The list leans toward the contemporary and is by no means comprehensive; among other things, I intended to mention James Hynes’ “Queen of the Jungle” (from Publish and Perish), but forgot. Here’s the intro:
Adapting fiction for the screen has always been a tricky endeavor. For every “Apocalypse Now,” “The Big Sleep” or “Rebecca,” there are scores of butchered classics and box office duds, and in recent years, Hollywood has only continued to perfect its reverse-alchemy process, transforming narrative gold into the dullest, heaviest lead, topped off with a giant packet of saccharine.
For details, see Roland Joffe’s “The Scarlet Letter,” featuring a pearl-bedecked, shiny-bodiced, utterly vacuous Hester Prynne, or the soul-sucking “Love in the Time of Cholera,” which drove the Guardian’s John Patterson to call for a ban on the making of all movies based on books. It’s easy to sympathize. We’re talking, after all, about the machine that reduced ZoÃ« Heller’s brilliantly satirical “Notes on a Scandal” — a teacher’s obsessive chronicle of her female colleague’s affair with a young male student — to a cautionary tale with all the subtlety of “Fatal Attraction.”
Still, the best fiction can offer what most industry vehicles don’t: a compelling narrative, vivid characters, surprising but realistic plot twists — and sometimes all three. It’s hard not to imagine how “The Secret History” and “A Confederacy of Dunces” would play out on screen, had they escaped getting sucked into the black hole of pre-production. Some books — like Cormac McCarthy’s “No Country for Old Men,” so stripped-down novelistically, it tended to read like stage directions — actually work better as films.
Tomorrow Julian Jarrold takes his own cinematic run at Evelyn Waugh’s magnum opus “Brideshead Revisited,” contending with not only the daunting original text but the beloved 1981 miniseries. Amid all the early reviews and speculation, I’ve been thinking about novels and short stories I’d like to see adapted.
Click over for my suggestions. And since Hollywood clearly needs all the help it can get, please feel free to add your own in the comments.
Fellow Big Star fans, take note: Oxford American’s second Best of the South DVD includes snippets of Thank You Friends, a silent 16mm film shot by Chris Bell and Andy Hummel while the band was recording #1 Record. Interesting stuff. (The rest of the footage is due out in a Rhino box set later this year.)
But for me the highlight of the 2008 best-of issue is Sean Rowe’s “An Insider’s Guide to Jailhouse Cuisine.”
I’ve been dragging my feet on this post. I want to introduce Rowe’s essay in such a way as to preemptively rebut those who would join the critics in my head in dismissing it as flippant and rambling and unnecessarily macho, but that seems a little crazy, and also, people are entitled to their (wrong) opinions. So here’s a long excerpt from the beginning:
I like to get in fights. I like to drink and drive. I like to kick the windows out of cop cars and talk shit to humorless magistrates. In my spare time I enjoy harpsichord music, quiet walks in the woods, and fine dining. Lately, though, I have been dining in, at the Wake County Public Safety Center, also known as: jail.
The Wake County Public Safety Center is a big, ugly building in downtown Raleigh, North Carolina. On the ninth floor, where I spent a month in solitary confinement, the windows are painted black so that you, the law-abiding citizen, don’t have to see what is going on inside. Good for you! But this means that if you’re inside, which you aren’t, we are, you can’t see outside. You cannot see the sky. You cannot see the grass or trees or hot women. You can see the marquee news crawl on the Channel 11 building across the street, if you squint through a slit my friend Jamaica scraped in the paint with a contraband razor blade.
Outside, you are safe, more or less. Again, good for you; or, as we say in the big house, Fuck you, motherfucker. Inside, well… let’s just say one is more or less safe, but the emphasis is on less. Look at your life-insurance policy. There in the fine print on page nine, the part I bet you haven’t read, you will see that your coverage evaporates the moment you step inside the pokey. But isn’t safety a relative concept?
