Better In Your Head?--MISERY

 

Spoiler Alert: it's wasted on the miserable.

THE BOOK-Written by Stephen King, released 1987

THE MOVIE-Directed by Rob Reiner, written by William Goldman, released 1990

THE STORY-Best-selling author Paul Sheldon meets his "number one fan."

MIND THE GAP-A writer writing about writing? Hot damn, hope ya like yams! 

King's never concocted a more ferociously repulsive character than prudish psycho Annie Wilkes. She's a thunderclap of a tormentor, every convalescent's nightmare. And no one besides Kathy Bates could have done the dowdily-dressed, dumpy-bodied villain truest justice. Her perma-glaze gaze is the stuff of nightmarish dead ends. Her performance alone makes Misery a must-watch.

At one point, Paulie baby must peck out a manuscript on a typewriter missing the following keys: n, t, and e. For the past two months, I've been tapping away on a MacBook with a loose t and the following non-responsive letters: i, o, u, y. *

Evil woman, man whose greater artistic ambitions are stifled by the wildly-popular series of novels he rushes out for a frenzied female fanbase, weirdo rape fantasy...yeah, I can see how Misery could be misconstrued. I also see beyond that. When Stephen King released the fantastical The Eyes Of The Dragon in 1984, fans rebelled. "Where's our horror? Wherefore art the blood-soaked this-and-that, the wrested intestines, the botched homemade facelifts, the unexplainable unstoppable?" Throw in the icy-hot grip of hard drug addiction, and along came Misery. Annie Wilkes is King's exacting fanbase crammed into one unseemly, ungainly body; Paul Sheldon, the wronged, hobbled creator, is King himself. 

Say what you will about King, he puts the "care" in "character."

Choosing notorious red-ass James Caan as a wheelchair-bound author literally writing for his life was genius. He nails every line, every beat, and at no point did I ever think, "Hey, it's Sonny Corleone!"

Two other novels featured in the "Better In Your Head?" series are mentioned in Misery.

BETTER IN YOUR HEAD-King sold the film rights under the condition that Rob Reiner would produce and direct. The becapped former "Meathead" understood the dark humor in the script (another William Goldman winner) and kept the proceedings palatable for those folks who wouldn't be upset that Annie running over a cop with a lawnmower didn't make the script.

And the film's great. But whatever Hitchcockian heights Reiner reaches are undercut by his constant awareness of a hypothetical audience. The book is a tornado bearing down on a nursery. Yes, it's a self-insert piece, plenty masturbatory, excellence over coherence in spots, but it is beautifully repulsive as well--a feedback loop of fear, respect and loathing that lingers long after the last page.

*True at the time, as most of my blog posts are first written out in longhand. One month after scribbling out this lamentation, I received a new MacBook.

Better In Your Head?--INDECENT PROPOSAL

 

Spoiler Alert: for two million, sure.

THE BOOK-Written by Jack Engelhard, released 1988

THE MOVIE-Directed by Adrian Lyne, written by Amy Holden Jones, released 1993

THE STORY-During a decompression session in Atlantic City, recalcitrant corporate lackey Joshua Kane meets an Arab sultan, whose outrageous offer--one million dollars for one night with Mrs. Kane--inspires a spiral of spite and denial.

MIND THE GAP-The film took the novel's premise and ran off without so much as a weakly rueful chuckle. Divorce vets Josh and Joan Kane became former high-school sweeties David and Diana Murphy (Woody Harrelson and Demi Moore, each dreaming of a bank lobby). Josh is a speechwriter, the defiant son of Holocaust survivors; David is a dippy architect, the sheepish spawn of helicopters. The Murphys are approached in Vegas by debonair billionaire John Gage (Robert Redford). The couple are in dire need of dough, lest they lose the land upon which they plan to build their dream house. The Kanes are resolutely middle-class. They share the world's vilest vice, one which kills slower than kuru and surer than mad cow: greed.

The book is written in first-person, Josh's POV. His anxieties have anxieties, and your response to that tidbit determines if you'll finish, much less enjoy, Indecent Proposal. Persecution--first- and second-hand--drives his moves. He is not secure enough, not respected enough--because he is not rich enough. He'd do anything for more money. Or would he?

The Kanes are subjectively less likable than the Murphys, but objectively more interesting. They talk, oh Lord do the Kanes talk, spearmint bursts of convo so authentic I yearned to scrape the words off their pages with my tongue. The pair's repartee is hotter than the bland, passion-free sex scenes that Adrian Lyne of all motherfuckers foisted upon my brittle blues. (When the Kanes do strip and search, they do so "like people in danger." I'd be their third for free.)

"(A) hard, blood-filled penis" is the latest guest at the Literary Redundancy Party, and whatever dish they brought, it can stay covered. 

The misogyny of Indecent Proposal is monumental. Indeed, the very premise gives it away. Men are more harshly judged for shortcomings as fathers, not as husbands. Women catch hell for slip-ups in either role. A good wife is pretty and dutiful, always ready to fuck and be fucked, clean and conceal, forgive and forget. Occasionally, a good wife is a prize to be fought over by would-be conquerors. Her wishes are irrelevant. 

Robert Redford is the only fuckable person in the whole movie.

BETTER IN YOUR HEAD-Early '90s mainstream "provocative media" came no more blatant than the film Indecent Proposal. Sex, money, money, sex. (No rock & roll, since John Barry's clueless on how to do either.) The movie smashed at the box office despite critical excoriation, and the central question--well, would you?--dominated public discourse and inspired countless parodies.

The movie also sucks with a vengeance. Cinematic cordwood. Intellectually bereft, emotionally monochromatic, gross as a soft pretzel brushed with vinegar. Without the cultural friction, religious intrigue, or meditations on materialism, this is just a severely boring story. 

Don't ever approach me with any proposal that involves watching this rancid nonsense. I'd pay to sit through a double feature of Monster A-Go-Go and The Giant Gila Monster in a theater run by a junk-jockey and his untrained, unleashed pit bull before watching Indecent Proposal for free.

Better In Your Head?--THE PRICE OF SALT/CAROL

 

Spoiler Alert: no matter how good you push it, someone else will push it better.

