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Jane and Jo(sephine): Another Character Comparison

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Jane and Jo(sephine): Another Character Comparison

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March 22, Chapters 34 - 38

*contains spoilers for Little Women*

The last character to whom I compared Jane Eyre was Elizabeth Bennet from Jane Austen’s 1813 novel Pride and Prejudice. The 19th-century convention-breaking heroines certainly weren’t limited to English literature, though. It has been about four years since I read Louisa May Alcott’s 1868 novel Little Women, so it was entirely out of my mind throughout the course of Jane Eyre until reading the simple line, “. . . the best of them seemed to me ignorant, coarse, and besotted, compared with my Morton girls” (Brontë 375). I was immediately reminded of Jo March and the school that she established at Plumfield after inheriting the estate from her Aunt March, and, after this recollection, I also began to notice a growing list of notable similarities between Jo and Jane.

If you’re unfamiliar with Little Women, the story, set in New England during and after the Civil War, follows the four March sisters from adolescence into young adulthood. Josephine, who obstinately prefers to be called the less feminine Jo, is the most tomboyish and spirited of the sisters. Determined not to marry, she instead wants to be wholly dedicated forever to her sisters and her ambitions as a writer. However, as her sisters move on with their own lives, she becomes increasingly torn between her desire for independence and her need for love, acceptance, and companionship. Beginning to sound like anyone we know? She turns down a proposal from her close childhood friend Laurie, who would have been an expected and perfectly acceptable match, and she later ends up marrying a much older, much less attractive German professor, Friedrich Bhaer. While Jane was certainly not as decidedly unfeminine as Jo often was, she did struggle with the 19th-century social conventions surrounding womanhood. Jane was unusually passionate and shockingly willful for a woman of her time period and status. She can be as blunt as Jo is, though she is not nearly as unrestrained in her expression. Furthermore, Jane likewise rejects a proposal from St. John, who was by social standards an acceptable and even desirable partner, and would prefer to remain unmarried rather than marry one she does not love (essentially anyone besides Rochester). Though romance plays a more central role in Jane’s story than in Jo’s, both women are fundamentally forming an individual identity and striving for freedom while confronting the respective challenges posed by convention.

Below is a clip from Greta Gerwig’s 2019 adaptation of Little Women, in which I thought actress Saoirse Ronan did a great job of capturing the struggle between independence and companionship common to both Jo and Jane in this pained and conflicted monologue.

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Liberty Really Is a Much Nicer Word than Servitude

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Liberty Really Is a Much Nicer Word than Servitude

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March 22, Chapters 34 - 38

Jane certainly comes a long way in less than two years. It makes sense, though, that almost getting married and then almost dying and then almost moving to India, all while witnessing several truly astounding revelations and making at least a few morally-charged, life-defining decisions in between, would dramatically shape her perspective and character. After eight relatively dull years at Lowood, Jane is finally prompted by the marriage and departure of Miss Temple to venture into the outside world. She initially gasps for liberty from her sheltered, monotonous life, but she quickly decides that this lofty ideal is “so hollow and fleeting that it is [a] mere waste of time” (Brontë 78). She instead contents herself with what she considers the more appropriate and realistic goal of “a new servitude” (78). Though she has always had a deep sense of justice, dignity, and self-worth, Jane herself does not yet seem to understand the full implications of that inherent human worth. Stifled by class, convention, and inexperience, she cannot yet articulate, much less act on, the idea that she is an equal, independent person deserving of liberty. However, by the conclusion of her time at Morton and Marsh End, Jane can fully wield her liberty and triumph over St. John’s unyielding and often persuasive despotism.

I broke from St. John, who had followed, and would have detained me. It was my time to assume ascendency. My powers were in play and in force. I told him to forbear question or remark; I desired him to leave me: I must and would be alone. He obeyed at once. Where there is energy to command well enough, obedience never fails. (405)

Jane has now twice followed her conscience and escaped from two men who have attempted to ensnare her, one with romantic desire and the other with religious exhortations. Under St. John’s exacting mentorship, she experienced just how dreadful servitude, which she had been perfectly content to pursue less than two years prior, could be when it was devoid of all warmth, love, and feeling. Conversely, she has realized that liberty, enjoyment, and excitement were not and should not be beyond her reach. In rejecting Rochester’s pleas that she become his mistress, Jane had to utterly deny her own passions and cling to principle in the face of insanity and idolization. In rejecting St. John’s persistent proposal, Jane this time must cling to her personal judgment to conquer improper veneration of St. John and the imposition of God’s supposed will. Despite the inner turmoil and conflict Jane experienced in both situations, both decisions ultimately brought her closer to her ideal of self-respect, independence, and liberty. Even so, Jane does not fully reject servitude. She is eager to give her entire life and self to Rochester, as she believes she can now love and serve him while retaining her independence. Jane reconciles servitude, an ugly, uninspiring word, with the much more beautiful notion of liberty.

