The world of The Age of Innocence, Old New York in the 1870s, is one ruled by reputation and tradition. Scorsese outlines this first and foremost in his production design and costume, ornate as it is unnecessary. His camera floats through the heralded halls of these great institutions a step above the common man; glittery chandeliers, display cases groaning with jewels, walls adorned from head to toe in paintings and lavish dinners all year long. The narration, provided by Joanne Woodward, emphasises and approves of every swoop. Her tone is gentle, yet authoritative, as if she has been watching this family for generations and seldom has to step in. The members are part of a self-reinforcing cycle which sucks in any potentials like Newland Archer and polishes him into another shin statue. Their dinner tables are a breeding ground for gossip, and we understand that even a whisper could determine the fate of a fellow member. Their words are plain on the surface, disguised as pleasantries, but full of veiled threat.
So naturally Scorsese is drawn to this story. He started with gangster flicks based on his childhood in Little Italy, and how the unspoken code shaped and morphed a character's actions. This is very much the same idea, but in a "exquisitely refined sense". It twists itself around a tale of forbidden love, where passion clashes with tradition. Initially he is overjoyed to have made it here, from what we can assume are lower standings. Then the treasonous actions of Ellen open his eyes, and he begins to fight. So curiously, Newland seems in control, but a more than cursory glance reveals that he is imprisoned like all the others, stifled by the ever demanding dance and song. He talks and obsesses constantly over escape, but in the only possible opportunity to actually do so, he relents. In the latter half of the film, he all but resigns to a constant glumness, and on the eve of his last stand, caught like a rat in the trap, once again helpless. It is an excruciating existence, although not nearly as noble as the film makes it out to be with its whispered revelations.
Day-Lewis nevertheless makes the most out of it. The character and setting call for outer repression, far cry from the flash that he has become known for in his later career. From the neck down his suit is a prison, locking his stance into place, reinforcing his social prominence, so he must emote with his eyes, with his head, with his pursed and flattened lips. Each word is a battle - he must force himself to speak what is expected of him, not what is on his mind. Pfeiffer on the other hand, is disappointing. She is given the most provocative character, in an age where divorce is scandalous beyond reprieve, but the casting is already works against her. She is asked to be more than the blonde bombshell, to be the electrifying spark that ignites Newland's passion. Instead it is her mere rebellious existence that does this for her, her beauty for good measure, and her actions as an afterthought. Ellen is played against May, who naturally has no chance. Newland is attracted to the mystical quality of the imagined Ellen, who is the talk of the entire community, who resonates femininity and independence. But this Pfeiffer is not. It is all talk, it occurs offscreen, with Woodward filling us in. She is the vision of all he had missed, but simply a vision.
May is actually the most interesting. Ryder plays her to perfection; petite, doe-eyed, simpering at every turn, almost too pleased with herself. But more is asked of her than any other of her companions. She breaks character only twice (perhaps not even that, as she cluelessly queries Newland in the carriage on what she is expected to notice as high born lady), giving Newland his first and only out by acknowledging the implication of an affair (and in doing so opens herself up to the same branding as Ellen's). Then Ryder slips back into her role, forever destined to be smiling and curtsying and pretending that her husband does not have eyes for another woman, never mind her cousin. But Scorsese condescends; she drones on about trifling matters, and the soundtrack drowns her out. Newland sees an escape, and then reading a letter once more confining him, the screen darkens but for a stripe of light across his eyes, as though he is the only victim here.
So it culminates in a stuffy show of style, which has all the hallmarks of Scorsese gone wild. The camera sweeps across the overwrought mise en scene, taking in every drop of its intoxicating musk, and then again and again, until Scorsese's lavishness eventually becomes folded into the film itself, masturbatory and ostentatious instead of ironic. The narration concurs; it chases after every loose strand, every unexplained phenomena, and doubly underlines it for the audience. It becomes as blind as Newland is, declaring that May died purely, thinking the world a good and honest place. If only it had for her half the concern it has for Newland.
So naturally Scorsese is drawn to this story. He started with gangster flicks based on his childhood in Little Italy, and how the unspoken code shaped and morphed a character's actions. This is very much the same idea, but in a "exquisitely refined sense". It twists itself around a tale of forbidden love, where passion clashes with tradition. Initially he is overjoyed to have made it here, from what we can assume are lower standings. Then the treasonous actions of Ellen open his eyes, and he begins to fight. So curiously, Newland seems in control, but a more than cursory glance reveals that he is imprisoned like all the others, stifled by the ever demanding dance and song. He talks and obsesses constantly over escape, but in the only possible opportunity to actually do so, he relents. In the latter half of the film, he all but resigns to a constant glumness, and on the eve of his last stand, caught like a rat in the trap, once again helpless. It is an excruciating existence, although not nearly as noble as the film makes it out to be with its whispered revelations.
Day-Lewis nevertheless makes the most out of it. The character and setting call for outer repression, far cry from the flash that he has become known for in his later career. From the neck down his suit is a prison, locking his stance into place, reinforcing his social prominence, so he must emote with his eyes, with his head, with his pursed and flattened lips. Each word is a battle - he must force himself to speak what is expected of him, not what is on his mind. Pfeiffer on the other hand, is disappointing. She is given the most provocative character, in an age where divorce is scandalous beyond reprieve, but the casting is already works against her. She is asked to be more than the blonde bombshell, to be the electrifying spark that ignites Newland's passion. Instead it is her mere rebellious existence that does this for her, her beauty for good measure, and her actions as an afterthought. Ellen is played against May, who naturally has no chance. Newland is attracted to the mystical quality of the imagined Ellen, who is the talk of the entire community, who resonates femininity and independence. But this Pfeiffer is not. It is all talk, it occurs offscreen, with Woodward filling us in. She is the vision of all he had missed, but simply a vision.
May is actually the most interesting. Ryder plays her to perfection; petite, doe-eyed, simpering at every turn, almost too pleased with herself. But more is asked of her than any other of her companions. She breaks character only twice (perhaps not even that, as she cluelessly queries Newland in the carriage on what she is expected to notice as high born lady), giving Newland his first and only out by acknowledging the implication of an affair (and in doing so opens herself up to the same branding as Ellen's). Then Ryder slips back into her role, forever destined to be smiling and curtsying and pretending that her husband does not have eyes for another woman, never mind her cousin. But Scorsese condescends; she drones on about trifling matters, and the soundtrack drowns her out. Newland sees an escape, and then reading a letter once more confining him, the screen darkens but for a stripe of light across his eyes, as though he is the only victim here.
So it culminates in a stuffy show of style, which has all the hallmarks of Scorsese gone wild. The camera sweeps across the overwrought mise en scene, taking in every drop of its intoxicating musk, and then again and again, until Scorsese's lavishness eventually becomes folded into the film itself, masturbatory and ostentatious instead of ironic. The narration concurs; it chases after every loose strand, every unexplained phenomena, and doubly underlines it for the audience. It becomes as blind as Newland is, declaring that May died purely, thinking the world a good and honest place. If only it had for her half the concern it has for Newland.