of a good director.
Overall, this remastering of The House of Mirth, acting as an homage to Terrence Davies’ legacy, is felt. The film is poignant, humorous and well-adapted, qualities which follow other productions by Davies. I tend to find fault in book-to-film adaptations, but this one felt true to its Bible, using the dialogue and premise with integrity and establishing a space to critique further with new insights into the society that existed during Wharton’s era. Furthermore, this film, having been released initially in 2000, and now re-released in 2025, allows for twenty-five years' worth of nuance to be shared upon this film. I believe audiences now may have more sympathy for Lily and her demise, as Davies’ portrayal of “victims” as a concept feels based in the pathology of them, how they came to be, and what was their driving force. A lot of women in fiction become reduced to their victim status, but in this adaptation, we become aware of the complexity of life for women of the New York elites, a bourgeois class concerned with appearances of the self, rather than the welfare of their counterparts. These explorations are what I found myself concerned with post-watch, and for that, I believe this to be worth a rewatch.
Edited by Lara Walsh, Co-Film & TV Editor
