The Screengrab : read the movie

No, But I've Read the Movie: THE KILLER INSIDE ME

Leonard Pierce — Fri, 16 May 2008 19:45:00 GMT

Jim Thompson was tailor-made for Hollywood success. He worked there for some time, and found early success with no less august a personage than Stanley Kubrick; he worked on the screenplay for Kubrick's terrific late-period noir The Killing and wrote the stunning war movie Paths of Glory in its entirety. Later on, a number of very fine films would be made from his novels, including two different versions of The Getaway of differing success, as well as The Grifters, After Dark My Sweet, and Coup de Torchon, Bertrand Tavernier's masterful adaptation of his Pop. 1280. Thompson's books carried a bleak criminal sensibility that was perfect for the noir era, and he wrote terrific, snappy dialogue that sounds great coming out of actors who have a feel for his work. Due to a combination of bad luck (many of his projects were prematurely scuttled by studio interference or money problems), politics (he was blacklisted in the McCarthy era due to his leftist leanings), and his own personal demons (he was plagued by alcoholism and innumerable other issues), Thompson never became the motion picture legend he could have been. Though critics have rediscovered his work, previously relegated to pulp status, and he's undergoing a similar reassessment to Raymond Chandler, many of his best books remain unadopted for the big screen. That's a shame, but not as bad as the fact that what's arguably his greatest accomplishment -- the nasty but near-perfect noir novel The Killer Inside Me -- actually did get made into a movie, but a movie that's been almost entirely forgotten, and with good reason.

With The Killer Inside Me, Jim Thompson created one of the most chilling portraits of pure psychotic evil ever committed to paper, but it's not just a bloody thrill-ride trash novel the way that serial killer novels developed in later years. Lou Ford, the novel's main character, is a man of surprising depth, and Thompson's unfolding of the character is a psychological portrait that transcends its pulp origins and becomes something worthy of Dostoevsky. Ford is the sheriff in a small mining town in Montana, trusted by everyone; he's such a folksy character, straight out of cowboy art, that even his fellow townsfolk, hearing the endless cliches and banal observations he spouts, think of him as somewhat simple-minded. But Lou Ford has a secret: a twisted mind and a history of dark childhood abuses by his physician father have turned him into a monster. He's far more intelligent than he lets on, putting up his stupidity as a show to allay suspicion from his grim hobbies. As he puts it, "When things get a little rough, I go out and kill a fewpeople, that's all." In fact, part of his downfall is that he assumes everyone else is as stupid as they think he is. Ford is under no illusions about his future: he describes himself as "waiting to be split down the middle", the inevitable result of the double life he's committed to lead. But in the meantime, a lot of people are going to get hurt by the man Lou Ford is, and the man people think he is. In 1976, Western veteran Burt Kennedy (Welcome to Hard Times, Support Your Local Sheriff) brought Thompson's greatest novel to the screen.

WHAT IT HAD: Any adaptation of The Killer Inside Me lives and dies by the man who plays Lou Ford, and the movie version at least succeeded on that point. As Ford, Stacy Keach is terrific; he presents a clear understanding of the character and plays him well at every turn. When Lou Ford is called upon to be folksy and corny, Keach plays it well without ever hamming it up; and when Lou Ford's dark side needs to come out, Keach is fantastic, displaying his character's psychotic tendencies in an understated, subtle, almost tender way that perfectly suits the role. A few of the supporting cast stand out as well, particularly Keenan Wynn and Don Stroud; they're not up to Keach's level, but they provide a nice veteran anchor to the cast. While the script (by Robert Chamblee and Hollywood gadabout Edward Mann) isn't stellar, it at least does its best to preserve some of Thompson's best dialogue.

WHAT IT LACKED: The Killer Inside Me is, to be perfectly honest, a grade-Z production. It's not an exploitation flick -- in fact, a little more gore and sex probably would have pepped it up a bit -- but just from looking at it, you can tell it was made on the cheap. Its production values are substandard and at times the whole thing plays like a bad TV movie. Few of the supporting roles, most especially Susan Tyrell as Keach's foil and romantic interest, are up to snuff, and the plethora of half-assed acting diminishes his performance. It's not clear whether it was just timidity or a eye towards the ratings that kept the writers and director from fully embracing the brutal violence of the book, but it leads to some crucial scenes being left out or soft-pedaled. And while Kennedy's direction is competent, it's never any more than that, and it's sometimes less. Overall, the entire film has a lackluster, patched-together quality; it never coheres into the elegant and vicious thing that is the book.

DID IT SUCCEED?: Nope. It's a testament to how unsuccessful the movie is that it's most widely available in DVD format on a double-feature disc with another forgotten thriller from the '70s. As a resume item, it didn't do much for anyone's career, and while it's not a terrible film, its pleasures -- largely, Keach's performance and some choice bits of Thompson's dialogue -- are few and far between. Even if a remastered edition were available that sheds the crappy digital transfer and overall poor visual quality, it's not as if there's much to watch. It's a project worth revisiting; in the hands of a skilled director with a feel for noir and an affinity for Thompson's gorgeous, nihilistic prose, this book could make a great movie, especially today when an antihero like Lou Ford could really resonate with Tarantino-hardened moviegoers. There's a fine film waiting to be made out of The Killer Inside Me, but unfortunately, this isn't it.

No, But I've Read the Movie: LOLITA

Leonard Pierce — Tue, 06 May 2008 21:00:00 GMT

Usually, Hollywood is a tad standoffish about tackling the great novels. If they do it right, they win the admiration of critics, but risk losing the mainstream audience, who will think of their project as snooty and highbrow. If they do it wrong, people still won't go see the movie, plus the critics will turn the whole thing into a laughingstock. Producers are generally willing to let someone take a crack at one of the classics once and only once, and then only if they're an established filmmaker and there's nothing too controversial about the book. How, then, did not one but two movie versions get made of one of the most inflammatory, misunderstood and potentially dangerous books of the 21st century — a book that not only quite openly asks us to identify, to a certain degree, with an effete intellectual pederast, but which was written by one of the pioneers of postmodernism? Some might suggest that certain producers and/or directors simply jump at the chance to cast a movie starring a hot nymphet, but we are not so cynical here at the Screengrab, oh goodness no. We will not speculate how it came to pass that two high-profile film adaptations of Vladimir Nabokov's brilliant, subtle, subversive and daring story came to pass — one of them, by a titan of the silver screen, made less than a decade after the novel's publication and the other, by a flaky British director whose movies have always been a heartbeat away from softcore porn — and instead focus on the respective qualities of the two films.

