The End of Shame Part 3 – Bad Dead Dad

Most of the people who know me have no idea that my father died last November. The reason they don’t know is because I don’t mention it, and the reason I don’t mention it is that I expect my reaction will disappoint them. The strongest emotion I felt in the days following his death was relief. No remorse. No sadness. No joy - just this gently dawning sense of peace within myself. As I told Dan, I was just so glad to know that I really didn’t have to see him again.

As I have mentioned before, my father was a mean, paranoid, misogynistic, drunk gambler. He was cruel and at times violent toward his children. I know this description fits a lot of dads – I’m not trying to say that mine was the worst. I’m just saying that he was a dick of a person. Especially as he aged and allowed his body to be eaten up by various addictions, poor diet, lethargy and depression, he really had no charms, other than an impressively acidic sarcasm that I seem to have inherited to some degree. That quality on its own isn’t too endearing. And, seeing as he had never shown me any tenderness or affection or concern for my well-being, I eventually decided that I didn’t owe him any daughterly loyalty.

Several years ago, I secretly encouraged my mother to leave my father and the last time I saw him was the day I helped her move out of the house where I was raised. He and I didn’t speak much that day. He made a few attempts to contact me over the next two years, including once when he showed up at my workplace unannounced (thankfully, I wasn’t there). These half-hearted attempts to reconcile an empty relationship really pissed me off. I was also pissed at the rest of my family for pretending to see some secret, redeeming greatness in him, just like the proverbial emperor’s new clothes. So, I stopped talking to the lot of them for a while.

After the surprise visit at my job, I didn’t hear anything from or about my father for well over a year. Then, about three years ago, a flurry of in-family group emails informed me that he had disappeared from his apartment in Nevada. He was missing for several days before my mother tracked him down in a Vegas hospital. He had suffered brain damage when he drunkenly fell and hit his head at a casino. After a couple of decades of steadily deteriorating health, including a stroke, two heart attacks, and quadruple bypass surgery, he had finally drunk himself into a nursing home.

That time he went missing was a turning point for me. I happened to be really unhappy then and had been drinking a ton all summer. Hearing about my father’s disappearance made me slow down and sober up. His reappearance as a vegetable was an even bigger eye-opener. But the unexpected happy part was that I also had the relief of knowing he was physically incapable of popping up in my world. And that was about the time I stopped hating my father so much.

A lot of people don’t understand that’s the best part of estranging yourself from someone you despise – you don’t have to hate them anymore. I don’t enjoy hating anyone, walking around with that shit in my soul. I’d rather let it go. Turns out, letting go is a lot easier when your foe is gone.

When my father’s life ended, he left behind a pretty meager version of himself. Even I can admit that he once cast a much brighter light – never from his heart, but definitely from his brain. I can’t see that his death was so bad for anyone, even himself. Given that, and my void of love for the man, I find myself occasionally referring to his death quite nonchalantly. And you know what? People can’t handle that shit. I have had the following interaction twice this summer: someone asks me, “Hey Tara, where does your father live?” and I casually respond, “He’s dead”. Then that person says, “What? Huh?” so I repeat, a bit louder, “He’s dead”. But then, that person continues to pretend they can’t hear me until I say, in a soft tone, “He passed away” and they say, “Oh, I’m so sorry!” and I say, “Thank you” or “It’s okay” or some other thing that will make them feel more comfortable about my bad dad’s death. I guess that, because I’m generally a pretty nice person, they don’t want to think of me as being so callous. What they don’t know is that the day I decided I wanted my father out of my life was the day I started to really live.

Ode to Freddy

Freddy, please come back. I need you to cut my hair.

I met my favorite hairdresser in March of 2002. I'll call him Freddy. He was the guy who happened to catch me when I walked into the salon on Main Street in Ann Arbor. I don't know if I had ever been to a salon before. After years of scoring free cuts from ambitious friends with varying levels of skill, and a few trips to some very confused barbers, I was ready for a real lady's coif. This was because I was going to a party that evening where I was sure to run into a much-mourned and recent ex. My desire to look fabulous actually trumped both my frugality and fear of feminine grooming combined.

You see, I never learned how to do hair or makeup, beyond the basic application of lipstick to mouth or elastic band to ponytail. For the most part, I never really cared to learn. I think I had always feared the salon because I anticipated that my life would temporarily become a montage makeover scene from a 1980's teen comedy flick and then I would be responsible for blow-drying, styling, spraying or rubbing mousse into some unwanted monster on top of my head. I wanted to look good, but not at the price of having to do a lot of extra stuff in front of a mirror. I told Freddy right off the bat, "I don't do anything with my hair, ever" and asked for a no-maintenance bob. He simply nodded and got to work.

I think the first thing that struck me about Freddy was that he didn't seem to be gay. It didn't matter, but it was curious. I mean, he was definitely excited about hair, particularly his own rockabilly pompadour. But aside from that, I didn't get much of a gay vibe from him. When he started telling me about his fiancée (who had a woman's name), my suspicion was confirmed. Half a second later, he said, "Yeah, I know. I'm a hairdresser and I'm not gay. How weird is that?" After mocking himself, he moved on to me. "I think I'm going to give you one of those really severe bobs, the kind where it's super short and buzzed in the back and really long up front. You can be like one of those chicks in high school who listened to The Smiths a little too much". I'm sure he had already figured out that I was that chick in high school (minus the severe bob).

That was the best thing about Freddy. He was hilarious. I think he sensed that I was uncomfortable with the feminine grooming ritual, so he distracted me with a lot of funny stories and smart-ass observations about pop culture. Or maybe he just liked that I cracked up at all of his jokes. Anyway, I actually enjoyed my visits to him because he entertained me. He had good taste in music and movies and would ask me what was happening at the theater where I worked. He liked to talk about how fucked up his family was and we would compare notes on dysfunctional upbringings. It was so much fun. Getting an awesome haircut at the end of the half hour seemed like a special and unrelated bonus.

And the haircuts were awesome, exactly what I wanted. I didn't need to do a thing to make it look good and they always grew out really nicely. That last part was the key, since I am incredibly lazy about getting my hair cut. Sometimes I would run into him on the street and I could tell from his curt greeting that he thought I was cheating on him with some other hairdresser, simply because he hadn't seen me in ages. Then he would catch a glimpse of my split ends, roll his eyes and say "I'll see you soon". He was very proud of his work.

One time I ran into him when I was on a date with a guy I'll call Lucas. Lucas was an ex-Marine who was really into being masculine. I think he expected to frighten me with his motorcycle and his cigars and his tattooed buddies, but I just thought of him as a maven of manly pastimes, which is just a fancy way of saying that he was a big nerd. Anyway, Lucas took me to the home of one of his muscleman pals for a televised boxing match. It was a sausage fest. There was a lot of smoking and cursing and one dude showed up with his bull dog. Needless to say, I was the only girl, that is, until Freddy arrived with his fiancée (Freddy's best friend happened to be our host). His initial shock in seeing me there was surpassed only by his bitterness in not having seen me in his chair for at least nine months. I kept saying, "I know, I know, it looks terrible!" He groaned and said, "Come on, let me see it". I pulled out my hair band and let my shaggy mane fall to my shoulders. He inspected my locks, grinning smugly and saying, "Actually, it still looks pretty awesome". Lucas stood by, looking very confused. I think I successfully upturned his grand show of pugilism and pit bulls.

When I found myself in Freddy's chair a week later, he grumbled, "How do you know that guy Lucas, anyway?" I didn't need for Freddy to point out that Lucas wasn't the right guy for me, as I had already sensed it myself. But, I was sort of touched by his subtle concern (the funny thing is that I think he and Lucas later became good friends). In fact, I feel like Freddy often, inadvertently shined a light on the worst aspect of whatever dumb relationship I was in at the time. About a year later, I was telling him about another dude I was dating, who I'll call Jeff Howard. He merely joked, "Oh, he's one of those 'last name is a first name' guys". I picked up his lead and started joking about the number of serial killers who have first name last names, and then said, "Yeah, for all I know, he is a serial killer! I hardly ever see him!" I suddenly realized, while Freddy was rinsing my hair, that although I had been dating Jeff for months, I really didn't know anything about him. I broke up with him shortly thereafter.

My next visit with Freddy would be my last. I was about to move to Detroit and wanted one last cut before I left town. I remember sitting in that salon on State Street (by that time, he had moved to the younger hipster salon by the UM campus) assuring him that I would be faithful to his service even though I was moving. Actually, I didn’t get my hair cut once while I was living in Detroit. Poverty and laziness conspired with the sense of security that comes from looking like a shaggy weirdo in the gritty city (I liked to think of my dressed-down style as “crackhead repellant”). But when I got a job in Ann Arbor, and moved to Ypsi, and was ready to return to a better groomed version of myself, I gleefully galloped down to State Street to make an appointment on an early autumn day.

The hipster receptionist’s eyes were heavy with the suggestion of juicy gossip when she drawled, “Freddy doesn’t work here anymore,” but she wasn’t willing to give me the full story behind his departure. She merely implied that a bridge had been burned. “I don’t know… I mean, I really don’t know where he is,” she paused for the final blow. “I don’t even have his cell phone number”.

And just like that, I lost my hairdresser. I made an appointment with another stylist and then cancelled it. I tried to find Freddy, in vain. A couple months later, I gave up and scored a free haircut from a friend. And in the sticky heat of last week, I finally booked an appointment at the salon on Main Street, hoping that I might strike gold twice. There, I met a boisterous chatterbox who I’ll call Trudy. Trudy was clearly appalled by my lack of maintenance. Again, I began by saying, “I really don’t do anything with my hair,” but before I could tell her exactly how I wanted my bangs cut, she was off and running with her scheme. “Sideswept bangs!... they’re all the rage!... after all, who wants short bangs right away?.. you can always cut more later, but you can’t put back what’s gone… and don’t worry, I’ll show you exactly what you need to do at home to make it look AMAZING!!!”

