If I Loved Emma Less, I Might be Able to Talk About it More

When you’re a “reader” (air-quotes because everyone is, they’re just denying themselves), you’re expected to have a favorite book. Really, my favorite is all the books, the act of reading, the fact that books exist. (exceptions, of course, that do not move me: Call of the Wild, My Side of the Mountain, etc. Let me hate those). My favorite is probably the one I’m currently reading. Alas, people will ask you what your favorite book is so they can respond, “Oh, I’ve never read it.” Or actually relate. In an effort to be decisive, I picked a favorite, Emma by Jane Austen. I read it about four years ago, and I reread passages frequently to hold the words in my head. I love it because it’s about self-growth and proves this self-evolution journey can be funny, too.

The director of this year’s adaptation, Autumn de Wilde, articulates the coming of age nature of Emma in that “Jane Austen writes the hubris of youth so well.” Emma is shining and snappy, albeit spoiled and not entirely humble. She’s stubborn and resilient; she bears Mr. Knightley’s lectures “as no other woman in England would have borne it.” The first two-thirds of the novel are clever; the last third is surprising and joyous. It’s a cross-stitch of hidden relationships and the undressing of egos. This is the book I’ve deemed as my favorite. It is the last novel that was published before Austen died, and it is said by literary critics to be her most perfect novel. I watch the 2009 BBC miniseries adaptation every year at Christmas time; it snows for an episode and makes me happy. Emma is the novel that backlights the nineties cult classic, Amy Heckerling’s Clueless. Heckerling’s observant social commentary and relatability is very Austen indeed. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, satire. Humans are most interesting when they’re making mistakes, and as a heroine, Cher owns her failings. Austen’s story is delightfully transmitted in each adaptation of the aforementioned versions —for Emma’s strength is that it holds its charm in numerous capacities. Every celebration needs a focus, so I would like to emphasize the intricacies and nuance of Austen’s novel in demonstrating the interwoven layers of self-growth and romance in EMMA. (2020). Indulge me.

The heightened nature of the stylization of the film is grounded in relationships. EMMA. (2020), directed by Autumn de Wilde, is an opulent pastry—generously, colorfully frosted. The extravagance is both real and highlights the ridiculous nature of both the characters and scenarios. The color palette of bold pastels is outrageous and increases hilarity. I was skeptical that the styling would detract from the sincerity of the relationships, but the strength of the writing achieves both at once. The music! Director de Wilde describes it as desiring it “to be like a misbehaving orchestra, like the conductor is overwhelmed and the oboes are escaping.”Isobel-Waller Bridge’s score is as messy, peculiar, folksy, and funny as the lives of the inhabitants in Highbury, adding another layer of texture in complexity to the story.

The introduction of Emma (Anya Taylor-Joy) as an early riser heading to the greenhouse demonstrates her purposefulness and dedication in that she must arrange a perfect bouquet for her Miss Taylor (Gemma Whelan). As the sun rises, Emma is primarily associated with yellow for its boldness and its light-giving characteristics, which is threaded throughout the film and replicated by Mr. Knightley’s yellow coat. The costumes are wild and daring, the recurring feathers for Emma are always peacocking, performing. Emma is brave in her choices, overconfident at times. Anya Taylor-Joy wanted to draw attention to Emma's wickedness, for Jane Austen wrote of Emma, “I am going to take a heroine whom no one but myself will like." Taylor-Joy harbors the snobbery of Emma to emphasize her growth. The first scene of the film also illustrates her isolation. She has curated this greenhouse to keep beauty near her, because she has never really travelled outside of Highbury. She is lonely and bored, and that’s when one begins to misbehave. Further, her misbehavior is both crushing and gleeful, for the great beauty of Austen’s characters’ is that one knows their flaws immediately upon meeting them on the page. On page one of Emma, Austen chuckles in announcing Emma’s flaws, “The real evils indeed of Emma’s situation were the power of having rather too much of her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened to alloy to her many enjoyments.”

