'Jane Eyre'

So, after eighteen screen adaptations and nine TV series, we are yet again being treated to a cinematic version of Charlotte Bronte's 'Jane Eyre'. One can understand why a novel like 'Jane Eyre' seems to attract film-makers' attention, considering its dark, brooding romance, its atmospheric settings and its cinematic possibilities in terms of female character development.

Cary Fukunaga's treatment of the Gothic novel remains traditional in its being character- and mood-, rather than plot-driven. Fukunaga fully exploits the novel's setting in the North with its windswept planes, dramatic despondent skies and darkly magical woods. The surroundings, here, are highlighted and take on the role of a further character, serving as a direct projection surface for Jane's inner life. Its foggy woods come to mirror the uncertainty and turmoil she experiences emotionally in Thornfield. So far, nothing new.

Jane enters this world an orphan, lonely and desperate for love. Bewildered and dejected, Jane stands on a crossroads to nowhere, facing an uncertain and lonely future. One cannot help but agree with Mr Rochester's assessment of Jane as an otherworldly creature as Mia Wasikowska embodiment of one of the most famous literary figures stares out to the world from the inside, with a gaze that is as observant as it is inexperienced. Jane comes to stand for purity in this world which more often than not corrupts its inhabitants and lets them descend into their own personal hell. If Jane stands for otherworldliness in this tale of woe, Mr Rochester embodies the world itself with all its temptations and danger.

Jane Eyre is first and foremost a tale about discrepancies: the inside and the outside, the public and the private, the master and the subordinated, free will and emotional dependence, and above all choices made and consequences suffered. Ever since its first adaptation for the stage, these discrepancies have been embodied in Jane and Mr. Rochester, which is why these roles carry an immense responsibility in terms of performance. Jane must be subordinate but proud, willing to give in, but elusive, she is mostly characterised by her honesty and her refusal to 'speak nonsense'.

Wasikowska plays Jane with a persuasive restraint, a self-possessed dignity which supposedly masks the passionate heart underneath that controlled exterior. Here lies the only real representational issue, as Jane seems slightly too restrained, one cannot imagine the pale nakedness of Jane's face to burst out in a passionate appeal to Mr. Rochester. The dramatic quality of the novel goes somehow amiss in this adaptation. The contemplative pace and gloomy cinematography might hint at the underlying, nevertheless forceful desires that inhabit its protagonist, these desire, however, never come to be fully appraised, nor explored by the film.

The character of Mr Rochester is foremost characterised by the compelling sense of physicality Fassbender infuses the role with. There is a real sense of physical constraint with an elemental restlessness to Fassbender's performance which comes to dominate Rochester's actions. Even though seemingly relaxed in his armchair in front of the fireplace while talking to Jane, Rochester seems to fidget without moving, ready to jump up at any minute. Rochester is the eternal restless, always looking for a home and a notion of peace he knows is unattainable to him. This nomadic disquietude perfectly accords with Jane's calm equanimity on screen. As such, Fassbender manages to infuse the Rochester role with an intensity which lets his secret torment shine through in all his actions.

The courting of Jane and Rochester comes to represent a slow dance, or game if you will, in which Jane, suspicious of Rochester's gentleness and motives, constantly aims at keeping her own sense of identity, her own free will. Rochester, however, teases and pursues Jane with a vehemence which can only come from a man who knows the wrongness of his own doings. At the same time, Fassbender introduces a sense of humour to the role which has often been ignored by cinematic adaptations, but which is very much present in the novel.

Even though, both Fassbender and Wasikowska deliver solid, finely tuned and intelligent performances, one cannot help but notice a missing element at the film's core. The film's pace seems to muse on its protagonists' inner states, hinting at them through its contemplative rhythm, while, at the same time, treating the two crucial dramatic events of the plot, the wedding scene and the discovery of Bertha mason in the attic, with a briskness which seems negligent at best. Also, as mentioned, the passion which supposedly drives the main characters to either give up their home or ignore all social conventions and even the law, fails to accurately translate on screen.

Fukunaga's Jane Eyre is certainly a very faithful adaptation to the text. Its treatment of the story is traditional to the point where the film seems afraid to take liberties, as it honours the classic paramount that is the text. The film's cinematography comes to capture the sense of existential loneliness and isolation perfectly and mirrors it in its natural setting, again honouring the tradition of the Gothic novel. At the same time, however, the film feels at little too restraint for its own good and fails to convey this sense of playfulness in the Jane/Rochester conversations and the notion of all-consuming passion dictating the characters' actions. As such, this version of Jane Eyre certainly represents a fine portrayal of the novel, deliberately understated, beautifully shot and solidly performed, in the end, however, it fails to render justice to the novel's emotional core and in this lies its main shortcoming. Still, all in all, an adaptation which will please all the faithful Bronte readers as its main pleasure lies in recognition, members of the audience who have not read the novel, however, might find it frustrating to relate to the characters' motives.

