Calling a book a classic is a peculiar damnation, a way of simultaneously placing it on a pedestal and shutting it into a musty old box. As much as we all groan when we hear that yet another great book is set to be “ruined” by some assuredly hapless filmmaker, movies are often the only thing that can save books from themselves — or, rather, from our calcified ideas of what certain books have to be.
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REVIEW: Visceral Jane Eyre Is All Brontë, and Wholly Alive
