Jane Eyre Extraordinare.

I own 23 versions of Jane Eyre on DVD and VHS.
Well, not exactly 23, but I do own many.
Every once in awhile, I have an Eyre-athon, in which I watch all of the versions in one gloriously lachrymal, tissue-rending day. I take soggy, extensive notes. I compare and contrast. I write lengthy essays that no one ever reads on the symbolism and the plot structure. I take an eager interest when new versions are released, because if they suck, it's like a personal insult to me, the Eyre Extraordinare.

I have my favorites: the Tim Dalton version and the new Masterpiece Theatre version starring my favorite ginger kid, Toby Stephens. Call it a BBC obsession, but damn, those chaps do know how to translate a classic work of literature into a small screen masterpiece.
Initially, I was a little skeptical about Toby Stephens playing Rochester, because I've seen him in other period flicks, and every time I see him I think: RUGBY PLAYER. I don't know... he just has that look about him.
Plus he makes me think of Dame Maggie Smith banging Sherlock Holmes, which is... disturbingly wrinkly.
But I digress.
Despite being criminally pulchritudinous and having a rugby player affect, his Edward Fairfax Rochester was surprisingly convincing.There were even scenes that gave me new insight into Rochester's character, which is a miraculous feat, since I know more about Jane Eyre than Charlotte Bronte herself.
A ballsy claim, I know. But true.
Just try me.

Most people peg me for a Pride and Prejudice girl--an Austen fanatic.
Do not believe these lies.

Clearly, Jane Eyre pwns Pride & Prejudice. Jane Austen may have had literary finesse, a killer wit, and is one exasperating missing link from being my great-great-great-great aunt (at least that is what my father, the part time historian and geneaologist believes), but the woman was practically dead below the waist (despite what modern interpretations attempt to inject into the material). Where is the violence of passion? Where is the ache of despair? Don't get me wrong, I love my auntie Jane, and enjoy P&P like every other warm-blooded woman crawling along the planet's surface, but its characters are maddeningly superficial. Where is the depth of emotion? The conflict between freedom and morality? The sexual tension? Yeah, I said it. I know we are talking about British gentry and all, but come on now. Europeans invented the heaving bodice.

I don't want to hear any crap about about Austen's work somehow tapping into some universal, while Bronte's work is just dated. Damn you, Helen Fielding. Bronte's not dated--she's subversive.
Just because P&P became the template for all chick lit everywhere, doesn't make it a universal truth about the needs and desires of women. There are some of us who prefer life in the Danger Zone.
Personally, I like my leading men tall, dark, and verboten. Being married to a lunatic certainly helps.
I mean, eschewing societal conventions and marrying below one's station is one thing.
But to eschew conventions, while throwing traditional morality out the window, defying God and heaven, and forfeiting any possibility of eternal peace for a little Victorian vajay-jay? That's hot.

But enough talk.
There's only one way to settle this:

WALK-OFF!