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In 1890, in Fermanagh, during the course of a midsummer night, Julie, the daughter of the Count, an Anglo-Irish aristocrat, attempts to seduce her father';s valet, John. By turns seductive and bullying, savage and tender, their intimacy leads to desperate plans and vision of a life together... Unsure if the morning brings hope or hopelessness, Julie and John find their escape in a final act as sublime and horrific as anything in Greek tragedy.
The film has a singular focus on these characters and their power struggles of class and gender, but fails to ever feel like it's really going anywhere.
"Miss Julie" is a rather strange experience, with its consistently static medium shots of the three actors, as they roar their lines at one another. But it has an undeniable power.
Miss Julie's acid dialogue and sardonic twists burn down to the bone of costume drama's fattened arm, its darkness closer to original-series Upstairs Downstairs than to polished one-percenter porno Downton Abbey.
Morton, one of the least artificial actresses in the world, charts her character's heartbreak without any of the self-pity normally assigned to ordinary women.
It starts off as a will-they-won't-they as to whether Chastain's baron's daughter will sleep with Farrell. It ends up as a will-they-won't-they ever shut up. Should have been called Shouting Miss Julie.