Pro­fes­sor Marston and the Won­der Women

In an ori­gin sto­ry that’s been re-vamped and revised for sev­er­al decades, Won­der Woman’s incep­tion has ranged from clay mould­ing to the loins of the loud-thun­der­ing Zeus. Her real-world begin­nings – born of psy­chol­o­gy, polyamory and the poly­graph machine – seem almost as far- fetched, and pro­vide the foun­da­tion of Angela Robinson’s hand­some­ly staged Pro­fes­sor Marston and the Won­der Women. While the ingre­di­ents are all in place for a weird cre­ation myth wor­thy of the character’s unusu­al his­to­ry, the nar­ra­tive becomes pedes­tri­an and vanil­la in com­par­i­son to the frames of ear­ly comics that often fill the screen.

At one stage, the epony­mous Dr William Moul­ton Marston (Luke Evans) is instruct­ed by the com­ic book pio­neer Max Gaines (Oliv­er Platt) to ​“cut the kink by 50 to 60 per cent.” While Marston bris­tles at the note, the film large­ly takes it on board. The open­ing act sees 1920s Har­vard psy­chol­o­gist Marston and his aca­d­e­m­ic wife Eliz­a­beth (Rebec­ca Hall) explor­ing the prospect of a ménage à trois with come­ly stu­dent Olive Byrne (Bel­la Heathcote).

There’s a real fris­son in these ear­ly scenes – you’d be hard pressed to find a more charged use of a lie-detec­tor test – par­tic­u­lar­ly with regards to the two women’s anx­i­ety and excite­ment about the trans­gres­sion of their mutu­al desire. This drops off marked­ly after they con­sum­mate their three­some. By the time they’ve all been eject­ed from acad­e­mia for their choice of lifestyle, and Marston has stum­bled across the world of bondage and pornog­ra­phy that would lead him to invent Won­der Woman her­self, the atmos­phere has stultified.

Despite the reper­cus­sions of their actions hav­ing clear, far-reach­ing effects, the stakes feel dimin­ished. This is even – in fact, espe­cial­ly – the case dur­ing Marston’s grilling by cen­sors about Won­der Woman’s BDSM con­tent which pro­vides a fram­ing device through which the sto­ry is told in flash­back. He’s attempt­ing to defend the comics, and secret­ly his lifestyle, to Con­nie Britton’s head of the Child Study Asso­ci­a­tion of Amer­i­ca, but the debate nev­er reach­es a rous­ing cli­max, let alone a res­o­lu­tion. Robinson’s screen­play engages with all the right ele­ments, dis­cussing the empow­er­ment and equal­i­ty that Marston was striv­ing for along­side the per­son­al sex­u­al pro­cliv­i­ties that he con­ve­nient­ly couched them in. There’s ample com­plex­i­ty and nuance writ­ten into these issues and char­ac­ters, but it only inter­mit­tent­ly coa­lesces to tru­ly sat­is­fy­ing ends.

Evans imbues Marston with an easy charis­ma and admirable resolve, but he can’t help play­ing a leer­ing third wheel to the more com­pelling dynam­ic at work – that of Eliz­a­beth and Olive. Right from the first moment, Rebec­ca Hall steals every scene; a bril­liant intel­lect ham­strung by the gen­der myopia of her time. She’s steely and com­bat­ive in the face of a world that refus­es to recog­nise her, but won­der­ful­ly vul­ner­a­ble when con­front­ed with a life her rad­i­cal prin­ci­ples endorse but the liv­ing of which remains ter­ri­fy­ing. Marston’s name may be in the title, but it is the rela­tion­ship between the two women – the dual inspi­ra­tions for the icon – that is most con­fi­dent­ly han­dled by Robin­son and that remains riv­et­ing even as the wider dra­ma tails off.