At the end of The F Word, Wallace (Daniel Radcliffe) and Chantry (Zoe Kazan) get married. This isn’t surprising, but it is, for me, disappointing. What’s to be most valued in this film, written by Elan Mastai based on the play Cigars and Toothpaste by TJ Dawe and Michael Rinaldi and directed by Michael Dowse, is its brutal honesty about the complicated dynamics of two friends who may or may not be attracted to one another and the concessions they have to make in order to not upset that dynamic. It essentially plays out like When Harry Met Sally…, but less inclined to make one person a victim or a pathetic figure. It lays out its options openly and realistically, acknowledging that people sometimes have to do painful things in order to maintain a kind of balance.
As much as I watched movies growing up, I spent more time reading in my youth than watching film. As a result, I was very much the typical “Read the book before the movie” kind of person and often staunchly the “book was better than the movie” person as well. This included things from Dracula, the Harry Potter book series, the cases of Sherlock Holmes, the works of Agatha Christie, the James Bond books, and even the somewhat frivolous choice of Jane Austen (I had a thing for English writers, I guess). However, as I grew to be a better writer, as I grew to love film more passionately, and as I grew to be a better film watcher I slowly drifted from that state of mind to one of “treat the two as almost separate entities”. I’ve become the kind of person who will pipe up defending a film’s interpretation of a book, even if drastic changes are made and even if I didn’t like the film. A film should be able to stand on its own and be as broadly accessible as possible, right? That may be so, but I noticed very recently that, despite my mild evolution in thought, I still relapse into the same state of mind when watching certain television adaptations of works. From HBO’s Todd Haynes directed adaptation of James M. Cain’s Mildred Pierce to the British television series that adapted Poirot and Miss Marple to the incredible I, Claudius, I’ve inadvertently made a strange exception. And I don’t quite understand why, but I will try to discuss it further here.
One of my most vivid memories as a child is one that takes me back to second grade. I was lying on the bed in the upstairs bedroom of my grandmother’s house listening to the audio book of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, narrated by the great Jim Dale. (Full disclosure: A lot of my “reading” was actually done by audio book. I have no shame.) Sure, the Harry Potter books make not be the literary masterpieces a lot of people my age would purport them to be, but I really do enjoy them and, at that age, I found them to be quite magical. There was so much depth and detail, the characters seemed so fully realized, and I wanted to be a part of that world. I assumed, as do probably most people at that age when reading a book, that the film adaptation would take me to that world exactly as I had imagined. But it didn’t.
Much to my dismay, I was unable to really make much out of the first three movies, which to me, were a fiasco (they still aren’t great, really). But I was so in tune to my own interpretation of the book that it never occurred to me a) the director has his own ideas b) the author has their own intentions and c) the adaptations should be able to stand on their own, in order to make the world more open. Also, there was an issue with running time, so there was that as well. (I still find it kind of strange that director David Yates decided to make the longest book into the shortest film. Clever, but strange.) My own ego was at work here, and fully manifested itself in a very angry letter written to the film’s producers (this is again, in second grade) begging them to adapt as completely as possible Book Five to the screen. All the tiny, minute details, all of the characters, story arcs, dialogue, etc. I was 9, and I thought I was entitled to a complete version of the film. A transliteration. (The letter remained unsent, for the record.)
I had the same issues with several other films, but I think the majesty of something I saw as so fantastical and enjoyable really struck me. Seeing those changes in the film versions of my favorite books literally offended me. I scoffed at the screen. I probably deemed whatever film it was poor due to the numerous changes. The 1931 Todd Browning version of Dracula always annoyed me because they omitted several characters, “destroying” an intriguing plot. For, at that age, I could not be satiated unless it was as accurate as possible.
However, as I grew older and I began to understood film more and more as medium, as an entertainment device, etc. I realized that these departures should be fine, so long as they cohere with the rest of the film. It’s the reason I had such an issue with the screen version of Les Miserables: you approach a film almost blindly usually, with very little context. That’s supposed to be made up in exposition, extra scenes, etc. Les Miz didn’t have that, but neither did the musical. The reason being is that the approach is different. The point being, with no context, you should be able to go into a film adaptation of a book and get a majority of it. Sure, there will be some nuances missed or not understood, some in jokes to please the readers, etc., but generally speaking, it should be a simple, fun, engaging ride.