A lot of people didn't think Lolita would ever make it to the big screen once, let alone twice. For all the pretentious, self-deluding protagonist Humbert Humbert's talk of "nymphets", he is nakedly and, for the most part, blindly and unrepentently a pederast — a dirty old man who chases after young girls and compensates for his failings by passing intellectual judgment on everyone else around him. This was, and is, considered a pretty volatile subject, even considering Hollywood's history of sexualizing young women; indeed, the tagline for the 1962 Stanley Kubrick version of Lolita was "How did they ever make a movie of Lolita?" Part of the answer to that is by soft-pedaling Dolores Haze's age: in the Kubrick film, she's sixteen and in the Adrian Lyne version, she's a year younger — both a level of remove from the highly uncomfortable fact that in Nabokov's novel, she's twelve. Regardless of the controversy that raged (and will probably always continue to rage) around the book, especially from people who haven't read it, Lolita is rightly considered one of the greatest books of the post-war and post-modern era. The films, however, are a touch more difficult to critically assess. Kubrick's 1962 version was well-received at the time, snaring an Oscar nomination and a handful of Golden Globe noms, but has it stood up to the test of time? Adrian Lyne's 1997 edition wasn't expected to be very good, and after a successful run overseas had a hard time finding distribution in the U.S. from controversy-shy studios until it eventually had to debut on cable. Was it better than its reputation? Let's you and me find out.

WHAT THEY HAD: Aside from being directed by a genuine master of the medium, the best thing Kubrick's Lolita had going for it was the coup it scored in getting Nabokov himself to pen the screenplay. If this didn't exactly ensure that it would remain faithful to the book (see below), it would at least ensure that the script wasn't a total wash. It was a gorgeous-looking movie, and with a couple of notable exceptions (see, again, below), the cast was top-notch, even if Peter Sellers was so overblown and overused in his role that a number of commentators (including Nabokov himself) suggested that the movie should be called Quilty. Lyne's version wasn't as assured in terms of filmmaking, largely because Adrian Lyne is worth about one and a half feet of Stanley Kubrick, but it was very stylish, and the always-terrific Jeremy Irons as Humbert was ably matched with the phenomenal Dominique Swain as Lolita. If Swain's career never let her equal this performance, she could at least be proud that she took one of the most difficult roles in modern drama and absolutely nailed it to the wall. Additionally, and to their credit, both films managed to weather the storms of controversy they met with, and although both suffered from studio interference to make the story palatable to sex-shy American tastes, neither was entirely wrecked because of it.

WHAT THEY LACKED: Kubrick's Lolita may have suffered the most; it doesn't hold up well compared to most of his other films, and at times comes across as lifeless and flat on the screen. Sue Lyons is pretty much a disaster as Lolita, having the right look but not even remotely the necessary acting chops, and Shelley Winters sometimes seems completely lost as her mother, Charlotte Haze. Studio tinkering and his own lack of familiarity with the discipline of screenwriting blunted the impact of Nabokov's script, and the whole thing, overall, comes across as one of those noble experiments that you want to like a lot more than you really do — not that it's a bad film by any means, but to call it, as some critics do, a great one is to force yourself to overlook a lot of its flaws. If Lyne's movie succeeded more on its own terms, that's only because no one expected anything out of it in the first place. It's certainly not a great film either, and not even as good a film as Kubrick's, but it didn't have the same high expectations as did a movie with Kubrick and Nabokov's names attached. Lyne wasn't lucky enough to snare Vlad as his writer, the novelist having passed away some twenty years prior, so he mistakenly assumed that if you can't get the guy who wrote Pale Fire, get the guy who wrote The Deep End of the Ocean. He also cast the merely competent Frank Langella in the role previously occupied by the resplendent Peter Sellers, and made the mistake of asking Melanie Griffith to portray a human being, something she has always had trouble with.

DID THEY SUCCEED?: Probably no version of Lolita is ever going to fully succeed; if Vladimir Nabokov himself couldn't pull it off, what chance does Adrian Lyne have? The transcendent value of the novel lies first and foremost in its rich, beautiful use of language, and second in its detailed and subtle crafting of irony; the former comes across on the screen not at all, and the latter, often, quite poorly. Lolita is a book that everyone is always constantly rushing to misinterpret, and looking at the production history of both films, that was clearly the case here; it didn't help much that, in the case of the 1997 version, the foremost misinterpreter of the book was director Adrian Lyne. He not only brought his trashy erotic-thriller sensibilities to a story that didn't need them, but he also seemed to completely miss the point of how funny Lolita is. Whether brought on by his own self-seriousness or a misguided sense of respect for the source material, that's a fatal mistake, and whatever its other flaws, it's not one that Kubrick's 1962 version made. It seems impossible that some future director will gather the courage and resources to take another crack at Lolita and avoid the pitfalls of the previous two versions, but as unlikely as it might be to think that someone will film a third version of the book, who would have ever predicted someone would film it the first time?

No, But I've Read the Movie: THE FOUNTAINHEAD

Leonard Pierce — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 20:30:00 GMT

Up until now, the "No, But I've Read the Movie" has focused on great works of western literature, and assessed the movie versions to see if they can possibly stand up to the titanic reputations of the novels upon which they are based. That ends today! For today, we will focus on one of the most successful, and yet overrated and overblown, works of the western canon: Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead. It's a novel that helped launch her career as one of the preeminent authors and philosophers of our time, but as a novel, it's hokey, overlong, bloated, and filled with characters one dimension short of being one-dimensional; and as philosophy, it's incomplete, inconsistent, and unable to look past its own epistemological shortcomings. Rand's ideology of Objectivism became hugely popular, just as her novels became huge best-sellers, but whereas most literary adaptations were doomed to failure because what makes a great novel rarely makes a great movie, anyone daring to tackle her endlessly preachy books would be faced with the prospect of improving on the original, rather than dumbing it down for the format. Given the runaway success of The Fountainhead -- Rand's story of an incorruptible architect who refuses to compromise his craft to satisfy the demands of the masses -- it was inevitable that there would be a film adaptation. The question is, how would it handle such a patently unworkable premise and fundamentally unbelievable storyline?

