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By Dan Leone

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THE PAST DECADE'S revival of interest in hitherto obscure French playwright Pierre Marivaux was largely triggered, stateside at least, by Stephen Wadsworth's extraordinary staging of his 1732 work The Triumph of Love – a theater piece (seen at Berkeley Rep a few years back) as exquisite as any I've ever seen. This screen Triumph, adapted by Bernardo Bertolucci's spouse and frequent writing collaborator, Clare Peploe, is a much less delicate animal, if also probably a more broadly appealing one. Peploe pushes the play's commedia mechanics up front, which results in a summery costume comedy that sometimes tries too hard – yet it still serves Marivaux better than Kenneth Branagh has Shakespeare so far. An Italian princess (Mira Sorvino), aware that her throne was stolen from its rightful owners a generation ago, is determined to give it back. But the current true heir, glossy young buck Agis (Jay Rodan), has been poisoned against her by his guardian, Hemocrates (Ben Kingsley), a philosophical rationalist who rails against love in general and women in particular. Thus, the princess dons male drag and presents herself as a wandering aristocrat in search of intellectual mentorship. In that form she manages to enchant not just Agis and his patron but also the latter's spinster sibling Leontine (Fiona Shaw), and all of them are starved for amour no matter how they argue against it. Not an ideal choice for the role but still better than one would have expected, Sorvino never remotely convinces as a man, softening the play's homoerotic currents; her target, Rodan, is a slightly dull, central casting dreamboat. But Kingsley and Shaw are wonderful, and the supporting roles well cast. Shot on the grounds of two ravishing Tuscan Renaissance villas, the beautifully costumed Triumph is indeed very charming, despite some failures of nerve. One is the hiccupy editing, which feels very MTV five minutes ago. Another is Jason Osborn's incessantly underlining score, which appropriates themes by 17th-century composer Rameau – and, to heinous effect, slaps atop them electric guitar riffing (by none other than Pink Floyd's David Gilmour). Peploe also strains for an ending more florid than Marivaux wanted or needed, one that insists on breaking the fourth wall, requiring amateur singers to trill opera, and incorporating the invention of electricity (!). Simpler would have been much, much better. Still, this Triumph of Love is an upscale confection that won't spoil your dinner. See Movie Clock for show times. (Dennis Harvey)