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Ralph Fiennes: "The Choral"

 A main strength of historical fiction is that it allows for "windows and mirrors" comparisons: We can see another world (through a window), but we can also see ourselves (through various mirrors). 


"The Choral" (with its irritating, twee title) is partly just about getting laid: The gay pianist wants some kind of arrangement with the gay musical director, the virginal postal worker wants to make plans with the local prostitute, the wounded soldier wants a hand job from his ex-girlfriend. Love is always troubling; war makes love *more* troubling. In one scene, a young woman confesses that she just wants her special friend's status shifted from "MIA" to "dead," so she can move on with her life.

At the same time, there are reminders that we are *not* in the present: the blithe assumption that a Black woman wants a handout and not an audition, the elaborate effort involved in *not* using the word "gay," the skeptical, snobby attitude toward laborers. (Can they really sing Elgar?)

All of this is sort of interesting, but Alan Bennett can't be bothered to flesh out his characters, including the role that he assigns to Ralph Fiennes. Bennett is in his nineties -- this is an unusual set of circumstances for a screenwriter. There is a sense of hastiness in the script; it's easy to assume that Bennett might just be tired. Also, there are some distracting contortions; you have to suspend disbelief to accept that the town is really, incredibly small. Almost every time a major interpersonal shift occurs, forty extra members of the cast observe or overhear the shift -- the extras become a Greek chorus. This is *not* what my small-town life looks like. My neighbors know some of my business; they don't know about *all* of my personal goings-on.

A mixed bag. Wait for the Amazon streaming option.
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