Oscar Wilde's "Earnest" is supposed to be played at a sharp clip, with banter fired back and forth. Full of life, full of spark, full of wit. Somewhere in the artistic collaboration between director Oliver Parker and the performers, all of that life and spark and wit is drained completely. The lines are delivered with no snap whatsoever, from the very first languid dripping of Everett's "Did you hear what I was playing, Lane?" It's depressing really; the second time in cinematic history this play was put on film, and they still haven't gotten it right.
