I was just talking to Becca about this, so I find it pretty funny that the WB is going to develop a gender-reversed version of Ashton Kutcher's "daring" "social experiment" Beauty and the Geek. I watched the first one, mostly enjoyed it, and I've been skipping the second one (it's on during shows I like, plus who gives a fuck?), but I guess the next one is supposed to have dumb hunks and nerdy chicks competing to see who can improve whom. It's a hilarious idea to me, actually. Dumb jocks are a lot less prone to human emotions than hot chicks are; I can see the terrible outcome now: the televisual eguivalent of 12 librarians fucked within an inch of their life by a bunch of troglodytic quarterbacks and left out by the side of the road on prom night. Because guys, especially guys who are told again and again how hot they are, don't feel the need to take a whole lot of responsibility for things. Especially not for the feelings of a wallflower. This is going to be some hilarious reality TV.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Thursday, January 19, 2006
1. Commercials for heartburn candy like Tums and Maalox. Yeah, that's right, I said candy. I'm so sick of hearing people complain on commercials for these ineffective bloat relievers about how Prilosec OTC takes one to four days to work. "One to four days? But I need relief now!" Look, I have a hiatal hernia, which is when the upper part of your stomach tears through part of your diaphragm and into your thorax. Eating can actually be painful for me. Plus, I'm heavily overweight and as a result of these two factors I have pretty bad acid reflux and terrible heartburn. I was on a prescription for Prilosec for years before it went over-the-counter. Prilosec is for people like me, with serious digestive problems. Untreated, I could get cancer. Have you ever had severe ulcers in your throat because you throw up everything you eat (even the water you drink)? Before I was diagnosed, I had that problem. Prilosec is not a quick soother for some fat dude whose tummy hurts because he ate that extra chili dog. That little whiny bitch needs a piece of candy and a good belch.
2. People who hate Citizen Kane. Citizen Kane is one of the greatest movies you will ever see. The problem is, since it has made the top in the Sight & Sound list as the greatest movie ever made for the last 20 or so years, it's built up this reputation as something beyond the confining bounds of fantastic. Therefore, I think too many people sit down in front of it and try too hard; they expect too much, nearly daring the movie to not blow their closed little minds. And then, when it isn't the experience they think it's going to be, when it doesn't reveal deep truths about the meaning of life or uncover the true name of their god, they walk around all smug, saying stupid things like "It wasn't that good," or "Citizen Kane is supposed to be the best movie ever made, but it's so boring!" I'd be able to shrug it off if so many of you people didn't think that The Da Vinci Code was great literature...
3. Television in general. Not only did I get snared in the American Idol net again, but now I see that Malcolm in the Middle has been cancelled. At least I know Lost, My Name Is Earl, and The Office are too popular to cancel right now. But it sucks knowing that my interests just don't seem to connect with anyone--Futurama, Farscape, Invader ZIM, Phil of the Future, Lizzie McGuire, What I Like About You, Malcolm in the Middle, Arrested Development, Carnivale, and now possibly Rome. It's like TV is constantly telling me that there won't be anything there for me if I don't accept the same kind of mediocrity everyone else seems to eat by the shovelful. And yeah, I know it isn't a great show, but would the WB mind bringing back What I Like About You, please? They ended on a cliffhanger on the Thanksgiving episode, and I'd at least like to see how it comes out.
No matter how often I complain, my mother keeps forwarding me little bits of sentiment porn. She's one of those tragic people who really finds this crap inspiring. Today I got one in my inbox that I decided was too stupid for me to even see the point of.
THE LESSONS OF TREES
As though all of nature and the cosmos only exists to provide object lessons for mankind. I can't remember if I'm ripping off Asimov, Sagan, or both by saying that.
1. It's important to have roots.
This sounds like a cry for traditionalism to me. People are so hung up on "roots" and "family." Why can't one's roots be in the mind? Are people never supposed to put their faith in themselves? I don't need my family to validate my path.
2. In today's complex world, it pays to branch out.
Does this qualify as a lesson from a tree? I mean, when it comes to branching, a tree has no real choice. This one sounds a little too financially motivated for me to take seriously.
