"I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you - especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapped; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you - you'd forget me."
If classic literature were a drug – and let’s face it, it is pretty addictive…and grows hallucinogenic mold if it’s really old (here’s the proof) – then my gateway drug would be Jane Eyre (1847) by Charlotte Brontë. So far as I remember, this was the first piece of pre-20th century literature that I picked up before I hit my mid-teens and while I can’t recall how I received it at first, I have never looked at it the same way twice, though always with a strong degree of devotion.
The characters, for better or worse, are each uniquely wrought
through Jane’s eyes in such detail as she sees fit to render them, either through
lavish physical details, precise similes, or intensely developed conversations.
The depth, manner, or, in the case of one individual, near absence of
description imparts upon the reader Jane’s own opinions of those she becomes acquainted
with, making them our own until we can’t help loving or loathing them as she
does. We are introduced to the ‘robust’ and cruel authority of Aunt Reed, the ‘benignant’
and charitable tutor Miss Temple, the common gossip of the servants of
Thornfield, the haughty sentiments of the wealthy – the ladies ‘fair as lilies’
and the men ‘dashing sparks’ – the ‘inexorable’ yet astute St John Rivers, and,
of course, the powerful and rugged Mr Rochester.
Now, many readers may argue with me regarding my feelings
for the relationship between Jane and Rochester – I love every scene of genial
conversation, their impassioned exchanges, and final reconciliation – despite
how cliché and oppressive it may be to feminist ideologies. But when you
consider the Romantic influences of the 19th century, illustrated in
Brontë’s
full, artistic scenery and her use of retrospect, then a fixation on emotion,
such as love stirs up, is sure to follow. How else could I feel when Jane,
gazing upon Rochester’s features, deems them ‘more beautiful to me: they were
full of an interest, an influence that quite mastered me – that took my feelings
from my own power and fettered them in his’? When Rochester, restored to Jane’s
heart, declares that ‘all the sunshine I can feel is in her presence’?
Yet, in my latest reading, the tropes of another literary period,
one I became acquainted with at university, made themselves apparent to me:
that of the Gothic. This tale is replete with dreams, sublime terror, and creatures
of the supernatural.
Both Jane and Rochester are plagued with dreams of one
another from which they wake to find themselves alone once more; the nights at
Thornfield are haunted by obscure threats, eerie sounds, and even the menace of
a ghost or ‘vampire’; and constantly the fated couple perceive each other to
have ‘the look of another world’. Jane is Rochester’s ‘fairy’ and ‘ministrant
spirit’, while the unreality of his presence and devotion leads Jane to term Rochester
‘the most phantom-like of all’. Furthermore, both characters come to possess a
past, another Gothic staple, which they ultimately fail to escape. There are
some tropes which can be applied at a stretch such as the absent mother (would
both parents count?) and the tyrant father (a tyrant aunt, perhaps?), while others
could be considered spoilers (a ruined castle and the threat of ‘The Other’ are
all I will say), but with the identification of each trope, I felt myself
enamoured by Brontë’s skill that little bit more. Her subtle foreshadowing of
later events, her honest desire to break from the bland, dove-like protagonist in
favour of the independent sparrow, and her rendering of such diverse
relationships and the feelings they provoke all make me smile to read them. As
such, when I discovered a BBC serial adaptation (2006), I was intrigued and subsequently
smitten.
While it has been a while since I watched it, this series
permitted the time and dedication to an accurate translation from page to
screen, omitting almost nothing and thus keeping the mystery and flow of the
story intact. The actors chosen for Jane and Rochester (Ruth Wilson and Toby Stephens)
fit their characters like a glove, being neither too attractive nor unskilled,
and they will forever be how I envisage them when I inevitably read this book
again (more reasons why this series works so well can be found here). I did, however, also watch an adaptation made for the big screen in 2011
with Mia Wasikowska and Michael Fassbender in the pivotal roles, but I found
this decidedly lacking due to the constraints of a two-hour film in the ways of
which I shall list:
- · Many of the minor characters (Bessie, Grace Poole, Hannah, Rosamund) are almost entirely absent
- · Whole scenes are axed, condensed or combined into one hurried mass (especially regarding the gypsy and Mason's arrival)
- · Adele is given no back story aside from her poor deceased mama, and is far too plain to be a French ‘doll’
- · St John is nowhere near as icy as his paper counterpart
- · Jane is closer in looks and demeanour to the dove-like women so typical of the Romantic era – she is pretty, passive and almost blonde.
- · There is more terror in the cinematic rendering of Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden (1993) than in any of the night-time scenes in this film (which, given Wasikowska’s track record for spooky films, left me a little surprised)
- · And the ending! My God! Wrong setting, no emotion, underdeveloped, and light-years too short!
There are some redeeming features such as the spliced ordering
of events which start the film halfway through the story, the genuine warmth
felt in Jane and Rochester’s interactions (excluding the proposal scene which
was heavily let down by Wasikowska), and Fassbender’s close-to-faithful depiction
of Rochester (good looks aside). But time and again I found myself more disenchanted
by the flatness of the characters and the gaping plot holes than delighted with
the beautifully scenic shots and moments of real emotion.
I know I have spent maybe too long ranting about this film,
but take it as a testament to my love for what magic Brontë has
worked, and I hope that others will pick up the book and be as bewitched by this
seeming fairy-tale as I.
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