FILM ADAPTATION
The mad 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
gestures and 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.
[Illustration: Fig. 19. Scene from _Destiny_.
[_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 of _Hamlet_: 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 bungled compilation 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’s _Fiesko_,
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, to another 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’s _Synnöve 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 resembles the 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 of _Fiesko_ was 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 film _Schloss 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 leads the 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 of
all, 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
the _Marriage of Figaro_ showed 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. And _Hamlet!_
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 whether treason 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.
[Illustration: Fig. 20. Scene from _The Nibelungs_.
[_See p. 91_]
]