Mistakes, as they say, were made. Casting the young, fiery Patricia Neal -- 26 years younger than her co-star and with virtually no big-screen experience -- was one major gamble. Casting earnest, plain-speaking Gary Cooper, who excelled in playing jus'-folks characters who knew what was right as the pompous, speechifying Howard Roark was another. And it didn't exactly do anyone any favors to select the hapless King Vidor (who, for every Stella Dallas or The Crowd he had in him, also had a Duel in the Sun or Beyond the Forest) to direct. But what should have sent a jolt of fear down the spines of everyone involved in the production is who Warner Brothers hired to turn Ayn Rand's mess of a novel into a coherent screenplay: none other than Ayn Rand. She made it a condition of the sale of the rights to the novel that only she could write the script, and her fierce demeanor during pre-production (she apparently nearly drove the formidable King Vidor to a nervous breakdown) meant that, as with her hero Howard Roark, it would be her way or no way at all. This was made explicit when Warner wanted to trim Roark's famous speech before the jury at his trial down to a manageable length because it was rambling and dull; Rand pitched a fit, demanding it be included in the movie in its entirety or there would be no movie. The result is right there on the screen for all to see, in all its rambling, dull glory. She got the movie she wanted -- the question is, did anyone else?

WHAT IT HAD: You certainly can't fault The Fountainhead for inauthenticity. With the force of nature that was Ayn Rand writing the script and throwing her weight around as much as possible behind the scenes, it's as faithful an adaptation of the novel as we're ever going to get. Whether that's a good thing or a bad thing is subject to debate, but its truth cannot be denied. The score is one of Max Steiner's livelier ones, and King Vidor occasionally gets to hit those whoozy melodramatic notes at which he excelled. A few of the supporting cast, including Raymond Massey as the newspaper tycoon Gail Wynand and Robert Douglas as the cartoonish villain Ellsworth Toohey, figured out what they were up against pretty quickly and decided to throw in the towel, resulting in some enjoyable performances. And, again, the basic story and the ham-handed philosophy from the novel are there, more or less perfectly intact, for better or for worse.

WHAT IT LACKED: Aside from a point, a direction, or any sense of style, decency or restraint? Pretty much everything. Vidor was clearly phoning it in as much as possible, even for a hack like him. Ayn Rand's script, much like the novel, hasn't got much going for it; the characters are cardboard-thin, the motivations are as transparent as the glass in Howard Roark's skyscrapers, and the situations strain the credulity of anyone who, unlike Ms. Rand, has actually interacted with other human beings and seen the way they behave. The two leads are amongst the least charismatic in screen history: Patricia Neal's heaving, fire-breathing, nearly psychotic Dominique Francon would be ridiculous just on her own, but is especially so when contrasted with Gary Cooper's abysmally miscast Howard Roark. Cooper reportedly didn't understand the screenplay at all, and tried to downplay Roark's character, leading to total disaster: one of the great tragedies of Charlton Heston's recent death is that the overwrought ham never had the chance to take a shot at Howard Roark, the character he was born to play.

DID IT SUCCEED?: Critics hated it then, and they hate it now, but Rand's books have always been rather critic-proof, both in literary and philosophical terms. More pertinently, it wasn't much of a success at the box office, either; at the time of its release, it barely broke even (it didn't cost much to make due to Rand and Vidor ramming it through to completion in less than two months, and it shows). However, it's picked up a certain degree of cachet in subsequent years: devotees of Objectivism have flocked to it because of their cultlike fervor for Rand's works, and it's also acheived a bit of a cult status in so-bad-it's-good circles. Rand herself blamed studio interference for the movie's failure (because it certainly couldn't have been her fault) and vowed never to write for the movies again. She never did, but her books still exert a mystical hold over some people in Hollywood; a big-budget adaptation of the interminable Atlas Shrugged is in preproduction and slated for a 2009 release, and longstanding rumor had it that a remake of The Fountainhead was brewing, to be directed by Michael Cimino. It never happened, thus robbing us of the delightfully egomaniacal romp that would have been, but rumors of a remake persist, this time -- even more wonderfully/terribly -- with Oliver Stone's name attached.

No, But I've Read the Movie: THE TALENTED MR. RIPLEY

Leonard Pierce — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 19:30:00 GMT

Like a handful of the better noir and pulp writers, Patricia Highsmith has undergone a bit of a positive critical reappraisal of late, although one has to wonder if critics and casual fans are more interested in her actual writing than her bisexuality, alcoholism and often-controversial personal life. Whatever the case, the rediscovery of Highsmith's books in recent years was followed by a spate of interest in adapting her works for film. Naturally, the most attention was focused on the so-called "Ripliad", her series of novels featuring the amoral, cynical trickster and killer Tom Ripley; while 2002's Ripley's Game, bouyed by a tremendous performance in the lead role by John Malkovich, was the better film, 1999's The Talented Mr. Ripley got far more attention and made far more money. This was thanks largely to a successful marketing campaign, a coincidental tapping of the zeitgeist, and the fact that several of its stars were at their peak of popularity. There have been other Ripleys (Highsmith herself loved Alain Delon in Rene Clement's Purple Noon) and other filmed versions of Ripliad novels (Wim Wenders made a memorable, if confused, version of Ripley's Game as The American Friend in 1977), but none has stayed in the public consciousness as the one that teamed the recently deceased Anthony Minghella with Matt Damon.

In most ways, The Talented Mr. Ripley is the best of the Ripley novels, and one of Patricia Highsmith's best novels overall. It was the purest expression of her fascination with anti-heroic figures who carried around a silent delight in their defiance of law and propriety; it also featured some of her most coolly murderous prose, the quality of her writing that critics most admire. Her deliberate, incisive writing seemed almost subversive at times, so plainly and nastily could she capture those who circumvented decent society. But it was not without its flaws, most noticably her writing of female characters: Highsmith seemed either incapable of writing female characters as deep and dark as her male characters, or uninterested in doing so. Anthony Minghella's filmed version, with a solid cast and a big budget, had a chance to to capture all the strengths of the book while addressing its weaknesses.

