I first read Jane Eyre when I was nine years old. I loved it so much that I read bits of it every day for at least a year. I have since read it at least once a year since that time, which means I have read it a LOT.
When I was nine, I liked it because her life was miserable, she was plain and insignificant and yet she never stopped fighting. (She also never stopped getting in trouble for fighting.) I identified with that. When I was thirteen I loved the florid romance, the Gothic spookiness, the melodrama. Thirteen-year-old girls can't ever get enough of that sort of thing. (see: Twilight.) In high school I appreciated Jane's restraint. I wanted to be like her- controlled, discrete, thoughtful, passionate yet rational. College was all about how much I hated the characters of Mr. Brocklehurst and St. John Rivers, how the educational and moral systems they represented disavowed their original purposes in a bid for total suffocating control. I have at one point or another been fascinated with Jane's work ethic, the way she deals with depression and loneliness, and her ability to release anger and hurt.
Most recently I started wondering why Mr. Rochester has to be such a horrible person. (I didn't use a coarse descriptive right there. You're welcome. ) It probably has something to do with archetypes and the basic human propensity for acting like a screeching poo-flinging monkey while figuring one's crap out, yadda yadda yadda, but it's still really annoying. Well, it is to me anyway. Why can't folks just be nice to people they like? Why can't they just say "Hey, I like you. How about we commence with the being nice to each other business and if it gets nicer we could consider making it permanent?" Wouldn't that be simpler?
Yeah. Apparently that's not how it works. Therein lies the reason I'm still single. Well, either that or I'm just totally unattractive and/or clueless. Whatever works. =)
ANYWAY, every time I read the book it makes me think. I see it from a different light, take something new away from it, use it as food for thought and as a mirror to my own thoughts and desires. Because of that I was interested to see who the filmmakers thought this Jane was. First, she's young. Nineteen seems a lot younger to us, we who expect to live to be 80. Death at 50, which was average for folks in 1847, means 19 is almost half-way through life. The Jane in the book was actually asked if she was a spinster. At nineteen. So, she's younger emotionally and physically in this film to reflect what we believe nineteen to be. Secondly, she's really red-headed, which was surprising. I had always put Jane in the "dishwater blond" spot rather than the "creepy ginger" category but it was interesting to look at. Third, she spent a lot of time rolling around and crying on the moors. That got a bit tedious but they made up for it by showing her looking crabby while sketching in her nightgown. Somehow I forget through all of Jane's words that she's an artist and actually feels better when drawing. So I eventually liked that.
One of the key differences between this film and the book (other than trying to jam an enormous book, Harry Potter style, into a single film) was the character of St. John Rivers. I didn't want to throw him off of a cliff, which is surprising because I ALWAYS want to throw him off of a cliff.
This St. John (rhymes with "engine") is just a dude who kinda likes Jane. He's not her cousin, he never speaks of being a missionary, and in general is a pretty likable sort of guy. He's cautious though, and when springing the whole "Hey, I'm moving to India in 6 weeks, why don't you come with?" question he does it all backwards, saying "we're compatible, you are smart, we could do some good work, how 'bout we get hitched? THEN maybe we might start to think about that love business."We all know this is exactly the wrong thing to say but in this film it's wrong because he's not being honest with himself. (Well, that and it would insult just about every woman I know.) He actually likes her, he just won't admit it to himself. Mr Rochester was honest to himself about his attraction to Jane. He just was dishonest about everything else. And by everything I mean everything else AND the crazy wife in the attic.
Eventually [SPOILER ALERT] Rochester's house burns down and he looses an eye ("It's all fun and games till someone looses and eye!) and then Jane hears Mr. Rochester's monster-truck-rally voice on the wind (he sounds like this: http://youtu.be/qRuNxHqwazs ) and gets on a carriage to see what's up. Dame Judi Dench then pops up out of nowhere to scare the crap out of ya and it's off to see Edward looking just like every other bearded hipster wandering the streets of NYC. And then you know it's real love cause that's the only way anyone would kiss a beard that mangy.
And I may be growing a touch sarcastic. Which means it's time for bed. Watch the movie, read the book, do as you please, just please think. That's what the classics are meant to inspire in whatever form you find them. Or, at least that's what I think.