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March 16, Chapters 27 - 33

About three years ago, I was watching the 2011 adaptation of Jane Eyre with my sister, only to abandon it about 20 minutes in because we were both annoyed with the way that the movie started closer to the end of the novel with Jane’s desperate, depressed wanderings and arrival at Marsh End. This attention-grabbing exposition is then followed by a series of what I remember being extremely tedious flashbacks. I had practically forgotten about the movie and its peculiar beginning until rereading the scene this past week, and I began to consider how using precisely this portion of the story could be such a thought-provoking way of framing Jane’s journey.

In a continuation of his vampiric qualities (which I discussed at length in a previous post), Mr. Rochester seems to “devour [Jane] with his flaming glance” (Brontë 305). Jane effectively dies to the world upon her departure from Thornfield, as she has separated herself from all those who know and love her, and she has left behind practically all of her earthly possessions. The night before she leaves, though, Jane appropriately revisits the tormenting childhood memory of the red room, her recurring reminder of oppression and judgment, and meets with a sort of angelic, supernatural “mother” in her dream. As Jane is reduced to intermittently begging and despairing at Whitcross, she increasingly appears like a helpless young child. Furthermore, the maternal imagery continues; Jane submits herself to the care of the “universal mother, Nature . . .” as she “seeks her breast and asks repose” as a baby would sleep in its mother’s embrace (310). When Jane has been brought to her lowest physical, emotional, and spiritual point, she is made even more pathetic by the rain cruelly drenching her.

This rain, however, could also serve as a symbolic “baptism” and rebirth; even on the dark, misty night, she is fortuitously guided by candlelight to Marsh End, the perfect image of glowing warmth, comfort, and companionship for the distressed, nearly dead Jane. It serves as a foil to Jane’s childhood home at Gateshead. It is quaint rather than grand and imposing, and the three Rivers siblings lead upright, relatively harmonious lives, unlike the discordant, destructive, and corrupt dynamics that prevailed among the Reeds. Jane is quickly accepted by the family, and she allows herself to be cared for as a child would be, saying, “Do with me and for me as you would like” (325). Perhaps most importantly, though, Jane introduces herself with the new name “Jane Elliot,” which corresponds with her baptism and rebirth and represents the new life she can begin with the experience of true family, companionship, and acceptance that she had been missing her entire life. Beyond serving as an intriguing and visually striking first scene for a movie, this portion of the novel also acts as the symbolic beginning of a new life for Jane.

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The opening scene from the latest film adaptation of "Jane Eyre," directed by Cary Fukunaga and now on Blu-ray and DVD.

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March 16, Chapters 27 - 33

Jane has had a rough day, and it’s showing. After throwing herself at God’s feet, Jane emerges from her room with the firm determination to leave Thornfield and, more importantly, painfully disentangle herself from her precarious situation with Rochester. While her love, compassion, and pity are internally warring with her conscience and principles, she remains firm. Her crying, which could typically be associated with feminine fragility, is ironically a calculated means of manipulation. Though emotionally exhausted, tempted, and threatened, Jane continually rises to the occasion even as she is “driven to utter extremity” with something like the strength of God supporting her through her trial (Brontë). Seeing Jane boldly face a particularly brutish and aggressive Rochester while subduing her own intensely agitated emotions is impressive, but some of her assertions and internal monologues are a concerning reflection of the extremes to which the day’s tumultuous events have driven her. Only a month ago, Jane sobbed at the thought of leaving Thornfield, which she had come to see as her home, and Rochester, whom she had obviously grown to love. Now, overwhelmed with guilt and a belief in her own past foolishness, Jane unyieldingly reaffirms and tightly clings to her principles:

I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself . . . I will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and not mad - as I am now. Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour . . . Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot. (Brontë 305)

Jane’s rush of moral courage and firmness was undeniably essential at this moment, as it saved her from descent into a bigamous relationship with Rochester. However, her monologue also reveals the dangers of such moral stringency. Jane’s relationship with Rochester had become so broken that her very notion of dignity was warped. In her desperation, she runs from her passion toward the belief that she must sever all her personal ties as a twisted form of independence. Only shortly after leaving Thornfield that next morning, Jane is left with “no solace from self-approbation: none even from self-respect” (308). Though this is largely the result of her regret for having harmed and deserted Rochester, it still stands in absurd contrast with her assertion from the previous night. Hopefully, Jane will finally discover the balance between passion and principle, connection and independence.

