It's tough being a book purist. It strips away your ability to casually enjoy an adaptation and be done with it.
Books and movies being two entirely different ways of ingesting information, it is not feasible for the act of watching something on a screen to replicate the slow-burn gratification of reading the same thing from a page. Irrespective of how successful a screen adaptation has been in entertaining viewers who are not familiar with the source material, it can only attempt to engage the curiosity and hold the attention of those who are. Barring that, it can never seem to do full justice to the book. And so, purist bibliophiles are doomed to be eternally plagued by onscreen versions of their beloved works.
It cannot be helped. The written word has an undeniable charm of its own. Each book is an experience we have lived through. We may not have seen its events, but we have definitely felt them. The instant we begin reading, the visuals start taking shape in our minds, gradually growing sharper and more vivid as we get on. By the time we finish that last chapter and close the book with a sigh, the deed is done. The characters have been cast. They are fully fleshed out people. Those events are now memories. That universe is established. The movie is complete.
Now, an adaptation comes along. It's more akin to being shown a whole new picture album of one's childhood - "Remember your classmates? Your favourite friend? Your room? Your street? Well, we have been tinkering with your world a bit, tweaking people and places here and there and this is what everything looks like now."
Uncomfortable.
The mild-mannered Rational Side of my mind (this is usually the one in charge of appreciating the themes of the book) wants me to think - "This is a refreshing take on the story! They have made it relatable to a wider audience. How interesting to see another's perspective!". But the roguish Intuitive Side (you know, the one in charge of casting, costumes, set designing and the like) yells - "Wait! What?! This guy would never say this. That girl would never look like that. This is not how it happens. Where's my favourite line? No.. no.. no! What am I, the lead in some sci-fi thriller? With minions of the dark side systematically accessing and altering my memories? Run!"
Granted, there are times when the 'minions' are particularly sympathetic and very Despicable Me-ish. They generously add to the beauty of our memories. While watching works that are impossible to condense into a few hours, like The Lord of the Rings, Jurassic Park or The Chronicles of Narnia, even the Intuitive Side relents and nods when the Rational Side marvels at the way the essence of the narrative has been captured. I would willingly hand over my personal pensieve, no questions asked, to any of those who gave us Jeremy Brett as Holmes, David Suchet as Poirot, Ian McKellen as Gandalf, Alan Rickman as Colonel Brandon and Snape, or Tom Hanks as Paul Edgecomb.
At other times, the creative liberty of the 'sci-fi team' ends up making something so endearing that the Intuitive Side forgets to be annoying and is almost converted. The year 1995 with all its Jane Austen adaptations comes to mind. Or the portrayal of Nick Guest or Edward Ferrars by Dan Stevens, which put the Intuitive Side to sleep with a placid smile.
But just when you are lulled into a sense of awe and beginning to hope that you might be able to enjoy adaptations after all, the 'minions' suddenly play Victor Frankenstein. They take the skeleton of a butchered book and fix it up with their own chaotically jarring pieces, and unleash creatures like Miss Fiesty Price of Mansfield Park (1999), who decided to be a confusing cross between Elizabeth Bennet and Jane Austen herself, or Miss Arrogant Elliot of Persuasion (2022) who took lessons from Jim Halpert on how to flirt with the camera.
Luckily for me, these versions didn't feature any artist who is a particular favourite of mine. Although, it is possible to sit through an otherwise "disappointing" movie, just to appreciate the craft of an admirable actor. But, occasionally, even this is denied me.
Like the time I looked into the 2020 version of Noël Coward's Blithe Spirit. Here was the most adorable actor playing Charles Condomine, Dame Judi Dench playing Madame Arcati, and my Rational Side would have been content to just let me sit back and be entertained. Not a chance. Following the séance, not only did Charles begin to see Elvira, but the absolutely incorrigible Intuitive Side of mine had its own supernatural experience too. It saw the spirit of Hugh Laurie take control of the person of Dan Stevens, and start performing its own version of 'A Bit of Stevens & Laurie'. Once I saw it, I couldn't unsee it. I spent the rest of the time expecting Jeeves to silently materialise on the carpet beside Charles, to save the day by, say, hiring an experienced professional to perform a proper exorcism, or painting the pleasure-seeking Elvira a more enticing picture of afterlife thereby luring her to go back, or proving Ruth is Madame Arcati's long-lost daughter or something.
I would have been glad, even then, just to continue watching. But Mr.Intuitive hit me with a barrage of questions - "Why did they change the screwball to slapstick? Why isn't the chemistry brought out through rapid-fire witty verbal sparring alone, why is 'Big Ben' implied to be literally 'chiming'? The characters are supposed to be unlikeable. Why are they given backstories? Why didn't they highlight the hypocrisy, the sham of an upper class marriage of convenience which was nothing but a rehearsed facade, a show they put up in front of society; so that the slightest discord caused a crack on the surface, breaking their smooth, outward sophistication, their unoriginal, shallow, formulaic repartee, and exposing the bitterness and vulnerable reality within?"
I gave up.
So now, it is all back to square one. Back to the habit of watching a movie and getting an itch to cleanse the palate by reading the entire book or play all over again.
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