Well, my 1980’s teen movie montage nightmare came to life, but it wasn’t that bad. Learning is a lot more interesting to me than it used to be. It was kind of nice to finally get a lesson in hair care. The 25 year old me would have been mortified by the experience, especially when Trudy cooed, “Oh my god! It’s going to be so fun for you to have an actual hairstyle instead of just long hair hanging!!”

Before I went to that appointment, I told Dan that I felt like a despondent parent who had finally given up on recovering their kidnapped child. I thought that going to Trudy would make me feel better, and it did in the sense that I got a really nice hair cut. She did a great job, but I won’t be going back. It wasn’t her pushiness that deterred me as much as the fact that she didn’t listen to a thing I said, and worse than that, she didn’t make me laugh even once. The experience made me miss old Freddy even more. I walked away from the salon with a lighter head, but my heart was a bit sunken with melancholy – not unlike a high school girl who listens to The Smiths a bit too much.

The End of Shame, Part 2 - Sex on the First Date

Sex on the first date gets a bad rap. There's this popular notion that it somehow cheapens the relationship that follows, that, in fact, no very good relationship can evolve from such an impulsive act of intimacy. I've even heard the claim (from various people and on different occasions) that one should wait until third 3rd date to consummate. Or maybe I just know a lot of square people. In any case, I just want to say that I think this taboo is based on a very dumb and illogical assumption- that mutual sexual pleasure is not the most important component of a healthy relationship. Now, I grant that sexual compatibility alone does not make a great match. But the sting that comes from discovering you have nothing in common with your mate beside your desire to get it on doesn't suck as much as the dull ache of sexual incompatibility, especially when he or she had seemed to be your perfect soul mate on those chaste dates 1 and 2. In such a case, chaste dates waste time.

I'm not saying that people should always have sex on the first date - I mean, certainly not if it’s a bad date or even if you like the person but you just don't feel comfortable. I just think it’s silly for two eager and willing people to hold off on the deed just because of some retarded convention. Yeah, there's the risk of making yourself more vulnerable to heartache, like when you really like the person that you're sleeping with, but that person is only interested in sex. I've been in that situation and it was a little bitter and painful in the end. But I don't have any regrets. It was fun while it lasted and I definitely don't think that the situation would have been much different if I had waited longer to have sex. It wouldn't have made that person more interested in a real relationship.

On the other hand, imagine the convenience of discovering that your favorite bedmate is also the person you want to marry! It can happen. Ultimately, I suppose that my marriage will best test my belief that sex on the first date can be the foundation of a very strong bond. Not only did Dan and I have sex within hours of our initial dinner plan, we spent most of the following four days together. We agreed to meet on a Thursday evening for sushi and stayed up until the wee hours in my apartment. I called in sick to work on Friday and we spent most of that day lying in bed, naked, either having sex or watching Beavis and Butthead dvds, with occasional breaks for food. On Saturday morning, Dan drove back to Detroit where I met him that evening for an outdoor concert, after which we went back to his apartment and had more sex until his weird roommate got home. Then we went to Union Street and split the fish and chips and laughed hysterically at each other's jokes. The waiter gave us free pie, which put us in an even better mood. Even better than that, we found that the weird roommate had left the apartment again, so we took advantage of our privacy. Dan's friend Jorge (pronounced "George") from Georgia randomly drove into town at 6am on Sunday morning, which interrupted our activity, but that was okay. We all got breakfast and then Dan dropped me off in Ann Arbor and we were separated again, but only until he picked me up on Monday afternoon. Then we went to another outdoor concert and later had more sex. But before that latter part, we met up with my old friend Meredith, who was very impressed by Dan and assumed that we had been dating for months. It was actually our 3rd date, but then so much had happened. Between Thursday and Tuesday, Dan and I had essentially decided that I would move into his Detroit apartment at the end of the summer, when the weird roommate was expected to leave for good. We also decided that we would eventually get married.

Well, the weird roommate did leave and I moved in as planned. The rest is blog history. Most of my peers thought at the time (and maybe still believe now) that those actions were insane, or at least highly irrational. I don’t regret the outcome and furthermore, I contend that, aside from our wedding weekend, those first few days were the most fun I've ever had in my life. And even if our life together hasn’t always been easy, I’ve never felt disillusioned or unhappy about the big choices we made. All told, I guess that sex on the first date is a pretty mild impulse compared to all of the other decisions I made about Dan. That’s just another reason why I find this “no sex” rule so arbitrary and inane.

The End of Shame, Part 1 - Body Fat

A friend of mine recently observed, "I love bellies... I love bellies except my own". I think the saddest part of this statement is how well I relate to it. I do love bellies. I love Buddha's belly. I love the shape of that faceless guy from The Big Lebowski opening credit montage - you know him only from the profile of his enormous gut, which he wags victoriously after bowling a strike. My favorite Detroit tummy belongs to Tigers' third base coach Gene Lamont. His pot o' plenty is like a joyous beacon, congratulating a lucky slugger as he makes his way home.

All these big bellies always make me smile. So why do I feel so sad when I glance down upon my abundant abdomen?

It's funny that I've only mentioned men's tubby stomachs, but maybe that's because it's so rare for a woman to display her paunch as prominently. It's tough for us thick ladies to pass as attractive in this society, but I don't think it's much easier for guys to feel good about their girth. I also have to acknowledge that this issue seems far less troublesome to black people, who tend to wear their weight with a lot more pride. Ultimately, I think that self-respect is the key to becoming comely. I generally find miserable people unattractive, so if someone is ashamed of their shape, it follows that they won't look pretty to the rest of us. On the flip side, a happy and confident fatty can be quite dashing. Take it from me - I'm fatter than I've ever been and since I got married a month ago, I've been catching more admiring glances than in the whole rest of my life put together!

So, in the spirit of taking pride in my lipids, I have started referring to my body fat as ranch dressing. Now, as much as I love the taste of ranch dressing, it isn't my favorite form of fat. Cheese is, by far, the winner, but when I think of cheese in the context of a woman's body, I think of a yeast infection. That's not very sexy. Rather, I think that ranch dressing is the most feminine of fats. For one thing, we women love to eat it. Even the most health-conscious, Diet Coke-drinking, only-salad-for-lunch ladies among us eat ranch dressing, though they may always ask for it on the side. Ranch dressing is also quite pretty, with it's thick, buttermilky texture and cheerful flecks of green herbs and black pepper. I also like that it is fluid, that it doesn't coagulate like once-warm butter. I guess I like to think that my body fat is similarly fluid, that I can lose some and gain some, that I can squeeze in my jeans or (if I should ever be so adventurous!) up into a girdle. But mostly, I get excited when I imagine these rolls on my stomach as little sacs of ranchy goodness, because it makes my mouth water, just thinking about that exquisite, tangy flavor.

If I were a sculptor, I would make a ceramic figure on the scale of my twenty-two year old body, from when I was so skinny and frail. Then I would wrap it's belly and thighs and ass with clear glass to make it look like the shape of my thirty-one year old body and I would fill those glass voids with - you guessed it - ranch dressing. Then I'd place my awesome dressing decanter on the dinner table with a huge batch of extra greasy, double deep-fried potatoes and invite all my friends to eat. They could bring their own edible body fat self portraits, too. It would be our potluck celebration of our potbellies, and our true selves.

Cat Sigh

It was another dreamy spring morning when I stepped out of my reverie and onto the no. 3 bus out of Ypsilanti. I had come to count on the 3 being the least sketchy ride to Ann Arbor, but I had a weird feeling when I greeted the driver. As I turned the corner and headed toward an empty rows of seats, I noticed a couple of teenage girls sprawled out on one of the sideways benches at the front. They pointed at me and laughed as I passed them and I immediately became flustered and self-conscious. Was there something on my face? Was my belly sticking out from my sweater? When I sat down, I quickly buried my face in a novel and pretended to not notice them noticing me. Of course, I was hyper-aware of their ridicule, which they heaped on every new passenger who boarded after me. When another woman walked by, they snorted and chortled and one of them muttered, "We should have tripped her!" For a moment, I was calmer. There wasn't anything wrong with me. These were just a couple of catty bitches... on a mission.

I knew the situation would escalate and since I was the nearest passenger, I would inevitably become a target. The bigger of the two girls - clearly the alpha bitch - turned to me and said, "Excuse me, don't you ever get out in the sun?"

"Well, that's a very rude question." I squinted my eyes as I peered into her smooth, womanly face. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen".

I gave her a dubious look and returned to my book. She tried to talk to me again, but I ignored her. I hoped that I wouldn't have to ignore them for long. Fortunately, their next victim arrived a minute later. A young man stepped on the bus and as he passed the jailbait duo, one of the girls tripped him and laughed. He told them they had no respect and headed to the back of the bus. They were on him in two seconds. Alpha bitch screamed, "You can't talk that way to us, faggot! Faggot!" She had really perfected the rage behind that slur, really enunciated the hell out of it. What a gutteral term- so fittingly mouthed by such a trashy young woman.

I won't lie. I took part in similar dumb pranks when I was a teenage girl. I remember when Megan Rossi and I were thirteen, we went to Fairlane mall and spent a whole afternoon riding the elevator at Hudson's, getting into fake fights in front of complete strangers. We thought it was really hilarious to make other people feel uncomfortable. It's the one power we ladies have had in all these centuries of male supremacy. We may not get paid what we deserve and we may be considered nothing more than baby-birthing chattle, but all of us are well versed in methods of emotional torture. All of us, at one time or another, flex that muscle, so I understand the thrill that comes with these sort of adolescent capers.

I'd like to think I outgrew that impulse. I don't think Megan ever did, but by age sixteen she was far more adept at her craft than the girls on the no. 3 bus. I mean, at sixteen, shouldn't they be sleeping with each other's boyfriends or something? Shit, Megan was slashing guys' tires by then. These pointing, laughing and tripping antics are diaper tactics compared to what most girls their age would do for some mean-spirited fun.

