Clean Girl, Cool Girl, Obstinate Headstrong Girl
Claire F. Martin’s Elizabeth Bennet wants you to know that this Pride and Prejudice is not like other Pride and Prejudices. Claire F. Martin wants you to know that her Elizabeth Bennet is often wrong. But not always, as you shall see, and not in this instance! For to say that any two Pride and Prejudice adaptations are alike is to not have seen more than one, just like to say that all the Bennet sisters are alike is to be a stranger to the family.
Without so much as an internet search, I can conjure from memory five straight-play adaptations, at least three musicals, and endless film and television versions starring heroes of the screen from Greer Garson to Wishbone. And that’s strictly the adaptations served straight up; Bollywood masterpiece Bride and Prejudice, mystery series imagining the Darcys as detectives, the deliciously fantastical Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, or modern retellings like Fire Island or The Lizzie Bennet Diaries also grace the ranks of homages, pastiches, and reimagining’s of Jane Austen’s book, which is itself a second iteration of a manuscript titled "First Impressions."
First Impressions was originally completed in 1797, and was initially rejected by a publisher who sent it back to the Austens unread. Prior to its eventual publication in 1813—after the publication of Sense and Sensibility—another novelist, Margaret Holford, published her own unrelated book under the "First Impressions" title, so Jane pivoted to the now-legendary label Pride and Prejudice, a phrase which originally appears in Fanny Burney’s 1782 novel Cecilia. Jane calls out to Burney again in Northanger Abbey, mentioning Burney’s books Cecilia and Camilla, along with Maria Edgeworth’s Belinda and dozens of the “gothic romances” popular at the time.
That Jane Austen’s novels are deeply and delightedly in conversation with the work of her contemporary lady authors is unsurprising, given her interest in conversations amongst ladies, and about ladies and the nature of lady-hood. Claire F. Martin is likewise invested not only in the hallowed romances for which her source material is often known, but also or even especially interested in the relationships between this play’s women, especially the relationships of protagonist Elizabeth Bennet.
Miss Martin’s Elizabeth Bennet likes to divide women into categories. There is the perfectly perfect “Jane Girl” who—though adherent to certain societal standards of behavior like physical attractiveness or general docility—offers no complications nor competition for Elizabeth personally and therefore make excellent sidekick material. The “Jane Girl” is made effortlessly happy by her own goodness, and destined for a rosy romance.
Then there is the “Lydia Girl”, those quintessential “other girls” whom early 2010s white feminism told us we should not be like: vain, shallow, materialistic, feminine to a fault, unsubtly appealing to the male gaze, followers of trends. They seek accomplishment not for personal fulfilment, but to impress—dare I say it? Men. They demand attention in a way “Jane Girls” do not, and they aren’t ashamed of the attention they subsequently receive, whether it’s for good or bad reasons. They center themselves and their desires, and, most pertinently, do not seem to sacrifice anything for it.
(It’s interesting to note that despite such a popular precedent, Jane Austen named only one of her books after its title character; Emma, which speaks perfectly to that protagonist’s personality.)
Which brings us, of course, to our third category—not the “Elizabeth Girl”, but simply Elizabeth. There is no one quite like her. She is intelligent, outspoken, spurns romance, loves reading, and feels no need to impress others—a good thing, because she often does not impress others. Elizabeth is aware that she has been marginalized—for both her gender and her class—and chafes at the expectation that she behave in a way that would offer her social mobility at the cost of personal expression. She has made a sacrifice—ease within the public sphere and the familial realm alike—in order to be true to herself, and that makes her, in her own estimation, a singular woman. “Janes”, who are almost not women at all, but rather, ungendered angels, can sympathize, but they
cannot understand, because their ostensibly innate beauty and gentleness negates the need for sacrifice—how fortunate! “Lydias” can neither sympathize nor understand, because they willingly, ardently pursue everything Elizabeth shuns, and are all too often rewarded for it. Or so Elizabeth believes.
