In Lost In Austen, on the night that her beery boyfriend burps out a “proposal”—“Marry me, babes”—, Amanda Price inexplicably finds Elizabeth Bennet, dressed in her nightgown and nightcap, standing in her bathtub, surrounded by drip-drying black tights and leggings, stripy camisoles, shocking pink panties. Elizabeth, who prides herself on her powers of observation, deduces from the Marks & Spencer label in Amanda’s “underthings” that she has time-warped herself into the life of “Miss Spencer.”1 Elizabeth points to the very ordinary shower panel and explains to Amanda that “there is a door . . .”—a door every Generation-Y viewer would recognize and appreciate—before she disappears. The cross-cultural juxtapositions in Lost In Austen have the effect of moving the story of Pride and Prejudice into a new absurdist and provocatively witty direction that veers radically away from the film adaptations that are purportedly “true” to Austen’s text.
When Elizabeth returns to Amanda’s bathroom the next night, she is obviously ready for adventure, indicated primarily by her change of costume. Instead of nightclothes, she is wearing her walking dress; instead of merely standing in the tub, Elizabeth has moved farther into the room and, with a great deal of pleasure and amazement, is flicking the electric lights on and off. Trying to make sense of her encounter with a fictional character, Amanda tests her. “Tell me something I don’t know,” she asks. Elizabeth quickly replies, “Netherfield has been let at last.” “I know that,” Amanda retorts. This short verbal exchange asserts the intertextual connections between Elizabeth’s and Amanda’s lives. Buttressed by anachronisms, the witty intertextuality—the multiple cross-cultural, cross-class, cross-text, cross-media, and cross-linguistic references—takes the viewer backwards and forwards in time. Anachronisms abound, but not because of compositional carelessness by the writer Guy Andrews. Rather, the anachronisms set up situations that resonate with double meanings, with, for example, the social insecurities that arise when someone new to a particular environment and ignorant of the cultural codes wants to fit in but does not know quite how to behave. Lost In Austen, like Pride and Prejudice, is grounded in at least two realities, two codes of social behaviors, two cultures, two languages (even if both languages are English). Embedded cleverly in the text, the anachronisms and inconsistencies in Lost In Austen frame the comic—and uncomfortable—cultural and fictional misunderstandings.
The catalyst for the opening of the magical door is Michael’s unromantic and thoroughly annoying “Marry me, babes,” a demand that initiates in Amanda a desire to escape from the way life seems to be locking her into a dreary contemporary reality. Sandwiched between Amanda’s two encounters with Elizabeth Bennet in her bathroom is a devastating scene with Mrs. Price, a woman of a certain age, divorced, alone, and disappointed with life. Amanda’s mother does not recognize that other dimension to her daughter, a dimension fostered by her reading of Pride and Prejudice. Amanda loves the elegant texture of the life depicted in Austen’s novel; she loves Elizabeth Bennet’s principles, Darcy’s integrity, and their courteous language and behavior. Mrs. Price, sanctioning the status quo, ignores the possibility that reading can change a young person’s life. “You are what you are,” she insists, and advises Amanda to “Marry him,” dismissing Michael’s infidelity, citing the excuse that “men have appetites,” and promoting him as an appropriate match purely because he does not take drugs or “knock [her] about.” Like Mrs. Bennet, who advises Elizabeth to marry the odious Mr. Collins, Amanda’s mother wants her daughter to get married, even though the odds are not good for the success of the marriage and even though her own marriage did not work out. If Mrs. Bennet clearly has a financial motivation in pushing one of her daughters toward a man who is clearly unacceptable, then Mrs. Price, like the mother of the same name in Mansfield Park, is worn down by life and ready to settle for anything for her daughter.
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This carefully constructed three-part vignette introduces the magical door through which an early nineteenth-century fictional character appears in the bathroom of a “real” twenty-first-century young woman’s London flat. As flashy Amanda moves tentatively through the magical door into the attic at Longbourn, a seemingly demure Elizabeth puts on her bonnet, ready to face whatever adventures Hammersmith has to offer. Interestingly, in Austen’s novels and in time travel stories, clothes, hairdos, and food are the initial visual signal of cultures that clash. At Netherfield, Elizabeth is tripped up by the dress codes when she arrives with a dirty petticoat and must send for clothes. Visiting Charlotte at Hunsford, Elizabeth finds that she will dine at Rosings, but Mr. Collins insinuates how inappropriate she might appear to the ostentatiously grand Lady Catherine: “‘Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel’” though he advises her to wear “‘whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest’” (160-61). At Netherfield Elizabeth is slighted and ignored because Mr. Hurst has found out that she preferred “a plain dish to a ragout” (35); similarly, dinner at Netherfield is a misery for Amanda. She is served food she cannot—or will not—eat: oysters, followed by lark. When she shows up at Longbourn in her “otter-hunting kit,” which Kitty assumes is what “is worn in town this season,” her outfit, a metaphor for her disturbing presence, changes the whole direction of the novel.
