geek out time...

Is it permissible to scum to the worst of female generalities and stereotypes, and admit that I am obsessed with Jane Austen? I've never quite understood it; but I suppose my obsession and preoccupation with Austen began with the film Sense and Sensibility (you know, the one with Kate Winslet and Emma Thompson?) which led to a long and lengthy love affair with the novel; and thence to a much more fulfilling relationship with Pride and Prejudice.

I have to admit that Jane Austen is sort of the quintessential female vice; we succumb to her witty verse and her romantic endings. And of course, Mr Darcy is every intelligent girl's dream; slightly proud, very dashing, and quite willing to humble himself in the face of true love. That is still my male ideal, and as unfortunate as it is to admit it, Darcy is a fictional character and beast. There is no such type of man. I hate to admit, because it breaks my heart something dreadful, but Darcy is no more and no less than a figment of her imagination.

Which is perhaps why I found the new movie Becoming Jane such a beautiful idea— I saw it this afternoon. Not only did it combine my love of Austen with my love of James McAvoy, but it had pretty dresses and evidences of a ball in the adverts. Not to mention I cried when I saw the trailer. And that wasn't just because Mister McAvoy was as beautiful as Apollo.

I loved the idea that she had loved— and maybe lost. Because as any true disciple of Jane Austen knows, she did not die happy. She died impoverished and alone. And that in itself is distressing, because I often pondered to myself, "how the fuck can she write about extreme happiness and perfect endings when she herself had far from it? She'd never even fucking experienced life, how can she write of it suchly?"

But to say this is to deny Austen's vivid imagination— we can all remember quite clearly that the Gothic novel Jane Eyre also stemmed from inexperience. To discredit her imagination would discredit the book itself— and we cannot deny that Austen and Brontë's work contained undeniable truths about human nature.

Anyhow, the movie is sweet and sentimental, and I cried far more than I should have. It was enjoyable in a quaint, whimsical way, and Ms Hathaway was charming as usual in her customary head strong character. There was nothing to recommend or to insult about it. I enjoyed it, and I also was disappointed.

But I'm very excited about James McAvoy's new movie, Atonement which bloody doesn't come out in the States until fucking December, and I'm also excited about this Hugh Dancy film coming out soon enough. It's called the Jane Austen Book Club. Tell me that doesn't sound wonderful.