"Metropolitan (1990)

**It's "Whit Stillman Week" at the Worthy of Note blog.  This week, I'll be reviewing three films by one of my favorite directors, Whit Stillman.  I hope you appreciate the reviews, and perhaps even the films.**

Whit Stillman is a rather obscure director, who produced a trifecta of films in the early 1990's that received critical acclaim and accolades, and shortly thereafter disappeared from public review. Yet those three films convey some of the most profound ideas ever treated on the silver screen. Stillman presents a world that is simultaneously elevated and oddly realistic. He treats humans as they actually are -- with small moments of epiphany, catharsis and barely discernible movements of the soul -- and humans as we wish they were -- with rich interplay of ideas and complete sentences. It is a challenge to even approach these films, let alone to appreciate them fully, but comprehension is immensely rewarding when it comes.

"Metropolitan," Stillman's Oscar-nominated first film (1990, Best Original Screenplay), presents the rather insular world of New York youth in the midst of the debutante ball season. They are the self-identified urban haute bourgeoisie, preppies for short, and the film is driven by their conversation. The movie begins as the members of the "Sally Fowler Rat Pack" leave a ball to head to the after-party, and stumble across the rather lonesome Tom. They insist he join them, and so they all head to Sally's apartment for an evening of upper class diversions and pretensions.

Each personality on display is a truly delicious mix of sincerity and facetiousness, insight and utter ignorance. Tom, the newcomer, serves as our eyes in this strange world, and we find him to be just as lost in the confusion as we are. On the other hand, Audrey, the shy and soft-spoken fixture of the group, serves as our emotional anchor to this world. Tom and Audrey seem to be almost polar opposites, but in their conversation and mutual respect we find the themes of this film.

The centerpiece of "Metropolitan" involves the concept of tradition. These are children on the verge of adulthood, but the adults themselves are almost entirely absent. Of the three adults who actually appear, two are relegated to wardrobe (Audrey's mother hems a dress, Tom's mother prompts him to return his tuxedo) while the third is a stranger who joins the group's conversation but is quickly shunted off to the side. Theirs is a world without authority, without role models, without tradition.

That is not to say that adults don't loom large in their conversation, even in absentia. Audrey worries that her father “believes himself to be a failure; but I don’t think he is!" Tom's parents had been divorced for several years, and though he initially considers himself "very close" to his father, he discovers his childhood toys dumped unceremoniously outside his father's old apartment and discovers that his father had moved across the country without telling him. It is a heartbreaking image -- a son no longer wanted by his father -- and made all the potent by our previous realization that Tom is truly lost without an anchor.

Tom can boast an active mind, but he has little understanding or appreciation of the past. For instance, he doesn't read actual literature, but prefers literary criticism (under Audrey's tutelage, he discovers the value of a good book by reading Jane Austen). Audrey, on the other hand, appreciates convention, even though she doesn't fully understand it.One of the girls proposes a game such that the loser must answer truthfully any question put to them. Audrey objects, saying that people don't go around revealing secrets for a reason, and that the game could be dangerous. Others respond that they can't think of why not, but Audrey replies: "You don't have to! Other people have, and that's why it became a convention." The game proceeds over her objections, and secrets are revealed, including one particularly hurtful to Audrey. Her own wounds vindicate her argument: it is wise to follow tradition, even when and especially when you can't think of the reasons for it.

By first impressions, Nick comes across as the antithesis of Audrey: a smug bastard who gives himself airs and lashes others with a biting wit. Over the course of the film, however, he grows closer to Tom and we see more and more of his true character. Nick is as quick to listen as he is to talk: he insults everyone, but is able to empathize to a unique degree. At one point, he persuades Tom to remain in the group by pointing out Audrey’s emotional vulnerability, and noting that she might be hurt by Tom’s departure. In a conversation about, of all things, detachable shirt collars, Nick comments that so many things are abandoned with time that ought not be. Tom replies, "You're obviously talking about a lot more than detachable collars."

Even the ending reinforces Nick's centrality to Tom's transformation. Nick is caught in a lie that damaged another preppie's reputation (though his excuse that it was "a half truth. A compilation. Like New York Magazine does!" actually appears accurate). Nick is excluded from the group after that point, and disappears to visit his (divorced) father and (evil) stepmother upstate. At the train station, he bids Tom farewell, but reveals that Tom is the last of the old guard, the one person who uniquely relates to the values Nick holds dear. That is the emotional turning point for Tom, and inspires him to fight for Audrey's honor when called upon in the next scene.

It turns out that Audrey didn't need defending, but had undergone a transformation of her own. Under the influence of Tom, she had learned to take initiative and act with prudential virtue: she flexed her allegiance to convention, but remained constant to virtue in practice. She had gone into the lair of an amorous preppie, to serve as a chaperone for her friend. She had in fact been defending the honor of another, when Tom shows up. In confusion, Tom notes that it was not what her hero Jane Austen would have done, but her only respond is to smile and acquiesce. She knows, and accepts, the distinction.

By the end of the film, the kids have grown up. From within their authority-less microcosm of modern society, they overcame the saccharine naïveté of their youth and latched onto a tradition and a mature mode of behavior. This is no "Peter Pan," no fantasy of eternal childishness. But nor is this "The Breakfast Club," in which adulthood is found through self-discovery. Indeed, defeating the misguided morals of the Brat Pack film may be considered at the heart of Stillman's work, particularly his final film "The Last Days of Disco." Rather, it is through a sense of tradition, of obligations to the social order, that the children find virtue and thus find happiness.

It is something of a joke that arthouse films are those in which nothing happens: they sometimes lack the sort of grand story or overarching plot for an audience to follow. Yet Stillman's films portray a much richer story than those of other films. Most are content to depict essentially archetypal characters reacting to events -- the stories occur externally, whether from changes in fortune, love or situation. The personalities rarely change as a result of events, and if they do the changes are generally superficial. Stillman depicts essentially real humans (if they are admittedly idealized conversationalists) who learn from minor events and grow as a result. The story occurs internally, and the movements of personality are complex and sometimes ineffable. If the results can be expressed at all, it can easily require an essay to fully comprehend. "Metropolitan" is one of those films that requires and rewards multiple viewing. Stillman treats film as a canvas for truth, not beauty, yet creates beauty through the characters developing their own humanity.

To purchase this film, check out Amazon.com:
Metropolitan - (The Criterion Collection)

E.M. Forster: Howards End

**This review was contributed by another new guest author, Thunderfist, who takes his name from the hero of C.S. Lewis' classic travelogue "A Horse and His Boy."  Enjoy!**

Although Howards End is one of my favorite books, it often slips my mind when I think about English literature. Part of the reason for this is that its author, E. M. Forster, occupies an in-between time in world history: the close of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth. Victorianism was on the wane but World War One had yet to destroy Victorian and Romantic ideals. In a sense, Forster’s oeuvre in general reflects this transition: A Room with a View, published in 1908, is a novel of the nineteenth century, a traditional comedy of manners set in Italy and pastoral England. Published eighteen years later, A Passage to India is a dispassionate, modern depiction of British colonialism in India. Separating these two novels in the oeuvre is only Howards End, which captures the poignant transition between two very different centuries.

I have a long history with Forster: when I was fifteen I watched the classic film adaptation of A Room with a View and fell in love with its gorgeous portrayal of Edwardian England. From the rich and ceremonious dinners to the long sweeping gowns to the gaslamps and open carriages, A Room with a View is a period piece par excellence. The novel is a delight of witty dialogue and tongue-in-cheek narrative, following the tradition of Jane Austen. It portrays a sunny world of youth in which relational conflicts are easily cleared up with heart-to-heart honesty and a final surrender to true love; and its characters play tennis, drink tea and go on picnics in Arcadian countryside scenes.

