This article contains spoilers.
Joe Wright’s Pride & Prejudice (2005) introduced us to the art of longing through that one perfect shot of Mr Darcy flexing his hand after he helps Elizabeth into the carriage. Autumn de Wilde continues the unspeakable yearning in Jane Austen film adaptations with her debut feature, Emma. She carries on with the legacy of tender hands during the dance sequence; a hesitantly held waist, fingers chasing after fingers, the room lit from within like a bonfire. Her Emma. is rich in visual details while the story itself is simplified (script written by the wonderful Eleanor Catton, author of The Luminaries) to fit on the big screen.
De Wilde presents herself as a very particular director — every frame feels like a painting, the colours like a huge birthday cake with pastel frosting. She’s mostly known for her photography: touring with The White Stripes in 2007, shooting numerous album covers and working closely with Rodarte designers, Kate and Laura Mulleavy, documenting the backstage of their runway shows. You might have seen her photos of Rodarte’s FW18 collection which included Tessa Thompson, Rowan Blanchard and Chloe x Halle.
Autumn de Wilde is particular and it shows in her photography and now in Emma. as well. In her particularness, I found myself drawn to clothes and how they play into the film besides looking pretty (and they do look very pretty). The film is split into four seasons and Alexandra Byrne, the costume designer, worked with de Wilde to create colour palettes for each one. Emma goes through many garments which create an atmosphere of opulence, only accentuated by the lavish settings in the background. They illustrate her status, her love for the immaculate assemblies, one more luxurious than the other. She wants to be looked at but at the same time, she doesn’t want to be seen. Her garments put her on display but also hide her from the world.
Hide everyone else from the world.
The undressing
Remember the carriage scene with Emma and Mr Elton? I know, I’m sorry but there’s a notable moment in which Mr Elton starts to undo the strings of his cape, slowly, meticulously. It’s the first thing he does. The characters are alone and the inside of the carriage is dark and it adds on to the feeling of sudden intimacy, even if Mr Elton is the only one feeling it. But it’s important because then he confesses to Emma so, in a way, he bares himself for her. He didn’t physically take off his clothes but it feels like he did.
Undressing means nakedness and nakedness means vulnerability. Means we’re exposed, fully seen. To uncover the goodness within first we have to strip ourselves naked and allow someone to understand us like this. Clothes can be armor, a defence mechanism.
It’s through undressing that we’re introduced to George Knightley. He’s in his house, he just came back from a walk. He undresses with the help of a servant, takes all his garments off, washes himself. For a moment, we see Knightley raw and real before he puts his clothes back on, covering himself up, restrained. Dressing up is a whole process and he’s once again helped by the servant who ties a cravat around his neck, the collars high. All the layers are heavy and they restrict movement, they’re uncomfortable.
Knightley is meant to be Emma’s moral compass of sorts. He lectures her, goes against her when no one else will. He’s supposed to be a guiding force because we’ve seen him vulnerable, he’s willing to be vulnerable, that is his strength. He’s clothed because it’s what the society expects of him but it makes him uncomfortable; all he wants to do is go back to his naked self. We see that in the scene after Emma asks Mr Churchill to stay when Harriet is injured. Knightley goes back to his house, tears his clothes off. The urgency in him is palpable. He detests restriction in feeling, I’d even argue he thinks it impossible in that society to be real and vulnerable (which, ultimately, isn’t true; but he holds himself back every time, says what he means but not quite; not quite until he confesses to Emma).
Meanwhile, Emma is conceited and vain. She toys with Harriet, maybe unknowingly, pairing her off with numerous men, acting in accordance with her own feelings, her own heart. She might think herself kind and giving but she takes little to no stock of others, clouded by her own judgment — not noticing Mr Elton’s admiration for her (she expects everyone to admire her), carelessly insulting Mrs Bates at that fateful picnic (and ignoring her throughout the film). I wouldn’t say she’s a bad person, she believes in her own goodness, righteousness and everything she does, she does with good intentions. Nevertheless, it always seems to come out wrong because no matter how many times Mr Knightley tells her to focus on others and not herself, she ignores him and continues to do more harm than good.
The first moment we see Emma reexamine her choices is after the picnic where she unthinkingly insults Miss Bates. She’s confronted by Mr Knightley and she breaks into tears. When she’s back in her mansion she tells her father, I’ve been unpardonably vain and insufferably arrogant. I’ve been inconsiderate, and indelicate, and irrational, and unfeeling. She sobs, unable to bear the weight of what it all means, realizing it all about herself. She sits next to one of the marble statues on a windowsill, a stark contrast against her overwhelming humanity. (The theme of the same statues has appeared in John’s Wright’s Pride & Prejudice and in both instances serve as a reminder of the human story that’s being told; they’re looked at curiously, studied — both by Elizabeth and Emma. They’re perfectly chiseled but they’re unfeeling and cold, and there’s beauty in feeling, in intense waves of feelings.)
