Austen, Adapted
By Amy King
The 2003 film Adaptation
begins with a voiceover provided by one of the film’s central characters, the
screenwriter Charlie Kaufman: “Do I have
an original thought in my head? my bald head?” Here the screenwriter, and the act of
adaptation itself, become part of the filmic narrative. Kaufman’s habit of self-loathing combines
with his high standards to produce a fatal writer’s block; thirteen weeks into his
contract to adapt Susan Orlean’s The Orchid Thief, he sits in his agent’s office and blurts out the
following: “I don’t know how to adapt this! I mean, I should have just stuck
with my own stuff… I don’t know why I thought I could write this.” Sigh: if only the screenwriter of this
season’s film version of Pride and
Prejudice had had a similar epiphany, and left it to someone else to
do. Charlie Kaufman,
for instance. At least Kaufman,
whose post-modern sensibility is about as far from Austen’s Regency world as
one can get, would have left a knowing trace of adaptation on his version,
while this film— well, suffice it to say that it adapts the novel badly, but it
thinks it adapts it faithfully and well.
Fatal.
Kaufman certainly would not have been as frustrated with the material as
he is by The Orchid Thief; Pride and Prejudice, habitually
considered to be a perfectly structured novel, a Parthenon of fiction, has plot
and structure and dialogue in excess. As
David Miller writes in his 2003 Jane
Austen, or The Secret of Style, “Austen Style
elects to express itself in, of all things, a narrative form” (40).
Kaufman, continuing his breakdown in his agent’s office, reads a review
of Orlean’s book aloud: “no narrative really unites
these passages. New
York Times Book Review. I can’t
structure this; it’s that sprawling New Yorker shit… The book has no story,
there’s NO STORY!” When the agent
suggests that he make up a plot, Kaufman responds with a degree of earnestness
that could make the most pedantic English professor weep in gratitude: “no— I didn’t want to do that this time. It’s
someone else’s material. I have a responsibility to Susan…”
Whatever responsibility
the producers, director, and screenwriter of production of Pride and Prejudice may have felt to Jane, or to the idea that “it’s
someone else’s material,” is for the most part inconspicuous. The production notes reveal, however, that
the filmmakers at least thought they were being what, in our flabby film
vernacular, we call “true to the novel”; the notes assert that the film is
“faithful to the setting and period of the beloved novel,” and the screenwriter
Deborah Moggach says that “I tried to be truthful to
the book.” Keira
Knightley, cast in the role of Elizabeth Bennet, likewise cites a reverence for the text when
reflecting upon her method: “It was great being directed by Joe because he’s
got a very clear vision of what he wants the entire piece to be like. So he can
also say, ‘you can stray a little bit, that’s all right.’ And I think you have
to do that to really own a character, to possess the role. It’s a different process to do a film based
on a book, because the inner dialogue of your character is all written
down. So if there was ever a scene where
I was having problems, we would go back to the book and in some way or another
it was right there.” Knightley
goes on to suggest that invention is necessary for the interpreter of a role,
which she takes to mean a betrayal of what to her is a fixed set of meanings in
the text: “But, equally, you have to take a stand and say ‘OK, I know it says
this in the book, but you know what? I can’t do it like that because it doesn’t
make sense as far as this goes, so I’m going to have to change that
slightly.’ And then you to be brave and
just do it.” Knightley’s
stated reverence to Austen’s novel and what she oddly thinks she finds
there—“the inner dialogue of your character”— sets up, of course, her admitted
straying from it. Only in thinking that
the text is inert— approaching it as constructionist jurists do the
constitution— does one think of interpretation as rebellion. This is clearly what Knightley’s
pert reaction to her feigned reverence to the novel produces; anyone who has
read Austen is aware there is no inner dialogue in Pride and Prejudice. Such
quibbling with a young actor aside, it is more misguided to believe that “it
says this in the book” and that meaning “was right there,” waiting in the novel
for those breaks between takes. In
contrast, Amy Heckerling’s 1995 film Clueless, a witty modern retelling of Emma, is irreverent about details of
setting and period— it adapts the novel to the contemporary setting of
The act of adaptation is
by necessity an act of interpretation, as are all acts of reading. It is in the stated reverence for the static
novel that the makers of the current film go awry, for they not only believe
that they can reproduce it faithfully but that their own (in this case uninformed
and ignorant) reading of the novel is a seamless reflection of its
content. Unfortunately the ignorance
abounds, which the production notes not only reveal but seem to celebrate. This is Joe Wright, the director: “I had
never read Pride and Prejudice, nor
seen a television version. I come from a
background of television social realist drama, and so I was a bit prejudiced
against this material, regarding it as posh.
But as I read the screen adaptation, I became emotionally involved and
by the end I was weeping. So I read the
book, and discovered that what Jane Austen had written was a very acute
character study of a particular social group.”
