Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Missing:
Adapting Classics
"Mel Gibson, one of the world's most popular action heroes, is Hamlet, the Prince of Denmark. He is vivid, dangerous, violent, and crazy... not unlike his character in Lethal Weapon!"
- From the video box for Franco Zeffirelli's Hamlet
The collision between literary classics and the cinema(1) was probably inevitable; it was also probably inevitable that such a meeting would meet with stridently phrased resistance. The filmed literary classic is a profoundly problematic text, and it finds itself caught in several ideological snares. Thus, when literary adaptations are subject to derision, there are a number of different assumptions at work, and many issues to resolve if we wish to mount a defence. Some have to do with notions of a difference between "high" culture and "low" or "popular" culture, and the perceived associations of particular media with one or the other. There are difficult questions about what constitutes a text, and what makes a particular text a "classic". These problems are thorny enough when considered in terms of a stable text, but become more worrying still when we consider the effect of a shift across media. Are Hamlet or Pride and Prejudice the same texts if they cross media? Can the "classic" elements survive the transition? Just as adaptations seem to exist across the boundaries between media, these questions link key concerns of several disciplines. The issues raised here are central to literary theory, cultural studies, and cinema studies; an easy resolution is therefore unlikely. Nevertheless, while dismissal of literary adaptations rests on too many assumptions for a thorough refutation to be attempted here, I hope to at least show how problematic the issue is and offer the outline of an opposing argument.
In order to do so, perhaps it is worth simplifying the arguments a little and identifying two broad suppositions that underpin the assessment of adaptations as worthwhile only for illiterate "videots." The first is a confidence in the superiority of written literature over cinematic product, and the assumption that those overly exposed to the latter must suffer some kind of reduced, shallower perception. This argument sets up the notion that one medium is above another, and has more worth. The second founding assumption is that an adaptation between two media will be essentially unsuccessful. This part of the argument does not necessarily place one medium over the other: it simply argues that greatness, once achieved in one sphere, can not be transfered. These two arguments can stand independently (hence supporters of the worth of cinema will often use the second argument against adaptations, arguing that they are not "cinematic" enough), but they become particularly potent when placed together. Granting both lets us see not only that a classic text is more likely to appear (or perhaps is only possible) within the privileged medium, but that the lesser medium will never be able to contain the classic text's greatness even if some form of the text is relocated to it.
The former argument is particularly vexing for the defenders of cinema because it seems to hold a degree of truth beyond mere snobbery. The rise of serious cinema studies has helped to dispel the simplistic association of cinema with popular entertainment, and the idea of film as art is no longer met with derision. Yet there remains a universal reticence about considering the two forms equal: film is art, but it remains somehow diminished. There are a number of reasons for this. Film, to start with, is inherently easier. We watch a film in less time than it takes to read a novel (this is not true of a play - but then plays can be reinvested with difficulty, as Shakespeare has been, by being read and studied as if they were novels). Despite attempts to argue that film language is as complex as written language(2), its emphasis on iconic rather than symbolic signs generally also makes it simpler for the reader/viewer to decode(3). This has meant that in the last hundred years popular forms have overwhelmingly made cinema their favoured medium: the Hollywood film dominates our image of cinema more irrevocably than popular fiction does our idea of the novel. At the same time, film's language structures make it more difficult to encode certain complex meanings that novels can convey with relative ease.
Yet it is perhaps the cinema's production process that has most doomed it to a lower cultural status. Films cost a great deal of money to make, and are therefore driven to be popular (and, by implication, less provocative and challenging). They are also frustratingly collaborative, making it hard to sustain the romantic notion of the single genius author that is so central to many traditional conceptions of the classic (hence auteurist film criticism, which tries to find a single creator in the figure of the director - an idea important to legitimising film, but increasingly discredited(4)). Even more crucial, however, is the simple fact that the technology required for filmmaking is only a century old, giving novels and drama hundreds of years head start. Film must draw its classics essentially from the twentieth century, while a novel of this vintage would bear at best the probationary title of "modern classic." Cinema is therefore inevitably a realm of lowered expectations: there is no figure remotely as great as Shakespeare to be found within the cinema. It is essentially impossible, therefore, to conceive of a cinematic "canon" that matches the kind of literary canon that Harold Bloom(5) attempts to delineate.
So, while a defender of cinema is unlikely to concede that greatness will not be found in their medium (greatness is not confined to classics), they are likely to recognise that there are certain pinnacles of literary achievement that have yet to be (and possibly can not be) matched by cinema. Thus, while the snide implication that film and television are media for those who cannot read is too strong (being based primarily on certain biases and circumstances that surround the two media), it must be admitted that the greatest filmmaker is no match for Shakespeare, and the greatest film no match for Hamlet. This is, of course, one of the principal reasons that adaptations are attempted in the first place, and this brings us to the second argument. Can we attempt to create meaningful works of art within the cinema by adapting classics, given the differences in the media that I have noted already?
The desire to do so has been overwhelming, and in fact the desire to take Shakespeare into the new medium of cinema meant the first adaptations actually predated the technology that would seem to have been necessary for a meaningful interpretation: the first filmed Shakespeare adaptations were silent(6). Adaptations, obviously, take a very wide range of forms, and so it is difficult to generalise about their effectiveness. Giddings, Selby, and Wensley(7) note that various methods of categorisation have been used by different authors to classify the types of adaptation that filmmakers have attempted to produce. While differing somewhat, the cited formulations essentially identify three broad approaches: firstly, adaptations that attempt to transfer the text as it exists from novel to screen; secondly, adaptations that make the transfer from medium to medium but alter or emphasise elements in order to re-interpret or comment upon the text; and thirdly, adaptations which take simply some attitude, subject matter or concept from the source and use it as a launching point for an essentially new work.
All three types are of some interest, but the first is particularly relevant in the present context for two reasons. Firstly, this is the type of adaptation most often used for "classic" texts. Secondly, it is the type of adaptation that most clearly tries to shift an existing text rather than creating a new one. The second and third approaches, while open to criticism for disrespecting their source, at least have the advantage of some originality. This makes them conceptually easier to deal with, as we can treat them as a fresh work and consider the artist making the adaptation as an author. This is not true of the first type of adaptation, and works of this type are perhaps the most derided style of textual transformation. Lacking the integrity of the original text, but without new meaning added, they seem at best visual aids to the original. Seen this way, the adaptation truly is for "videots," a shallow substitute worthwhile only for those unwilling or unable to read the original.
The key assumption here, however, is that the original qualities that distinguished the source material can not survive translation. The notion of author as originator plays an important role here in that it establishes the self-evident lack of worth of an adaptation. How can the greatness of Pride and Prejudice or Hamlet exist in a reworked version without the respective presences of Jane Austen or William Shakespeare? I do not wish to get sidetracked into the considerable debate about the role in which the author plays in the creation of a text. It is worth noting, however, that the notion of the author as inseparable from the text is strongly ingrained within traditional literary criticism. The role of a critic is to decipher a text: to decipher the text, it must have one single meaning (what Roland Barthes calls the "final signified"(8)) imposed by the author. In this model the critic is directly concerned with (to draw on Barthes again) the "`message' of the Author-God(9)," and the value of an adaptation removed from this "Author-God" is indeed dubious. Yet as critical models have shifted towards a focus on the ways in which readers actively decode texts, the emphasis on this closed, uncontested meaning imposed by the author has lessened. If a text's meaning and value (and hence its classic qualities) can be seen as independent of its author, the idea of adaptations seems to have more validity.
A thorough exploration of this particular philosophical sticking point is outside the scope of this essay and would likely be unrewarding anyway; there will always be differing points of view on such an issue. It is enough to note here that there are arguments suggesting the literary classic might be autonomous enough to yield a rewarding product when adapted. We can then move on to look at the specific problems that face any filmmaker who attempts such a conversion. Here we have to consider the relative strengths and weaknesses of different media in expressing certain things. A novel achieves effects in a different manner to a film because it is constructed in different ways (and of course theatre differs again). The range of problems in transfering between novel and film are explored in some depth by Joy Gould Boyum(10). It seems clear that while some elements can be relatively simply transfered (dialogue, action), others present considerable problems. This may be due to their enigmatic fixedness in the text (as with style and tone); because they require specific exposition (as with interior thoughts or any complex concepts); or because they are undone by the literalness of the cinematic image (as occurs with visual metaphors). Boyum looks at ways in which film can surmount these obstacles, but the essential point remains clear: the media work differently and film will be cumbersome when it comes to achieving certain effects.
As a the kind of classic realist novel that cinema is so often cited as having drawn its aesthetics from(11), Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice might be expected to pose relatively minor problems in this regard. Certainly it lacks the tricky introspection and sophisticated literary devices that make the work of some twentieth century writers so hard to film(12). A great deal of the action is expressed through Austen's finely observed dialogue, and this is eminently filmable. Yet an adaptation of even such a relatively straightforward text hits problems. The first is the problem that Giddings Selby & Wensley(13) identify as so critical to the filmed adaptation: length. A feature film of normal length (ie, between about 80 and 140 minutes) could scarcely hope to make inroads into Austen's extensive dialogue. Excessive cuts to the narrative events or dialogue, however, risk eliminating Austen's social acuity and hence much of the novel's point.
It is interesting, then, to look at the 1940 Pride and Prejudice, starring Laurence Olivier and Greer Garson, and directed by Robert Z. Leonard. This version runs just under two hours, and Austen's source material has been extensively pruned. This is a problem that the film has trouble overcoming. Events crowd onto each other, distorting the pacing and even the order of events: hence Lydia's elopement immediately follows Darcy's proposal and precedes Darcy's revelation of Wickham's dealings with his sister. Shifts in characterisation have also occurred, perhaps in order to ease Darcy and Elizabeth's reconciliation process so that it can occur within the allotted two hours. Hence Olivier's Darcy seems so pleasant and agreeable in the film's early sections that Elizabeth's dislike for him seems vain and shrewish. His tactless comments early on are overheard due to Elizabeth's eavesdropping rather than his indiscretion; various other circumstances throughout the film mitigate his (not very) standoffish attitude. This eases (and thus hastens) the transition from cad to romantic lead that the book turns on, yet damages the stroy's integrity.
Such problems seem almost the inevitable result of the compression that occurs in the transfer to the screen. Yet the 1940 Pride and Prejudice also shows the ways in which a film adaptation is subject to corruptions not felt by the text. Literary characters have to be portrayed by actors, and the personae established within the cast members' previous work can distort the audience's relationship with the original text's character. Hence Joy Gould Boyum notes that she rejected Garson as Elizabeth Bennet based upon having seen her in William Wyler's Mrs Miniver, made two years later(14). The fickle world of Hollywood can also be subject to commercial trends that would be below the genius figure of the classic author. Hence the 1940 Pride and Prejudice seems strongly influenced by the previous years' runaway success Gone With the Wind. This can be seen not only in the ornamental trappings such as the costume and production design, but also in approaches to plot and character: the shift in Elizabeth's character could be seen as coloured by Vivien Leigh's Scarlett O'Hara. There is even an action scene of sorts, with the Bennets and Lucases racing to meet Mr Darcy. Such contaminations represent the adaptation of the classic at perhaps its most embarrassing, and seem to vindicate the contemptuous view by some for the form. Certainly, Leonard's Pride and Prejudice offers little more than "an inkling" of the delights to be found in the book.
Yet the fact that an adaptation can ruin a text by no means makes it necessarily so. Certainly, it can be argued that many of the more embarrassing lapses in adaptation that have occurred in the past were due to restrictive notions of morality or commercial concerns that are no longer relevant today(15). Even the problems posed by length have been eased somewhat, as Kenneth Branagh's successful release of a four-hour Hamlet (which I will discuss further in a moment) suggests. The 1995 BBC television version, given the luxury of five hours of running time, achieved a high degree of faithfulness and was very well received. I don't wish to suggest that running time is the only obstacle that faces a text, since even the five hour Pride and Prejudice suffers some special difficulties (Darcy, for example, is in danger of coming across as ridiculous as he glowers broodingly in the story's first half). The point I wish to make is that the failures of the earlier version, while perhaps likely in the new medium, are by no means intrinsic to it. It is also worth noting the irony that television, the medium often portrayed as even lower than cinema in the cultural stakes, is able to offer greater faithfulness.