But the bus bitches were at least as persistent as they were immature. They ragged on that guy for a good five minutes. I don't know where the driver's mind was during all this activity. Eventually, a couple moved from the back of the bus to the front and apha bitch squealed, "Ooh, they're gonna' tell the driver!" but they didn't. She and her pal must have been disappointed, because they got off at the next stop.

And then, at that very stop, two incredibly aggressive, loud, mentally retarded men boarded. They sat exactly where those girls had been sitting and just like their predecessors, they said rude things to people who walked past them. And just like everyone (except "faggot" man) who had to deal with those mean girls, we ignored them, because that's what you do with retarded people who say mean things. Conventional knowledge tells us that it isn't their fault that they're assholes. They can't help it.

I remember in eighth grade catechism, Mr. St. John told our class that "retards are the only people who are guaranteed to get into heaven, because they don't know the difference between right and wrong." This was the definitive moment when I realized that Catholicism (religion in general, really) is a crock of shit. But, let's say we follow that logic for a moment. Are ghetto teenage girls any more accountable for their sins? Can these girls help being as awful as they are? Who could love them? Probably no one does. And I even considered mentioning that to them, along with some unsolicited advice about going to school, as that would probably be their one and only shot at a future.

It seems that I haven't completely outgrown the impulse, after all.

A Late Blooming Notion

Ever since I turned thirty, I keep experiencing these striking moments of self-awareness. A random example: the whole time I was growing up in Dearborn, there was this kid who lived around the corner, who I’ll call Chris Murphy. We were the same age and went to the same schools from Kindergarten through Fordson high. Other than in the third grade, when we were apt to pal around in class because we sat in the same block of desks, we were never really friends. He was just a guy who hung in the periphery of my girlhood from way before I had any interest in being around boys. I was also very shy, and tried my best to be invisible.

Being introverted, bespectacled and an aggressively good student, I was naturally considered a giant nerd. Junior high was, of course, a social nightmare, but I was also dealing with an explosive and depressing home life as well as the realization that Megan Rossi, my best (and only) friend from age five onward had fully blossomed into a catty and manipulative bitch. I was pretty hardened by the end of eighth grade, as the burn of being called a “dork” by my classmates was pretty mild in comparison to the rest of my life. I consciously decided to embrace my awkwardness and just be myself, because it seemed like that was the only way I was ever going to have fun. I began wearing strange and brightly colored clothes and started responding sarcastically to the more popular kids who picked on me. I was transforming from a nerd to a “weird” kid.

Meanwhile, Chris Murphy was blazing a different path of rebellion. He was becoming a “bad” kid, the kind who sometimes smoked cigarettes and probably shoplifted at Kmart. He and some of the other neighborhood hoodlums created a “gang” called the PFC, which was CFP (Cash Flow Posse) backwards and stood for Pimp-Fucking Crew. Well, I guess it was supposed to be Pimp, Fucking, Crew, but it isn’t quite as funny that way. Anyway, the PFC started tagging the new plastic slides and swing sets down at Geer Park, and when they got bored with that, they would beat up on little kids, or at least one little kid - my eight-year-old brother.

On two or three occasions, my little brother came home from the playground in tears because a bunch of scary teenage boys had shoved him around. This ended as soon as my 6’5” older brother paid a visit to the PFC. Incensed by the injustice of it all, I remained furious about those incidents. My fury erupted one day when Chris cornered me at my locker. I think he called me an ugly loser, or something like that. I said, “At least I don’t pick on little kids who are half my size,” or something to that effect, but what I remember most is what happened next; he shoved me, which I found very startling, especially when the palm of his left hand, en route to my right shoulder, landed exactly on my boob. My face turned red and he scurried past me. I ran to my Life Science class and felt distracted and weird for the rest of the hour. It was a classic uncomfortable moment in the age of puberty.

Starting high school that fall was like starting a new life. Life at home was less rocky and I’d figured out that if I didn’t make any noise, I could do whatever I wanted without my parents noticing. Mrs. Rossi sent her daughter to the whiter school across town and Megan, perhaps fearing her “new kid” status, took notice that I was her only remaining friend and stopped being such a bitch to me . I quickly found a new crew of friends at Fordson and toward the end of my freshman year, I started dating Sam, my first boyfriend. Sam was really good at being the weird kid. He wore combat boots and sometimes smoked joints while skipping class. I knew him from his scathing, anti-establishment column in the school paper, but we met in the drama club. Our first date was a They Might Be Giants concert. We were that couple. Other than my being a good four inches taller than him, we were a pretty well-matched pair of outcasts.

About two months into our relationship, Chris Murphy randomly decided to get the old gang together and beat up my new boyfriend. I was so hurt and confused by that sudden reverse in my suddenly happy life as a teenage girl. I was already reeling from the fact that I had a boyfriend, because I honestly didn’t think that would ever happen. I wondered, quite earnestly, why Chris had to come along and fuck it all up. It’s taken another 15 years of dating and relationships for me to figure out that Chris Murphy probably had a crush on me. I don’t know if it began with the Freudian slip of a boob-pushing experience or at Jamie Brown’s seventh birthday party, when one of the other parent drivers bailed and Jamie’s nutty white trash mother shoved me and Chris and Jamie and a bunch of other little kids in the back of her clankety-ass Ford on the way home from Showbiz Pizza and made all the girls sit on the boys’ laps, shrieking, “It’s so romantic!” That ride from Telegraph Road on Chris’s lap was a classic uncomfortable moment in the age of “girls rule, boys drool”.

But who knows, right? I mean, are these memories any realer than dreams, and what does it matter, anyway? After Chris and his buddies stopped threatening my boyfriend, he faded into the periphery. The public school system had tracked us into different spheres and I don’t even remember seeing him around the neighborhood. Yet, if I were to see Chris Murphy today, I could honestly say that he’s known me longer than any of my friends. Beside my mom, who was pretty distracted with other drama at the time, I don’t talk to anyone who knew me before my adolescence. That’s why I get so excited about understanding these rudimentary pieces of my life, because, at least in this situation, I really like this new idea that I wasn’t actually invisible.

Jane Addiction Part 10 - Sense and Sensibility Vol II

Welcome to my 10 week critique of films based on the works of Jane Austen. I will review each installment of PBS's "Masterpiece: The Complete Jane Austen" and also take a look at other adaptations of the same novel. Enjoy!

Note: Masterpiece just finished its two week presentation of the 2008 "Sense and Sensibility" mini-series. This week, I will look at the second half of this series and also examine Rodney Bennet's 1981 mini-series adaptation.

Sense and Sensibility Vol II

Shortly after Willoughby's abrupt departure, Edward Ferrars pays a visit to the Dashwood ladies at Barton Cottage. But, Edward is unexpectedly morose and standoffish. He stays for only a night, leaving Elinor puzzled about his feelings for her.

Barton Park soon sees the arrival of more visitors - Mrs. Jennings’s daughter Charlotte and son-in-law Mr. Palmer, as well as distant cousins Lucy and Ann Steele. Upon meeting the Miss Dashwoods, Lucy tells Elinor in private that she has longed to meet her, as Edward Ferrars has spoken so fondly of her. Elinor is surprised that Lucy and Edward are acquainted, but is completely stunned when Lucy confides that she has been secretly engaged to Edward for four years. Though heartbroken, Elinor promises to keep Lucy's secret safe.

Mrs. Jennings announces her upcoming trip to London and invites Elinor and Marianne to accompany her. Though Elinor is hesitant, Marianne jumps at this chance to reunite with Willoughby. Mrs. Dashwood gives her blessing and her daughters soon depart.

Once they arrive in London, Marianne writes to Willoughby and waits impatiently for his visit. When their first gentleman caller happens to be Colonel Brandon, she storms out of the room, frustrated and disappointed. A dismal Brandon then asks Elinor if Marianne is engaged to Willoughby and though she cannot verify it, she admits to the expectation. Brandon mysteriously comments that he wishes Marianne well and hopes that Willoughby "will endeavor to deserve her".

The Miss Steeles come to London with the Palmers. John Dashwood and Fanny are in town, too. Along with Colonel Brandon and the Miss Dashwoods, they all gather at a neighborhood ball. Marianne finally spots the elusive Willoughby there and greets him with great warmth. He is inexplicably frigid and barely shakes her hand before returning to his throng of admiring women. Brandon and Elinor escort a stupefied Marianne back to Mrs. Jennings’s place, but cannot convince her to go to bed before she has written to Willoughby again. His response arrives in the morning. In it, he curtly apologizes for having unintentionally misled her but makes it clear that his interests lie elsewhere. Marianne then learns that he is engaged to another woman.

News of Willoughby's cruel gesture travels around London. Colonel Brandon consoles Elinor by telling her of the terrible business that brought him to town; his fifteen-year-old ward Eliza (the daughter of his once lost love) had become pregnant with the child of a ruthless and irresponsible cad, and that cad was Willoughby. Elinor shares the story with her sister. Though Marianne is at last assured of Willoughby's villainy, it is no balm for her shattered heart.

In the following days, John and Fanny invite Elinor and Marianne to a gathering at their London apartment, along with the Miss Steeles. Fanny flaunts her disrespect for her sisters-in-law by fawning over Lucy and Ann, even inviting the Steeles to stay at their home. Lucy grows confident that Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars will approve of her engagement to Edward once it is revealed, but Elinor is incredulous, knowing that Lucy is too poor for their high standards.

During one of Lucy’s visits to Elinor, Edward makes a surprise appearance. Before he sees Lucy in the room, he tells Elinor that he must discuss something important with her. As he is about to open his heart, Elinor introduces him to Lucy. Edward is clearly discombobulated and barely says a word before excusing himself. Lucy asks him to escort her to his sister’s home and Elinor sadly watches them walk out the door together.

