Cute (Character) Overload, Book-to-Film Edition

Yeah, I haven't been able to write a decent review either (that's what you get when one's family is visiting to celebrate one's graduation ceremony) but since we're here, I might as well share some of my favorite clips from adaptations of my favorite books...




1) Sense & Sensibility, 2007-2008. Forget the fact that Willoughby looks too much like that weaselly Samm Levine for my taste, or that Marianne resembles the Clueless-era (and pre-destroyed-by-fame) Brittany Murphy. The scenery is fantastic, the acting is near pitch-perfect... and if you've ever wondered what on earth I ever saw in David Morrissey in spite of his role as a jackass in State of Play (not to mention his other craptastic roles - really, Basic Instinct 2 and The Reaping?!?!?!), start at the 4:30 mark when Marianne arrives at Delaford... and keep watching as he shows off his mad falconry skillz. He's definitely no Alan Rickman, but at least the perceived age difference between him and this Marianne isn't as squicky.





2) A Room with a View, 1986: Apparently the YouTube gods may also have realized that people hated the recent remake as much as Happy Scribe and I did... which probably explains why and how the spoilerrific videos from that hot mess disappeared from the site. (A pity, since I would've loved an endless HD loop of Rafe Spall-as-George giving Lucy her first kiss in the fields of Tuscany.) So please do enjoy this video of Helena Bonham Carter lying to Julian Sands' handsome face.




3) Shattered Glass, 2004. Okay, technically not a book adaptation - and this trailer is more like yet another excuse for me to post more proof of the hotness that is Peter Sarsgaard, as if I needed another one. Still, this trailer is a preview of what we have cooking for the upcoming Readers' Survey, which we'll also post late this weekend.

And speaking of excuses to post more proof of hotness...

Mr. Darcy says, "Kindly tell that walrus that I do, indeed, have his bucket. Thank you."

Character Assassination (Or: Closure Is A Real Word)

For those of you who read this week's NBLB weekend survey, and want to suggest that I watch the new version of A Room with a View on PBS this Sunday, I have these words to say to you: No, thank you.

I'm sorry to say this, but I did get spoilered because somebody had the bright idea to post the entire 2007 production on YouTube, broken down into ten parts. I'd post the link, but I'm still too upset to consider what they did to one of my favorite books.

It does go without saying that I am insanely partial to the original Merchant-Ivory version, with both Helena Bonham Carter and Julian Sands at their best (before both of them devolved into caricatures of their former selves), with a young Daniel Day-Lewis (who, I believe, grew back his Cecil Vyse mustache when he started drinking those damn milkshakes) and a plethora of top-shelf British acting talent supporting them. That's why I was looking forward to this new version - I was hoping they'd breathe some fresh air into what was threatening to become a musty relic.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.

Say what you will about messing with classics (see also: criticism of the the ongoing Miss Marple series) or about how E. M. Forster was unable to relate to A Room With a View later in life (see also: Maurice), but I don't think I'm buying what Andrew Davies is trying to sell here - not even to justify the time shifts, the "new" "ending," or even the currently-disputed fact that Forster did write a postscript to Room which reflected his more cynical view of life and love. Yes, I'm part of the horribly gauche masses who do want George Emerson and Lucy Honeychurch to end up together, as they should have been: blissfully in love in Italy, showering each other with kisses. And why, pray tell, should that be a problem?

What also gets to me was that the "liberties" taken by the producers and screenwriters with this novel are a massive waste of everyone's time and talent - most especially the adorable Rafe Spall (seen here in another production), who could not have been a much cuter George Emerson if he tried. He does remind me a bit of Heath Ledger, in a way - if Heath (God bless his soul) had become hopelessly addicted to IHOP instead of partying- and watching him yearn soulfully for Lucy Honeychurch brought home all the great reasons why I've loved George Emerson the way Forster intended him to be. And yes, he does have certain delicious scenes without his clothes on, including the final scene of him at the Pensione Bertolini.

But then... the freaking ending. No. No. No. They should never have done that to poor George and Lucy. Wasn't it enough to have them risk ostracism by eloping, thereby liberating Lucy from the narrowmindedness of her quaint English countryside town? Again, say what you want about whether or not it's an ending that would have made E. M. Forster's heart proud, but: unnecessary, blasphemous, and a great waste of both George Emerson and Rafe Spall.

And this raises yet another timeless question: Why do we even bother with "happily ever after" in the first place, if so many people dislike it so much to mess around with it?

Don't get me wrong. There are days when I do feel that a sad and/or messy ending is appropriate - witness my love for Ian McEwan's Amsterdam, for instance. Sometimes, however, there are days when readers like myself and Happy Scribe have no use for bitter cynicism. Yes, we understand that sugar is bad for you, and can be kind of fake when you just slap it on... but does it really help to be bitter, especially at a time when most people have a reason to be cynical? Come on, people: how easy is it, anyway, to find somebody who is actually happy about living on a diet of nothing but spelt and Brussels sprouts?

