CHAPTER VIIIFILM ADAPTATION
Themad search of the motion picture for appropriate material created a unique caricature: second-hand art. In general, it is regarded as a sign of unoriginality, if not of actual sterility, when a work, which speaks a different language in the domain of art, is translated into the language of the motion picture. It is not dissimilar to the situation that obtains when a given individual, unable to write anything on his own account, translates from the writings of others.
But the languages of words, words that act as the hand-maidens of thought, are all members of the same great family of the human mind. When languages of this kind are translated, the only change that is made is a change in sound. The meaning remains the same. The essential traits, the underlying faculties of a poet remain quite intact if translated cleverly, knowingly, and modestly.
It is the spiritual soul that shines forth in poetry. The motion picture “is not of this confectionery,” the Swiss Carl Spitteler would say.All that can come to light in the film, and particularly in film adaptations, is the sensual soul of an action. From this it is evident that when a bit of literature is adapted to the screen, the adapter is obliged to set up a quite different objective from that which the original poet had in mind.
Attempts have been made to refute the necessity of this change of purpose. The desire so to adapt a great piece of literature to the screen that it will be in every way worthy of the original poet in that it is a faithful reflection of his aims, is in itself altogether praiseworthy. But no poet has thus far ever had his renown increased by such an effort. All that was the most tender of beauty in the poem as it originally stood became a soft sweet pap and nothing more when transferred to the literal words of the film text. Attempts of this kind have not only been unsuccessful with regard to the poet that was to be honored; the truth is, no good motion picture has ever been made in such a way and with such an aim in view. The result has invariably been a surrogate that afforded nothing more than a glassy tedium.
The problem of film adaptation cannot be solved by reverence alone. For the spiritual soul mocks the coercive oppression that goes with gesturesand refuses to be confined within the narrow circle of such art as the motion picture has at its command. Gold becomes a mere quasi-precious metal, beauty degenerates into paint and powder, truth is routed by phraseology.
No one who is at all judicious will ever attempt to adapt to the screen a bit of poetry whose entire art consists in a complete absorption by and amalgamation with the world of pure thought. Goethe’s transcendental works run but little risk. Those works, however, in which there is a union of the spiritual soul with a sensual soul stand in ever-present danger. Shakespeare’s works, for example, are remarkably divided in this regard; they are full of fissures: he hid his pure intellectuality in an action that is glaring, medieval, and vigorous.
Fig. 19. Scene fromDestiny.[See p.91]
Fig. 19. Scene fromDestiny.[See p.91]
[See p.91]
What do we mean by film adaptation? We mean the separation of the sensual action from all the rest. The feelings, transfigured through pure intellect in the original poetry, are lifted from their initial surroundings. Adapt a poem of the spiritual soul in this way and a journalese tract is the result. Take the case ofHamlet: death through poison, the son as the detective, the queen mother suffering from aberrations, a duel with poisoned blades, and a conclusion of fourfold death by poison. In such a bungledcompilation there would not be a single trace of Shakespearian spirit. In such a thing the riddle of Hamlet would not be solved but cracked.
But since film adaptations are the order of the day, we might as well pay them our respects, bow to them, and confess that they exist. There is no use to deny the existence of that which already exists; a fact is a fact. Moreover, film adaptation is not so contrary to all the laws of nature and art as it would seem at first blush. For there are many poetic creations of magnificent beauty of action whose picturesque fullness poetry alone can do nothing more than merely touch or indicate. There are other poems whose world of feeling is congealed in cold abstract thought. In such cases the motion picture reclaims its original due. There are also poetic works, such as Schiller’sFiesko, which are just as effective in the poetic form as they are in the form they take on at the hands of the motion picture. A work, consequently, the sensual action of which is so strong that a masterful, and dignified, motion picture can be made from it, may be adapted to the screen.
To transform a creation of the human mind and soul which constitutes, judged from every conceivable point of view, a work of real and great art from the sphere in which it originally stood, and in which it was originally created, toanother sphere, and into another species of art, is always more or less sacrilegious. If done, it must be done well, and done completely. There is no room here for piecemeal work. The adaptation of a poem to the film calls for a re-creator who is a stranger to mercy; he dare not shrink from tearing up the tenderest flower by the roots and transplanting it to a new and strange garden. Anything that does not fit in with his purpose must be ruthlessly cast aside. Follow this recipe, and a work that is not appreciated by the uncultured, great though it may be, may be metamorphosed into a work that is appreciated, on the screen. Indeed, a new work of real art may arise in this way. In a case of this kind, the original poet may after all have his renown increased despite the fact that the film to which his name is still attached corresponds in no way to what he originally had in mind.