When Amanda leaves Hammersmith and enters Longbourn through the magical door, she becomes the major anachronism in the new postmodern plot. By introducing a new character—an intruder, if you will, a character not created by Austen—into the basic topography of Pride and Prejudice, Guy Andrews propels the action of the novel into diverse metafictional directions. For fourteen years Amanda has been in love with the characters, the settings, and the courtship patterns of Austen’s novel; she knows every scene and all the dialogues by heart, but once she arrives in Longbourn all does not go by the book. Not only is Amanda an anachronistic outsider trying to fit into a novel she thinks she knows so well, but the characters she thinks she knows so well transmogrify into strangers with minds of their own. Mr. Darcy is supposed to be “incandescent with integrity” but is “such a disappointment” because he is “so relentlessly unpleasant”; Lydia Bennet turns out to be a complete innocent, even though she runs away with Mr. Bingley; Caroline Bingley, whom Wickham refers to as “Frosty Knickers,” reveals she is a lesbian; Charlotte Lucas goes off to Africa to be a missionary; Mr. Wickham is a polite, charming, and handsome problem-solver who helps Amanda when, in a cross-textual reference to Northanger Abbey, she is expelled from Longbourn with only £1 in her pocket. Even as Amanda’s voice assumes the authorial point of view in this irreverent riff on Austen’s most popular novel, and as she tries to redirect the obstreperous characters into the personalities that they have been known by for two hundred years, chaos results. “Nothing’s happening the way it should,” she wails when the characters run amok and things go awry; “It’s all going tits up.”
Even though one reviewer dismissed Amanda Price as “a boozy slapper” (Rifkind), she is in fact a typical English “singleton,” a contemporary Generation-Y “Everygirl” who is tired of boorishness and longs for beauty, grace, elegance, courtesy, and romance. Amanda works at a mind-deadening job (at Sanditon Life), smokes cigarettes, likes a drink, tolerates a boyfriend who is alternatively inattentive and demanding, dresses in high-street fashion. When she disappears through the magical door and finds herself in Longbourn, she brings with her a load of contemporary baggage. She wears trendy high-street clothes, has bobbed and hennaed hair, carries a cell phone, and relies on her lip gloss and cigarettes—overt cultural symbols of Generation-Y, the primary intended audience of the series.2 Dressed in her black leather jacket, red high-heeled boots, low-cut purple blouson top, low-slung green belt, and tight jeans, she could not be more out of place in Mr. Bennet’s library, in the breakfast room at Longbourn, or in Meryton in general.
Amanda also brings to Longbourn and Rosings a set of slangy expressions that mark her out as different. Her vocabulary, which includes such words as “Bumface,”3 “git,” “Tourette’s,” “Paracetemol,” “neon,” and “sandwich,” becomes particularly expressive when she confronts instances of what she sees as injustices. “Come on, Bingers,” she admonishes Mr. Bingley, trying to make him exert himself; then, when he will not act to save Jane from marrying Mr. Collins, she tells him, “It was badly done, Bingley, badly done”—clearly an echo of Mr. Knightley’s tone with Emma. But she goes on, using the direct diction of twenty-first century Hammersmith: “How would you like his hands slithering all over your ass?” She calls Mr. Darcy “toxic” and decides that he “doesn’t float my boat”; she calls Mrs. Bennet, who assures Amanda she knows exactly what is implied by the expression, “a real ball-breaker”; and, in a variation of Elizabeth’s words when she rejects Mr. Darcy’s first proposal, Amanda tells Mr. Wickham that she “wouldn’t have my deficit redressed by you if you were the last man on earth.” After Mr. Collins and Jane Bennet are married, Amanda finds that the whole pear-shaped plot has become “a bloody mess.”