In short time, Ann Steele unwittingly reveals Edward and Lucy’s engagement to Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars. Mrs. Ferrars furiously insists that Edward rescind his proposal to Lucy, but he refuses to go back on his word. Fanny throws Edward and the Miss Steeles out of her home and Mrs. Ferrars transfers his inheritance to his younger brother, Robert. With no income, Edward and Lucy’s future together appears bleaker than ever.

Colonel Brandon is sympathetic to Edward’s situation and decides to offer him a living as the minister of his estate’s chapel. Since Brandon doesn’t know Edward well, he asks Elinor to deliver the “good” news. She does so with a heavy heart and a miserable Edward accepts the offer.

The Palmers decide to go back to their home in Cleveland and invite the Colonel and the Miss Dashwoods to come with them. During the visit, Marianne takes a long walk in the rain. She is already weak from depression and becomes terribly ill. Elinor asks Brandon to fetch their mother, because she fears that Marianne may not survive. After many hours of Elinor’s diligent nursing, Marianne recovers, even before Mrs. Dashwood arrives.

As Elinor rejoices in Marianne’s revival, a servant tells her of a gentleman caller, who is none other than Willoughby. He confesses to Elinor all of his wrongdoings and admits that when he first met Marianne, he only wanted to seduce her. But he did fall in love and would have married her if he hadn’t had to face the fallout from his indiscretion with Eliza. Marianne learns of his visit and rests a little easier knowing that she hadn’t misread his feelings.

The ladies return to Barton Cottage. Marianne decides to follow calm and temperate Elinor’s example and begins a self-imposed course of serious study. She also spends more time with the Colonel, who quietly woos her with books and music. Elinor tries to forget Edward, but is saddened to hear a servant’s news about running into Mrs. Lucy Ferrars. Assuming she has lost him forever, Elinor is startled when Edward rides up to the cottage alone, with another urgent message.

The second half of John Alexander’s 2008 Sense and Sensibility mini-series further demonstrates screenwriter Andrew Davies’s outstanding ability to interpret Austen’s texts. He covers a good two-thirds of the story in one ninety minute package without skipping any crucial plot turns or characters. He’s even able to salvage Lucy’s sister (known only as Miss Steele in this version), who was dropped from the 1995 feature-length film. Daisy Haggard’s performance as the gossipy older sister of Elinor’s rival is as deliciously repugnant as Claire Skinner’s Fanny. Her constant jabbering about “beaux” is as funny in this version as it is in the original text.

As I stated in last week’s review, the women continue to outshine the men in the finale. What a shame, considering that Edward, Brandon and Willoughby’s best moments occur in part two. David Morrissey’s Brandon barely registers any emotion, even in his most conflicted moments. One can hardly blame Marianne for judging him dull. Likewise, Dominic Cooper’s Willoughby, with his rat eyes and his permasneer, surprises no one by being revealed as a cad. One can hardly understand what Marianne saw in him anyway. Still, I will credit Dan Stevens for delivering an almost perfectly miserable Edward. He’s too gregarious in happy moments too really fit the bill that Austen created, but when he is sad – such as the moment when he says goodbye to Elinor after accepting the Colonel’s offer – the hurt in his eyes is really quite moving. This makes the climactic scene with Hattie Morahan’s Elinor all the more enjoyable. Certainly, it isn’t Emma Thompson/ Hugh Grant caliber, but it’s pretty damned close.

And despite the sub par male performances, this S&S does dangle near the 1995 version’s level of quality. But there is one glaring flaw I cannot forgive and it’s all Andrew Davies’s fault. He completely butchers the role of Mr. Palmer. This tiny character is one of my favorite personalities from all of Jane’s work. At first, he comes off as an asshole, the kind of guy who gets off on putting down his wife (a woman who lacks the intelligence to know when she is being insulted). But when you come to understand that Charlotte is as self-absorbed as she is stupid, he appears sympathetic. His eventual kindness to the Dashwood daughters (a detail left out of this script) goes to show that even a very good man or woman can become terribly embittered by a bad marriage.

Davies sketches Palmer very differently. This Palmer really is just an asshole – he’s more like Fanny in the way he scoffs at the Miss Dashwoods’ apartment. And though his appearance is small (to the point of being unnecessary), it exemplifies a strange trend among Austen adaptors of mischaracterizing, miscasting and oversimplifying her complex male figures. I’m afraid this trend has finally infected Mr. Davies’s writing, as well.

On the other hand, Rodney Bennet’s 1981 Sense and Sensibility mini-series – a far less dazzling production – fails mainly because of the women portraying our dear heroines. No other duo could better exemplify quintessential British hideousness. Irene Richard’s Elinor is distractingly weird looking. The big dirty teeth, those bulging eyes, that beak of a nose – I don’t write this to be cruel, but rather because I couldn’t help marveling. These are worthwhile details in any production involving close-up photography and the casting director ought to have known better. The shame of it is that Richard is a wonderful actress and a fine Elinor. It’s clear that Emma Thompson modeled her speech and delivery from this performance. Truly, Richard wows us most when she is speaking, but beware of her reaction shots. You’ll be expecting to see some drool falling from that lazy-eyed gawk.

Even with her sallow flesh and baggy eyes, Tracey Childs’s Marianne has a slightly less unnerving appearance. But she is an awful actress. She conveys “passion” by delivering every line as if she just ran out of breath. She tries to play off petulance as determination. Her worst moments are when she’s near death, tossing about the bed and moaning in unnaturally rhythmic fits of fever. The only reason you’re happy to see her live is that she falls asleep, shuts her mouth and stops acting. Her every waking moment is unbearable.

Yet, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to really enjoying this production. It features some of the best scenery of any Austen adaptation, not due to any artiness or particular skill in the camera work. Rather, the producers set up shop in a really gorgeous and bucolic bit of English countryside and let the cameras roll. It’s the exact sort of thing I want to watch in the middle of a summer day, when the sun is too hot and all I want is to soak myself in the pastoral beauty of a Jane Austen scenario. The pace is as pleasantly slow and gentle as a stroll down a country lane. It isn’t the kind of series I want to watch in one sitting, but each of the seven episodes is less than thirty minutes, which means you can take those funny British faces in small doses.

Additionally, some members of the supporting cast are skilled, even attractive. Bosco Hogan’s Edward looks like a less frightening Sam Donaldson, which is about as alluring as Edward should be. He is humble and kind, completely believable. And, his long-awaited pursuit of Elinor is more faithful to the book than either of the other versions of the tale. Their exchange is so befitting of their characters and even Irene Richard is resplendent in that beautiful scene. Robert Swann’s Colonel Brandon, with his Wolverine style muttonchops, would be almost too handsome and dashing if this production were not so wanting of eye candy. But, as always, I like best the actors who convincingly portray the jerks of the story and Hetty Baynes’s performance as Charlotte wins my favor. Her nasal giggle will make you understand what I meant about Mr. Palmer’s bitterness.

Thank goodness that the filmic canon of Jane Austen stories contains such less-than-perfect interpretations. Almost every adaptation will glean one or two details that the others missed. I have yet to see a Persuasion that features the funny and uncomfortable scene in which a stoic Wentworth rescues his estranged Anne from the evil clutches of her bratty nephew’s filthy little hands. Maybe I’ll write my own version, just to include that. Until the next adaptation arrives, there’s nothing left for me to do with Jane Austen. The woman only wrote six novels!

Jane Addiction Part 9 - Sense and Sensibility Vol I

Welcome to my 10 week critique of films based on the works of Jane Austen. I will review each installment of PBS's "Masterpiece: The Complete Jane Austen" and also take a look at other adaptations of the same novel. Enjoy!

Note: Masterpiece just began its two week presentation of the 2008 "Sense and Sensibility" mini-series. This week, I will look at the first half of this series and also examine Ang Lee's 1995 feature film adaptation.

Sense and Sensibility Vol. I
Sisters Elinor and Marianne Dashwood are temperamental opposites - elder Elinor is polite, rational, and emotionally reserved, whereas brash, passionate Marianne freely speaks her mind. Along with their gentle mother and precocious younger sister, Margaret, the Dashwood ladies find themselves homeless when Mr. Dashwood dies and older brother John inherits Norland, the family estate. Although John made a deathbed promise to his father to look after his stepmother and half-sisters, he and his pushy wife Fanny quickly move in, quietly pressuring the ladies to find a new home and promising them only a small annual allowance. Elinor tries to be civil toward John and Fanny while Marianne wallows in bitterness and mourning.

Fanny's older brother Edward Ferrars visits Norland. Modest, kind Edward is sympathetic to the Dashwood women and develops a friendship with Elinor. When Fanny senses that Edward is falling for her sister-in-law, she hints to Mrs. Dashwood that she expects her brother to marry a wealthier woman. Fanny's snobbery pushes Mrs. Dashwood over the edge, and she rashly accepts the first housing offer that fits her meager budget - an invitation to rent Barton Cottage on her cousin Sir John Middleton's estate. Elinor sadly says goodbye to Edward, but he promises to visit her soon.

Sir John warmly greets his new tenants and insists they visit his home. There they meet his boring wife Lady Middleton and her boisterous busybody mother Mrs. Jennings. The Middletons also introduce the ladies to their good friend, Colonel Brandon, a tasteful, mild-mannered naval officer who is immediately charmed by Marianne. Yet, Marianne is incensed when Sir John and Mrs. Jennings teasingly hint that she is destined to marry the much older Colonel.

As Brandon pines for Marianne, she meets Willoughby, her equally spirited and outspoken male counterpart. The two are immediately inseparable and the neighbors and family begin to assume that Willoughby has or will soon propose to Marianne. Elinor feels for the dejected Brandon as she laments her separation from Edward.

One day, after inviting all the neighbors to a party at his home, Colonel Brandon suddenly departs the gathering, saying that he must deal with a personal emergency in London. Willoughby and Marianne mock the inscrutable Colonel for his seriousness, vociferously agreeing that Brandon is too dull for their tastes. It is more obvious than ever that these two are in love, so when Willoughby asks Mrs. Dashwood if he can see Marianne in private, everyone assumes that he will propose to her. But when Elinor, Margaret and Mrs. Dashwood come home to find Marianne sobbing hysterically, they see a flustered Willoughby rushing out the door, saying he must leave to stay at his aunt's home for at least a year. Watching Willoughby ride away, the Dashwood ladies are perplexed by another man's inexplicable departure.

