Is The Age of Innocence Martin Scorsese’s most… | Little White Lies

In Praise Of

Is The Age of Inno­cence Mar­tin Scorsese’s most vio­lent film?

29 Jan 2017

Words by Dan Einav

Two people embracing in an intimate moment, dressed in period costume - a woman with curly hair wearing a lace-trimmed dress and a man in a tuxedo.
Two people embracing in an intimate moment, dressed in period costume - a woman with curly hair wearing a lace-trimmed dress and a man in a tuxedo.
The director’s 1993 peri­od dra­ma is just as dev­as­tat­ing as the likes of Taxi Dri­ver and Goodfellas.

No pro­fan­i­ty, no blood­shed, no sex, no De Niro and no DiCaprio, but The Age of Inno­cence is a Mar­tin Scors­ese film through and through. The director’s peri­od romance rarely fea­tures in dis­cus­sions of his great­est work – it even failed to crack the top 20 in our recent rank­ing of his films – and yet it is full of his trade­mark themes and styl­is­tic flour­ish­es. Scors­ese him­self holds the film in high regard, once describ­ing it as the most vio­lent [film] I ever made,” which is a fair­ly bold claim from a film­mak­er who has brought us some of the most bru­tal scenes in movie his­to­ry. So what makes The Age of Inno­cence a vio­lent film? In an inter­view with Roger Ebert, Scors­ese elaborated:

What has always stuck in my head is the bru­tal­i­ty under the man­ners. Peo­ple hide what they mean under the sur­face of lan­guage in the sub­cul­ture I was around when I grew up in Lit­tle Italy, when some­body was killed, there was a final­i­ty to it. It was usu­al­ly done by the hands of a friend. And in a fun­ny way, it was almost like rit­u­al­is­tic slaugh­ter, a sac­ri­fice. But New York soci­ety in the 1870s didn’t have that. It was so cold-blood­ed. I don’t know which is preferable.”

Nes­tled between Cape Fear and Casi­no, Scorsese’s adap­ta­tion of Edith Wharton’s Pulitzer Prize-win­ning nov­el about soci­ety elites was his first PG-rat­ed film since 1977’s New York, New York. Scors­ese was giv­en the book by crit­ic-turned-screen­writer Jay Cocks, who knew of the director’s fond­ness for cos­tume dra­ma. After mak­ing two gris­ly crime-dra­mas in the ear­ly 90s, Scors­ese appar­ent­ly felt it was the right time to explore a dif­fer­ent kind of vio­lence, the spir­it of exquis­ite roman­tic pain.”

In bring­ing Wharton’s rich, atmos­pher­ic prose to life, Scors­ese spares no detail or expense in immers­ing us in the set­tings described in the nov­el. It’s as faith­ful a recre­ation of old New York as his lat­er epic, Gangs of New York. So com­mit­ted to authen­tic­i­ty was Scors­ese, he even com­mis­sioned 200 copies of paint­ings by peri­od artists such as James Tis­sot, pure­ly to cre­ate a more con­vinc­ing back­drop. Michael Ball­haus’ cam­er­a­work drinks in the opu­lent objects and ornate fix­tures that fur­nish almost every room in the film. This mate­ri­al­ism is exposed as gaudy and prof­li­gate, but as in The Wolf of Wall Street, Scorsese’s real skill is his abil­i­ty to make it all this lav­ish excess seem per­verse­ly attractive.

The world Whar­ton evokes in her nov­el is one gov­erned by arti­fice and pro­pri­ety. It’s a nov­el that demands mul­ti­ple read­ings, as so much of what the char­ac­ters think and feel is buried under for­mal­i­ties, or teas­ing­ly implied by the caus­tic nar­ra­tor. It’s a stark con­trast to Scorsese’s most icon­ic films, which are typ­i­cal­ly marked by volatile char­ac­ters such as Travis Bick­le, Jake LaM­ot­ta and Tom­my DeVi­to, each of whom wears his emo­tions on his sleeve and is eas­i­ly pro­voked into explo­sive fits of rage.

Two individuals lying intimately on an ornate sofa, dressed in period costumes against a dark, moody background.

