Jane Austen wrecked Agathe’s life by ruining her for modern men. Agathe hasn’t had sex for two years because no man can match up to the romantic heroes of Austen’s novels. She was, she says, ‘born in the wrong century.’
Agathe is twenty-something and possessed of an elfin, somewhat androgynous beauty. She is what the French call gamine. (Camille Rutherford, who plays her, will be the next Audrey Tautou, mark my words. All the fellas will be gaga over her waiflike charm.)
She works at Shakespeare and Company, the famous Left Bank English-language bookshop that’s been a hangout of literary grandees for over a century. (James Joyce was a regular.)
Her co-worker and best friend is Felix (Pablo Pauly) who’s a bit of a pants man. He teases Agathe about her lack of a sex life and her impossible romantic yearnings.
Agathe dreams of being a writer, but she lacks confidence and suffers writers block. Nevertheless she has managed to knock out two chapters of a novel which Felix sneakily reads. He thinks it’s good and sends it off to something called The Jane Austen Residency.
They like it too and invite her to a writers’ week at a country house in England owned by descendants of the Austen family. At Felix’s urging she goes, despite her misgivings about having to talk about her writing or even get any done. Just before they part they share a spontaneous kiss, which starts Agathe wondering whether after all love might be more about friendship than romance. Felix himself is gung-ho; he has long fancied her.
She is picked up from the ferry by Oliver (Charlie Anson), a handsome, haughty, brooding fellow who happens to be a great-great-great-grandnephew of the divine Jane. Aha. Mr Darcy, I presume? You betcha. They even get off to the requisite bad start. Firstly he dismisses Austen’s work as lightweight chicklit; then the car breaks down and he’s got no mechanical nous so they end up having to spend the night in it before being rescued next morning by a passing peasant and dropped off at the country house.
The stage is now set for the playing out of a classic love triangle, because thanks to that farewell kiss the flame of true love has been lit in Felix’s heart and he turns up at the costume ball that takes place at the end of the residency, just when Agathe and Oliver/Mr Darcy are beginning to overcome their pride and prejudice towards one another and exchange smouldering looks.
Jane Austen Wrecked My Life revels in its sheer gorgeousness. The architecture, the interiors, the furnishings, the garden, the Regency costumes, the music – all are gorgeous.
Trouble is it’s all just a bit too gorgeous. Agathe herself is a bit too gorgeous. As well as dancing sensually among the bookshelves while singing along softly to the arty chanson playing softly in the bookshop, which is how we first meet her, Agathe can also play lovely Schubert and Chopin melodies on the piano. She couldn’t get more gorgeous if she tried.
The setting is totally gorgeous but it’s a bit of a con. The country house is supposed to be in England but it’s unmistakably in rural France, where you might actually still find peasants driving tractors along dirt roads through the forest, trailing an open hay-cart.
The supporting characters are an interesting lot. The hosts – elderly keepers of the Austen flame – are appealing. She’s warm and welcoming, he’s a nice old man slowly sinking into dementia. Sometimes he forgets to put his pants on. His wife’s loving tolerance conveys itself to the guests and even the waspish feminist writer retreats from her initial outrage.
This aspect of the story is played for poignancy and not for cheap laughs. All well and good. But the other supporting characters are largely wasted. The half-dozen or so writers also there for the residency come in all colours and ethnicities, but they are little more than visual wallpaper.
The only one who has any role in the plot is the narky feminist. There’s one scene where she browbeats the company with her opinion that all writing should be political. This could have led to some sharp and stimulating dialogue, but only Agathe responds, apparently winning the day by saying that writing should be about personal feelings. I didn’t much like the narky feminist, but I thought as an expression of the film’s philosophy Agathe’s response was a bit…wet.
So who does Agathe choose? No spoilers. Suffice to say that when you think about it, Agathe’s was the likeliest choice for a young woman born in the 25th century.
All up, Jane Austen Wrecked My Life would have worked better if there’d been a bit less rom and a bit more com, and if it hadn’t taken its gorgeousness so seriously.
One thing isn’t a con: I checked, and there are living descendants of Jane Austen.