'In a world...'

You have just sat through dancing M&M's, confused car owners desperately looking for insurance and a pseudo self-ironic treatment of Hollywood mentality brought to you by a major mobile phone company, when, lo and behold, the lights are dimming and the green mysterious glowing of the screen authorization comes up. What can I say? It's a fresh feeling, like a newborn just opening its eyes, like the morning dew on rose petals, like the opening of the take-away box on a hangover: everything is possible, you're in sync with the world: the trailers are about to start.

It's one of life's better moments, but, alas, so easily spoiled by the blue shimmering light in the corner of your eye, caused by the pre-adolescent with a Blackberry right next to you, the rustling, and smell for that matter, of the once-a-month movie-goer who is just about to indulge in what looks like something that has already been eaten before, but is actually sold as nachos with cheese sauce, or the giggling of the thirty-something 'girls', one of them just having to relate last night's amorous endeavours with a skiing instructor named Hans!

There seems to be a rumour about a strange people which sees trailers as an extension of the advertisement before the film. A people that cannot understand the almost carnal pleasures of watching those short, self-contained masterpieces, those cinematic appetizers that leave you hankering for more. For too long have these people hidden in our midst and it is about time that someone speaks out: 'In a world, in which one ordinary film reviewer...'

Naturally, the very nature of trailers is a cynic one, the manipulation is perhaps most apparent in the music accompanying the trailers; as often the film itself is not even finished by the time the first teaser trailer comes out, the trailer houses are forced to look elsewhere for the musical score. Producers then have a look at what musical scores proved successful in the past. If, for example, they want the feature to remind the audience of a Tim Burton film, they will choose a slightly changed version of a Danny Elfman score. If they want the trailer to have an epic atmosphere, chances are, the audience will hear some kind of Carmina Burana interpretation. Just pay attention to how often you have heard an altered version of the Requiem for a Dream soundtrack and you will get an idea of the film business' very own brand of recycling.

Also, trailer producers know that, even tough generally one should never give away the ending in a trailer, a certain target audience, one that enjoys rom-coms, for example, might enjoy knowing that the feature advertised will have a happy ending, a fact which will then influence this particular audience to buy a ticket. Trailers are about salesmanship and persuasion techniques, nevertheless, the motive does not necessarily have to spoil the pleasure:

Due to the MPAA regulations, trailers should never be longer than two-and-a-half minutes, which generally does not give the producers a lot of leeway, it does, however, mean that trailers are altogether extremely tightly edited, as every second counts, they tend to be narrative miracles as they have to condense the plot into an exceedingly tight time frame and the they have the possibility of editing out corny lines, cheap jokes or just plain old bad acting. Trailers are the films you are wanting to see, not the films you will see.

In the forties trailers would be merely created to contain information about the upcoming feature. Alfred Hitchcock himself would stand on the film set, not caring about any such principle as disrupting the cinematic illusion and quite happily relate the events of his upcoming thriller. The trailer for The Big Sleep even has Humphrey Bogart walk into a bookshop with Lauren Bacall as a shop-assistant recommending the Raymond Chandler novel the film is based upon. Later, foremost in the seventies, the teaser was born, little snippets of the film, not giving away anything of the plot, but conveying a mood, catching the atmosphere of the film, most famous example being The Shining teaser in which we see but the elevator doors opening and blood pouring out.

The modern trailer tricks you into wanting to see a film, they come to represent a marketed means of nurturing the short attention span of a modern audience. In a hyperbolic treatment of a film's scenario lies the crux of the matter: When we think of film, we mostly think of highly dramatised series of events, the editing in trailers is designed to mirror the audience's heartbeat, the fast pace of an action thriller,for example, therefore will literally get your heart pumping. Granted that these are all manipulations of your viewing habits, but they also represent a form of condensed essentialism which will instil every minor event with a significance most individuals long for in their day-to-day.

This reviewer will, naturally, conduct extensive research of an anthropological nature before starting an article. So, in preparation for this scientifically incredibly valuable subject of audience behaviour in trailer-viewing situations, this reviewer walked down the street with her I-Pod playing first John Williams musical scores and later the Yann Thiersen soundtrack for Amélie Poulin. Walking past the bus stop with Williams' compositions blasting in my headphones, all of a sudden, the old man reaching into his pocket becomes a potential threat, my surroundings seem move in slow motion as the man, with a mad glint in his bloodshot eyes, slowly retrieves....his wallet and gets his bus fare out. Switching the music to Amélie then, the same man suddenly looks wistfully gleeful, a bit like the farmer in Babe, secretly chuckling about the many wonderful absurdities of life. Switch the I-Pod off, and the man is just a man, carrying a bag of pork scratchings and a 2-litre bottle of White Lightning in a blue corner-shop bag.

