Interviewed in his later years, Orson Welles once said that he had made a career mistake early on — he should have set out to become a movie star, which would have given him more clout to make his own projects. He was right; he should have. And he could have, too, with his thrillingly romantic Edward Rochester in the 1943 production of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre as a springboard.
Seeing (and especially hearing) Welles, it’s difficult to even imagine any other star of the era, British or American, as Rochester. Gable, Fonda, Bogart, Stewart? Well, no. Leslie Howard or Laurence Olivier? Too lightweight, physically, that is. Flynn or Power? Can we imagine either one describing himself as “ugly as sin”? I don’t think so. (Tracy might have done it: he could do practically anything.)
For lovers of the original novel, Mr Rochester’s overwhelming presence in the film is sort of a problem; the informal, open hearted voice that is Jane herself — the story is told in a completely convincing first person — makes turning her into a film heroine rather difficult. As readers, we come to love Jane through her voice, which is unique; but when you see the events of the story on film, instead of having Jane tell you about them, some of the book’s remarkable intimacy, so advanced for its 1847 publication year, is lost.
On the other hand, Edward Rochester’s enormous presence is enhanced; he sweeps through Jane’s world like a huge storm cloud, flashing with lightning and roaring with thunder (ably assisted by a romantic score by his radio colleague Bernard Herrmann). And Jane is thrilled by this, not the least bit frightened. However meek and self effacing she may seem on the surface, we know Jane to be passionate, intelligent, and quite self-confident. In fact, the roller coaster ride that Mr Rochester’s presence provides is just what Jane, whose life has been so confined, is looking for. She’s not put off by the drama; she wants the drama. Mr.Rochester as written demands a bravura performance; he’s a bravura sort of person.
As a novel, Jane Eyre is pretty evenly balanced; the whole first half is all about Jane and her upbringing as an unwanted, penniless orphan. The film sketches this in concisely and very effectively, with fine performances by the very young Peggy Ann Garner as Jane and the very young Elizabeth Taylor as her doomed friend Helen. The film, though, is far more interested in the second half of the novel, which begins when Jane strikes out on her own and gets a job as a governess to a little French girl, played by the incredibly talented Margaret O’Brien, accent and all.
She finds herself housed in an enormous mansion owned by the wealthy but eccentric Mr. Rochester. She settles very comfortably, establishing a routine with her charge, Adele. Weeks go by and there’s still no sign of her employer, though she is told, enticingly, that he is moody and unpredictable because he has secret sorrows..
One evening, walking over the moors at twilight (as Bronte heroines are wont to do), Jane barely escapes being trampled when a galloping rider misses seeing her in the mist; his horse stumbles and he is thrown. Instead of cowering, fainting, or having the vapors like many Victorian ladies, Jane insists on seeing that he is physically able to remount before she will leave. He questions her brusquely, and then rides off, followed by his beautiful great dane, Pilot. Obviously, this is Mr. Rochester.
An interesting production note; throughout the story, much is made of Jane’s being small, plain, and unobtrusive. Obviously, nothing could make Joan Fontaine plain. But the art direction, set design, and props are photographed to make Fontaine’s Jane look smaller. Thornfield, Rochester’s house, is enormous; the library could be a throne room. All are designed to contrast with Jane’s modest size. Welles’ height and powerful voice are used the same way, emphasizing her slightness and quiet, and his costumes, with boots, swirling caped overcoat or flared frock coat, increase his size. Several times Jane and Rochester are seen full figure, side by side; Welles towers over Fontaine, and makes her seem like the tiny, elfin creature she’s so often described as.