WHAT IT HAD: Minghella was riding a peak of success at the time The Talented Mr. Ripley was filmed, having won widespread popular and critical acclaim with his previous movie, The English Patient. His lead actors were equally hot: Matt Damon was as popular as he'd ever be, as was co-star Gwyneth Paltrow, and Jude Law was enjoying some level of success in the U.S. for the first time. Cate Blanchett scored a key role that helped launch her big-screen career, and Minghella staffed the picture with solid character actors like Philip Seymour Hoffman and Philip Baker Hall in supporting roles. It's also a gorgeous film, with breathtaking locations, beautiful cinematography (by John Seale) and stellar set design and period costumes. Whatever its flaws, Ripley takes no shorts with its look and feel.

WHAT IT LACKED: The script, also by Anthony Minghella, is an absolute mess. Even leaving aside how completely wrong Minghella gets the whole point of Ripley's character (about which see below), he doesn't even seem to know what he wants to do with the story. He has no feel whatsoever for the tone of it -- it seems to veer moodily from character study to thriller to romantic idyll -- and he puts so much effort into how it looks he doesn't have much time for how it reads or sounds. There's almost none of Highsmith's vicious, precise dialogue, and the characters are clearly more creations of Minghella's sensibilities than they are Highsmith's, which wouldn't be a problem if this was an entirely different movie. As it is, it comes across as a total mismatch of source and adapter.

DID IT SUCCEED?: If all you're looking for is beautiful people in beautiful surroundings, sure -- but if you want the deadly playfulness and black-hearted gamesmanship of Patricia Highsmith's books, you won't find them here. At heart, Anthony Minghella was a steadfast romantic, while Highsmith -- and Tom Ripley -- were bloody-minded cynics. Minghella wants to turn Tom Ripley into a tragic and heartbreaking figure, which is a complete misreading of the character and a tin-eared understanding of why he's so appealing to begin with. He also takes Ripley's subtly implied homosexuality -- the least interesting thing about him, in the book -- and makes it explicit and paramount, to the point of absurdity: the movie ends with Ripley murdering his lover with tears in his eyes, something that the grinning sociopath of the book would never think of doing. There are plenty of tragic romantics in the annals of crime fiction; to turn the almost joyfully manipulative, supremely cunning Tom Ripley into one of them is such a disastrous choice that it sinks the whole movie.

No, But I've Read the Movie: THE MALTESE FALCON

Leonard Pierce — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 22:15:00 GMT

The Maltese Falcon and The Big Sleep are often considered the two greatest acheivements of detective noir prior to the post-war era. It's by no means incidental to their reputation that both starred the pitch-perfect Humphrey Bogart, nor that in both films, he portrayed a classic private eye created by one of the standout pulp witers of the previous decade. Though both have been rescued from dime-novel oblivion by later critics who were able to pick out their substantial literary talents from the low-level hackwork that comprised much of 1930s pulp, Raymond Chandler's reputation has outstripped Dashiell Hammett's, and rightfully so; Hammett was an outstanding technician and a keen drawer of character, but he lacked Chandler's transcendent style, his keen psychological insight, and his stunning sense of place and time. Still, he shared with Philip Marlowe's creator a love of language, and he was by far Chandler's superior in terms of complex, inventive plot, which made his books natural fodder for movie adaptations.

In his finest book, The Maltese Falcon, he combined this exquisite sensibility for clockwork plots with some of his most sinister and intriguing characters (the pathological lying femme fatale Brigid O'Shaughnessy, the effete and manipulative thief Joel Cairo and the gregarious but sinister crime boss Kaspar Gutman), who he sent off in search of cinema's most memorable MacGuffin. Against them all he set the coolest, most calculating private eye in all of literature: the immortal Sam Spade. Much like its spiritual twin, The Big Sleep, The Maltese Falcon, despite a number of divergences from its source, achieves near-perfection and serves as an unforgettable 1941 movie adaptation that makes you appreciate the finer qualities of the novel all the more.

WHAT IT HAD: John Huston, one of the greatest directors of his era and the man who is far more responsible than either Humphrey Bogart or Dashiell Hammett for the film's success. Huston adapted the screenplay himself, stripping the story to its most raw elements, losing as little as possible while streamlining for the screen and keeping Hammett's understated, cooly cruel dialogue intact. An amazing cast with not a flat performance in the bunch -- aside from Bogart's iconic performance, Mary Astor gives the role of a lifetime as Brigid, Elisha Cook Jr. plays nicely against type as the furious gunsel Wilmer, Peter Lorre's Joel Cairo is endlessly entertaining, and Sydney Greenstreet's Kaspar Gutman is simply one of the best screen villains of all time.

WHAT IT LACKED: Very little. Thanks to Huston's top-notch direction and wonderful sense of timing, the parts of the novel which are left out are hard to miss, and the dialogue is so well-translated to the screen that you don't too much lament the loss of Hammett's fine style (as when he describes Spade, early on, as "rather pleasantly like a blond Satan"). Bits of exposition are left behind to no great loss, as well. Perhaps the major difference between book and movie can be chalked up to the Hays Code: censors of the day wouldn't allow Joel Cairo to be portrayed on film as he is in the book as obviously homosexual, and the book is far more violent than the film -- scenes where Gutman tortures his own daughter and is himself ultimately murdered by the betrayed henchman Wilmer Cook are deleted.

DID IT SUCCEED?: Both the book and the film are nearly perfect examples of their kind. Ironically, at the time the movie -- a huge critical success, then and now -- was made, the author of the the novel, Dashiell Hammett, was not taken very seriously. At the time, almost all pulp writers were considered low-rent hacks cranking out peurile entertainment for the masses. The movie, however -- which featured a screenplay by John Huston that mirrored the plot and dialogue of the novel almost exactly -- was hugely praised by critics both highbrow and popular. In fact, Huston received an Oscar nomination for the screenplay, while Hammett would wait some 30 years (a decade after his death) to receive a serious reappraisal by literary critics.

No, But I've Read the Movie: BRIGHTON ROCK

Leonard Pierce — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 21:15:00 GMT

Graham Greene's impact in motion pictures wasn't quite as vast as his impact on literature, but it was close. (We're referring, of course, to the English novelist, not the Native American actor, who, despite some fine on-screen performances, has yet to produce the Great American Novel, or even the Great American Indian Novel.) In addition to producing some of the finest novels of the 20th century, he was also a noteworthy screenwriter and helped bring The Third Man into existence, thus creating a classic film and one of Orson Welles' most notorious characters. (He was also a prominent, and often highly engaging, movie critic until he had the bad taste to point out the obvious fact that many of Shirley Temple's fans had something more than a pristine interest in the child actress' talents.)