3. If you really believe in something, don't be afraid to go out on a limb.
Again, what does this have to do with trees? Trees aren't sentient, they don't "go out" on limbs, they have limbs. Hey, I do, too.
4. Be flexible so you don't break when a harsh wind blows.
Trees have no choice in this matter. This calls to mind the image of some smuggo walking down the street, looking at a tree that's cracked during a storm, and giggling to himself: "Heh, stupid tree." This is assigning the wrong kind of importance to trees. Hell, without trees to slow down the winds, they'd be worse. Ever been to a desert? Now there's some wind, boys.
5. Sometimes you have to shed your old bark in order to grow.
A rare call for change from sentiment porn. So, a tree can shed it's bark but a leopard can't change its spots (or a zebra can't change its stripes, whichever one you like). So, which idiotically simplistic nature phrase am I supposed to hold with?
6. If you want to maintain accurate records, keep a log.
This one gauges the humor inherent in such a sentence to an insanely wrong degree. Misfire, gentlemen. I mean, it's not even remotely accurate. Trees don't keep logs, not in the way the "joke" implies. A tree becomes a log after someone kills it. Is that an image you want to bring up when talking about how great trees are? I think this person was just hellbent on getting to ten.
7. It's okay to be a late bloomer.
Unless someone cuts you down for it.
8. Avoid people who would like to cut you down.
Tell that to a tree, you insensitive clod. They don't have a choice.
9. As you approach the autumn of your life, you will show your true colors.
I've never felt this to be true of anybody. Many old people cling to their old hatreds as they age. Besides, the brilliant yellows and oranges of the leaves are actually rot and decay, not "true colors." Green leaves are alive; in the autumn they're withering and dying. Are you saying that the true state of humanity is old and prune-like? How is that a pleasant image?
10. You could be Brilliant! in other words "bloom where you are planted."
Sounds like a callous justification of the Indian caste system to me. "Bloom where you are planted" sounds a lot like "know your place and don't question it."
Fucking sentiment porn; you're just trying to make people feel better for not trying to change their shitty lives.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
A review of the movies I've seen this past week.
THE POLAR EXPRESS (2004)
Ew, creepy. Seriously, what the fuck is with this movie? Are there actually people out there who let the heavy-handed pretentiousness of this film browbeat them into believing that this is some kind of new Christmas classic? There was some decent stuff in here, but not enough to call it a good movie. First, let's look at the medium: computer animation. Well, I should say special effects. Robert Zemeckis believes he's now an animation director, when in fact he's made a movie full of special effects. Much has been made of motion capture, and I have to say I'm still on the fence about it. Peter Jackson uses it so wonderfully in King Kong and The Lord of the Rings, but in The Polar Express it looks awful and stiff. Motion capture is the process of using computers and sensors to "capture" the performance of an actor and replicate it in the computer, manipulating it so that it comes out as Kong, Gollum, or every single character in The Polar Express. The problem with that approach in a fully "animated" film, though, is that cartoon characters are caricatured, while rotoscoped (let's call it what it is, high-tech rotoscoping) characters move too fluidly. Watching a cartoon move exactly the way a human does is creepy and unsettling. The animation is fine when it's the train, or some truly lovely images set against the stillness of the snow and the night sky in winter. But when it comes to the replication (or approximation) of realistic human emotions, the process's limitations are innumerable. The characters all look like creepy zombies for one simple reason: their eyes are dead. Their pupils don't dilate, the eyes don't move often enough. They look like Lindsay Lohan: reasonable facsimiles of humanity, but ultimately something strange and inhuman. It spoils the illusion of the more lyrical scenes that don't involve human interaction (and there are some truly lovely images, as I said before). That's the major problem. Of more insidious ickiness is the story itself; at some point, one's belief in Santa Claus becomes a miniature proving ground for belief in Jesus. Somehow, the equation became Faith (Santa Claus) = Faith (Jesus Christ). It's like Santa is now an early version of Jesus for children to get used to. The way this movie tries to hit you over the head with the wooden chair of faith and belief is kind of disgusting, frankly. The story could have been nice enough on its own, but instead, it's like the Christmas Manifesto: believe, or you're nothing. Do I recommend this movie? Not really, because I don't like the message on two levels: first, the whole faith-Nazi thing (Becca called this movie The Triumph of Santa's Will), and second, because of the obviousness of it all. "The true spirit of Christmas lies in your heart." Either people forget that every few months, or they just love being told that over and over again. I also don't recommend it because the motion-capture animation is largely a failure. There are fits and starts of genius, but ultimately, Robert Zemeckis isn't capable of genius anymore (I question whether he ever really was--his whole career has been more about technical achievement at the sacrifice of story: look at Who Framed Roger Rabbit and Forrest Gump). I do still like Tom Hanks, but having him act as more than one character is ultimately not very interesting; he's not really up to it. Therefore, I have to go with a frustrated ** stars.
