I don’t know if it’s just me, but every Netflix adaptation feels like the producers skimmed the plot summary on Litcharts and sprinkled a few trending tropes, creating a lack-lustre tale with a clear purpose of a cash-grab. Big names, historically inaccurate dress and modern diction have become Netflix’s signature style.
Let’s start with the casting choices; Dakota Johnson, Jacob Elordi and other a-list stars do not scream period pieces to me. These adaptations’ cast suffer from a bad case of ‘iPhone face’, with full glam and hyper-contemporary features, just further isolating the audience from the novel’s respective eras. This is only embellished through character identities; Persuasion, one of Austen’s most moving novels, has been rebranded as a sad-girl biopic. The breaking of fourth wall doesn’t make Anne a relatable character, just a sterile 19th Century Effie Stonem, an aesthetically brooding alcoholic. Netflix renders Austen’s emotionally turmoiled anti-heroine into a ‘messy girl’.
These films just feel aggressively now, the ultra-HD shots and bright colours don’t fit the textured and atmospheric worlds they depict. Forget the muted British countryside, iconic landscapes and grand architecture of old adaptations, Netflix’s sharp shots feel like the ‘clean girl’ aesthetic of film, where the worlds feel aesthetically curated rather than realistic.
Whilst Frankenstein’s gothic aesthetic is captured through visually striking shots, they lack the depth of the novels biological horror, becoming more digestible to an audience that favours romanticised moral turmoil. This stylised adaptation demonstrates the internet’s fixation with gothic horror rather than portraying Shelley’s narrative ambiguity and organic terror. It feels like these films are made to give fans enough content to make velocity edits, rather than portraying unsettling tension, complex characters and social critiques.
I miss the golden hazy shots of the 2005 Pride and Prejudice; Mr. Darcy’s first proposal will forever stick with me. I can visualise the rain, the clouded skies and flushed cheeks, making the moment even more humane, intimate and alive. We do not see Keira Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen, but a pained Elizabeth Bennet and emotionally vulnerably Mr. Darcy. This is something Netflix struggles to capture, offering a flat and sterile depiction of emotion with airbrushed skin and rehearsed expressions.
Netflix’s adaptations feel like caricatures of the novels’ respective genres. Austen’s works are more than unlikely romance and marriage plots, but a critique of the regency patriarchy, where women are forced to trade romance for security. The same can be said for Shelley whose horror reflects social complacency and the potential consequence of scientific ambition, where advancement becomes uncontrollable.
Despite my criticisms, it would be cruel not to mention the benefit of these adaptations, with spreading classic literature to an audience who may not be formally exposed beyond the classroom. By modernising dialogue and creating digestible plots, Netflix removes the readerly exclusiveness and intimidation these novels possess, inciting genuine curiosity within potential readers. These adaptations don’t act as a visual replacement for these novels, but an accessible entryway for greater appreciation.
So what can this mean for future adaptations? I am feeling incredibly anxious for Warner Bros’ Wuthering Heights, staring another big name – Margot Robbie. It is clear that studios prioritise recognisable faces over immersion and emotional intimacy, shaping a new attitude to film where branding and marketability prevails over harrowing characters. The audience indefinitely shapes the interaction between authenticity and aestheticism, where streaming services favour attractive tropes to reel in views. I long for the day that realistic adaptations come back.