An
Unpopular Opinion on Sense and Sensibility
by
Kristin Battestella
It's
an unpopular take, but Sense and Sensibility is
really a terrible story. How does no one else see it? Allow me to
summarize director Ang Lee's (Crouching Tiger, HiddenDragon) 1995 adaptation of the
Jane Austen novel as thus:
Brother
John Dashwood (James Fleet) and his snobbish wife Fanny (Harriet
Walter) cast out his late father's (Tom Wilkinson) second wife (Gemma
Jones) and his three half-sisters to live off cousins in what they
think is a meager, destitute humble in a delicious three story
cottage with servants, picturesque views, and neighborly gentry. To
escape this supposed squalor and regain their financial status, the
only option is for one of the daughters to marry well. Eldest Elinor
(Emma Thompson) becomes esteemed with her sister-in-law's brother
Edward Ferrars (Hugh Grant), head over heels in their stiff upper lip
after one country visit while middle daughter Marianne (Kate Winslet)
throws herself at the enchanting John Willoughby (Greg Wise) after he
touches her sprained ankle in a scandalous rescue in the rain.
Poetry, picnics, locks of hair – it all seems like a marriage is in
the bag until Willoughby is cast out by his wealthy country
relations. Marianne continues to pathetically write a bunch of
unanswered letters, throwing herself at him during a ball as high
society whispers behind the backs of these reeking of desperation
Dashwood ladies who really don't know how to pick men. Two hundred
year old book spoiler alert – smooth talker Willoughby got a girl
pregnant, so instead of making right by her, he's marrying another
rich lady to cover his costs. Viewers are meant to feel sad by the
fact that the one of his count 'em three women her really
loves is Marianne, but clearly she does not love herself, just like
Lucy Steele (Imogen Stubbs), who's been secretly engaged to Edward–
yes, Elinor's awkward enchantment – for five years.
At this point, it feels like the audience need a flow chart to follow
these ironic inter-relations as more cousins, in-laws, and families
threatening to disinherited men who marry penniless women enter the
crowded narrative.
Elinor,
Marianne, and Lucy go off with more rich, distantly related folks as
all everyone seems to do is invite people over to gossip and play
matchmaker or reveal secrets to people they hardly know. They enter,
greet, bow, curtsy, sit for five minutes of discomfort and
misunderstandings before abruptly standing and suddenly departing.
Carriage distances make these grand estates seem so far apart that it
takes a day's rest to travel, yet the men for whom the women pine
manage to speed to and fro on horseback at will – remaining
absentee crushes for most of the two hours plus. Lucy is taken in by
that snobby sister-in-law Fanny because The Ferrars don't know about
the secret engagement and toss her out once they do hear of it, but
Lucy takes a liking to Edward's younger brother Robert (Richard
Lumsden) anyway. Marianne, meanwhile, ends up sick with a fever
because she ran out in a storm so Willoughby could literally
be her hill to die on, and her convalescence kicks another set of
loosely related wealthy neighbors The Palmers (Hugh Laurie and Imelda
Staunton) out of their own house.
This time, Marianne was rescued by Colonel Brandon (Alan Rickman),
another nearby gent who's been moon eyeing at her while she looks the
other way at the heroic shadow of cad Willoughby. Brandon, you see,
couldn't tell Marianne that the girl Willoughby knocked up was his
ward – at least not until it's time to dump the stiff upper lip
excuses, contrived suspense, and backdoor connected secrets on long
suffering and heavy burdened Elinor, who's saving her lip tremble for
hearing that Lucy is now Mrs. Ferrars. Of course, Lucy isn't
Edward's Mrs. Ferrars, but Elinor doesn't get that memo. With fifteen
minutes left, Edward finally shows up once more to tell Elinor what
he should have said in the first dang place, which would have saved
us all from one lame ass misunderstanding. Now, there can be a double
wedding; the Dashwood women are no longer so desperate nor destitute,
just relying on different men for their money and maybe happiness.