THE BOOK-Written by Patricia Highsmith, released in 1952 (under the pseudonym "Claire Morgan")

THE MOVIE (as "Carol")-Directed by Todd Haynes, written by Phyllis Nagy, released 2015

THE STORY-Therese is 19. She sells toys and designs stage sets. She is in love with Carol Aird, an elegant aspiring divorcèe. The ladies travel cross-country, the best method of determining the legitimacy of a romantic connection. As usual, men and children threaten to screw it all up.

MIND THE GAP-For her second novel, Patricia Highsmith dipped into the fruit basket of her own life and snatched an apple, the traditional edible symbol of immoral love. A lesbian romance in a repressive era not only meant potential social condemnation, it carried the threat of career suicide for a promising author (as Highsmith's own agent did not hesitate to inform her). Considering that the first edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, published the year before, declared homosexuality a "sociopathic personality disease," Highsmith's decision to use a pseudonym was wise. (The first pressing featuring her real name appeared in 1984.)

Beyond coming very close to the pictures in my head, Cate Blanchett and Rooney Mara each deliver faultless performances. Blanchett, especially, is pure golden age enchantress. Every time she speaks, I feel like I've dipped a Twix bar in brandy. 

Therese and Carol are not ideologies given faces. Therese's feelings transcend mere schoolgirl crush, and Carol isn't weathering a mid-life meltdown. (30 was "midlife" in the 1950s, right?) They are emeralds in the manure, and they deserve happiness. They do not deserve iniquitous investigators harshing their shared mellow, nor do they deserve lifetimes spent humoring men named "Harge." These women are both damaged, and thus cause damage, and thus receive damage, and 'round again. Sprinkle the spice, pay the price. For the privilege of love--a good-maybe-great thing at its very best--there's no cost too high.

"Age gap" ain't nothin' but a statistic.

The lady lovers meet the acquaintance of Mrs. French, an older woman with "a Maryland accent." Given the only MD accents are Baltimore, Dundalk, and Appalachian, I was disappointed the author didn't drop any indicative words or phrases. No "I'm going downey ocean, hon," no "I always warsh my hair before bed," no "Y'all like crabs?" C'mon, Pat.

Aw ish, Carrie Brownstein cameo! (The Therese to Corin Tucker's Carol, of course I'm right.)

Although the actresses earned Oscar nods, the movie itself missed out on top prize despite overwhelmingly positive reviews. But when you've bestowed upon the world magnificent red-and-gold-streaked femme-on-femme action, you don't need man-made accolades for validation.

In a courageous display of emotional honesty, Carol chooses her young lover over her young child. Why not; men do it all the time.

BETTER IN YOUR HEAD-The Price of Salt is a great love story, and a banger road trip, a near-masterpiece of recollection and recreation ("near" since Highsmith is still resisting her editor's best efforts at tightening up proceedings with the same obnoxious obstinance my stomach resists my attempts to flatten it).

The best adaptation is a zestful addendum. Compromises (and there are always compromises) may not accentuate the story, but they should not incapacitate the story. In Carol, Therese isn't pockmarked by her obsession, Carol is more sugar cookie than macaron, and Trapper Jenn is forgiving. Director Haynes utilizes space well, and silence even better, giving a crackling incandescence to the emotional distance between common tales and the ways they are told and re-told.

Gladly, I'll pay.

Better In Your Head?--LEAVING LAS VEGAS

 

Spoiler Alert: SoCo or GTFO!

THE BOOK-Written by John O'Brien, released 1990

THE MOVIE-Directed & written by Mike Figgis, released 1995

THE STORY-Ben Sanderson has gone from "yes-man" to "no-hoper." He lacks a future...but not a purpose. He is going to drink himself into the Great Who-Knows.

MIND THE GAP-John O'Brien died in April 1994 of a self-inflicted gunshot wound, mere weeks after signing away the film rights of Leaving Las Vegas. He'd struggled with alcohol throughout adulthood, "a tireless architect of his undoing"--and a sensitive chronicler of it also. While the events of LLV should not be misunderstood as strictly autobiographical, the mood is a dire reflection of a broken man. (Members of O'Brien's family described the novel as his "suicide note.")

Nicolas Cage weaved and wobbled his way to a Best Actor Oscar, but I regard his portrayal of a fatalistic boozer as quite overrated. Book Ben engaged the senses: I saw the pallor, smelled the poisonous potables, tasted the plaster, heard the pushes/pulls/pings/pops. Film Ben couldn't die fast enough for my satisfaction. Elisabeth Shue is fine as Sera, the whore with the iron heart. Again, not a sniff on O'Brien's version.

Sympathy for the devil relies heavily on a person's stance vis-à-vis free will. If alcoholism is a disease, and if women are taught (however covertly) that their greatest value is as a sexual object, how aren't Ben and Sera worthy of compassion, forgiveness, and love?

By putting her worst moment in the first act, O'Brien shows Sera's formidable inner strength. For her to endure such a horror and still love a self-loathing man is just barely more than touching than exasperating. The movie puts this scene near the end, and Sera comes off as a ungrateful slut receiving due punishment. 

I guess Ben and Sera consummating their relationship was meant to evoke bittersweet feelings. Necrophilia, more like.

BETTER IN YOUR HEAD-Whatever the novel's flaws (mainly, punchy sentences when just a slap would've sufficed) it is a brilliant presentation of brutal people who desire despite distrust, no apologies given or taken. O'Brien's world is bleak, authentic, and never stale. 

Wisely, action alternates between Ben's and Sera's perspectives, and it is Sera who sees us out. "She can, and will, do this forever," the text claims, and her resilience has stuck with me more than Ben's sour-breathed submissiveness. 

Okay, so...most interesting character diminished, overwrought primary performance, 90s jazz soundtrack baffling slo-mo shots and superfluous freeze frames. One of the easiest decisions yet!

Better In Your Head?--STRANGERS ON A TRAIN

 

Spoiler Alert: a warm jump off a cold pier awaits.

THE BOOK-Written by Patricia Highsmith, released 1950

THE MOVIE-Directed by Alfred Hitchcock, written by Raymond Chandler, Whitfield Cook & Crenzi Ormonde, released 1951

THE STORY-An impromptu meeting between love-tossed architect Guy Haines and unmoored castle-chaser Charles Anthony Bruno leads to a fraught exchange of anxieties, and an idea so distinctly diabolical it cannot be taken seriously: trade murders like young boys of the era traded ballcards. 

MIND THE GAP-What a set-up! What, then, of the take-down?

