I’m thinking my resolution for the new year should be to stop watching so many depressing British period films.
You know what they say, a few late nights with languid, rainy shots of the English countryside and Keira Knightly/Kate Winslet/Cate Blanchett in a corset are good for the spirits; but stick too much with the deeply dramatic Brit Lit BBC adaptations and your mood just may end up in the tank.
I don’t know if anybody ever actually said that, but they should have.
I love me some Austen, some Bronte, some Dickens—all cinematically retrofitted and beautifully rendered onscreen. But too many serious-themed films all at once? It’s enough to make you run for a Nicholas Sparks chicklit movie, which is what I actually found myself doing recently.
A certain awful film based on a certain Thomas Hardy novel put me over the top. I can’t take it anymore. When I read Hardy in Honors English my sophomore year, I didn’t fall madly in love. Apparently, my feelings for TH haven’t changed.
Now my Netflix queue is brimming with darkly dramatic 19th century literary adaptations (British and Russian—it’s equal opportunity), and I’m desperate for something a tad less depressing.
It’s January and I’m looking for something zippy.
I need a brief winter’s respite from the haunting piano/violin soundtracks.