I am not a fan of fiction (or supposed non-fiction) which espouses what I, as one of many representatives of this time, consider an indulgence—the notion of love as an inextinguishable, all-consuming, ever prevailing attraction—and which presents this as, an incontestable positive. Certainly, the emotions conjured during such affairs include certain ecstasies, but too often it seems that the intent for displaying such a relationship is less an intention to accurately portray the feeling and more a matter of (chanting secretly to Kali Ma while mysteriously forcing fingers into one’s chest with the intent of) toying with the audience’s heart. There is no malice, I suppose, but the nature of manipulation, whether malicious or not, is odious, and all the more so when using such pleasant emotions and experiences as the tool.

Similarly, I have no interest for a movie in which privileged people (in appearance and station) are portrayed as suffering the same torments of ordinary people. Of course, the idea is true, but given the disproportionate abundance of such people starring in all sorts of films, the idea of watching this becomes wearying, adding, as it does, a further level of indulgence to the mix; when combined with the abovementioned saccharine love story, the story becomes more than doubly unattractive, because it not only laments with the angst of the well off, but it portrays as happy that they will end up oh-so-happy, and isn’t that lovely (while the less fortunate [in this film, Claudie Blakley as Charlotte Lucas and Tom Hollander as Mr. Collins] are destined to live in boredom).

Still, I cannot pretend to dislike the Joe Wright directed Pride & Prejudice; I want to, but I can’t. It welters in the indulgences I dislike, filled with attractive actors bemoaning their misfortune, and neon true love hidden beneath a translucent veil, it mocks certain ordinary people (especially the aforementioned Mr. Collins, who is treated rudely, but understandably, by the characters and abominably by the film makers—he is presented as a buffoon with no redeeming qualities, and, in what is presumably an effort to rectify this display, they condescend to provide a moment where his wife-by-settling looks up at him in pleasure while the rest of the congregation finds staying attentive most difficult). This is not a humanist film, it is decidedly aristocratic, and its arrogance is to presume that audiences will want to see it because it presents an upper crust and because it plays with the audience’s emotions.

It is not a humanist film, but it is a human one, and if there is any redeeming feature which, other than the beautiful cinematography and the pleasing images used for special effect, can explain my appreciation for the movie, it is the humanness of the characters. Having not read the original novel, I can’t speak with certainty, but I feel confident that one of the reasons this book has lasted must be the characters presented. No, not all are treated as people, but those who are, those who are the focus—the Bennet family (which really is a major draw, thanks, in no small part, to the actors who emote and physically embody such a palpable familiarity that it can be difficult to not feel a part) and Matthew Macfadyen’s Mr. Darcy—are treated with such tenderness that denying feelings of sympathy is tantamount to dishonesty. It IS indulgent to say “look at me, I am so torn; I am so troubled by my fortune and inability to cope with what to do with it”, but it is also a human fact, and to ignore that truth is to deny it; such stories may too often be told, if not in the story being told, then in the context in which the story being told is presented, but sometimes it is right to tell such a story, and for me, this movie seems an example of the story done right.

Of course, in reality, I am most probably allowing myself to fall asleep, bewitched by the beautiful people and camera work, the witticisms hidden within the language (rather than gratuitously stripped naked and thrust upon the audience in self-important monologues disguised as dialogue); I am probably doing myself and others a disservice by approving of the movie, and praising just how well it does something which may be, at its heart, so wrong. But, sometimes, I can’t help it. Sometimes it is pleasant to watch people fall in love, and sometimes it is comforting to see that certain segments of the population do not finally lose their humanity, that they do experience the same problems. Sometimes, I want to be underground, slowly digested by an unidentified fungus while I dream the pleasant dreams. Of course, it works best if you’ve got such a great cast, including Donald Sutherland, an actor too often under- or misused, who, here, is the loving father, even if he looks the same as the too-loving father of An American Haunting.