If I had known Jane Eyre was about vampires, lesbians, and arson, I probably would’ve read the book.
(No, the actual Jane Eyre, not Jane Slayre*).
The first two might be a reach, but not by much, especially if your introduction to Jane Eyre is Cary Fukunaga’s new movie, which opened in DC last week. I saw it last night. I was not, in fact, dragged to it, rather I used the opportunity to catch up with a woman I used to work with and who I know is all into the Bronte/Austin stuff. Me, I kind of wanted to see it when I was watching the trailer and thought “Oh, cool, a gothic horror with the girl from Tim Burton’s Alice and Dame Judi Dench!” and then a character mentioned “Jane Eyre” and I was like “…the fuck?” And the movie was sort of like that too — like, just when I’d realized it wasn’t actually a horror film, there’s a clumping and a clamping and Jane’s running through a really dark house, and then I’m like: “The double fuck? Does that guy have puncture wounds in his neck!?”
Yes, those are neck puncture wounds.
Anywaaaaay, so I kind of want to read this book now.
Totes fun fact: you can tell who is getting dragged to see this film by their lady friends, because they tend to drift around the lobby for the whole show (yes, I have a new part-time job, yes, it’s in a theater, more details to come soon). We had one guy on Sunday who got a large soda, and came out like SIX TIMES for refills, and NOT ONCE went to the restroom. I would just like to say I admire that man’s bladder.
*Which is, in fact, an actual book! I know, I know, shock and horror.