Richard and Linda Bennion Family: April 2006

Great news! I'm done done done with finals! It feels so good, and I think I managed to not flunk anything. So, here's the scoop on Atlanta.

First, it was a blast. We stayed at the Marriott Marquis at Peach Tree Center--it was HUGE (47 stories, I think) and really nice. We got the rooms at a discount for the conference for $120 per night, but usually they cost $350 or so. I roomed with this great girl from the program, Alexis Turley. She's really intelligent, really easy to talk to, really fun, and has great style. A couiple of professors from my department went as well--Dennis Cutchins (the reader of my honors thesis from which I adapted my paper for the conference), Dennis Perry (who I had for a class last semester--he's great and gave a cool paper on the connections between Hitchcock and Edgar Allan Poe), and Kristin Matthews (she's pretty new to BYU, a fantastic professor from whom I've recieved some unofficial mentoring), and some other grad students and professors from other departments. It was fun to get to know them all better. Besides attending lots of sessions, we made it to a Braves game. It was Braves on Philedelphia-super fun and Philedelphia won.

So, this was the American Pop Culture conference. Everyday from 8-8 there were tons of different sessions on everything from Jane Austen films, to Superman Comics, to Vietnam, to Stephen King. I presented on Thursday in a panel with 2 other people. I was the first to present, so after the chair of our panel read my bio I got up to read my paper. I admit I was a little nervous. Dennis Cutchins was there, as well as Dennis Perry, as well as other BYU grad students, as well as professors from other universities. (heck, I'm feeling nervous just writing about it!). So, I get up to read, and one paragraph into my paper an older woman in the front row starts waving her arm in the air. You never interrupt when someone is reading a paper. I look up at her and she says "You need to slow down." WHAT!!! I wasn't going that fast. And she wouldn't have said it to me if I was a professor rather than a grad student. Talk about condescending. So that kind of threw me off my groove. But I finished up the paper and sat down. The other two ladies presented their papers and we had a Q&A session. I GOT GRILLED!! 99% of the questions were directed at me and 90% of them were antagonistic. To be honest, I didn't do a great job answering them. But I thought of some great answers about 3 hours after the session. Anyhow, lots of other people also chimed in, including Dr. Cutchins. So, that gets over and Alexis and I go to lunch with some of the ladies from the session. After I leave (Cutchins told me about this later) the lady who stopped me during my paper goes up to Dr. Cutchins.
Lady: Is that your student.
Cutchins: Yes
Lady: I didn't want to offend her or make her feel bad, but I want her to understand that adaptation is a complex issue.
Cutchins: We've talked about it. I'm sure she knows.
For the love! Did she listen to my paper? Anyhow, I had a good laugh. And I'm absolutely right about adaptation, don't worry. But, as professors pointed out later, at least my paper raised some controversy. And at least I got feedback. I'll attach my paper for anyone that's interested.

Atlanta is fantastic. I definitely want to go back and spend more time!

