Tuesday, October 9, 2018

From books to movies

Me: By any chance, are  you my father?
I love Stephen King's The Shining. It was equal parts creepy, in-your-face, gory, and claustrophobic. I was scared out of my wits when I read the part with the naked bloodied woman in the bathtub. I'd like to believe that that scene turned me gay, or at least made me flee from naked female bodies forever. But when I saw the Stanley Kubric movie adaptation, I kept thinking that the novel wasn't that batshit crazy. I did enjoy Kubric's movie though, especially the scenes with those creepy ass twins. Now that's something I can't say for a few movies based on King's books. I heard The Gunslinger sucked vacuum cleaners. And The Lawnmover Man was so hysterical I was farty for a few days.

Nevertheless, when I think about all the King-based movies I do like (Misery, Salem's Lot, Cujo, the latest It, Stand by Me, Carrie), I ask myself, "Would I still enjoy these movies if I didn't like the books they're based on?" And, "Would I still be able to love the adaptation even though it didn't stay true to the book?" Why, yes and yes! I love Twilight, both the book and the movie. I hated The Golden Compass movie, not because its source book is one of my all-time faves, but because the movie was so confusing and all over the place that it was painful to watch. I'd much rather have a root canal. The Bridges of Madison County, the novel, was so sappy that I developed ovaries after a few pages. But the movie had the perfect balance of gravitas and melodrama. Also, Meryl Streep.

I stopped comparing movies with the books they're based on. I even made a lengthy-ish post about it on Facebook (screenshot below),

Yes, I'm using big fonts on my phone.
And I couldn't care less if the person sitting next to me can read my texts.
It's been years since I was last sexting.
But, pardon the grammatical lapses though. I spot 4.
Anyway, the book club discussed our love/hate thing for screen adaptations of our favorite books this month. As usual, it was an afternoon of interesting and enlightening conversations. (Kokay, the discussion moderator, was awesome!) I brought copies of two novels that have wonderfully entertaining big screen adaptations—Elizabeth von Armin's Enchanted April and E. M. Forster's A Room with a View. There, I admit, I'm a huge anglophile. My anglophilia is very much through the roof that I have watched each episode of Downton Abbey at least three times. And those British actors! Ack! How can I not fall in love with Henry Cavill, Jim Sturgess, Aidan Turner, and Richard Madden. When Madden's character in Game of Thrones died, I was this close to storming the HBO offices and asking for heads to roll.

As for the worst adaptation (we were asked to identify what we think are the best and our worst adaptations), I didn't mention a bad adaptation of a book, in the spirit of my Facebook post above. A bad movie is a bad movie is a bad movie, and it doesn't matter whether it's an adaptation or not. Battlefield Earth will always be a bad movie. And Eragon. And The Cat in the Hat. It's just even more unfortunate that these movies are based on books that are beloved by many, so there will be the inevitable comparisons. Again, people, make your life easier—stop the comparisons and be content enjoying apples and oranges separately.
Additional recommendations regarding screen adaptations
Again, all heavy on the anglo

Wednesday, October 3, 2018

Peter's Pretentiously Pedantic and Prodigious Proust Project


Every year, I make it a point to read Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time, or at least the first volume, Swann's Way. And every year, I fail, big time. I can't recall a time when I made it past page 50. My editor self always feels attacked by Proust's looping sentences. And what the eff is the deal with describing one's going to bed in no less than 10 pages. Go to bed, get a kiss from mama. That's it. But not with Proust. Every act, however mundane, gets the royal treatment. Fortunately, there aren't any scenes set in the bathroom. Otherwise, we'll get long, winding sentences about a character's efforts and musings in doing the number 2.

But the hell with it—I am going in. I will read not just the first volume, but all effing seven. I will be so deep in In Search of Lost Time (or Remembrance of Things Past, if you go by C. K. Scott Moncrieff's translation) that I'll be sick of madeleines and long pages of French prose wherein nothing seems to be happening. I will laugh in the face of boredom. I will wallow in the fields of ennui. I will fight the urge to throw the books at walls or at annoying people. I will fart run-on sentences and elliptical clauses.

And why am I doing this? Because I have masochistic tendencies, and Proust's books will be my outlet. Because every time I see a picture of Proust, he seems to be mocking me. "Weakling!" "You're like the lowest form of reader? Merde!" "Tu pues du cul!" (I have my French teacher to thank for this wonderful bit of profanity. I think it means something like smelling like you came out of an ass.) Because I feel a special affinity for Proust. I mean, this was a guy who spent most of the daylight hours in bed and only left it just to go to dinner invites. The life! Also, he was gay. So we're like sisters.

But, but, but. This doesn't mean that I'll read all seven volumes in one go. There will still be the occasional suspense novel or the sappy gay romance or the latest hyped bestseller. If anything, I'll probably read a volume between one or two other books that I finish. Right now, I've rediscovered how enjoyable it is to read the Agent Pendergast novels by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. (I stopped reading the series a few years ago.) So Swann's Way after a couple of these thrillers. Because nothing makes a better palate cleanser than a French novel about French people doing French things (except for French kissing and the blowjob, which I heard the French apparently invented).

So I figure it'll take me at least 3 years for this project, no? But I'll be blogging about my progress every now and then. And probably, just to annoy some people, I'll follow Proust's writing style in my posts. It's like my "eff you" to Twitter shoutouts. Because why would you use just 140 characters to say something when you can go with 10,000?