Greene was always fastidious about making a clear delineation between what he called his real fictions — serious literary works like The Power and the Glory by which he hoped his career would be judged — and his 'entertainments', thrillers and other popular genre productions which he viewed as little more than a means to make money. His own views notwithstanding, many of Greene's 'entertainments' — almost all of which have been turned into movies between the time of their writing and today — are often coterminous with his best writing, and should be thought of as what they are: masterful pieces of modernist writing which, despite their often pulpish trappings, are exquisitely written and fraught with meaning. Perhaps the greatest of his 'entertainments' was 1938's Brighton Rock, the story of the death of a London reporter in the holiday resort town of Brighton at the hands of a terrifying, dead-hearted teenaged gangster named Pinkie Brown. It was made into a movie nine years later, with Greene himself co-writing the screenplay. How faithful an adaptation was it?

WHAT IT HAD: Right off the bat, it had Graham Greene. That alone makes it superior to many of the modern-day adaptations of his work, and some of his sterling dialogue and razor-sharp characterizations come through quite well in the movie. It also had a young Richard Attenborough, nicely assaying the role of the sixteen-year-old killer Pinkie Brown (the bad Catholic endemic to all of Greene's major works); with his cold eyes, slender frame and barely suppressed hatred of everything around him, Attenborough — who would scarcely ever surpass the job he does here — does a remarkable job of capturing one of twentieth-century literature's greatest villains. Director John Boulting is no Carol Reed, but he does a good job matching Greene's tight screenplay with dark, moody, noir-style work behind the camera.

WHAT IT LACKED: There are a few flat moments in the script (though it's hard to blame Greene's co-writer, the often excellent Terrence Rattigan). While the top-notch British character actress Hermione Baddeley does a fine job as Attenborough's foil, much of the supporting cast is mediocre, especially an inexperienced Carol Marsh as the moonstruck girl Pinkie must seduce and silence. But the main thing that keeps the movie version of Brighton Rock from matching or even exceeding the novel is the heavy hand of the British Film Board, which demanded a number of changes be made that kept it from hitting hard on the the themes that were highly important to the book. In particular, the novel's incredibly dark ending was transformed by the censors into an improbable moment of religious uplift!

DID IT SUCCEED?: A victim of its time, the movie version of Brighton Rock had the bad fortune to come out at a time when the British motion picture industry was still in the throes of rapidly decaying moral standards. While it, like many noir pictures, did what it could to skate around the decency codes, much of the book's dire, twisted sense of Catholicism was written off by the censor, as was the earthy sexuality displayed by Baddeley's character in the novel, and, of course, the final moments, when the vicious, damned Pinkie Brown manages to strike back even from beyond the grave. However, despite the hokey ending, it's still a very worthwhile movie, no more lost to movie-industry moral codes than any number of other worthwhile gangster noirs. It's definitely worth watching, especially for Attenborough's performance; but if you've read the book, you likely won't be able to shake the feeling that it might have been better adapted twenty years later.

No, But I've Read the Movie: LORD OF THE FLIES

Leonard Pierce — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 21:30:00 GMT

William Golding's gorgeous, stirring, menacing, dark and telling masterpiece Lord of the Flies is a natural for film adaptation. Despite a plethora of fine internal monologues (especially from the young mystic Simon), it's packed with external action, a solid plot, beautiful settings, a bunch of terrific set-pieces, and, thanks to the book's status as required high school reading, a sizable audience of filmgoers who are already familiar with the plot. It's so much a part of our popular culture that it's become parodic shorthand, so there's no chance that its terrifically appealing story wouldn't resonate with moviegoers. And it's got something for everyone: elements of comedy, high drama, adventure, action, and even science fiction. So why has it never had a truly successful movie version? For the purposes of this edition of No, But I've Read the Movie, we're going to focus on Peter Brook's 1963 version — the less said about the misconceived 1990 adaptation by Harry Hook and featuring a young Balthazar Getty, the better. Brook's film came only nine years after William Golding's book was written, but it was the perfect time; it had been rediscovered by critics after falling out of print in 1955 and recognized as the true classic it was, and was just beginning to become part of the curriculum on both sides of the Atlantic. Brook, who then as later specialized in somewhat highfalutin adaptations of literary and cultural properties was eager to tackle the project; audiences of students and filmgoers alike were primed for a movie version; and its vaguely post-apocalyptic overtones were a natural fit for the mid-Sixties, when nuclear paranoia was rather high and being reflected in popular culture more than ever. Now, over forty years later, the film — which did poorly at the box office and wasn't well-received by critics — is nearly forgotten. What happened?

WHAT IT HAD: A writer and director, in Peter Brook, who was determined to do right by the material, and to make risky artistic choices to fulfill his vision of what the book could be. An authentically British point of view, which, taken in light of the 1990 abomination, cannot be overstated in importance. Excellent cinematography (by Tom Hollyman) of a well-realized tropical island setting. A willingness to take chances, and a determination to straddle the border between artsy and commercial; if this determination wasn't completely realized, it was at least present. A genuine sense of emotional power and naked depth of feeling. An almost cinema-verite filming style, which resulted in an uncomfortably creepy verisimilitude. A director unwilling to screw with the premise by casting a bunch of polished showbiz kids.

WHAT IT LACKED: Unfortunately, as admirable as Brook's decision not to stock his film with slick professional child actors may have been (and all the evidence one needs of how badly it might have gone had he not done so can be found in the Harry Hook remake), the crew of amateurs and newcomers who he used in Lord of the Flies were a tremendously uneven lot, ranging from surprisingly affecting to downright awful. The script telegraphed its metaphors and allegories with an awfully heavy hand, and the decision to film in black and white may have added a rough, savage quality to the photography, but it also robbed the story of the lush colors and deep sensations of its wild setting. The cast weren't the only novices — Brook was largely a theatrical director, and Hollyman specialized in still photography.

DID IT SUCCEED?: The original film version of Lord of the Flies was, for many decades, unfairly tarred as a disaster. The 1990 version was, but the 1963 Brook film was no embarrassment; it was, rather, a risky, ambitious failure that nonetheless had much to recommend it. Brook's script is shaky, but his belief in the material is clear; Hollyman's filming is quietly effective, if not extraordinarily adept; and the young cast of amateurs yields a number of disappointments, but also a handful of gems. Still, the film has a number of technical failings, its problems are a lot more memorable than its successes, and even after its overdue critical reevaluation, it feels inessential — perhaps not bad, but certainly not the movie that such a timeless and wonderful book deserves. Fans of the book continue to think there's a great movie in it somewhere; and the motion picture industry continues to not give it to us.

