Sense & Sensibility 2026

Or: Fetchingly Feral

You must know, dear reader, that I take my Jane Austen adaptations very seriously. There’s an economy of story, a tenderness of feeling, and a treasury wit that, lifted to screen or stage, can make a two hundred year old Marriage plot sing. Yet woe betide any adaptor who chooses to monkey about with it for they face my fury (glare’n at you, Cracknell.)

So, when the new Sense and Sensibility, directed by Georgia Oakley and adapted by Diana Reid, starts playing fast and loose with the script and mores (largely in terms of cinching the action to provide more time for our thwarted couples to talk to each other) be assured that huffy little snorts of incredulity could be heard from my corner of the theater. Not of course, dear reader, anyone cares about my opinions but a person “Must have their passions” as Marianne Dashwood (Esme Creed-Miles) is fond of professing. And when one considers what it is to fill the shoes of Emma Thompson and Allan Rickman, (from the golden hewed and golden standard 1995 showing) we must allow some leniency.  Still for all their talents, I found the latest artists to have rattling footwear.

The 2026 version is not without its discovered, depths, and delights. Creed-Miles gives us a half-wild Marianne, smartly drawing from the novel all of the younger Miss Dashwoods romantic ferocity with none of her thoughtlessness. (“She’s bidding adieu to the Trees” Eleanor, Daisy Edgar-Jones) remarks, referring to an underutilized scene from the novel). Leaning into Marianne’s sensuality, (in old manner of the word: just watch her run her hands through grass, or try to eat a pear) Creed-Miles not only bounces and wallows but snatches, screams, and is roundly and proudly ungovernable. Oakley is perhaps a little too taken with her actor’s romantic wildness, lending her more witchiness than strictly called for (there’s all sorts of weird metaphorical filler in the famous storm sequence, and more unforgivably the bending of a fairly important plot point to provide her with a horse), but Creed-Miles delivers the specific order well.

It’s also refreshing to see Elinor Dashwood able to bear both her heart and her teeth. The changes and shortened stays of the script allow her to have it out with Edward (George MacKay) both in terms of longing near touches and calling him to task for his blunders. Edgar-Jones and MacKay are a wonderful matched to literature’s most famous pairing of awkward ducks (the moment they first meet eyes you can sense the shock way as soul chimes with soul). She brings all the sisterly affection, desperation, rage, and poise of an Austen heroine, and if confined by the script to be a little high handed at times she shines through it.

Other stand out performances include Caitriona Balfe as Mrs. Dashwood who captures the character’s warmth and general haplessness, Bodhi Rae Breathnach as Margaret Dashwood, doing the line between one sister’s poise and the other’s abandon, and Ceara Coveney as the perfectly two-faced yet somehow forgivably snarky Lucy Steele. And of course Fiona Shaw as Mrs. Jennings, with a perfectly lumpy laugh and burbling commentary. You could not ask for better casting, and as much as Edgar-Jones shines and Creed-Miles glimmers this is very much the movie for Mrs. Jennings to claim her spotlight.

As for the gentlemen: Much of the changes to the script have been done to raise, or lessen, their effect upon the plot. MacKay is born to mourn in regency dress, and suffers most winningly. Frank Dillane as the dashing Mr. Willoughby is rendered with lighter, goofier touch and (though his crimes are very much paled) his general indolence marks him as much more of a rake, and consequently less of a threat. As for Herbert Nordrum’s Colonel Brandon, I have no idea with Reid and Oakley were up to with him, but somehow it worked: and his awkward, staring sheepishness, like that of the large dogs who populate the background, is translated by alchemy into the shy, awkward lover we can root for, in spite of him being five and thirty.

The film is much in love of natural women and women in nature: running with skirts in hand, picking berries, in the wild embrace of dancing (and such dancing! It throws custom and accuracy it the winds but my is it thrilling!). That and the rich sepia-tones, and fulsome shadows bring the grit and rustle of the natural world even into the heart of London. I take exception to how often a background character would cut across the camera frame in the name of realism, but the sense of place and churn of society were on the whole quite well managed.

So there you are, dear reader. A Sense and Sensibility for the current decade. Turning its eyes to the spider thin bonds of affection and match that might arrive between people, and the strong, often vexing bond that sits on sisters. Warm and wild, and, like its heroines, perfectly ready to sacrifice decorum for dash. I laughed, i sighed, and did often snuffle irritably but its no travesty (another glare for you, Cracknell), and, as far as Austen goes, it’s a welcome facet on the gem of this particular tale.