An Excerpt from 'It's Only A Film', on Jane Eyre
We must be careful to recognize reality when it presents itself to us, parsimoniously rejecting anything else. This is a sound guiding principle. It is such a powerful principle that it tells us not to pay any mind to dreams and films.
Much is made about the film, in its innumerable adaptations, being both "timeless" and "feminist". But I think that perhaps it fails on these two counts as they are commonly (mis)understood. First, I don't know about this film being "timeless". Does timeless mean that you can imagine these feelings and characters being recreated in other settings? That you are upset when, towards the end of the rolling credits, you see "Costume Truck"? Or that you can concoct a modern come-on for every "You transfix me, quite"? This word, this conclusion, "timeless", only makes sense in reference to an experience, an experience that you have gone through as a result of the film - the experience of being moved by the film, or as I said in the previous paragraph, of being "spoken directly to". That manner of being spoken directly to requires that you pay attention to something that is greater than reality. You also have to meet the film halfway by searching for something that is greater than reality in it. But for all of that, there is so much of reality in "Jane Eyre" that impresses me. I don't really watch films that have petticoats and bodice-ripping in them; I'm quite certain that films like these are catering to modern themes of consumerist titillation. I'm not even sure I watch films with too many English people in them, actually, unless they are murdering each other artfully with their kind hearts and coronets through open pastures or in ceilinged claustrophobia. "Jane Eyre" promises something that modernity has all but lost, without feeling the slightest bit stilted, and without making me feel stilted for saying that. I reckon that what is "timeless" is found in Jane's sweet little lace gloves, her fingers encased so beautifully in them, fingers interwoven delicately and recklessly with the newness of her love for Mr. Rochester. That lace is an explosion of the heart.
Second, I don't know about "feminist", either. Mr. Rochester is insanely hot, as he should be and which is very important. Out of all the men in this film, Mr. Rochester is certainly the most compelling - he looks good when he smokes and he has the requisite moral compass, as evidenced by his treatment of "the demon" (I won't elaborate on this if any of you are new to either the book or the film), and though he is disfigured in his take on life he hasn't lost the ability to spot a path towards salvation. What has Jane really done to be "feminist"? Is it not a miracle that someone like Mr. Rochester should provide fulfillment for her as well? At the beginning of their as yet undeclared love, the asymmetry between the two could hardly be greater. What could the solidarity between them possibly be based upon? We are left with spiritual answers, which get their validity in the scenes of opposition, in the scenes of love, and in increasingly metaphysical scenes such as when Jane hears Mr. Rochester's voice in the wind and pursues it, after she has been told by the phoney alternative embodied by St. John Rivers that she will soon feel "love enough" for him. St. John forces Jane to say Mr. Rochester's name in answer to what he has (incorrectly) assessed as the only obstacle to their love. It's a psychologically tarnished and unfair move, revealing his entirely superficial understanding of Jane's capacities and desires, and it's truly perfect that this verbal coercion on his part provides the graceful opportunity for Jane to float away past his limited (religious) vision. Since day one, Jane has damn good answers for every bit of hypocrisy[1] and unfathomably cruel treatment that she is faced with - they are perfectly barbed declarations (especially the little Jane - if only all kids had that vocabulary, oh that Victorian syntax!), stripping people of their facades to reveal the senseless things that they stand for. Jane longs for "action" in her life and has the integrity to tear herself away from Mr. Rochester at that devastating moment when the asymmetry unavoidably and irresolvably matters (he has a past that he hasn't been able to get rid of, she's largely gotten rid of hers). But none of this is feminist. At the same time, this film has captured almost everything that I feel about what it means to be a woman.
I haven't thoroughly read any articles about the film except for the one in the October 2011 Sight & Sound, written by Claire Monk. It's a good article. But it talks about the wrong things. It focuses heavily on how a cultural outsider of a director brings freshness to an English heritage film and calls it "an object lesson in what it means, today, to make a transnational film of an English literary classic for an expressly global audience." Who the fuck cares? I have been splitting my time between Berlin Alexanderplatz and Dame Edna in the evenings (both of which are essential to my life!) and didn't realize that I must have been waiting for something like Jane Eyre to come along. What is impressive about this film is not its transnational nature, but its ability to surprise; I don't think that the surprise is explained so readily by citing the director Fukunaga's accomplishments, though they are hugely commendable. The seed of surprise comes from Mia Wasikowska's performance. There is good reason that Mr. Rochester marvels at the fact that nothing can vitiate her, after all the twists and turns of her "common tale of woe". Wasikowska's Jane Eyre cannot be improved and for me will be the end of all Jane Eyres. This is a commercial film with a rather serious budget, a structured narrative, and a romance involving a very handsome male lead; as it happens, I don't write about many of those sorts of films on this blog. But this is not one of those sorts of films - it comes with those features yet has none of the baggage you expect from them. It's Mia Wasikowska that makes the film so beautiful - the entire exquisite understated soulful physicality of her performance[2] which I don't think will go unnoticed by even the most clueless of film reviewers.
I remember reading Jane Eyre as a teenager, but didn't recall that it had a transcendently joyous ending - all I remember thinking was that Mr. Rochester was a bit moody and that merry England was probably pretty damp and hard on people. If it was a rebellious character that I was needing to relate to, I had my Holden Caulfield, and if I needed a moment or two of feminist rage, then there was Sylvia Plath, sneering deliriously from the pages of her journals. The film has brought me back full circle to the novel; another surprise. I want to re-discover this purportedly traditional novel on its own authentic terms, and it makes sense, in a way, that I should return to it now . . .
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