Several of the producers of the film are quoted hewing to the line about
faithfulness to the novel— “we wanted to present the story as it was written”—
even as they chose a director with an admitted ignorance of and stated
hostility for the novel of manners. And
so it is with trepidation that one sees the film in the wake of reading about Knightley’s faith in Wright’s “very clear vision.” Not to give it away— but perhaps to prepare
you, dear reader— it is a vision that includes barnyard animals casually
walking through the back entrance of Longbourn, the Bennets’s house.
Pigs, to
be exact. The director, in a bid to realize his vision
of making Pride and Prejudice (as he
says) “real and gritty,” twice allows a large male pig to roam freely through
the kitchen and sitting rooms. The
filmic vocabulary of the close-up leaves no doubt to the pig’s sex, or the director’s
symbolism. Other oddities in this film’s
universe include Mrs. Bennet’s proclivity towards
alcohol, and her need for hangover cures in the morning (raw eggs figure in the
potion), as well as Bingley’s free access to Jane’s
bedroom while she convalesces at Netherfield. The film’s misunderstanding of class, a more
serious charge, will be discussed later.
But what can be said succinctly is what
The Brontëfication
of the novel extends to some aspects of the dialogue as well. An analysis of the ratio of analysis to
action in the novel quickly yields one page of action to ten pages of analysis,
and yet none of this reasoned quietude enters the film. The conversational style of characters reveals
their character: rational people are subject to correction (Darcy, Elizabeth),
while silly characters are given to soliloquy (Mrs. Bennet,
Mary, Mr. Collins) and are uncorrectable.
The novel trains the reader to judge someone by their conversation, with
the dictum that good conversation is reciprocal, while characters who display
other conversational attributes are less admirable: Mr. Collins speaks in
interminable clichés and is a monologist; Lydia spews; Mrs. Bennet
is self-indulgently incoherent; Mr. Bennet speaks
with too much irony; Wickham’s conversation is too
intimate, and captivatingly mendacious.
The ethic of Pride and Prejudice
is conversation, which is to suggest that the central dramas of the novel are
conversational, not interior; this is not a novel that takes place in the interiors
of characters minds. Obviously this
mannered genre puts pressure on social acts: morning visits, who sits next to
whom in a carriage, a letter between two people, a dance, and conversation.
These are the very things the current film seeks to repress. Wright says that he “tried to cut out
carriage shots. In a modern-day film,
it’s not very interesting to see people simply get in a car and drive away, so
why should it be more interesting to see people arriving and leaving in
carriages?”
The greatest error in the
film’s adaptation of the conversational and social ethic is its ill-advised
creation of a kind of speech discordant with the novel’s ethics. An example: at one point in the film
“‘I have given him my
consent. He is the kind of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse any
thing, which he condescended to ask. I now give it to you, if you are resolved on having him. But let me advise you to
think better of it. I know your
disposition, Lizzy.
I know that you could be neither happy nor respectable, unless you truly
esteemed your husband; unless you looked up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the
greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape discredit and
misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing you unable to respect your partner in
life.” (335)
The film version transcribes
this monologue quite faithfully, but its import will be lost on the viewer who
has been trained by
The Brontëfication
of the novel by the new film version is especially odd in relation to the
landscapes it films. That the film
decides to stick with its “real and gritty” aesthetic in depicting Longbourn would have been fine if it was not so
uninformed. That it seems to confuse a
gentleman’s estate with a farm is generally amusing, though jarring to anyone
who knows and understands the landed gentry that Austen depicts. Mr. Bennet’s £2000
pound a year income from his estate would have placed him in the category of
squires, along with about three-thousand other landowners of the 1790s who
would have enjoyed a rental income of some £1,000 to £3,000 a year. The manure-inflected mud surrounding Keira Knightley’s
That contemporary royals are celebrities, that Prince
William’s job precisely is to turn up at discos and to mingle with commoners,
makes this a poor comparison for the upper classes in Austen’s time. Moreover, the filmmakers have a mistaken
sense of history and understanding of class in the novel; Mr. Bingley has £5000 a year, but this is money that his father
acquired from trade, which his sister tries to forget or perhaps cover with a
metropolitan disdain for country manners.
Bingley is buying his way into the landed
classes; he rents Netherfield, a distinction that the
film forgets in its flattening of the monied
characters into the upper-class. Mr.
Darcy is a great landlord, of which there were only some four-hundred in
The visual impact of the
film is at times quite powerful, especially in its attention to landscape. The film opens with bird-song, and an
exceptionally beautiful rural scene. It
is all the more surprising, then, that the production opted to change certain
key landscapes from the novel. When in
the film version Elizabeth travels with the Gardiners,
her London aunt and uncle, to Derbyshire, she is not pictured at Blenheim or
Chatsworth— celebrated places that the novel names as substitutes for the
planned trip to the Lake District— but rather standing at the edge of a cliff
in a wild scene meant, I suppose, to reference the Peaks district. But its real
purpose is signification: the shot is pure Brontë, as
substitution of the sublime for the picturesque. The sublime that is referenced visually in
the scene is an aesthetic that seems at odds with
The visual logic is then
further confused by the scene that follows, when Pemberley
comes into sight and the accidental meeting between Darcy and Elizabeth takes
place.
