Jane Eyre (2011): High Points, But Little Else
As I don't follow the movie industry, seeing a preview of a new Jane Eyre movie in early 2011 gave me an unexpected thrill. So what if I hadn't heard of the cast members (other than Judi Dench, familiar as James Bond's movie boss in recent years)? Many lines spoken in the preview were right from Brontë, and the film snippets looked sumptuous.
My spouse, who prefers modern Oprah-type novels to quaint British morality tales, generously offered to see the movie with me. So we found ourselves driving more than half an hour, to an upscale town's art-house theater, to take in this production that hadn't reached our local multiplexes.
This was my first adult viewing of a Jane Eyre film treatment, many years after I'd first read the book. I found the notion so enthralling that I created this website and began watching and reviewing other Jane Eyre movies.
A year later, having explored eight others, I watched the 2011 film again, to revise my review in light of all I'd seen since then. Here is the revamped version.
The movie has a shocking beginning. Instead of Mrs. Reed's cruel Gateshead estate, we find ourselves on the rain-lashed moors around Thornfield, watching Jane make a desperate escape before collapsing at the Rivers house. (This is an echo of the opening scene of the BBC's film of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, in which Mrs. Graham makes a similar escape.)
Flashbacks are a new and unwelcome addition to the Jane Eyre movie canon. Fortunately, while these out-of-order scenes are distracting, the time sequence isn't hard to follow, due to the obvious changes in Jane's age. (Amelia Clarkson portrays Jane as a child wonderfully, her eyes reflecting a mixture of injustice, lost innocence, and a defiant spirit.)
Bouncing around the time continuum, we see Jane tormented by John Reed, scorned by his mother, and thrust into the figurative hands of the Reverend Brocklehurst. Brief samples of her Lowood experience zip past — the punishment stool, the stoically dying Helen Burns — and all too soon, pupils are saying goodbye to their grown-up teacher, Miss Eyre.
Rather than offer a further blow-by-blow account, I want to discuss the movie's broad strengths and (especially) weaknesses.
It's impossible to retell the Jane Eyre story fully in a two-hour film. Charlotte Brontë wrote a long book for good reason: the many landscapes she portrays, both physical and emotional, present a rich context in which the main story can take root. Every detail, no matter how seemingly insignificant, is another brush stroke providing depth to the overall masterwork. (Her rich language is also a key to Jane Eyre's success. In this film, while the actors occasionally deliver small clumps of Brontë's original words, much of the dialogue is new.)
The movie hits the plot's "high points," but it is like the Cliff's Notes version of a classic. Without the book's sustained buildups, characters' actions and emotions often appear shallow and unconvincing. For example, Jane seems to fall for Rochester abruptly, as any naive young woman might, since he is the first man with whom she ever really converses. As they face each other after she extinguishes his bed fire, a kiss seems impending, the first clear sign of their attraction. Missing are the countless thoughts, longings, self-criticisms, and inner debates Jane had during those times. (Another drastically shortened and unsatisfying element is the single encounter with the mad Mrs. Rochester; we don't see her tear Jane's veil, and in her attic prison scene, she looks sullen and irritated rather than violently deranged.)
Besides the truncated scenes and plot developments, many parts are excised entirely. We miss most of Brontë's depictions of relations among social classes: Reverend Brocklehurst's family visiting Lowood; Rochester's affair with Adele's mother; the Misses Reed choosing contrasting life paths; Blanche Ingram's real designs upon Rochester; Jane's treatment by villagers before she reaches the Rivers family; etc. More than a love story, Jane Eyre was also an incisive critique of that era's British society.
Other missing parts of the story include the Lowood "burnt porridge" scene, the Riverses' relation to John Eyre, and the interval between St. John's revelation of his India plans and his demand that Jane marry him. The story gets along fine without those bits, which were probably taken out to shorten the running time. For that same reason, perhaps, some scenes are choppily edited, as if transitions between parts of a scene had been cut out long after being filmed.
For me, the "cruelest cut of all" comes at the drastically slashed Jane-Rochester reunion scene. No plotting with the servants to surprise him (Jane finds him alone after encountering Mrs. Fairfax in the ruins of Thornfield); no teasing him about her marriage proposal from St. John Rivers; no mention of how the two had "heard" each other's spirits calling across many miles. Not even a hint at the final happy events: their marriage(!), Rochester regaining some eyesight, and the birth of their son. The movie's finale, with Jane nuzzling up to the blind Rochester, may satisfy viewers unfamiliar with the book, but it strikes me as a cheap and hackneyed conclusion.
The movie's other main shortcoming is its inability to get inside Jane's head, where nearly the entire book takes place. Her thoughts, her reactions to events happy and sad, her passionate inner dialogues — these are the meat of Jane Eyre. The filmmakers avoided voice-overs, the best mechanism for conveying thoughts. With voice-overs, it would have been a different movie, and they could only have included slivers of her thinking anyway. Without them, though, the tale lacks flavor and depth.
I don't want to criticize people for failing at an impossible task, nor do I mean to imply this movie was poorly made. It is visually ravishing, with sets and costumes conveying a wonderful sense of that era, including many dim, atmospheric, candle-lit scenes. (Incidentally, I read on a film blog that the building that stood in as Thornfield Hall in 2011 was also used in the 1996 and 2006 versions!)
Furthermore, Mia Wasikowska is a pleasure to watch as Jane, although her thick accent [similar to the Beatles'] comes and goes. Michael Fassbender doesn't hold up his end; he is a subdued, matter-of-fact Rochester, closer in feeling to 2006's Toby Stephens than to 1943's Orson Welles. He lacks Rochester's burly physicality and menacing mien, acting restrained even when powerful events strike him. Among the supporting cast, Mrs. Reed and Reverend Brocklehurst are similarly low on the passion meter, but Adele is pleasingly believable, and Judi Dench steals every scene in which Mrs. Fairfax appears.
