Dance to the Music of Time sings

Reviewer: James van Maanen
Rating (out of 5): ****½

First shown in 1997 but never seen on American television nor available on video until now, A Dance To The Music Of Time offers what seem to me the most effortlessly entertaining characters, conversations and story that may ever have appeared in a miniseries. Lavish praise, but these four discs--totaling around 7 hours of time--scale the heights in terms of providing a literate, ironic view of upper-class England over several decades. That this is due to the series of novels by Anthony Powell, from which Hugh Whitemore adapted his simply amazing script, is beyond question. But putting it all together as elegantly, speedily and bracingly as Whitmore manages is a major accomplishment. Over the decades this journeyman writer has given us many fine pieces, winning BAFTA, WGA and Emmy awards in the process. Remember 84 Charing Cross Road, Return of the Soldier, Utz, Pack of Lies, Breaking the Code (he wrote the play), The Gathering Storm, My House in Umbria--to name but a few? This prolific gentleman is pretty much the "adapter" nonpareil for our time.

His great accomplishment in bringing Powell's Dance/Time to reel life is, firstly, compressing an enormous amount of events into a consistently delightful and surprisingly easy-to-follow whole. Then he gives us the occasional long scene that helps establish and enlarge character so carefully and well that it both grounds us and enables us to go trippingly into the next scene and its accompanying introduction of new characters, often in a new decade. One such scene between Jenkins and Stringham during WWII (on the third disc) should take your breath away with its depth, subtlety, beauty and sadness. There are many such scattered throughout, and they make this series exquisitely humane without stooping to sentimentality. Powell was an ironist, a "distanced" writer--he reminds me of Thackery in this regard--and Whitemore captures that master's quality of hovering-just-above-it-all quite well. The directorial chores are held jointly by Christopher Morahan and Alvin Rakoff, and both get the job done with proper finesse.

The enormous and diverse cast, includes some of Britain's masters (and late masters: John Gielgud and James Villiers have delightful cameos): Eileen Atkins, Alan Bennett, Miranda Richardson (in one of her better bitch roles), Zoe Wanamaker, Edward Fox, Harriet Walter, Richard Pasco, Sarah Badel, Jonathan Cake, and Paul Rhys (who, in his few memorable and riveting scenes, manages to nearly steal the show), and even some members of the younger set, such as Emily Mortimer. In the lead role--the character through which the narrative is filtered, our stand-in--is the very interesting James Purefoy, who lately has come to prominence as Marc Anthony in HBO's Rome, and previously lent his sneaky versatility to everything from the original Resident Evil to the gay romantic farce Bedrooms & Hallways, as well as Mansfield Park and Mira Nair's Vanity Fair. He's a good choice, and, on the final disc, when--for some unknown reason—the very fine John Standing takes over the role, Purefoy is missed. Other actors are aged properly throughout the series, so why not Purefoy?

Most special of all the cast, however, is legitimate theatre star Simon Russell Beale, who takes his unforgettable character Kenneth Widmerpool from college very nearly through old age with amazing savoir faire. Beale is not a "looker," which has no doubt limited his screen career. But I would venture the prediction that history will honor this memorable performance as one of the all-time "greats."