The Other Boleyn Girl, based on the historical fiction by Philippa Gregory, stars Natalie Portman as that minx, Anne, who enchants and entraps Henry (Eric Bana), and Scarlett Johansson as that voluptuary Mary, who simply loves him.
In adapting Gregory's bodice-ripper, screenwriter Peter Morgan (The Queen), recasts the age-old female archetypes of virgin and whore into post-feminist archetypes of tightly wound schemer and easygoing dreamer.
Not that I'm complaining, exactly. Outside of The First Wives Club and porn movies it's so rare to see plural females on screen that Portman and Johansson may be forgiven for seizing their roles as lapsed vegans might lamb chops.
Both deliver memorable performances. As do Kristin Scott Thomas as the Boleyns' mother, beautiful as she is eloquent, and Ana Torrent, magisterial and magnificent as the discarded Catherine of Aragon.
Still, despite the lushness of the landscapes, the leading ladies and their voluminous, jewel-toned gowns, The Other Boleyn Girl feels less like an epic drama about power and the power of love than an episode of a Masterpiece Theatre mini-series.
Given the zing and zip of Morgan's prior work, it's fair to guess that the film's want of rhythm and sweep is due to Justin Chadwick's pedestrian direction. His shot sequence is this: Face-off, followed by heels clacking down the royal corridor, followed by aggrieved character galloping off astride his/her horse.
In the hands of Chadwick (who has indeed directed episodes of Bleak House for Masterpiece Theatre), The Other Boleyn Girl frequently seems less like historical fiction than hysterical fiction. Scenes are milked not for their emotional texture but confrontational pow, which gets exhausting.
