1-2-3-4, I Declare a Form War
I had a conversation with a writer friend a couple weeks ago about the discrepancies between the mediums of literature and film—and, more specifically, adaptations bridging the two forms. The conversation developed from my mention of a mental_floss article about well-known authors who hated their work’s well-known film adaptations. My friend quickly jumped to the defense of those authors, elaborating further on her own inspired favor of the original literature over the film. Remaining loyal to the novel or short story is overwhelmingly the publically virtuoso stance: the most immediate debate, without fail, when film adaptations are announced is how the film can possibly match the original, and then, after release, how the movie industry ruined yet another good book. Maybe it’s the insipid exposure to product films (movies clearly made for similar motivations as one would make a Nerf gun) we gather as a mainstream society, but a distinct collective psyche exists in which the norm is to, without remorse, denounce film adaptations as rarely anything more than cheap attempts to capitalize on a proven commodity.
While the cynicism withstands, to greater effect, in regards to a Hollywood culture currently preoccupied with remakes and reboots, I cannot begin to sympathize with the criticism of adaptations. The aforementioned complaints, when further prodded, stem from the idea that a novel can do so many things film can’t, or at least to a more thorough extent. Character development and direct insight, cast, narrative arc, and the power and experience of the actual words on the page are commonly cited as fundamental gaps between the meduims’ capacities. The adventure of the prose and the direct insight, for example, were the two inspired drawbacks my friend offered. Wherever detractors come from, the creative form of literature being superior to that of film is the if unintentional suggestion. Unfortunately for literature enthusiasts, this assertion is simply not true.
I understand where the author’s discussed in the mental_floss article come from: a fiction writer myself, it would be an incredibly difficult process to hand over, as most adapted authors do, the creative responsibility of something so personal to a relative stranger. However, their complaints are irrelevant. The best you’re going to get out of a writer, concerning an adaptation of their work, is an I’m happy with the choices [the director] made. Translation: they didn’t butcher my child. What else could we expect? Nothing. While I find stories of P.L. Travers sobbing because the Disney machine of the sixties whitewashed Mary Poppins impulsive-big-lip-inducing, there is little credence in the displeasure of creative alpha dogs such as Stephen King and Ken Kessey (though the later eventually came around). All of these anecdotes vindicate fans of the original and of books in general, little more. Kubrick’s The Shining is a horror masterpiece, using ingenious scale and symmetry to weave thick atmosphere and dread. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest was the second ever film to sweep the five major categories at the Oscars. (Both of these, of course, feature tour de force turns from Jack Nicholson.)
To favor a version is immune to criticism. That’s the freedom of art. To presume one medium’s superiority based on those biases is not. A film can’t characterize its cast as well as a novel? So, then, Nicholson’s Randle is an outright lesser character than Kessey’s?—Daniel Day-Lewis’s Daniel Plainview in There Will Be Blood doesn’t surpass (let alone meet) any character in Upton Sinclair’s original Oil!?—Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lector? The list could easily continue. A film may not have as readied access to direct perception or insight as literature, but I don’t think an argument can be made saying the nuance and depth of an actual human being stepping into the flesh and mind of another is incapable of capturing the same—or greater—profoundness of its prose counterpart.
Which leads to the other glaring form difference: language. Why did an otherwise beautiful and adequate film in the adaptation of The Road pale in comparison to McCarthy’s Pulitzer winner? Because the gorgeous and redemptive prose, more than any other element of the novel, communicated the transcendence of the narrative. However, to suggest that literature is the inherently better form, one would have to be able to make the case that a film could be expounded and improved upon in a novel adaptation. This, frankly, has never happened. Film-to-literature novels exist solely for fans of the film who also want the experience in literary form. An adaptation field without respect, quality writers rarely venture there, and little new ground is ever explored. If literature was in fact superior, even without efforts from the most talented writers, film-to-literature novels would still be more encouraging than what we have.
Now, what I have to say next may seem blasphemous, but it is true: film can depict with its imagery, mise en scèn, and editing visuals that do not translate to literature (literature we’d actually want to read, that is). Some quick recent examples: There Will Be Blood, Inception, Pan’s Labyrinth, City of God, Brokeback Mountain—each film possesses a visual quality either not found in their literary predecessor or irreproducible in appealing literature. A film can capture in a single moment scope and vastness or minute detail that in a novel would require unpleasant length, or the reduction of what exactly is described—but then, the product is no longer the same and therefore incomparable in any way so as to give one form advantage over the other. Or, in terms of spectacle, anything can be written into being. Not anything is supposed to be able to reside onscreen—what’s there, at some point in time, is supposed to have been tangibly real. Breaking that rule of real is film’s magic. By no means does the visual language of film trump the written language of literature. The only claim I make is that both are equally transfixed in their own medium. The visual is film’s prose.
