Look, I might as well just come out and say it: the 1995 BBC adaptation of
Pride And Prejudice stinks.
For over a decade and a half, people have been going on and on about Colin Firth's Mr Darcy and that blasted lake scene (which as far as I'm concerned is one of the worst examples of shrewd marketing in TV history) as though it were televisual proof of miracles.
I can't seem to go a week on my journeys around the internet without seeing a thumbnail of Darcy with his stupid wet shirt.
You might say, "Well, why mention this now? Why not back in, say, THE NINETIES?" and you'd be making a pertinent point indeed.
The catalyst, however, that reminded me of this long-held bugbear was finally getting around to seeing Cary Fukunaga's exquisite adaptation of
Jane Eyre.
That film - with its wind-swept moors, filthy hemlines and dark, dank hallways - was the perfect companion piece to Joe Wright's similarly wondrous
Pride And Prejudice (see? We're getting there), which I think is one of the most perfect films to have recently graced our screens.
Whether you sit in the 2005 or the 1995 camp is a little like asking people whether they prefer Alfred Hitchcock's
Psycho or Gus Van Sant's; it's a personality test.
I can't imagine why anyone who'd seen Wright's adaptation - so brilliantly
alive - could ever return to the stiff BBC offering.
Pride And Prejudice (2005) trailer.
It's worth noting that, prior to 2005, I thought the BBC adaptation was the bee's knees, too. But seeing Wright's version is a bit like waking up from a coma.
Aside from the fact that Keira Knightley and Matthew MacFadyen have incredible screen chemistry, the best thing about Wright's
Pride And Prejudice is its beautiful ramshackle nature.
The
opening sequence, in which the camera explores the Bennett household as it follows Lizzie home from a walk, is a perfect illustration of this: Wright's world, unlike Simon Langton's, is full of life. Pigs, chooks, dogs, Mary practising piano, Kitty and Lydia running amok, Mr Bennett in his study with his orchids; beautiful.
Yes, looking back, there's something to be said about Jennifer Ehle better capturing the plainness of Lizzie, but Knightley's performance feels more real. Peter Bradshaw of
The Guardian said it well: "Only a snob, a curmudgeon, or someone with necrophiliac loyalty to the 1995 BBC version with Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle could fail to enjoy her performance."
It's one of those life-affirming films: if you're crawling through the depths of existential dreck, it's like throwing open the windows and letting the wind and sunshine in. The BBC version, by comparison, feels like being sent back to school.
In the end I don't really know that there's a point to this blog beyond critical bloodletting. If I have to sit on this opinion for the next 15 years, to borrow from Mrs Bennett, I shall go distracted.