The chief reason to see this remake, and sufficient reason to have made it, is for the spectacle of the bony Charlotte Gainsbourg nibbling away at the meaty title role. For that, we have to wait half an hour while the protagonist goes through her ill-used childhood ("At Lowood, we shall tame her unruly spirit") and her first incarnation in the form of Anna Paquin. Paquin is a good little actress as little actresses go, and she is not a bad match for her adult successor as such matches go. But that's not enough to compensate for the crudely imagined opening stretch of the story. Only the arrival of Gainsbourg, at the other end of an eight-year time-jump, is enough to compensate for it. Her face, perfect for the part, is not such as to contradict the character completely, much less deride her supposed sensitivity and intelligence and veracity, when she must describe herself as "plain." (We have "supermodel" Elle Macpherson, with Shirley Temple dimples and ringlets, for emphatic contrast.) All the same, we are free to disagree. Plainly exquisite, Jane. Exquisite, plainly. The natural pout of her outthrust chin, chipmunky stuffed cheeks, swollen lower lip, makes the slightest smile ("Do you never laugh, Miss Eyre?") all the more precious and touching. And her neck, seemingly in a state of constant craning, gives to every facial expression and every glance an extra increment of curiosity, uncertainty, innocence, strain. Gainsbourg may be a somewhat limited actress, but her limits far surpass the rudimentary demands of this Ugly Duckling-cum-Cinderella archetype. The same cannot be said of William Hurt, who lacks some of the ruined nobility required in the role of Rochester. He doesn't lack the required adjective. He lacks the noun. With Joan Plowright, Fiona Shaw, John Wood, Amanda Root; directed by Franco Zeffirelli. (1996) — Duncan Shepherd
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