The murders themselves are unsettling and unimpressive. What lingers is how each homicide is justified inside a mind determined to free itself of exhausting expectations. Taking a stranger's life can be viewed as a kindness through a fractured lens.

Patricia Highsmith's debut novel features the flaws typical of a rookie scribe: too long, too infatuated with its best idea. Still, her descriptions of the writhing compulsions that frazzle the soul are top-notch, and the thrill of immersion too potent for confusion.

Film rights sold for $7500, thanks to Hitchcock deliberately keeping his name out of negotiations. The master, somehow, thought even less of writers than he did of actors.

Hitchcock cast actors whose physical vibes told the character's story. Robert Walker's Bruno is a charm-belt of questionable elasticity. Farley Granger is similarly softened as Guy, a handsome husk. The homosexual subtext is unmissable in the novel, although it's hard to fathom Bruno loving a man besides himself. He presents himself to Guy as a partner, a teammate. He is, in truth, an avaricious ham hungry for an audience. Intriguing as the baser lusts are, the text massages muscles far knottier than sexual identity--good and evil, obsession bred from depression, and peculiar concepts of justice. Perhaps Hitch felt he'd blown his bubble with Rope three years prior....

Raymond Chandler's name appears in the final credits at the behest of Warner Bros., mindful of crucial cachet. None of the mystery maven's work made the final screenplay, however, thanks to repeated conflicts with Hitchcock. Part of Chandler's beef concerned the big man's insistence on the amazing shot at the expense of the story. But the visuals, Ray, the visuals! My oh my, The Master had an eye. There is legitimately no way greater the death of Guy's wife Miriam could have been filmed. 

Viewers who wonder why there's no safety lever on the merry-go-round would do better to wonder why Guy just didn't call Bruno's bluff and call the cops.

I could argue any black-and-white adaptation is down a strike when the novel contains descriptions like "offensively orange."

BETTER IN YOUR HEAD-Alfred Hitchcock had forty films on his resume by the time he began shooting Strangers On A Train; Patricia Highsmith, again, was just starting out as a writer. So it stands to reason the old boy held the book in no higher regard than absolutely necessary. Given that he told Crenzi Ormonde to forget about the book when she first came onto the project, perhaps it's more accurate to say he held it in no regard whatsoever. Telling a tale of man's unerring knack for self-destruction interested the maestro little. As such, he makes a huge change--Guy does not honor his end of the bargain.

That single alteration tips the scales. Never mind career changes or name changes, the film changed the man into a Nice Guy, literally. Book Guy Haines is a murderer, a slave to his writhing compulsions, and even if the novel is overlong by 80-ish pages, Highsmith's psychological insights indicate an incipient titan. Ultimately I prefer her version, although Hitch's ending is superior, since it relies not on coincidence but on the threat of catastrophe. Had it adhered closer to the original story structure and character, I may have preferred the film.

Better In Your Head?--THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING

 

Spoiler Alert: Shout! Shout! Or not. Oh, and the dog dies.

THE BOOK-Written by Milan Kundera, released 1984

THE MOVIE-Directed by Philip Kaufman, written by Philip Kaufman & Jean-Claude Carriere, released 1988

THE STORY-Tomas is a brilliant surgeon. He is also a married playboy who separates sex from love as skillfully as he separates vessels. He seeks the light life, a burden-free existence. His wife Tereza absorbs blows, snaps photos and spoils their dog Karenin (the only member of their household who doesn't take pride in qualities they've no control over). And this is all very fine. Then political upheaval leads to personal upheaval. Surrounded by people who've made peace with their shames, the couple conform to new demands. But can they truly escape the agony of emotions severely felt?

MIND THE GAP-Milan, you a fool for this one, boy!

The Unbearable Lightness Of Being is where yellow highlighters go to die. The wealth of breathtaking insights contained within make it far more enjoyable to read than a beguiling refutation of Nietzschean philosophy costumed as a novel should be. So much emphasis is placed on weight. Carrying too much, or too little, results in catastrophe. Love is not biology; love is geography. Chew on infinity before the finite swallows you whole. The quest for the ideal elevates art and demeans reality. Oh yes, 'tis that kind of book. Prepare for wet-eyed meditations and dry-mouthed excavations. 

A naked woman wearing a bowler hat isn't sexy. It's the sexiest.

Daniel Day-Lewis appears on countless "Best Actors Ever" lists. But is he anyone's favorite actor? His Tomas is a smug, supercilious sleaze hardly worth the affection of wife (doll-faced sweetheart Juliette Binoche) or mistress (Lena Olin, whose name I just typed out). None of the those actors hail from the former Czechoslovakia. I don't care. You might.

I'd never be friends with Tomas or Tereza in real life, but damn if I wasn't fully invested in their story. The revelation of their shared fate midway through the novel imbues the remainder with profound, profuse melancholy. As the film's penultimate scene, it renders the moment not even slightly poignant.

BETTER IN YOUR HEAD-An active consultant on the film, Milan Kundera nevertheless lambasted the finished product and never again permitted an adaptation of his written work. Can't blame him; Philip Kaufman's The Unbearable Lightness of Being is a three-hour slog devoid of the bite marks that make life rewarding. The sex scenes are plentiful and pointless, like U.S. pennies or Lincoln biographies.

What makes the book memorable is what makes it unfilmable. Financial gains for the author aside, there is no good reason for this movie to exist. And no good reason for it ever to be watched.

Better In Your Head?--JURASSIC PARK

 

Spoiler Alert: the children may be the future, but they're also the present, and there's the problem.

THE BOOK-Written by Michael Crichton, released 1990

THE MOVIE-Directed by Steven Spielberg, written by Michael Crichton & David Koepp, released 1993

THE STORY-When it comes to brilliant ideas, a billionaire's reaches fruition faster than most. Dinosaur theme park featuring creatures born of cloning and recombinant DNA technology is a go!  

Money + Desire - Common Sense = PROFIT!

MIND THE GAP-Dino lovers aren't the only audience for Jurassic Park, but even if they are--that's no small audience, friends.

Crichton's novel is a feat of awe-inspiring imagination, pulling off the neat trick of "entertaining while educating" with the deftness of a disillusioned academic. Spielberg's film is a feat of effects--practical and special alike. Amazing how well they've aged nearly thirty years on.

