Becoming Jane is the kind of movie I wouldn’t review if I didn’t have to.

We know it’s about Jane Austen (played by Anne Hathaway and a British accent). We know that it’s going to resemble any number of movies and miniseries based on her work in the last decade or so (full disclosure: the only Austen adaptations I’ve seen are Ang Lee’s Sense and Sensibility, which I loved, and the 1972 BBC miniseries of Emma, which I hated – not because of the acting but because of the story. I’ve also read Pride and Prejudice, which is one of my favourites). Either you hope to be charmed by another set of British landscapes and impeccable acting (the pros here include Maggie Smith, James Cromwell, Dark City’s Ian Richardson and Julie Walters, best known on these shores of late as Mrs. Weasley in the Harry Potter movies) or you never clicked on this review in the first place.

Let me address those viewers, like me, who enjoy this stuff. The movie imagines a flight of pure romantic fantasy between her and a certain Tom Lefroy (James McAvoy). That she and Mr. Lefroy shared a romantic relationship in real life is hinted at in two letters she wrote to her sister (and neither were as detailed as the one read in the movie). Accepted on its own terms, the romance is sweet, believable, and light.

It’s also interesting, watching Becoming Jane, to note that its stars’ most recent acting gigs were in movies where they played the leads but earned almost none of the accolades. Anne Hathaway played put-upon journalism student Andy Sachs in The Devil Wears Prada, while McAvoy’s last major appearance was as Dr. Nicholas Garrigan, our eyes and ears during The Last King of Scotland’s reign of Idi Amin. Freed from their imposing co-stars (Hathaway’s last leading role before The Devil Wears Prada was in the sequel to The Princess Diaries), the two carry themselves well; neither is as magnetic as they were in Scotland or Prada, but I suspect that’s the script’s fault.

What’s odd about Becoming Jane however, is that despite Ms. Austen’s obvious wit, despite her readings, despite the occasional flashes of inspiration that turn into snippets from her novels, we never get the impression that she’s a writer, that it permeates every aspect of her being. There’s a part of her that’s fed up with 19th century English society, that resents her mother (Walter)’s insistence that she find a rich husband (God forbid she make money writing novels!) or they’ll end up in the poorhouse, but no part of her indicates that she finds this release in writing (the only time she sits down to read a novel is when Lefroy hands one to her).

And that’s really what writing is all about, isn’t it? Release – whether imparting a lesson we’ve learned through story, presenting life as we don’t know it, or presenting life as we do know it, but in an interesting way. Great journalists have discovered something they want to share with the rest of the world. Great critics – or at least unpaid ones – have either been inspired by something and wish to recommend and discuss it, or have seen something so horrible they indulge their childish instinct to condemn it. (Becoming Jane inspires neither.) And good novelists… good novelists have stories clawing at them, waiting to get out. We read others’ work and are occasionally impressed. Then we think, “That’s good, but I can do it one better.”

In real life Jane Austen never married, so it’s not hard to imagine that Pride and Prejudice was inspired by the events in this movie, or that Mr. Lefroy inspired Mr. Darcy. But I don’t sense that writer’s spirit in Hathaway’s portrayal of Ms. Austen, and I’ve read about enough writers (including her) to know that she had one.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I feel a story clawing at me.






Related Stories: