(In memory of Gemma Watson, 26th Sept 1990 - 9th December 2001)
Ever since I first read (and loved) Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre, aged ten, I've been aware that it's a highly awkward book - or, as we say on tumblr, 'a problematic fave'. The positioning of Bertha Mason as the mentally unstable, hypersexualised racial 'Other' disturbed me even then, although I didn't quite have those words to describe my feelings. So much so, in fact, that, when I finally got to study it at school in Year Eight, my English teacher gave me her copy of Jean Rhys' Wide Sargasso Sea to read alongside the original novel, since it went some way to addressing these issues. Once I got to uni, I discovered the critical work (in every sense) of Gayatri Spivak, and was delighted. Through her writing, and that of others, I found the vocabulary for which I had so longed - in terms of disability as well as race, because David Mitchell and Sharon Snyder's concept of 'narrative prosthesis' so perfectly encapsulated the function of Rochester's blindness and eventual cure. It exists for no other purpose than to make a moral point, and to provide the catalyst for Jane's final transformation into an independent adult, since it is through his dependence on her (coupled with sudden and convenient financial good fortune) that she is able to achieve as close to liberty as was possible for a woman of her station at the time.
Nevertheless, having established all my difficulties with the text, I must now return to the bracketed part of my first sentence - because I did, and do, love it, though not for the reasons you might think. I'd take Fitzwilliam Darcy or Edmund Bertram (I mean, let's face it, I'm really such a Francis Price!) over Edward Rochester any day. No - I love Jane Eyre because in it (and her) my ten-year-old heart found what I still think is the most accurate depiction of how it feels to be a young girl desperate with grief over the loss of the dearest of friends. It therefore seems doubly apt that I'm writing this 'review-of-sorts' today, as it is the fourteenth anniversary of when the first of my own darling girls died, and the restaging at the National Theatre of the Bristol Old Vic company's devised production (which I watched as an NT Live screening last night) seemed to understand the ramifications that the death of Helen Burns had on Jane's development far more than any other adaptation I have witnessed.
Actually, I'd say that's true of most aspects of the plot - including the issues of race and disability mentioned earlier. Perhaps this was just a bonus of it being theatre, not film, and the extra minutes this allows for events to unfold. I think, however, that it was more due to the company's conscious decision to divest themselves (though not entirely, because the clothes were still period appropriate) of the conventions of costume drama and director Sally Cookson's desire that nothing be subsumed into the love story.
The subtitle of the novel, after all, is 'An Autobiography', and the story is that of an orphaned girl growing up in Yorkshire. The show's Jane, played with a determinedly regional accent, couldn't have been prouder of that heritage. (Interestingly, the one significant part of the book that the company chose to omit was her acquisition of wealth - a subtle suggestion that she and Rochester are essential equals, money or no money?) This, allied to the constantly resurfacing refrains of folk songs, grounded her in a sense of community and shared experience that no amount of ostracism and cruelty was able to destroy - which brings me to another important facet of the production.
The majority of the folk songs began as solos for the character of Bertha, before being taken up and harmonised by the rest of the company. Such a decision meant that she was extremely present from the very start of the piece, instead of just appearing at Thornfield, and was an important reflection of the novel's narrative as told by an older Jane who is reminiscing. It also set up a deliberately prominent parallel between Jane and Bertha, both the characters and their actors, because they were only ever themselves. All other members of the multicultural company (even the actor eventually playing Rochester) undertook multiple roles at various points, often as aspects of Jane's psyche. This made one wonder who precisely was the person with mental health issues, and provided a stark commentary on the ravaging potential of grief, which was underscored by a haunting folk-style rendition of the pop anthem 'Crazy' against the backdrop of the Thornfield fire - after which a drenched and lost Jane called out for her beloved friend Helen across the moors.
It was theatrical adaptation exactly as it should be - irreverent, yet infinitely attentive to, and enthralled by, its source material. It was also precisely what I needed to prepare me for the feelings I have felt today - grief in all its myriad manifestations and the mixed up muddle of joy and sadness. So thanks, NT and Bristol Old Vic. Thanks, Brontë. Thanks, Jane and Helen, and thanks Gemma - you were there with me last night, as you are always. Thank you for shaping who I am.
The subtitle of the novel, after all, is 'An Autobiography', and the story is that of an orphaned girl growing up in Yorkshire. The show's Jane, played with a determinedly regional accent, couldn't have been prouder of that heritage. (Interestingly, the one significant part of the book that the company chose to omit was her acquisition of wealth - a subtle suggestion that she and Rochester are essential equals, money or no money?) This, allied to the constantly resurfacing refrains of folk songs, grounded her in a sense of community and shared experience that no amount of ostracism and cruelty was able to destroy - which brings me to another important facet of the production.
The majority of the folk songs began as solos for the character of Bertha, before being taken up and harmonised by the rest of the company. Such a decision meant that she was extremely present from the very start of the piece, instead of just appearing at Thornfield, and was an important reflection of the novel's narrative as told by an older Jane who is reminiscing. It also set up a deliberately prominent parallel between Jane and Bertha, both the characters and their actors, because they were only ever themselves. All other members of the multicultural company (even the actor eventually playing Rochester) undertook multiple roles at various points, often as aspects of Jane's psyche. This made one wonder who precisely was the person with mental health issues, and provided a stark commentary on the ravaging potential of grief, which was underscored by a haunting folk-style rendition of the pop anthem 'Crazy' against the backdrop of the Thornfield fire - after which a drenched and lost Jane called out for her beloved friend Helen across the moors.
It was theatrical adaptation exactly as it should be - irreverent, yet infinitely attentive to, and enthralled by, its source material. It was also precisely what I needed to prepare me for the feelings I have felt today - grief in all its myriad manifestations and the mixed up muddle of joy and sadness. So thanks, NT and Bristol Old Vic. Thanks, Brontë. Thanks, Jane and Helen, and thanks Gemma - you were there with me last night, as you are always. Thank you for shaping who I am.
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