Smart move, aging Ellie and expanding her role for the film. ("Laura Dern" and "lustrous delight" begin with the same two letters, it's not an accident.) Making her and Grant a couple, though, gets the Mr. Yuk sticker. Soooo fucking Hollywood.

Best John Williams score. Argue with a rocket launcher. 

BETTER IN YOUR HEAD-Crichton's book is hard sci-fi, titanium tier. Average of two nerdgasms per page. Snarly and bleak, it lacks an overwhelming pull of adventure. Like Peter Benchley, his work is strongest in the details. His characters are road signs along a road covered in the brittle debris of humanity's hubris. The pages redden in due time, although the patient reader won't mind riding out the pink.

Spielberg understands that showing just a hint of muscle leaves audiences eager to solve the mystery. He serves the servants, and never comes up short. The movie Jaws made its source novel seem like a children's book, and while I won't got that far here, it's impossible to shake his vision even if you read the novel first. 

Cherry time: the movie's just fun. The book ain't. How do you make dinosaurs not fun? Come on, Mike.

Better In Your Head?--THE STEPFORD WIVES

 

Spoiler Alert: kill all robots.

THE BOOK-Written by Ira Levin, released 1972

THE MOVIE(S)-Directed by Bryan Forbes, written by Robert Goldman, released 1975

Directed by Frank Oz, written by Paul Rudnick, released 2004

THE STORY-Stepford, CT is "The Town That Time Forgot." The Eberharts are the newest arrivals, hungry for space and peace. Walter instantly bonds with members of the local Men's Association, but his wife can't connect with the other wives, eerily subservient women whose thoughts revolve around the pursuit of domestic perfection. 

MIND THE GAP-The 1970s were the most meaningful decade for American feminism. Increased knowledge begat increased confidence begat increased dissent and at last begat increased political presence. Bodily autonomy and financial freedom were no longer silly little dreams for women. Feminists challenged preconceived notions of desirability and acceptability. Pushback came quick and strong, and not just from paranoid men who viewed activists as whiny, wrathful and unnatural. Housewives resented the implication that their lot wasn't respectable. The Stepford Wives claws out a horrific scenario: frightened husbands turn their wives into pretty, vacant fuck machines fulfilling their preordained role in a healthy society. 

The Stepford Husbands represent the nadir of humankind. Viciously selfish, with no qualms over breaking the sacred bonds of husband and wife, mother and child. When Joanna Eberhart asks Men's Association President/Disney-trained mastermind Dale Coba why he's replacing the wives with robots, his response would be hilarious were it not so heartless: "Because we can."

Katharine Ross is a marvelous Joanna, keeping her sympathetic even as suspicion pushes her down the darkest corridors. The few fellow outsiders she encounters --sassy Bobbie, children's author Ruthanne, tennis fiend Charmaine--become her allies in the fight against the fastidious pre-feminist sentiment run rampant in Stepford. Paula Prentiss, as Bobbie, vivifies every scene she's in, her cheerful cynicism a keen counterpart for Joanna's relentless disquiet.

Reduced to a mere cameo in the final frame, Ruthanne and Royal Hendry actually see the book out. She's an author/illustrator of children's books, dedicated to her craft and deadset on avoiding whatever fate's befallen the other women. Royal is a loving, amenable husband. They are also the only black couple in Stepford, and the implication of Ruthanne Hendry as another casualty of callous misogyny is too heartbreaking. Maybe she fights back. Maybe they fight back. Just as the Civil Rights movement shook up the nation, the Hendrys could shake up Stepford. A nice thought.

The 2004 film turns Joanna from photographer into disgraced former TV executive. Bobbie is a writer/recovering alcoholic (redundancy?) and while there's no backhand queen, there is a gay couple, Roger and Jerry. All of whom catch a whiff of rottenness in between all the spa dates, aerobic classes and book clubs. Wow, these other women sure are acting strange. Turns out, it's the master plan of a scorned wife who believes feminism ruined romance!

Nicole Kidman is three-fourths of a good actress half the time as Joanna, and still blows away Matthew Broderick's poor puny Walter. Bette Midler, at least, matches the look of book Bobbie. As the cheating hubby and his diabolical missus, Christopher Walken is reliably demented and Glenn Close is dementedly reliable. (Felt like Sideshow Bob watching Vanessa Redgrave haul ass to Lollapalooza, really.)

Bleh. I'm sure this ludicrously low-effort offering'll one day be considered a camp classic, that's how things work out. I mean, Troop Beverly Hills for God's sake.

BETTER IN YOUR HEAD-Ira Levin fixed readers a PB&J. Another writer, heavier-boned, might've whipped up a Monte Cristo. The difference is in the digestion. Levin's work is fairly short, and all of its demands are emotional, rather than technical. But who needs elaborate metaphor when you've got so corking a story?

The 1974 Stepford Wives was probably a mistake. Not bad, but not great. Too solemn, too sterile. Director Brian Forbes rewrote much of the original script and cast his own wife as a Stepford spouse. Goldman's concept of Playboy bunnies parading around in service of their masters thus bit the dust. Enter floppy hats and floor-length dresses. This is more than a little off; men willing to murder their wives--the mothers of their children--will not want demure housekeepers as replacements. They'll want scantily-clad blowjob queens. It's a stumble the movie never quite recovers from.

The 2004 Stepford Wives was definitely a mistake. To quote Frank Oz himself: "I fucked up." On-set strife and lackluster test screenings (necessitating reshoots which created crippling plotholes) doomed the pic before release. A blatant, fatuous misfire lacking even the most basic self-awareness required of any decent satire. 

Read the book immediately. Watch the 1974 film eventually. Avoid the 2004 film eternally.

Better In Your Head?--THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS

 

Spoiler Alert: faint, soft, subdued, muted...all good alternates, Tom.

THE BOOK-Written by Thomas Harris, released 1988

THE MOVIE-Directed by Ted Demme, written by Ted Tally, released 1991

THE STORY-The FBI is hunting "Buffalo Bill," an Ed Gein/Ted Bundy hybrid plucking and peeling young, zoftig ladies. A six-fingered psychiatrist with a taste for flesh sits in a Baltimore nuthouse, his movements strictly, smartly limited. The Bureau believes the bad doctor can provide crucial insight, and dispatches a trainee to cull whatever helpful information she can.

