Had the producers of Casablanca decided to cast Ronald Reagan and Ann Sheridan as the romantic leads instead of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, would it still be one of the most beloved American studio pictures ever made? Probably not. By the same token, how much better would Martha Fiennes' Onegin have been had it not hinged on Liv Tyler's blank, impenetrable, porcelain visage? Probably quite a bit better, since just about every other aspect of this skillful adaptation of Alexander Pushkin's verse novel—from Ralph Fiennes' tragic wit to Russia's pitiless provincial snowscapes—is beyond reproach. But that single casting mistake creates a sinkhole that eventually swallows the entire production. In the promising early scenes, Fiennes leaves his high-minded social circle in St. Petersburg for the country to collect his dead uncle's estate, barely masking his contempt for the local simpletons; his slight recoil when the first bitter drop of homemade "lincolnberry water" hits his lips is both hilarious and telling. Nevertheless, his sophisticated mind attracts the romantic interest of Tyler, who sends a letter declaring her affections. Put off by her directness, he coldly rejects her but comes to regret it years later, by which time she's married a St. Petersburg aristocrat (Martin Donovan). Fiennes seems to specialize in playing well-bred intellectuals who erode on the inside, whether from shame (Quiz Show) or fatalistic impulses (The End Of The Affair), and his tortured performance in Onegin ranks among his best. But his fine work only underlines Tyler's shortcomings, because it's never remotely believable that his character would so easily unravel at her feet. By the time the film reaches its teary climax, Pushkin's devastating tragedy gives way to something closer to a misbegotten actor's workshop.