But real­ly, The Age of Inno­cence just shows anoth­er side of the same coin. Where Taxi Dri­ver and Rag­ing Bull are about the chaos that ensues when the id is unfet­tered, this film explores the tur­moil cre­at­ed by a soci­ety where true emo­tions are sti­fled and super­fi­cial­i­ty rules. Either way, the char­ac­ters end up alien­at­ed and alone.

New­land Archer (Daniel Day Lewis), a wealthy dandy, and Count­ess Ellen Olen­s­ka (Michelle Pfeif­fer), a divorcee con­sid­ered to be dam­aged goods, are lovers who strug­gle against rigid social con­ven­tions. Archer is engaged to a woman he doesn’t love, the naïve but respectable May Welland (Winona Ryder). Ellen is expect­ed to shy away from the pub­lic after her scan­dalous sep­a­ra­tion. That they’re torn apart by such arbi­trary codes of form” is tan­ta­mount to the mur­der of gen­uine love.

Then again, this sense of final­i­ty in death which Scors­ese alludes to is notice­ably absent in the gut-wrench­ing final scene, where a much old­er Archer arrives at Ellen’s door but is unable to sum­mon up the courage to go inside. With the shut­ters of her apart­ment are sym­bol­i­cal­ly closed above him, Archer sits on a bench reflect­ing on what he has lost. Daniel Day-Lewis is out­stand­ing in the role, con­vey­ing the hurt and melan­choly brought on by a life­time spent ask­ing what if?’.

It’s an end­ing writ­ten by Whar­ton, but one in keep­ing with oth­er mem­o­rable Scors­ese denoue­ments. As with Rag­ing Bull, Good­fel­las and The Wolf of Wall Street, the lin­ger­ing image we’re left with is one of over­whelm­ing dis­sat­is­fac­tion, of char­ac­ters ques­tion­ing just where it all went wrong. It’s more affect­ing and unset­tling than the sight of any phys­i­cal barbarity.

Yet it is Michelle Pfeiffer’s Ellen who is the heart of the sto­ry. There have been many crit­i­cisms levied at Scors­ese over the years that he is a misog­y­nist who reduces female char­ac­ters to crude arche­types. Cameron Diaz’s lim­it­ed role in Gangs of New York is often cit­ed as a prime exam­ple, but pas­sive wives, girl­friends and pros­ti­tutes with scant dia­logue abound in his films. Ellen Olen­s­ka, how­ev­er, is a sym­bol of late 19th cen­tu­ry female trans­gres­sion, self-con­fi­dence and defi­ance in the face of social deco­rum. Pfeif­fer is per­fect­ly cast, strik­ing just the right bal­ance between seduc­tive and vul­ner­a­ble, there­by pre­vent­ing her char­ac­ter from becom­ing a mere cipher for lib­er­at­ed sexuality.

Pfeiffer’s chem­istry with Day-Lewis is cru­cial and com­plete­ly absorb­ing. And where there is tit­il­la­tion and sex in many of Scorsese’s oth­er films, here we have gen­uine eroti­cism. The moment where Ellen and Archer steal a kiss in the back of a car­riage is charged with a sen­su­al­i­ty not present any­where else in the director’s canon. Scors­ese imme­di­ate­ly fol­lows this swell of pas­sion with a jar­ring scene in which Archer stares insipid­ly across at May, who will even­tu­al­ly tear him away from his true love. It’s a qui­et­ly dev­as­tat­ing piece of sto­ry­telling that fur­ther draws our atten­tion to the emo­tion­al tur­moil at the core of the narrative. 

The Age of Inno­cence isn’t a per­fect film. Parts of it seem a lit­tle dat­ed now, not least the use of a nar­ra­tor quot­ing entire pas­sages from the book. No amount of reap­praisal is like­ly to con­vince any­one that this is Scorsese’s best film, but per­haps it’s time to recog­nise it sim­ply as an exquis­ite piece of cin­e­ma as well as a ter­rif­ic screen adap­ta­tion. You’ll strug­gle to come across anoth­er PG-rat­ed peri­od dra­ma quite as bru­tal as this.

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