FASTER, PUSSYCAT! KILL! KILL! (1966)
I saw most of this in high school but didn't have an accurate picture of it, so I've taken another look at it. It's everything it's reputation deserves; like The Steel Helmet and The Devil's Rejects, it's one of the great exploitation movies that revels in being exactly what it is. No pretension, no false sentimentalism, just some babes out to kill and rob their way across the desert. And what babes they are! There have never been any women in cinema to compare with Tura Satana (truly a force of nature), Haji (an amazing whirlwind), and Lori Williams (so playful and smug). You have not lived unless you have seen this Russ Meyer movie. **** stars.
MOTOR PSYCHO (1965)
Another Russ Meyer movie, a precursor to Straw Dogs. Alex Rocco plays a man who vows to get revenge on three motorcycle hoods who raped his wife. The problem is, their leader, Brahman, is a psychotic vet who still thinks he's fighting in Asia. Along the way, Rocco meets up with Haji, who spends the movie looking sexy and dangerous. The image of Alex Rocco pushing Haji's face into his leg after he's been bitten by a rattlesnake and shouting "Suck out the poison! SUCK IT OUT! SUCK IT!" will stay with me for the rest of my life. This one isn't quite as self-assured as Meyer's movies usually are, but it's impossible for me not to love them. And Jesus do I love Haji. *** stars.
I've complained about it before, but I just can't stop hating Stephen King's monthly column in Entertain Me Weakly. What was once a fun, kinda neat column has managed, since this past summer, to change into Stephen King's Monthly Ingratiate Myself with the Lowest Common Denominator. This man has a pathological need to be loved. When he's not throwing his awards in our faces to remind us that someone must think he's a good writer, he's on the defensive, lashing out at the so-called Literary Establishment, who refuse to take his pop works seriously. The fact is this: Stephen King used to be a good writer. He still has occasional flashes of interest. I think he's the Charles Dickens of our time. That said, I think there's no denying that King is a pretty lowbrow author. There's nothing wrong with that; so was Dickens. Both are relatively heavy-handed sentimentalists, too. But at least I've never had to read anything by Dickens that was so desperate and angry: all at once, King is begging the Establishment to accept him while telling his readers that he doesn't care what "they" think. He distrusts intellectuals, but at the same time he wants them to like him. So, in lieu of that (and, I'll bet you anything, until it happens), King spends his time in the pages of EW sucking up to his lowbrow readers, puffing them up, playing one of his oldest tunes, "The Romanticism of the Common Person." How noble it is to be an Average Joe or Plain Jane. How magical the poor are, shuck and jive, shuck and jive.
This month, we're treated to King's non-column of what I guess he thinks are zen questions. He claims they have no answer, though some are pretty obvious. "How come budget seems to have so little to do with the relative merit of TV shows?" Because story and skill transcend limitations. "If televangelists are more worried about getting into heaven than they are about life here on earth, why are they always asking viewers for money?" Long answer: they need money to support their organization so they can continue to spread the message. Short answer: they're crooks. He attempts to be cool dissecting Sudoku as a post-arithmetic game, as if to say, "See, this fake intellectual shit is nothing special." And we get the umpteenth reference to "Rob Reiner's Stand By Me," a film he talks endlessly of without once adding, "Oh, by the way, that gem of a film is based on one of my stories." Because that might look self-aggrandizing.