Distinction for distinction’s sake is a time waster, so let’s put a point to all this rhetoric. The distinctions boil down to literature holding a greater level of intimacy with its audience. No matter a novel’s girth or density, the majority of its resonance is dependent upon the reader’s imagination. The novel may guide, but the reader is the one who executes the novel’s imagery, details, and characters—the fundamental reason people fall in love with reading, the classic “escape.” In film, on the other hand, everything is in front of you. A film can be ambiguous: we don’t know if Deckard in Blade Runner (based on Phillip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep) is human or android by film’s end, but we sure as hell know that he chased down in the rain an intellectually captivating robot and had some sort of moment as the machine died.
Here’s a brief list:
- United 93
- Brokeback Mountain
- The Road (novel)
- A Separation
- Schindler’s List
The long-winded point: Read the book, it’s always better is so inaccurate it offends me as an equal parts writing and film enthusiast. I’ve been writing fiction for five years now, plan on applying to MFA programs in the fall, and this coming semester will, for the first time, attempt screenwriting. I have aspirations to, one day, be writing consistently for both fields, understanding fully the odds of finding success in one, let alone both.
I have a deep and unique affection for each medium, and such an affection is why I find the cliché adaptation bashing by literature loyalists problematic. The mediums are completely different in process, but aim for similar ground in experience. We should anticipate changes (after all, it is an “adaptation”) from one medium to the next, not begrudge them. Repudiating adaptations based on the merit of the adapted form is invalid. Not only that, it is self-defeating. Remember when the novel emerged as a commercially viable literary form? (You do? Wow, that’s a damn good memory, some three hundred years strong.) It was tarnished as trash. The intellect rested in poetry (Eh eh, poets?). Even the short story initially shunned long-form prose. So, keep your noses high, loyalists, you are not the first to label an enterprising genre as bloated and cheap. The publishing world has long felt the economic presence of film and, now, various other digital forms. Why wage medium war? If so determined to thumb your nose at film, I ask you, how do you think that will end? In fact, better yet. Ask poets.
*If either you’re cruel or wish to test your staunch emotional heartstrings too, feel free to ask about them, though they aren’t the most eclectic choices.
True Film posted in November last year a slideshow of their 50 favorite film adaptations. The rankings are a bit odd, but it’s an overall solid collection. The Gaurdian, to a much less interactive extent, did the same in 2006.
On the flipside, the A.V. Club listed their worst film adaptations. If it hadn’t been written almost five years ago, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close would have to rank near the top.
Some notable films I find, again off the top of my head, outright better than their notable source material:
- Kubrick’s The Shining, and A Clockwork Orange (and I’d imagine 2001: A Space Odyssey, though I haven’t read the loose source story “The Sentinel”)
- Brokeback Mountain
- Let the Right One In (the American Let Me In is in equally favorable standing for me)
- There Will Be Blood (also a loose source, but Oil! is so commonly associated with the movie that it counts)
- The Prestige
- Shutter Island
- Schindler’s List
- American Psycho
- Stand By Me
- Silence of the Lambs
Follow Kyle on Twitter: @KyleBurton9106
A Joycean Voyage to Italy
During an early scene in Roberto Rossellini’s 1953 film Voyage to Italy, Katherine Joyce sits in a canvas sling chair on a sundrenched veranda, eyes obscured behind stylish shades. Tempestuous Mt. Vesuvius looms in the distance as she tells her remote, work driven English husband Alex (George Sanders) about Charles Lewington, a former lover and poet who died two years before. The stark, romantic landscape evokes memories of Charles, though Katherine’s sad, rapturous voice suggests that his ghost has been with her all along.
“We got on terribly well together,” she says and then goes on to describe how the weak, frail man braved a high fever to be with her.
Her husband, languid and blasé, calls her dead lover a fool.
Rossellini re-tailors Gretta’s mournful reverie from the close of “The Dead” to suit Katherine’s sophistication and Europe’s post-war ennui. Still there are so many echoes that it stirs one’s passion for Joyce’s classic short story.
Katherine’s confession further irritates the couple’s troubles as does her spiritual pilgrimage to find Charles’ presence in the locations of his poetry. What if Gretta had had gone back to Galway in search of Michael Furey?
Gabriel transcends his jealousy to empathize with his wife’s loss, while Alex remains resentful and bitter. In the end, Rossellini reunites his couple during a scene so sudden and abbreviated that the viewer is left nervously off-balance while Joyce’s reader is awed by his hypnotic closing intimation of universal mortality.
Voyage to Italy’s themes, the miscomprehension that can happen between couples and the continued presence of the dead among the living, takes the reader back to the original text as does a much truer adaptation, John Huston’s The Dead (1987).
In the hands of an artist, literary borrowing is an exciting, creative endeavor. Updike was able to retell Hamlet from Gertrude’s and Claudius’ points of view. (In Updike’s tale, Hamlet is what my students would call a “girl-pants wearing emo boy” whose pathological recklessness leads to the downfall of the kingdom.). In Kate Moses’ Wintering , the last days of Sylvia Plath’s life are creatively imagined as she struggled in a cramped flat with two young children, her husband’s betrayal and one of London’s worst winters while writing the poems that would make her name. And, of course, Jean Rhys 1966 post colonial novel Wide Sargasso Sea tells the tale of the first Mrs. Rochester, a white Creole woman who is transported from the Caribbean to England only to endure an unhappy marriage.