Um, I can't figure out how to link my paper, so I'll just paste it here in small font:
Story telling fills an important need—the need to communicate and understand and identify who we are. An immensely popular new mode of story telling has emerged to join literature in the last century—film. As Brian McFarlane points out in his book, Novel to Film, the most popular movies are adaptations of novels, telling us that “since the inception of the Academy Awards in 1927-8 ‘more than three fourths of the awards for ‘best picture’ have gone to adaptations’” (8). As a result of the popularity of adaptations, novels and films mutually influence each other. As cinema attracts larger and larger audiences, film increasingly determines what stories we tell and how we tell them, and consequently how we understand ourselves.
Interestingly, despite the strong affinity between literature and film, transition from one medium to the other is unexpectedly difficult and controversial. Though in high demand, film versions of novels often fail to please. Audience and film critics alike often disparage movies because “it wasn’t like that in the book” (McFarlane “It Wasn’t Like That…” 163), making comments like “‘why did they change the ending?’ or ‘she was blonde in the [novel]” (165). Many film theorists explore the problem of adaptation. Most feel that literature and film, though connected, are less alike than they seem. One of the most common misconceptions about film adaptations against which these critics fight is the insistence that successful adaptations must be “faithful” to the book. The film theorists point out many differences between words and images that, according to them, make it impossible and undesirable for films to mirror novels.
For example, film theorists George Bluestone and Linda Seger each point out the differences of time between films and novels. A book has hundreds of pages to develop subplots, multiple themes and many characters. A reader can put the book down, or flip pages back in a novel to make sure they understand the story. A film, on the other hand, cannot successfully adapt so many elements in the standard two-hour time limit.
Many theorists also agree that words themselves, and word-dependent elements in novels, are nearly impossible to recreate on screen. For example in Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, Jane describes Mr. Rochester by comparing him to food. She tells us that “the sarcasm that had repelled, the harshness that had startled me once, were only like keen condiments in a choice dish: their presence was pungent, but their absence would be felt as comparatively insipid” (212). How could a film maker portray that metaphor on screen? Certainly not by cutting between Mr. Rochester and spicy food.
Seger and McFarlane also identify a narrator as another element of the written word that is difficult to transfer onto the screen. Jane Eyre is told exclusively from Jane’s point of view. Short of giving Jane the camera, it is difficult to signal that first person narrator in a film. Ultimately, as these theorists point out, film works visually and objectively, affecting the senses directly. Words work mentally and subjectively, making the brain produce the sensory experience.
Thus, according to Bluestone, “fidelity” is a misnomer. Whether or not the movie exactly follows the book tells us nothing about the sophistication of the movie itself. Fidelity does not measure how well the visual elements fit together to make a film, it merely measures how closely the two story lines match. Film and literature are so different, according to Bluestone, that comparisons between them have no meaning (175). McFarlane agrees, pointing out that film is art. Subjecting it to complete fidelity to the novel narrows and cramps its creative possibility (“It Wasn’t Like That 166). Seger also agrees that fidelity is a useless evaluation, claiming that novels can serve as merely the jumping off point for an adaptation (8).
In many ways I agree with these film theorists. Movies and books are different and are meant to be different. Although they both tell stories, they should not and cannot tell them the same way. However, I also feel that these theorists dismiss the idea of fidelity too quickly and absolutely. The question of fidelity really comes back to the purpose of film adaptation. Why do we make movies from novels? Besides the reasons of entertainment, and the pleasure of seeing our favorite novel come to life on screen, (neither of which should be discarded as unimportant) is another purpose that encapsulates both. I submit that the function of adaptation is analysis: to somehow comment on or present an idea embodied in the story. A film adaptation that is not in some way faithful to the novel will fail to fulfill this purpose. Dismiss fidelity and we dismiss the task of adaptation. Thus rather than disregard or disparage fidelity, perhaps we can try to decide what fidelity in the context of novels and films means.
Brian McFarlane offers an excellent description of this type of fidelity. He defines a successful adaptation as one that is “on the one hand, bold and intelligent and, on the other, determined to make something both connected to its precursor and new in itself” (“It Wasn’t Like That…” 167). Although for McFarlane this definition demands departure from fidelity, I believe this type of film has everything to do with faithfulness to the novel. On the one hand, as McFarlane states, a film cannot and should not follow every single word of the novel (166). This type of movie not only loses meaning (words on the page may have an entirely different meaning when spoken or represented on screen), but also limits the art of film. On the other hand film also cannot drastically depart from the novel without a reason (165-6). A successful film version of a novel must both creatively adapt the story to the art of film, as well as adhere in some points to the novel. This means then, interestingly, that a film can be seen as a good movie, but as an unsuccessful adaptation.
So, how does one make a successful adaptation? One that both adheres to the novel as well as becomes its own entity? What parts of the story does the film maker need to adhere to? What parts should be changed in order to make an original piece of film art? At what point is a film too faithful to the novel and ruin the art of film, and at what point is the film not faithful enough, becoming a rotten adaptation? I’d like to address these questions by looking at Franco Zefirelli’s film adaptation of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre.