All of this because the critics didn't like his pulp homage The Colorado Kid. He says this, right in the beginning; basically the entire column is his attempt to point out how lame critics are for not liking another of his "classic" works. "Hey, I like mystery novels that have no solution, because not every question has answers, I don't understand zen," or something to that effect. Of course, this isn't surprising from a man who wrote an entire column defending Kingdom Hospital and, in a barely-veiled way, venting his hostility towards the audience for not liking it (as if we withhold approval purposely). No, apparently for Stephen King, the money and audience isn't enough. We have to acknowledge his genius, too. As if that were possible.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Early designs show that the animators instinctively went in the same cartoonish direction they would normally use for a Silly Symphony (drawings show a Shirley Temple-esque little girl Snow White and a Margaret Dumont caricature as the Queen). But Walt wanted more realism in the characters, and had his animators work at her design for some time (the dwarfs--or "little men," as they are referred to in the movie at the suggestion of Disney’s wife--are caricatured for comic effect). Disney plundered the look of European storybooks, even going as far as to hire the great Gustaf Tenggren to work on the movie's design (it shows in the intricate details on the woodworking). The color scheme is purposely more muted than in the shorts--it was thought that the human eye would reject bright, glaring colors for 90 minutes--and the girls in the paint department solved the problem of Snow White's makeup by placing real makeup on the cel itself. It was also taken for granted that gags would be necessary to sustain the audience’s interest; that the film could not be serious for too long without becoming dull. Therefore, Walt would add comic aspects that didn’t detract from the story, but in fact intertwined with the romantic plot.
When the decision was made not to caricature the human characters in the film, Walt Disney hired Grim Natwick away from the Ub Iwerks Studios (this was in 1934, early in the planning stages). Natwick, who had created and animated the character Betty Boop for the Fleischers before working for Iwerks, was hired specifically to help solve the problem of realistic femininity. Walt immediately put him to work animating the female in The Cookie Carnival; the end result was leaps and bounds over the limp half-caricature of The Goddess of Spring. With Marc Davis as assistant, Natwick was immediately put to work animating the character of Snow White.
As an aside, this leads to an interesting dichotomy that exists in our society towards very young girls. John Grant comments on it like so in his excellent book Masters of Animation: "Animation has always had great difficulty with the characterization of young women. On the one hand it realizes that sexually attractive females are good for the box office; on the other it wants to ensure that the heroine is of an age that the supposedly juvenile audience can identify with [. . .] the Disney approach has been to produce the heroine who has many of the attributes of a beddable young woman, and has a stated age accordingly, but who is, in most regards, a 14 year-old girl [. . .] This may not be confusing for the kids in the audience, but it most certainly is for their dads. The movimakers are quite consciously using two different channels through which to cast their heroines’ spell over the audience, and the two do not mesh well. (In lower grade anime, the dichotomy is even more severe, as sexually attractive characters run around in schoolgirl attire.)"... Snow White: not a girl, not yet a woman.
In the end, the animation problems inherent in making Snow White, the Prince, the Queen, the Huntsman, and the Crone look realistically human were solved by rotoscoping. This process was kept a secret from the public; many animators saw it as a crutch. Disney himself had used rotoscoping when he directed The Golden Touch, with Billy Bletcher (who voiced Midas, as well as voicing Pegleg Pete in many a Mickey Mouse) acting the role for a live action camera. Ostensibly for study and guide work, the device of animating over a live action sequence was pioneered in 1916 by Max and Dave Fleischer for Out of the Inkwell, and though Disney was not enamored of it, he was not afraid to use it, despite some initial misgivings. Rotoscoping would become necessary in the end because of the production’s scale; it was one of the few ways to gain some consistency on characters which, rather than being assigned to a single animator, were spread out among many animators by sequence. Disney was at least glad that the live action film could allow his animators to create realistic human movements, something previously thought impossible.
Disney demanded that the rotoscoping be animated heavily to conceal its origins. Some animators rebelled; Grim Natwick used it willingly, but refused to allow it to become a shortcut. There are problems with the process, of course; witness the Fleischer’s Gulliver’s Travels, which did less to hide the very human origins of Lemuel Gulliver, or the many frames of bad animation in Ralph Bakshi’s 1978 The Lord of the Rings. In his indispensable book Hollywood Cartoons, Michael Barrier says that "no taming of live-action film could do what good animation could do: distinguish the important from the unimportant." Because of the lack of caricaturization in the animation of Snow White, her every movement becomes slightly static and less distinguished: every move she makes is pitched at the same level.
