MindsBase

So, the other night I was sorely lacking in Netflix movies, so I thumbed through my well-worn personal collection, and trumped out the Hollywood version of Jane Austin’s Pride and Prejudice.

I own this movie, yes. I also hate it.

Or, I did hate it when I first saw it. But since I love the story (like every other English-speaking pansy) I thought I’d better let it rest and try it again later. And yes, on subsequent viewings, I’ve hated it LESS, but I still hate the poor movie as though it has personally injured me.

Why, I asked myself upon this latest viewing. I shouldbe able to rationally dissect it after a handful of viewings, shouldn’t I? Why do I have such a visceral reaction to it?

Here are some thoughts:

1. Elizabeth — is poorly cast. Now, I’ve liked Keira Knightly in other roles — she makes a great Elizabeth Swan, so she’s not inappropriate for period dramas (did I just call Pirates of the Carribean a period drama? Ho ho ho!) But why on earth did the poor woman think that spunk meant baring one’s teeth and looking as cat-like as possible. Her performance lacked elegance. Elizabeth Bennet was not brash, just spirited. This distinction is important to the story because she contrasts her ridiculous family (as well as her elegant but demure elder sister — a delicate balance).
2. Darcy — is poorly cast. Okay, I had to look up Matthew Macfadyen to see what else he’s done, so obviously I’m not an MI-5 fan. Maybe his fans were pleased. And I’m not saying it’s easy to reprise the role that made Colin Firth an immortal sex symbol. But all his mannerisms seemed off to me. He helps her into the carriage, then, upon walking away, splays out his fingers like he’s trying to shake off something disgusting. Maybe he’d gently stroke the tips of his fingers with his thumb, re-enacting the touch of her hand? Maybe he’d clasp his hands together in front of his face, bringing her touch to his own lips. Splayed fingers, not working for me. The pasty mask that was supposed to be shy indifference didn’t work for me, either.
3. Other castings — oh dear. Mr. Bingley is not a buffoon! Mr. Collins is not a serial killer! But I best move on…
4. Dialogue — Why is everyone in such a hurry to say their lines? Are they trying to fit a three hour movie into two hours? Apparently. Yikes. Slow down, people.
5. Beauty — the film lost something of the art of Jane’s book. Something the 1995 BBC version captured. I get it — they were trying to differentiate the public assembly dance from the Netherfield ball, but the assembly came off dirty and chaotic. Dude, I would thumb my nose if I were Darcy! Yet in this scene we are supposed to side with Elizabeth.

But here’s the real problem with this version: The Screenplay!The credited writer is Deborah Moggach who has no other notable credits, but as is often the case with Hollywood, the compromised story and affected dialogue may not be her fault… it may have been a case of too many cooks in the kitchen.

The thing is, you can’t rush a character story. You can’t fit all the scenes from the book into two hours and make any of them feel genuine and nuanced, subtle and understated. Pride and Prejudice is over 120,000 words long. Harry Potter six had to hack it to the bone to display 170,000 words onscreen… but then I think they’ll bleed over some key points into HP7. But I digress.

Lesson to be learned: Writing is important! A good screenplay is like the first domino. When it falls, everything down the line suffers. And it’s really hard to adapt a well-woven character story into a two-hour narrative. When adapting a classic you have this ugly desire to be “faithful” to the book. I’d rather see them be true to the spirit of the book than to the actual scenes. They tried, with P&P, but ultimately I think they failed. You don’t love Elizabeth’s spunk, you don’t admire Darcy’s reserve, you don’t laugh at Mr. Collins or understand Charlotte’s choice. Wickham and Georgiana become cardboard and don’t feel important to the plot, and poor Bingley is truly cringe-worthy. Jane and her parents survive rather well, as does Lydia. Lady Catherine is given too much screen time, presumably to play her role in the reversal of fortune at the end, but frankly the stronger motivator of reconciliation is what Darcy does for Lydia. Not that I would change the book one iota. But a film is not a book.

I give the Hollywood version of Pride and Prejudice a paltry two nods:

Last night, feeling the void where a great period adaptation should be, I put on Little Women. Ahhhh. Need satisfied*.

* To be fair, Pride and Prejudice is a longer novel than Little Women by 30,000 words.

Now, to end on a sweet note:

–Pride and Prejudice, 1995, BBC adaptation

I love reading myths and legends. Wanna know why?

1. I enjoy the similarities between the stories of ancient peoples — in spite of their living in differing societies.

2. Myths are so rich in symbolism!

While the Greek and Roman myths get a lot of airtime, I particularly enjoy other ancient myths such as Asian or American Indian folklore.

This Nisqually Legend is a great one:

Long ago, people ate all the fish and game and so started eating each other. This was wickedness, so the Changer sent a flood to the earth.

Only one woman and one dog survived and repeopled the earth, but those people were primative, walking on four legs and living in holes in the earth. The had no tools or clothes.

Then, a giant bear with hypnotic powers came and started eating everyone.

So the Changer sent a Spirit Man with a face like the sun who also had powers. The Spirit Man modernized the people with techniques for fire and tools and clothing, after he taught them to walk on two legs.

He also told them that there were two powerful spirits, one good, one evil, and the Good Spirit had sent him.

He then went about the task of killing the bear (using seven arrows, symbolic of completeness) and doling out the valuable skin.

Then, Spirit Man made a house with one door and put all the disease and evil deeds inside it, then tasked the head man of a certain family to protect and never open the door. Generations later, only one old man, his wife and his daughter were the guardians. One day while he was away, the man’s daughter peeked inside the door and so let out all the sorrows of the world.

Stories help unite a people. Help them speak a common tongue. It makes you wonder — what are the stories that unite us as a people, as well as tying us together with the rest of humanity, past and present?

And, are we losing these common stories?

There are things I miss.

I miss Ultima III, the one that came on 5 1/4″ floppies. The one where you were just a tiny figure moving about the landscape, talking in the towns and fighting in the woods. I loved saying “join me” to people and delighted when they said they would join my motley crew. I liked it better than Ultima IV because you could travel all night without the darkness swallowing you. I never knew what was lurking in that darkness.

Way back, I remember being frightened of the dark greenish pages and pale green pants with nobody inside them. My imagination created a horror movie-worthy villain out of those pants. I was most alarmed when they began to cry. It only made them more horrible when they shook like that.

I even miss Hunt the Wumpus, a text-only game played on the Wang computer that sat on our dryer in the laundry room. I imagined the Wumpus — big, hairy, many-legged, dripping with yuck, lurking in the semi-darkness of one of the rooms as I played Russian roulette with the doors.

What I’m saying is, I miss imagination, even in its darkest form. But also in its most wondrous! Now, everything is visual, three-dimensional, surround-sound, neon-sign. We’ve lost the subtle shades of emotion that imagination creates.

So, I decided to make my own world for my imagination to play in. It is made up of nothing but the twenty-six western letters and ten numbers. Eventually there may be a few line drawings and a glossy cover illustration, but it’s mainly just a world in my mind.

I used to have more vivid dreams. Perhaps I’m just too tired now to have many of them. Or too grown-up. I actually miss the terror that jerked me from the dream where I’m running from “bad guys” down my dark neighborhood streets. I’m running in slow-motion, of course, screaming at my legs to MOVE, C’MON MOVE!

So I knew that it would be endlessly fun to have my imaginary playground to be a dream. A shared dream.