There is this thing called a book. It serves the master well, since he was given to roaming through the emotions, thoughts and fugitive inquisitiveness of his characters' minds. Yes, books serve Henry James well. But we are a movie column here and we must make do. We are stingy in this corner and do not ladle out perfect fives often.
Nice things are, well, quite nice.
Get the American and the boyfriend to marry, let the American enjoy a poignantly brief marriage and die, and what she leaves her widower will now provide his presumed second marriage with all those nice things. Calculations are gross but James never was, nor, save in a few jarring modernish scenes, namely sexual ones, is the film. But the plans of clever young ladies don't always come to perfect fruition. That is the sadness, heart-breaking but appropriate, of the story set luxuriously in Venice and stolidly in London, its characters radiant in the vestments and inviting lighting of each locale.