Marjorie Belcher (later she would become the famous dancer Marge Champion) was filmed performing the actions of the character in 1936. The advantage of this is that there would be less of a need to reveal Snow White’s personality through animation. Belcher was directed by Hamilton Luske, who along with Natwick would direct the animation of the character. This was a secret for years, as though it would cheapen the magic, and even today in retrospectives the official word is that Disney shot scenes of actresses and actors for "movement study films." But it's pretty obviously rotoscoping; it's just done incredibly well (much better than has been done since).
It is generally agreed that the process would have been sped up if Disney had assigned each Dwarf his own animator rather than assigning sequences. There was also the constant problem of consistency (Art Babbitt, in particular, had a hard time; his animation on Dopey was seen as too cartoonish, so he was moved and given the opening sequences of the Queen to animate–-I think he outdid himself there). Ollie Johnston ended up being assigned to oversee the animation of the Dwarfs to bring a uniform look to the characters, changing any animation to make sure the characters were consistent.
The characterization of the Dwarfs also came out of the voice actors. Vaudeville comic Roy Atwell was hired to voice Doc because of his talent for spoonerisms; that trait went right into the character. Comedian Billy Gilbert did an excellent funny sneeze routine which fit right in with Sneezy. And former clown Pinto Colvig, already doing the voice of Goofy, was assigned the roles of crochety old Grumpy as well as Sleepy.
Much of the gruesomeness of the Grimm story was reduced or done away with, though the Queen did remain dependably evil. But Walt had a tendency toward crude comedy and sentimentalism, owing to his distrust of high art, something he also envied--Disney sought to imitate the feel of high art, but never quite understood it because he found safety in lowbrow "barnyard" humor. Ultimately, Disney feared the disapproval of his audience. In the end, he came out on the side of simplicity, cutting anything that did not move the story along; conversely, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs is a film that allows for many moments of experimental animation. So much that happens has nothing to do with the story, but is simply the greatest animators in the medium showing off their skills and freely flexing their muscles. There is a genuine emotional complexity to the work, too; Snow White is both mother figure and daughter figure to the Dwarfs; they are alternately her protectors and her children (motherly to Dopey, daughterly to Grumpy, for example). This emotional complexity, rare in animation, is perhaps the reason the film continues to survive; in making the story timeless, it is always contemporary, vital, and easy to connect with.
In the end, of course, the film was an enormous success, both artistically and with audiences. It is a real piece of art, perhaps Disney’s only purely artistic success. Howard Barnes of the New York Herald Tribune called it not a film or a story, but “a memorable and deeply enriching experience.” Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs is the rare film that lives up to such an assessment.
Supervising Director: David Hand
Sequence Directors: Perce Pearce, Larry Morey, William Cottrell, Wilfred Jackson, Ben Sharpsteen
Supervising Animators: Hamilton Luske, Bill Tytla, Fred Moore, Norm Ferguson
Animators: Frank Thomas, Dick Lundy, Art Babbitt, Eric Larson, Milt Kahl, Robert Stokes, James Algar, Al Eugster, Cy Young, Joshua Meador, Ugo D’Orsi, George Rowley, Les Clark, Fred Spencer, Bill Roberts, Bernard Garbutt, Grim Natwick, Jack Campbell, Marvin Woodward, James Culhane, Stan Quackenbush, Ward Kimball, Wolfgang Reitherman, Robert Martsch
Monday, January 16, 2006
Why must every TV show I enjoy be cancelled? This morning I became the last person who cares to find out that the Disney Channel has cancelled Phil of the Future, a show I enjoy the hell out of. Yes, it's silly and all, but I enjoyed the humor and as everyone who reads this blog knows, I am a slave to Disney. But, with the loss of Phil (which means the loss of the great J.P. Manoux as both Curtis and Mr. Hackett, as well as the loss of two young actresses I was really enjoying, Alyson Michalka and the extremely funny Amy Bruckner, whose Pim Diffy is one of my favorite characters on television), my tether to Disney is partially severed yet again. First they stop showing Lizzie McGuire every day, and now they cancel Phil of the Future; I don't know that I'm sticking around for The Suite Life of Zack & Cody (a lame show, but I find Brenda Song extremely cute) and the way That's So Raven keeps getting worse and worse (though I love Anneliese Van Der Pol...I think there's a pattern here).
