From Page to Screen - Big Fish

In John Ford’s classic 1962 film The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, journalist Maxwell Scott delivered the oft-quoted line “When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.” The statement is one of resignation to the power of myth over the minds of men, regarding a fictional account which has irrevocably usurped the truth on which it had been based. In his 1998 novel Big Fish: A Novel of Mythic Proportions, Daniel Wallace deftly explores the premise of Scott’s statement, by recounting the mythological story of Edward Bloom, and his son William’s struggle to peer through the veil of his ailing father’s legend and find the truth of the man at its core. 

Prior to the novel’s publication, the manuscript found its way into the hands of screenwriter John August. The novel, which explores the topic of grief as much as it does the relationship between father and son, struck a chord with August, whose father had passed earlier that year. After approaching a number of directors, including Stephen Spielberg, August brought the screenplay to Tim Burton’s attention. Burton, who had recently lost both of his parents, found the story perfectly suited his preferences and style. With Ewan McGregor and veteran actor Albert Finney cast as the younger and older versions of Edward, respectively, and Billy Crudup cast as grown son William, filming began in January of 2003. 

In both incarnations, Big Fish is a story told on two levels. In the present, Edward Bloom is dying. William has returned home for what is expected to be his father’s last days. Though the strained relationship between the two is made plain through William’s narration in the novel, his estrangement from his father is explained much more overtly in the opening scenes of the movie: tired of Edward’s ceaseless performance as raconteur, William feels little connection to his father. William’s efforts to reconcile the relationship require a tremendous amount of progress, as he has only ever known the myth, never the man. 

In the novel, despite his distaste for his father’s stories, it is left to William to piece together the sweeping mythology of Edward’s life. Narration is left to a number of characters in the film, primarily Edward himself. Both novel and movie describe Edward Bloom as a man with a destiny, meant for bigger and better things than those for which is small hometown will allow. In the film version, a young Edward discovers the fact that goldfish only grow if given enough space. As soon as he reaches adulthood, Edward sets out to make a fishbowl of the world. 

As the storyteller’s son tells the story, Edward’s path to greatness is shown to have always been fraught with difficulties matched only by the man’s limitless ambition and courage. Confronting giants, fending off vicious wild animals, and even surviving the horrors of war, Edward’s story is more entertaining than thrilling, as the outcome is never really in question. This is as true for the reader/viewer, for the fact that Edward clearly lives to old age, and for Edward himself, who lives his life so bravely, in part, because he does so with the knowledge of precisely where, when, and how he will die. 

Wallace, a student of Joseph Campbell’s teachings on mythology, expertly weaves a combination of borrowed themes and new ideals to create an enthralling character in Edward Bloom. Burton’s treatment brings out even more endearing qualities, with much credit to the performances by McGregor and Finney. However, despite the wide wonders of Bloom’s life, and the love so many seem to have for him, the frustration that William feels at having never known his father is overwhelmingly palpable. What’s more, his complaint is so valid that it very nearly upends the story entirely.

As with all tall tales, only a small grain of truth is likely to be found at the heart of Edward’s story. Stripping away the incredible and impossible, one is left with a genuinely plain, sad tale of a simple traveling salesman, too busy for his family, and a boy who was raised on little more than fish tales to explain his father’s absences. Though the movie version maintains a virtuous image of Edward, devoted to his wife forever and always, the novel’s version includes a chapter describing a second home elsewhere, a second love, and neither household containing much happiness for all of Bloom’s grandeur. 

For all of this, Big Fish is an undeniably touching story. That Edward is human, complete with flaws and failings, comes almost as a surprise, and yet makes the man all the more real. The bittersweet elements of his life and story, though powerful, do not, in the end, overwhelm the fanciful. Friendship and family take a place of prominence throughout, as William and his mother grieve slowly over Edward’s impending demise.  As the movie nears its conclusion, the question of choosing between fact and legend is brought to the forefront, as much for the viewer to consider as it is for William. Given the option between a boring truth and a wondrous myth, which would you truly prefer? 

Whether or not William reconciles with his father is up to readers and viewers to discover. Each format presents the story in its own way, highlighting different aspects of the same heartrending tale. Even beyond the fictional world in which he lived, Edward Bloom is a character too large for life. Neither book nor movie contains him entirely—one must catch the Big Fish in one’s heart to truly capture the man in full. 

From Page to Screen - Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

Literature and cinema have been closely entwined for almost the entirety of the latter’s history. The first public screening of a motion picture took place in 1894; just two years later both Trilby and Little Billee, by Gerald Du Maurier, and Rip Van Winkle, by Washington Irving, bridged the gap between page and screen. By now, of course, it’s impossible to miss signs of the love Hollywood has for transferring the printed word to the silver screen. Whereas in years past one had similar difficulty avoiding novelizations of films based upon original screenplays, the balance has, in recent years, tipped heavily in favor of the page-to-screen adaptation. Whether one looks to fantasies like the long running Harry Potter series, or more reality-based stories such as Water for Elephants; from loose adaptations like Blade Runner, to more faithful representations like Watchmen, there’s no doubting that fans of literature and cinema both enjoy the adaptation process. With the fanfare and hype surrounding this year’s examples of literature-turned-movie, like Baz Luhrmann's interpretation of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, the second Hunger Games movie Catching Fire, post-apocalyptic bestseller World War Z, and the much-awaited cinematic adaptation of Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game, a particular interest in more fanciful works is readily apparent. In an age where special effects artists are making, in mere months, technological strides that compare to decades of progress in years past, it’s become increasingly easier to manage believable depictions of otherworldly fictional settings come to life. As such, novels that had previously been considered unfilmable are now apt choices for filmmakers looking to work with proven material, appealing to an extant fanbase. 

