PD James's "Death Comes to Pemberley"

Read: January 21, 2012

Death Comes to Pemberley was highlighted across several of the book recommendation sources I follow. NPR did a segment or two. The New York Times spotlighted it on their weekly emails. Barnes & Noble listed it as a book my previous reading suggested I'd enjoy. Perhaps it was the spirit of the holidays - it's Christmas. Sit down and enjoy a frilly book! Not that I'm in any way opposed to reading frilly books on the beach or on vacation or over the holidays. But that's not how these reviews framed James's most recent addition. They all played up how this master of suspense and mystery writing was combining her expertise with her long held love of Austen. "If you read any Austen sequel, then this one is worth your time," the reviews seem to suggest.

The one thing I will say in its defense is that James tapped into some of the magic of Austen's language. The sentences were nearly pitch perfect, the amusing, subtle, and sometimes underhanded characterizations even more so. It's clear that James is a true Austen aficionado.

However, that's really the only good thing I can say. The plot line was outlandish, even with all sorts of leeway given on the return of your favorite characters. James has Darcy and Elizabeth happily settled with their sons, living a short distance away from Jane and Mr. Bingley. The action starts when Lydia attempts to crash her sister's annual ball, to which she was not invited, but instead is traumatized when Wickham and Denny leave the coach and walk into the woods, arguing. Darcy and company discover Wickham crying, "it's all my fault," over Denny's body. And so goes the mystery.

I think the problem with this adaptation is that Austen's genius was never in her tried-and-true marriage plot. Her novels are not page turners because you want to find out what crazy things will come out of Mrs. Bennet's mouth; rather, you are engrossed because you love the characters. In this travesty of a fan fiction sequel (despite its illustrious author), the primacy is given to the plot and the characters are left to their two-dimensional devices. Elizabeth is, especially, disappointing. She has lost her wit and her gumption and is content to serve as a sounding board for Darcy's musings, to stay at home and send out regretful cancellations to her ball. She's no longer Austen's lovable Lizzie.

Perhaps the reviews gave me too much to hope for, but this was a disappointing holiday read.