Dear Coz,
° Splendidly mounted (the Indian visual elements are most welcome), splendidly cast (poor Miriam Hopkins so out of her element in the '30's version), the best anybody's ever gonna do with English lit's most brilliant flop (the heroine bursts the mouldy seams of her own novel). Too short (to flesh out the multitude of characters) and too long (about a third of the way through I began to feel Time falling out of warp drive) and just right (for at the end I was surprised to find it was already getting on for teatime, from a 13:30 start).
° Becky has been given the rudiments of a heart, but she overcomes it. The tale has been given a social conscience, but that plays better than the cardboardconscience of the original. And Mira Nair has clearly seen Gone with the Wind, up to now the most successful screen adaptation of the Life and Times of Rebecca Sharp.
° And o yes, Becky takes the booby prize at the end, hope she became a maharani.
° (Where is Chris Marlowe when he's wanted? Tamburlaine the Great, aka Giant, the Jackkiller.
° For the inherent disappointment in all versions of Vanity Fair is Becky's rotten, rotten luck--she should've married and buried Sir Pitt, then had her adventures.
° But I guess that's E. F. Benson's Lucia.
° Your cousin, Giac.
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