Adaptation

October 24, 2006

I read Jane Eyre when I was twelve. Something about that novel latched itself onto my pre-teen angst and still clutches my heart with devoted appreciation. There has never been a movie produced that does it justice – that, in my mind, captures what makes the novel compelling. There is supposedly a play… but I think that would be even worse.

This fall I have experienced a couple attempts of local theaters to mount a stage presentation of novels written by English women in the early 19th century. The productions I witnessed had some very strong elements, commendable performances, and very beautiful re-creations of the periods they represent. But, oy… I have come to the conclusion as both a participant in one and the witness to others… that riveting theater these novels do not make.

You can never please an audience adapting a beloved novel. There will always be someone to complain. There are millions of readers with millions of different backgrounds to craft their interpretation of characters and the way things are supposed to look and play out. And in theater, there is a number of equally varied opinions as to what is 'art' or entertainment.

This is, of course, merely my opinion. Those women had a lot of time on their hands, holed away in their manses, walking across the moors, or waiting for their philandering, sexually ambiguous husbands to come home. I don't have that sort of time… and grow very impatient with their needless exposition. I want to see something happen – not just imagine it as someone tells me in flowery language. I appreciate the bravery of the adapters… but I think the medium limits the ability to stay true to the novel and create a workable stage piece.

So, there's my snooty intellectual diatribe for the day. I'm sure when the opportunity to see Jane Eyre comes around, I'll still go. Because I always have hope… maybe the next time will be different.