Jane Eyre (2011)

Having enjoyed Susanna White’s 2006 television adaptation of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, I was interested to see what director Cary Fukunaga would bring to this new feature length version.

All in all, I was impressed, especially with the way Fukunaga and writer Moira Buffini stay close to the novel, but ruthlessly strip the story down to its bare bones, giving emphasis to some aspects of the novel that other adaptations tend to avoid.   Gone are the stories of Bessie and Miss Temple.  Gone, too, are most of Bertha’s appearances, Grace Poole, and much of Jane and Rochester’s engagement.   More daringly, the film refuses to represent the burning of Thornfield Hall and Bertha’s final leap to her death, a melodramatic staple scene in most Jane Eyre adaptations.   Gone is “Reader, I married him” and any attempt to represent Jane and Rochester’s life together after she decides to return to him.   I didn’t like all the cuts, but I thought it was quite brave and allowed other aspects of the text to come forth.

In the 2006 adaptation, Ruth Wilson played Jane as a steely, straight-talking, and passionate young woman.  Mia Wasikowska’s Jane is a young woman who suppresses her anger beneath a pale, cold and standoffish exterior.  Michael Fassbinder gave us what I would say is the best Rochester since Orson Welles.  Although Rochester works on the page, he’s fiendishly difficult to represent sympathetically on screen, but Fassbinder manages to convey the intense loneliness and despair that underlies all his bluster and libertinism.  Judy Dench is on autopilot as Mrs Fairfax, but she’s always watchable.  It was nice to see little Adele get more screen time and played by an actress of around the right age.  Jamie Bell is excellent as St John Rivers, making him rather more human than he comes across in the novel.

The film emphasises the violence of Jane’s childhood, the scene at the beginning in which John Reed hits her with the book is a genuine shock.  It also keeps much of the novel’s gothic atmosphere – we jumped several times.  I was pleased by the inclusion of Jane’s feminist speech about the lack of opportunities for women.   Perhaps more daringly, it retains the uncomfortable moment when Rochester sort of threatens to rape Jane.  The threat is stronger in the novel, but it’s suggested here too.   It also represents the telepathic connection between Rochester and Jane without it appearing ridiculous.

I was disappointed by the lack of Bertha and especially regretted the loss of the veil ripping scene.  I missed the burning of Thornfield too and was annoyed to see that Rochester had lost his sight, but retained both his hands at the end, the director apparently deciding that Bronte is a little too hard on him.  My partner said that the loss of the hand would be “too much”, to which I replied, “But representing the telepathy isn’t too much?”, and so the argument continued.   I found the ending a bit abrupt too, stopping just as they get back together. After such a harrowing tale, I want more of an emotional pay-off, damn it!

The screenplay also removes the revelation that the Rivers siblings are actually Jane’s cousins.  This is sensible, insofar as it saves them having to represent a ridiculous coincidence, but removing the relationship makes it seem like Jane is trying to buy a family when she offers to share her inheritance with them, and, I have to say, rather mercenary of them to accept it!  It’s a part of the novel that clunks and changing it only makes it clunk louder here.

Still, this stripped down gothic Jane Eyre looks gorgeous, is very well directed and I think will stand as one of the best adaptations for some time.

A short post about George Eliot’s The Lifted Veil (1859)

This is the great realist, George Eliot’s, one and only attempt at Gothic fantasy/Sensation Fiction.  It is the story of a young man named Latimer who develops clairvoyant abilities and becomes sexually infatuated with his brother’s fiancée, Bertha, because she is the only person whose mind he cannot read.  The older brother conveniently dies and Latimer marries Bertha, only to find that when her mind is finally revealed to him (the veil lifted): “I saw myself in Bertha’s thought […] a miserable ghost seer, surrounded by phantoms in the noon-day, trembling under a breeze when the leaves were still, without appetite for the common objects of human desire, but pining after moonbeams’ “(32). Unsurprisingly, Bertha and Latimer becomes increasingly estranged and it all builds towards a very melodramatic ending.

In recent years this novella has attracted a lot of attention, especially from feminist literary critics, who argue that it has great significance in Eliot’s canon. Gilbert and Gubar give it an entire chapter in The Madwoman in the Attic.  I’m afraid I don’t buy that argument and I think there was a good reason why she didn’t generally write this kind of fiction – she just wasn’t that good at it. The story has no tension, which is an essential component of gothic and sensation fiction — and the selfish, whining Latimer is so repellent that you really hope Bertha will get away with poisoning him before the end. I’m with Terry Eagleton when he exclaims “If only we could hear Bertha’s side of the story”.   I think the story in an interesting curiosity and tells us something about Eliot’s lesser known interests in mesmerism, phrenology, clairvoyance and revivication, as well as the gothic and fairy stories.  It also contains interesting nineteenth-century anxieties about gender — are men being emasculated by a wealthy consumer society? Are women becoming harder and more competitive?  In some ways, Bertha seems like a less well-developed model for that other dangerous blonde with snake-like coils of hair — Rosamund Vincey in Middlemarch.

Maybe I’m not getting something, but I just don’t see the deep meaning in this story that some critics have ascribed to it; to me, it seems all surface, which is fine such as it is, but Middlemarch, or The Mill on the Floss, it is not.

Charles Dickens, Bleak House (1853)

I first read Charles Dickens’s Bleak House (1853) when I was in my teens and it sent me into hysterics. I thought I was doing fine as Dickens piled on the pathos, but when Esther Summerson woke from her illness to find the mirror removed from her room, that was it, I freaked out.