The first half of John Alexander's 2008 "Sense and Sensibility" mini-series is proof enough that this is the best of the BBC's batch of new Austen adaptations. Maintaining the proper tone is always crucial and it's no surprise that Andrew Davies is the man behind this brilliant script, which may be his best work to date. Managing to capture the lightness and beauty of a tale that begins with death and deceit is no easy task, especially when there is so little dialog from which a screenwriter can draw. More than any of Jane's other stories, S&S describes feeling and character more often than it details actions, so it is up to the screenwriter to create scenes that embody the emotions and personalities at the core of this narrative. Davies accomplishes this with dozens of telling vignettes, like the sequence in which Fanny persuades John to shrink the ladies' allowance as they pack their carriage and drive to Norland. In a few tidy scenes, Davies conveys Fanny’s greed and John's utter lack of conviction.

Of course, it takes great acting to capture the spirit of Austen's characters, and the two leading ladies are the best of this cast. Hattie Morahan's intelligent and even-keeled Elinor is exactly as you expect her to be, but Charity Wakefield’s Marianne is a pleasant surprise – she is just as intelligent and assured in her ardent manner, whereas most actresses would rely on being merely impetuous. Janet McTeer’s naively sweet Mrs. Dashwood is the perfect foil to Claire Skinner’s sociopathic Fanny. Indeed, Skinner’s portrayal makes Fanny one of Austen’s most delightfully reprehensible villains. She overflows with glee as she swiftly displaces her in-laws in mourning.

Unfortunately, the men are not so sublime. In most Austen adaptations, too little attention is paid to casting the men properly (a dopey move, considering how many horny, hetero women love to watch these films), and that is the biggest problem with this version. David Morrissey’s Brandon is blandon. Dominic Cooper’s Willoughby is attractive, but far more grating than sexy. Dan Stevens’s Edward is the most frustrating despite being the most likable. He’s lighthearted, cute, charming, but not much like the introverted Edward from the text.

Of course, all the heroics and caddishness come to light in the second act. Perhaps next week’s installment will give the men an opportunity to live up to the ladies’ stunning portrayals.

If not for that glaring deficit in casting, this new version of the story may have lived up to Ang Lee’s 1995 Sense and Sensibility. Half the credit for this brilliant adaptation goes to Emma Thompson, who not only starred as Elinor, but also wrote the screenplay that so deservedly won her an Oscar. Thompson is an actor’s writer, peppering her script with enough silence so that the players can express themselves in subtler ways. Enter Ang Lee’s eye for beautiful backdrops and scenery and here we have one of the most perfectly executed motion pictures of all time. Nearly every scene is a masterpiece.

Of all the fantastic actors that grace this production, including ingénue Kate Winslet as Marianne and Alan Rickman as Colonel Brandon, Hugh Grant stands out most in his portrayal of Edward. The same man who brought us Bridget Jones’s Diary’s classic cad gives us this incredibly well-studied and subtle performance. Every stutter and averted glance speaks both the awkwardness and the secret burden behind his thoughtful expression. His climactic scene with Thompson’s Elinor is the finest and most cathartic payoff of any Austen-based film.

But Grant’s performance is just one perfect sample of a practically perfect film. With its top-notch acting, direction, writing, cinematography and score, this film actually justifies the time and expense taken to produce a big-budget theatrical release. In this one, rare instance, Hollywood trumps the BBC.

Jane Addiction Part 8 - Emma

Welcome to my 10 week critique of films based on the works of Jane Austen. I will review each installment of PBS's "Masterpiece: The Complete Jane Austen" and also take a look at other adaptations of the same novel. Enjoy!

Emma

Emma Woodhouse leads a charmed life at her widowed father's country estate. Being rich, clever, popular and used to getting her own way, Emma thinks she knows all there is to know about life and love. When her beloved governess gets married, Emma takes full credit for the match and decides to occupy herself by playing cupid amongst her company (as she has determined, at age 20, that she herself will never fall in love and therefore has no need to marry). She concentrates on uniting Harriet, an impressionable young orphan, with social climber Mr. Elton, despite her good friend Mr. Knightley's warnings against meddling. Emma is so assured in the brilliance of her scheme that she successfully convinces Harriet to refuse humble farmer Mr Martin's marriage proposal. By the time Emma discovers Mr. Elton is more interested in herself than in Harriet, her friend's hopes for marrying into wealth have reached impossible heights. At the same time, Emma reconsiders her stance on marriage when she ignites a casual flirtation with impetuous Frank Churchill. Mr. Knightley's aggravation mounts when he sees his young friend pursuing the wrong man.

When Jane Austen began writing Emma, she told a friend, "I am going to take a heroine whom no one but myself will much like". Millions of readers would disagree, but truly, no other Austen heroine is more difficult to render likable on screen. This is not a problem in Diarmuid Lawrence's 1996 television version of "Emma" (the eighth installment of "The Complete Jane Austen"), which stars a young Kate Beckinsale as our know-it-all protagonist. Beckinsale gets it right, because she's smarter than the character. She gets inside Emma's unwarranted swagger and plays it so sternly that you can't help but laugh at her when she solemnly speaks of her misguided plans. There are moments when you almost want to hate her, like when she huffs and puffs at Harriet and Mr. Martin every time they meet. But just as you are cursing her for interfering with her friend's happiness, you're laughing at Emma's serious and completely unfounded belief that Harriet must be the natural daughter of an aristocrat. The subtle ridiculousness is all in the script (another of Andrew Davies's spotless adaptations) and Beckinsale is expert at translating that into a quiet scowl or a smug grin.

It's a shame that this little-remembered "Emma" was overshadowed by the thankfully forgotten feature film version that was also released in 1996. That Emma starred a preening Gwyneth Paltrow as our heroine. The problem with Paltrow is that she doesn't seem altogether different from her character - haughty, indignant and in love with herself. Her chemistry with Jeremy Northam's Knightley left me cold. The Internet Movie Database claims that Northam is married to a woman in real life, but this adaptation convinced me that he was gay. Topping off this disappointing mess is screenwriter/director Douglas McGrath's script, which is hallow of Jane's words and full of scenes that aren't in the book.

John Glenister's 1972 five hour "Emma" mini-series promises a more thorough adaptation of the story, but ruined this writer's inclination to watch by starring hideous, shrill Doran Godwin. The first dvd was back in the case before the first scene had ended.

Conversely, I have never watched another film more frequently than writer/director Amy Heckerling's Clueless, 1995's far-flung adaptation of the text. Not only is this the best modernization of any Austen novel, it is also the best Emma. In this version, Emma is Cher (Alicia Silverstone), a beautiful and charming Beverly Hills high school student whose main interests include dressing well, driving terribly (with a learner's permit, without an adult), caring for her gruff attorney father (played by brilliant character actor Dan Hedaya) and, of course, match-making. Eager to prove to her "do-gooder" ex-stepbrother Josh (Paul Rudd) that her ploys are not purely based on self-interest, Cher takes on her toughest project to date - a working class, East coast stoner named Tai (Brittany Murphy). Despite Tai's immediate interest in dizzy skateboarder Travis Birkenstock, Cher determines that popular and arrogant Elton is a better choice for her wayward pal. And the parody builds from there.

What makes this movie such a great adaptation is that, even with all of the contemporary twists, the all-important tone is exactly as it should be. Emma is one of Austen's more comic stories and this retelling is genuinely hilarious, from the "As if!" valley girl slang to the clever choice of casting Christian - the modern-day Frank Churchill - as a homosexual (it isn't hard to believe that Frank may have been gay, as well). The point is that Heckerling managed to use the framework of a brilliant tale to tell a story that is as funny to modern viewers as the original must have been to a more genteel audience. I'd like to think that Jane, herself, would be proud of that feat.

The Thaw

The sky pounded out a half foot of snow on Friday evening. On the Tuesday prior, I was wandering through a soft, humid haze which emanated from acres and acres of defrosting lawns. Today is Easter Sunday, the fourth day of spring, and though I find myself, again, in a winter white world, I’m happy to report that the sidewalks are mostly clear. Ice doesn’t form so much when the ground is no longer frozen solid. It’s March in Michigan and I like to rally around the small victories.

You see, in Michigan the trees don’t bloom until the second half of April. By June, you can be reasonably assured that you won’t see your breath in a chilly breeze until September, but there are no guarantees in April or May. Winter usually suffers a slow death, so I find myself savoring all the quiet little harbingers of spring. The dawn of Daylight Saving Time is the first tangible reminder of summer’s existence, and I love that it now falls so early in the year. The evening is bright and that’s a change you can really feel. The vernal equinox – the moment when the sun’s direct light rises above the equator – is a more subtle, but no less significant change. This is the start of daytime’s six-month reign over night. To me, this is the true New Year’s Day.

That may be because I was born this time of year. I’ve always felt like I was really lucky to born in April, when there is so much promise of fun times ahead and all the Michigan people are experiencing every warm day as a moment of mass euphoria. Everyone is in an incredibly good mood when it’s 70 degrees and sunny in April. It’s like the entire population is on really good drugs. We’re just so happy that we can finally barbecue and have sex without socks again. It’s the yin to February’s yang. You can’t understand how those first warm days feel unless you’ve known a Michigan February, when everyone is depressed and driving poorly.

But don’t forget, winter can rise from the dead, like a bad action film villain, just to take another shot at your tender, thawing heart. This mini-blizzard from two days ago is a perfect example, and we’ve seen that sort of thing happen at the end of April, after many of the flowers have bloomed. And, snap! Everyone is back to being a February grump. That’s why I think it’s really important to focus on the little changes – the days that grow longer, those pregnant tree branches that are looking a little red and fuzzy around the edges, that first daffodil that you spot by the side of the road, the more frequent chirping of birds, and so on. Maybe I can trade this thick coat in for a jacket, and maybe I don’t need to wear a hat today. I get excited for these things, because even under all this Easter snow, the promise is still there.