In a conversation with the Supreme Arbitress of Taste, we agreed that A Room with a View is a novel of Forster’s youth whereas Howards End is a novel of his maturity. Written only two years later, Howards End is set in cosmopolitan London and focuses on a cultured, artistic family of two sisters and one brother. In an echo of Austen’s Sense and Sensibility, the older sister, Margaret, is a sensible woman who tempers her deep feelings with practicality, and the younger sister, Helen, is an emotional and romantic woman whose feelings draw her into other people’s troubles. These women become friends with two very different families: the rich and businesslike Wilcoxes and the poor, struggling, but sensitive and artistic Leonard Bast and his wife. Both families draw on the Schlegels’ sympathy: Mr. Wilcox loses his wife, Ruth (also a friend of Margaret’s), and Leonard Bast is threatened with hopeless poverty and unemployment. The famous epigram of the novel is “Only connect…” and the novel is indeed about different isolated clans within the social and economic structure of England, whose only connection is the Schlegels.

The Schlegel girls occupy a place of freedom in the novel because they were born independently wealthy and have never been exposed to the hard, pragmatic aspect of making money. As their loyalties to the Wilcox and Bast families are taxed by love and misfortune, the underlying truths about both love and loyalty, about romantic ideals and real life, are questioned. At the center of the novel is a house, Howards End, a little old country house that becomes a point of contention between the Schlegels and the Wilcoxes: it belongs to Mr. Wilcox but, as his wife’s property, is left to Margaret upon her death in a note. At a glance, the novel seems like a large jigsaw puzzle with the pieces easily fitted into place: Howards End represents England and the three families respectively represent the business class, the artisans, and the common folk. Who will inherit England?

But Howards End, both the novel and the house it takes its name from, are much more than that. They are an emotional and spiritual evocation of England and the people who already live in her, none of whom really “own” her but who must fight for and against each other in the struggle to love her, preserve her, and change her. That Forster wrote the novel in 1910, only four years before the First World War, adds an unintentional poignancy to the story: for this world in which the families’ struggle takes place is itself on the brink of traumatic change.

Howards End, though not considered Forster’s greatest novel academically, is probably his most famous and popular. The epigram “Only connect…” is deservedly often alluded to by the literary world, and contemporary British author Zadie Smith wrote her novel On Beauty as an homage to Howards End. In this sense, “Only connect…” functions quite literally, for Forster’s novel indeed forges connections across centuries and different literary movements, from Austen’s neoclassical Sense and Sensibility to Smith’s postmodern On Beauty.

Of course, the real worth of Howards End lies simply in its literary beauty. Forster’s turns-of-phrase, his descriptions and his superb characterizations give Howards End a poetic depth that is both modern and timeless. It is Forster’s swansong, his elegant, elegiac depiction of a world caught between Romanticism and Modernism, ideals and disillusionment, love and family loyalty, single-minded truths and over-arching truths. It precipitates Modernism with its own simplified but still romantic style, forging a beautiful complement to both past and future literary movements while avoiding complete attribution to either.

After this glowing review, I must admit I have mixed feelings about Forster. He has a distinctive voice that sometimes grabs me and sometimes leaves me cold. Only three of his stories resonate with me, and of those three A Passage to India, often deemed his greatest work, is a story I admire while finding it difficult to read. Forster’s early work has never caught my interest, but these last three novels, and for me personally A Room with a View and Howards End, achieve a particular kind of gorgeousness that comes from the very Forsterian voice that I occasionally have trouble with. In these two novels Forster's style becomes not only admirable but deeply touching. A Room with a View, whatever its immaturity, is nonetheless a perennially lovable romantic comedy; and Howards End achieves a quiet greatness with its subtle and graceful insights.

As an addendum, Merchant-Ivory’s film adaptations of A Room with a View (1986) and Howards End (1991) both rank as some of the best film adaptations I’ve ever seen. David Lean’s version of A Passage to India (1984) is also well worth watching.

Kathryn Stockett: The Help

**This guest post was contributed by Bookwyrm, an literature devotee who will be joining Worthy of Note as a regular co-author. Look for more reviews from her in the coming months!**

The Civil War was fought in the 1860s, right? Well, maybe it was the ‘60s, but Kathryn Stockett’s novel The Help suggests that it was the 1960s. The book tracks the stories of three women—two black, one white—trying to make a living and do the right thing in the time of the Civil Rights movement. But their war is not fought on the front lines in Washington D.C. They bring the battle home, to the working relationship of black domestic servants with their white employers. This book is the story of an alliance between these women to treat people as people, no matter their color.

The winds of change are blowing in 1962. Rosa Parks has refused to budge on a bus, and Martin Luther King, Jr., is on the march to D.C. But in Jackson, Mississippi, there is an equally strong push to keep things the way they’ve always been. White women get married, set out the family silver on the table, and hire black maids like second-class citizens to clean their houses and raise their children. The Help gets inside their parlors and segregated bathrooms to find out what it was like.

Aibileen is a black woman of mature years. Employed as a maid all her life, her favorite part of the work is taking care of her employers’ children. She has raised 17 babies in her life, but none for more than a few years. She makes a point to resign her work at the time when the children come to realize the divide between black and white—when they no longer see her as a person. At the start of the book, she is caring for Mae Mobley, her 17th white child, and she determines that this little girl is going to be different.

Minny is Aibileen’s best friend: younger, sassier, and with five children and an alcoholic husband to support on her working salary. Her sharp tongue has gotten her fired more times than she can count, but she, too, has a story to tell. Working as a maid since she was a teenager, Minny learned from her mama how to clean a house and make a good caramel cake. But when she sees something wrong, she wants to say something about it, and there isn’t room for that attitude in Jackson.

Miss Eugenia “Skeeter” Phelan is twenty-three years old and a college graduate: a rare position for a woman in 1962 Mississippi. Her mother is afraid that her brains will ruin her chances of ever catching a man, but all Skeeter cares about is writing. Hairspray, clinking teacups, and catty society gossip make her long to get out of Jackson and be an editor in New York City. But for a single white woman with no independent income, that dream seems out of reach.

That is, until she starts talking to Aibileen and Minny and realizes that these women have stories to tell. She starts waking up to their world: a black man is shot at his home for leading an activism movement. Aibileen’s son is killed in a preventable accident due to white neglect. Black maids are imprisoned on a white woman’s word if they know too much. Yet the entire next generation of Jackson society is being raised by women like Minny and Aibileen, who have learned to keep their mouths shut or lose their futures. It’s time somebody said something about it. But Skeeter, Aibileen, and Minny have everything to lose. Skeeter has to decide whether to let herself be carried along by the status quo or stop and stand against it.

Although the themes of this book hit hard and close to home, its vibrant detail makes it engaging and endlessly readable. Stockett writes about the South with a familiarity that only a native daughter could capture. I could feel the sticky heat, smell the fried chicken cooking, and watch the okra growing in Aibileen’s garden. Their world is drawn in such distinct colors that there is no way it could be anything but real. It sweeps away the Leave It to Beaver façade of the late 50s-early 60s and dives deep into what was really going on in the ballrooms and tennis clubs and screened-in porches of the South during the Civil Rights Movement.

In the epilogue, Stockett explains that her vivid descriptions come from firsthand experience. She grew up in Jackson, Mississippi, and was raised by a black maid named Demetrie. While no novel is a verbatim record of experiences, Stockett lets the tenderness of that relationship spill over into the personalities of the many maids in the book. They are captured like portraits done with a fine pen, free of generalizations and stereotypes. They are people so real you could send them a Christmas card.

