Now don’t get me wrong: I love Colin Firth as much as the next lady (perhaps even more). And his performance as Mr. Darcy in the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice has made all other Mr. Darcys pale in comparison. But this statue is just…well…frightening.
It just sort of smacks of Godzilla, or similar monsters, rising up somehow in Hyde Park to swallow London whole. A regular-sized Colin Firth is delightful. A twelve-foot-tall Colin Firth is something only the swans in the lake could love (and according to The Guardian, the local swans are quite fond of it). And it’s apparently going to tour around England, so it can swallow up other whole towns and villages on its way.
On top of its monstrous appearance, you’ll forgive me if I get all Jane Austen on you for a moment: this moment isn’t even in the book. It’s a creation of the movie. And, honestly, it’s not one of my favorite creations of the movie. Who would choose the Mr. Darcy wet tee-shirt contest over him gazing at Elizabeth with intense love in his eyes at Pemberley? Or them dancing together for the first time?
All I’m saying is, badly done, folks. Badly done indeed. (And special Jane Austen points to anyone who recognizes the reference in that last line.)
Will Nichols make enough white soup in time? Will Lydia behave abominably? Will Wickham do the honourable thing and simply stay home? And will Mrs. Bennett talk endlessly (and rather loudly) about getting rich husbands for her daughters, while Mary tries her best to monopolize the pianoforte to display her accomplishments?
We’ll have to wait until the spring to find out, I’m afraid. I only hope that BBC America or PBS does us all the favor of showing this delectable morsel, or I’ll feel as bereft as Kitty if she had no partner at the dance.
In the meantime, this anniversary provides the perfect excuse to reread an old friend—one that I discovered in seventh grade (if that gives you any indication of what a book nerd I was, even in middle school) and that has provided an abundance of joy since then.
In my house, our thoughts will be at Pemberley tonight. We’ll have hazelnut scones with clotted cream to celebrate (no white soup, alas), while we try—in vain!—to control our feelings about this book.