Edward Fairfax Rochester is all mine! To marry and behold!

Warning - and a disclaimer: This is, in no way, a serious take on reviewing a very serious first episode of a new, very serious TV series. This is Scaramouche's own reaction to the whole, bloody thing - and thus includes a lot of personal...reflections on cast and crew and effects. And male protagonists. Some fangirling, babbling and inconsistent drooling over hunky, British actor. Hopefully, in comprehensible writing and with vocabulary to compensate for lack of proper focus and complete loss of concentration. I am a devoted student! I should have no time for this! But I honestly don't care! (Moreover, I do study British literature, so - technically - this is part of my curriculum. What a neat excuse!)

A man comes riding at fast speed through the fog, on a pitch-black horse, somehwere in the English country side. Across fields of musky grey and hills of green. Between sceletons of trees and bubbling rivers. He's got dark hair to match his outfit, and a suitable hat to prevent it from flowing all over the place. His eyes are steel blue and his clothes bear the colours of the nature, of this misty season. Strikingly attractive, mysterious as the night; his stature of an impressive manner. Cloak and boots, rusty voice, unsteady temper and a subtle performance. Deliciously unpredictable. Something of a Van Helsing meets The Phantom meets Jack Harkness. There he is, the gentleman of the hour, mean and magnificent, radiant and rude; irresistible from the very first line. With an intriguing disposition and an attitude intense enough to knock even the most persistent young lady of her feet and sweep her off the ground, literally or not, preferrably landing softly in his arms thereafter. A killer smile and a gaze to die for. The other way around, also, and mimicry to study closely. Gets a bit confusing after a while. Not very healthy, but pretty addictive, and very engaging. Will be totally bleary and miserable after the final episode, I reckon. Four-parter, 200 minutes, I will positively exhaust myself. But for the moment, I am enthusiastic to say the least.

So, anyway. This then happens to be my first impression, my first encounter, with new BBC drama series "Jane Eyre" - based on the book, starring the brilliant Ruth Wilson, filmed at beautiful old manors in the middle of nowhere, blah blah blah -minor details, all of which were soon forgotten, thanks to a certain Mr. Toby Stephens in the lead role. Good God, what I'd give to be embraced by his Mr. Edward Rochester of Thornfield. This man puts even The Darcy himself aside; making Colin Firth look like a Sunday school teacher with no agenda; whereas the complex, old Rochester suddenly seems like the most eligible man 19th century Britain ever had to offer. Of course, I've been a fan of Toby for some time - ever since he made Pierce Brosnan just a little older than necessary, by comparison, in his last Bond adventure - "Die Another Day". Where Toby, on his hand, played the ridiculously handsome villain Gustav Graves and (thereby) managed to make the whole film worthy of watching, which indeed is an achievement he should be proud of. Earlier, he'd made a memorable appearance in crime series "Poirot", which was in fact where I first made his acquaintance, and later on he's starred in "Cambridge Spies", "Space Cowboys" and some other (rubbish) pieces, in addition to lots of theatre work. Which he's even better at. And then, at last, he takes to the screen as the ultimate impersonation of a classic novel character; so great, he'll leave you gasping for air. Ok, he's sexy as Hell, but his acting is more than decent too. Then again, I am a complete sucker for men with long hair and whiskers. Add some period drama costumes, historic settings, poet shirts and leather boots, some tingling music and heartbreaking storylines, intriguing plottings and an overall amazing cast - and you've got me hooked. My darling Beeb, you make my days worth while. Has there ever been anything less than perfect coming from that department of boundless creativity, I wonder. The series itself is original, dramatic and exciting. Scary at times; very gothic and gloomy. But most of all: terrifically executed. Extremely romantic. Sensual, even, and a lot more daring than the other, similar works I've seen so far. Quality television, in every possible direction. No flaws - apart from my only objection, and that goes to the team behind the editing, which could have done a more thorough job. Otherwise, it's utterly stylish; with surprising, modern effects - like the opening scene in the desert. The angle, the portrayal of Jane and Rochester's relationship, is also very straightforward and - yes - modern. Which makes the whole thing more enjoyable and easier to relate to, for all women. Problematic, as that might be; since by the end of this affair, we'll all want to marry Toby Stephens. Simultaneously. Poor guy. He's already been asked, on TV, whether he considers this his "Mr. Darcy Moment". He turned pale, he turned red, and then he started laughing. But, come on, what did he expect. Waving his coat about like that, and acting so seductivekly towards poor lite Miss Eyre, you should think he had no sense of shame at all. Guilty pleasures galore - for which one must be said to be very pleased. Hardly any need for changes there, as far as I'm concerned. May he go on lurking about the corners of his castle, rigid and brisk, and outerworldly charming; constantly flirting like there's no tomorrow. May the relationship bloom and grow and give us joy; together with a long-awaited, fussy, squealy, überhappy ending which we then definately will deserve.

Consequently: Allow me to say, Ladies and Gentlemen, the masters of period drama has provided us with yet another stroke of genius. No discussion there. I am baffled, speechless and quite a bit bewildered. Mostly due to Rochester, but hey - whilst the majority of the drama fangirls may perfectly well continue adoring Mr. Darcy, the smaller group of us fortunate J.E.-viewers can have Rochester all to ourselves! Except for the tiny, insignificant little issue of his being happily married - to Jane, onscreen, and to Anna-Louise Plowman in real life. The latter having starred in "Doctor Who" and all; where she was utterly fantastic; I can't really break that up, now, can I? Have to dream, then, of my own landowner - to have and behold - someone so pathetically lovable on the inside and an equally desirable on the outside. To wink cheekily at me, whilst resting in his comfy chair by the fire side, golden petals of light lingering on his face. And walk beside me, through the woods, secretly observing my every step, my every move, and opening every door for me, pulling out every chair. Being a proper man, the way they used to be; a set of behaviour I'd be delighted to have the newer generations return to. But time passes, and we change. Fortunately, there are still methods available, to take us back in time, to the glory of ancient fashion. Preferred manners. True and faithful, fateful, fated Love. All that the BBC makes me forget I miss, for a second. In other words: dreaming of good, old-fashioned Loverboy-Lords will have to do. And nicely!