JANE EYRE

New Zealand Listener, Volume 12, Issue 301, 29 March 1945, Page 17

JANE EYRE

(20th Century-Fox)

HIS is not the film it might have been if Orson WelHes had resisted the temptation to over-act (in fact, to parody) +he role of Rochester, and if

the. director (Robert Stevenson) had been able to capture the Brontéan intensity of atmosphere as_ successfully throughout the picture as he does in the first 20 minutes or so. Those early sequences, dealing with the little Jane’s nightmare life in the orphanage, under the tutelage of the piously sadistic Mr. Brocklehurst (Henry Daniell), provide high-powered melodrama, not completely devoid of social content. As I saw this film I could not help wondering how many of the people who deplore the present lax treatment of young people and clamour for stegner discipline realise what our children have escaped from, thanks largely to the efforts of such "well-meaning but misguided sentimentalists" as Charlotte Bronte. Even in this opening bit the influence of Orson Welles is fairly marked. Although he was, of course, not the director, I think he must have been looking over Robert Stevenson’s shoulder and jogging his elbow most of the time, for that Rembrandt-like massing of black shadows, those dramatic silhouettes, that atmosphere of terror, pity, and gloom

conveyed by landscape and furnishings are exactly what we remember from Citizen Kane and The Magnificent Ambersons. They are certainly as typical of Welles as they are of Bronté. And after Jane Eyre has grown up, and has gone to be governess at Thornfield Hall, the picture falls almost completely under the dominance of Welles-with rather mixed results. For he then comes fully on to the scene in his character of Rochester, cloak swishing behind him, hound at heels, brows beetling, exuding melancholy and bad temper. He has, of course, some reason to be in a black mood, what with a mad wife in the attic and various other feminine distractions downstairs. But although Mr. Welles obviously enjoys himself hugely in suffering so picturesquely, I think his audience would have enjoyed Mr. Welles more and suffered less if, in moments of stress, he did not give the impression that he was trying to swallow his words instead of utter them. This may be what is known as expressing emotions too deep for words, but since Mr. Welles is in that state most of the picture it makes hearing rather difficult. In the shadow of this glowering colossus, Joan Fontaine has little opportunity to assert her acting ability, though there are moments when her pale courage as Jane Eyre shines forth effectively id the encircling gloom. But it is little Ann Garner (as the child Jane) who to my mind emerges with the one really satisfactory performance. Not, I repeat, quite the outstanding picture that we might have hoped for; but even so it is a pretty good period piece which you do not necessarily need to admire in order to enjoy.