Anthony Lane, on whom I have had a secret literary crush for years, has just written about The Portrait of a Lady. I love the wit and deft turns of phrase in Lane's film reviews -- he writes the way Astaire dances -- but although Lane is his usual charming self, things are different when he gets to Henry James. I hate to admit it even to myself, but I think I think he misses the point of James' The Portrait of a Lady.
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