One might flirt with the notion that, like today’s “Clean Girl” and “Cool Girl” and “That Girl”, Elizabeth does her fellow women a service by offering them handy labels to distinguish themselves within the crowd and craft a sense of identity, even if those labels are handpicked by her. But this convenient classification only serves to better organize the collection known as Woman which patriarchal systems so desperately covet—fight amongst yourselves, the oligarchs whisper, so you won’t fight us. Elizabeth has, to borrow a colloquial phrase, girlbossed too close to the sun. She earnestly senses the need for women to not be relegated to one box, and so she creates a few more.
In Miss Martin’s adaptation, this is Elizabeth’s foremost prejudice: being too eager to assign a name and nature to those around her without taking the time to truly know them, even those who live in her own home and share her name and blood. Deftly presented through Miss Martin’s compassionate and clever narrative, we can sense that this is borne of a genuine frustration with her limited options, and a reasonable wish for control over her own life that is initially misapplied to others’. And the remedy will be found, just as Jane Austen found it, and just as we all may find it, in community.
Perhaps I do a disservice to Elizabeth in not further elucidating the profundity of her character development. But I’d do a greater one to you if I spoiled the story. For even if you’ve heard, read, seen it before, you’ve never quite seen it this way.
This play is like other Pride and Prejudice adaptations in that it is lovingly fashioned after a renowned classic that has enchanted us for centuries. It is not like other Pride and Prejudices in that you are about to experience it, live and in the moment, in this moment. It will be different every night. Each audience member will find kinship with a different character and be left with a different impression, whether it’s their first or their fiftieth. For we are no two of us alike, and one of the many beauties of Jane Austen’s work is that she knew it. Her careful exploration of women’s experiences in a society that promotes their compliant homogeneity rather than their vibrant variety is adoringly echoed and expounded upon by Miss Martin’s play, and displays an attitude we should all endeavor to cultivate. It is our marvelous differences which lay the groundwork for our unity, and the recognition and celebration of individual life experiences only serves to more tightly weave the tapestry of our humanity. And, in my humble opinion, the very best place to start is at the theatre.
Thank you for supporting new work at the Atlanta Shakespeare Tavern, and please enjoy Claire F. Martin’s Pride and Prejudice.
—Claire Wittman,
Production Dramaturg
Without so much as an internet search, I can conjure from memory five straight-play adaptations, at least three musicals, and endless film and television versions starring heroes of the screen from Greer Garson to Wishbone. And that’s strictly the adaptations served straight up; Bollywood masterpiece Bride and Prejudice, mystery series imagining the Darcys as detectives, the deliciously fantastical Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, or modern retellings like Fire Island or The Lizzie Bennet Diaries also grace the ranks of homages, pastiches, and reimagining’s of Jane Austen’s book, which is itself a second iteration of a manuscript titled "First Impressions."
First Impressions was originally completed in 1797, and was initially rejected by a publisher who sent it back to the Austens unread. Prior to its eventual publication in 1813—after the publication of Sense and Sensibility—another novelist, Margaret Holford, published her own unrelated book under the "First Impressions" title, so Jane pivoted to the now-legendary label Pride and Prejudice, a phrase which originally appears in Fanny Burney’s 1782 novel Cecilia. Jane calls out to Burney again in Northanger Abbey, mentioning Burney’s books Cecilia and Camilla, along with Maria Edgeworth’s Belinda and dozens of the “gothic romances” popular at the time.
That Jane Austen’s novels are deeply and delightedly in conversation with the work of her contemporary lady authors is unsurprising, given her interest in conversations amongst ladies, and about ladies and the nature of lady-hood. Claire F. Martin is likewise invested not only in the hallowed romances for which her source material is often known, but also or even especially interested in the relationships between this play’s women, especially the relationships of protagonist Elizabeth Bennet.
Miss Martin’s Elizabeth Bennet likes to divide women into categories. There is the perfectly perfect “Jane Girl” who—though adherent to certain societal standards of behavior like physical attractiveness or general docility—offers no complications nor competition for Elizabeth personally and therefore make excellent sidekick material. The “Jane Girl” is made effortlessly happy by her own goodness, and destined for a rosy romance.