Amanda’s physical and verbal style—her cultural baggage—is juxtaposed with the trappings of a Regency comedy of manners, creating exactly the time-travel mix that engages with issues of contemporary life. Her purple tunic intrigues the young Bennet girls, who laugh at her outré clothes, but they are, they say, desperate for fashion news. Mr. Bingley can’t stop looking down her décolletage, and Mrs. Bennet is adamant that the girls find clothing for Amanda that is “less provoking of attention.” Amanda knows that she is an outsider who looks “a bit odd” in Meryton, and she knows she “talks funny.” Her sense of social unease creates the tension and the comedy in the series. Although she knows Pride and Prejudice by heart, Amanda admits that she “doesn’t know how things operate,” and therefore she gets everything wrong. At the Meryton ball, for example, unsettled and nervous, she misbehaves outrageously. She drinks at least four glasses of punch, and she lies to Mr. Bingley about having been asked by Mr. Darcy to dance the quadrille. Darcy is forced to dance with her to save Bingley from embarrassment, but in turn Darcy embarrasses her by stranding her on the dance floor. After this display of rudeness by the man she thinks is the greatest gentleman in fiction, and feeling the need of a fag (she has one cigarette left), she leaves the ballroom; when Mr. Bingley seeks her out and is kind to her after her public humiliation, Amanda kisses him. How can an outsider—a modern girl like Amanda—fit into the rigidly code-bound society that harbors prejudices about appearance, class, and gender?
© 2008 ITV/Grenada Television Ltd.
Regency balls (“gruesome” events, according to Mr. Bennet) have the distinction of being long, drawn-out sexual encounters based on flirting, finding a partner, and showing oneself to the best advantage. There is little time to talk but lots of time to look and judge and fall in love at first sight. True to Austen’s ideas about first impressions, Amanda is immediately attracted to Mr. Darcy, but as he dances with her, he is, as she says, “spectacularly unfriendly,” and his rudeness leaves her in tears. Kathryn Sutherland points out that “[w]here in the novels the modern reader finds in the hero someone placed awkwardly between a vacuum and a moral ideal, in the films the male protagonist’s attractions are overspecified, and in particular his availability for pleasure” (348). This is certainly not the case with Elliot Cowan’s Darcy, who appears at first not to enjoy anything at all, especially dancing with Amanda. The stress of being at the ball—including not knowing the steps of the dances and being snubbed by Caroline Bingley—unsettles her to the point of imminent disaster. “Everything I do is wrong,” she thinks. “Please, God, I want to go home.” But to make matters worse, Amanda, experiencing the extremes of isolation, snogs Mr. Bingley and then is immediately overcome by regret. She registers the disappointment she feels in herself. Weeping, she reveals how much she loves the “stately, elegant rituals, and pace of courtship, love-making as you call it, under the gaze of chaperones” and the idea of “happiness against all odds, and then marriage.” In her world, the mating and dating rituals include spontaneity and immediate gratification, not the elegance of protracted courtship. When she says, “Here I am, talking to you for two minutes, and I kiss you,” she reveals how far apart their worlds are psychologically and sexually. Although Amanda’s kissing Bingley is a transgression, the most outrageous evidence (next to kneeing Mr. Collins in the groin at the Netherfield Ball) of her anachronistic behavior, Bingley is enthralled. To put him off and to patch Austen’s plot line back together, Amanda tells Bingley that she is attracted to women. The whole plot has gone topsy-turvy, or, as Amanda says, it’s “a cock-up from start to finish.”
Amanda’s appearance, her “radical manners,” and her “Delphic” as well as slangy expressions mean that she is out of place wherever she goes. Mrs. Bennet finds Amanda “indelicate,” “unkempt,” and “not at all couth,” and she thinks that Amanda has arrived at Longbourn to block her daughters’ chances of making matches and “to queer Jane’s pitch.” She wants her out of Longbourn. Like Mrs. Bennet, Miss Bingley despises Amanda, possibly because she thinks Amanda is pursuing both her brother and her brother’s rich friend. When Amanda arrives at Netherfield in the rain, uninvited and in pursuit of Jane, Caroline carries out her own peculiar kind of social torture, demanding that Amanda provide an evening’s amusement, belittling her for her lack of accomplishment at the piano, and then asserting that she must sing for her supper. In a wonderfully bizarre anachronistic move, in a scene that sets cultures clashing, Amanda sings Petula Clark’s 1964 “Downtown”4 in front of the censorious Mr. Darcy, scheming Caroline Bingley, and generous Mr. Bingley.
© 2008 ITV/Grenada Television Ltd.
