I really should be over the moon with excitement for the release of Jane Eyre this week, but I confess I am not. If there's anything I love in the world of film adaptations, it's the obsessive recreation of Jane Eyre every five to ten years. I have watched and rewatched nearly every Jane Eyre adaptation, carefully and giddily comparing the portrayals of Rochester and Jane to determine which - if any - adequately convey the complexity of the literary originals. Until recently, I would have been waiting with baited breath for this release. Until recently, every adaptation fell short. William Hurt, brilliant though he can be, was no Rochester; Orson Welles was too . . . Orson Welles; Timothy Dalton was fabulous, but his companion Jane was so painfully unappealing. They were all good of course, but each left such a wide window for improvement. Then there was the 2006 BBC adaptation . Surely this could be the last. Toby Stephens and Ruth Wilson were perfect. The length was just...