Then there is the “Lydia Girl”, those quintessential “other girls” whom early 2010s white feminism told us we should not be like: vain, shallow, materialistic, feminine to a fault, unsubtly appealing to the male gaze, followers of trends. They seek accomplishment not for personal fulfilment, but to impress—dare I say it? Men. They demand attention in a way “Jane Girls” do not, and they aren’t ashamed of the attention they subsequently receive, whether it’s for good or bad reasons. They center themselves and their desires, and, most pertinently, do not seem to sacrifice anything for it.
(It’s interesting to note that despite such a popular precedent, Jane Austen named only one of her books after its title character; Emma, which speaks perfectly to that protagonist’s personality.)
Which brings us, of course, to our third category—not the “Elizabeth Girl”, but simply Elizabeth. There is no one quite like her. She is intelligent, outspoken, spurns romance, loves reading, and feels no need to impress others—a good thing, because she often does not impress others. Elizabeth is aware that she has been marginalized—for both her gender and her class—and chafes at the expectation that she behave in a way that would offer her social mobility at the cost of personal expression. She has made a sacrifice—ease within the public sphere and the familial realm alike—in order to be true to herself, and that makes her, in her own estimation, a singular woman. “Janes”, who are almost not women at all, but rather, ungendered angels, can sympathize, but they
cannot understand, because their ostensibly innate beauty and gentleness negates the need for sacrifice—how fortunate! “Lydias” can neither sympathize nor understand, because they willingly, ardently pursue everything Elizabeth shuns, and are all too often rewarded for it. Or so Elizabeth believes.
One might flirt with the notion that, like today’s “Clean Girl” and “Cool Girl” and “That Girl”, Elizabeth does her fellow women a service by offering them handy labels to distinguish themselves within the crowd and craft a sense of identity, even if those labels are handpicked by her. But this convenient classification only serves to better organize the collection known as Woman which patriarchal systems so desperately covet—fight amongst yourselves, the oligarchs whisper, so you won’t fight us. Elizabeth has, to borrow a colloquial phrase, girlbossed too close to the sun. She earnestly senses the need for women to not be relegated to one box, and so she creates a few more.
In Miss Martin’s adaptation, this is Elizabeth’s foremost prejudice: being too eager to assign a name and nature to those around her without taking the time to truly know them, even those who live in her own home and share her name and blood. Deftly presented through Miss Martin’s compassionate and clever narrative, we can sense that this is borne of a genuine frustration with her limited options, and a reasonable wish for control over her own life that is initially misapplied to others’. And the remedy will be found, just as Jane Austen found it, and just as we all may find it, in community.
Perhaps I do a disservice to Elizabeth in not further elucidating the profundity of her character development. But I’d do a greater one to you if I spoiled the story. For even if you’ve heard, read, seen it before, you’ve never quite seen it this way.
This play is like other Pride and Prejudice adaptations in that it is lovingly fashioned after a renowned classic that has enchanted us for centuries. It is not like other Pride and Prejudices in that you are about to experience it, live and in the moment, in this moment. It will be different every night. Each audience member will find kinship with a different character and be left with a different impression, whether it’s their first or their fiftieth. For we are no two of us alike, and one of the many beauties of Jane Austen’s work is that she knew it. Her careful exploration of women’s experiences in a society that promotes their compliant homogeneity rather than their vibrant variety is adoringly echoed and expounded upon by Miss Martin’s play, and displays an attitude we should all endeavor to cultivate. It is our marvelous differences which lay the groundwork for our unity, and the recognition and celebration of individual life experiences only serves to more tightly weave the tapestry of our humanity. And, in my humble opinion, the very best place to start is at the theatre.
Thank you for supporting new work at the Atlanta Shakespeare Tavern, and please enjoy Claire F. Martin’s Pride and Prejudice.
—Claire Wittman,
Production Dramaturg