It is a scene that resonates with absurdities and inconsistencies—all of which Elizabeth Bennet, who likes to laugh at “‘[f]ollies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies’”—would have enjoyed (PP 57). Viewers, however, are left cringing at the social cruelty. Caroline has set up an excruciating scene for Amanda’s humiliation.5 In the elegant drawing room at Netherfield, Amanda sings about loneliness, “worries,” troubles, and cares, and her song underscores her position as an outsider. The scene is hilarious, and the song, so unexpected, so apparently silly, is clearly integrated into the series because it so effectively reiterates Amanda’s social isolation as well as her personal insecurities.
Caroline’s assumption that Amanda is stalking a rich husband matches Mrs. Bennet’s assumption that she is a fortune-hunter. Caroline even accuses Amanda of aspiring to marry a fortune, but Amanda has the perfect rejoinder: she will be perfectly safe from starving on her own £27,000 per year. Amanda’s “fortune”—another anachronism that is misinterpreted, for she is talking about her salary at Sanditon Life—makes her fair game for the predatory Mr. Collins. To save her from Collins, Wickham puts it about at the Netherfield ball that the fortune has “oceanic origins” and that her father is a fishmonger, and in the process of establishing this revelation, Wickham sets up a series of jokes. Mr. Collins, sneering that her “piscatorial” connections could not possibly match his “episcopal” ambitions, calls off the engagement. He berates her for her “unseemly” behavior, for her attempts to jump class, that is, to insinuate herself into society when she is neither wanted nor good enough. It is at this point that Amanda acts out: she assaults Mr. Collins by kneeing him in the groin. The consequence of this radical act is Amanda’s ejection from the Netherfield ball for “kneeing Mr. Collins in the balls.” The language is naughty, the behavior naughtier yet. The combination of elegant costumes and accoutrements, gorgeous Regency rooms, and physical retribution creates a scene that is perfectly absurd. The juxtaposition sets up what Carol M. Dole identifies in Joe Wright’s Pride & Prejudice as “an irreverent realism to which younger audiences are accustomed.” As jokes about “balls” keep running through the series, it is important to remember that Lost In Austen is geared to a young, irreverent audience.
Aimed primarily at a new generation of Jane Austen fans, some of whom were hooked on Austen’s novels via the Colin Firth video and the Keira Knightley movie, Lost In Austen overturns (well, mangles) some of the most iconic scenes in Pride and Prejudice (novel and filmic adaptations). The Generation-Y target audience—that is, the twenty-somethings more familiar with Harry Potter’s exploits and Star Wars technology than with the complex rituals of Regency social codes—is more likely to see an adaptation first and to read the novel after having been impressed with someone else’s vision of the characters and the settings. Younger viewers understand the mechanism behind the magical door, that is, how a character’s “need” can make the door open upon a different world. Hugo Rifkind, reviewing the first segment of the series for the Times, comments that Lost In Austen is a “stupid, stupid programme” partly because a viewer “has to be stupid enough not to have minded all that crap about the secret door in the shower cubicle.” He has seriously misread the audience for this program. For this generation of viewers, the magical door, the apparition of a night-capped Elizabeth Bennet in Amanda Price’s bathroom, and the vision of a top-hatted Mr. Darcy on a red Hammersmith bus are witty tricks. These Generation-Y viewers don’t worry about anachronistic inconsistencies—how Amanda keeps her hair hennaed, for example, or how Elizabeth knows the word “underthings,” or how chocolate is served along with toast and marmalade at breakfast at Longbourn.6 Lost In Austen sets out to satirize what Claudia Johnson describes as “Janeitism”—a cultish and “self-consciously idolatrous enthusiasm for ‘Jane’”; in addition, the series dissects “the ideas about culture Austen has been thought to represent” (212).
© 2008 ITV/Grenada Television Ltd.
