REVIEW
As beautiful but shrewlike literary scholar Maud Bailey, Paltrow once again showcases her well-practiced British accent. And the play of Paltrow's steely British resolve against Eckhart's American "J. Crew" whimsy is the friction that drives this heated centuries-spanning romance. Director LaBute (In the Company of Men) shoots auteur theory to shit and dips his feet in Merchant Ivory waters, registering much higher on the energy scale than any of those period dramas while displaying an unfettered romantic heart. LaBute regular Eckhart plays a research assistant who uncovers some handwritten love letters from misogynistic 19th-century poet Randolph Henry Ash (a swoonworthy Northam). He and Paltrow embark on a journey to uncover intense details about the married poet and his secret lover, a writer (Ehle) who was involved in a lesbian relationship at the time. The mystery unfolds with the simultaneous romances, resembling a literary The French Lieutenant's Woman. It's a bit predictable and pat, but so seductively absorbing that it's easy to trade the disbelief for a box of hankies. LaBute, clearly possessing a writer's mind, evokes the passion of the written word, and through his able actors, translates it elegantly to film.