So, add this to the long list of shows I love that got cancelled; pencil in-between Farscape and Arrested Development. Thanks for freeing up even more of my time, Disney.
I’ve been drawn into many, many debates on whether or not a film is a good adaptation. Too often, this question seems meant to decide whether or not a film is any good at all, but I think this is confusing the issue. First and foremost, to my way of thinking, a film must be good as art and/or entertainment. The question of a decent adaptation is secondary; even if a film is a great or faithful adaptation of its source material, it might not be a good film. And I, for one, would rather see a good film than a good adaptation.
Content reinforces form. Form reinforces content. In the debate about modes of adaptation from book/comic book/play to film, the question becomes: does an adaptation have to be faithful to the author’s intention? Can it be? Why should it? An adaptation cannot be, in any artistic sense, an exact transposition of the page. It will always be another artist’s interpretation of a different piece of work. But isn’t that in itself more exciting than a transposition could be? Like actors who portray Hamlet, or the three excellent film versions of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, or any painter’s vision of mythological beings, aren’t the differences what make adaptation interesting? Without variation, homogeneity is reached. And nothing homogeneous can be interesting, original, or unique. Why should everyone think alike?
Isn’t creating an entertaining film more important than being faithful to the intent of a work that can never be exactly reproduced? Is it fair to criticize a novel like The Last Temptation of Christ for not portraying the life of Jesus in the exact same way as the Bible? Without the freedom to interpret a story through other viewpoints, there is no value in any story. One may not agree with a given interpretation, but one must understand that the interpreter has tried to challenge, to be different, to put something in different terms in an attempt to find the universality of it and make it resonate in some way. We have no window into the head of a creator, therefore an adaptation cannot, must not be perfect. It must not be exact, because the only possible version of "exactness" will be an empty, hollow, thoughtless, meaningless copy. And there is no reason for that to exist. There cannot be two originals of one thing.
There is no such thing as the sanctity of an idea--an idea’s only value lies in how it is interpreted, how it is acted upon, and what it inspires people to do. Repetition is not thought; saying what someone else has said is not saying something. The original work has said all that can be said (if it is successful), and all that is left is to comment upon it through artistic interpretation. What one sees is not what another sees. All an adaptation can do in the end is to show us in what manner one person sees the work of another. This is all that is necessary for an adaptation.
When one considers that all of history is not concrete, but merely interpreted by observers and analysts, one must take authorial intent into account. And yet, if one considers film (in the case of adaptation) as the creation of a singular work of art created through commentary upon another work of art, authorial intent seems less important. The commentary itself is important, the ways in which one interprets the intent, interprets the meaning of a story’s twists and turns based on one’s own experiences. What else is the point of art? Without this understanding, there is no point to adaptation.
The question is asked: is film adaptation necessary? Is ANY art necessary? This is redundant unto itself. Of course adaptation is unnecessary. But it is shortsighted not to admit that even a bad adaptation can strengthen one’s understanding of the literary source. Apocalypse Now is not true to Heart of Darkness, but comments on Conrad’s work in a way that strengthens both. Consider that very often stories are merely old stories seen from a new viewpoint. Without this, there would be no need for art. Greek sculpture humanized the divine while deifying the mundane, but informed the understanding of both for artists and observers. Imagine if one sculptor had created Aphrodite, and everyone else had called it a day--this is done, it cannot be commented upon. Every Aphrodite statue speaks to the way a society views, understands, and appreciates women. Variation in art, as in life, is incredibly important.