Remember, Remember, Remember, Remember

I recently heard the theme from Fame on the radio, and quite unexpectedly, I was flung back about 25 years. Fame was a 1980 film before it was adapted for the telly in ’82. I don’t remember much about the movie, except the Oscar-winning song and that it was about high school performing arts students, but I absolutely loved the TV show. I’ve probably seen every episode, though it’s been about 20 years since I’ve watched it. But isn’t it strange how TV memories work their way into your subconscious mind and it turns out there’s all this space in your long term memory for an old Wrigley Spearmint gum jingle or the ad for the Pizza Party board game (bunch of fat guys with giant 'staches singing "Par-ty, Pizza Par-ty")? Well, that’s how it is for my brain when it comes to “Fame”. In fact, “Fame” may have been the most important television show of my childhood, and considering that I spent a good 15-20% of my youth in front of a TV set, that equals a pretty heavy influence.

Very often, I think about some random aspect of the show as it connects to my everyday life and I’m amazed that it should resonate that deeply after all these years. For instance, “Fame” was my introduction to anorexia. Remember when Holly the ballerina became obsessed with weight loss and stopped eating and then she went to the psych ward for anorexic chicks and befriended this other girl who taught her how to be bulimic and then that girl died and Holly “saw the light” and decided to eat breakfast and got to go to prom where her AC Slater-looking boyfriend serenaded her with Lionel Richie’s “Hello”? Well, shit, I remember and what’s more, for my whole life, every time I hear someone mention anorexia, I automatically think Holly/psych ward/dead girl/weird boyfriend with big greasy hair.

As an aside, I find it interesting that Cynthia Gibb, the actress who played Holly, also played the starring role in the made-for-TV movie, “The Karen Carpenter Story”. In an industry where most women could qualify as anorexic, how did she get typecast?

Anyway, I think the reason I loved “Fame” so much is that I wanted it to be my life. I wanted to go to the school where there were plausible outbreaks of song and dance in the hallways. I wanted to learn ballet from Clair Huxtable’s sister (Debbie Allen) and play the cello with the girl from Footloose (Lori Singer). If I could have been anyone on the show, I would have been Nia Peeples’s Nicole, because she had cool hair and was adopted, which struck me as sort of exotic. I last remember Nia Peeples hosting “Party Machine,” a late night dance show that followed Arsenio Hall. And just like Arsenio, I haven’t heard much of her since then.

But getting back to “Fame,” one of the things that made it really cool and more than just a teenybopper musical was the fact that it took place in New York in the ‘80’s, and boy, was it skanky. The neighborhood was rough, drugs and crime were everywhere, racial tensions were high. But against this dirty backdrop – which seemed to include a lot of grungy sets and costumes, as if, in my sister’s words, the show had been shot through a haze of Murphy’s Oil Soap – these kids worked their asses off pursuing artistic dreams. My young mind found that pretty fucking poetic.

One thing that really confused my young mind was when I would tune in for a new episode and instead, there would be one of those “The Kids from Fame” concerts. Apparently the actors went on tour, singing and dancing the show’s most beloved numbers. I felt a little cheated when that came on, though I always enjoyed it. Still, I found it disconcerting that, even though the actors were essentially singing and dancing in character, they were announced by their real names. When I would watch the next episode a week later, I found it very difficult to suspend disbelief because I had just seen the actors performing as themselves and now I was supposed to believe that Nia was Nicole and Janet Jackson was Cleo.

Speaking of Janet (Miss Jackson, if you’re nasty), this was her last TV role before she became a musicale superstar. Not only was she “Fame’s” Cleo, she was also Charlene (a.k.a. Willis’s girlfriend) from "Diff'rent Strokes" and Penny from "Good Times". Who can forget Penny, the little girl whose mother beat her with a hot iron? That “Good Times” wins second place for Most Fucked Up Sitcom Episode Ever*, and certainly many of us thought that Janet would be hard-pressed (ha ha) to surpass that performance. By the age of eighteen, she was a veteran sitcom actress and maybe no one expected her to be more than that chick from TV who is also Michael Jackson’s sister. And now, the emergence of her very boob is enough to send middle-America into hysterics. Who knew?

I guess that watching Janet rise to such stardom was like seeing the “Fame” dream come true. And I suppose that being famous was very appealing to me as a child. Now, I tend to think that being famous is mostly a pain in the ass, but I love the idea of being able to live and breathe your artistic pursuit. And I can’t think of any other television show that so impressed me with that notion. Not even Star Search.

*The first place winner is the “Diff’rent Strokes” when the boss of WKRP tries to drug and molest Arnold and Dudley.

Jane Addiction Part 7 - Pride and Prejudice Vol III

Welcome to my 10 week critique of films based on the works of Jane Austen. I will review each installment of PBS's "Masterpiece: The Complete Jane Austen" and also take a look at other adaptations of the same novel. Enjoy!

Note: "Masterpiece" just ended it's three week presentation of the 1995 Pride and Prejudice mini-series. During these three weeks, I gave a synopsis of each installment and also examined different types of P&P adaptations, including the tv mini-series and the Hollywood period piece. This week, I will focus on modernized interpretations of the story, which I call far-flung adaptations.

Pride and Prejudice Vol III
Synopsis:While enjoying her vacation in the Derbyshire countryside, Elizabeth Bennet is surprised to be Mr. Darcy's honored guest at his palatial home. She becomes quickly attached to his younger sister Georgiana (the would-be bride of the lecherous Wickham), who has heard so much of Lizzy from her brother. But before Lizzy can make sense of this new dynamic, she receives a shocking letter from her sister Jane: their youngest sister, Lydia, has run off with Wickham. Darcy happens to visit Lizzy just as she is receiving the news and she confides in him. As she prepares to return home immediately, he abruptly leaves. Knowing that she is, in all likelihood, about to become the sister-in-law of his arch nemesis, Lizzy realizes that she may have lost Darcy's interest forever, and that actually bothers her.

Lizzy returns to a home in turmoil. Her father has gone to London to find Lydia and Wickham and her mother is hysterical. Lizzy feels guilty for not revealing Wickham's true character beforehand. Soon, it becomes apparent that the couple have not married, and Lydia may be destined for a terrible reputation and no marital prospects (a fate actually worse than being married to Wickham). Mr. Bennet fails to find the two and returns home in shame. Miraculously, the Bennets receive word from the Gardiners that Wickham and Lydia have been found and will marry if Mr. Bennet agrees to give them one hundred pounds annually. Knowing that this could never be enough to entice Wickham, Mr. Bennet suspects that the Gardiners have bribed Wickham handsomely.

The newlyweds pay an uncomfortable visit to the Bennet home. As Lydia is bragging to her sisters about the wedding, she accidentally mentions that Mr. Darcy was there. Burning with curiosity, Lizzy confronts her aunt Gardiner about Darcy's role in Lydia's marriage and finds out that it was Darcy who paid Wickham to marry her. Lizzy realizes that he could only have done this out of consideration to herself and her hopes are rekindled. Shortly after the Wickhams leave for Newcastle, Bingley return to Netherfield with Darcy in tow. Jane and Lizzy are reunited with their suitors and Bingley quickly proposes to Jane. Darcy, however, is his old standoffish self, which confuses Lizzy. But she is completely thrown when Lady Catherine De Bourgh shows up on her porch, demanding that Lizzy promise to never marry her nephew.

Two of the very best Pride and Prejudice adaptations are modernizations of the text: the 2001 film version of Bridget Jones's Diary and the 2004 musical Bride and Prejudice. One story reshapes an average modern-day single Englishwoman as Elizabeth Bennet while the other faithfully interprets the marital politics of the original text through a Bollywood lens.

Bride and Prejudice's main success as a P&P adaptation is that very thoroughness that simply cannot be achieved in a contemporary western interpretation of the story. Most American women today are unlikely to relate completely to the marital woes of the Bennet girls. But in the context of an eastern society, where arranged marriages and dowries are more the norm, Elizabeth and Jane - or in this case, Lalita and Jaya - actually make complete sense in the present. In this version, Lalita and Darcy are socially divided by class and cultural differences. He is a brash, arrogant white American and Bingley is the Indian English Balraj Bingley who brings him to Armristar for a friends' wedding, where they meet the Bakshi daughters. And with the dazzling musical number that follows, this film really takes off. In addition to telling Austen's story really well, B&P adds enormous fun by being a Bollywood musical.

Famous Bollywood star Aishwarya Rai is well-cast as Lalita - she has the chops for the musical bits and she also gets the smartness of the character. Martin Henderson's Darcy, though not being nearly as dashing as Colin Firth or Laurence Olivier, is quite perfect as an obnoxious American. It's amusing to see Darcy interpreted this way. And for some fun, against-type casting, check out Naveen Andrews (tortured ex-torturer Sayeed from "Lost") as Bingley and Gilmore Girl Alexis Bledel as Georgie Darcy.

The casting is just another fine feature of this very canny adaptation. Overall, this version of P&P captures the spirit of the story better than most, and even outs forth a compelling and believable premise, despite the ramdom outbursts of song and dance.

The courtship of Elizabeth and Darcy takes a very different direction in Bridget Jones's Diary. Renee Zellweger's Bridget bears little resemblance to our Lizzy, at least at first. This character is best known for her flaws - her (over)weight, her propensity to get drunk and then stumble into work hungover, her "verbal diarrhea" tick, etc. In other words, she's a normal, lonely, single woman in her early thirties. Her main problem is that she has no confidence. Her discontent comes into a focus when she meets stuffy Mark Darcy at her mother's New Year's party and she overhears him insulting her. And like a modern-day Lizzy Bennet, she soon finds herself sleeping with Darcy's nemesis, Daniel Cleaver, who also happens to be her boss.

