[7]

During the opening credits of this Roland Joffé (The Mission, Vatel) version of The Scarlet Letter, a certain snippet of text appeared that allowed me to forgive quite a lot of the nonsense that would follow. The text read: "Based Loosely on the Novel by Nathaniel Hawthorne". Loosely. So what the hell -- why not have the American Indians rescue Hester from the gallows? Alas, it is with deep shame that I confess I find this bastardization completely re-watchable.

Yes, Demi Moore had pretty much worn out her welcome by the time this flick hit theaters, and a number of other women probably would have been better suited for the part of literature’s most famous adulterer. But balance that out with supporting turns from the likes of Gary Oldman, Robert Duvall, and Joan Plowright. Duvall is especially good here, playing the nefarious Roger Chillingsworth, who at one point accuses Hester (Moore) of witchcraft in church, then holds aloft her screaming baby Pearl and yells to the crowd that it’s the “devil’s own child”. I can’t help it. Shit like that gets me.

Plus, I didn’t even know I had a leather fetish until I saw this movie. Costume designer Gabriella Pescucci’s work here is incredible, coming two years after her Oscar for The Age of Innocence. And oh, that John Barry score. No composer has ever evoked such passion from an orchestra. The string section makes love to you right through the screen (or the CD soundtrack, which I find myself playing quite often). Alex Thomson’s cinematography is also warm and deeply romantic.

If I were a high school English teacher, sure, I’d try to snatch up every god-forsaken copy of this movie and burn them at the stake. But I’m not. I’m aware of my sin and I will wear my scarlet letter if I must — an ‘S’ for shame, perhaps? For I can’t deny: I enjoy this awful movie.