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.