Stephen Fry is an actor, an essayist, a writer and—now—a director. Not less than a Renaissance man. He is a guy who attempts to symbolize the Englishness in today’s England, to be a successor of Oscar Wilde (remember his role in 1997’s Wilde) and Evelyn Waugh (Bright Young Things is an adaptation of Waugh’s 1930’s novel Vile Bodies), not less. And at first sight, he is. But then one can’t help being disappointed. The problem, I think, with Fry is that the style prevails over the substance. One can say that it’s quite typical for English. But wherever Wilde, for instance, plays with form and words he always means something deeper. Formality is a common thing for British culture, but then again it’s not just form for the sake of form, there is usually some substantial side in it, often maybe unconscious. But in case of Fry it is just dried form, there’s no life in it, nothing real. He desperately lacks the depth. He debases and vulgarizes everything you love so much in British culture. If you look for today’s Wildes and Waughs try Bowie and Morrissey instead. Both Fry and Waugh had a deep sense of tragedy in their works. Fry is a smug, self-satisfied fat bustard who’s always pretending, never succeeds. The worst thing in the movie, without a doubt, is the embarrassingly syrupy happy-ending (altered from the one in the book). Vile Bodies is a tragedy which is often very funny. Bright Young Things is a melodrama which is often very ridiculous. I’m not saying that the movie is awful (you may enjoy some really nice performances, particularly those of the beautiful debutant Stephen Campbell Moore and excellent as always Emily Mortimer and James McAvoy). In fact, it could be much worse. But at the same time it could be much, much better. The thing is that the movie is mediocre. Just as Stephen Fry is. And that is his main sin (along with pretentiousness).