I really should be over the moon with excitement for the release of Jane Eyre this week, but I confess I am not. If there's anything I love in the world of film adaptations, it's the obsessive recreation of Jane Eyre every five to ten years. I have watched and rewatched nearly every Jane Eyre adaptation, carefully and giddily comparing the portrayals of Rochester and Jane to determine which - if any - adequately convey the complexity of the literary originals. Until recently, I would have been waiting with baited breath for this release. Until recently, every adaptation fell short. William Hurt, brilliant though he can be, was no Rochester; Orson Welles was too . . . Orson Welles; Timothy Dalton was fabulous, but his companion Jane was so painfully unappealing. They were all good of course, but each left such a wide window for improvement.
Then there was the 2006 BBC adaptation. Surely this could be the last. Toby Stephens and Ruth Wilson were perfect. The length was just right. The flashbacks carried the second half. The conclusion was perfectly satisfying. It was the ideal adaptation. Not another one was needed. Ever.
Yet here we are. Five years later, a new release. I wonder how long I will hold out. A week? A month? Till it comes out on DVD? We shall see.
Posted by Molly Lewis at 13:18