Gus Trenor (Dan Aykroyd) tries to take advantage of a situation and Lily Bart (Gillian Anderson) in the House of Mirth.

A cigarette commercial a generation ago proclaimed about progress for women: "You’ve come a long way, baby." Two film-going experiences this past week confirmed just how far indeed we have come. On TV, I watched Gene Saks’ 1967 adaptation of Neil Simon’s frothy comedy, Barefoot in the Park. The film doesn’t hold up well in significant part because it is so difficult to identify with the whiny insecurities of Jane Fonda’s newlywed wife. Throughout, I kept wondering, on one hand why she didn’t just get a job, and on the other, whatever in the world she could find to do all day long in that ridiculously tiny apartment she had foisted off on her hapless husband. More instructively, I watched Terence Davies’ adaptation of Edith Wharton’s novel The House of Mirth. A decidedly imperfect film, The House of Mirth nonetheless makes painfully clear throughout most of human history how close to the precipice even well-born women trod all their days.

  The House of Mirth is the harrowing story of Lily Bart (Gillian Anderson in a performance worthy of the Oscar nominations that went to either Juliette Binoche for Chocolat or Ellen Burstyn for Requiem for a Dream), a beautiful, bright and saucy upper-class young woman in her late 20s at the turn of the 20th century. Lily’s parents died when she was young, and she has been raised by her straight-laced aunt (Eleanor Bron). Lily’s parents left her a small trust, but she depends extensively on her aunt’s generosity to make her way in the upper reaches of New York society. Lily may someday inherit a portion of her aunt’s fortune, though she will have to share with her cousin (the Drip) Grace Stepney (Jodhi May). Regardless, Lily must soon marry, a prospect that both entices and daunts her. "A man may choose to marry," she tells a friend, "but a girl must." Lily Bart would seem quite a catch for any eligible young man, but fate is not kind to her. She is uncertain in her desires and unwise in her choices. Eventually, the world turns against her with a savagery of mean smiles and cruel whispers.

  Defeated, no doubt, by a novel’s intricacies, much of The House of Mirth fails to hang together satisfactorily. Early on, Lily meets the very eligible and very rich (the Snob) Percy Gryce (Pearce Quigley) aboard a train and undertakes an energetic flirtation. She is dismayed and annoyed when a friend, (the Bitch) Bertha Dorset (Laura Linney, who is good here as always and entirely deserved the Oscar nomination she got for You Can Count on Me), happens along to reveal to Percy that Lily enjoys the occasional cigarette. But just as we think Bertha has done Lily a mean trick, Lily squanders any chance with Percy by standing him up for a date. Later, Lily encounters the very rich (the Climber) Sim Rosedale (Anthony LaPaglia) whom she greets with all the warmth of an arctic eel. Lily obviously disapproves of Sim, but we never wholly understand why. He’s a nice-looking and seemingly solicitous fellow, and when he ultimately reveals his ruthlessness, he surprises Lily as well as the viewer.

  Much of the film’s plot turns none too smoothly on Lily’s acquisition of a parcel of scandalous love letters that Bertha wrote to (the Heartthrob) Lawrence Seldon (Eric Stoltz), another bachelor member of their social set. Bertha is married, and Lily presumably acquires them to save Lawrence’s reputation. That a man, however, would be indelibly or even meaningfully soiled by the revelation of such an affair is neither clear nor consistent with the film’s core theme about the subjugation of women. Subsequently, Lily’s attitude toward Bertha is altogether puzzling. When Bertha invites Lily for a Mediterranean cruise on the family yacht, Lily goes along eagerly, chummy with Bertha as always. And then, after Bertha uses Lily as a pawn in a struggle with her husband (the Cuckold) George (Terry Kinney), everybody seems to know Lily has the letters and with them a powerful weapon to make Bertha sheathe her fangs. How does George know, and what exactly does he want Lily to do with them? How do so many others know? And if so many know, how is it that neither Bertha nor Lawrence knows Lily has the letters? Moreover, if everyone knows what a bitch Bertha is, why do they let her wound Lily as they do?

  The single most irksome narrative strand in The House of Mirth, though, is its central romantic dance. If Lily could have any of the young bachelors in her circle, she’d instantly choose Lawrence. Her hesitation, we gather, is that Lawrence isn’t independently rich. He’s a lawyer who has to work for his money. The problem here is that he must make plenty of it. He seems able to afford all the luxuries of his idle rich friends. He even shows up on the Mediterranean with typically good advice the summer of Lily’s ill-fated yachting experience. In addition, the film seems to suggest Lily might overlook the fact that Lawrence is a working man if only he’d approach her more boldly. If he didn’t want her, we might understand the indirection of his relationship with her. But actually, Lily is Lawrence’s first choice, too. And so the tease. They cuddle and kiss and speak words of love. But then one always utters some qualification and the other retreats in response. You just want to slap both of them. And as Lily’s circumstances become increasingly desperate, her failure to throw herself into Lawrence’s arms make you want to slap her a couple of extra times for good measure.

  Still, The House of Mirth has its undeniable power and its enduring effect. Lily is completely blameless when she asks a friend’s husband, (the Rat) Gus Trenor (Dan Aykroyd) to give financial advice that might help her increase the proceeds from her trust. When Gus seizes this humble request as an occasion to trap Lily into a sexual tryst, her fundamental powerlessness is underscored and her vulnerability rips at our heart. Lily’s pitiful attempt to enter the working world unintentionally demeans those who have never known her life of privilege, but the genuine dead ends that leave her bereft of hope serve as a poignant reminder of how long society allowed women to be defined almost exclusively by the men to whom they were attached. Gender prejudice has not ended, as any victim of the glass ceiling will quickly tell you. But we have made progress, and films like The House of Mirth are valuable in reminding us of the conditions from which we have all too recently escaped.