I'm a Pedant, and I'm Okay

Poor, foolish BBC. It was all going so well, and then along comes that irritating thing called 'artistic licence'. What am I talking about? The BBC's current adaptation of Jane Eyre of course.

Those of you in the know will be well aware of my somewhat tyrannical approach to TV and film adaptions of favoured books. I have still not brought myself to watch the most recent film of Pride and Prejudice because, frankly, the thought of Keira 'I'm not anorexic, I naturally look like a malnourished stick-insect' Knightly as Elizabeth Bennet makes me come over all apoplexic. Now, I had high hopes for this Jane Eyre. The BBC has an excellent pedigree when it comes to literary adaptions. Pride and Prejudice? Brilliant. He Knew He Was Right? Spot on. Even the recent 'Shakespeare Revisited' series was really rather good. (Apart from the mind-numbing MacBeth, but three out of four ain't bad, and Much Ado About Nothing was inspired!) And so with an equal mix of excitement and trepidation I sat myself down to watch one of my favourite books. (I'm aware I haven't been able to bring myself to read Jane since the trauma of fourth-year dissertation writing, but I'm getting close.)

It started well. Granted, Mr Rochester is FAR too good looking, and when Jane says that she doesn't find him attractive I was hard pushed to resist throwing something at the telly while shouting "Are you blind???" quite loudly. But even if he is a bit pretty, Toby Stephens did manage to convey a suitably bastard-ish character for Mr R pre-transformation. And so, feeling considerably more relaxed I sat down to this weeks installment. And that's where it all went wrong. You see, I let my guard down. I really should know better, but I allowed myself to be lulled into a false sense of security and so I was wounded by the travesty that was to come.

Now, exciting as a ouija board may be, as far as I remember it features NOWHERE in Charlotte Bronte's masterpiece (or, infact, in any Bronte novels). From what I do remember (and I am willing to be correceted on this [Chloe?] if neccessary) it is the much tamer, and more traditional, parlour game of charades which is played at the Thornfield house party. Now, the charades section is fairly lengthy, and I can understand that it may not make for the most thrilling of TV. And that I could have forgiven, had it not been for the next nightmare.

The Fortune Teller. This is an absolutely genius section and it ranks up there as one of my favourite episodes in the book. In it, Rochester rather dexterously, if somewhat meanly, dresses up as a fortune teller to spread a few home truths to his guests, and to try and get to the heart of Jane's true feelings about him. It's brilliant. It also has the added bonus of featuring a major romantic hero in drag. Kindof hard to imagine Heathcliff or Darcy donning a frock in his persuit of the heroine ain't it? And it's this donning of drag which helps make Rochester one of my favourite of literary heroes. And did the BBC respect this truely inspired scene?

Did they bollocks.

Instead we have Rochester lurking behind a screen in a fairly nancy-boy-ish manner. Vile. Yes, he's still pulling the strings of the [female] fortune teller, but instead of being humerous, perhaps even heroic, and being fairly impressive as a demonstration of how far he's willing to go, even at this early stage in the novel, to get Jane, in this version he comes of as fairly petty and almost malicious. It's just not the same. Gutted.

P.S. I also have to mention that the technological honeymoon is over - this is the second attempt to post this blog, and if it doesn't work this time, I just don't think I can be arsed writing a third!