No, But I've Seen The Movie: MADAME BOVARY

Leonard Pierce — Tue, 12 Feb 2008 22:00:00 GMT

For a book that's often referred to as one of the all-time great unfilmable novels, Gustave Flaubert's Madame Bovary has a long and storied history on the screen. It's been adapted for the cinema no less than six times, and an additional five adaptations for the small screen. The most well-received version, however, is Claude Chabrol's 1991 adapatation. It was widely praised at the Moscow International Film Festival when it debuted; it got Chabrol his first-ever Golden Globe nomination; and it was especially beloved in France — and who better to judge the success of an adaptation of one of France's greatest novels by one of France's greatest filmmakers than the French? Then again, there's always the counter-example of Jerry Lewis to argue against their taste as a nation. It's understandable why so many moviemakers have been drawn to the story of Emma Bovary; she's one of the most fully fleshed-out characters in all of fiction, entirely believable and completely three-dimensional. Her flaws run as deep as any character in modern literature, and her personality is as recognizable today as it was when the book was published in 1857. However, it's also understandable why so many adaptations of the book go astray; Flaubert's greatest strength as a writer was not his ability to draw deep and true psychological portraits — though that was an ability of his rivaled perhaps only by Dostoevski, his true power lay in his ability to realize those portraits in cool, elegant prose unparalleled by his peers. Due to the essential difference between the media of film and literature, much of that prose, and the incomparably refined descriptions and turns of phrase that made Flaubert's work so compelling, are inevitably lost in a filmed retelling. But in Claude Chabrol, Madame Bovary found perhaps the one director who truly shared the novelist's style and sensibility. Did he deliver a film worthy of the novel? Or was it just another misstep?

WHAT IT HAD: That rarest of things, a director sympatico with the novelist. Claude Chabrol is a holdover from the first sparks of the French New Wave, but he's developed into a filmmaker with a very unique style and signature. He's often called the French Hitchcock, a lazy shorthand that's unfair to both men — his early suspense films have given way to extremely deep and adept dramas later in life. He's also exceptionally skilled at portraying female characters, especially ones who are sympathetic despite very profound moral flaws, a perfect description of Emma Bovary. The set and costume design in the adaptation are flawless (Corinne Jorry was nominated for an Oscar for the latter), and Isabelle Huppert plays the role to chilly perfection. Her performances suggests depths that the novel reveals in full.

WHAT IT LACKED: It takes an actress of Huppert's skill to suggest those depths, and not everyone in Chabrol's Madame Bovary has that level of skill. Jean Yanne, in particular, isn't quite up to the demanding task of playing M. Homais, and other members of the supporting cast attempt to suggest with noise what Huppert conjures with silence. Elsewhere, silence works against the movie: since Chabrol cannot tell, he must show, and at times, this is tremendously effective, but at other times it can slow the movie to a tedious crawl. Where Flaubert can stun with perfect description and narrative, Chabrol must hope that the image alone can overwhelm until the next progress of plot. This gambit (which, to be fair, is no fault of Chabrol's) succeeds when Huppert is front and center and fails when she's not.

DID IT SUCCEED?: For the most part, yes — albeit for entirely different reasons than the book succeeded. Madame Bovary is a pretty perfect example of why great novels are extremely difficult to transfer to great films, but Chabrol manages to make at least a very good film by sidestepping most of the requirements for making a straight-up adaptation of the book. Where the film doesn't work, it's because it is simply impossible to convey some of the complex ideas in Flaubert's prose through the medium of film, and where it succeeds, it succeeds because of his skill as a filmmaker. Chabrol's Madame Bovary plays far more to his strengths than to Flaubert's, but where the two interweave — specifically in the portrayal of strong, difficult, women morally uprooted by circumstance — the overlap makes for a fine film.

No, But I've Read the Movie: THE BLACK DAHLIA

Leonard Pierce — Tue, 05 Feb 2008 21:30:00 GMT

Although much more commercially successful, the "L.A. Quartet" novels by the disturbed but fascinating noir novelist James Ellroy — consisting of The Black Dahlia, The Big Nowhere, L.A. Confidential and White Jazz — didn't represent the great artistic leap forward that his "Underworld U.S.A." trilogy (American Tabloid, The Cold Six Thousand and the upcoming Blood's a Rover) did. The latter books were the ones that really lifted Ellroy from skilled genre specialist to ambitious and near-brilliant American novelist, representing both his own development as a writer and his desire to see the noir novel shed its genre restrictions and take its place amongst great literature. Even if one argues that White Jazz is the real transition — and many people have, convincingly — The Black Dahlia is a rough piece of work, somewhat formless and definitely formulaic in a way that his later books would avoid. While it features many of the same themes of sexual obsession and moral ambiguity that would mark his later work, it remained somewhat inextricably bound in the bad parts of pulp and the tendency to police-prodedural tropes. That said, the "L.A. Quartet" books are far more straightforward narratives, with less emphasis on the black depths of psychology and more to carry the narrative than chopped-up internal monologues. No one has yet attempted to film any of the "Underworld U.S.A.", but if it ever happens, the results will likely be a less successful film than L.A. Confidential; the qualities that make it a lesser novel — overemphasis on plot, weaker internal monologue, and a grounding in the archetypical qualities of film noir — are the same ones that made it a better film. The Black Dahlia, for all its faults, is an eminently more filmable book than The Cold Six Thousand. Or so you might have thought until Brian De Palma showed up in 2006 and proved you wrong, wrong, wrong by burping out this mishandled disaster of an adaptation. WHAT IT HAD: Good intentions, and not much else. It's not as if De Palma doesn't know how to handle film noir — he's proven on many occasions that he's adept at the genre, and had illustrated his affinity as recently as his previous movie (2002's underrated Femme Fatale). Even though he wasn't able to hold his post-modernist trickster tendencies in check, The Black Dahlia could have worked as simultaneous tribute to and subversion of classic noir, the only possible way to read the way it came out that makes any sense, if he'd assembled a better cast, better script, and. . . well, different director. Mark Isham provides some nice, moody music for the soundtrack, and, as one might expect from the man who brought you The Untouchables, it's a gorgeous-looking film with some great Vilmos Szigmond cinematography.

