Give Merchant-Ivory credit where credit is due: despite the criticism they have received over the decades for continuing to churn out heavily stylized, excessively tasteful period pieces, they have persevered, doing for the corset and horse-drawn carriage what the Internet has done for porn. Unfortunately, this isn't always a good thing -- at times the abundance of so many stiff upper lips makes the team's work more akin to a study of advanced rigor mortis. Case in point is their lavish but suffocating adaptation of Henry James' The Golden Bowl. Although it is carefully dressed with stunning locations (Italy, London, et al.) and gorgeous production values, none of this can quite conceal what is ultimately the somewhat tedious retelling of James' story of love, betrayal, and cracked veneers. Part of the problem lies with the laborious pace of the film, which lumbers ponderously along with the speed and vigor of a constipated elephant. Such heavy touch extends to the treatment of the story's central themes: marital infidelity and the choice of a birthday present are not so much accompanied by as buried underneath Richard Robbins' bloated score, while the emotions and motivations of the individual characters are rendered subservient to the overriding concepts of metaphor and symbolism. Faced with these formidable obstacles, the principle actors struggle to make a lasting impression; it speaks volumes about their talent that, for the most part -- Jeremy Northam's flaccid Italian accent excepted -- they prevail with the sort of grace that the rest of the film strenuously attempts but never really achieves.