Two different people cannot, and should not, produce the same work of art in the same way. If they can, that is mere craftsmanship, not art. Let us consider the techniques of adaptation as a window into that which can be said, but has not been. This is not to say that an original work is incomplete, but it is to say that an original work is not unassailable. An adaptation is not meant to "complete" a work. The value in a film like Memento is in the way it interprets a story through a unique viewpoint. Without the freedom of that interpretation, Jonathan Nolan's short story Memento Mori would be more meaningless than it already is. Now, one may not agree with Christopher Nolan’s interpretation of Jonathan Nolan’s story, but in Christopher’s attempts to challenge, to put the same story in different terms to find the universality of it, Jonathan’s ideas have more value. The value of an idea is only in the way it interpreted, the way it inspires, and how it is acted upon. A transposition would be a repetition; saying what someone else has said is not saying something at all. Memento Mori said all that could be said; Memento is an allegory of the idea interpreted through a visual medium. What one sees is not what another sees; Christopher simply shows us the manner by which he sees his brother’s work.
Any work of artistic expression that requires knowledge of or reliance on another artistic expression is devoid of life or creativity and therefore has no value. This can even be said of film or novel sequels, unless it is serialized in some form, like television (often separated from its filmic or novelistic origins). Even a comment on another piece of art must also be worthy of its own existence.
Literature is a solitary experience for the reader; film is communal, shared. Due to the nature of their creation--a novel is usually the work of one, while a film is the work of many--the experience of each and the methods of their creation are different. So are their aims. No film can create an emotional experience or mode of reflection. This is brought to the film by the individual viewer. All art is an avatar for the feelings of the artist, but it is also a participatory form that asks, demands, that the observer project his/her own feelings and thoughts upon it. Otherwise, it does not fulfill itself. Film cannot create reality any more than it can substitute for experience. But it can comment on reality. If a film is not involving, then it is merely a series of images, perhaps pleasant, that wastes time. That is not art.
Any person who qualifies a novel or film by the term "escape" is not worth hearing. "Escape" is not a value that makes something good or bad. It is a meaningless description, peculiarly hostile somehow. A term used by someone who has not thought about the work, even steadfastly refuses to think about it. Age and experience change one’s perceptions of emotional truth.
Why are novelists constantly seen as victims of the adaptation process? If they do not want to be pillaged creatively, they are free not to sell the film rights to their works.
The image is more powerful than the word. Do words make Chaplin’s Little Tramp funnier, more likeable, easier to understand? Imagine yourself as a resident of the 80% of the world that does not speak English before you answer. Ballet does not need narration, nor does classical music need to be informed with words. Is language more able to transmit consciousness than imagery? A child seeing an airplane take off for the first time is more awestruck by the sight than by the explanation of how it is done. Language exists only to create terms for what we see. Words cheapen images. Words make it easier to subvert images and force someone to interpret them in the same way.
Film is primarily a visual medium. Words are second place here. This is the hurdle of adaptation that people do not take into consideration, and this fundamental difference is too often held against a film. The idea of poking holes in the illusions of Hollywood’s beauty is an idiocy. Film is a medium of illusions and nothing else. Words are no less an illusion; they make it easier to lie, to turn the truth into something that is perhaps easier to countenance than truth.
Film and literature cannot be criticized with the same tools, because the same criteria cannot be applied to two separate mediums. We cannot penalize a movie for not being a book, or a word for not being an image. How can a word be an image? Can a word adequately encompass an image? Is an image eloquent enough to say what a word can? Isn’t a picture worth a thousand words? One is not the other; film is different. It is not a valid criticism to say that a movie is bad BECAUSE it is not like the book it is based on. This is not a critique, and should be rejected as a valid statement. It is akin to criticizing a book for its typeface, or calling a painting inadequate because it does not portray reality in the same way as a photograph. A cat is not inadequate BECAUSE it is not a dog, an apple does not taste bad BECAUSE it is not a banana. The two cannot be approached in the same way, despite their surface similarities.
The important question is one of quality, of value: Is a story any good? It is unfair, unthoughtful, to state that a film is bad because the adaptation is bad. An adaptation is not a story, nor even the means of telling a story, but simply a method of creation. No single story is the same as another single story. The two must be considered separate entities, two complete (if successful) thoughts that may relate, but are not the same. Comparison only weakens both.