“
The aesthetic that the
novel is referencing is the picturesque.
It is a vocabulary that the film resists because it equates what it
calls the “picturesque tradition” with an “idealized version of English
heritage as some kind of Heaven on Earth.”
The visual vocabulary that the filmmakers reject is actually quite
useful in forwarding the courtship narrative and the suggestion of sexual
attraction between Elizabeth and Darcy.
The serpentine line that the novel describes is sensual; it is a
vocabulary easily translatable into the visual vocabulary of film, which is
what the BBC/A&E production exploits. The winding line is the line of
picturesque landscape theory, which thought of the serpentine line as sensuous,
a line that visually elicited pleasure.
In the passage above,
That Darcy owns this particular
landscape and property is, in the novel, a key way that the novel asserts its
conservative ethos. The picturesque
landscape, which affords Elizabeth such pleasure, also signifies that the owner
of the estate does not wish to dominate with authoritarian display, but rather
delight with the more winning lines of a landscape that at times hides its
power behind obstructed sightlines. The
politics of this are of course conservative; it gratifies the fantasy that
there is such a thing as a strong, loving, attentive, and even— this is really
where the fantasy kicks in— submissive authority figure. Darcy, the person who
both Elizabeth and the reader depend upon for their happy ending, is an
authority figure par excellence; he is always depicted in relation to others,
as a “master,” “brother,” or “landlord,” and as such he epitomizes
authority. That he learns through his
relation to
“The commendation bestowed
on him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise
of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she considered
how many people’s happiness were in his guardianship!—
How much of pleasure or pain it was in his power to bestow!— How much of good
or evil must be done by him! Every idea
that had been brought forward by the housekeeper was favourable
to his character, and as she stood before the canvas, on which he was
represented, and fixed his eyes upon herself, she
thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had ever
raised before.” (220)
Darcy is the one who
secures the happy ending upon which the reader’s pleasure is based; he is the
one who solves the problem of
In later Austen novels
figures of authority— landowners especially— will not be as free, as Darcy is,
from faults. In Persuasion, Sir Eliot
is a profligate fool who is forced to rent out his patrimony to the meritocratic class of the navy because he has bungled his
finances; in Mansfield Park only the
second son seems deserving of the status of master and landowner, while the
merits of the system are strained by the fact that Sir Thomas leaves the estate
to attend to his West-Indian sugar plantations worked by slaves. Unlike these novels, which rather broadly if
incompletely question the conflation between moral worth and class prerogative,
Pride and Prejudice seems to show
that class distinctions that the novel’s ending maintains are natural. Whether the
ending is politically suspect has been a critical concern for some time; the
aesthetically satisfying ending in particular has been understood as obscuring
the deep social problems that the novel invokes only to cancel: the problem of
the entail, the unfairness of the system of primogeniture, the lack of
respectable options besides marriage for gentlewomen. The novel’s ending, in this reading, is more
than a fudge; it is said to perpetuate a fantasy that
the traditional social arrangement works, that individuals of merit— Jane,
Consider that the novel
imagines versions of authority—Darcy, and the class position he inhabits— that
are subject to criticism and capable of transformation. Austen has an exceptionally argumentative
young woman engage in rational, extensive, and mutually improving arguments;
she turns down two marriage proposals (Collins and Darcy) even though both
would have been financially advantageous to both her and her family. Those disinterested decisions combine with
the novel’s representation of the rational female to produce what might be
viewed as constructive political commentary.
Even if the novel’s conclusion corroborates conservative mythologies,
the novel as a whole does not evade social criticism out of some fond wish to
uphold the established social order; think of the portrait of Mr. Collins, and
how the choice her friend Charlotte Lucas makes in marrying him is
portrayed.
Perhaps the least
conciliatory scene in the novel, the one that least participates in what some
critics would call Austen’s conservative program, is the scene in which Lady
Catherine de Bough arrives at Longbourn to confront
The film’s final scene is
a David O. Selznick vision: a torch-lit scene of
romance, Darcy in an open shirt, barefoot, uttering “Lizzie, my pearl, my
goddess divine.” This melancholic,
Byronic Darcy, created by Matthew Macfadyen, has now
been lightened and brightened by his marriage; suddenly he just seems like a
complex guy who needs to be understood, prone to man-silences and sudden
outbursts, a hero for the intellectual girls’s
clique. “You can only call me Mrs. Darcy
when you are incandescently happy,” Knightley’s
Bibliography
Austen, Jane. Pride and Prejudice, ed.
James Kinsley (Oxford & New York: Oxford UP, 1998).
Lane, Anthony. “The
Current Cinema,” The New Yorker,
November 14, 2005.
Miller, D.A. Jane Austen, or The
Secret of Style (Princeton & Oxford:
Production
Notes, Pride and Prejudice. Focus Features, 2005.
______________________
Amy King is an assistant
professor of English at