My theory: If Forster (or anybody else) wanted to prove a point by showing a more realistic view of relationships by rewriting George and Lucy after their elopement, that's fine - but that also betrays a lack of trust between author and audience, especially when the "creative risk" means destroying people's perceptions of characters they have grown to love. Most people who read books would rather prefer to leave what happens next to the imagination, regardless of what they think about the ending or the author's intention. The synergy between reader and author is what makes messing with an established ending - especially an established happy ending - a complete waste of time; there's a reason, after all, why closure is a legitimate word.

Oh Briony!: Ian McEwan's "Atonement" and A Writer's Destructive Imagination

I confess, I saw the movie before I ever picked up an Ian McEwan novel. The film's Romeo and Juliet-like plot made me cry, and Saoirse Ronan's brilliant portrayal of a dangerously fanciful preteen made me want to reach out and shake some sense into her. Gorgeous movie - and definitely deserving a much longer book-to-film review later on in this here blog.

But there is the movie...and there is the book. And McEwan's prose - rich, lyrical, and above all written with such insight into the soul of a writer - past, present, and future. Cecilia and Robbie's ill-starred love through the wide eyes of the bewildered Briony Tallis takes on many forms - her reactions all at once a younger sister clinging to her childhood, and a young woman feeling the first pangs of rejection. Perhaps you've seen the movie already, with Hollywood's compacted conclusion to this drama. I assure you - the book offers more than the welling up of regret in Vanessa Redgrave's watery visage.

This was a book that almost got left behind during my rather irritated stopover at the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport. After over ten hours of flying from Asia to the U.S. mainland, I found myself in a veritable maze of monorails and a whole alphabet of terminals and connections. I had already finished my stash of humor books - all written by the infinitely sharp and sassy Jessica Zafra, my teen writing idol (also due a much-needed post in the very near future). Boredom, my worst enemy, started to settle in with the exhaustion. I dragged myself to the nearest book kiosk, thinking of a light romance, or even a paperback mystery. "Atonement" featured prominently on the shelves, of course - as movie blockbusters do give any writer that added "buy me now!" gloss. I wasn't sure, almost picking up one of my favorite alterno-fantasy writers - Jasper Fforde - instead, taking a quick scan at a random McEwan page while waiting in line.

"The self-contained world she had drawn with clear and perfect lines had been defaced with the scribble of other minds, other needs; and time itself, so easily sectioned on paper into acts and scenes, was even now dribbling uncontrollably away."

Hrm.

And...as I am one of those perverse people who read the back of the book BEFORE purchase..

"The problem these fifty-nine years has been this: how can a novelist achieve atonement when, with her absolute power of deciding outcomes, she is also God? There is no one, no entity or higher form that she can appeal to, or be reconciled with, or that can forgive her. There is nothing outside her. In her imagination she has set the limits and the terms."

Hooked.

The relationships and the descriptions of a bygone age were so delicately wrought, I didn't want to deface the words by folding over the pages in my usual haste to mark my place (yes, I am also one of those awful people). My MPLS-CLE boarding pass slid in and out of this book like lightning - not even the fatigue or the bumpy flight could keep me off McEwan's narrative. "Oh ATONEMENT," exclaimed a particularly chatty seatmate...who proceeded to read over my shoulder in the most annoying fashion. I had to lean away protectively when I reached the scene of Cecilia and Robbie in the library, which went well beyond the already steamy grapple between camera-friendly Keira and James. (Hands-down, one of the hottest book love scenes ever - and the complete opposite of kilt-and-buxom maiden romantic cliches). And it has been a long time since a character made me as mad as Briony has - with her overzealous judgement, her child's logic of black and white marring one couple's chance for happiness.

Her saving grace, however, was her growth as a writer - my own chosen profession, passion, and many times, plague. When she struggled with rejection and rewriting, my heart went out to her - yes, even her, that little snot who testified so wrongly against Robbie - these creative growth spurts put to paper made her come alive as a full, however-flawed human being. She tried to lose herself in thankless nursing, scrubbing out her sins with the blood of the wounded - but that spirit remained alive, even during those traumatic times. She "took pleasure" in the competence and numbness that nursing offered - but she knew, scribbling away in private on a never-ending manuscript - that to feel deeply about life, to want to record all the aspects of the human condition, was her true calling.

"Here, behind the name badge and the uniform, was her true self, secretly hoarded, quietly accumulating. She had never lost that childish pleasure in seeing pages covered in her own handwriting. It almost didn't matter what she wrote...At the time, the journal preserved her dignity: she might look and behave like and live the life of a trainee nurse, but she was really an important writer in disguise. And at the time when she was cut off from everything she knew - family, home, friends - writing was the threat of continuity. It was what she had always done."

Her writing kept her from becoming a cookie-cutter villain, despite the horrible results of her childhood accusations. Her writing cursed her, because she kept returning to that one story, that one true narrative of events she tried to control...and failed miserably to understand. We can no more forgive her than condemn her in the end. Writing was her way of atoning for her past. It was the only thing she knew how to do - and face it, the only thing she really loved, above all the living, breathing characters in her life. It is a paper cut truth that lives within each one cursed and blessed with the pen's imperative to control, to mold, to manipulate reality into malleable words and sentences. Ah, Briony - I know thee well.