A situation that contrasts interestingly with the fate of Austen is the predicament regarding filmed Shakespeare. Despite some superficial similarities between theatre and cinema (after all, there not so much difference between a play and a screenplay), convincing arguments can be put forward to suggest that their is a greater gulf between the forms than exists between cinema and prose fiction(16). This would seem particularly to be the case in regard to the form of drama that Shakespeare practised(17). Perhaps the standard argument, as Anthony Davies notes, is that theatre is based primarily on verbal language, whereas cinema is based upon visual language(18). This creates one instant conflict - between Shakespeare's necessary description of events and the cinema's understandable tendency toward depiction. Yet other problems also exist: Davies goes on to focus particularly on the difference between theatrical and cinematic notions of space. Then, of course, there is the cultural elitism argument: Shakespeare is complex, hard to interpret, and appeals to a minority audience, which of course precludes the large crowds cinema thrives on.
All these problems can be seen in Franco Zeffirelli's 1990 version of Shakespeare's most admired play, Hamlet. Advertised oddly as a "contemporary medieval adventure for all ages," and starring Mel Gibson, Zeffirelli's film is about as commercial as Shakespeare comes(19). It is therefore particularly vulnerable to accusations that it has bastardised its source. While the film has several things counting in its favour (notably the surprisingly strong lead performance by Gibson), it does exhibit several of the characteristic problems noted above. The Shakespearian dialogue has been trimmed extensively, with almost all lengthy soliloquies removed, and there is a danger here (as there was with Austen) that this will render the end product largely pointless. The problems of depiction are also evident, most notably in the portrayal of Ophelia's death, for which Zeffirelli opts for an awkward compromise between showing and telling. Following Davies' arguments, it is possibly also arguable that the film's visual expansiveness (it is shot on impressive locations in Scotland) is distracting from the essentially interior nature of the drama.
Despite these flaws, however, Zeffirelli's film is still strong enough to suggest some of the possibilities of filmed Shakespeare, especially when considered alongside the more successful 1948 Olivier and 1996 Kenneth Branagh versions. Olivier's version is essentially similar in approach to Zeffirelli's, but its extra twenty minutes running time gives it scope to include more of the original dialogue. Olivier still takes certain liberties, as with his elimination of Fortinbras (also missing in Zeffirelli's version) and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Yet he remains faithful to the essential drama that occurs in the play's central story, and his variations come across as no more extreme than the variations that would be imposed by a typical stage production (many of which, I'm sure, would also eliminate Fortinbras). There may be problems with the staging of certain aspects of Shakespeare on screen(20), but Olivier demonstrates that Hamlet can indeed make it onto the screen in a form that offers at least some of the original pleasures intact.
I think, however, that the case of Hamlet can offer us a chance to at last go somewhat on the offensive. Is Olivier's Hamlet really just an adaptation that does not lose a great deal? I would argue that, in fact, Hamlet (and filmed Shakespeare in general) gives us an example of adaptation bringing something positive back to the text. It is nearly four centuries since the publication of the first collected edition of Shakespeare's plays. In those intervening years, language has changed considerably. This makes Shakespeare in its original form (as a stage presentation) considerably more difficult for an audience to follow than it once was: it requires a more advanced level of intellectual participation. Yet filmed Shakespeare allows certain illustrative devices to be used that greatly explain the action and therefore restore some of its original accessibility. Kenneth Branagh's Hamlet may take liberties with the play (notably through changed setting and what some might see as excessive visual flourishes), but it does manage to present the entire text of Shakespeare's original, something that theatrical presentations rarely do. The cinema affords Branagh the chance to enliven and clarify the language through imagery so that an audience can relate to even the full text with relative ease. Such a well mounted filmed version therefore helps a modern audience to approach Shakespeare in a manner that much more closely approximates the experience of his contemporary audiences.