MIND THE GAP-With cultured malevolence amusing his eyes, and gazpacho thickening his wires, Dr. Hannibal Lecter is a crime fiction all-timer. A deceptively dormant incendiary device. A charmer, a harmer. Al Pacino, Robert DeNiro and Daniel Day-Lewis were all considered for the role, and had any of them accepted, the character would not be an all-timer. That he is, is ascribable to the man who did accept, Anthony Hopkins. 

I shudder pondering how many men DDL would've consumed.

The movie kinda did Special Agent Jack Crawford bad. On the page, he's a kind-hearted widower-to-be, a stalwart champion of justice following the last faint flashes of professional ambition. In the film, Crawford's a basic G-man. I get it, though. Ted Tally's goal--prioritize the journey of trainee Clarice Starling--is attainable only through judicious pruning. 

If the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History isn't the best museum in D.C., it's no lower than third. 

"Buffalo Bill" had no choice, y'all. A misspelled-at-birth first name is one of those misfortunes peculiar to depraved murderers, seems. Least his mom didn't sell him for a pitcher of beer. 

Jodie Foster's turn as Clarice Starling is undeniable. Thomas Harris wrote an intelligent, determined heroine, a country girl learning and earning, not some hyper-entitled wunderkind and Foster embodies her magnificently. I swear some scenes I can hear her pulse.

"Never help a man who is wearing a sling or a cast" is the most impeccable piece of advice a woman can ever receive. 

Whenever a piece of art resists cranking the "Obvious Message" knob up to 11, discourse inevitably ensues. "Show, don't tell" is the number one rule of good-ass storytelling, and remembering no one character represents an entire group of people is the number one rule of good-ass story-listening. 

BETTER IN YOUR HEAD-What happens when a beloved novel's film rights fall in the hands of a creative team who clearly adore the source material? Exit: doubt. Enter: stellar. Whatever the media, The Silence of the Lambs is an intricate and engrossing mix of "unreal" and "too real." Choosing between book and film (ties are never an option) is especially tough. What Demme's work adds--the martyred prison guard, Bill's one-man show--is indelible. Add in my favorite all-time performance from my favorite all-time actress, and this is a win for the movie.

Better In Your Head?--THIS IS WHERE I LEAVE YOU

 

Spoiler Alert: being "the baby of the family" is the absolute worst.

THE BOOK-Written by Jonathan Tropper, released 2009

THE MOVIE-Directed by Shawn Levy, written by Jonathan Tropper, released 2014

THE STORY-The fight: Morton Foxman vs. Cancer. The result: sadly predictable. To honor the lesser combatant, his adult children sit shiva at their childhood home. 

MIND THE GAP-Foxman in the book, Altman in the movie. Besides that, not much is changed. Family gatherings are fucking ghoulish. Judd is the self-proclaimed "last nice guy," fresh off finding his wife banging the boss. Phillip is a top-tier leech, a real "love 'em and leave 'em wanting more" guy. Paul is an infertile ex-jock. Wendy, the only daughter, is a resigned, relapsed romantic whose workaholic husband is only the second-most repulsive character. Professional bunglers, come begrudgingly together, to bond and boo-hoo and seek satisfactory answers to life's hand-me-down questions.

The book is told through Judd's POV. Midway through chapter one, the reader's opinion on the author's decision should be fully formed.

Several great side characters are sacrificed in the name of cinematic cohesion. I lament Tropper's subsequent failure to publish a short-story collection dedicated to each shiva visitor.

Check the cast: Jason Bateman, Tina Fey, Jane Fonda, Adam Driver, Corey Stoll, Connie Britton, Dax Shepard, Kathryn Hahn. Each flaunts their respective formidable repertoires inside a whirlpool of half-baked emotion and unnatural tones. Given the plum role of Judd, Bateman suffers as a faithful recreation of his shapeless counterpart (his hangdog expression, an oxytocin boost for certain broads, hardly suggests a wry every-guy on the brink of a disastrous decision). Given the rutabaga role of Phillip, Driver's line readings and physicality left me longing to watch whatever movie he thought he was acting in. Fey, as usual, is best preparing her own meals.

Visiting your childhood home is the thing to do if you plan on doing absolutely nothing else of substance for the remainder of the day.

The book's Jane Fonda reference didn't make the script. Restraint! Like the time I noticed a partially-open pizza box atop my neighbor's trash bin and saw a saucy pie inside, one slice missing. I quelled the urge to grab, go, and gobble--and that is why I am always a game or two above .500 in the sport of life.

It's a brutal business, being a woman. No shit, fuckface.

BETTER IN YOUR HEAD-Should one of my unborn novels grow into a movie, I will gladly sever the tether and spare myself the torment. Editing a book from 100,000 words to 80,000 is difficult enough. Cutting down to 20,000 words might catapult me to a pre-verbal state. Tangents must fall to the wayside like so much sun-damaged skin. Flashbacks are banished to a shabby-bottomed box. Side characters vaporize into the fog of forgotten souls. 

Perhaps sensing the ultimate futility of his quest (revisit/rekindle/retread), Tropper ran rhino into a barrel, piercing wood and sending skinny streams of water down the side. 

Mind, the blame for turning an engaging wince-along into a fingerpaint-by-numbers family portrait is shared. Directors, as per industry rule, must ask for Alan Smithee. I believe certain directors should have Alan Smithee thrust upon them. Shawn Levy's career trajectory from actor in baloney bombs to producer/director of popular piffle is worthy of an extended video essay courtesy one of those diction dandies on YouTube. He occupies such a well-defined space that whenever he breaches its blatant borders, the result is either lint-lickingly poor (The Internship) or blood-suckingly awesome (Stranger Things). This Is Where I Leave You is typical of his output. Meaning, I'm unsure whether or not I actually watched the thing.

Better In Your Head?--THE GIRL IN A SWING

 

Spoiler Alert: wollen und brauchen sind gleich.

THE BOOK-Written by Richard Adams, released 1980

THE MOVIE-Directed & written by Gordon Hessler, released 1988

THE STORY-Käthe Geutner is a beauty beyond refusal. An accidental angel, a simple complication. A minute in her presence'll do most men in, and ceramics dealer Alan Desland is no outlier. The prim mummy's boy is transformed from virtual aromantic to loverboy nonpareil in less time than it takes for Philadelphia sports fans to turn on their teams. The ecstasy turns eerie, as the couple are visited in short order by sinister, secret-hoarding spooks intent on assailing their senses. The phrase "You break it, you bought it" has never held such portent.

