I've read Jane Austen's book every year for the last ten.

It began with much prodding at the hand of a dear cousin. She folded my hand around a T160 VHS tape, home-recorded and with her preteen's bubbled penmanship scribbled across the label. I ignored her, by and large, accepting the tape and stowing it in my sock drawer with a barely concealed eye-roll. I had little time in the summer leading up to my fourteenth birthday—what, with all of that daydreaming, dawdling, and whatnot. I knew with peculiar certainty that I didn't have time for a 5-hour movie. However, my cousin's persistence eventually grew annoying and I offered the obligatory smile and watched the A&E miniseries. It was masterful, and I was hooked.

My appetite whetted, I had the book in hand inside of a week. Immersed in the old-time parlance, my sick little vocabulary grew by leaps and bounds, and I still leave many stone-faced and glowering in the wake of a particularly hard-to-translate statement. I can't be certain that I even understand what I say half of the time, but I'll be damned if I'll admit it. Erm...to a live audience.

A new version hit theatres last month. I had reservations in seeing it, for I felt nothing could compare to A&E's brilliant production. I made a list of pros and cons, pulled petals from a daisy ("To see it....To see it not..."), spent restless nights staring at the ceiling, bargained with the Almighty for clarity, and finally made my decision after a particularly rousing round of inny-minny-miney-moe.



I caught the 12:15 showing on Monday. I caught it again today. If you are still in question as to my thoughts on the movie after that statement, I'll spell it out for you: B-E-A-U-T-I-F-U-L. It is one of the most stirring pieces I've seen. Ever. I know the story so intimately, and still I felt my breath catching and my heart accelerating as the scenes crested. The last sequence melted me...I was a mess of romantic idealism. The realist went out for coffee and the rest of me slow-danced with love.