Aside from my lack of enthusiasm to repeat this experience, I wouldn’t have chosen to read Bleak House again because, at close to 1000 pages, it’s a monster and there are so many other books I ought to read. Still, in this case I’m glad I had to re-read it for work.

Bleak House is a huge, ramshackle, labyrinth of a novel with a divided narrative and a complicated double plot held together by intricate connections.  Dickens, with his incredible appetite for writing, couldn’t seem to pick a genre and stick with it, so we have realism, romance, melodrama, satire, the gothic, and crime fiction all thrown in together.  This makes it difficult to interpret because the way we read books for meaning depends on our knowledge of the genre in which we place the work.  I tend to agree with the critics who read it as a story about the power of secrets and dangers of obsession, as well as the helplessness of the subject under the tyranny of the law. It has been compared to Franz Kafka’s The Trial.

The title is not deceptive: the novel is definitely bleak and I’m not surprised that I had hysterics the first time around. There are nine deaths in this book. It abounds with the grotesque figures Dickens was famous for, but there isn’t much humour.  He interprets Victorian England as a sick, decaying society in which the misery of the poor caused by social injustice spreads to infect everyone, just as Jo the crossing sweep gets “moved along” and infects Esther with the smallpox that disfigures her beyond recognition.

When I first read Bleak House I had very little patience with Esther’s syrupy “Angel in the House” narrative, but now I see its construction as quite psychologically astute on Dickens’s part. Esther’s low self-esteem and self-depreciating remarks should be read in relation to the stigma of her illegitimacy, which is also signified by her scarred face.  It makes sense that a woman with no name, legal relations, or status in society would feel the need to trade in goodness because her only chance in life is to make people love her.  She has nothing else to offer.

The first time around I liked the benevolent John Jarndyce who takes Esther and the other wards of court into his home, but this time I experienced him as a creepy control freak who can’t stop trying to orchestrate other people’s lives.

I remember hating the opening (boring!), but now I think it’s one of the best things Dickens ever wrote.

Victorian feminism makes an appearance in the vicious representation of Mrs Jellyby, the irresponsible do-gooder with a squalid house full of neglected children and a husband who spends his time leaning his head against the wall in despair. Towards the end of the novel it is sneeringly remarked that she’s turned her attention to women’s rights to sit in parliament.**

Despite this surface disdain for women’s rights, Bleak House is actually very interested in gender and the position of women.  The entire book is gendered, with half the narrative told from a self-depreciating feminine position by Esther, and the other half by a presumptively male, confident but cynical, narrator.  Then Dickens can’t help being fascinated with the icy Lady Dedlock who finds her secrets catching up with her and he represents the frightening lawyer Mr Tulkinghorn as an outright misogynist.

Overall it was worth the effort, but I don’t think I’ll be going for a third attempt anytime soon.

If you can’t face reading the entire book, the BBC adaptation with Gillian Anderson is pretty good.

** By Dickensian coincidence there’s a post up at Hoyden About Town about  Caroline Chisholm. Chisholm was allegedly the model for Mrs Jellyby.

Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol (1843)

What can be said about Dickens’s linguistic virtuosity beyond calling it ‘inimitable’? Perhaps all that can be done is to put ‘Wow!’ in the margins of the text or adjacent to a citation’ (J. Hillis Miller)

I spent yesterday afternoon under a blanket with a hot water bottle reading Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol.  I’ve read this book, I don’t know how many times, and I never get tired of it. When I was younger, only the death of Tiny Tim in the Christmas future caused me shed tears, but these days I read with a lump lodged constantly in my throat, crying my way through Fezziwig’s party and the Cratchitt’s dinner and Scrooge’s final redemption.  I also watch the BBC adaptation with Patrick Stewart every year on Christmas Eve and I’ll cry again then.  I have to teach it this year, so let’s hope I can hold it together for that.

I wonder why this story still has such emotional power.  Its politics are conservative, it celebrates the dominant values of Victorian society (home, heterosexuality, marriage, family), it treats women as little more than sexual objects and doesn’t even call for any radical social change.  Dickens seems to be campaigning for a more benevolent form of capitalism in which rich people engage in charity, which isn’t a very realistic solution.

But on one narrative level, its lure is quite simple. This is a story about renewal, about getting a second chance in life.  Actually, I remember seeing an interview with Patrick Stewart in which he bursts into tears when he tries to talk about this aspect of the text.  The Christmas Carol, it seems, can make even Captain Picard cry.

Like the best Christmas fictions, the Carol is powerful because it’s built on terrible darkness. Scrooge is standing at the edge of the abyss, not only the abyss of social isolation and lonely death into which he will fall if he doesn’t change his ways, but also the abyss of poverty and degradation, the “ignorance” and ”want” that people like him depend upon.

What I noticed most this time around was the emphasis on memory.  This is a story about a man who has forgotten how to feel and in order to be redeemed, Scrooge first has to learn how to remember.  In particular, he has to remember what it feels like to be a child (Dickens believed that our moral and spiritual welfare is dependent on keeping in touch with childhood).  With its strangely intimate narrative voice (“standing in the spirit at your elbow”), A Christmas Carol puts us in touch with the heightened empathy and emotional response associated with childhood.  Is this capacity something we lose as we grow older, or is it beaten out of us? A Christmas Carol encourages us to indulge in the remembrance of feeling.