MIND THE GAP-The gap between novel and film here belongs on the I-81 sign in Hagerstown. A fluid troubadour weary of the merry tune, blowing smoke into haze on one end. A sweat-spotted, pimple-dotted, in any game of tag they are not it warbler on another end. 

Rupert Frazier tries hard as Alan, and that's the start of the problem. Alan in the book is smart and sympathetic, a decent man bewitched by forces beyond his ken. Alan in the film is a wimp, any positive or negative features suffocated underneath a mound of nervous ambivalence. Meg Tilly is sexy, sure, mesmerizing in bursts, mysterious for the hell of it, und ihr akzent ist glanzlos. There are actors in the cast as well. All hail the employed!

On the list of things that draw me to a work of fiction like beagle to bunny, "spiritual meanderings" run a close second to "father-daughter relationships."

How to explain the unknown to those whose lives depend on ignoring the unknown? How fragile and precious we are. Finite beings hould eschew religion, prescriptive ruination of all. Instead, love and be loved. Relevance absent is reverence present.

Thanks to a libel suit, "Käthe Geutner" became "Karin Foster," and later, "Karin Wasserman," in subsequent pressings of the novel. Guess who inherited a first edition copy and sold it for five bucks at a yard sale?

BETTER IN YOUR HEAD-Wirklich?

"Her tale was heard yet it was not told." That sentence from the book alone demolishes the best scene in the movie. Whatever, you know, that is.

Okay, I watched the film on a rainy day, in a too-small room, recovering from the worst asthma attack I've endured in over two years. Had I watched it right after recovering from a manuscript request, I'd be no less unforgiving of its flaws.

A worthy adaptation of The Girl In A Swing must be extraordinarily pretentious. Establishing shots must be plentiful and ponderous. The line readings, overwrought and onerous. Enough strings in the soundtrack to circle Jupiter twice. Gratuitous boob shots and brief glimpses of pasty dude butt. Christ, I wish The Girl In A Swing was pretentious! I wish a French-German auteur got their mischievous feelers on Adams's grim gem. Those "unfilmable" moments? Film them! Fifty takes each! Need more transitions? Film more fucking! Gordon Hessler is British, however, and thus ill-suited for the tawdry task. 

The book is written in first-person, and Alan's perspective is sorely missed. He's a self-absorbed but sensitive sort, intelligent and instinctive, more intriguing than he thinks, and more resonant than he knows. His is a stark and sticky story, and is enjoyable only on the page.

Better In Your Head?--READY PLAYER ONE

 

Spoiler Alert: my God, it's full of shit.

THE BOOK-Written by Ernest Cline, released 2011

THE MOVIE-Directed by Steven Spielberg, written by Ernest Cline & Zak Penn, released 2018

THE STORY-2045. Earth sucks. When people aren't playing roles in the robberies, rapes and murders plaguing the streets, they're playing inside the Ontologically Anthropocentric Immersive Simulation, a virtual universe created by late video game developer James Halliday, whose absurd fortune (including the OASIS) will be passed on to whomever can crack the "Easter egg" he's hidden within.

MIND THE GAP-Ready Player One is a cautionary tale.

Breaking points can be detected inside everyone and everything, including innocuous entertainments. For most of my life, I regarded instant access to the world's art as the fantasy. Ready Player One helped me realize the folly of my wish. Hyper-consumption, especially in hopes of acquiring some great reward, dilutes the power and purpose of whatever is consumed. Edification, meh. Enlightenment, no thanks. Endless fundage? Beam me up, Scotty! 

Really, a book that's basically a slobbery love letter to the 1980s should be thoroughly my shit. I'm talking bottomless sauces at the chicken tender buffet. Yet, no Cline reference-string matched the most '80s moment of my life: watching the MTV world premier of Prince's "Purple Rain" while devouring my first-ever McDonalds Value Meal. Cline's reference game is belabored and obvious. Give me Manimal. Give me Laughing Hyenas. Give me Charlotte's Web. Just, give me a movie/TV show/book/band not familiar to every fucking geek-ass with Monster Energy wishes and content creator dreams.

Players in the OASIS game are called "gunters," short for "egg hunters" (the closest thing to a hip-hop reference in RPO). Our featured gunter is Wade Watt, whose intake of Halliday's most beloved cultural ephemera is actually temporally impossible. With good friends and a brain of suddenly-useful trivia, he fights the good fight against morally-corrupt corporations out to plaster Mr. Yuk stickers all over the cool kid's rigs.

Of all the RPO's messages, none irritates me more than the implication that female-oriented pop culture isn't cool. Madonna, Whitney, Joan Jett, Kate Bush, weak. Ladyhawke, She-Ra, garbage. Not even acknowledgment of Ms. Pac-Man as the superior ghost-evading, pellet-eating arcade game!

A lack of diversity is not what handicaps the book. No, that would be Ernest Cline's incompetence as a storyteller. His talents are listing things, and writing scenes that leave rapt readers going, "Wow, this would look great in a movie!" Ready Player One is a flat line that fancies itself a trapezoid. 

"She let out what I can only describe as a howl of frustration." Hey, remember that scene in Back To The Future when the McFlys are eating dinner and George starts cracking up at The Honeymooners and the rest of the family look at him with immense disgust and disbelief?

BETTER IN YOUR HEAD?-Cline's insipid sci-fi nostalgia romp is prime for Spielberg's magic touch. While Ready Player One doesn't approach the likes of Jaws and Jurassic Park, it's a fair fling better than the other Spielberg adaptation starring Mark Rylance. It kept up the pace (and my interest) in ways the novel failed terribly at. Exceptions to the general rule of adaptation decay abound: dull descriptions replaced by stunning visuals, exasperating digressions excised in favor of action, copyright issues forcing new cultural references that prove integral to the plot, a likable protagonist. Yeah, making the Iron Giant a war machine was gross, but what'cha gonna do?

Better In Your Head?--LITTLE WOMEN

 

Spoiler Alert: there's actually a lot of women.

