Film Adaptations of Novels

People who are readers commonly find that a film version of a novel they cared about wasn’t nearly as good as the source. In part this disapproval comes from the fact that the two mediums are processed differently. To read a novel you have to translate in your mind the images (faces, scenes, actions) presented by the words on the page. So there’s an involvement, a commitment. To watch a film requires no such commitment: you’re given, ready-made, those images. But emotions and thoughts are a different matter; on the screen they’re conveyed mostly through dialogue and acting, and they’re limited to what is expressible by those means. Here we’ve touched on the major shortcoming of a film: those emotions, most importantly the ones which are internalized. Rage a film can do, but a long-harbored resentment is not so easy — the accumulated history that breeds such a feeling can’t be depicted. And, unlike with a novel, we can’t burrow deep into the mind of a character. This is especially true in the case of a highly inventive mind such as Humbert Humbert’s. When Nabokov wrote a screenplay for the proposed film of Lolita, it was a weak version of his novel. Kubrick never used it; he knew film, and was skilled in working within the parameters it offered. That said, it was impossible to capture the richness of the book.

When doing an adaptation faithful to its source, the best material is a straight narrative told in the third person, filled with dialogue and action and not much introspection; it should have a limited scope and a limited cast. In the case of classic novels, many are too sprawling in size to do justice to. A film was made of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, one I thought was very good. But was it faithful to Hugo’s novel (which was almost a thousand pages long)? I, like you, have not read the book, so we can’t say. Surely there were omissions, and maybe distortions. Long, psychologically complex classics are tackled all the time, but I have little faith in their accuracy, and I tend to avoid them. I respect Madame Bovary too much to be annoyed by a film adaptation of it. In the case of Dostoevski, his main character in Crime and Punishment is grappling with moral issues, and how can such thoughts be conveyed? If made into a film, it will most likely be turned into a police procedural. It could be a good police procedural, even one with undertones of what Raskolnikov is going through, but it won’t be the novel.

If a film is made of a huge best seller, read by millions, the director better not make any major changes. In “Gone with the Wind” we can’t have an ending with Scarlet and Rhett striding off together in the sunset, holding hands. And the Motion Picture Production Code (a censorship body that controlled content of films for almost twenty years) loosened their restrictions against swear words to allow Rhett to say, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” (Actually, in the novel the word “Frankly” doesn’t appear, but who would notice a minor addition like that?). GWTW’s extensive scope and many characters necessitated a very long film — almost four hours. This presents a physical problem for viewers (back when they had to go to a theater and sit through the whole damn thing). Another plus for a novel: you can put it aside and cook dinner or go to the bathroom.

In the past there were restrictions involving the portrayal of sex. The brothel in From Here to Eternity was changed to what seems to be a dance hall for the film. Also, the Production Code deemed it against the rules for wrongdoers to go unpunished. Thus, in “The Bad Seed” little Rhoda is killed off, struck by a bolt of lightning. The whole point of William March’s novel — that evil will prevail — is aborted. And we lose his startling and unforgettable final scene. 

Of course, the Production Code is no more. Which presents a reverse problem; now sex sells, and is thrown in (along with vulgar language and graphic violence) even when it isn’t present in a novel. In an interview I heard a director say that a rating below an “R” was a death blow to the success of a film aimed at a mature audience. Today a dance hall might well be changed to a brothel. A new form of code has been instituted, one which demands the inclusion of what was once banned. Walter Tevis’s The Man Who Fell to Earth has no sex in it; Nicolas Roeg’s film is saturated with sex, and received an X rating in Great Britain. This is no less objectionable than anything the old Production Code did.

