Now that I am housebound
because of Covid-19 worries, I’ve been checking out a lot of feature films on
my not-so-big TV screen. One I just watched was Emma, which Universal
Studios was pragmatic enough – now that movie theatres are shuttered – to air
on video very soon after its theatrical release. It’s not for me to comment on
how the business model for Hollywood is being upended by the current pandemic.
But I can record my feelings about this latest in a long line of Jane Austen
adaptations for the screen. Emma, written by Austen in 1815, is a witty
novel of manners about a very young woman who delights in her abilities as a
matchmaker. Blessed with wealth, wit, and good looks, she takes charge of the
social life of her small English village, with nearly disastrous consequences
for all involved. But since Austen’s vision is a comic one, things right
themselves in the end.
Emma has been filmed more than once. Gwyneth Paltrow played
the title role in 1996, just after Amy Heckerling wrote and directed a
delectable American adaptation called Clueless, set amongst the well-dressed
teens at Beverly Hills High. The current version, starring Anya Taylor-Joy, has
a welcome satiric edge, underscored by Autumn de Wilde’s witty directorial
flourishes and by an offbeat score. I enjoyed it as a welcome diversion, but
found little emotional reason to connect with this material. Maybe it’s a
matter of timing. The characters in Emma, whatever their social station,
all have their place in a tight-knit small community: there’s little chance for
interaction with the outside world. But unlike those of us who are sheltering
in place today, they don’t feel themselves the least bit isolated. Even ladies
of leisure find so much to do. There are balls, picnics, small shopping
expeditions; a young woman, like Emma, can also occupy herself with sketching,
singing, playing the piano, and poking her nose into everyone else’s business.
And, of course, just getting dressed and crimped and groomed (in the rather
hideous sack-like fashions of the early nineteenth century) takes a fair amount
of time. No sweatpants for even the
stay-at-homes.
British character actors are
always worth watching, and one of the treasures of this production is the great
Bill Nighy as Emma’s discombobulated father. But one question I keep finding myself asking: why is it that
today’s leading men (like Johnny Flynn’s Mr. Knightley) seem to underscore
their masculinity through their failure to brush their hair? The heroes of old
movies perhaps overdid the patent-leather-hair look, but I for one am tired of all
those unkempt locks.
As a change of pace from Emma,
I followed up with one of Hollywood’s great Golden Age treats: 1963”s Charade.
This Stanley Donen classic stars an adorable Audrey Hepburn opposite an
impeccable, every-hair-in-place Cary Grant. Instead of a quaint English
village, we get Paris; instead of matchmaking we get murder, though the film’s
violence is so deliciously low-key that there’s nary a fear of taking the story
too solemnly. Hepburn’s heroine may be far more experienced than Emma—she’s a
well-heeled married lady whose husband has just been offed under mysterious
circumstances—but she is almost equally naïve in the ways of the world. And
Grant’s character, with his shifting names and identities, represents a tough
nut she has to crack. In one respect, Charade and Emma work in
parallel: both feature a sweet young thing being wooed and won by a much older
man. There was a 25-year-age difference between Audrey Hepburn (at 34) and Cary
Grant (at 59), but no one has ever objected.
