Jane Eyre

I know it's been well over a week since writing anything on this ol' bloggy, though not for lack of content. I've written about once sentence about this, and this place, and this, and this. But lately, whenever I sit down to write something for this lovely space, I remind myself that I still haven't thought of a single word for a much more topical purpose-- my Maid of Honor speech, due for a wedding two days from now.

And each time I sit down to write that, I inevitably end up in a cornmaze of a google chase that somehow lands me at YouTube, watching the Bridesmaids trailer ten times over before flat out giving up on grounds of absolutely NO HOPE of ever being as funny or awesome as Kristin Wiig. Might as well just resign!, I decide before collapsing into bed face first, exhausted from the very thought of my weekend ahead.

ANYWAY.

I saw Jane Eyre last week. The NEW Jane Eyre, the film noir Jane Eyre starring that awesome young actress from The Kids are All Right and the bad Alice movie. My friend Lo and I saw it together at the Sunshine's matinee performance with all the old people, candy in hand, eager for the dark drama ahead. We spent much of the movie melting over the Byronic Mr. Rochester, his good hair, and his impressive skill of forcing people to talk to him before berating them for it. SWOON.

Lauren kept nudging my arm, wide eyed and giddy over the overt absurdities-- A beaten orphan! A secret wife! A handy fire! A blind lover!-- but we loved every swooping second. She was smart, that Brontë sister, albeit perhaps a bit repressed? (It's why we like it!) Jane is a deeply developed story, Lo pointed out to me, despite the, uh, wife-through-a-hidden-doorway trick, in a time when women were writing little more than cotton candy.

And directed by the stripped-and-stark Cary Fukunaga, this Jane held its own outside of the chic-y nineteenth century dramas to which we've become accustomed. His version enters a new category of lady-films cut without grace or petaled romance. It's Brontë-meets-Plath, if you will. (Well, that might be stretching it-- there is still a dashing-blind-man-who-survives-the-handy-fire in the ending.) Brontë-meets-Ibsen. Happy?

Now, onto the next.