And thus, we have a contemporary tale of a questionably marriageable woman. In this rendition, our heroine suffers more from personal demons than social constraints, but our hero is just the same. In fact, this Darcy is also portrayed by Colin Firth, who, along with screenwriter Andrew Davies, carries much of the 1995 P&P mini-series into this story. His interactions with Zellweger bring out her inner Lizzy, as she unwittingly mocks his high class world with her nervous banter. Hugh Grant's Cleaver is the best Wickham that ever graced a P&P adaptation, bearing the perfect balance of sleazy and sexy. Even though you immediately sense his danger, you understand why Bridget falls for him.

A beautifully paced collection of hilarious vignettes, BJD is one of the most beloved Austen adaptations. In an era where an Elizabeth Bennet is no longer ahead of her time, it is so refreshing to see, instead, a woman who embodies all of our common fears. And in the end, that very average lady can still get her Darcy.

Jane Addiction Part 6 - Pride and Prejudice Vol. II

Welcome to my 10 week critique of films based on the works of Jane Austen. I will review each installment of PBS's "Masterpiece: The Complete Jane Austen" and also take a look at other adaptations of the same novel. Enjoy!

Note: "Masterpiece" is in the midst of it's three week presentation of the 1995 Pride and Prejudice mini-series. During these three weeks, I will give a synopsis of each installment and also examine three different types of P&P adaptations: the tv mini-series, the Hollywood period piece, and what I like to call far-flung adaptations, but more of that later. This week, I will focus on the Hollywood's straight adaptations of the story.

Pride and Prejudice Vol II

Mrs. Bennet is angry with Elizabeth for refusing Mr. Collins's marriage proposal, but is livid when Lizzy's friend, Charlotte decides to marry him, instead. Charlotte isn't much into romance and she assures Lizzy that she is happy with this choice as it will secure her financial health, but Lizzy is incredulous. At the same time, Jane must contend with the Bingley crew's abrupt departure from Netherfield. Both Elizabeth and Jane's marital prospects are suddenly shaky, especially after Wickham becomes suddenly engaged to a wealthy neighbor.

Jane and Lizzy find respite in respective holidays - Jane travels to London to visit her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner (also in hopes of reuniting with Bingley) and Lizzy visits Charlotte in her new home at Rosings. Wishing for Lizzy to regret all that she gave up in refusing his proposal, Mr. Collins makes a big show of introducing her to his rich benefactress, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Elizabeth is thoroughly unimpressed by haughty, bossy Lady Catherine, who happens to be Mr. Darcy's aunt. Soon enough, Lizzy finds herself in the company of her nemesis. Her anger toward Darcy roils with each passing day, especially when she learns that he expressly deterred Bingley from pursuing Jane. Unaware of her growing resentment, Darcy throws Lizzy for a loop when he asks her to marry him.

Elizabeth curtly refuses Darcy, pointing to his interference with Jane and Bingley as well as his past mistreatment of Wickham. Darcy storms off and soon leaves his aunt's house. But before he goes, he gives Lizzy a letter which explains his interference with Bingley (claiming that Jane's seeming indifference and the Bennet family's general ridiculousness made it look like a bad match) and his full history with Wickham (including the part where Wickham tried to run off with his underage sister). After Lizzy returns home, she takes a serious look at Wickham, her family and herself and increasingly finds that Darcy was on target. She tries in vain to prevent her father from allowing Lydia to travel alongside the regiment to Brighton and fails equally in keeping her mother from constantly haranguing Jane about Bingley.

Again, Lizzy finds balm in travel, joining the Gardiners on their trip to her aunt's hometown in Derbyshire. While there, Mrs. Gardiner insists that they tour neighboring Pemberly, Mr. Darcy's estate. Lizzy is at first nervous, but when the housekeeper at Pemberly informs them that Darcy is out of town, she is able to relax and take in the beauty of the surroundings. The trio are surprised by the housekeeper's unabashed praise of Darcy's character when suddenly, the man himself appears on the scene. Darcy politely introduces himself to Elizabeth's relations and cordially invites them to return during their visit in town. Lizzy leaves Pemberly pleasantly dazed by Darcy's newfound manner.

What with the budgets and the big stars, it would seem that Hollywood would have no problem producing the very best Austen adaptations and yet, this is consistently the most disappointing type of Austen adaptation. In fact, Hollywood filmmakers seem to do a much better job of modernizing or otherwise reinterpreting these texts (examples such as Bridget Jones's Diary and Bride and Prejudice will be explored next week), for when it comes to giving us a feature-length story that looks and feels like the novel, the industry largely fails. It is difficult to pinpoint a single reason why this is so. Both the 1940 and 2005 theatrical releases of Pride and Prejudice fall far short of the text, but in markedly different ways.

Robert Z. Leonard's 1940 Pride and Prejudice is certainly the worst of all P&Ps and it's badness is along the lines of what you would expect from a shoddy adaptation. Foremost is that the plot in Aldous Huxley's script barely resembles the novel. In this version, neither Darcy or Elizabeth are flawed as much as they are misunderstood, mostly by each other. Their tension sprouts from a series of childish misinterpretations and assumptions, sort of like a "Three's Company" episode. Some of the villains aren't so bad either, like Edna May Oliver's Lady Catherine, who only puts on a front of haughtiness to test Elizabeth's strength(?).

Nevertheless, this version remains popular to this day, undoubtedly due to Laurence Olivier's portrayal of Darcy. Colin Firth's Darcy may be more to the heart of our hero, but could there ever be a more perfect movie star cast in this role? Olivier, the prince of classic film royalty, is Hollywood's best answer to English aristocracy. How unfortunate that he should be paired with Greer Garson as Elizabeth. In addition to being bland and a little prissy, Garson seems too matronly to play this young woman. She cannot evoke youthful pride. She has no spark.

In comparison to that farce, Joe Wright's 2005 Pride and Prejudice is stellar, and even outside the comparison, this one manages to get a lot right. Screenwriter Deborah Maggoch masterfully wraps together every key scene in just 129 minutes, without dropping too many characters or plot turns. Roman Osin's cinematography - the use of natural light, fog, rain - is breathtaking, even on the small screen. The palette of rich blues and browns is especially flattering to Keira Knightley, who is as beautiful but also as understated as Lizzy should be.

The real rub of this version is that Knightley's resemblance to Elizabeth ends there. She's very good in the role she plays, but that role just isn't Lizzy. Instead, she comes off as a typical modern-day 20-year-old - a little boy crazy and very brooding. There are numerous shots of her sulking in the corner, frowning to herself as she twirls on a swing, sighing in her lonely sorrow- these are the moments when the movie really drags. Beside that, her portrayal simply isn't consistent with Austen's 20-year-old heroine, who is beloved for being the ideal of good-humored womanhood.

But Knightley isn't alone in missing the target. When many good actors go wrong, the director is usually to blame. Wright must have strove to make this P&P unique by pushing his players to reinterpret these well-worn roles, but ultimately, the story suffers. Donald Sutherland's Mr. Bennet is the worst example. Instead of being a sharp-witted man who has grown too used to making a joke of his wife and daughters, he's a dizzy dilettante who doesn't know any better. In the end, he's a helpless romantic. Sutherland's stab at Mr. Sensitivity is not only inappropriate to the tale, it's also poorly executed. He seems to be hopped up on Vicodin. Also a disappointment is Rosamund Pike's distractingly odd Jane. While the novel's Jane is certainly reserved, this one is said to be very shy, which Pike emotes through a lot of weird "deer in the headlights" facial expressions. Though pretty in certain flashes, her face is undeniably British.

Brenda Blethyn, on the other hand, rocks the reinterpretation in her remodeling of Mrs. Bennet. She makes the most of Sutherland's sleepy portrayal by toning down her own character, who is usually the harpy to Mr. Bennet's wise ass. Blethyn's Mrs. B is no less of a drama queen, but she also captures this overgrown teenager's arrested development. Sadly, her performance is the only quality standout in this well-written, gorgeously shot but poorly directed attempt at a feature-length Austen adaptation.

Jane Addiction Part 5 - Pride and Prejudice Vol. I

Welcome to my 10 week critique of films based on the works of Jane Austen. I will review each installment of PBS's "Masterpiece: The Complete Jane Austen" and also take a look at other adaptations of the same novel. Enjoy!

Note: "Masterpiece" began it's three week presentation of the 1995 Pride and Prejudice mini-series this past Sunday. During these three weeks, I will give a synopsis of each installment and also examine three different types of P&P adaptations: the tv mini-series, the Hollywood period piece, and what I like to call far-flung adaptations, but more of that later. This week, I will focus on the mini-series.

Pride and Prejudice
Synopsis: Mrs. Bennet is hell-bent upon marrying her five daughters: gentle, sunny Jane, the eldest; witty Elizabeth, who takes after her father; prudish, pretentious Mary; stompy whiner Kitty; and baby Lydia, an obnoxious flirt who greatly resembles her mother. When wealthy, single Mr. Bingley moves into nearby Netherfield estate, Mrs. Bennet decides that he must become her son-in-law.

The very affable Bingley is instantly struck by Jane and their courtship commences at a village ball. On that occasion, he introduces his sisters and his best friend, Mr. Darcy to his new neighbors, who are thrilled to discover that Darcy is even richer and just as eligible as Bingley. But Darcy's stuffy manner makes a bad impression, especially upon Elizabeth, who happens to overhear him criticizing her appearance. Her contempt for Darcy sealed, she finds much mirth in making fun of him.