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What Psalm 69 Tells Us about Jane's Inner Turmoil

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What Psalm 69 Tells Us about Jane's Inner Turmoil

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March 5, Chapters 20 - 26

It is no surprise to anyone that biblical allusions play a major role in Jane Eyre. In the post below I discuss the various ways in which Rochester fits the vampire archetype, a consideration that makes his consistent use of biblical imagery depicting him as Jane’s shepherd and her as his lamb throughout these chapters ironically creepy; at this point, he more closely resembles a wolf looking to devour her. Another biblical allusion I found deeply insightful, though not in such an ironic way, was the brief quotation that concludes chapter 26: “The waters came into my soul; I sank in deep mire: I felt no standing; I came into deep waters; the floods overflowed me.” While I’m generally acquainted with the Bible, I don’t have the benefit of the encyclopedic knowledge of each of the 150 psalms that Victorian readers would have had. This may be an exaggeration, but I maintain the point that many 19th-century English readers were much more familiar with the Bible than the typical 21st-century reader. Thus, I thought it would be useful to read the entirety of what turned out to be Psalm 69, “assuming the Victorian mindset” and gleaning from the short quote the more extensive implications that Brontë likely could have expected her audience to grasp. I was surprised (though I really should know better by now) by how closely the rest of the Psalm reflected Jane’s overarching character and current psychological state.

The three verses directly quoted in the book reflect Jane’s overwhelming and unbearable rush of misery and fear as she reflects on the gravity of her suddenly dreadful situation. Immediately after these verses, though, David, the author of this psalm, begins to decry the unjust hatred of his innumerable enemies. Jane herself has often described a similar sense of being hated and oppressed by all around her, particularly at Gateshead and in her first months at Lowood. She had finally found acceptance, comfort, and family at Thornfield, only for it to be torn away at the very moment she thought it would be forever secured through her marriage to Rochester. The Psalm marks a possible return to her former repression, loneliness, and insecurity. Several verses later, David confesses his foolishness and sinfulness just as Jane admits her weakness and blindness throughout the entire course of events. It is difficult for me to place practically any blame on Jane in this chaotic, tragic situation, but I do not doubt that Jane, who has continually valued prudence and moral rectitude, is tormented with guilt. David then appeals to God for both reprieve and the destruction of his enemies, just as Jane shortly before laid down in self-abandonment before God. He even pleas, “Let their eyes be darkened, so that they do not see.” Do I sense foreshadowing? Fortunately, Psalm 69 concludes on an exultant note of praise: while David himself is “poor and sorrowful,” he trusts in God’s greatness and mercy to lift him up and ultimately allow him to inherit the earth. Hopefully, Jane’s current grief will be similarly transformed into triumph as she continues in the journey out from under her oppressors and toward greater liberty.

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March 5, Chapters 20 - 26

With our recent return to Thomas Foster’s writing, this time in the form of How to Read Poetry Like a Professor, I thought now would be a good time to also look back a bit at our summer reading, How to Read Literature Like a Professor, specifically his discussion of vampires, or “Vampyres” as Brontë would spell it. (Does the ‘y’ annoy anyone else way more than it should?) I am guessing that many of you, like me as a modern reader, have found Jane and Rochester’s romance problematic on a few points to say the least, even before the “I’ve had my crazy wife locked up in my house for fifteen years” detail was revealed. For this reason, in addition to the fact that I likely wouldn’t be able to do the topic justice in such a short format, I won’t be going through all of the aspects of their relationship that readers from the 19th to 21st centuries have found objectionable. I did find this really interesting article from JSTOR Daily, though, if you are interested in reading more about the larger social implications of their relationship as well as learning about how Charlotte Brontë's own love life influenced her portrayal of romance. (There are spoilers if you read past the story about Brontë and Héger!)

To return to the topic of vampires, Foster describes the essence of vampirism as “selfishness, exploitation, and the refusal to respect the autonomy of other people'' (Foster 16). While Rochester may not be all that handsome or wholly evil as Foster notes many symbolic vampires are, he is a deeply flawed, sinful, and older man pursuing a much younger, innocent woman specifically because of her innocence and purity. Several months before Rochester aggressively proposes to Jane, he makes the source of his love and attachment clear to readers:

[H]ope has quitted you on the very confines of life; your sun at noon darkens in an eclipse, which you feel will not leave it till the time of setting. Bitter and base associations have become the sole food of your memory: you wander here and there, seeking rest in exile: happiness in pleasure … Heart-weary and soul-withered, you come home after years of voluntary banishment: you make a new acquaintance … you find in this stranger much of the good and bright qualities which you have sought for twenty years, and never before encountered; and they are all fresh, healthy, without soil and without taint. Such society revives, regenerates: you feel better days come back - higher wishes, purer feelings; you desire to recommence your life, and to spend what remains to you of days in a way more worthy of an immortal being. (Brontë 7)

Though Rochester concedes to Jane’s language of equality during his turbulent, peculiar proposal, he has already revealed that he sees her not as an equal partner, but a form of penance, an angelic instrument of his regeneration. He describes how his sun darkened at noon, representing his metaphorical death, which we later find out coincides with his disastrous marriage. Though he doesn’t specifically name Jane in his monologue, the reference is obvious to the audience while, in a stroke of dramatic irony, it completely goes over Jane’s head. However kindly he may intend to treat Jane, showering her with wealth, luxury, and travel, she is still just a tool. He preys on her goodness, which is a means by which he can keep himself alive after his descent into sin and darkness. As is the case with vampires, though, he is not lifting himself up but instead dragging Jane down into the same darkness that has consumed him for so many years. The sexual innuendos of the Eden-like garden in which Rochester proposed, with its warm summer air, blooming flowers, and ripe fruit, are impossible to miss, and the event thus represents the loss of Jane’s purity and innocence. Then of course there’s the much larger issue of his attempt to entrap Jane in bigamy. With the official introduction (beyond eerie laughter and wailing I mean) of Bertha Mason, the cause of Rochester’s “death” is finally revealed, and it was in fact another “Vampyre,” as would be expected. Beyond the simply disturbing imagery of red eyes and a purple, bloated face, the deeper symbolism of this characteristically gothic element represents how moral depravity can feed on and infect others’ lives.

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England, France, and the West Indies: Jane Eyre’s Approach to Foreigners

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England, France, and the West Indies: Jane Eyre’s Approach to Foreigners

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February 22, Chapters 11 - 19

While this post may be somewhat premature given that Mr. Mason has just arrived from the West Indies, promising more discussion of far-off places to come in the novel, I thought it would be interesting to examine the cultural dynamics as they develop over the course of several posts. Hopefully, I will have more specific commentary on the West Indies and the novel’s other colonialist implications in the coming weeks. In regards to this week’s reading, though, the novel’s first “foreigner,” Adèle Varens, bursts onto the scene within only a few pages. Her lively and utterly unreserved nature quickly distinguishes her from Jane’s continual suppression of her own passions as well as the novel’s generally subdued atmosphere. Everything about her is so explicitly French that she very nearly becomes a caricature. She is distinctly Catholic against a solid backdrop of Evangelical Protestantism, she is unaccustomed to disciplined study, she carries on incessantly about “pretty dresses and toys,” and she demands attention with her dancing and hardly age-appropriate, almost sensual singing (Brontë 95). While Jane admittedly cares for Adèle and sympathizes with her as “a lonely little orphan,” practically every description of her is tinted with a sense of moral superiority as the reader is continually reminded of the girl’s frivolity and materialism (136).
With Rochester’s description of Adèle’s mother, Céline Varens, it becomes increasingly clear that these defects are symbolically associated with French culture generally rather than Adèle’s youthful nature specifically. Cèline is not only similarly shallow, but she is additionally dishonest, unfaithful, and careless, even toward her own daughter. Thinking back on Rochester’s account, Jane herself notes how commonplace it is for the supposedly innocent Englishman to fall for the “treachery” of the “French dancer” (137). Jane certainly is not hesitant to attack English culture and norms where she thinks appropriate either, but the subtle yet continuous notion of English rectitude and relative French impropriety is difficult to ignore. Given the recent and rather sudden entrance of the “vacant” and “singularly sallow” Mr. Mason from Jamaica, the cultural conversation will likely continue in a decidedly more colonialist direction. The explicit focus on his darkened, even unhealthy complexion potentially symbolizes another “innocent” Englishman who has fallen prey to the debased foreigner. Considering England’s imperialist role in the West Indies, though, Mason’s sickly emptiness could just as easily reflect his personal depravity. Jamaica was the site of major slave uprisings throughout the 18th and early 19th centuries (another important historical detail in itself given Jane’s early applications of slave-related imagery to her own situation), and, though slavery was abolished throughout the British empire in 1834, indentured servitude and severe racism persisted. Both Mason and Rochester would have undoubtedly been at the top of a treacherous social hierarchy due simply to their skin color, and Rochester’s mere association with the West Indies (as well as the acute distress he experiences at the very mention of Mr. Mason) thus has potentially dire moral implications. It will be interesting to see if the currently vague suggestion of English superiority is sharpened or tempered in the chapters to come as well as how the characters’ morality will be shaped by cultural and racial dynamics.