This is a story about deciding whether to do what’s comfortable or what’s right. It doesn’t disguise the consequences: brave people don’t escape from suffering in this book. In fact, brave people are often those who suffer most, at least in the short run. But The Help made me feel almost like a visitor from the future, because now I can see the difference made by people who chose to go against their entire culture and treat all people like people.

**Bookwyrm is a bibliophile born in the wrong century. A native Californian, she is pursuing an English major at Seattle Pacific University. Her current job titles include editor, reporter, novelist, and freelance writer. When she’s not at work on a children’s novel or her senior thesis, she enjoys cooking, hiking, Irish music, old bookstores, and collecting technicolor socks.**

"Pride and Prejudice" (1980)

**This article was contributed by the Supreme Arbitress of Taste and is the final installment of "Pride & Prejudice Week.  I imagine there will be more reviews and responses to what has been posted, so keep your eyes peeled for those.**

For sheer accuracy to the book, I still maintain that you can't beat the 1995 BBC version, but surprisingly enough there's a contingency of people that prefer an early BBC adaptation from 1980. I honestly have very mixed feelings about this version. Although they did many things correctly--there's a lot to admire--I still feel like it's not as good as it's successor.

Elizabeth Garvie looks the part of Elizabeth Bennett better than any other
actress to take the role, but she lacks the sparkling personality though she's
certainly wise and reflective enough to fit the changes Elizabeth goes through.

Still, as this film remains largely unknown, I feel compelled to give a fairly detailed review. To start with, the opening credits of this miniseries are a delight to watch because they are a scroll over cartoon renditions of scenes from the episode which cannot help but make me laugh. The cinematography is not very good, but it beats other Austen adaptations of the era substantially. The music also is unremarkable without being bad. But really there's not much of it, and thus my remarks a limited.

Now let me talk about the Lizzie in this version, played by Elizabeth Garvie. I think she certainly had the look of Elizabeth, but she lacks the animation and cynicism central to the character. Instead we get a very quiet, reflective Miss Bennett, which makes her transition to greater self-awareness and love for Mr. Darcy more plausible than I've seen in any other version. Despite this I cannot get over how much she feels like of a pale imitation of the vivacious character we know and love in the first half of the film, so the performance ultimately falls flat for me.

This, however, is nothing compared to the fault of the Darcy in this version, played by David Rintoul. His is a one-note performance: cold. Seriously I don't think this guy so much as raises an eyebrow throughout the whole performance, and his proposal scene is one of the least convincing I've ever seen. The only commendation I will give him is that he looks the part admirably: tall dark and handsome in the extreme.

Now as to the minor characters. I feel like they're much more well-rounded than they are in the '95 classic, but at the same time much of the humor is removed in this process. The Bennett girls do look closer to their actual ages in the book, which I greatly appreciate, and Mrs. Bennett feels like a real person without being absurd. My main problem with the Bennetts in this is how much they deflate Mr. Bennett into a gruff chauvinist and a tyrant. All his mirth and wit seem to be removed, and thus he loses all sympathy in the eyes of the audience.

Outside the Bennet family, I don't feel like the minor parts were characterized as well because they has so little screen time. Sir William Lucas, the Bingley sisters, Charlotte, Mr. Wickham, and Mr. Gardener all seem to be there in name only, with no very distinguishing characteristics, which is sad because they add wonderful color to the narrative in the book.

I will, however, give this version points for two minor, non-Bennett characters. Mrs. Gardener gets credit first for being portrayed much more as as a confidant to Lizzie, wise and sagacious but lacking the streak or wry humor that makes her tease Lizzie about Darcy in her letter. So I actually still prefer the Mrs. Gardener from the '95 version, but I deeply appreciated the expanded role she was given in this one. The next role that I give them credit for is the ever-difficult Mr. Collins. This Collins is, to quote Blackadder, is "As thick as clotted cream that's been left out by some clot until the clots are so clotted that they couldn't be un-clotted with an electric de-clotter," which is just what we want in the character. At the same time, however, he doesn't seem as slimy or sniveling as he was in both the '95 miniseries and to a certain extent in the '05 theatrical release. This Collins is in awe of Lady Catherine without sucking up to her, which is how I've always pictured him.

One thing I give this version a lot of credit for incorporating is some of Austen's memorable narrative voice, much of which gets put into voice-overs by Lizzie and into the mouths of other characters by way of needed plot exposition. When you're dealing with an adaptation of one of the most quotable authors in the English language, it's important to pay homage to her memorable voice. Still, however, many of the best lines of the book remain omitted, including some of the best Lizzie/Darcy banter.

Then, of course, I will have to criticize this version for cutting the ending short, but since all the adaptations do that, I can hardly blame them any more than the others. I actually will express my satisfaction that they included a scene where the Bennetts invited Bingley and Darcy over for a party, and Lizzie tries in vain all evening to speak to Mr. Darcy. That scene does an excellent job at making us feel her frustration at not being able to express her thanks to Mr. Darcy . I also give this version credit for showing Mrs. Bennett's reaction to the news of Lizzie's engagement, which no other version to my knowledge shows, and which was always a favorite of mine from the book. Still, that is the final scene of the film, and its abrupt ending leaves viewers dazed and confused at the lack of a denouement as the credits roll.

"Did you admire me for my impertinence?" Lizzie asks Mr. Darcy

So how does this adaptation fare compared to the others? Well, it's leaps and bounds above the 1940 debacle with Laurence Olivier--it breaks my heart to speak against my ultimate Hollywood crush--and Greer Garson. Although it lacks the emotional depth and humor of both the 1995 and 2005 versions, it still a very good adaptation, sticking to the book nearly as well as the 1995 masterpiece. Still, because the acting is so wooden and the characters so miscast in many cases, it is not one I can watch very often with the same pleasure as the '95. At the same time, however,  it certainly does not inspire homicidal thoughts in me the same way truly bad adaptations do. So in conclusion, it's a credible and effort but not stellar work.

"Pride and Prejudice" (1995)

**This article was contributed by Cinema Muse in response to the review of the 1995 BBC miniseries "Pride & Prejudice" posted earlier this week.**

Those of you who are regular readers of my blog Seeing Sepia will remember that this adaptation made #1 on my list of Top 10 Most Faithful Movie Adaptations from Novels of All Time. I did not give that award out lightly as a film buff and lover of classic literature. Of course I realize it's not perfect, since no adaptation can be, but I still don't think some of the charges Publius has made against it are entirely fair. Please bear in mind that he esteems it almost as much as I do, and he should by no means be lampooned for daring to find fault with it. It is not my intention to question his right to find fault with it, as indeed he is correct in saying that is overall stellar quality gives us license to concentrate on the minutiae. In that spirit, therefore, I mount my defense.

British-American actress Jennifer Ehle handles the complex character of Elizabeth Bennett with just the right amount of sweetness and cynicism.

I will start with his slight objection to Jennifer Ehle's portrayal of Elizabeth. In it he says that Elizabeth's cynical streak had been softened somewhat, but I don't think that's so. I think she gives plenty of looks in the film that show just how weary she is of hypocrisy and injustice, especially when Lydia's elopement comes up. Consider during that episode when she hears that Lady Lucas has given assistance several times: "Assistance is impossible and condolence insufferable! Let her triumph over us at a distance and be satisfied!" I think that's about as cynical as you can get. Also, you don't want Lizzie's cynicism to be too prominent, lets she lose the mirth for which we love her.