Johnny Flynn’s Mr. Knightley starts out stern but turns emotional and frustrated, revealing little cracks in his stoic image —he really loves her and has no idea how to handle it. In his first scene we find him undressing, pulling off boots, shedding all his clothes, only to dress again to set off for his evening visit to Hartfield. He’s naked, then dressed, natural, then striding out in coat and tophat, societal. In a world of muslin and Haberdasheries, he is almost earthy. This Mr. Knightley plays the violin, sings, demonstrating a new open-heartedness to the character. Flynn’s folksy voice showcases an unassuming quality to Mr. Knightley. He is paradoxical in his respectability and rebellion, and his love for Emma accentuates the “schism in him.” The beginning of the film is Emma’s tight curls and Mr. Knightley’s swinging confidence and his put-together image that journeys towards wildness as Emma’s curls grow looser and Mr. Knightley’s emotional buttoned-upness becomes exposed. And, in loving Emma, he wrestles with, then finds satisfaction in, vulnerability. Emma is closed in by genteel standards and closed off in her turquoise carriage, whereas Mr. Knightley rides in the open air with his too-tall riding boots, ego intact. These layers of societal norms and self-importance must be stripped away before love and greater empathy can flourish: “authenticity means stripping away layers of convention, which means stripping away the clothes. Emma is constantly enveloped by layers upon layers of Regency civilization: clothes and furniture and rhetoric, all conspiring to keep her from her truest self.” Their high-collared, corseted fashion has an innate restraint and pomp that restricts their movements, and then cinches in their emotions.

The gloveless (“sometimes you have to show a little skin because that makes them think of sex!") dance scene between Mr. Knightley and Emma has an emotional journey within the scene itself; the butterflies of the beginning of the dance, the prolonged eye contact, then the slowing of their movements so they could touch longer. They fell into a rhythm as a two and out of the rhythm of the group; we don’t care that the others are even dancing at all. It is a long scene with the attention solely on them. I kept thinking we’d lose the moment and cut away, but instead the camera inched closer, as they inch closer to each other, too. It’s swoon-worthy and intimate, and the characters realize this. Wilde’s storytelling puts a greater gravity on this dance, for afterward Mr. Knightley is flustered, and then Emma’s carriage leaves before they can speak. Mr. Knightley is so overwhelmed that he just runs after her. Emma’s repose out the window in the hallway scene at home seems to be composed of thoughts of him. Then, there he is. This feels like the moment before they’re interrupted by an injured Harriet. After returning home from the ball and the scene Harriet made, Mr. Knightley forces layers of clothing off: the restraint, the ties, the second vest, throwing them at the ground in angst, and as we all do when we feel most disheartened, he just lays right there on the floor, distraught. Emma and Mr. Knightley have matched wits and enjoy arguing, enjoy needling each other; they’re comfortable in their intellectualism. When things grow romantic, they become a little awkward. The strawberry scene, for example: Mr. Knightley has to look away when Emma quietly devours a strawberry—too sensual! When Mr. Knightley dances with Harriet and he returns her smile, yet when he dances with Emma they’re staring too much at each other to smile. Taylor-Joy describes the characters’ inner monologues as such,"They're first taking [dancing together] as a joke, bowing to each other like, 'Oh, this is so ridiculous.' And then by the third turn, they're like, 'Your breathing has synced up with my breathing. Why am I getting hot? Why am I blushing? Are you blushing?’ Mr. Knightley and Emma are coming to terms with their desire and yearning, how they’ve danced around these feelings, but never have they been so blunt or felt as now. Later, as they move under the blossoming Horse Chestnut tree, both of their eyes are red from emotion, and he is fully bearing himself, “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more,” as words fail us when we feel the most. Further he is apologetic, “God knows, I have been a very indifferent lover.” Ultimately, Mr. Knightley gives up his independence and his estate, breaking societal norms to make sure Emma keeps her promise to never leave her father, slashing through layers of convention for love. And by the time Johnny Flynn serenades the audience with the end credits song, we are all undone.

Writing this, I wanted to be smart about how I love something, but really there’s every reason I’ve named and the fact that I just do. Emma reminds us that humans are lovable with flaws, and shedding pride makes room for love. Themes of kindness and confidence instruct that one cannot be truly self-loving without being kind. Only then confidence can flower. Life is too intricate to know everything, so self-importance is a non-starter, but listen to trustworthy friends. Yes, love is patient, but love will call you out and be disappointed in your cruelty. That love is most fruitful in honesty. Vulnerability and humor are the best forms of deviance. And that I might have a thing for older men.