By Alan Scherstuhl
By Mark Holcombe
By Scott Foundas
By Nick Pinkerton
By Michael Atkinson
By Scott Foundas
By Keith Phipps
By Alan Scherstuhl
If Jane Eyre is not the greatest of the Great Books, it may be the most frequently filmed: At least 10 cinematic versions of the story have been made, dating back to the dawn of the silent era—more if you count made-for-TV adaptations and loose glosses such as Jacques Tourneur's I Walked With a Zombie.
directed by Cary Fukunaga
Uptown Theatre, starts Friday
Considering the glut of Jane Eyres available to anyone with a Netflix account, there may be no more compelling reason for this new version of the story—directed by Cary Fukunaga and starring Mia Wasikowska and Michael Fassbender—than timing. In 1996, when Franco Zeffirelli had the last big-screen go at Charlotte Brontë's novel, the Merchant Ivory era of prestige period-pic catnip for Academy voters and AP English students was just past its peak. Fifteen years later, if there's anything hotter in Hollywood than dull British respectability it's gothic romances about teen girls.
The moment may be right to cash in on Jane Eyre's blend of girl-to-woman rites of passage, supernatural/psychological paranoia, tragic love, and English accents, but Fukunaga's film is anything but trendy. Rather than Twilight-izing a classic tale—as Catherine Hardwicke appears to have done with Red Riding Hood—Fukunaga has made his Jane Eyre an intimate, thoughtful epic, anchored by strong lead performances and the gorgeous, moody, cinematography of Adriano Goldman.
Fukunaga (whose only previous feature is the 2009 Sundance Prize-winning Sin Nombre) fragments the narrative, introducing us to Jane (Wasikowska) as a young woman run ragged, fleeing an unspecified threat. She is taken in by young clergyman St. John Rivers (Jamie Bell) and nursed back to health by his sisters. From there, Jane flashes back to her beginnings. Fukunaga skips back and forth across years at the speed of memory. That lends an urgency to character-driven vignettes that demonstrate how Jane's identity has been shaped through hardships: the petty cruelty and eventual abandonment by her aunt (Sally Hawkins), Jane's guardian after her parents die; the cherished female friend who dies in her arms at charity school; and finally, the loneliness of life as governess to Adele, a French orphan who lives in a spooky country house alone but for servants and occasional visits from her ostensible caretaker, the mysterious Mr. Rochester (Fassbender).
It's in the latter phase that Jane longingly states what Fukunaga and screenwriter Moira Buffini have isolated as one of the story's key themes: "I wish a woman could have action in her life, like a man." In her station, the best she can hope for is action through a man—and so when Rochester begins calling her to join him for fireside chats, it upends Jane's world.
Even as it romanticizes agony, Fukunaga's Jane Eyre plays as a correction to the Twilight series—in which a girl idolizes mystically powerful boys—arguing that love is a meeting between equals. Using Brontë's text as the basis for an inquiry into free will versus servitude, Fukunaga mounts a subtly shaded yet emotionally devastating examination of what it really means to choose one's own way.
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