Publius also claims that because the production is shot so much from Elizabeth's perspective, all the other characters seem one-dimensional. I will grant him that in part. Many of the characters do seem one-dimensional, but I would argue that Mr. Darcy does not suffer from this problem nor does Mr. Bennett to a certain degree.

I actually like that we get to see the characters from Lizzie's perspective for the most part. It means that our reactions coincide more with her own. After all, if we don't agree with her condemnation of Darcy in the beginning, we would lose sympathy with her subsequent treatment of him. I think experiencing the narrative largely through Lizzie's eyes gives us a softer view of Mr. Bennett, and a harder one on just about everyone else, Jane notwithstanding. Mr. Darcy, of course, averts this problem partially because we have the few scenes from his POV that reveal his true affection for Elizabeth. Still, however, we are given little hint that his appearance of  haughtiness is partially due to shyness apart from a few instances of him being tongue-tied in Lizzie's presence, which could be easily attributed simply to his being in love. Those scenes, however, combined with my foreknowledge of shyness being the novel's partial explanation of Darcy's actions were enough to produce that impression on me. At the same time, however, it's subtle enough that the nuance will still be lost on Elizabeth, which makes her assumption of pride more plausible.

I also know that the reason that some of the characters aren't as well-rounded as they should be is because the filmmakers wanted to make sure that the humor of their actions still came across, and I feel that this adaptation preserves the humor better than any other version of P&P. For those of you who haven't read it the book, it is laugh-out-loud funny, and this adaptation is the only one in which I find myself laughing at the same scenes and lines as I did in the book. That is a very high compliment indeed. Unfortunately this also means that the film short-changes some of the deeper aspects of these characters, especially Mrs. Bennett and Mr. Collins. I can excuse this, however, on the grounds that even though Jane Austen is renowned for well-drawn, rounded characters, her primary intent with them was to provide humor, and thus it is more important that they fulfill that function than that they appear well-rounded at the expense of the humor. It's sad that it has to be that way, but as Publius pointed out, even in a 6-hour miniseries, there simply isn't time to flesh out all the characters.

One thing that Publius got spot-on was that this version like all the others before it doesn't seem to know what to do with Mr. Collins. Of course I think this version's Collins is the funniest one of the bunch, but he's way too slimy and not quite dense enough to fit the character that Austen wrote. In fact he's so transparently a grasping sycophant that it's impossible to believe that Charlotte can even have a modicum of contentment with him. And speaking of Charlotte, she's a character that isn't nearly explained well enough so that she comes off mercenary. This version shows that she's certainly as smart as Lizzie and doesn't have the looks to catch a man, but her lack of fortune and spinster status are never alluded to, and thus leave the audience as shocked as Lizzie when the engagement is announced.

As to Publius' claim that the cinematography lacked panache, I think first off that it exceeds all the previous BBC cinematography I've seen--but not subsequent--and secondly that it was made for TV not theaters, which means both budget and expectations were decidedly lower. I can easily excuse it because it so far above the home-video quality of the BBC Austen adaptations of the '70s and '80s as to be a positive breath of fresh air in comparision.

Jennifer Ehle as Elizabeth and Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy perform the "up a double and back" figure from the English Country Dance "Mr. Bevridge's  Maggot," in a slowed tempo that emphasizes the stateliness and formality of their relationship and Mr. Darcy's personality.

Of the many good points that Publius spoke of, moreover, he failed to mention two of my favorites, namely the score and the dancing. The score is a mixture of period classical pieces, English Country Dance tunes, and original compositions by Carl Davies including the famous theme song. One thing I know that Publius and I both appreciate is how much of the music heard comes from Mozart. For example, Lizzie sings an aria from The Marriage of Figaro when she's at Pemberley, and the musical piece played as everyone arrives for the Netherfield Ball is from the wedding scene in that opera. In addition Mrs. Hurst plays another Mozart piano piece during the ballroom scene, and Lizzie plays another while she's at Rosings Park. This is particularly appropriate because Figaro and P&P are often compared to each other in terms of sparkling wit and social commentary. As for the dancing, I can say being an English Country Dancer myself that the dances are well-executed and are real Playford English Country Dances that existed at the time instead of being something the filmmakers created. That being said, many English Country Dance aficionados have pointed out that the dances chosen in the film were hopelessly outdated by the time of  P&P, but I think that's a minor point because it's still the same style of dance. It's not like the replaced it with the polka or the electric slide.

So yes, this film/miniseries does have some faults. Are they bad enough for me to retract the title of best novel-to-film adaptation ever? No. Until someone shows me one that captures all the events and the spirit of the novel as well as this one, I will still maintain that it is the most accurate I've ever seen.

"Bride and Prejudice" (2004)

**After reviewing the novel and two direct adaptations, I'm now going to move in a completely opposite direction and review this 2004 Bollywood take on the classic Austen story.  This will be my last review for "Pride and Prejudice Week;" there is are other films and a 1980 BBC miniseries that deserve some attention, but I lack the time to do them justice.**

It's really hard to even know where to begin in reviewing a film like this.  "Bride and Prejudice" conveys so much infectious joy that it's hard to stop smiling long enough to start writing. It encompasses so many themes and genres that it's even hard to describe it. I would encourage you to read Roger Ebert's review of the film; that is probably one of the best reviews by him that I've read, and certainly one of the most enjoyable for its own sake

 

"Bride and Prejudice" is a Hollywood-made musical incorporating the plot elements of an Austen romance and the cinematic elements of a Bollywood comedy. It's almost frightening how well it plays both roles. Ebert notes that the director "employs the Bollywood strategy for using color, which comes down to: If it's a color, use it." As a musical, this film is brilliant, though the Indian songs are much more enjoyable than those sung in English. On the whole the script knows when to thumb its nose at itself and at the conventions of the genre. Entire streets of people suddenly burst out with song and dance, and two tubas materialize out of nowhere to play a few notes. My jaw quite literally dropped when I saw a fully robed Southern Baptist choice appear on the beach where Lizzie and Darcy had gone for a date, singing the background vocals while the couple falls in love.There is the obligatory "random celebrity singing an unrelated song" in true Bollywood tradition, and even a quasi-Hong Kong action set-piece (brilliantly set in a theatre with a real action film playing in the background). However, since my main focus is on the novel, I'll limit myself to mostly noting how it works as an Austen adaptation.

Aishwarya Rai (who I'm contractually obliged to describe as "the most beautiful woman in the world") plays the main character, Lalita Bakshi (which is as phonetically close to Lizzie Bennet as one could reasonably expect). She lives with her family in Amritsar, India, which is here depicted as a country town along the lines of Austen's Meryton. The original setting of the novel, England in the Regency period, was dominated by family dynamics and strict modes of etiquette. Considering that India was (until relatively recently) a British colony with similar social norms and family dynamics, I was quite impressed with how well the transposition of the story to India worked. As for main family, of the original five Bennet daughters, only four remain in the Bakshi  family -- Kitty (who in other films exists merely to tag along with Lydia) has been struck. I don't mind the omission; given how poorly Kitty is handled by other adaptations, I think leaving that character out entirely is almost preferred. Jaya (Jane Bennet) is a serene beauty, Maya (Mary Bennet) is overly serious, and Lakhi (Lydia Bennet) is overly silly. Their mother, Mrs. Bakshi, is quickly established as a gossipy matron with more in common with Lakhi than her other daughters, while Mr. Bakshi is the dryly droll dad.