What Mr. Rochester instantly brings to both the novel and the film — and to Jane herself — is glamor. Welles’ makeup is as good as it was going to get, with only a slight enhancement to his nose, he seems to be at his slimmest, and importantly, he moves like a strong, active man (an illusion, but who cares?). And that voice! Welles had of course played Edward Rochester in a version of the novel adapted and directed by himself, on his radio anthology program, the Mercury Theater of the Air. He had already delved into the character, and perfectly understood how Rochester’s abrupt decisions, pride, and self-will would appeal deeply to a young woman whose future could be charitably described as a life of drudgery. He knew how to use his incredible voice to express the instant rapport and growing sense of intimacy between Jane and Rochester. Jane is utterly entranced by him, and again Welles uses his glorious voice to beguile and fascinate her, at the same time showing Rochester’s struggle with the terrible temptation she presents. And all of Jane’s powers of observation are now turned on him; Rochester’s character is the subject of the second half of the novel. Every look, every gesture, and every word is closely watched and pondered. So Welles had plenty to work with; he is consistently dramatic, in fact self-dramatizing. That’s what Charlotte Bronte wanted, and that’s what her Jane Eyre wanted.
Generations of readers have liked him, too. Mr. Rochester is endlessly entertaining, and, beyond his stormy exits and entrances and impassioned speeches, he also displays a deeply sardonic sense of humor. My favorite lines of his, addressed to Jane, “You may not know enough about young ladies of fashion. They may not admire my person, but they dote upon my purse,” are perfectly delivered. These words refer to the wealthy and fashionable guests he invites, apparently on a whim, for a house party. It’s never clear whether he does this to make Jane jealous, or merely to distract himself. It does lead Jane to reveal her feelings, and for Rochester to reveal his.
Of course, this is more than a romance; it’s a thriller, and a terrible secret will be revealed. But personally I have always felt that Mr. Rochester’s awful secret in the attic is a sort of McGuffin, as director Alfred Hitchcock termed the object around which a plot revolves; it almost doesn’t matter what it is. The scary noises at night, the mysterious locked doors, the apparent attempts on Rochester’s life, these are incomprehensible and frightening, but no clear explanation is ever given. I don’t mean that we don’t find out who she is — Mr.Rochester’s hopelessly insane wife — but Charlotte Bronte could have found out and told us much more about the diagnosis and treatment of insane persons if she had wanted to. I think she didn’t really care about the realities of such a situation. Grace Poole’s patient is a symbol more than a character. The same goes here in the movie; Rochester’s situation is abstractly horrible, and there is obviously something more personal involved than generalized malice between him and her, but we never see the unfortunate attic dweller. or see her interact with anyone; we never find out what she wants or why. Jane never does either.
It is enough that learning Rochester’s secret irresistibly drives Jane away from Thornfield and the man she loves, ending up at her cold and empty childhood home, where those who were cruel to her have gotten their just desserts.
This illustrates one true flaw in this film version — it’s too short. Two high-level screenwriters, Aldous Huxley and Welles’ production partner on stage and radio, John Houseman, assisted by director Robert Stevenson, couldn’t think of a way to squeeze in Jane’s other suitor or her discoveries about her family, which are pivotal plot points in the novel. In the end, it’s important that Jane does have somewhere to go. She has a choice; she is not stuck with Rochester because he was the only one who ever wanted her; in fact, eventually she is quite happy to tease him about it (in the book there’s a surprising amount of canoodling). But in this film we don’t see her options.
In any case, after some months pass, Jane has a powerful feeling that something has happened to Rochester, and finds that she cannot rest without returning to Thornfield. When she does, she discovers that disaster has indeed struck, and that Rochester has in a way paid for his crime. Welles is wonderful in this scene; the wounded master of the burned out mansion is still imperious, still willful, still the man Jane wanted so much.
It’s a nice touch that when she enters the room, although Rochester can’t see her, Pilot trots right up to Jane to be petted. When Jane is finally in his arms, Welles uses his beautiful hands to touch her hands, her hair, and her face. He tries to resist for a moment, but then seizes her in a powerful embrace for a passionate kiss, the kiss of two people who have been longing for each other for months.
Welles was one of the most sensational figures in popular culture at this time; he had left his mark on the New York stage, nationwide radio (we always underestimate the importance of radio), and film. I think it’s quite plausible that he could have built a major film career as a star. With this film, he showed that he could carry a picture. It’s entirely fair that Welles gets top billing; he undeniably has the most to do, and provides the thunder, the lightening, and in the end the blazing sunrise.