Lost In Austen dismantles iconic moments and motifs that the Heritage film industry has made so compelling. Fitzwilliam Darcy’s/Colin Firth’s plunge into the pond at Pemberley is one of those events, a sexy wet-shirt moment that fans play and replay on video. The episode in Lost In Austen is transformed when Amanda asks Mr. Darcy to “do something” for her. If in the original, as Lisa Hopkins points out, the scene focuses on the “cooling” of “[t]he fever heat of his passion” (118), in this series Darcy takes the plunge as a gift for Amanda; he submerges himself only because she has asked him to do it. When he rises from the ornamental pond like a mythical sea creature (the Creature from the Black Lagoon?), Amanda identifies the confluence of the original Colin Firth iconic scene and the stylized replay as a “postmodern moment.” Postmodern moments filled with anachronistic implausibilities, like Amanda and Darcy falling in love with and marrying each other, are part of the metafictional “gaiety” (Wickham’s word) of the elaborate plot construction of this series. Few academic critics have written about Lost In Austen, but Janet Todd and Linda Bree praise the series for being an adaptation that is different, mainly because the series uses “the novel as a starting-point but want[s] to create something original” rather than an adaptation, and because the
modern heroine, thrown back into the Regency world, is inspired by the Austen industry as much as by Pride and Prejudice. This replicates Jane Austen’s own habits of interacting with other contemporary texts such as the gothic novels in Northanger Abbey, which so obsess the heroine. (44-45)
Amanda obsesses about Pride and Prejudice (even her cell phone rings with the identifiable music from the Colin Firth series), but her obsessions focus on what is missing from her own life: manners, courtesy, grace, and romance. These qualities of a gentler world are absent as well from the lives of Generation-Y bloggers and twitterers.
© 2008 ITV/Grenada Television Ltd.
Roland White, reviewing Lost In Austen for the Sunday Times (London), asks, “Is there something about the modern world that repels us?” When Darcy, in pursuit of Amanda, emerges through the magic door into twenty-first-century Hammersmith, his own social discomfiture is apparent when he looks around at a London landscape that he does not recognize at all. But this return to the future, with its abundance of anachronisms, perfectly rounds out the time-travel tale. In a twist of the plot, Darcy becomes an anachronism—a fact that is ironic if we consider how many contemporary women, not only members of Generation-Y, are attracted to the fictional character. He is fascinated by the television, computer, and steam iron in the home of Elizabeth’s employers. Strolling along the street with Amanda, formally attired in his early nineteenth-century getup, he ignores the stares of the locals but bows to a woman walking her dog; he uses his class’s manners as a barrier against Michael’s attempt to engage him in a fist fight, claiming that they have not been introduced; he comments out loud about a black man on the bus in Hammersmith (“Tourette’s,” Amanda quickly explains). Tim Teeman, reviewing the series for the Times, notes that “Andrews could so easily have lathered up the culture-clash laughs, but was sharp and clever enough to have Darcy unintentionally veer near to racism without knowing it (calling a black man a ‘negro’ on the bus.)” Then through the magical door Darcy, Elizabeth, and Amanda return to Longbourn. The final plot twist has Elizabeth Bennet, who says that she was born out of time and out of place, choosing to remain in Hammersmith, happily ensconced as a nanny for a hyper-green family, where she can text for taxis and Google to find out that she has been married to Darcy for nearly two hundred years.
We could also ask, along with Amanda, is Jane Austen “spinning in her grave, like a cat in a tumble dryer”? By taking Pride and Prejudice off-plot through time-travel, mixed genres, and brilliant characterizations, Lost In Austen offers a new direction for Austen studies. The series takes the viewer back to the wackiness and outrageous behaviors of the characters in Austen’s Juvenilia, to what Sutherland calls “Austen’s early anarchic authorial personality” (350). Whereas the “Beautifull Cassandra” gets away with casual crimes, however, Amanda doesn’t get away with anything: she is caught lying, she embarrasses herself mightily at Netherfield, she is censured for her appearance and language, and she is expelled from Longbourn. The series also takes us forward to the present, to a time of dreary dating and mating codes, boorishness, and the self-satisfaction of young people who believe unquestioningly in those TYOKIYAS (Things You Only Know If You Are Single [Betts]).7
It is not unreasonable to surmise that Jane Austen would have enjoyed this time-travel twist on Pride and Prejudice, replete with intertextual references, cultural symbols, jokes, and anachronisms. In Lost in Austen, Jane marries Mr. Collins, Lydia runs off with Mr. Bingley, Mr. Bingley drinks too much and fights with Mr. Darcy, Lady Catherine cheats at a card game called “Bumface,” Mr. Bennet duels with Mr. Bingley, and Amanda’s ex-boyfriend tries to punch Mr. Darcy on a street in Hammersmith—it’s enough to make huge swathes of Janeites grumpy.8 But Generation-Y Janeites blog and twitter that this “adaptation” helps, in Amanda’s words, to “patch up” their lives. When Amanda says that Pride and Prejudice has become part of who she is—“I love the love story. I love Elizabeth Bennet”— she echoes the thoughts of Generation-Y viewers who reveal how tired they are of surliness and rudeness, of being taken for granted, and who, like Amanda, are nostalgic for “Austenian” manners, clothes, language, codes of behavior, and courtesy. Pride and Prejudice becomes a kind of courtesy book for Generation-Y, to the extent that it is not only Amanda who uses the novel as a guide to life’s values. Young women want “gentlemen” who will court them and pay for dinner, even after the first date.