Marianne has learned to like the Colonel after all and Elinor and
Edward have apparently overcome their communication problem. Bravo, I
guess.
Despite
trying on numerous occasions, I've never made it all the way through
Sense and Sensibility in
one sitting. Why do I keep trying to catch the whole thing in bits
and spurts? I can't lie, I just like looking at all the Regency
costumes. Disliking the supposedly charming story also doesn't mean
one hates on these ladies. Emilie Francois (Now with a PHD you go
girl) as youngest sister Margaret is, unfortunately, pretty much an
afterthought. The potential for youthful spying to find the truth
about what's not been intimated or speaking bluntly to ask the right
damn questions of these bumbling men is not used to full advantage.
Likewise Margaret's spirited reckless but possible sense of what's
what remains underutilized as a positive example that perhaps the
titular best of both her sisters can be embodied together, and if
she's not there for any future hopeful, viewers may wonder why she's
here at all. Thankfully, we all love Kate Winslet's (Titanic)
flustered cheeks and wispy tendrils as Marianne, the perfect Regency
rose. The audience wants her to be happy in love, escaping these
crappy social circumstances with whatever throwing herself at a guy
it's going to take. The whirlwind, butterflies in the stomach,
heartbreak, and tears remain relatable. We're protective of these
ladies, so whatever bug's up Sense and Sensibility's
butt, we don't fault screenwriter Emma Thompson (Howards
End) in doing the best she could
– earning an Adapted Screenplay Oscar and other acclaim for pairing
down the obnoxious for love or money trite into something streamlined
and mildly bemusing thanks to the Dashwood femininity. In spite of
the intertwined back and forth mistaken jolly goods with too many
characters' hands in the pot, we enjoy how our screenwriter also
pulls off a Best Actress nominated restrained performance. Elinor is
the oldest, the responsible, good sister taking care of everyone else
but herself. Everyone else is allowed to be problematic, and the
culmination of the movie isn't so much that her dang love interest
comes clean, but that Elinor expresses herself after spending all her
time bottling up her emotions alongside everyone else's crying and
secrets. Ironically, the self-insertion from Austen writing in her
first published novel about what she knows as a woman stuck under the
misogynistic Regency's thumb is a bit too much life imitating art.
She never got a happy marital ending, so it's doubly ironic that Dame
Thompson ended up marrying Greg “Willoughby” Wise in real life.
Touché.
Sadly however, Gemma Jones' (MI-5)
Mrs. Dashwood misses the opportunity to capitalize on being witty and
Dame Maggie on Downton sassy,
remaining passive and accepting of the circumstances rather than
standing up for her daughters by worming the bullshit out of the men.
Instead mother Mrs. Jennings Elisabeth Spriggs (A Christmas Carol) and daughter Mrs. Palmer
Imelda Staunton (Harry Potter)
carry the matchmaker quirky, because in Sense and
Sensibility, only once a woman
has married rich and spend her youth is she allowed to be a busybody
eccentric.
Like
Diana Ross said in Mahogany,
the men of Sense and Sensibility, however,
ain't shit. All of them. Too many named John and multiples with the
same last name acerbate the wash out male confusion, leaving every
conversation with the opposite sex laden by a Who's on First back and
forth. While this can start off bemusing for some, it inevitably ends
up so, so tiring for most. We wouldn't put up with this crap, so it's
infuriating that our girls have to settle for this patriarchal,
pussyfooting gentry. Wise's Willoughby is supposed to be the most
handsome therefore he drops the most poon in his wake, yet we don't
even see him most of the time. In Sense and Sensibility,
the men's roles are more about
how the women have built up the intimations while pining for the
gents in their absence. Again, we're supposed to like Hugh Grant's
(Four Weddings and a Funeral, which
as Al Bundy said, is really just five of the same thing.)
