Edward Norton is The Illusionist in a 2006 period film by Neil Burger.

I got bored with Steven Millhauser’s short story, “Eisenheim the Illusionist,” and so stopped reading it.  I’m glad it was transferred to the screen, however, for there is much to love in this curious movie.  Norton’s Eisenheim works as a mind-boggling illusionist in 19th-century Vienna and is in love with Sophie von Teschen (Jessica Biel), the aristocratic inamorata of a callous prince (Rufus Sewell).  Illusions are everywhere in the film, all performed by Eisenheim—unless the illusions are real.  Burger keeps us guessing.  What the whole of Vienna believes to be reality, in fact, turns out to be a happy falsehood.

The film uses a couple of the iris-outs so appreciated by director Francois Truffaut, and indeed The Illusionist greatly resembles Truffaut’s period pieces, e.g. The Story of Adele H., though without the customary charm.  Cinematographer Dick Pope’s lighting cannot be improved on; truly the film has a look.  Prague nicely stands in for Vienna, and the costumes of Ngila Dickson are unpretentiously agreeable.  Philip Glass’s score is respectable if sometimes shopworn.

The film is entertaining as well as marred by plenty of flaws.  For one thing, it’s a bit plebeian, and for another, I wish Jessica Biel’s acting had more sparkle, more imagination, for all her good looks.

Edward Norton is The Illusionist in a 2006 period film by Neil Burger.

I got bored with Steven Millhauser’s short story, “Eisenheim the Illusionist,” and so stopped reading it.  I’m glad it was transferred to the screen, however, for there is much to love in this curious movie.  Norton’s Eisenheim works as a mind-boggling illusionist in 19th-century Vienna and is in love with Sophie von Teschen (Jessica Biel), the aristocratic inamorata of a callous prince (Rufus Sewell).  Illusions are everywhere in the film, all performed by Eisenheim—unless the illusions are real.  Burger keeps us guessing.  What the whole of Vienna believes to be reality, in fact, turns out to be a happy falsehood.

The film uses a couple of the iris-outs so appreciated by director Francois Truffaut, and indeed The Illusionist greatly resembles Truffaut’s period pieces, e.g. The Story of Adele H., though without the customary charm.  Cinematographer Dick Pope’s lighting cannot be improved on; truly the film has a look.  Prague nicely stands in for Vienna, and the costumes of Ngila Dickson are unpretentiously agreeable.  Philip Glass’s score is respectable if sometimes shopworn.

The film is entertaining as well as marred by plenty of flaws.  For one thing, it’s a bit plebeian, and for another, I wish Jessica Biel’s acting had more sparkle, more imagination, for all her good looks.

Edith Wharton’s “Atrophy” is a first-rate short story about . . . well, the atrophy, the wasting away of human relationships.  It parallels the physical condition of the ailing illicit lover of Nora Frenway, married to a man with his own “weak health” as well as a “bad temper” and “unsatisfied vanity.”  So, yes, there has been adultery:  Nora tries to visit the ailing lover, who is unmarried, but is coolly prevented by the man’s sister.  If an illegitimate affair is not insufficient in one way, it will be insufficient in another.

As good as “Atrophy” is, I’m glad Wharton didn’t write about adultery in the late story, “All Souls’.”  This, as the narrator remarks, “isn’t exactly a ghost story,” although it is assuredly a mysterious one wherein the practice of the dark arts might be taking place.  After breaking her foot, the recuperating Sara Clayburn believes her house is, except for herself, empty of people and completely, eerily silent, but her maid Agnes denies this.  That a strange woman on All Soul’s eve might have something to do with this phenomenon is perhaps what keeps Sara from seeking the “natural explanation of the mystery” she hopes is there.  We may hope it is too, but what if the dark arts are involved?

After reading these stories, and two others I perused some years ago, I have to wonder if it was possible for Wharton to pen a bad short story.  She was a born fiction writer.

Edith Wharton’s “Atrophy” is a first-rate short story about . . . well, the atrophy, the wasting away of human relationships.  It parallels the physical condition of the ailing illicit lover of Nora Frenway, married to a man with his own “weak health” as well as a “bad temper” and “unsatisfied vanity.”  So, yes, there has been adultery:  Nora tries to visit the ailing lover, who is unmarried, but is coolly prevented by the man’s sister.  If an illegitimate affair is not insufficient in one way, it will be insufficient in another.

As good as “Atrophy” is, I’m glad Wharton didn’t write about adultery in the late story, “All Souls’.”  This, as the narrator remarks, “isn’t exactly a ghost story,” although it is assuredly a mysterious one wherein the practice of the dark arts might be taking place.  After breaking her foot, the recuperating Sara Clayburn believes her house is, except for herself, empty of people and completely, eerily silent, but her maid Agnes denies this.  That a strange woman on All Soul’s eve might have something to do with this phenomenon is perhaps what keeps Sara from seeking the “natural explanation of the mystery” she hopes is there.  We may hope it is too, but what if the dark arts are involved?

After reading these stories, and two others I perused some years ago, I have to wonder if it was possible for Wharton to pen a bad short story.  She was a born fiction writer.

The Chinese actress, Joan Chen, has a fine if very unhappy film in Xiu Xiu: The Sent Down Girl (1999), which Chen directed and co-wrote.

Clearly influenced by the artistic drive and anti-totalitarian pessimism of such directors as Zhang Yimou and Tian Zhuangzhuang, Chen’s story is that of a city girl’s emotional and spiritual decline after she is sent by the Mao government to work in the country as a horse-herder.  This is during the 1970s, and the imposed duty is supposed to be temporary, but . . .  Xiu Xiu comes to learn of the Red system’s cruel neglect and dehumanization of its citizens.

Lu Lu enacts the title role with spunk and sparkle and convincing pathos.  Lopsang provides manliness and charm as the Tibetan horse-herder in charge of young Xiu Xiu—he who never has sex with the girl (unlike some vile Communist officials) because he has no male organ.  But what stands out more than the performances is the way this compelling film was made.  The editing and Chen’s directing are mercurial but adept, as is evident from the footage of the plains.  Adroitly captured are the boredom and solitude in this region of wind, grass, horses and expansive skies.  A surfeit of closeups appears (a common gripe of mine) but nice things are done with proliferating medium and long shots too.  As for Lu Yue’s cinematography, it is decidedly suitable for the bald realism in the film; it is dim only when it ought to be and never overlighted.  It avoids the postcard beauty that critics are always objecting to, and yet its colors aren’t ugly either.  It is a memorable film.  Good choices, Miss Chen.  Good work.