Despite the fact that the biopic based on the Modernist(?) painter Dora Carrington is fine, with a Merchant Ivy languidness to it, despite Emma Thompson's borderline slapstick sincerity, the poignant tragedy Christopher Hampton attempts to decant with such care in this drawling movie is beyond my pay grade: a bisexual painter and a homosexual biographer who was a founding member of Bloomsbury form an inseparable attachment? Shielding each other? I have viewed this drama off and on since WPHL joined This TV syndication, and my attention always, invariably strays.
A wise deconstruction of an old queen (which he certainly was) like Henry James can tell us a lot about the complexity of human shields utilized for cover, but does romance spare us from our own self-deception? What I pick up from Pryce as Lytton Strachey is a pathetic sense of debauchery, redeemed by the fact that Dora was most comfortable in the role of his disciple, but to commit suicide over her loss? It doesn't pass the smell test. I certainly have doubts as to whether or not Thompson believed in the role.
Wiki says Strachey purportedly had a relationship with Keynes, and Niall Ferguson caused an uproar in asserting certain dismal views by Keynes in relation to recession and stimulus, i.e., "we're all dead in the end" were due to his homosexuality, which earned the energetic Scott excoriating censure, leading to a public apology, which ignited my irrelevant indignation. I scolded Dr. Ferguson quite forcefully in his comment window for not standing his ground, which in no way indicates I've solved any puzzles on radicalized aberrations.
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