Jail is a great place to score drugs, get gang-raped, or plot a revenge killing. It’s a great place to catch up on your reading or watch a Dolphins game, assuming you’re willing to throw a dictionary at the three-hundred-pound mongoloid who decides it would be better to watch the Cartoon Network. Donnie Harrison, the Wake County Sheriff, says there are about thirteen hundred inmaes in his jail on any given day. This is teensy, even weensy, compared to L.A. County, where I have also spent time, but that is another story. A small portion of the Wake County prisoner population consists of actual, dangerous criminals. Another portion is made up of people who are psychotic. Not psychotic in some cutesy, figurative sense, but in the literal, DSM-IV, eat-your-own-vomit sense; in the let’s-shiv-a-guard, let’s-scream-all-night sense. Mostly, though, jail is full of people just like you and me — scratch that, like you — who have run afoul of America’s goofy dope laws or stolen their pedophile stepfather’s credit card and tried to split to Costa Rica or bounced a check at Wal-Mart and then gotten pulled over for running a stop sign three months later and busted on a bench warrant they didn’t even know they had. These people are different from you in only one key respect: they are young, black, and poor.
But I am not here to whine about the criminal “justice” system or regale you with tall tales of life in stir. Let us dwell on a lighter subject: jailhouse cuisine. During my latest incarceration, I had the pleasure of sharing Thanksgiving dinner with Mack (trafficking), Nate (counterfeiting), Outlaw (parole violation), and J.C. (conspiracy). By then I was out of solitary and had taken up lodgings at the jail annex on the edge of town. Imagine a sparkling-new airport terminal where your plane never lands or departs….
If you laughed your ass off while reading this, be sure to track down the whole thing. If you didn’t, good for you! Or, as we now say in the Maud household, Fuck you, motherfucker.
Later this year Rowe publishes his second novel, Pretty Polly, “a Southern whodunit based on old Appalacian murder ballands.”
But back to Oxford American. At Paper Cuts, Dwight Garner admires Bronwen Dickey’s essay, from the same issue, on the river “made famous — and nearly destroyed — by the success of the film version of [her father] James Dickey’s novel ‘Deliverance.’”
Other best-of highlights: Hal Crowther on African-American history scholar John Hope Franklin, Pia Z. Ehrhart on a New Orleans restaurant/naked swimming club, and Paul Reyes on a Memphis cathouse (not what you’re thinking).
If you’d like a year’s Oxford American subscription, including this issue, and you haven’t won one of my giveaways in the past, email me at maud [at] maudnewton [dot] com before noon EST tomorrow (7/31), with “Best of the South” in the subject line.
All entries will be assigned numbers based on the order received, and the randomizer will choose a winner. The randomizer points to Andrea Kleine.
The second installment of Denis Johnson’s Nobody Move is out now, and Jacket Copy is on the case.
Harper’s excerpts Marilynne Robinson’s Home. (Subscribers can read online.) The novel appears Sept. 2.
In interviews after Beloved, Toni Morrison called for a bench by the side of the road to commemorate slavery. In SC last weekend, she dedicated one.
(Don’t let the longish roster put you off, though. The field tests are engaging — and blessedly succinct.)
|PART 1||PART 2|
|Ben Greenman||Jon Parker|
|Liz Danzico||Andy Ross|
|Steven Heller||Jason Santa Maria|
|Ron Hogan||Maud Newton|
|Matt Linderman||Michael Surtees|
|Randy Cohen||Michael Bierut|
|Randy J. Hunt||Scott Korb|
|Debbie Millman||Mike Sacks|
|John Gruber||Pitchaya Sudbanthad|
Shirley Jackson: “People at first were not so much concerned with what the story meant [as] where these lotteries were held.”
In case it’s not self-evident, we’re keeping summer hours, when we’re keeping hours at all. The Smart Set is on vacation till Labor Day, and I’m trying to see visiting friends, stay on top of the day job, and meet a slew of freelance deadlines while in the midst of some incredibly banal and incredibly time-consuming travails.
A.S. Byatt recalls teaching with Penelope Fitzgerald, an austere & original talent, at a test-prep school for women seeking entry to Oxford and Cambridge.
Geoff Manaugh posts an edited MP3 of his conversation with Tom McCarthy, which ranges from memory and architecture to trauma and the spatial nature of repetition.
Margo Rabb and Peter Cameron are only two of the writers who’ve been surprised to have their novels bought and marketed as YA fiction.