So I read this for my Victorians class, basically because I want to write a paper on it for my final project – that research proposal is due in on Thursday and I’ve given it shockingly little thought in comparison to my usual intensive research schedules with these term paper things – anyway, I’m reading it for my final project, and I didn’t expect it to be any good. I judge books by their cover, and this cover was rubbish.
I also judge them on really cheap jokes. The fact that she talks into her little voice recorder, the brand of which is Reeder, makes me throw up a little in my mouth. Reeder, I married him. Oop. There went the acid reflux. The thing is, Ms. Shinn didn’t maintain this conceit straight through the book, you know? The book wasn’t a transcript of everything that was recorded by the Reeder. Most of it was in past tense, and it often talked about her little Reeder voice recorder, so it didn’t work out well, and caused me some dismay. And also, hi, I’m Jenny, and I don’t like little cutesy jokes about Jane Eyre.
Here’s another thing that caused me some dismay. Do you know what was wrong with Berthe Rochester (Beatrice Ravenbeck in this version), do you know? Because I’ll tell you! She was a malfunctioning cyborg! She was! I swear! I didn’t make that up! I couldn’t even have made that up if I wanted to which God knows I don’t, because I didn’t know that a cyborg was a part-human-part-robot creature. Which is what Berthe is here. A malfunctioning cyborg. She’s just human enough that poor put-upon Mr. Rochester (Ravenbeck) can’t get rid of her.
I found this whole book trying. It’s like Ms. Shinn made a big long list of every single scene in Jane Eyre, and then wrote down little notes next to each scene about how she could make them more science-fictiony. The end result is less than inspiring. Everyone seems like a cardboard imitation of their original characters in Jane Eyre, and the stuff that’s added in is vastly uninteresting. I wasn’t, of course, expecting any adaptation to be able to improve on Jane Eyre, which is a book that gives joy to my life; but if Jane Eyre were Oxford, Jenna Starborn would be, like, the Derek Zoolander Center for Kids Who Can’t Read Good.
And I’m not just saying that because reading Jenna Starborn caused me to miss out on playing with my nice cousins that I haven’t seen since they were seven and four. It’s my true opinion. I would still feel that way if I had been reading Jenna Starborn as an alternative to parking ten eighteen-wheelers on Carlotta Street, or, I don’t know, giving enemas to everyone at the campus health center. I would.