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February 22, Chapters 11 - 19

Even with intensely dramatic scenes, such as Mr. Rochester almost being burned alive, or creepily mysterious encounters, such as the “demoniac laugh,” supposedly of Grace Poole, at Jane’s door, Jane and Rochester’s sharp, witty, and often unwieldy dialogues are hands down the most entertaining part of the book for me (Brontë 139). When the quick pace and sudden shifts of their first conversation continually left Mrs. Fairfax bewildered, I was immediately reminded of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy’s first conversation in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, which left Caroline Bingley similarly out of her depth.

“There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.”

“And your defect is a propensity to hate every body.”

“And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is willfully to misunderstand them.”
(Austen 58)

As Jane and Rochester’s willingness to be blunt, confrontational, and even offensive to one another become more apparent, my attention was increasingly drawn toward the similarities between the unconventionally spirited and strong-willed women that Brontë and Austen both chose for their protagonist.

“Besides, since happiness is irrevocably denied me, I have a right to get pleasure out of life: and I will get it, cost what it may.”

“Then you will degenerate still more, sir.”

“How do you know? - you have never tried it. How very serious - how very solemn you look: and you are as ignorant of the matter as this cameo head . . . You have no right to preach to me, you neophyte, that have not passed the porch of life, and are absolutely unacquainted with its mysteries” (Brontë 128).

Neither woman fears challenging, and even insulting, an older, much wealthier man who is so definitively their social superior by 19th century standards. Both men proceed to declare them foolish and inexperienced, but they’re also captivated by the unprecedented boldness and honesty. Despite the lively confrontation displayed in both conversations, they also reveal a clear distinction between the two characters. While Jane is generally much more reflective and measured in her responses, Lizzy tends to provoke simply for the sake of diversion and teasing. This minor difference reveals a larger divergence between the two women. Jane is passionate and willing to speak her mind, but, as Rochester notes, she constantly represses her emotions and presents a grave exterior. Lizzy, on the other hand, openly admits that she loves to laugh and tease for her own entertainment; she is largely unrestrained in her expression and suffers little with the sense of oppression that plagues Jane. Though Lizzy frequently defies 19th-century norms, having twice vigorously rejected proposals from men who could have provided the financial security she and her family desperately needed, she is guided much more by her nature and sense of indignation than the high-minded philosophical considerations in which Jane often partakes. Ultimately, Jane is more deliberate and Lizzy more intuitive and practical, but both are commendable for their unyielding self-respect and determination to pursue personal happiness rather than quickly settle into that which is socially acceptable and comfortable yet dissatisfying.

Below is a clip from the 1995 BBC version of Pride and Prejudice showing the full conversation from which I took the excerpt above. A lot of people prefer or have only watched the 2005 version, but I’ve always thought the 1995 adaptation does such a great job of staying true to the book and capturing the characters’ personalities.

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Pride and Prejudice (1995) - Darcy's defects

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February 11, Chapters 1 - 10

I first read Jane Eyre at the end of eighth grade, and Brontë’s feverish, otherworldly descriptions in the “red room scene” are the images that have remained most solidly ingrained in my mind over the past four years. So how could I not begin a blog about Jane Eyre with a discussion of the red room? Recently, I came across an article from Book Riot that compared the red room scene across multiple film adaptations, using it as a “litmus test” for how the adaptation will proceed. For example, some films chose to exclude the scene altogether, signaling that romance rather than Jane’s personal character development would be the main focus. Others portrayed her as either more or less passionate, foreshadowing which aspects of Jane’s character would be emphasized as she moved into adulthood. I have only ever seen one film adaptation of Jane Eyre, and I did not particularly like it, so if further movie comparison sounds interesting to you, I would recommend reading the article for yourself.

What I personally wanted to consider, though, was how the red room scene could be used as a personal litmus test of how we view Jane’s character and what we expect for the novel’s development. When I first read the book, I remember being struck most by Jane’s concluding fit of fear. I was shocked by her overwhelming emotions: the “frantic anguish and wild sobs” that had apparently taken control of her with little prompting (Brontë 12). This time around, however, an earlier passage caught my attention:

All John Reed’s violent tyrannies, all his sisters’ proud indifference, all his mother’s aversion, all the servants’ partiality, turned up in my disturbed mind like a dark deposit in a turbid well. Why was I always suffering, always browbeaten, always accused, for ever condemned? Why could I never please? Why was it useless to try to win any one’s favour? (Brontë 8)