The movie clocks in at two hours; many current films are a bit longer. I wish this one would have come in at, say, 2:15. The extra time could have been well spent as follows:
Those modest additions could have made this a far more complete and satisfying version of Jane Eyre.
My take-home message is simply that while this movie is a diverting spectacle, worthy of being viewed, its lack of depth makes it a mere shadow of the spectacular artistry in the book Jane Eyre.
Summary
STRENGTHS
WEAKNESSES
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Jhgf.7z | Betternet.vpn.premium.8.8.1. 1322-
Then the keys folder. Not private keys — those were kept somewhere with more ceremony — but a set of configuration fragments, server endpoints, and a test certificate that would not pass scrutiny outside a lab. Still: they hinted at architecture. There were endpoints labeled with cities: Amsterdam, Singapore, São Paulo. A script mapped them, round-robin and weighted, an attempt to disguise distance beneath an illusion of closeness. Comments in the code were human, too: “TODO: rotate certs weekly,” “Watch for GeoIP mismatches,” “Remember to update privacy policy.” These were trade-offs written plain: maintaining uptime vs. minimizing log detail.
And if you ever find a file named like this on your own desktop, pause before you open it. Read the timestamps. Listen to the changelog. Consider the keys and the comments left in plain text. A build is a story; the archive, a witness.
When I closed the sandbox, the archive remained unchanged: a neat bundle of folders and timestamps, an object that could be restored elsewhere. Its name — Betternet.VPN.Premium.8.8.1.1322-jhgf.7z — was both map and mask. It told you where to look and how little you might learn. It carried maintenance scripts and marketing language in equal measure. It assumed the posture of reassurance.
The archive arrived at midnight, a cool blue icon against the glow of an empty desktop. Its name read like a cipher: Betternet.VPN.Premium.8.8.1.1322-jhgf.7z — a concatenation of brand, version, build and the human scatter of letters that follow all things downloaded in a hurry. I clicked it not because I trusted it, but because curiosity is a light that finds its way into locked rooms. Betternet.VPN.Premium.8.8.1. 1322- jhgf.7z
A chronicle is not only a ledger of actions but an inventory of intention. This build wanted to be safe. It wanted to be fast. It wanted to be premium. Those desires are not neutral; they are political: prioritizing accessibility to foreign media, the option to slip past throttling, the ability to reframe one’s presence on the internet. Yet even earnest code becomes a tool — and tools are used by the wary and the reckless alike.
Inside the compressed container, files nested like Russian dolls: an installer with a dated certificate, a README with a terse changelog, and a folder named keys — tasteful, discreet, impossible to ignore. The installer’s version string promised iteration: 8.8.1, a middle release polished enough to suggest a long road of fixes, small compromises, and feature trades. The build number, 1322, whispered about automated nights of compilation, tests run and forgotten. The suffix jhgf — random, human, perhaps an initialism, perhaps a sigh.
I ran the installer in a sandbox, more ritual than assurance. The GUI unfolded in familiar blues and sleeks: “Betternet — Premium.” The promise of seamless tunnels, of encrypted anonymity, of servers in cities I’d never seen. A toggle for a kill switch; a dropdown of protocols; a small checkbox: “Send anonymous usage statistics.” The language was careful, corporate, designed to soothe. That readme file, however, had another cadence. Bullet points. Bug fixes. A line: “Improved stability for intermittent connections” — translator-speak for nights when packets die mid-sentence. Then the keys folder
The archive was more than code; it was a time capsule. Each file timestamp bore the same week in October, an aftertaste of a sprint: last-minute renames, temporary scripts left in, a TODO left open. I imagined the team behind it: a bullpen of developers at café-lit desks, the hum of servers, a whiteboard scrawled with priorities — security, speed, retention policy. Somewhere between “fix memory leak” and “QA sign-off,” someone had typed jhgf and saved.
The chronicle has an end that is not an ending: software is an ongoing promise. Somewhere, a pipeline will trigger again, the version will increment, another build number will print on the screen, and a different random suffix will be appended like a new signature. Users will click. Servers will route. The code will continue to mediate desire and apprehension, connecting distant endpoints and negotiating the price of privacy in a world that measures convenience in milliseconds.
There is poetry in versioning. The move from 8.7 to 8.8.1 is incremental, patient: a comma in the ongoing sentence of software. Each patch is a footnote in a larger narrative — a promise to users, a record for maintainers. And beyond the technical ledger is the human ledger: release notes that begin “We heard you,” customer-support threads that end in gratitude and anger, the soft murmur of subscribers who felt safer for a few hours. minimizing log detail
I thought of the README’s polite privacy claims against the quiet, granular outputs of the diagnostics. “Minimal logs” read well in a release note; the debug prints in the sandbox told another story: timestamps, session IDs, handshake durations. In isolation they meant little. Aggregated, they could sketch routes, map habits, reveal patterns. The choice to collect or discard, to anonymize or to track, sits not in binaries but in defaults.
I simulated a connection. The client negotiated handshakes in an invisible lingua franca: packets and ACKs, ciphers shaken like dice. Latency fell, then rose, chasing the geography printed in curl outputs. Somewhere in the connection logs, the words “fallback” and “retry” appeared like staccato breaths. The kill switch behaved well, severing routes cleanly, leaving only the pale echo of a disconnected socket.
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