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.