Critics reviews

Sevigny and Stewart are excellent, but keep getting things piled on their plates – spinsterish repression, epilepsy, sexual abuse, scandalous sapphic longings, an Irish accent (Stewart does this fine), class distinctions... sentiment and violence... historical stuff about the legal injustices of a woman’s position in the 1890s, and a PatriciaHighsmithy murdering couple premise that finds the cold killer taking over when the weak partner doesn’t come through.

A two-hander with actresses of this calibre should be a humdinger, but very little about this misjudged period drama works properly... Most irritating is the murder scene itself, which sees both women stripping nude, seemingly in order for the camera to leer more effectively at their bodies rather than to spare them getting their petticoats bloodied.

The efforts made to enlist our sympathies for Lizzie — epileptic seizures, an effort to cut her out of her father’s will, a threat of institutionalisation — have the effect of draining the story of whatever pulpy life it had to begin with. No one could watch the climax, complete with axe swishes, nudity and arterial spurts, and call the film bloodless exactly, but it is curiously wan.

Otherwise it’s join-the-dots drama, with a depiction of Borden’s vile and abusive father (Jamey Sheridan) and martinet stepmother (Fiona Shaw) that, with the repressive social mores, makes the closing-reel murder if not justifiable then certainly inevitable. Sevigny is compelling, Stewart less so, and there are few surprises. A bit TV. But not in the good way.

Too often the tone slides into lurid melodrama, while clunky visual metaphors (birds, both trapped and free, recur, as does the washing of windows) jar. Still, the central performances from Sevigny and Stewart are compelling, with Shaw, Sheridan and O’Hare in strong support, adding up to an arresting if far from comfortable piece.

Their performances [Sevigny's and Stewart's) are the saving grace of a film which, while certainly not lacking in dramatic heft, seems more preoccupied with sexing up the scandal than getting to grips with those at the centre of it.

Here is a horror thriller – a conjectural drama based on a gruesome true story – in which the element of horror is treated circumspectly, almost dispassionately, as if to douse its mythic element in as much cold reality as possible.

This is a grim, austere story of the pressure cooker of frustration, rage and fear that results when the patriarchy squeezes just as tight as the corsets of the time. It is more dogged than devastating, ultimately, though given the subject matter it is certainly a timely take on the murder mystery.

Macneil took on a big challenge when respinning this infamous tale. In many ways, Lizzie rises admirably to the task, delicately planting the seed of sexuality within a bleak and oppressive environment, juxtaposing female friendship with brutal butchery. The film speaks to the rage of the contemporary feminist, the central relationship sustaining suspense as we are left wondering if any beauty can really blossom from the shadows.

Releasing into an environment where its story feels both relevant and very of its time, Lizzie is a curious mix of genres, and certainly more graphic than you’d expect, but never coheres into a compelling whole.

Kristen Stewart delivers another fine performance as the servant, suggesting a sharp intelligence beneath the character’s subservient exterior, though her work seems independent of Craig William Macneill’s uninspired, straight-ahead direction.

Yet it's oddly difficult to be sympathetic with her because every character trait is spelled out in capital letters, even if much of her performance depends on Lizzie truculently pursing her lips, like a minor Chekhov character. This rewriting may work better if Lizzie wasn't so remorselessly dreary and oddly unhistorical in little details.