I saw this first at a pre-screening. I went there ten minutes early, but the theatre was already packed to capacity, and I rushed to the balcony, where the seats had long since been claimed but there was still space on the aisle. Bundling up my jacket, I could make a little seat, and position my head above the balustrade.
Sitting there reminded me of memories from a fictitious childhood, of sneaking into movie theatres without buying tickets, and crouching next to the projector, straining to hear the sounds of the movie over the whirr and tick of the sputtering projector. The theatre stretched out like a dark cavern, and the screen seemed impossibly bright, dazzling; like a star hovering just out of reach.
This movie reminded me that, without exception, Jane Eyre is the best book ever written. Its cinematography is so good that I wish each frame could be frozen and hung in a gallery with the Great Masters, so that people can lose themselves in each picture for hours on end. The movie has the pellucid clarity of a Hammershoi interior: each thread of light seems exquisitely crafted, more tangible than reality, it goes beyond evoking deep seated memoeis of beauty; it is in itself that essence of being.
The combination of this visual perfection with Brontë’s narrative is terse and intense, almost Haiku-like in its untainted expression of pure feelings: a room with open windows, an empty glass on a table, all longing for the moment when doors are opened and the sound of voices fill the void, pattern the room with walking shadows.
So much so that two hours pass by sooner than one can imagine, and when the screen fades to black, our fingers clench uselssly as we try vainly to grasp this perfect beauty, this passing light. As I walk outside, each note of the music unravels, and the harsh sounds of uncaring people shatter the stillness and the silence. My mind tries to hold onto the moment of longing, the little ball of feeling, but there is nothing, only the darkness of street lamps and the discordant edges of ugly conversations.