All blame for misrepresenting a novel can’t be attributed to any code; most are due to bad choices. I recently saw a 1943 film, “The Ox-Bow Incident.” The novel it was based on has all those elements that make a transfer to the screen manageable. But the film was severely marred by a scene at the end in which Henry Fonda reads aloud a letter that a man who’s about to be lynched had written to his wife. It’s a long polemic condemning the injustice of mob rule. Because this scene struck me as patently false, I went to my library and got Walter Van Tilburg Clark’s novel. I perused the closing section and was relieved to find that there was no reading of the letter; the only thing we learn about its contents is that it expresses simple love and concern. Which is what the man would write to his wife. So why did the director, William Wellman (and, I suspect, Fonda), choose to insert the reading? Probably to hit the viewer over the head with a message. 

There’s one possibility that needs to be interjected here. Sometimes a director and screenwriter alter the source material, but improve it. Of course, all opinions are subjective. My subjective opinion is that the film “The Heiress” is much better than Henry James’s Washington Square. William Wyler used Augustus and Ruth Goetz to do the screenplay, and they gave emotion and ambiguity to the staid novel. And they — not James — are responsible for one of the great closing lines in film history. When asked how she could be so cruel, Catherine answers, “Yes, I can be very cruel. I have been taught by masters.” And she proceeds up the stairs.

But most changes are for the worse. And authors are helpless to intervene. When they sign over film rights they typically give up control. Those whose work is altered and even abused just have to accept it. Their only consolation is that they’re getting paid.

  Despite the many examples of deviations and distortions, most directors try to stay true to the work they’re adapting. The changes they make are confined to those which are unavoidable when moving from one medium to another. Their first task in attaining authenticity is to capture the mood and look of a novel. For novels do generate a look, an atmosphere. It has to be transcribed accurately, or all is lost (and often is; color and gloss and an intrusive musical score are the common culprits). The stark black and white images in John Huston’s “The Asphalt Jungle” perfectly recreate W. R. Burnett’s world. This book happens to be ready-made for adaptation, as was B. Traven’s The Treasure of Sierra Madre, which just needed some editing of language. In these films Huston wrote the screenplays, but for Fat City, a more complex novel, Huston wisely used its author, Leonard Gardner, to do the screenplay and wisely chose Stacy Keach to play Tully. Gifted people engaged in achieving a common goal can overcome difficulties.

But the fact that making a film is a collaborative effort often presents problems. Besides the director, the writer of the screenplay and the actors, there are many others whose contribution is necessary: cinematographer, editor, production designer — and a dozen more. What if any cog in this enterprise is weak? Directors can only try to get others to fulfill their vision. Also, a film is a very expensive undertaking, and the people who have invested money in the project need to see a profit. So, too often, they make demands. They want this big star, they want color, they want a wide screen, they want a happy ending. All may be wrong, even fatal to artistic success, but all are hard to refuse. There are many strings for a director to juggle, much pressure. Only those few who have attained clout are able to operate with a degree of independence and have the freedom to gather around them people they have confidence in.

The author of a novel is in a different situation from a director. He alone is in control. He, like god, is the one who creates it all. I’m speaking ideally, of course. But often the ideal is true. A film is a messy endeavor, a novel is a purer form of expression. J. D. Salinger wrote, “The only theater I want to write for is the little marvelous one inside the reader’s mind.” He instituted legal restrictions to block any of his work being made into a film (after his displeasure at the adaptation of his story, “Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut”). If a film was made of  The Catcher in the Rye I wouldn’t see it. What happens in that novel is not nearly so important as what Holden Caulfield thinks about what happens.

Though I believe the novel remains as the predominant mode in which to tell a story, film is a uniquely potent art form. It can do some things better than the written word. It can show us a setting — so that we actually see a boat floating down the river on a moonlit night. Action scenes can come into immediate, visceral life. Even dialogue is better in a film, for a talented actor can use inflections, gestures, and expressions that add much to the words on a page. 

Ultimately, films most powerful asset is its ability to deliver a moving experience, one capable of making people cry or laugh or shudder. I’m sure you have scenes that you can conjure up in your mind and still feel the emotion they evoked in you. For me the list is long.

(The highlighted names in this text will lead you to other posts of relevance.)