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Something's missing from Tom and Viv, and that something is Tom, better known as T.S. Eliot. Films (or plays, for that matter) about writers are always difficult to pull off; the writer is presumably famous and interesting because of his work, not his life, and translating literary essence to another medium is practically impossible. Therefore, to provide drama and interest, a filmmaker usually concentrates on what was interesting and unusual in the writer's life and tries to relate that to his work. Viv, Tom's wife, was certainly interesting, and the film devotes a considerable amount of time to her travails. But aside from the fact that she embarrassed and inconvenienced her husband, the viewer learns little about how she affected him. Tom just sort of evaporates midway through the film; he's still there, but he's just a shadow, certainly one of Eliot's "hollow men," but not one which holds interest or demands attention. This is more the fault of the writer and director than the actor; Willem Dafoe does a credible impersonation of Eliot and seems to be doing all that is asked of him. Miranda Richardson, with the much showier part, grabs it and runs for all she is worth, using her enormous skill and facility to create an agonizingly annoying yet sympathetic character. Rosemary Harris brings stately grandeur and class to the role of Viv's mother; hers is a fine and captivating performance. Ultimately frustrating and unsatisfying, Tom and Viv is partially redeemed by the artistry of these two women.