Lost In Translation

By Nicole Angeleen  www.nicoleangeleen.com

Next summer, the world will be given another cinematic adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s most famous novel, “The Great Gatsby.” It is brought to us by Baz Luhrmann, who should be perfectly suited for a story that features a nonstop parade of opulent parties during the age of prohibition, excess, and the disintegration of the American dream. Adding to my hope that this will be a good movie is Leonardo DiCaprio in the titular role, and God knows red-blooded American women love Leo.

Despite all that in favor of this being an enjoyable, successful version of “The Great Gatsby,” I can’t make myself believe that this is actually going to be a good movie. Like most of Fitzgerald’s work (I’m lookin’ at you, “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button”), Gatsby is less of a story than it is an extended metaphor. Given the current tone of society, I don’t see how this can play as anything but a heavy-handed commentary about our own lopsided values.

Can't you fools see how your short-sighed obsession with wealth and shallow relationships will ultimately lead to your ruin? Also, look how handsome I am, just like decorative veneer of my pageless books.

Great “classic” books are packed with symbolism and barely concealed meanings (if you’re not much of a reader, just imagine it’s like if Adele wrote novels), and they simply don’t translate well to the silver screen. Who wants to sit through two hours of an expansive allegory? Aside from Terrence Malick fans, no one.

It's all so profoundly meaningful.  You just don't get it.

So why are legitimately good novels so often made into undeniably shitty movies? Let’s be clear. Good novels and popular novels can be two different things. Sometimes movies based on novels are terrible because the source material is utter drivel masquerading as legitimate fiction. Think Nicholas Sparks or the overwhelming mediocrity that is a John Grisham novel. Also, I’m not talking about movies that people think are bad because they wander too far from the original story. To me, that doesn’t make a movie bad. Prime example, other than the basic (flawless) premise of dinosaurs created from fossilized mosquitoes, the movie version of “Jurassic Park” strays considerably from the novel, but I love them both. No, here we’re talking about awesome books turned into steaming crap piles by the movie industry.

Pictured: Not in the book.

Bram Stoker’s revolutionary diarist format and slow building of a monster is obliterated by an overblown effort from Francis Ford Coppola. “The Scarlet Letter” as a movie rife with sex and temptation is insulting to Puritans, women, and Nathaniel Hawthornes everywhere. I still fail to see how “Timeline” and “Congo,” movies based on terrific novels by the incomparable Michael Crichton, managed to be such emotionless jumbles. Just this year, the most popular female fictional character of the first decade of the twenty-first century, Stephanie Plum, was ruined by an utter lack of humanity and imagination in the absurdly watered down “One for the Money.”

Then there are the worst offenders, the movies that raped my childhood. Like many of you, Dr. Seuss taught me how to read. “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” is not only a great book, it already had a lovely movie adaptation in its natural cartoon format. The Grinch is an unmitigated douchebag who has a heart two sizes too small and wants everyone to be as miserable as him. The perfect villain. That the 2000 live action version turns The Grinch into a victim of bullying is only one of the many reasons why this movie is just the worst. Add the weird sexuality, the disgusting gags, and you get a movie with a heart even tinier than the Grinch’s. Why? Why Ron Howard? I hold this movie personally responsible for what happened to Taylor Momsen.

There's nothing about this image that doesn't make me want to scream.

And the live action version of “The Cat in the Hat?” That sociopathic, creepy sonofabitch still haunts my nightmares. Seuss’s Cat is a whimsical, mischievous, fun-loving rascal rife with exuberance and well-meaning hijinks. Michael Myers’ Cat is hell-bent on destroying the lives of Sally and Sally’s brother (who the hell is Conrad, amiright?) and is overtly gross and malicious. It is an uncomfortable perversion of a series of books primarily designed to keep the attention of children while they learn the basic building blocks of reading. "It’s time to have fun, but you have to know how." If only the assholes who decided to create this monstrosity had actually read the book.

Hollywood loves doing this. They love turning groundbreaking original work like “Angels & Demons” into frenzied, disjointed nonsense. They love trying to film Toni Morrison novels (can't be done) or reinterpreting William Faulker (nearly uninterpretable in its original format). They think because the source material is “meaningful,” depth will automatically translate into their movie. But it doesn’t. Ever. Never ever. It’s hard to stress that enough.  Frankly, the opposite usually happens.  Words on a page and action on screen are different. For instance, the first-person, split narrative structure of “The Help” is lost in a movie version that is whitewashed and condensed to be made palatable to the masses, and “The Help” was a decent movie.

"Let's not confuse the audience by indicating in any way that working for these insufferable racists isn't our biggest aspiration in life.  Agreed?"

To me, the best movies based on novels are the ones that don’t try so damn hard to be fraught with significance and subliminal commentary or “revolutionize” what worked for a novel in the first place. Like any movie, just tell the story. If it’s based on a great book, that really ought to be enough. If it’s based on a crappy book, don’t expect a great movie (Twilight).

It’s not like it can’t be done. As always, I recommend reading the book first, but check out “Winter’s Bone” by Daniel Woodrell and/or “Gone Baby Gone” and “Shutter Island” from Dennis Lehane (who if you’re not reading, start now), then watch the adaptations; read “In Cold Blood” and then watch “Capote”; “The Green Mile” and “The Shawshank Redemption” were both based on Stephen King novellas; even some children’s stories are getting it right, just look at the books and movies for “Matilda” and “The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.”

Despite those hopeful examples, I’m still worried about “The Great Gatsby.” Fitzgerald was miserable in the final years of his life because financial ruin forced him to work in Hollywood, which he considered vapid and meaningless, and not much has changed. I have to think he would be scratching his head as to why they keep trying to adapt his least filmable novel.

And you know a film version of “Fifty Shades of Grey,” can’t be too far away. Ugh. I take it all back. Screw you, Hollywood.

Tune in next time when Nate Bowden beats a dead horse and really screws the pooch talking about cliches.