At a friend's wedding, Jaya and Lalita meet Mr. Balraj, a British-educated Indian, and his friend William Darcy, the fantastically rich American hotel-owner. This is probably the best aspect of the film, from an Austenian point of view, simply because they reflect the original characters so well. In the novel, the Bingley family had recently acquired their fortune by trade (which is why Bingley was purchasing Netherfield Hall to begin with), while Darcy's family could boast far more elevated and ancient roots. For this reason, Bingley becomes Balraj, an Indian character with similar roots as the Bakshi family, while Darcy is played as an American, hilariously out of his depth. The depiction of Darcy is spot on: he is socially awkward, but comes across as arrogant. In an early scene, the drawstring for his pants comes undone, forcing him to make his excuses for not dancing with Lalita. It's a great piece of physical comedy, but it also allows us to see how he is simply uncomfortable while she reads him as stand-offish.

The story follows the expected Austenian lines, though the lines themselves are significantly less witty than the original. Lalita is determined to despise Darcy, despite his efforts to impress her. Mr. Wickham (this time named "Johnny") rises with a bronzed physique out of the ocean surf and immediately impresses her with his charm. The film presents Wickham as a much more viable love interest than most other adaptations, rather than the merely lukewarm regard Lizzie has for him in the novel. As for the inimitable Mr. Collins, he is transformed into Mr. Kholi, a Silicon Valley entrepreneur returning to his Indian home looking for a bride. Rejected by Lalita, he soon proposes to her best friend Chandra and returns to Los Angeles. The girls follow for the wedding, and so the courtship (and inevitable misunderstandings) can continue. Lalita meets Catherine (here treated as Darcy's mother, rather than his aunt) and Darcy's sister Georgina (played by Alexis Bledel, taking a break from her seven-year stint on "Gilmore Girls").

The film makes an interesting choice by treating the courtship of Lizzie and Darcy more extensively here, and allows Lizzie to actually develop feelings for Darcy during this time. Afterward, Lalita is naturally flummoxed when Catherine introduces Darcy's "girlfriend" Anne, and appalled when Georgie tells him that Darcy separated Balraj from Jaya because he thought her mother was a gold-digger. Lalita flees to Britain with her family, where Lakhi (Lydia) runs off to the carnival with Wickham (a much tamer version of the novel's "she elopes with him"). Darcy appears and reveals that Wickham had tried to force his way into the Darcy family fortune by getting Georgie pregnant when she was only 16 (a much more extreme version of the novel's "he tried to elope with her"). Darcy pursues Wickham and fights him for Lakhi's honor and brings her back to the Bakhi family -- there isn't a duel in the novel, but it seems strangely appropriate (especially given the duel under similar circumstances in "Sense and Sensibility").  By the end of the film, Jane and Balraj are getting married, and Lalita and Darcy are engaged -- happy endings for all.

It is really quite difficult to judge this film by the standards of other Austen adaptations. It makes no effort to rigidly follow the text, which does cause problems in some instances. Lalita and Darcy go on a few dates while she is in Los Angeles, which pushes the period of their courtship forward considerably. The film doesn't seek to make them hate each other, but is content to rely on simple misunderstandings and poor judgment to supply the obstacles for the lovers to overcome. The logic isn't as strict as Austen intended, but then, it's a Bollywood film, so I couldn't really expect any more. The joy and exuberance underlying the novel are decidedly present, and that is the greatest virtue of the film.

"Pride and Prejudice" (2005)

**Here is my third review for "Pride and Prejudice Week," this one for the 2005 film with Kiera Knightley and Matthew MacFayden. I will likely be tarred and feathered for these opinions, or at the very least ostracized from the ranks of Austen loyalists, but such is life.**

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a classic story in possession of a blockbuster film must be in want of a remake.  After the resounding success of the 1995 BBC adaptation  of "Pride and Prejudice," starring Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle, it was almost inevitable that the ensuing wave of Austen-mania would reach Hollywood. Somewhat surprisingly, no one wanted to compete against the original with a straightforward adaptation, so most films based on the novel were reinterpretations, either chronologically or geographically displaced from the original setting.  It wasn't for another ten years that a newcomer to Hollywood, Joe Wright, would actually attempt a direct remake of the novel.

Let's get something out of the way first: it is a tad bit unfair to compare a two hour Hollywood film to the BBC adaptation. These are different media, and it simply is not possible for the film to be anywhere near as a faithful to the novel as a six-hour miniseries marathon. The fact that the producers of the 2005 film managed to condense a tightly written novel down to two hours while preserving the narrative sequence and many of the best lines (including many that were excised from the 1995 script!) is immensely impressive, however you cut it. The omissions and inaccuracies in the 2005 film may be readily excused as an inevitable by-product of the running time. The real question is, how did this film deal with the material within those time constraints?

The 2005 film was marketed pretty directly as a romantic comedy, and tended to shy away from the "period piece" description. This led to several artistic licenses with the text that were pretty widely decried by the loyal adherents of the 1995 film, and I admit several of those licenses made me queasy. For instance, the setting for Darcy's second proposal was moved from a country lane in midday to a lush meadow in a misty dawn. I laughed quite a bit when I first saw that scene, for it was so unbelievably cliched. The epilogue (which only appeared for American audiences, Lord love the British) was also nauseatingly cheesy. On the other hand, the epilogue did occur after Darcy and Lizzie were married, which almost redeems it in my book. So many adaptations of Austen novels are content to end with a declaration of love, or with a wedding, where Austen is generally pretty careful to show the couple in their married state.

There were other stylistic decisions that riled the Janeite community. One common complaint was that the costumes weren't authentic to the Regency period. In the film's defense, the producers apparently intended to set the story in 1797, when fashion in the (slightly earlier) Colonial style would have still been common among the lower gentry, while Miss Bingley and the elite would have dressed in the more up-to-date Regency fashion.  I am not an expert in Regency fashion, and do not particularly care to be, and am therefore somewhat apathetic on the subject.  I cannot fault the film for slight anachronisms of style, when the story and characterizations weigh so much more heavily on my mind. In a similar vein, many Austen loyalists noted that Lizzie's home is so dirty that it could hardly be called the house of a country gentleman: perfect order was considered the sign of beauty (a baroque and classical sensibility), and disarray was not considered picturesque until much later, under the romantic and impressionistic influences. Both choices were deliberate, since the film's director wanted to move away from the staid environment of a "period piece" and make the setting more relatable to modern audiences.

Due to the limits of time, several minor characters were cut out or greatly reduced in importance; however, of those who remain, I think I prefer this version's treatment of them to that of the 1995 adaptation. The 1995 version was so leisurely paced that the humor became somewhat muted; to preserve a sense of fun, the minor characters were obliged to become caricatures, and were played for laughs. The harried pacing of the 2005 film preserves the quick wit and pace of the novel; thus, I think it is paradoxically due to the time restraints that the minor characters were given enough room to shine.

My favorite minor character in the film is Georgiana, Mr. Darcy's younger sister. She is described in the novel and in the 1995 miniseries as shy. In sharp contrast, the 2005 version makes her an energetic companion to Lizzie: this is not entirely like the book, but is true to Georgiana's "eager[ness]... to be pleased" that is not so readily shown in the 1995 version. Moreover, the 2005 film brilliantly depicts the affection between her and her brother, and we get a real sense of the family bond that they will share with Lizzie after the end of the book. Also, it should be said that the knowing glance she casts to Darcy when she meets Lizzie for the first time is absolutely brilliant. It is hinted in the novel that Darcy had spoken to her about his feelings for Lizzie, and this is the perfect 'younger-sister' look that conveys that back-story.