The “frantic anguish” that ultimately left her unconscious illustrates Jane’s tendency to be controlled, excessively in this case, by her emotions and emphasizes the passionate aspect of her often sullen character. On the other hand, Jane’s litany of indignant questions emphasizes her propensity for righteous indignation. She clearly has an acute sense of justice, and she has no problem dwelling extensively on her own victimhood, a point on which she is starkly distinguished from Helen Burns and her almost saintly capacity for acceptance. This perhaps demonstrates that I will be reading with a somewhat different analytical lens this time, focusing more on Jane’s spirited indignation and how she grapples with specific injustices rather than her raw emotions. What part of the red room scene stood out to you the most? Maybe if you examine whatever that is a little more closely, it will reveal more about how Jane’s character is taking shape in your own mind.

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As a general rule I love adaptations, from the faithful to the experimental to the "it's actually just the name you're using, right?" I'm interested in the stories we choose to tell and retell across mediums, but I'm fascinated by examining the ways in which we choose to retell them. It can be a bit unwieldy (especially in blog form!) to compare whole books to entire films or television series, so there I thought I'd try something different with a close read of a single scene across three adaptations.

The natural choice of book was one of my favourites and one of the most frequently adapted classic English novels - . There are no shortage of scenes in Jane Eyre that are rich for directorial interpretation, but I chose the red room scene.

A quick refresher for those who need it: the red room scene takes place in the second chapter of the novel. When, at the end of chapter one, Jane defends herself against her cousin John Reed's beating, Jane's Aunt Reed punishes her by locking her in what Jane calls "the red room." The red room is the room in which Aunt Reed's husband, Jane's biological uncle, died; unsurprisingly, Jane and her cousins believe it to be haunted. Once in the red room Jane initially focuses on the injustice of her imprisonment, but soon becomes frightened when she begins to imagine that the displeasure her uncle Reed might feel upon learning of his sister's child's mistreatment at his family's hands could cause him to rise from the dead. Jane sees strange flashing beams of light, and becomes so consumed by fear that she has a "fit' and loses consciousness.

I chose the red room scene because it has always seemed to me to be a sort of litmus test for how the rest of an adaptation of Jane Eyre will proceed. In other words, as goes the red room scene, so goes the film.

For one thing, it's a scene that focuses exclusively on Jane; it's part of her history and character development before she even meets Rochester. Some earlier adaptations, such as the 1944 film starring Joan Fontaine and Orson Welles or the 1970 film starring Susannah York and George C. Scott. eschew the red room scene altogether. That an adaptation chooses to include the scene at all suggests that, at least to a certain extent, it reads the novel as a Bildungsroman rather than a romance.

This scene also provides perfect snapshot of Jane's essential character: spirited, solitary, righteously indignant, sensitive, and ultimately undone by her own feelings and imagination. Which parts of Jane are emphasized in this scene on film can often set the tone for how she will be portrayed as an adult.

Finally, this scene includes one of the more difficult-to-wrangle elements of the novel: Charlotte Brontë's Gothic suggestions of the supernatural. These includes the flashes of lights that Jane sees, as well as the moment of pathetic fallacy when lightning ominously strikes a tree just as Rochester makes his doomed proposal to Jane, and the moment when, from across the country, Jane hears Rochester crying her name as he tries to escape a burning Thornfield. Ignore them, explain them, or amplify them, these moments demand a stance and the red room scene typically provides a good indication of which one a director will take.

For brevity's sake, I'll be looking at three adaptations: the 1996 film directed by Franco Zeffirelli, the 2006 BBC/Masterpiece Theatre mini-series directed by Susannah White, and the 2011 film by Cary Fukunaga. They're three of the most currently popular, easily-available adaptations of Jane Eyre with diverse directors who offer three fairly distinct takes.

Zeffirelli's film actually begins with the red room scene, even before the credits have rolled. The scene's context - Jane's discovery and subsequent beating by John - is omitted entirely; the first we see of Jane is her being yanked and punched by all three of her cousins at once. Not only does Jane not defend herself, she barely resists. While seemingly minor - after all, there is a lot of Reed cruelty to chose from - this moment in the novel has fairly significant implications for Jane's character. It shows that despite her disadvantages of stature and station, she has spirit, courage, and an immutable sense of fairness. Without this, Jane appears less angry and more passive, a version of her that is born out in this film by Charlotte Gainsborough's measured, almost muted performance as the adult Jane.

The room Jane is thrown into is not named by either Jane or Aunt Reed in this film, but there's no mistaking it: it's red walls, scarlet damask wallpaper, and crimson upholstery as far as the eye can see. The set here is pure gothic - simultaneously dark and lurid. It's also utterly in keeping with Zeffirelli's lush, almost baroque visuals and colour-saturated aesthetic.

