Lady Chatterley's Lover review: Emma Corrin leads a vacant Netflix adaptation

Lady Chatterley's Lover review: Directed by Laure de Clermont-Tonnerre, Lady Chatterley’s Lover struggles to capture the torment and thrill of the original D. H. Lawrence novel.

In Laure de Clermont-Tonnerre's adaptation of the classic D.H. Lawrence novel, Emma Corrin plays Constance Chatterley, 'Connie', an impulsive and sensitive woman married to Sir Lord Clifford Chatterley (Matthew Duckett). The opening scenes gently establish that the marriage is looked upon as a ground for producing an heir, otherwise, why would he "marry a baronet?" as the question is raised. Clifford apologizes privately, and Constance says its okay. Soon, Sir Clifford will be called to the front, and next we know he returns from the First World War with crippling wounds that has bound him to the chair. Still, she doesn't really seem to mind after all. Until, the lack of physical and emotional intimacy begins to slowly eat her up. (Also read: Gatta Kusthi movie review: Vishnu Vishal’s film is a lighthearted family drama, Aishwarya Lekshmi shines)

Emma Corrin stars as Constance Chatterley in the Netflix adaptation.

D. H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover was one of the most controversial books on publication. Banned in several countries, it was considered unprintable for its portrayal of a working-class man and an upper-class woman, and for its frank depiction of female pleasure. Yet everything in the Netflix adaptation feels orchestrated and neat in comparison, almost ruining the forbidden thrill of the narrative into safely packaging it to a love story. Those two words are uttered as well, when Mrs Bolton (Joely Richardson), the nurse to Lord Clifford silences the unruly gossiping about the events that have taken place, in the final moments of the film. Connie will meet the handsome gamekeeper, Mellors (Jack O’Connell), to steadily develop into an obsession that will threaten their lives forever.

Mistake me not, I love a good literary period drama, and given there are such wonderful actors at work here, combined with lush production design and period detailing, it almost made me want to give the film some time to build up its world. Lawrence's work still holds frightening relevance today, and has all the elements to make for a progressive and thrilling adaptation. This version seems to move forward without a sense of direction, neither registering the passion nor the emotional intimacy of the central relationship. Even with full-frontal scenes, Lady Chatterley's Lover feels fastidiously polite and placid. There are a lot of sex scenes, surprisingly explicit for Netflix, yet none of them ring with adequate energy nor tenderness. The lack of chemistry between the principal actors is palpable and hurts the film the most. Even in the early scenes when Constance and Mellors first meet, and share a space in the woods, not an iota of forbidden passion is felt in the room. Emma Corrin, so good as the young Princess Diana in The Crown, tries hard to give Constance a sensibility of a progressive woman with power and agency, but there is not much she can do with a callous script that is unable to ring the longing for motherhood or the quest for intimacy. Jack O'Connell gets no scope to explore Mellors' hurt and pain, and provides little support to the film's overall impact.

Lady Chatterley's Lover also tries to eschew in the idea of class in the way Sir Clifford treats Mellors. Sir Clifford also permits Constance to produce an heir only if she chooses "the right sort of man" and is able to "govern your emotions accordingly." What he really means is that she should consider upper class men for the act. This makes for a stupendously stagey scene where Constance confronts him about his lack of sympathy and compassion, and spells out how he behaves like someone from the ruling class. It makes a point, but just for the sake of doing so, as if the film wants to remind us that there is class involved too, in this tale of love, lest we forget. What it ultimately conjures up is, a pointless and vacant adaptation that is forgettable in its own modern mechanics.