The members of the Bennet family are likewise cast in a much superior light. Mr. Bennet is given a more compassionate edge -- less of an insensitive outsider who only cares to laugh at his family, and more of a sensitive father and family participant with a keen sense of humor. He consoles his daughter Mary after her disastrous performance at the Netherfield Ball, and at the end of the film we get a glimpse (thanks to a brilliant performance by Donald Sutherland) of his true affection for Lizzie. The characterization of Mrs. Bennet is almost an infinite improvement on the 1995 version: she is still played for laughs, but she depicted in a much more reasonable light. This is, in my mind, truer both to Austen's original description, and to the social realities which would produce such a character. Their daughter Mary is likewise almost infinitely better than the 1995 version's view of her. Mary is plain, and self-conscious about it; she is neither pretty nor accomplished, and is overshadowed at every turn by her sisters. She desperately seeks attention, and wishes to perform for that reason, but she hasn't received the guidance to enter society gracefully. This is no self-righteous prig; this is a young girl trying to grow up.

I liked Mr. Collins far more in the 2005 film, and that is to its credit. He is odious, of course, and we are intended to dislike him for his obsequious attentions to Lizzie, but we cannot forget his essential good nature. He is, after all, introduced into the novel because he wants to repair the breach between his late father and Mr. Bennet, and his design to marry a Bennet girl is an attempt to let the Bennet family partake in the estate after their father's death, to make amends for the unfortunate entailment that would have otherwise deprived them! Mr. Collins is low-born and overwhelmed by the sensation of Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s generosity to him (as well as her rank and general formidableness), so it is not surprising that he praises her over-much. He is a comic creation, but we must not forget that he is hardly one-dimensional.

As for his wife, the former Charlotte Lucas, the 1995 version greatly annoyed me by treating her as essentially mercenary, who married Mr. Collins solely for the comfortable living.. The 2005 film did a much better job of depicting her desperation, from living on the verge of becoming an old maid, and her good nature. I felt as though the 1995 version made her friendship with Lizzie almost a mystery, they had so little in common, but the 2005 film went a long way in correcting that mistake.

As for the two leads, it must be said that neither can compare to the main characters in the 1995 version. They simply don't have as much time to make a clear impression. While I concede freely that Kiera Knightley was not the best choice for casting Lizzie, it was not as disastrous as some might say. Jennifer Ehle had six hours of screen time to establish Lizzie's good nature through small brushstrokes -- discreet and knowing glances, a brief scene of playing with Bingley's dog, etc. Kiera Knightley did not have the luxury of a understated performance, and was obliged to establish Lizzie's good nature within a shorter span. I felt Knightley's portrayal was a bit freer, more relaxed and perhaps even quicker to laugh, than Jennifer Ehle's. She has been criticized quite a bit for her performance, but I cannot condemn it so readily.

As for Matthew MacFayden, he must suffer in comparison to the definitive performance of Colin Firth, but in one respect he was superior. MacFayden much more clearly conveys Darcy's essential awkwardness and shyness from the beginning, which is in fact true to the novel. We can see why Lizzie would despise him, but we get glimpses of his true nature earlier on and therefore understand both his true nature and Lizzie's misapprehensions about that nature. The 1995 version follows Lizzie's perspective quite closely, correcting her mistakes as she does, but this has the disadvantage of making his ultimate conversion into a romantic hero somewhat befuddling (and also comes perilously close to the classic romantic comedy error of letting the heroine "change" the hero from his former "bad boy" persona). In the 2005 version, Darcy is given the chance to defend himself, particularly in the first proposal scene, where he acquits himself of Lizzie's attacks on the subject of Jane and Mr. Bingley quite well. While we understand Lizzie's resentment, we sympathize with Darcy, and that is essential to understand the novel.

I cannot heap enough compliments on the cinematography, and the soundtrack is absolutely perfect. Given the fact that almost all of the music is original, it is stunning in its resemblance to music from the period. These two aspects go a long way in accentuating the other virtues of the film. It is not a period piece, but that was not its intent. The film conveys the essential joy of the novel in a way that cannot be adequately expressed within the staid environment of Regency England. It should be remembered that the settings of medieval fairy tales were originally very familiar -- castles and cottages were as as common as cars today -- and did not become exotic until much later. Likewise, the atmosphere of the times would have been familiar to Austen's readers: they would have had no difficulty in relegating the setting to the background. Today, however, the setting is so foreign to modern readers that it almost invariably dominates our impression of the novel. By removing that 'period' atmosphere from consideration, the 2005 film offers a different (and in some instances clearer) perspective at the underlying characterizations and story.

Jane Austen: Pride and Prejudice

One of my co-bloggers has posted a literary review of Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice" on her blog, Seeing Sepia. It's an opening salvo for a series of posts she'll be writing in response to my own.  We disagree vehemently on the merits of certain adaptations, so I can hardly wait.  This post, though, is insightful and delightful, and I'd highly recommend you check it out.  I've posted a brief excerpt below:

Jane Austen has the distinction of being a classic author who's exceptionally fun to read. This makes some critics dismissive of her merits, but I beg you not to sell her importance in the literary world short just because she only wrote romantic comedies. Her works both transcends that genre and in doing so becomes its canon to the point that most romances today are just different iterations of the plots she formed. To use a food analogy, if ordinary romantic comedies are like Dreyer's brand ice cream, full of artificial flavors and high-fructose corn syrup, then Jane Austen is two scoops of organic Sicilian lemon cheesecake gelato.

To finish reading her post, click here.

"Pride and Prejudice" (1995)

**As promised, here is my second review for "Pride and Prejudice Week" review of the universally acclaimed 1995 BBC adaptation of "Pride and Prejudice."  Between this and my review (to be posted tomorrow) of the 2005 film version, I can't see how I will escape unscathed.**

"Pride and Prejudice" is one of the most recognized titles in English literature.  It is also one of the most adapted. From the first black-and-white film adaptation released in 1940 (starring Laurence Olivier as Mr. Darcy), to the 2001 hybrid "Bridget Jones' Diary," to the 2003 adaptation placing the story in contemporary Utah (!), and the 2004 Bollywood effort "Bride and Prejudice" (starring the "most beautiful woman in the world," Aishwarya Rai). The novel has spawned six separate BBC miniseries, the earliest released in 1938.  The most famous of those, which is also the most famous adaptation of the novel by far, is the 1995 miniseries written by Andrew Davies.

It is hard to do justice to this adaptation. It has received (and deserved) so many compliments, that it has become quite a challenge to compose an original thought. It is also a thoroughly paradoxical adaptation: rigorously faithful to the novel in the screenplay, for which it has received a good deal of praise, while at the same time reducing many of the minor characters to one-dimensional caricatures played for laughs, which is not so faithful to the book but nevertheless receives praise from the same sources. Finally, it is also a marathon six hours in length, and thus requires a good deal of endurance merely to watch.

The 1995 miniseries is one of my favorite literary adaptations, and one of my favorite adaptations of Austen. I cannot give it a superlative, simply because there are (admittedly minor) aspects that dissatisfy me, and with six hours at its disposal, I am rather more inclined to expect perfection. This may be unfair, but it will certainly allow for a more interesting review, than one that merely heaps praise on a work already swollen with it.

I take it as a general rule, that where a work is viewed with nearly universal regard, it is far more interesting to me to write of its faults, and that when a work is treated with general disdain, it becomes far more valuable to seek out its merits.

The two leads have received a good deal of praise for their performances, and they richly deserve it. Jennifer Ehle is the definitive Elizabeth Bennet, though her performance is perhaps a bit more muted than I would have interpreted the character. She conveys the propriety of a Regency woman, and the sweetness we expect in a heroine, but her portrayal lacks the almost cynical streak we might expect from a character who at one point states: "There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more I am dissatisfied with it." By the end of the novel, the astute reader will have noted that Lizzie really is quite similar in temperament to Mr. Darcy, both in positive and negative aspects. Their conversational sparring shows them equal in observation and quick wit; and in the aftermath of Darcy's first abortive proposal both he and Lizzie realize how greatly they had each been blinded by vanity. In light of such similarities, it is quite interesting to note how differently they are portrayed on screen: Lizzie's character is a good deal softened, while Darcy's is anything but.