The clips used in this essay satisfy the criteria for fair use established in Section 107 of the Copyright Law of the United States of America and Related Laws Contained in Title 17 of the United States Code.
1. In Amanda’s first encounter with her fictional visitor, Elizabeth’s anachronistic reference to “underthings,” a word defined in the OED as having first been recorded in 1864, has been commented upon by Janeites who find the anachronisms and inconsistencies ridiculous and off-putting. But this particular scene at the very beginning of the series serves two purposes: first, the scene sets up the extended series of comic misinterpretations arising from the way a character from one culture tries to interpret the codes of another culture; and second, the scene underscores the linguistic discontinuities, puns, jokes, juxtapositions, and witty exchanges that will carry thematic weight but that will also amuse the Generation-Y audience.
2. For a more detailed examination of the target audience for this series, see Kaplan, “‘Completely without Sense’: Lost in Austen.”
3. See Morris Gleitzman’s Bumface.
4. When the series was shown in America, this scene was dropped. The scene, however, is important because it underscores Amanda’s sense that everything she does is wrong.
5. At the New Directions in Austen Studies conference (2009) at Chawton House Library, Juliette Wells pointed out that in the movie The Other Boleyn Girl a similar scene of social humiliation takes place, underscoring the political nature of public embarrassment as punishment.
6. These specific anachronisms were mentioned in the question and comment session after my talk at the Chawton House Library conference on New Directions in Austen Studies.
7. Hannah Betts’s “Things You Only Know If You Are Single” (TYOKIYAS) is a column that appears in the Times (London) every week, addressing a diverse variety of issues concerning dating, body waxing, fashion and style, the economics of dating, etc.
8. Claudia Johnson points out that “Janeites tend to be the grumpiest of fans.” “[F]or true believers, adaptations will not only disappoint but scandalize” (“Run Mad” 16).
Austen, Jane. Pride and Prejudice. Ed. R. W. Chapman. 3rd ed. Oxford: OUP, 1986.
Betts, Hannah. “Things you only know if you’re single . . . that there is an economics of dating.” The Times Magazine [The Times of London] 6 June 2009: 9.
Dole, Carol M. “Jane Austen and Mud: Pride & Prejudice (2005), British Realism, and the Heritage Film.” Persuasions On-Line 27.2 (2007).
Gleitzman, Morris. Bumface. London: Puffin, 1998.
Hopkins, Lisa. “Mr. Darcy’s Body: Privileging the Female Gaze.” Jane Austen in Hollywood. Ed. Linda Troost and Sayre Greenfield. 2nd ed. Lexington: UP of Kentucky, 2001. 111-21.
Johnson, Claudia. “Austen Cults and Cultures.” The Cambridge Companion to Jane Austen. Ed. Edward Copeland and Juliet McMaster. Cambridge: CUP, 1997. 211-26.
_____. “Run mad, but do not faint.” Rev. of Mansfield Park. Times Literary Supplement 31 Dec. 1999: 16-17
Kaplan, Laurie. “‘Completely without Sense’: Lost In Austen.” Persuasions 30 (2008): 221-34.
Rifkind, Hugo. “Pride and Prejudice meets Life on Mars in ITV’s Lost In Austen.” Times Online 30 Aug. 2008. http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/tv_and_radio/article4613100.ece.
Sutherland, Kathryn. Jane Austen’s Textual Lives: From Aeschylus to Bollywood. Oxford: OUP, 2005.
_____. “Lost in Austen (ITV1).” Times Online 25 Sept. 2008. http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/tv_and_radio/article4819807.ece.
Todd, Janet, and Linda Bree. “Debate: Bonnets, Crinolines and a Steaming Mr. Darcy.” CAM: Cambridge Alumni Magazine 57 (2009): 44-45.
White, Roland. “Lost In Austen: it’s gr8 in the 18th century.” Times Online 7 Sept. 2008. http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/tv_and_radio/article4669273.ece.