A film about a New York writer (inevitably, he's Jewish) who is feted as a great, and wins the Nobel Prize for literature, but really it's his wife who is writing the books. Well crafted and acted, beautifully filmed. Great portrayal of her as the actual creative genius who is mainly content to take a back seat as long as she can write and be published and be read, which she wouldn't have been able to do as a 'woman writer'. Great portrayal of him as an utter no-talent prick who is pompous and self-important, and refers even in private to their relationship as a 'writing partnership'.
I note in passing how long ago 1992 (when the film is set, apart from some flashbacks to the 1960s) now seems - no internet, no mobile phones...any of which would have made the plot less plausible.
Watched at the O2 Cinema in Finchley Road - huge screen, powerful sound not really needed for this intimate film.
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