The miniseries follows the perspective of Lizzie very closely, to the point where we largely see the other characters from her perspective. In practice, this means that each character seems to act out Lizzie's impression of them.  Thus, Darcy and very every other minor character are cast in an almost simplistic or one-dimensional light, and only given occasional moments to express the true depth of their natures.

From the moment he emerged sopping wet from a lake, Colin Firth was firmly established as the definitive Fitzwilliam Darcy. I cannot dispute his masterful performance. Firth is given just enough screen time to craft a multidimensional character out of those few subtle moments he was allowed. But, just as I found a chink in Jennifer Ehle's armor, so will I readily point out Firth's vulnerability. This one is, indeed, quite a bit easier to spot. After all, by the end of the novel, we are made to realize that "Indeed he has no improper pride" and Mr. Darcy was reserved simply because he is shy and lacks social grace. It is sometimes amusing to note how often this is forgotten by casual readers, and rather depressing to see how often it is missed by Austen loyalists who should know better.

I think our mistaken impression of Darcy is the fault of Andrew Davies' script, who initially portrays Darcy from Lizzie's first impression. Thus, Firth is made to play the character as essentially proud, more self-satisfied than socially awkward, even though the novel later clarifies that the latter is his true nature, and that the former is merely arose as a false impression from confirmation bias, due to Lizzie's wounded feelings. By the middle of the novel, after Darcy's proposal, Lizzie begins to realize her mistake and grasp Darcy's true character, at the same time that Darcy makes a renewed effort to master the social graces. When they next meet in the miniseries, Firth's performance is so drastically different that in the end he really has played two separate characters. The second Darcy, the man whose charms are perhaps even exaggerated in the light of Lizzie's growing affection for him, is a very different sort of creature than the first Darcy whose very presence had been so odious to her. Colin Firth is hardly to blame for this, and indeed does masterful work at hinting at Darcy's true nature even while being bound by the mistakes of the script. But he cannot overcome the false impression that has unfortunately become the consensus opinion of Darcy's character.

While Darcy is given enough screen time to overcome the simplistic characterizations of the script, the minor characters simply are not. Mrs. Bennet is depicted as a shrill insolent woman who gives offense to everyone and causes nothing but embarrassment to her more sensible daughters. Mr. Bennet is a withdrawn man who enjoys nothing so much as laughing at his wife and daughters, and only demonstrates fatherly affection in the occasional conversation with Lizzie. Jane is all goodness and perfection, Mary is all vanity and awkwardness, Kitty is a mere addendum to Lydia, and Lydia is simply silly.  To be quite honest, the portrayals of Jane and Lydia hardly depart from the tenor of the books, but Mary and Kitty are much more interesting characters than they are portrayed on screen.  Kitty has never been adequately captured on film, and for Mary I must give credit to the 2005 film, which did a masterful job of showing her true nature with very limited time. The other minor characters -- Mr. Collins, Charlotte Lucas, Miss Bingley, Mrs. Hurst, Mr. Hurst, Colonel Fitzwilliam,  Georgiana Darcy, even Mr. Bingley -- are all given short shrift, and most of those are played for laughs. I will get in trouble for this next sentence, but here goes: I cannot think of one performance that adequately captures the complexity of the characters as Austen wrote them. Only Mr. Wickham, the debonair demon himself, is given a multidimensional character, and that is simply because Lizzie's opinions of him change at the same time her opinions of Darcy change. While I understand the centrality of the love story between Lizzie and Darcy, and understand the centrality of Lizzie's character in that story, the 1995 adaptation's treatment of virtually every other character in the piece is lacking.  It accurately portrays the events of the narrative, but the participants in those events are made into stick figures, barely discernible as human and more easily recognized as caricature.

Jane Austen's greatest gift was the ability to craft real characters. Everything in her stories depend on that; every event hinges on that. The narrative falls apart if the characters are not accurate. Georgiana is shy so Lizzie can discover that Mr. Darcy is shy as well; Georgiana is eager to be pleased by Lizzie to show that Mr. Darcy had spoken to her of his feelings for Lizzie. Miss Bingley is arrogant so that Lizzie may be convinced that the whole party is intolerably vain; she is infatuated with Mr. Darcy so that Lizzie may dismiss her cruel words as simple jealousy, and more easily rehabilitate her good opinion of the party and of Darcy's character. Mr. Bingley is naturally humble so he may be persuaded by Darcy that Jane does not care for him; he is naturally energetic so that, when assured of Jane's love, he will shortly thereafter propose (conveniently removing the last impediment to Lizzie marrying Darcy).  The events naturally flow from the characters.

The 1995 miniseries preserves most of those events, but only retains the characters insofar as their personalities contribute to those events depicted. Now that I think of it, it was almost essential for the miniseries to end with a wedding, rather than allow for a more complete depiction of the happy endings for the other characters. After all, how can we conceive of a happy ending for Charlotte Collins, née Lucas, married as she is to a disgusting self-righteous snob without any trace of the good nature that is conveyed in the novel?  How can we fathom a happy marriage for Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, since she is so clearly established as ridiculous and he is so far withdrawn from his family? There are no happy endings for these characters, because the miniseries did not do the groundwork of making them real and complex people. It must end with a wedding, because Lizzie, Darcy, Jane and Bingley are the only four people who can possibly be happy at the end of it.

It may be thought, in light of my rather harsh criticism, that I did not appreciate this miniseries.  That is hardly the case.  As I said, it is one of my favorite adaptations of any of the Austen novels, and is as close to a perfect reflection of the original novel as has ever been captured. My criticism arises rather because of that perfection, rather than because of the imperfections: it comes so close, that any faults must stand out in far greater relief than in a lesser effort. Even though the characterizations are inadequate, they still capture much of the original personalities that Austen described, and everything else about the miniseries is spectacular. I didn't much like the cinematography -- mostly because it was so sedentary, so lacking any sort of panache -- but the script is wonderful, the settings are beautiful, and the soundtrack is exquisite. There is a delightful epigram from "Northanger Abbey": "The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid." I would not go so far (nor would Mr. Tilney, as he was being facetious) but the point stands: it may take a well-developed literary palate to fully appreciate, but this miniseries remains an indelible treat.

Jane Austen: Pride and Prejudice

**It's 'Pride and Prejudice Week' here at Worthy of Note!  For no particular reason at all I've decided to review the novel, and several of its adaptations, over the course of the next week. Tomorrow I will be posting a review of the epic 1995 BBC miniseries starring Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle, and after that I will be reviewing the much-maligned 2005 adaptation starring Matthew MacFayden and Kiera Knightley. My fondest hope is that these reviews may upset my fellow Janeites sufficiently to vehemently critique me in the comments.**

"Pride and Prejudice" is one of the most recognized titles in English literature. Released to almost universal acclaim, the novel has preserved its ascendancy in English literature for the past two centuries. It has been adapted for a BBC miniseries on six separate occasions (1938, 1952, 1958, 1967, 1980, and most famously in 1995). It has also been brought to the silver screen five times, including two direct adaptations in 1940 and 2005, and three reinterpretations which placed the story in such settings as modern England (2001), Utah (2003) and India (2004). In 2003 it was rated the second best-loved book in the United Kingdom, only behind Tolkien's fantasy epic "The Lord of the Rings," and was the top pick among Australian readers in 2008. The world has Jane Austen fever.