The closest the viewer get to an explanation of why Jane fears the red room is when she pleads to her aunt (in a line taken directly from the book) that she "cannot endure it"; there is no suggestion of the spectral. This too, is consistent with the rest of the film, which excises Brontë's supernatural touches.

What the film does offer, however, are some neat pieces of camera work that enhance the atmosphere of lurid creepiness. When Aunt Reed throws Jane into the red room, she throws her up against a large, full-length mirror causing it to swing wildly. The mirror not only reflects and doubles the overwhelming redness, the motion it as it swings also gives the subtle impression of parts of the room advancing and retreating. Of course, the viewer understands what is creating this sensory chaos; we're behind the curtain the whole time.

At this point the camera drops down and pans wildly across the room, briefly giving us Jane's perspective. While the camera offers the viewer Jane's point of view, its return to normal perspective actually highlights the difference and the distance between the viewer and Jane; we were seeing through her eyes, and now we are not. The viewer's eye is drawn to the set, blocking, and camera work as much as it is to Jane.

In a similar vein, for the final few shots of the scene the mirror itself is takes up almost as much of the frame as Jane does, literally decentering Jane and giving equal weight to the effect created by the mirror. Overall the scene is consistent with Zeffirelli's vision for one that prioritizes image and atmosphere over dialogue and character: direction over story.

Susannah White's 2006 BBC/Masterpiece Theatre mini-series takes an entirely different tack, playing the sensational and the supernatural to the hilt with dramatic lighting, crazy camera angles and staring reanimated corpses. Consider Aunt Reed as she exiles Jane to the red room: she is shot in the kind of tight closeup and looming upward angle reserved for monsters in old creature feature films, suggesting that that is exactly how Jane sees her.

The lighting, camerawork and script in White's red room scene don't necessarily show what is happening but how what happening feels to Jane. In this red room, it isn't that the walls or tapestries or carpets are red, it's that everything seems red. The entire screen is awash in a garish, blood-red filter, which, combined with the darkness of the scene, give it an almost darkroom effect. At one point the camera looks down on a sitting Jane from above but rather than creating distance, this shot, followed immediately by a tight closeup of Jane weeping, has the effect of simulating for the viewer the oppressiveness Jane feels.

As in the Zeffirelli version, this Jane is immediately frightened of the room rather than talking herself into it, but unlike the Zeffirelli film, White's script explicitly states Jane is afraid. Jane begs her uncle "please don't come back" and, not content with the flashing beams of light described in the novel, White provides another retro-horror moment when the undead body of Uncle Reed rises from his bed as lightning strikes. Making the suggestion of the supernatural textually explicit is consistent with the approach of the rest of the film (which has lightning striking dramatically out of a clear sky at Rochester's proposal and which later suggests, via slo-mo closeups of a forest stream, that Rochester's voice is carried to Jane from Thornfield by the countryside itself).

T his moment of reanimation again replicates for the viewer how Jane feels. Here we never literally seeing the red room from Jane's perspective, but we are experiencing the room as she experiences it. These somewhat melodramatic choices might make White's a less elegant adaptation, but they consistently center Jane's perception and experience. This continues throughout the miniseries - White gives a lot of time and space for Jane's development outside of her relationship with Rochester. This series even explicitly positions itself about Jane's adventures by opening with a whimsical, original scene prior to the red room that represents Jane reading by inserting her into the desert landscape of her book. Of all three directors, White does the most to replicate the immediate and personal feel of the novel's first-person narration (without resorting to voiceover).

Finally, unlike Zeffirelli's film this adaptation does present the conflict between Jane and John, and Jane fighting back (with gusto). In a similar vein, White does not show Jane fainting in the red room; the last we see of her she is pounding the door of the red room with her fists. When we next see Jane, she is fully awake and has her hands wrapped in bandages reminiscent of a boxer's. This is a more spirited Jane that is consistent with the hot-blooded (some might even say bodice-heaving) tone of the mini-series and Ruth Wilson's passionate performance as adult Jane.

Cary Fukunaga presents the most restrained iteration of the red room scene yet. Like Zeffirelli, Fukunaga is working with a distinct, consistent colour palette, but while the former skews dark and autumnal, Fukunaga favours a dreamy, bleached-out, shades-of-grey aesthetic. In Fukunaga's red room, the walls are crimson damask and there are a few brick-red linens, but overall the room has as much cream as red. This red room is also much more brightly lit than either of the previous two; it's daytime when Jane is locked in there, and there are plenty of windows letting in the natural light.

