Are you ready to dive into a Victorian-era saga that transcends the superficial seduction of polite society? Meet "Vanity Fair," the 1998 TV serial adaptation that proves, once again, that British television will stop at nothing to reveal the gritty underbelly of supposedly high society. Produced for the BBC and A&E Networks, this television miniseries takes William Makepeace Thackeray’s 1848 novel and transforms it into a biting critique of social mobility and moral flexibility. It aired back in the late '90s as a perfect blend of historical drama with a stark dose of reality, showing that no amount of powdered wigs could hide the true nature of ambition.
Rebecca ‘Becky’ Sharp, brilliantly played by Natasha Little, is the anti-heroine we never knew we needed. She’s cunning, she’s manipulative, and she’s not afraid to use her wit to climb the social ladder quicker than you can say “Madam, your petticoat is showing.” While historical dramas usually spotlight the genteel and genteel-in-training, "Vanity Fair" flips the narrative by turning its gaze focusedly on a woman who is willing to claw her way up through the class system using her charms and wiles. In a society built on propriety, Becky Sharp is the contrarian hurricane that tears through it all, wholly unapologetic.
What makes this TV serial stand out is that it’s not just a replay of musty love triangles and drawing-room blatherings. It tackles the hard questions about ethics and ambition in a society that’s so focused on appearances that it has turned into a grotesque parody of itself. The irony? The very aspiration and hypocrisy that "Vanity Fair" dissects are timeless themes that hold a mirror to our contemporary world as well. Think social media influencers, the Hollywood elite, and political talking heads. Frivolity and ambition masked behind perfect smiles; sound familiar?
Enter Dobbin and the noble Amelia Sedley, representing that old English honor and virtue, decaying fast in a vat of boiling cauldron filled with scheming and envy. It's worth noting that Dobbin, played by British drama staple Jeremy Swift, is one of those rare characters who keeps a single moral chocolate chip in a cookie of deceit. Talk about being the loneliest guy in a high society that values one’s ability to smile while stabbing your friends in the back.
When one considers the production and design, the "Vanity Fair" serial brilliantly portrays the spangled deceit of Georgian society with the seedy undercurrents that flash like daggers under the lace and fanfare. Filmed across various stately homes in England, this British craft embraces authenticity in its sprawling manors and cobblestoned streets to craft a beautifully-shot panorama.
Let's not forget the music, which underscores the dramatic highs and lows with aplomb. The soundtrack, using music by composer Murray Gold, captures the essence of Georgian England, creating emotionally complex atmospheres that are subtly manipulative, much like the characters themselves.
Could "Vanity Fair" have infused even more biting satire or enchantment? Perhaps. But it’s a brilliant adaptation that does what few others in its genre dare: it tells the raw and uncomfortable truth about human nature. And astonishingly, it does so through a plot that feels more relevant than ever.
The casting deserves a nod in dynamics as eclectic as those of the guileful Becky. Natasha Little’s hat tip to both the magnetic allure and the intrinsic flaws of Becky Sharp is a masterclass. For those who argue that historical dramas should be no more than visual wallpaper, satiating our desire for a little period opulence, Natasha Little’s performance is a rather potent rebuttal.
Expect no moral compasses here, not from the characters and certainly not from the story itself. This isn't a Jane Austen lesson in restrained coyness and polished decorum. Instead, it's a pragmatic look at how personal ambition, when left unchecked, can trample decorum and morality alike. Becky Sharp has no time for restraint when there’s an entire world to conquer; much like some political agendas, it favors expediency over tradition, audacity over a virtue that others may worship. She’s the very antithesis of the male characters who attempt to weigh her down with societal expectations.
Still, one can't escape the niggling thought that today's politically-correct corrections might well shrink from amplifying a character whose lack of remorse is as conspicuous as her captivating charm. Audiences borne on a tide of moral relativism aren't always willing to confront the prospect that success might sometimes not marry integrity—the sheer popularity of narratives serving up palliative sweeteners says as much.
So here’s to "Vanity Fair," a grand television serial that urges us to ponder why and how society yields to celebrity, ambition, and a complete lack of scruples as seminal virtues to be celebrated—and maybe even why such sensationally liberal ideas take root at all.