Modern individuals seem to long for some kind of grandeur in their dealings with the world. It is this grandeur which cinema provides, most condensed in its form of trailers. It comes as no surprise that most trailers start with 'In a world..', not in the world, or in our world. Trailers bring us a two-and-a-half minute condensation of a world in which everything is significantly more relevant and every action has a consequence which will prove life-changing. And let's face it, in a world where absolutely nothing happens when you pop to Tesco's for a half pint of milk, a bit of excitement wouldn't go amiss. If we could but all live : 'In a world...'

'Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy'

Tomas Alfredson's Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy's very beginning makes it clear that it has no intention of following in any kind of spy-film tradition, especially not in any over-glorified James Bond iconography, as the main protagonist does not say a word until about twenty minutes in. This Le Carré adaptation presents an intricate character-study, revolving around five major characters in the Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, nicknamed the Circus. The crux of the film is a mission in Hungary gone horribly wrong resulting in the dismissal of the head of the Agency, aptly named Control and his right-hand man George Smiley. After the death of Control, as a result of a terminal illness, Smiley is called out of his forced retirement to find a Soviet mole at the very top of the Circus. He partners up with the young and ambitious Peter Guillam and Ricki Tarr, a somewhat rougher agent, usually called in to do the dirty work.

What follows is not so much a fast-paced, action-fueled chase for a one-dimensional mole figure as it is the portrayal of a universe of paranoia in which the public and private secrets of the agents involved, threaten to strip them of the last trace of humanity. In this stifling sphere, anxiety takes over, as the agents attempt to come to terms with the fact that in 1970's Britain, the Cold War negates any clear-cut distinctions or moral choices. This is a world of ignominious compromises in which the identity of the mole is overshadowed by the fact that every single agent has a motive for betraying their country. In this bureaucratic microcosm of the Secret Service,inevitably standing for the political climate of the world, only the infallible belief in the concept of duty provides a justification for actions which more often than not stand in direct opposition to a common human principle of ethics. It is in the name of duty that the agents accept personal sacrifices which end up eroding any sense of subjective identity as they become puppets in a governmental scheme, chess figures in a game between two abstract principles that face each other in a war which is as cerebral as it is violent.

This is a stagnant and sterile sphere in which the agents act out of resigned automatism rather than political conviction. The film's grey and beige color scheme, the smokiness of the interiors, the slow pacing, the shallow focus shots, the lingering close-ups of inanimate objects and the wide angle shots of the wide office building all contribute to a terse atmosphere in which a sense of quiet violence committed in the name of a belief system which has become obsolete, pervades every frame.

George Smiley is a man whose yearlong dealings in the Circus seems to have drained him of any sense of personality, or color for that matter. He is the quintessential chess player, predicting every move, an analyst, unemotional, patient with an underlying sense of great personal suffering. Gary Oldman's performance is superbly understated, managing to convey the emotional destitution of a man betrayed by his wife, without ever abandoning his icy self-control. His life is dominated by the notion of absence, most notably by his wife's absence, not so much conjured vocally as hinted at visually in the pile of letters on the mantelpiece, the general atmosphere of stillness in the house, the faceless figure of a woman in a flashback. The absence of his wife in Smiley's life runs parallel with another over-shadowing absence-presence in his life, namely the figure of his opponent Karla, head of the Russian secret service. As such it comes as no surprise that his relationship with Karla is epitomized by the object of a lighter, given to Smiley by his wife and stolen by the Russian.

As we penetrate deeper into this dark and claustrophobic labyrinth that is the Circus machination, the endeavors of the characters take on a desperate, almost obsessive nature. In this atmosphere in which trust becomes the luxury of the naive, the public space suppresses the private at great personal cost and every private passion constitutes a potential advantage for the opposite party. In this stiflingly male confines, the female comes to represent absence, it comes as no surprise that the whole text is pervaded by a sense of homo eroticism, which not so much taps into the realm of the sexual as it comes to equal loyalty, a sentiment which culminates in the last scene.

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is not so much a plot-based film, as the story line is classic in its almost simplistic treatment of the spy novel. This is a film that captures a mood, the densely atmospheric cinematography ties in with the tradition of The Lives of Others rather than following in the British tradition of James Bond. The languid pace, the terseness of the images and the brilliantly interwoven musical score convey a paranoid impression which is as capturing as it is stifling. The self-ironic treatment of the Charles Trenet song 'La Mer' renders the atmosphere of the Christmas party even more absurd as Santa wears a Lenin mask, marriages break apart, and secret glances disclose a reality in which mistrust and betrayal reign. The Nursery-Rhyme quality of the title reinforces this dark and twisted conveyance of a universe in which the motives for actions are cerebral to unknown, while the same actions have consequences of the most violent nature.

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is a cinematic masterpiece, in which the performances are superb, the cinematography is densely atmospheric, the production design near perfect and Alfredson proves again that he is a virtuoso in terms of mood and character-development. As such it is rightly claimed to be the best British cinema has to offer this year. A Must-See!!!