Now that I’ve understood that literature and cinema, despite their connections and roots, should be able to operate alone, there are a few exceptions I’ve noticed, in terms of how I treat and come back from a film. One of the first is The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I count this as a notable exception because the film was directed by its original author, Stephen Chbosky, who also wrote the film’s screenplay. Rarely, as far as I know, does the original author direct and write the screenplay of the film version (the focus being “and”). In that film, you’re supposed to get the full vision, the full realization of the characters that the author created. And, all said and done, it’s pretty good. There are some notable differences in how the subject matter is treated, and with that ambiguity comes a couple problems: Chbosky spent so much time tiptoeing around certain aspects of his original novel that he mentions a couple things and then drops them without resolution. A couple characters jump the gun and don’t make a “complete circle” in terms of evolution. But, all things considered, these are pretty minor issues. The most important stuff is in there. And yet it’s not a transliteration. It still remains a film that can be treated separately from its source material.
I talked about transliterations a while back in my review for Mildred Pierce and I would like to bring it up again. I haven’t read the entirety of the original novel, but, rewatching the series, I’m struck not only how faithful the series is, but how good it is. Part of the issue of transliterations conceptually is that it doesn’t bring much originality to the table. It suffocates the work (see: Zack Snyder’s Watchmen). But even though Mildred Pierce was exhaustively adapted, using a majority of the dialogue and nearly every scene from the book, it still breathes life into the novel. It is not merely because it’s a film of the novel, but because it still remains an interpretation, primarily that of director Todd Haynes. In interviews, Haynes stated that although there book was essentially the text, he wanted to have every screen from Mildred’s perspective, giving the film a slightly subjective lens. That alone frees it from being exhaustingly dull and commonplace. What may be as important as the source material in an adaptation is the passion the maker brings to it, which includes their interpretation.
That said, had this not occurred, had the film not so lovingly been adapted from the book, with the words practically lifted off the page, I don’t think I would have given the film a pass. It’s a curious thing I’ve noticed over the last few days, actually. For some reason, I’m less inclined to give television adaptations any kind of leniency than I am film.
With film, you’re allotted a narrow amount of time, usually, which means that a lot has to be cut out and a lot has to change in order to meet those constraints (though, I still don’t understand why the dialogue can’t be retained). With television, you’re given an incredible amount of freedom, especially in terms of time, if not necessarily with budget. So, I believe the preconception I approach television adatations with (and others do the same, I think) is: “They have all that time, which means they should be able to get in a majority of the details in there.”
I’ve been rewatching some of the more recent ITV adaptations of Agatha Christie’s books, particularly those starring the Belgian detective Hercule Poirot and the spinster Miss Marple. I’m a bit rusty on the novels, but I still remember a fairly good deal about them, at least the main arcs and characterizations. But I noticed some rather drastic deviations. The Nicolas Winding Refn directed episode of Marple called “Nemesis” retains one conceit from the novel and throws the rest away, even changing the murder, the victim, the perpetrator, and the motive. SparkNotes, in comparison, would be far more accurate. I resented this change. Why bother changing all of that? Why bother adapting that book in the first place? For the episode “By the Pricking of My Thumbs”, one of the protagonists is characterized as a resentful alcoholic. Um, why? Was it an attempt to add depth to that character? Was it an attempt to fix a plot hole? (The novel was originally intended for Christie’s Nick and Nora-esque detectives, Tommy and Tuppence, who are relegated to supporting roles in the TV adaptation.) 2010 brought a new adaptation of Christie’s most famous novel Murder on the Orient Express, but even then, I found the changes to be extraordinarily inessential. The darker tone, the focus on Poirot being a Catholic, the change of characters, the drop of an important piece of evidence, etc. No, that episode did not “pass my test”. The book had earlier been adapted by Sidney Lumet in 1974 (garnering Ingrid Bergman with her third Academy Award), and that one was rather accurate, but also contained seemingly bizarre, “unnoticeable” changes. Many of the changes in both television series’ earlier incarnations would probably only be noticeable to avid readers, so why bother changing them at all if they’re so minute?
The approach is the same: more time, more reason to add or retain details. I, Claudius (based on the books I, Claudius and Claudius the God by Robert Graves) gets it right (including chunks of dialogue too), so why can’t everyone else? It may not have to be a transliteration, but the faithfulness was lacking in the Christie series.
To completely generalize, I believe that we hold film adaptations of books under such scrutiny because it is usually a book that we care deeply about. As much as I adore and love cinema, books are something very special and unique. They can be just as, if not more, transportive than film. But, I believe it’s good to let go, to allow the two to be, for the sake of an analogy, cousins, if not brothers and sisters. And I believe that I hold television accountable, not only because of the spacious room they seem to be given in how they’re able to tell their story, but because I want to be enveloped in what I fell in love with for a longer period of time than a movie adaptation can do. It’s not right, but it’s my flaw.