THE BOOK-Written by Louisa May Alcott, released 1868/1869

THE MOVIE(S)-Directed by George Cukor, written by Sarah Y. Mason & Victor Heerman, released 1933

Directed by Mervyn LeRoy, written by Sally Benson, Andrew Salt, Sarah Y. Mason & Victor Heerman, released 1949

Directed by Gillian Armstrong, written by Robin Swicord, released 1994

Directed & written by Greta Gerwig, released 2019

THE STORY-Insofar as occupying a multi-story Colonial in the American Northeast qualifies as "struggling," the March family struggles indeed. While her husband serves in the Union Army, cherished matriarch Margaret imports lessons of faith and forgiveness, of charm and charity, upon her four daughters: compliant Meg; arty, self-centered Amy; kindly Beth; and temperamental tomboy Jo. The ladies act out original plays, party with well-off neighbors, and pay it relentlessly forward. Prestige, romance, birth, death, how are you not familiar with the story already?

MIND THE GAP-Every version of Little Women is a fanciful backwards glance. Huge dresses! Heavy hair! Heavy dresses! Huge hair! Exemplary elocution! Jaw-dropping acts of selflessness! Through feminist lenses of varying curves, sisterhood is frivolity, frivolity is freedom, domesticity is an insidious poison, Jo's a dyke clearly, so just throw Professor Bhaer Meg's way. For purposes of this blog, I approach the text as a mere reader. I can't get so ensnared in furtive sighs and insightful pauses.

Guaranteed to chafe certain generations, but remember--the world's best stuff is soft and pink.

I rank the "talkies" thusly, best to least: 2019, 1949, 1994, 1933.

Katharine Hepburn's Jo remains my favorite portrayal of my favorite sister; besides being a hammerhead shark of an actor, she's closest of all contenders to Alcott's character as written: "tall, big hands and feet." Unlike many Jo devotees whose fandom is driven primarily by their inability to deal with the fact they're really Amy deep down, I was Jo March. A wanna-be writer, an unrepentant slang-slinger. (No dude drama, though, as I was much too homely.) Even though she proved more Cameron Frye in a Red Wings jersey than 2pac in a Red Wings jersey, I still love Jo. Mistakes are like bowel movements--everyone makes them.

Amy. No field too long for that cunt. 

Winona Ryder's pretty passions aside, the first Little Women adaptation directed by a woman is more careful than colorful, often cute and rarely cutting.

Described variously as "bold," "arrogant," or "unnecessary," the latest (last?) take disturbs the veil masterfully, reveling in gorgeous ambiguity, a steel pinata cloaked in fine silk. Nearly every risk it takes pays off, and the box office returns were quite sweet. 

Can't wait for the conclusion of the "Saoirse Ronan desperately out-acts Timothée Chalamet in a Greta Gerwig film" trilogy!

BETTER IN YOUR HEAD-Even in 1985, Little Women struck me as a story of Cespedesian absurdity. Catch a falling star, save it for a snowstorm, incinerate a life's work, settle for perpetual leftovers. Pure sisterhood. Louisa May Alcott was not a powerhouse prose stylist, but she was a superior storyteller. Once upon a time, I ate it up. Baby Snoopy at the Daisy Hill Puppy Farm, snuggled behind the jug, that was me with this book. It poked my belly, tugged my earlobes and tickled my tear ducts. Of the re-imaginings, only the 2019 version manages that last one.

Better In Your Head?--ORDINARY PEOPLE

 

Spoiler Alert: Martin Scorsese loves the movie.

THE BOOK-Written by Judith Guest, released 1976

THE MOVIE-Directed by Robert Redford, written by Alan Sargent, released 1980

THE STORY-The Jarrett family had it all. Wealth and health, love and fun. Then the oldest son died, leaving behind countless devastated. None more so, perhaps, then little brother Conrad, whose ongoing struggles with depression threaten to tear the frayed tether away for good.

MIND THE GAP-For his directorial debut, Robert Redford wisely let the actors act. Besides Hutton's riveting portrayal of emotional fatigue in gradual motion, Donald Sutherland doesn't strike one fraudulent note as dad Calvin, Judd Hirsch is indispensable as the therapist-next-door, and Mary Tyler Moore played her best-ever game of pretend as a walking ice cube of a mother. Timothy Hutton's Oscar win was egregious category fraud, but his Conrad is so fucking good my complaints taste like artichoke in my mouth.

 In a world dependent on constant change, we denizens should know better than to fancy ourselves impervious. Interpreting the tragic event as a mundane event would save us so much headache. 

To air out grievances is human. Beth Jarrett, former mother of two, is easily the most (only?) loathed character, because she cannot. Cannot figure, cannot comprehend, cannot regard her surviving son as a fellow puzzle piece. She adores the horror show of respectable parties hosted by important people, where small talk is a form of currency and cries for help are served up as medium-rare jokes. Her husband and son have welcomed self-reflection into the family, but Beth is thisclose to calling the cops on the bastard.

Conrad--adjusting to life after an extended stay in a mental hospital, a fresh set of scars rushing up from both wrists--is instantly likable. He's trudging through a jungle of guilt and trauma with two sharpened pencils. He wants not simply to persist, but to please. He'll never be the superstar shine of a son his big bro was, but damnit, he can be good nevertheless, worthy. So--mom is contented in her chill; son is restless in his remorsefulness; and dad is...desperate. There's just no other word for the thing. Reconnection notice on every door of the house, and it's no small pad. 

Damn Beth! Except...I can't hate Beth. Immaculate hostess, sterling guest, spiffy dresser, emotionally stunted--she did not pop out fully-formed. Beth Jarrett was made, from a recipe many generations old. (Interestingly, both Redford and Moore saw their respective fathers in the character.) Where's the hate stem from? The pedestal upon which mothers are placed. So I pity Beth. I pity them all. 

Whether or not Ordinary People deserved Best Picture over Raging Bull, it won. Dismissing it as outdated white people stuff (see also: the Charleston and shadow puppets) is to miss the point. Rich and poor alike, given enough time, will experience the ultimate in pain. The problem with rejecting stories out of hand is the assumption the narrative is beyond the beholder's mien. Take a moment; take a chance.

BETTER IN YOUR HEAD?-Nothing in the movie diverts drastically from Guest's work. Conrad's relationships outside the home aren't fleshed out, but such excisions are common (hence, adaptations so often coming up short). 