Edward Ferrars because he's befuddling charming with our Elinor, but
it's just too damn awkward in his bathroom break and you miss him
handful of scenes. Did the whirlwind actually happened or was all
love goggles? Even Edward's collars and jackets looks too big for him
as he hunches over and mumbles something honorable enough to get a
passing grade. Visually, Alan Rickman (Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves) is the upstanding
opposite as Colonel Brandon literally on his high horse when not
taking his own friend zone shit from Marianne. Why is he bothering
when she won't give him the time of day? The Colonel with no first
name seems more suited in temperament with Elinor, but these secret
keeping wallflowers only exchange help or whispers as needed rather
then develop something more – never mind that in the book, Brandon
is over thirty and Marianne is supposed to be a teenager. o_O Whipped
brother James Fleet (Death Comes to Pemberley)
is there so his wife Harriet Walter (Little Dorrit)
can have her only power through him, and Imogen Stubbs (Twelfth
Night) as Lucy Steele is
likewise defined as villainous because she is competing in the same
shallow gentry pool. Poor domesticated Hugh Laurie (The Night Manager) is the man around
the most, surrounded by the increasing number of flustered skirts his
wife and mother-in-law invite into his home with only a newspaper and
a few witty jabs to shield him. Obviously, there is a specific
decorum and social control in Sense and Sensibility – men
had all the financial and marital rights, remaining responsible for
all their nearest women. However, that doesn't mean they had to be
spineless dicks about it. Is this a twenty-first century perspective
on a two hundred year old story? Yes, but with so much acclaim on the
supposed romance herein, one keeps watching for a timeless
characterization that isn't there. Instead of worthwhile men to our
ladies, the males are all bloated and self-important, and it's tough
to find the men are weak meta bemusing because it's true.
Thankfully
Sense and
Sensibility's Regency
costumes, feathers, cravats, and gems are divine.
Particularly
now in a pandemic re-watch when it's been all pajamas with no need to
dress up; the breezy frocks, purposeful yet pretty bonnets, and warm
shawls provide elegance with their simple Greco-Roman revival touches
as well as about the manor house comforting. Likewise, the landscaped
estates, country cottages, and London town houses have candles,
antiques, fireplaces, woodwork, and craftsmanship be they lavish or
seemingly meager. Sense
and Sensibility is
bright with open spaces and sunny picnics. It's the typical English
countryside ideal, yet all these dang people are so gosh darn unhappy
about their expansive homes and picturesque views. It's such a chore
apparently to ride on beautiful horses or in delicious carriages,
going back and forth between neighbors when not breaking out the
quills and inkwells and writing letters saying you are on your way.
After all, there isn't much else to do when not reading idyllic
poetry to escalate the socially unreciprocated yearning. Although
right now, we can't even go over to a distant relation's mansion and
kick them out of their own place when we get a fever, so I guess the
grass is always greener amirite. Unpopular opinion or not, even an
ardent Austen fan must admit Sense
and Sensibility is
a saccharin for love or money story with stupid guys who can't say
what they mean, relatable in their pent up waiting women, and heaps
of misunderstands going round and round on each intertwined couple.
It's musical chairs until time's up and somebody finally tells who
they love for real for reals – or at least learned to like for all
their material assets.
Growing
up reading Jane Austen, I always felt her books end up saying the
same dang thing, and after all these tries, this Sense
and Sensibility's main
redeeming value is ultimately it's pretty dressings. I can't lie,
when I'm in those Regency frocks feelings, I often fall asleep
watching this on mute. The lack of sound makes one realize how this
terrible who likes whom social confusion and heartache over nothing
derivative can be so readily deduced. Even the British decorum
hindrances permeate without hearing a word, rightly or wrongly
indicative of the expected Austen same old, same old. I guess if it
takes you dozens of times to see one adaptation, you really have seen
them all. I'm utterly flummoxed how Sense
and Sensibility's terrible
story and time wasting bore – and possibly sleep inducing pace –
can be so beloved.
Sorry! ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