As Jane and Bingley's romance blossoms, two new suitors appear on the scene - sniveling Mr. Collins, a cousin of the Bennet girls who stands to inherit their father's estate and Mr. Wickham, a dashing young soldier in the local regimen. Elizabeth and Wickham hit it off immediately and he confides in her that he was once close to Darcy, hinting that he was responsible for ruining his intended career as a minister. The two bond over their shared antipathy for Darcy. Meanwhile, Mr. Collins tells Mrs. Bennet that he intends to marry one of her daughters and that he is leaning toward Jane, but since she expects Bingley to propose to Jane, she pushes him to choose another. He fixes upon Elizabeth, who is mortified when she finds herself receiving Collins's long-winded proposal. At the same time, she has no idea that she has also drawn the attention of Mr. Darcy.

The tv mini-series is undoubtedly the best potential format for a Jane Austen adaptation. It's all about having enough time to get the story right. It takes a good five or six hours to tell a tale that truly resembles the book. However, it takes great direction, screenwriting and acting to tell that story well. Both the 1980 and 1995 mini-series versions of Pride and Prejudice trump almost all other performances of this or any other Austen novel in meeting that criteria.

Simon Langton's 1995 adaptation became the gold standard P&P and remains so, even after the much lauded (and overrated) 2005 Keira Knightley feature film. Again, veteran Austen adaptor Andrew Davies delivers a script carved out of Jane's own prose, adding no more filler than a few gratuitous Darcy bath scenes. And when Colin Firth is playing our unlikely hero, what's so bad about that? Firth (not to be confused with slimy Peter Firth from the 1986 Northanger Abbey), with his proud jaw and stilted speech, is Darcy inside out. His chemistry with Jennifer Ehle's Elizabeth, which must have certainly reflected their real-life on-set romance, builds steam from the moment they meet. Her manner of speaking through half-choked up laughter is the perfect foil to his urbane stoicism - just the way that Lizzy and Darcy ought to be.

Director Langton succeeds exactly where so many others fail in grasping the proper tone. The story is largely funny, especially when we see the acerbic Mr. Bennet (Benjamin Whitrow) needle his nutty wife, played by the expertly shrill Alison Steadman. But it also succeeds in conveying the Bennets' serious dysfunctionality, from Mrs. Bennet's bald-faced manipulation to her husband's careless indifference toward his daughters' future financial stability. But no one is more deliciously fucked up than Julia Sawalha's Lydia. If you are familiar with Sawalha as bookish, conservative Saffron from "Absolutely Fabulous", you will be blown away by her portrayal of this vain and trampy troublemaker.

Overall, this P&P triumphs in thoroughness and detail, vividly capturing every key episode and plot turn. Only in comparison to Cyril Coke's 1980 version of the story do it's shortcomings appear. This earlier P&P has every quality that the latter version boasts - including a stellar adapted screenplay by Fay Weldon and a just-as-sexy Darcy (David Rintoul) - but adds to that a more convincing and likable Elizabeth. Elizabeth Garvie's Lizzy, though not as pretty as Ehle's, is more subtle, more dry. Her ceaseless laugh is less in her voice and more in her eyes. Sabina Franklyn's angelic Jane is appropriately radiant, whereas in the 1995 version, the producers chose horse-faced Susannah Harker to play the eldest Bennet girl. This is the single biggest flaw in the latter version; it is simply unbelievable that she could be the reputed beauty of the neighborhood. The producers fall into the common trap of casting a lead actress who is exponentially prettier than the other women, simply because she is the heroine.

If it can trump the much beloved 1995 version, the 1980 version is surely the best P&P around. Besides being thorough, well acted, and beautifully shot on one of those BBC dollhouse sets that they just don't make anymore, it is exceptionally nuanced. Through some unusually elegant voice-over narration, we get to know Elizabeth's mind and really feel her discomfort in realizing that her crazy family is quickly imploding.

Minutia

If Hillary Clinton wins the Democratic Party’s nomination, I will be leading a write-in campaign for No Thanks. That way, I can still flaunt an “I Voted” sticker on Election Day.

Remember when Wheel of Fortune contestants had to spend their winnings on household goods that lay upon a spinning showcase, and there was always a life-size ceramic dog up for grabs? Usually, it was a Dalmatian. Do you know anyone who has ever owned a life-size ceramic Dalmatian? If so, is it not incredibly likely that that person was a Wheel of Fortune contestant circa 1984?

One of my few deep peeves is when “myriad” is used as a noun, because it is actually an adjective.

A character actor is a performer who is known either for consistently portraying the same type of character (e.g. Danny Aiello as That Mob Guy) or for playing myriad (not “a myriad of”) character types. The definition of a character actor is a paradox.

Go, ahead. Eat the brie rind.

Judith Regan used to run a Harper Collins subsidiary for Rupert Murdoch. She is well known for being a reprobate and has found incredible success in publishing many trashy books, like Jenna Jameson’s How to Make Love Like a Porn Star and Jose Canseco’s Juiced. She used to fuck the NYC chief of police, who was supposed to be the secretary of homeland security. But, it turned out that he was married and fucking a third woman AND conducting his affairs in an apartment complex that was reserved for 911 victims and their families, so that didn’t work out for him (nor did this scandal help his old boss Rudy Guiliani’s presidential bid). Judith Regan’s influence ripples through our culture.

What is your most loathsome cliché? Mine is “playing the race card”. I believe that we American citizens should make a compact to eliminate this phrase from all public dialogue, if only because it was borne of the OJ trial.

If Hillary Clinton becomes President, our last four leaders will be named, in order, Bush, Clinton, Bush, Clinton. Does this sound like a democracy?

Judith Regan was supposed to publish and promote OJ Simpson’s book If I Did It, including a televised interview with the man himself, in which he explains how he would have killed his wife if he had actually done it. In a rare moment of grace, the average American decided that was just a little too fucked up, and the deal fell apart.

Chutney is a relish made of fruit and spices. The fruit offers texture, but surprisingly little sweetness. Ketchup is a chutney.

Remember when Pat Sajak had a late night talk show, and a semblance of humanity?

Jose Canseco admitted to using steroids in Juiced and named a lot of other players, too. In his upcoming book, Vindicated, he is said to name Detroit Tigers right fielder Magglio Ordoñez, who rose to new heights last season when he held the highest batting average in the American League. This rumor came to light after Ordoñez and Tigers Gerneral Manager Dave Dombrowski informed the baseball commissioner’s office that Canseco had contacted Ordoñez, offering to keep his name “clear” if Magglio would consider investing in a film project. “I don’t want trouble… He must be desperate for money,” was mild-mannered Magg’s response. Vindicated will not be published by Judith Regan, who got fired last year for spewing obnoxious claims about Jewish people to a Jewish Harper Collins lawyer.

Jane Addiction Part 4 - Miss Austen Regrets

Welcome to my 10 week critique of films based on the works of Jane Austen. I will review each installment of PBS's "Masterpiece: The Complete Jane Austen" and also take a look at other adaptations of the same novel. Enjoy!

Note: Since the following film is a biopic and not an Austen adaptation, I will be reviewing it alone. Alas, I have not seen the 2007 biopic Becoming Jane (due out on dvd February 12th) and am unable to make a comparison.

Miss Austen Regrets
Synopsis: Nearing age forty, popular novelist Jane is still a very single Miss Austen. Though an old maid by definition, she is flirtatious and funny and finds endless amusement in playfully mocking her peers - much to the glee of her impressionable young niece, Fanny. But Jane is at odds with other family members. Her mother resents her for never marrying. Her brothers are embarrassed to have a wage-earning sister. These rifts deepen when Jane convinces Fanny to refuse a stuffy minister's marriage proposal, thereby placing her niece in the same shaky financial straits that she, herself, faces daily. Despite her family's palpable anger and Fanny's mounting bitterness, Jane is nevertheless steadfast in her devotion to writing, but when health problems arise she begins taking account of her past choices.

Director Jeremy Lovering's Miss Austen Regrets is brimming with cinematic and narrative delights, not the least of which is the title, a play on Cole Porter's wonderfully macabre melody "Miss Otis Regrets". But instead of detailing the demise of a woman spurned, screenwriter Gwyneth Hughes tells the story of a woman who spurns, for a number of fascinating reasons. This characterization of Jane the Heartbreaker is expertly carried by the lovely Olivia Williams, who may be best known as Bill Murray and Jason Schwartzman's shared love interest in Rushmore. Williams's Jane is exactly what Austen fans want her to be - beautiful, clever, sarcastic, and singular.

And yet she remained inexplicably single. Little is known about Austen's life, especially since most of her letters were burned upon her death. The well-know fact that she didn't marry is a puzzle to those of us readers who see ourselves in her thoughtful tales of love and marriage. How could she know so much about the things she never experienced?

As this version has it, Jane is very familiar with yearnings of the heart. She's entertained advances from more than one suitor and she has even been in love. Her stated claim for never getting hitched is that she has never met a man rich enough for her taste. This is as shocking to Fanny as it is to the viewer. "But all of your heroines married for love and not money!" she insists, to which her father replies, "If you think that's what her books say, perhaps you should read them again." Certainly, all of Jane's heroines wed for love, but most of them also marry into greater wealth (those who don't either come from money or find ancillary support in a sibling's more fruitful marriage). Even in Austen's world, where the virtuous seem to always find true love, marital bliss cannot be had without an ample income.

But Jane herself is no mere fortune hunter. She has at least as much to lose in betrothal as she could ever possibly gain, and the illustration of this quagmire is where Miss Austen Regrets gets really brilliant. It is reminiscent of Elizabeth I, in which Helen Mirren portrays Englands other most famous virgin as a painfully passionate woman who must forgo matrimony to maintain her power. For Jane, her power is in her ability to completely own the time and space she needs to write. The filmmakers capture the sanctity of this time and space in one perfect shot, in which we see Jane's scrawling pen abruptly rise from the parchment at the sound of a servant bustling through the room, hang in midair, and just as swiftly continue writing once the servant has leaves. These artful details elucidate the subtly tragic irony behind this woman's wordy gift of wit.

Miss Austen Regrets will be a bonus feature on the 2008 Sense and Sensibility dvd, to be released on April 8. But if I were you, I would figure out when my local PBS affiliate is rerunning it and watch it as soon as I can.