It is a truth universally acknowledged that I continue to delude myself into believing that I’m living in Jane Austen’s world. Though I may not live in Hertfordshire or, even more sadly, Derbyshire, I have an active enough imagination to believe that one day Mr Darcy will appear, Matthew Macfadyen-like, from the dawn mist. A few weeks ago I got very excited when I saw a tall, dark shape walking towards me through the fog on the cycle path to campus, but no. It was a cow.
My status as an obsessed and self confessed Austenoholic means I’m very wary of adaptations. There is an endless list of sequels and prequels, which various friends and family members jokingly buy me: “A weekend with Mr Darcy”, “Longbourn”. “Darcy’s Passions”, “Fifty Shade’s of Mr Darcy” and “Death comes to Pemberley”, just to name a few. I haven’t read them all but if you fancy a laugh and a complete piss-take of the best novel ever written (yes, it is The Best Novel Ever Written), then these are the books to read. What with all those long, often boring texts we HAVE to read at Uni, a trashy novel is sometimes a welcome break. Although, admittedly, I’m normally on the edge of a nervous breakdown by the time I actually resort to reading one.
Most can be subtitled, “A romance from Darcy’s perspective, describing in extreme detail his love and attraction to Elizabeth (Warning: extensive use of hyperbole and focus on destiny)”. Darcy’s Passions certainly comes under this title. Imagine the trashiest novel you have ever read. Imagine that written by a six year old and include the phrase “Darcy’s rising inner turmoil” in every other sentence. Now you don’t even need to buy the book. I laughed more than when I was watching Benedict Cumberbatch as a drunk Sherlock, well, maybe not quite that much.
However, Death Comes to Pemberley is entirely different to every other adaptation I have had the misfortune to read on Pride and Prejudice. I actually liked it. And not in a “I hate it so much it’s utterly brilliant” kind of way.
P.D. James doesn’t pretend to be Austen writing without the constraints of the 19th century she instead, very cleverly, takes the characters and puts them in her own genre; that of a murder mystery. Other than Colonel Fitzwilliam who is drearily morbid, James succeeds in making all the other characters completely believable.
The book is fast paced, exciting, and keeps the reader guessing. James very cleverly plants suspicion in your mind by exposing the weak points in Austen’s character portrayal. Colonel Fitzwilliam for example, is never really explored by Austen and so the reader is able to feel some suspicion towards him.
In case, you just can’t face looking at another printed page (I understand your pain), the BBC’s adaptation this Christmas was brilliant. There was even an open white shirt scene.
Anna Maxwell Martin was a wonderful older Elizabeth, still idealistic, but with the sense of weariness that, my mother tells me, accompanies middle-age. My only criticism was that her young Elizabeth, lacked passion. I was also really impressed with Jenny Coleman as Lydia Bennet. She was silly, frivolous and annoying but I couldn't help liking her. Her conversation about Wickham's infidelity with Elizabeth really made me pity her, something I never thought anyone could achieve. Matthew Rhys was moody and quick-tempered but also funny and, most importantly, contrite when he admitted when he was wrong to ignore Elizabeth, yet again (damn it Darcy when will you learn Elizabeth is ALWAYS right). I can’t fault Rhy’s performance.
Did he live up to the Darcy of my imagination? No, but he, unfortunately, exists only on paper, which is why I will ever prefer the book.
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