Nor should we ever fancy that work of this kind is unnecessary. The Norse adaptation of Björnson’sSynnöve Solbakken, one of Björnson’s short stories, written when he was still a young man, seemed, in its finished form, as if Björnson had had the film camera in mind when he created it. Picture after picture was shown, and that at great length—and great breadth. Of Björnson’s unquestioned passionateness, however, which resemblesthe roaring power of an ice-cold mountain stream as it gushes down the hillside, there was not a trace.
To adapt is to use violence, to do violence. The adapter will never succeed in finding and filming the original purpose of the poet. The adaptation ofFieskowas good; it was a success; but it was not Schiller; it was not a child of his mind. And it would have been still better had it resembled Schiller even less than it did. The action should have been adapted much more to the needs of exclusive mimic portrayal. To try to spare the poet, to hurt his feelings in no way, is to render him a disservice.
It is unfortunate that productive poets can be persuaded to subject their works to the adapter only with difficulty (as Carl Mayer in the superb filmSchloss Vögelöd). This is true, though the thought that is required to adapt a work to the film is so great that the process in itself requires originality and reveals a spirit of the most real productivity. For it is after all easier to create a new work from the beginning than to take a finished work and transform it so completely that it meets the requirements of an entirely new and novel art.
For the author the adaptation is frequently a most unsatisfactory affair. The book often leadsthe adapter astray; follow it, and he loses himself in byways that are unknown to the ways of the film world. In such a case the entire production has to be re-created, which means that it has to be re-written. The result of this is that everybody is dissatisfied, and not a few are in a bad humor. On the other hand, the author may allow, or may have allowed, himself to be carried away by a veritable wealth of ideals: he changes everything; he adapts everything; he makes new characters; he develops new action; he cajoles a new fate into the composition as a whole; he invents new episodes; he even creates a new milieu and a new atmosphere. The result of all this may be, to be sure, a quite good film. But it may be so new that it is incorrect to speak of it as an adaptation. In such a case, the original author falls into ill humor, because he feels that violence has been done his creation which is equivalent, he feels, to having been neglected or slighted. The manager is also apt to have his face wreathed in frowns, for what has become of his funds? He has paid out a handsome royalty for what? For nothing, he feels. His case seems justified, for he paid for a given book, but there is not a trace of that book in the film which is to care for the needs of the box-office. And our old friend—the dramaturge—is in the worst frame of mind ofall, for he feels that the author has gone about his business with excessive independence and with too little concern for his excellent criticism.
From all of this it should be manifest that it is rare that a good adaptation is the result of a single effort. Adaptation is a slow and complicated process. There must be untiring revision—with the disagreeable result that a manuscript promised for and by a certain date is not ready at the stipulated time. It is much better all around when the author lives himself, as it were, into the milieu he plans to film, becomes perfectly familiar with it, if he was not familiar with it when he began, creates characters with whom he is on speaking terms, and fashions a fate such as he himself has experienced.
It is dangerous to adapt a great work to the film. The adaptation of theMarriage of Figaroshowed the baroque curlicues, the confusions, the harmless malevolences of Beaumarchais’s work (which in the opera are quite unessential and the transparency of which appeal to us to-day as altogether childish); we thought of Mozart and sighed. AndHamlet!With Asta Nielsen! Without Shakespeare! Adapted “after an old saga!” Why that was merely and after all a stolen creation.
The living poet may decide for himself whethertreason has been committed by the adapter who visualized his creation on the screen, and did it artistically, but as an artistic motion picture. The dead poet is unable to come to his own defence. If his work cannot be adapted with piety, it is always the privilege of the would-be adapter to leave it alone—as an act of piety.
Fig. 20. Scene fromThe Nibelungs.[See p.91]
Fig. 20. Scene fromThe Nibelungs.[See p.91]
[See p.91]