The Americans really went overboard for this glossy British-made portrait of the troubled marriage of poet T S Eliot and heiress Vivienne Haigh-Wood. The Yanks love a good British costume drama and they rewarded this one with two Oscar nominations. But its problems lie at the very heart of its story. Willem Dafoe is too cool, detached and measured as Eliot, while Miranda Richardson is like a screaming banshee as his wife. The tragedy (and it is a tragedy of the highest order) of her story is that she merely suffered a hormonal imbalance (not recognised by the medical profession in the Twenties) that tipped her eccentric behaviour over the edge into madness. As his career soared, her behaviour and outbursts became more violent. Eventually he has her committed to an asylum. There are amusing moments, such as the scene where she attacks Virginia Woolf with a knife, and when she pours melted chocolate through the letter box at, Faber & Faber, Tom's publisher. But these are but a few droplets of pleasure in an arid landscape. A missed opportunity.

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