Emma goes to apologize to Miss Bates and afterwards we see her truly vulnerable — which is not to say tears don’t mean vulnerability because they do, perhaps most of all — a maid takes Emma’s stocking off and Emma’s left alone, wearing only her undergarments, her hair loose and disheveled. She covers her face with her hands. She, possibly, cries and that’s even more splitting, to be naked and in tears. Vulnerability exposes her, makes her feel seen.
The scene comes significantly later in the film, compared to Mr Knightley’s, and while his was an introduction, hers is a shift, tectonic movement. Something uncovered, unfurling.
Back to white
Mr Knightley and Miss Woodhouse mirror each other. While George feels comfortable with being seen, seems to prefer it, even, Emma hides herself any way she can and she does so through clothes. Almost from the beginning, we see her wearing extravagant costumes in bright, vivid colours, rich jewelry, fancy embroidery, big hats with feathers and flowers, ruffles everywhere. When she enters a room, she wants to make sure all eyes are on her because she’s putting on a show. You are never not on show, says Alexandra Byrne. You have your morning dress, which is your casual dress, but you are there to peacock around, you don’t have your ‘trackie look’. Wherever she goes, Emma is the sun which everyone gravitates towards.
If there’s a colour closest to vulnerability it’s white. White is universally considered to symbolize purity, cleanness. It happens to be the colour of undergarments and sleepwear but also morning wear; in Emma’s case, it’s usually adorned with a ruffled collar or gold jewelry hanging from the waist. If she wears white outside, like in the church scene where Mrs Elton appears for the first time, it’s accompanied by an over-the-top headwear, and when she wears white to the ball it’s richly embroidered, with many details.
But even then, the ball scene is a pivotal point. It’s where Emma dances with Knightley and they both seem to realize things about each other (that look they share before Emma takes off in her carriage, in the darkness of almost-dawn). From that point, she starts to hide the colourful garments under a sheet of white, translucent muslin. It’s still rich in details which can be seen especially when contrasted with Jane Fairfax’s look in Mr Knightley’s mansion, the two of them mirroring each other in style, wearing almost the exact same thing; Emma’s displaying status while Jane’s exposes her humbleness.
If Emma wears colour, it’s muted — like in the scene where she’s playing cards with George and the Eltons. She even wears the same outfit twice, the second time being when she goes to apologize to Miss Bates, the only difference being the lack of vibrant yellow shirt that peaks from underneath. And Emma Woodhouse never wears the same outfit twice; she’s becoming more careless about her looks not only in clothes but in hairstyle, too. When she’s feeling especially disturbed she stops taking care of her curls; usually lusciously kept in tight spirals they become looser and looser in times of distress (visiting Harriet’s house after the failure with Mr Elton, for example).
To be gorgeous you must first be seen
Because the sunset, like survival, exists only on the verge of its own disappearing. To be gorgeous, you must first be seen, but to be seen allows you to be hunted.
— Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
After the dance scene, everything about Emma seems to be reaching out towards purity, cleanness, towards vulnerability. In the confession scene, Emma wears white but she’s wearing jewelry that corresponds with the gorgeous floral embroidery on her dress. George walks towards her and they find themselves surrounded by nature, standing next to a blooming lilac tree. Even though Emma’s clothes are adorned, we find her in perfect harmony with her surroundings.
I wanted to use colour in such a strong way there would be moments where Emma belonged to her environment and times she was at odds with it.
— Alexandra Byrne, Oscar-winning costume designer Alexandra Byrne dissects her latest work for Emma (Hero Magazine, text by Finn Blythe)
Even though it seems like Emma is covering herself up, the white muslin helped Byrne layer the clothes allowing her to create depth and richness that contrasted with lightness and buoyancy. She’s not changing her entire personality; she can still have a little drama, as a treat. Perhaps she’s adjusting to the warmer seasons, as well, but there’s an incessant richness shining through. Emma remains Emma, if only a little bit more feeling.
The experience of letting herself be open is enriching. By finally confessing to Knightley, however clumsily, and less so her than George himself, Emma becomes more confident in her truth, in being true to herself. She’s still thinking about Harriet, worrying about hurting her feelings, putting others before herself, this time truly. But in the end, vulnerability wins, as it always does. I mean, Emma gets a nosebleed, if that’s not the ultimate sign of intense feeling I don’t know what is.
In the very last shot, her face is hidden behind a veil, translucent white fabric reminiscent of the layer she’s been putting over her colourful clothes throughout the film. Perhaps, in the end, she becomes that richly coloured fabric and the white serves as layering to balance the opulence.
Emma looks at the camera, just like in the very first shot of the film; then in the pre-dawn darkness, now in the morning light. Similarly to Fleabag (written by Phoebe Waller-Bridge), the protagonist was aware of the audience and she needed to be seen by it. But then she closes her eyes and in doing so relinquishes control over her story. We no longer have to follow her because she’s allowed herself to be seen by her loved ones.
In the very last moment, she smiles. And that’s all we need to know about her.