That said, I love film and books both completely and passionately.
In an era where the torture porn flick and the erstwhile remake rule the horror genre, it’s kind of nice when someone decides to go back and “honor” the beginnings of horror with some classic, traditional gothic ghost storytelling. The last time this was done in such a specific fashion was in Alejandro Amenabar’s The Others starring Nicole Kidman. Traditional, scary, and fascinating. It was done again, without the Gothic English setting to an extent in Insidious, the one where its first half was one of the best horror films I’ve ever seen and the second was the campiest. Insidious is a good example of “Not every character in a horror movie has to be a dumbass”. Patrick Wilson’s character didn’t always feel the need to chase after ghosts and he actually turned on the lights when investigating something. Sadly, its second half seemed like it was from a completely different film. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good either.
And now we have The Woman in Black, the latest ghost story that was based on the novel by Susan Hill. It has also found itself as a stage play. It’s been adapted into a television film. And now it’s come to the big screen with Harry Potter himself. Set in a creepy village that holds a creepy house to its name, Radcliffe plays the naïve widower and single-father of one, on a mission from his law firm to go through all of the documents in the creepy house so it can be sold and, ultimately, erased from the memories of the townspeople. The owner of the house has recently died, of course, under mysterious circumstances. And the eponymous ghost haunts the village and lures the village people’s children to their death.
Daniel Radcliffe is fine in this film. He is not great, nor is he terrible. I admire his eclectic choice in work, from coming of age dramas (December Boys) to nudity on stage (Equus) to a full-fledged Broadway musical (How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying) and now this. I admire the fact that he’s trying to prove himself as a good actor, that he isn’t just Harry Potter. And in this, The Woman in Black, he is beginning to shed his image as Harry and really hone into being Daniel. However, he doesn’t actually shine in the film. The script, written by X-Men: First Class scribe Jane Goldman, calls for Radcliffe to look over papers very contemplatively and to look very dramatic about children. And, at this, he does a fair job. But, who could ever really do a great job with that kind of material. The material isn’t bad, it just limits the actor. It would limit anyone in any horror movie. Let’s face it, horror movies are rarely when you find great performances. (Exception to the rule: Jodie Foster and Anthony Hopkins in The Silence of the Lambs, but that’s more of a psychological thriller, isn’t it?) Here, as a young lawyer on his last chance under the name of Arthur Kips, he strains somewhat, but never reaches the overacting many fear of in horror movies.
And here’s where it comes to a screeching, screaming halt. The film, which seems to be lovingly seeped in Edwardian mystery, is traditional. Really traditional, almost to a fault. It’s so well acquainted with the tropes of haunted house movies and Gothic literature that you end up seeing every jump and jolt a mile away. Every little sub-plot you can predict. It’s still fun, but it’s not surprising in the least. It got to a point where even the cinematography was getting cliché, and I would keep groaning, mentally predicting what was to happen. Every aspect of the story was so traditionalist it was cliché. The man who goes to the house and doesn’t listen to the village people who tell him not to go. And then the village people suffer and basically say “told you so”. The skeptic who doesn’t believe there’s a ghost in the house. The ghost wants some revenge of some sort and will not rest until she gets it. Et cetera, et cetera. There was nothing original about it, and it’s hard to say whether this was the fault of the film itself or the source novel.
This isn’t to say that it’s a bad movie; it’s just not very good. And it is effective to a degree. Several times, the suspense is effective enough that I could feel the dread eating away at my mind, my flesh crawl, and I would indeed jump. But the burdened by its predictability, it was hardly scary enough to leave a lasting impression. The sound design, though, was top notch. Sound design tends to be fairly important in horror movies. Whenever a character turns around to encounter either a) the ghost or b) the ally, there’s always that increase in volume. The old house is effectively decorated and old and scary looking. Huzzah.
I find it quite interesting and funny that Hammer Film Productions produced this film. The company responsible for making Christopher Lee a star and that made such great B-horror movies is back, apparently, once again settling into the area of B-horror movies. And, I guess, that’s what you could call the Woman in Black. It isn’t terrible, but it’s not very good. It can be a lot of fun. But it never really scares you or is able to manifest true fear in any of its visual design or story. Despite its plot being interestingly told (almost in an epistolary way), it’s so traditional that it fails to keep your interest for the entire time. While it’s not to see a traditional ghost story on the screen again, one would hope for something scarier, something darker, and something less predictable. But, at least the Gothic horror story is back; back in Black.