Going back to the purpose of adaptation as commenting on or analyzing the original story, the purpose Zeffirelli’s 1996 adaptation is, I would argue, to present the moral strength and independence of Jane. The first half of the film portrays this theme well. As in the novel, Anna Paquin as young Jane is fiery and passionate. She triumphs over the cruelty of her Aunt Reed at Gateshead Hall and the oppression of Reverend Brocklehurst at Lowood School. Grown- up Jane encapsulates a good balance between cool refinement and an independent will. As critic Stephen Holden notes, “Ms. Gainsbourgh (the actress who plays Jane)…conveys the inner war between Jane’s passionate spirit and her education in servility with cool, clenched ferocity” (261). As in the novel, Zeffirelli’s Jane meets her gruff and strangely captivating employer, Mr. Rochester. He recognizes Jane’s strength and treats her as “an equal” (Zeffirelli 1996). The relationship between Jane and Mr. Rochester blossoms and grows. In a particularly successful scene, Jane saves Mr. Rochester’s life. In less than two minutes, Zeffirelli uses the tools of film to communicate the personalities of these two main characters and their feelings for each other. Through intercut point of view shots, black and white coloring, high contrast lighting, and the distance between of the characters Zeffirelli effectively shows us Mr. Rochester: physically powerful, abrupt, troubled, intense; and also Jane: morally strong, pure, independent, careful. He reveals their feelings for each other: tender, passionate, and previously undisclosed. Most importantly he is also able to direct our feelings into a suspenseful emotional peak and catharsis that satisfy us and yet leave us wanting more.
Up to this point, the film works as an adaptation. On one hand, it uses the art of film to illustrate Jane’s strength. It adapts and changes some of the action and cuts down on a lot of dialogue. On the other hand, it is also faithful in many ways to the novel. The character personalities are the same or similar characters we find the book, and highlight Jane’s triumphs. Unfortunately, beyond this point the film as an adaptation falters.
In the novel, after facing the crisis of leaving Mr. Rochester, Jane wanders until a clergyman, St. John, and his sisters befriend her. St. John is intense and commanding in every way. He is young and tirelessly active. He is arrestingly handsome. Most importantly he is spiritually passionate and compelling, living (as Jane tells us) “only to aspire—after what was good and great, certainly: but still he would never rest; nor approve of others resting around him” (Bronte 438). These qualities combined have power over Jane. Her final triumph over him is a key moment in defining her moral independence and strength.
Unfortunately, the film chooses to present a different St. John. Instead of making him intense and powerful, Zeffirelli’s film depicts St. John as stuffy and silly. In the movie, after Jane leaves Mr. Rochester, she travels for days until she arrives, ill, at the house of St. John and his sister, Mary. As Jane recovers, she and the Rivers become friends. In one scene of the film, Mary and Jane are out walking with St. John. Rather than zealous and ardent as he is in the novel, Zeffirelli uses the art of film to make St. John appear ridiculous.
The scene opens up onto an outdoor shot of a beautiful day. In the distance we see Mary and Jane at ease, laughing and talking together. St. John walks a little ahead. In the long shot his pace looks awkward as he tries to both join the ladies and lead the way. The music, more ordinary and trite than the score of the rest of the film, emphasizes his clumsiness. As the camera comes in closer on the threesome, a gust of wind blows St. John’s hat off his head. He lunges to catch it, misses it, and pursues it. The camera cuts to a full shot of the girls laughing good naturedly at St. John’s predicament. The camera then cuts to the hat bouncing down the hill, way ahead of St. John—again suggesting his awkwardness. Finally he catches up to the hat only to slip inelegantly on the grass. The music almost mickeymouses his fall. The camera cuts to a close up reaction shot of the girls laughing again, confirming that St. John is a laughable figure. The camera then cuts to St. John’s reaction. The close up shot clearly shows us his ruffled and disgruntled face, making him look pompous as well as awkward. (Let’s watch the scene). In this scene Zeffirelli visually represents St John as ungraceful and snobbish, even laughable. Rather than the passionate clergyman of the novel, this St. John is weak and silly. Such a personality cannot have power to sway or effect Jane. Thus when Jane refuses to marry him in the film it is no surprise, and it is not the important moral triumph of the novel.
Although in some ways this part of the film is faithful to the book (for example, St. John is a clergyman in both the book and the movie, and in both he helps Jane find her family and her fortune), the infidelity that weakens St. John’s character also weakens Jane’s. Though the first portion of this film through a combination of faithfulness and innovation portrays the strength of Jane’s character, the second half of the movie fails to do so because of its fidelity choices. The unfaithful representation of St. John undermines his role, hence undermining Jane and her strength.
So, back to our question. What makes a successful adaptation? What parts of the novel does a movie need to be faithful to? What parts does it need to change? Well, unfortunately, there is probably no magic answer or exact formula that will work for every movie. Adaptation is not a plug-and-chug exercise. According to this analysis of Jane Eyre, it seems that the answer to fidelity is it depends. It depends on the point of the adaptation. Because this film was trying to show Jane’s strength, it failed by failing to be faithful to St. John’s character. It failed, not because it was unfaithful to the novel, but because it was unfaithful to its own goal. Fidelity, then, goes beyond “it wasn’t like that in the book.” Rather than measuring how closely a film resembles a novel (the thing that drives film theorists crazy), fidelity determines (and is determined by) how a film portrays and analyzes the story. Thus, rather than shunning fidelity as the poison killing the art of film, we should embrace it as the key component of the purpose of adaptation.