To universally disregard the adapted
classic as an unworthy form is
therefore
misleading. It is true that there are considerable difficulties in
meaningfully
transfering a classic text between different media. However, the fact
that
something is difficult does not mean that it is impossible; and the
fact
that a text has been altered does not mean it has been ruined. If we
can
move beyond the idea that classics are locked in a static, unchangeable
form,
and abandon prejudices about the merits of certain media, we may see
promise
in the idea of adaptations. As I think the example of filmed
Shakespeare
demonstrates, an adaptation can do much more than simply offer a dulled
reflection
of the original: rather, they can reinvigorate and rediscover aspects
of
the original that a more reverential study of the texts might neglect.
Written in September 1997 for the Melbourne University subject "Literary Classics."
Notes
1. I have referred here to the "cinema," and will be referring to "filmed" and "cinematic" adaptations as I continue. I do not wish to exclude television adaptations through such phrasings, and use them simply to keep my argument clear. While there are some very significant differences between the two media, for the most part, those arguments that apply to films apply to television as well. I therefore don't think it is worth endlessly labouring the point that I am talking about both film and video/television; I will discuss TV adaptations specifically in relation to Pride and Prejudice. (Back)
2. For a bald statement of this point of view, see Boyum, Joy Gould, 1985, Double Exposure: Fiction Into Film, Universe Books, New York, p. 25. (Back)
3. These terms are from linguist and early semiotician Charles Peirce; see Giddings, Selby, & Wensley, 1990, Screening the Novel: The Theory and Practice of Literary Dramatization, MacMillan, p. 5. (Back)
4. For a basic outline of auteurist film criticism see Buscombe, Edward, 1973, "Ideas of Authorship," in Caughie, John, 1981, Theories of Authorship, Routledge & Kegan Paul, London, pp 22-34. (Back)
5. Bloom, Harold, 1995, The Western Canon, MacMillan, London. (Back)
6. See Sinyard, Neil, 1986, Filming Literature: The Art of Screen Adaptation, Croom Helm, London & Sydney, p. 1. and Gidding, Selby & Wensley, op. cit., p. ix. (Back)
7. Giddings, Selby & Wensley, 1990, op. cit., pp. 10-12. (Back)
8. Barthes, Roland, 1977, "The Death of the Author," in Image Music Text, ed. & trans. Stephen Heath, Fontana / Collins, p. 147. (Back)
9. Ibid., p. 146. (Back)
10. Boyum, 1985, op. cit. (Back)
11. As, for example, in the first sentence of Sinyard, 1986, op. cit., p. vii. (Back)
12. Interestingly, Neil Sinyard (in Sinyard, 1986, op. cit., p.vii), notes that writers such as James Joyce and Virginia Woolf saw cinema as a positive development because it freed them to explore exactly those approaches to writing that rendered their work hard to adapt. (Back)
13. Giddings, Selby & Wensley, 1990, op. cit., p. 4. (Back)
14. Boyum, 1985, op. cit., p. 56. (Back)
15. A case persuasively put by Boyum, 1985, op. cit., p. 19. (Back)
16. Ibid., p. 38. (Back)
17. Neatly summed up by Terence Hawkes: "They are not novels. They are not plays. They are not poems." Hawkes, Terence, 1986, That Shakespeherian Rag: Essays on Critical Process, Methuen, London & New York, p. 76. (Back)
18. Davies, Anthony, 1988, Filming Shakespeare's Plays, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, p. 2. (Back)
19. I am making a comparison here only with "straight" adaptations and discounting heavily reworked versions such as Baz Luhrmann's 1997 Romeo + Juliet or "disguised" Shakespeare such as West Side Story. (Back)
20. Olivier's staging of the "To be or not to be" speech (Hamlet stands atop the castle's battlements) has been particularly criticised, and this suggests the problems that accompany attempts to visually enliven long passages of text. See Davies, 1988, op. cit., p. 53. (Back)
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© 2005 by Stephen Rowley