WHAT IT LACKED: Where to begin? A coherent vision, a decent script, a solid creative interpretation of the source material, a consistent point of view, and most of all, a cast worthy of the material. Screenwriter Josh Friedman had worked on the script for years, but it's still a mess, and clearly not to his strengths, which lie mostly in sci-fi genre work. It had originally been optioned to David Fincher, who, given De Palma's clear boredom and frustration with the project, may have been a much better choice to tackle the project. And the cast is pretty much an absolute disaster: Josh Hartnett completely lacks either charisma or weight, Scarlett Johansson is in way over her head, Aaron Eckhart is a non-entity, Hilary Swank looks like she should be in a completely different movie, and Mia Kirshner isn't even remotely up to the task of playing the title role, especially given that it's much expanded from the novel.

DID IT SUCCEED?: No way. Brian De Palma is already one of the most divisive directors around, with legions of haters for every dozen fans he's picked up over the years, but even his staunchest defenders — I'm one — couldn't get behind The Black Dahlia. The critical consensus on the release of the long-awaited film was that it was a megaton bomb, and for once, the accepted wisdom is pretty much right on the money. A good movie could have been made from James Ellroy's novel, but this sure as hell isn't it. The novel is a formative effort from Ellroy, and while L.A. Confidential is still superior to the movie, so too is The Black Dahlia for entirely different reasons. With White Jazz slated to hit the big screen next year directed by Joe Carnahan — who most recently brought us the abysmal Smokin' Aces — Ellroy's luck with film adaptations of his work will likely continue circling the drain.

No, But I've Read The Movie: IN COLD BLOOD

Leonard Pierce — Tue, 22 Jan 2008 17:30:00 GMT

Truman Capote's In Cold Blood: A True Account of a Multiple Murder and Its Consequences was born to be a movie. The book was an immediate best-seller on its release in 1966, and plans were afoot to film it almost before it rolled off the presses. Capote's improbable inspiration was a 300-word piece in the New York Times — then, as now, little more than a blurb — about a murder in a remote corner of Kansas; something about it captivated his imagination, and he spent the next seven years crafting, along with his friend and fellow novelist Harper Lee, a masterful true-crime story about the pointless killing of the Clutter family. Just as Capote had no idea at the time how obsessed he would become with the story of the Clutters and the murderous drifters, Dick Hickock and Perry Smith, who took their lives, the public had no idea that the book he wrote about them would launch a new genre of fiction — the 'non-fiction novel' — and stand out as an early example of what would become known as 'the New Journalism'. It would also cast a huge shadow over Capote's life and career; of all his works, none save Breakfast at Tiffany's would so resonate with the public. The public was fascinated with the story, with the novel that Capote wrote about it, with the way Capote wrote the books, and with the movie made from the book — in fact, so fascinated that as recently as a few years ago, not one but two movies were made about his research into the Clutter murders: 2005's Capote and Infamous the following year. The 1967 film was as celebrated as the book was influential; the year of its release, it was nominated for four Academy Awards (score, screenplay adaptation, Richard Brooks' direction, and Connie Hall's striking black & white cinematography) and has remained a widely respected film, if not entirely the classic that it seemed to be when it first hit screens. But how do book and movie compare?

WHAT IT HAD: Huge amounts of verisimilitude. Brooks believed that if his film adapatation was going to succeed, he needed to immerse it in as much detailed authenticity as he possibly could in order to emulate Capote's own research into the Clutter killings, and he accomplished this to a remarkable degree: the film features actual photos of the Clutters, filming was done in the home where the murders took place, and other locations and details were as accurate as possible. Hall's cinematography is still remarkable, and the cool, evenly paced direction balances out the increasing madness of the narrative. The lead performances by Robert Blake as Smith and, especially, Scott Wilson as Hickock, hold up remarkably well.

WHAT IT LACKED: Due to legal clearance issues, Capote could not be portrayed in the film, leading to the awkward insertion of a narrator and the reporter "Jensen". As a device, it doesn't quite work. Some of the supporting performances — played by theater students from the University of Kansas — are much weaker than the leads. Brooks was an accomplished director, but not an especially stylish one, and his shot composition and sense of cinema are sometimes unworthy of Hall's cinematography; he's also not as good a screenwriter as Capote is a writer. But, by the same token, Capote, even in true-crime mode, could be awfully purple, and some of the dialogue he attributes to the townsfolk is undoubtedly his own; Brooks is faithful to the book when he should be original, and the reverse is also true.

DID IT SUCCEED?: The book has held up much better than the movie, but the film shouldn't be written off as a failure. Age has not been kind to it, it's true, and its final scenes — of Smith's bathetic confessional, aided and abetted by accidental 'tears' of rainfall — seem less moving and more hokey every year, even with the creepy verisimilitude of Blake's own troubles with the law. But it's still a beautiful-looking film, gorgeously filmed and exquisitely paced, matching the book's slow but deliberate teasing out of the sordid, squalid details of the crime. Wilson's lead performance is still a winner, and it remains a more compelling document than the two recent making-of movies, although one wishes that Phillip Seymour Hoffman's astounding job as Capote in the film of the same name could be retroactively ported in to replace Paul Stewart's bland gig as the Capote stand-in Jensen. An inessential, but interesting, contemporary companion piece to the timeless 'non-fiction novel'.

No, But I've Read The Movie: A CLOCKWORK ORANGE

Leonard Pierce — Tue, 15 Jan 2008 16:45:00 GMT

It's hard to think of a movie more divisive — both at the time it was filmed and today — than Stanley Kubrick's adaptation of Anthony Burgess' dystopian social satire A Clockwork Orange. The novel was already controversial enough (the film, as brutal as it seemed upon its release in 1971, actually toned down much of the book's violence, and substituted a consensual sex scene for Alex's rape, in the novel, of two preadolescent girls), and while the film did what it could to make a savage treatment of youth violence palatable to censors, it still earned an X rating in the United States and raised such objections in the UK that Kubrick voluntarily withdrew it from release, and stipulated that it not be shown there again until after his death.

