*Today’s post comes to us via Anne Fox*
I turned on the TV a few weekends ago and to my delight I found ABC Family’s Harry Potter marathon weekend. Since Harry Potter was a great contributor to the magic in my childhood, I always enjoy watching the movies. However, as I child I was more of a reader than a movie watcher and am therefore am plagued by the symptom of bookworms around the world—I can’t help but critique screen adaptations, big or small, or, more accurately, compare them. It’s true that my friends and family refuse to watch Harry Potter with me unless I don’t talk. They can’t stand my constant stream of alternately quoting the movie word for word or letting out a disgusted roar of outrage at what was left out, changed or forgotten. That is what most novel to screen adaptations struggle with, though, isn’t it? What to leave out and what to leave in.
This last Christmas I was gifted with the first book in George R. R. Martin’s series A Song of Ice and Fire. The first novel, Game of Thrones, was an interesting read. It wasn’t a book to read during the semester, though. If any of you have read it, you will know what I am talking about: the excruciating detail demands vigiliant attention. Reading the book, you soon learn that if you fail to store even the tiniest of details somewhere in your brain you will be blindsided later on. Martin’s world is extravagant and highly complex. Therefore, when I found out HBO decided to turn the novels into a television series I was apprehensive. How could a TV series capture the details needed to connect Game of Thrones to the end of the uncompleted series (Martin is aiming for seven books, five of which have currently been published)? It seems like a daunting task. so I did what any book obsessed gal would and watched the first season in a very short amount of time. Aside from HBO’s normal habit of inserting unnecessary, risqué scenes, the series seemed to follow the major events and most of the details of the book almost exactly www.myclap.com. There was a bit of the season finale that actually came from the second book, but it made the show easier to understand, and let’s be honest, the plot is more than a little twisted.
And now I’m ready to complain. The first season of A Song of Ice and Fire took liberties that weren’t even hinted at in the first book. For example, Renly, the youngest brother of King Robert (who doesn’t make it to the end of the first book before being killed off, thank you Martin) very obviously likes men. In the books this isn’t hinted at until the second book, and that’s digging seeing how he decides to get married (although I realize this is a shadow of medieval times so expectations may differ). Another thing that completely took me by surprise in the TV series is the ages of the Stark children. They have all miraculously grown a handful of years in the TV series. This also, is understandable. Kids grow up fast and actors and actresses do, too. Yet, I can’t hold on to the fact of how gruesome or, perhaps. more excusable actions become when children are younger. In my opinion, it was this, as well as the behavior of their mother, Catelyn Stark, that took away from the TV series. Catelyn, who is strong willed and very much against her husband becoming the Hand of the King in the book, is fickle and encourages him to serve the king in the series. This basically leads to her urging her husband to his death and spending the rest of the time trying to make up for it, whereas in the book she is fighting in his memory and for their family.
Such page to screen challenges, such as the age of actors, are understandable, but the deletion of important events or events that only make the story better completely eludes me. To go back to my magical childhood, I loved reading about the Marauders in Harry Potter. For those of you who are clueless about the wizarding world, these were Harry’s father and his three best friends. However, in the movies their nicknames were used, but never explained. Many a lost movie watch asked me why they were calling Sirius Padfoot. I, out of the sorrow in my soul, told them what the movie didn’t. The result is
that I hold a childish grudge that just won’t budge. The problem is this childish grudge isn’t even childish because it is Harry Potter. I hold childish grudges with many screen adaptations. One of the bigger ones is Pride and Prejudice. This is one of my all time favorite books. Coincidentally it was also one of my favorite movies. I say “was” because in this unfortunate circumstance I saw the movie (one of the hundred or so versions) before I read the book. The movie is beautifully done, but the book just takes it to a whole new level. My favorite part of the book was the walk Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy went on while she was visiting Mr. and Mrs. Collins. I was distraught when I realized it didn’t make the cut for the movie. That being said, I am talking about the Kiera Knightly version. there are in fact other, and more accurate, versions of Pride and Prejudice out there that I encourage all Austen lovers to read. My grandmother’s favorite ( because Austen is not generation specific) is the one with Colin Firth.
Whether it is an Austen adaptation, a Rowling adaptation or a Martin adaptation, the jump to screen is difficult. It isn’t made easier for old novels or new; it is always a challenge. I’m not saying movie adaptations are terrible as a group, and no one should watch them. I am saying that even though some movie or television adaptations are not as wonderful as their book origins, we should watch them anyways. We should watch them to value our books in our current technologically driven world. The books will always be better, and the books are always the place where we will first see the movie, even before it reaches the screen.
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
Blue Boy selected to premiere at the 2009 Tribeca Film Festival
Sixteen years ago we published a remarkable coming-of-age short story by Kevin Canty, which was later included in his fiction collection A Stranger in This World. This year, that story, “Blue Boy,” will come to life on the big screen at the upcoming Tribeca Film Festival. This short film is one of only 46 shorts and one of only 8 student films selected to be screened. bcpid1475276001?bctid=16772536001
We also look forward to reading Canty’s upcoming story collection, Where the Money Went, due out from Random House this summer.