Like White's adaptation, this version offers an explanation of why Jane is afraid, albeit one that is slightly different from that of the novel. As Jane is being dragged into the room, we hear her protest that it is "haunted," and the maids that are locking her in there tell her to be good or (in another line taken almost verbatim from the novel) "something will come down and fetch you."

Here it is a general suggestion of hauntedness rather than a specific fear of her uncle Reed's ghost that causes Jane to panic. As she beats furiously on the door, a large puff of black smoke (which the viewer might infer to be caused an animal in the chimney or perhaps the flue opening) bursts out of the fireplace. This turns Jane's fear to frenzy and she runs at the door so hard that she hits her head on it, knocking herself out cold.

This moment is in keeping with Fukunaga's choice not necessarily to completely eliminate Brontë's supernatural Gothic touches, but to provide a rational explanation for them. For example, later in the film when Jane "hears" Rochester calling her name, what is is actually hearing is a kind of internal echo, prompted by St. John angrily saying her name while accusing her of thinking of Rochester.

The bright lighting, a more realistically red set, and the explanations suggested for what frightened Jane and caused her to lose consciousness, all contribute to a grounded, clear-eyed iteration of scene that encourages the viewer to witness Jane's fear but not necessarily to share it: to feel for her but not as her. It's appropriate for a film with a very Victorian directorial sensibility - beautiful, deeply-felt but restrained.

So there you have it: one book, three adaptations, and three takes on an iconic scene, all utterly different and yet in their own way faithful to the source material.

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Anatomy of a Scene: Jane Eyre's Red Room

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As a general rule I love adaptations, from the faithful to the experimental to the "it's actually just the name you're using, right?" I'm interested in the stories we choose to tell and retell across mediums, but I'm fascinated by examining the ways in which we choose to retell them.

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What is Jane Reading While We Read about Her?

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What is Jane Reading While We Read about Her?

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February 11, Chapters 1 - 10

As I was reading, something that surprised me was how many books were referenced by name and actually discussed in fairly extensive detail, the first of these being A History of British Birds by Thomas Bewick. Jane is practically introduced to the audience reading this book, secluded behind the curtain on the window seat. She dwells on its images for an almost strange amount of time as she reflects on the lonely sea-fowl, the harsh landscape, and the haunting ships. After reading a meticulously detailed paragraph about the “death-white realms” of the Arctic Zone, I myself had become curious about this book and the accompanying images that had completely captured Jane’s imagination. I immediately looked the book up on my phone, wondering if it was even real (though I thought it would be odd to simply invent such extensive quotations as Brontë had included), and, sure enough, I found the very images that Jane was so enthralled with and haunted by.

I have to admit, I was a bit underwhelmed when I saw them, but they do certainly reveal the extensive imagination and proclivity for superstition that Jane had as a child. Furthermore, these images both introduce the bird motif that is prevalent throughout the remainder of the novel and reflect Jane’s sense of isolation as she navigates a friendless and loveless childhood that is softened only by Bessie’s unreliable companionship.

The next book, or rather collection of books, that I thought revealed a lot about Jane’s character is certainly a bit less obscure than Bewick’s History of British Birds: the Bible. When Brocklehurst asks if she enjoys reading the Bible, she responds that she only likes certain parts including Revelations, Genesis, Exodus, and Job. Not only is she bold enough to openly assert to Mr. Brocklehurst that she does not like Psalms, but she also mentions uniquely Old Testament books. This emphasizes Jane’s interest in dramatic, adventurous, and somewhat dark and violent stories. The absence of any New Testament stories from her list, which are apparently more focused on love, compassion, and mercy, also points to Jane’s acute sense of justice, which could be considered more closely reflective of the God of the Old Testament.

Finally, when Helen Burns’s frequent companion Rasselas was mentioned several times, I again wondered what the book was about - if it was even real. I should have known better after Bewick’s History because it was of course an actual book, and after reading a bit about it, it made perfect sense that Helen Burns, most saintly of all children, should be reading it. Some interpretations assert that the story's message is that, though we desire to pursue happiness on earth, we should instead prepare for eternal life with God, as we can only ever find true happiness and contentment in heaven. Such a message definitely seems appropriate to Helen, who insists on returning good for evil and seems to belong more to the next life than to her earthly one. And it also seems appropriate that Jane would reject the book as “dull to my trifling tastes” (43).

Even within the first few chapters, there are plenty of books referenced that I didn't discuss, such as Gulliver's Travels and Goldsmith's History of Rome. If you have any insight into some of these books, either the ones I got to or those that I didn't, I'd love to hear about it in the comments.