“It's no good trying to get rid of your own aloneness. Only at times, at times, the gap will be filled in. And then accept the times when the gap is filled in, when they come. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. Or for no reason at all, except that they are discontented children, and can't be satisfied whatever they get, let a woman do what she may.” ― D. Lawrence, “There's lots of good fish in the sea...maybe..the vast masses seem to be mackerel or herring, and if you're not mackerel or herring yourself, you are likely to find very few good fish in the sea.” ― D. Lawrence, “All hopes of eternity and all gain from the past he would have given to have her there, to be wrapped warm with him in one blanket, and sleep, only sleep. She was giving up..had to lie down there under the boughs of the tree, like an animal, while he waited, standing there in his shirt and breeches, watching her with haunted eyes...
So after a few times of this, apparently he’s had enough and retorts with the above line.
Boys, the rule is never to talk about the woman’s orgasm right after she’s had it, much less criticize how she gets herself there (especially if you’re a Señor Speedy! Be thankful that she can come with you, by hook or by crook!
Ferran takes advantage of Lawrence’s different emphasis in the second version to fashion a more tender (the author’s initial title for the novel was in Ferran’s hands thus becomes even more fable-like than Lawrence’s tale, which distilled to its essence is a rather simplistic story: that of a woman, Constance Chatterley (Marina Hands), who around the time after the Great War rebels against the “life of the mind” prudishness of her moral environment and marital impasse by having an affair with Parkin, a rugged, working class gamekeeper. Yet he saw them well enough, and that little smile of derisive resentment on their faces. No, no, they didn’thim, resented his ‘superiority.’ That was it. Rather, the film filters any passion through the soft romance, and not the scary outside world, of Lawrence’s novel.
Though the longest of the three versions, more than the bodice-ripper it’s been so often pegged as. Certainly, Ferran doesn’t do much to allow the viewer to understand or imagine the conditions in which a weird passion could foment in a doomed milieu.
As for the sex scenes, Ferran directs them with a serviceable integrity, both to Lawrence’s material and to the rhythms and motions of her actors, and she rightly refuses to shy away from the unapologetic human aspects of the realm of flesh, such as Lady Chatterley’s bewildered, unorgasmic shock as she finds herself beneath the strange man, as well as a direct look at an erect penis.
But Ferran’s slavish fidelity to the sillier elements of Lawrence’s novel is disastrous.
So when Lady Chatterley winds up in the arms of the quiet, Brandoesque Parkin (Jean-Louis Coulloc’h) nothing is at stake.
Ferran takes great pains to film nature in all its verdant glory, yet it’s a mere accounting; in a recent article she cites Apichatpong Weerasethakul as an influence in depicting the eroticism of nature, but despite some poignant night photography her dry, static shots of flowers, copses, and trees only minimally fulfill the “awakening of the senses” requirement and never achieve the hypnotic spell of the Thai filmmaker’s transcendence.
Lady Chatterley’s first lover, Michaelis, the colleague of her paralyzed husband (who, admittedly, eventually encourages her to go get pregnant by someone else), is your basic well-dressed dandy.