If you don't know the story of this novel, I am heartily ashamed for you. Here's the short version: boy meets girl, girl despises boy, boy proposes to girl, girl rejects boy, boy is kind to girl, girl begins to like boy, boy marries girl.

Now for a bit more involved summary. Elizabeth Bennet, the second daughter of a country gentleman, meets and immediately despises the aristocratic Fitzwilliam Darcy, who appears to her a proud gentleman who disdains her and her relatively poor family (when in fact he's merely shy). She also meets Mr. Wickham, who knew Darcy as a child and who accuses him of withholding Wickham's rightful inheritance. Alas, the hapless Mr. Darcy has by that time fallen in love with Lizzie, despite their differences in class and the mockery of his best friend's sister, Miss Bingley. He stuns Lizzie by proposing to her, but is quickly and almost viciously rebuffed. The next morning, he defends himself in a letter, specifically by informing her of Mr. Wickham's true character: he was a dissolute man who tried to elope with Mr. Darcy's younger sister for the sake of her fortune. Over the next few months, Darcy works to improve himself in social graces, and Lizzie begins to fall in love with him, especially after visiting his estate at Pemberley and meeting his sister Georgiana. Alas, Lizzie's younger sister, Lydia Bennet, is discovered to have eloped with Mr. Wickham, which tears the lovers apart and drives Lizzie to despair of ever having Darcy's heart. But Darcy visits Wickham, who had been living with Lydia in London, and forces him to marry the girl. This partially restores the family's honor, and allows him to once again propose to her. She accepts, and they begin a happy life together at Pemberley.

A comprehensive review of the novel would be foolishness. There is too much that deserves attention, and too much that inspires delight, to do the entire performance justice. The characters are realistically and deliciously portrayed, and the lines sparkle with social commentary and brilliant wit. The story works like clockwork: every subplot, every intrigue, every moment conveys something of importance that fits perfectly into the big picture. "Pride and Prejudice" is regarded as one of the best romantic comedies for good reason.

I want to focus in this review on two particular sections of the novel: the first meeting between Lizzie and Darcy at the Meryton Ball, and the ending. When we first read the novel, we view the events from Lizzie's perspective, and feel her resentment at Darcy's angry words to his more social friend Mr. Bingley. Bingley had proposed to introduce him to Elizabeth Bennet, and Darcy had described her as "tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me!" This is enough to confirm Lizzie's first impression ("First Impressions" was, incidentally, the original title of the novel) and establish her loathing. But Jane Austen has done a very clever thing with this bit of overheard dialogue: she makes us understand why Lizzie despises him, but gives us enough information to see how she is mistaken.

The conversation between Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy goes as follows:

'Come Darcy,' said [Bingley] I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.'

[Darcy] 'I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room, whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.'

'I would not be so fastidious as you are', cried Bingley, 'for a kingdom! Upon my honor, I never met with so many pleasant girls as I have this evening; and here are several of them you see uncommonly pretty.'

'You are dancing with the only handsome woman in the room,' said Darcy looking at the eldest Miss Bennet [Lizzie's sister, Jane].

[Bingley] 'Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.'

'Which do you mean?' and turning, [Darcy] looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said, 'She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.'

I am greatly indebted to this article in The Loiterer, that presents Mr. Darcy's perspective of the early events of the novel. That article pointed out that the conversation was oriented around Darcy and Bingley, and that the reference to Lizzie was largely incidental. Bingley is trying to drag his friend out to dance, and Darcy is declining -- notably citing his own shyness around strangers. Bingley insists and Darcy concedes a bit of ground by noting that Bingley's partner is the "handsomest woman in the room." Darcy is obliquely indicating that he would dance if Bingley would let him do so with Jane! Bingley soon realizes Darcy's meaning, and quickly recalculates. He realizes he could score points with Jane by finding a partner for her sister, and offers to introduce Lizzie instead. That is when Darcy responds so angrily to his friend.

The words that followed were not intended by Darcy to insult Lizzie, but to nettle Bingley. First, "she is... not handsome enough to tempt me" merely means that she is not as handsome as Jane, with whom Darcy had sought to dance. Second, the reference to Lizzie as a lady "slighted by other men" is a pointed reference to the fact that Bingley (who enjoys dancing) had already danced twice with Jane but not yet once with Lizzie!  Bingley certainly got the message. At the end of the chapter, as Mrs. Bennet is relating the events of the evenings in raptures, she notes that Bingley had danced a second time with Jane, and then danced twice with Lizzie immediately thereafter... which would also be immediately after his conversation with Darcy.

It is too easy for us to view things as Lizzie does, and feel her pain at Darcy's jilting of her beauty. But even when the conversation turned to her, the meaning of Darcy's words was never about Lizzie herself, but about Bingley's conduct and needling. Very soon thereafter, Darcy came to admire Lizzie's features, entranced by "the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow." The rapidity of this shift in judgment indicates that Darcy wasn't very serious in his initial appraisal, and was much more focused on responding to Bingley. In this brief episode, Austen provides just enough information to justify Lizzie's initial mistake, and to reveal that mistake in a second reading. It is a brilliant literary performance, just subtle enough to escape our initial notice.

I would also like to comment on the ending of this novel, because that is the other section of the book to which no adaptation has done justice.  Romantic comedies have an unfortunate tendency to end abruptly with a declaration of love, a proposal, or a wedding. Even Shakespeare is not immune: the awkward proposal of the Duke to Isabella in "Measure for Measure" fits this mold perfectly. Austen is not so liable, and usually spends a good deal of time portraying the characters after the leading lady married the man of her dreams.

Thus, the last chapter of "Pride and Prejudice" is dedicated to sketching each character's future even after the close of the novel. Mrs. Bennet, who had so longed to see her children married, is at last satisfied by their good fortune, and it is strongly implied that she settled down a bit later in life; "though perhaps it is lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity in so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and invariably silly." (This is, incidentally, the clearest indication we see that Mr. Bennet is happily married, and has at least some real affection for his wife despite her faults). As for their two remaining daughters, Kitty is separated from the influence of Lydia and matures considerably under the guidance of Jane and Lizzie, while Mary is "obliged to mix more with the world" because she is finally noticed by her mother, and no longer suffers from the comparisons with her older or younger sisters.

Jane and Bingley move away from Netherfield, finally tiring of the proximity to the Bennet family and friends, and purchase an estate near Pemberley -- thus, Lizzie is able to visit her favorite sister with little inconvenience. Miss Bingley and Lady Catherine are respectively mortified and estranged after Darcy's marriage, but they ultimately are reconciled, and Miss Bingley "paid off every arrear of civility to Elizabeth." Most notably, however, Darcy brings his sister to live with them at Pemberley, "and the attachment of the sisters was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see." Under Lizzie's tutelage, Georgiana not only matures but is able to laugh more easily, and grows out of her shell. This is perhaps the happiest part of the ending, as Lizzie is brought into an almost maternal role, and shepherds the next generation to a similar perfection of wit and good nature.

There is a delightful quote from the film "Stranger Than Fiction" to the effect that tragedy is about the finality of death, and comedy is about the continuance of life. "In a tragedy, you die, in a comedy you get hitched." Unfortunately, so many romantic comedies seem to forget that, and simply end when the couple gets together. But the love story is not over, there is so much more, and such better things, still in the couple's future. It is quite frustrating to see how few authors and directors actually remember this lesson, even among those who adapt Austen's work for the silver screen. Austen herself never forgot that, and her novels serve as a useful antidote to those who fixate on the lovers while forgetting their friends, families and futures.