Not everyone finds the transition to sexual adulthood easy, particularly as one is supposed to find it natural. It must have been even harder in the 1950s, when sex was something that you weren't supposed to talk about in polite company. And yet, I never quite understood the point of Ian McEwan's novel 'On Chesil Beach'. The fact is, the human race has never had a problem, overall, in reproducing itself, whatever Larkin may have said about sex starting in 1963. And the book, it seemed to me, sets up the past as another country, completely different from the world we know today, instead of showing how (for most people) life went on more or less as it does now, albeit masked by different norms. Dominic Cooke's film, with a screenplay by McEwan himself, is a pretty faithful rendition of the novel, but doesn't manage to escape its nature as a carefully constructed, unfortunate but fundamentally minor story, whose anchoring in a generally frigid past obscures rather than illuminates its more universal aspects. Now, if someone was to film 'The Comfort of Strangers' that is a movie I'd sure like to watch.
Review of On Chesil Beach