Even beyond that, both book and movie are plagued with inconsistencies, misinterpretations, and resentment: the novel was released in the United States without its critical final chapter (it was finally restored in 1986), which entirely changes the reader's perceptions of what had gone before. Kubrick himself had only a minimal interest in remaining faithful to his source material (which had been given to him as a gift by his friend and favorite writer, Terry Southern), while Burgess — paid only a pittance for the film rights — had his own misgivings about a movie version of his then-notorious book. "I feared that the cutting to the narrative bone which harmed the filmed Lolita," he said, "would turn the filmed A Clockwork Orange into a complementary pornograph — the seduction of a minor for the one, for the other brutal mayhem.

The writer's aim in both books had been to put language, not sex or violence, into the foreground; a film, on the other hand, was not made out of words." A Clockwork Orange was, indeed, made not out of words, but out of images, and it was those images — often of vicious sociopathic behavior to which the viewer is made an uncomfortable witness and even accomplice — that defines the movie just as the elegant (and deliberately deceptive) use of language defines the book.

WHAT IT HAD: A truly visionary director — one of the greatest of all time — who could not have been more perfectly suited to bring to the screen the bleak, cold, stylized dystopian London of Burgess' novel. A script that, while it may have lacked the writerly approach to language and truth that permeated Burgess' source material, at least remained surprisingly faithful to its story and made a largely successful attempt to bring the 'Nadsat' slang used by the droogs in the novel to the big screen. A hypnotically compelling lead performance by a young and terrifyingly believable Malcolm McDowell. A brilliant soundtrack by Wendy Carlos that matched the mood and tone of the film to an uncanny degree. A handful of some of the most memorable scenes ever put to celluloid in a science fiction film.

WHAT IT LACKED: A man at the helm who possessed the same deep and abiding sense of linguistic play as the author of the book. A director whose ability to write a script was as sure-handed as his ability to frame a shot. A strong secondary cast. A sense of political commitment and philosophical heft as deep as its source material. An ability to easily distinguish between violence presented to shock and violence presented to titillate, and a willingness to make the viewer care about the difference. A true satirist's moral center, and a true storyteller's ability to put ambiguity in service of the truth. A reluctance to go out on a sour note that felt exploitative. The final chapter, which did so much to make sense of the book, but which, when left out, leaves behind a somewhat incoherent film.

DID IT SUCCEED?: It succeeded hugely on its own terms, but what terms were those? Kubrick's specialty was subtlety of emotion, not subtlety of intent; he was a visual filmmaker, not a philosophical one, and a story as deeply philosophical as A Clockwork Orange was done something of a disservice by being placed in his hands, no matter how stunning the film is to look at and how long its best-known setpieces stay with you. Kubrick's determination to provoke provides them movie with some of its finest moments and some of its worst; and while the movie is not without its ambiguity, it sacrifices profundity for power, which is not always an acceptable tradeoff. However, it does what it sets out to do so spectacularly that it's almost churlish to note that Burgess' fears about the filmed version of his novel came very precisely true.

No, But I've Read The Movie: NAKED LUNCH

Leonard Pierce — Tue, 08 Jan 2008 16:30:00 GMT

Today, the Screengrab introduces a new semi-regular feature, in which we look at movie adaptations of high-profile novels. Movies based on books are a dime a dozen -- or at least they were before around 1998, when every single movie became based on a television show that originally aired between 1971 and 1983. But movies based on good books are still rare enough to warrant a closer look, possibly because the qualities that make a good book are rarely the same qualities that make a good movie. Great novels tend to focus on philosophy, psychology, and internal narrative, while great movies often emphasize action, movement and dialogue. All too often, the word "unfilmable" is applied to truly ambitious and complex fiction, as if the very idea of encapsulating on screen what so impresses us on the page is laughable on its face, and nowhere is this more obvious than in 1991's Naked Lunch. David Cronenberg, with his literary pretensions, obsession with mutated human bodies, and appetite for the grotesque would seem to make him a natural for making a movie version of William S. Burrough's infamous Beat-influenced black comedy; but even with a like-minded director, filming Naked Lunch would be an uphill battle. It's not a narrative novel in the traditional sense -- or any sense, really; it's more a series of vignettes, impressions, monologues and riffs, more like a heroin-soaked jazz fugue than a story. Even if Cronenberg could find a way to make Burroughs' masterpiece palatable to an audience without getting an X rating (Burroughs was rather fond of notions like talking assholes and rectal mucous), could he make any narrative sense out of a non-narrative novel?

WHAT IT HAD: A director who had read, enjoyed, and understood the novel, and who was writing the script himself to avoid any conflict of vision. A decent budget for an indie film. A studio willing to indulge the often-disturbing creative vision of its author. A built-in cult audience. A game cast, including a terrifically deadpan performance by Peter Weller as Burroughs' alter-ego, Big Bill Lee; a juicy, sympathetic turn by Judy Davis as Burroughs' wife and muse, Joan; and a hilariously fiendish, toothy ham-job by Roy Scheider as the nefarious Dr. Benway. A determination to make the most of its vision and to find clever work-arounds for the book's sometimes incoherent narrative structure. Moments of brilliance in the soundtrack by free jazz giant Ornette Coleman. And most importantly, a nastily sympathetic sense of humor.

WHAT IT LACKED: A mainstream audience that would make the whole thing worthwhile. A group of fans who would forgive any variance from their beloved source material. A willingness to turn over the reins entirely to Coleman, resulting in some plodding, ham-handed incidental music from Howard Shore. A budget big enough to keep some of the special effects from seeming hokey and cheap. A tight focus on how to involve all of the book's best moments, resulting in a somewhat fuzzy sense of direction at times. The will to completely overthrow narrative entirely and bring to the film a permeating experimental quality such as is found throughout the book. A critical audience who had any interest in seeing such a bizarre novel get made into a movie in the first place.

DID IT SUCCEED?: Mostly, yes -- and in a very unusal way. Cronenberg figured out early on that if he was going to make a movie out of Naked Lunch at all, he was going to have to make it something entirely different than the book, which, as trite as it is to say, is almost entirely unfilmable. So, after hammering out a script that he was happy with and securing a lead actor both capable and sympathetic to his vision, he proceeded not to make a film adaptation of the novel, but a clever and inventive metaphor for the circumstances of the writing of the novel. The result is less a literary adaptation than it is an extremely deceptive, but in no sense unsuccessful, biopic; if it fails to give us a faithful sense of Burroughs' work, it at least gives us a faithful sense of Burroughs, and that's quite a kick in itself.