An ode to the lost soul lugging around a backpack stuffed with maps, the story of Ordinary People is the story of radical disruption on a primal level, and a reader's internal interpolation will always ring truer, and stand taller, and sleep sounder. Somehow, it's a comfort novel for me, a clarion call to self-reclamation.

Better In Your Head?--THE WAR OF THE ROSES

 

Spoiler Alert: don't let the home own you. And never apologize for being multi-orgasmic.

THE BOOK-Written by Warren Adler, released 1981

THE MOVIE-Directed by Danny DeVito, written by Michael J. Leeson, released 1989

THE STORY-There's these people. People who wear underwear every day. People whose mother-of-pearl shells breed maggots. These people fall crazy in love, then crazy out of love, and The War Of The Roses is their frosty story. When the tongue can no longer distinguish water from vodka, when undercover resents overflow, when indifference becomes the new anger, and waging war is the only thing that brings peace. 

MIND THE GAP-The film alters quite a bit. Two lawyers become one; an American au pair becomes a German housekeeper; and said lawyer provides voice-over narration in the guise of advice to a disgruntled husband. The excessive one-upmanship between the estranged Oliver (FKA Jonathan) and Barbara Rose, while still ludicrous onscreen, is tempered somewhat. Spiked drinks, sabotaged saunas, crunched Ferraris, bathtubs of rotting food--the movie shows you most of the carnage. But it pusses out when it comes to the dog. Can't risk alienating the audience!

Danny DeVito pulls double duty as the lawyer, and makes their kind seem not-so reprehensible. The book lawyers, with full knowledge of the depths their respective clients would plunge in order to retain possession of the opulent family home, take separate vacations. 

The film doesn't care that the action takes place in Washington, D.C. Shame; Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner tearing into some Double-R burgers would've kept Roy Rogers from near-extinction.

The Rose children, vital on the page, are non-entities on the screen. Once they're sent off, the battle between their folks escalates. Respect, decency, love--up in smoke. The epiphany hits just before the end does. 

BETTER IN YOUR HEAD?-Most who've consumed both prefer the film. Already familiar to '80s audiences as the stars of Romancing The Stone and The Jewel Of The Nile, Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner proved equally successful in a dark, lethally clever comedy. It's for sure funnier than the book; like being tickled with rusted tongs. And as mentioned, the filmmakers pulled punches in their quest to push out as many gallows guffaws as possible. Viewers never get the space or time to consider the headier issues.

I walked away from the book dazed, knowing that parents who abandon their responsibilities (no matter the reason, regardless of the rhyme) are hopelessly lost. I walked away from the film dazed, knowing that spouses who abandon their common sense are not as lost as they imagine. The idea of sympathizing with either version of the Roses is laughable to me. A control freak who'd feel markedly happier with an acquiescent partner of modest ambition, or a nauseatingly-entitled sociopath whose single gift cannot sustain her desired lifestyle? I'll choose the beach, thanks, and I'll be re-reading the book. 

Better In Your Head?--THE PRIME OF MISS JEAN BRODIE

Spoiler Alert: six inches is perfectly adequate.

THE BOOK-Written by Muriel Spark, released 1961

THE MOVIE-Directed by Ronald Neame, written by Jay Preston Allen, released 1969

THE STORY-Edinburgh, the 1930s. At the Marcia Blaine School, Jean Brodie is cultivating a small garden of six twelve-year-old girls who, with great care and magnanimous patience, will grow into redoubtable ladies distinguished by exemplary aplomb and towering intellect. (And, ahem, lady boners for fascism.) 

MIND THE GAP-Best known as the woman who put the "pose" in "composure," Maggie Smith won her first Oscar for the role of Jean Brodie, and the Academy's decision is no scalp-scratcher. While not precisely the gray-haired, middle-aged teacher desperate to leave a legacy, she nails every narcissistic beat. The truculent tulip, the reluctant rose, the pouty petunia, the diffident daffodil--she's every plant in the pot. A lesser actress would've not only missed out on a golden trinket, she would've rendered the character (and thus the film) pointless. Dame Maggie's technically stirring, emotionally detached performance impeccably frames the portrait of a drowning woman blowing air into the world's last life raft. I almost believe she cares about these girls.

Besides keeping the narrative entirely linear, the film omits two girls, and plays mix-and-match with some characteristics and ultimate fates. (Sandy "The Snitch" Stranger and Mary "The Marshmallow" MacGregor are standouts in both. Pamela Franklin deserved a better career, probably, and Jane Card is the quintessential stuttering plain-o with pigtails.) 

The "sexy" scenes are as arousing as a trip to the Hormel factory, though.

Monica...Jenny...Douglas...Pamela...my mom mighta read this book.

The behatted Brodie Bunch adore their self-styled captain of culture, a peacock in a yard full of robins. One foot in the grave, the other foot in the gravy, Jean Brodie is the sort of woman fit for fanfic immortality, the type of lady your soul needs to reconcile. Her downfall is her own fault, and if my empathy isn't strong, nor is it weak.

BETTER IN YOUR HEAD?-Muriel Sparks wrote as though she'd been trapped in a sandstorm of her own creation. She'd die of thirst before admitting her folly. For every "a six o'clock feeling in the house," there's a useless repetition of a trite descriptor. Often in adaptations, characters rendered in the flesh wind up reduced. Not here. The novel--a pre-war classic, mind--left me feeling displaced. Monotonous, droll to a double-fault. Despite the indelible grossness of the classic Catholic-perv of an art teacher who subsists on the poorly-formed words and deeds of young flesh, and despite so many rolling R's my tongue fell asleep, the film version of The Prime Of Miss Jean Brodie is British as fook, and I--American as a missed point--prefer it for that very reason.

Better In Your Head? Pt. 2

Hot damn ho, here we go again.

From December 2016 to July 2017, Trapper Jenn MD hosted an ambitious project: "Better In Your Head?," my challenge of the conventional wisdom stating the cinematic adaptation of a novel is almost always inferior to the source material. 55 books, 58 movies, 1 big win for conventional wisdom.

If you were among the hundreds who regularly checked in (or if such an endeavor just shakes your peaches), well, you're in for a treat. And I don't mean pee-flavored popsicles. The structure of the original posts remains, but I've streamlined the actual reviews themselves. Making for, in my horrifically-biased opinion, a vastly improved reading experience.

61 books, 70 movies. Is it still better in your head? Starting tomorrow, we find out.