But there’s far more—or so one at least hopes—than blockbuster success in mind; a great many filmmakers who endeavor to adapt literature to cinema do so because they are, first and foremost, fans of the works in question. Director Peter Jackson springs to mind, his passion for The Lord of the Rings evident in every scene in each of the novel’s three cinematic installments (not to mention his well-known status as an honorary Hobbit). There’s something truly magical about witnessing what was once relegated to the theatre of the mind’s eye suddenly presented in brilliant anamorphic glory upon the ever-larger screens of the modern movie theater. Of course, there’s also something truly tragic in the case of transitions that miss their mark. There have likely been far more failed adaptations than there have been genuine successes. This is sometimes due to less-than-stellar screenplays or sub-par casting, but most often results from little more than a simple disagreement between the consensus among readers and the vision of the directors at each movie’s helm. One famous example of such disappointment is the big budget 1984 adaptation of Dune, which, while leaving droves of fans crestfallen due to its derivations from the source material, was nevertheless well received by the work’s own creator, Frank Herbert. Treading much more carefully along the narrow pathway to success, one of the single greatest examples of page-to-screen adaptation is Hunter S. Thompson’s infamous 1971 novel Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: a Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream, and the 1998 film adaptation that launched Johnny Depp into the cinematic stratosphere. 

Misunderstood by many at the time of its initial publication, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas has long since been heralded as a masterpiece of Thompson’s own unique style of writing, dubbed “Gonzo Journalism” by The Boston Globe editor Bill Cordoso. Purely and intentionally devoid of the objective purview—and sometimes deviating from the factual truth—required by the ethics of journalism, Thompson’s work helped to introduce a postmodern perspective, in which the reporter himself became the story. A twisted, debauched tale of self-destruction and depravity in pursuit of the warped post-‘60s rendition of the American Dream, Thompson’s novel was once considered impossible to film. Famed animator Ralph Bakshi insisted that “a live-action [adaptation] would look like a bad cartoon”, and given the incidents of drug-induced hallucination as a lens through which the garishness of Las Vegas itself was perceived, one might have been hard pressed to disagree. For many years, producer Laila Nabulsi struggled to put together the right combination of director and lead actors. 

Martin Scorcese and Oliver Stone, arguably two of the biggest directorial names in Hollywood, each tried, and failed, to bring Fear and Loathing to the big screen. Tinseltown heavyweights like Jack Nicholson and Marlon Brando were considered for the roles of Raoul Duke (a pseudonym of Thompson’s) and Dr. Gonzo (a caricature of the already larger-than-life Oscar Zeta Acosta, lawyer and close friend of Thompson’s). Later, Dan Aykroyd and John Belushi were considered to play the pair, though Belushi’s untimely death brought an end to such hopes. For a time, John Malkovich and John Cusack were each considered for the role of Raoul Duke, but neither proved satisfactory. It wasn't until Thompson met with Johnny Depp that the role was cast with an air of finality. 

Much can be said for the unparalleled talents of surrealist Terry Gilliam’s Kafkaesque directorial style. One of the truly marvelous virtues of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is its eerily accurate depiction of the various drug-induced states that run thematically through the story. Odd, disorienting “quirks” and visual elements conspire to duplicate the dreamlike—and sometimes nightmarish—quality imbued by Thompson’s delirious prose. A soundtrack comprised of legendary hits from the era complete the backdrop for this unusual tale. However, so much more can be said for what, for all intents and purposes, was a possession of Johnny Depp by the very spirit of the character he was set to portray. In truly method fashion, Depp absorbed as many of Thompson’s characteristics as possible. He spent four months living in Thompson’s basement, learning to accurately mimic the author’s idiosyncratic gestures and speech patterns. On set, Depp wore no replicas of Thompson’s clothing but actual items from the author’s own wardrobe. Even Thompson’s male pattern balding, which so stunned audiences accustomed to Depp’s unavoidably good looks, was as authentic as possible: Thompson himself worked the razor across Depp’s scalp. Paired with the incomparable method performance put forth by Benicio del Toro, Depp embodied the very essence of Hunter S. Thompson’s semi-autobiographical caricature, and projected it into the hearts and minds of countless fans of both novel and film.

"Buy the ticket, take the ride..."

This film is as much a labor of love as it is a truly spectacular work of art, and as close as imaginable to representing the “Gonzo” spirit in which the book was written. For a man of such passion and literary power as Hunter S. Thompson, no lesser film would have sufficed. The dedication of filmmakers and actors alike factored heavily into the production of this cinematic tour de force, as did, undoubtedly, the involvement of the author himself. It cannot be said that such a combination of forces is anything but mythically rare. There have been more than a few novels and stories which have safely made the journey from page to screen, but few quite so accurately, or for that matter satisfyingly, as 1998’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

Making Hay While the Sun Shines

In the afterglow of having composed my first post in months, I found relaxing to be a great deal more difficult than I would have thought. I thought I might spend the remainder of the night working at overcoming the current sticking point in the narrative outline of my work in progress. Unfortunately, I allowed myself to become perpetually distracted, and eventually resigned myself to the fact that my attention span simply isn't geared toward crafting fiction at the moment. So, I figured I might as well seize this newfound blogging momentum, and subsequently created the Book Reviews page. Hopefully it's formatted well enough, although I do still struggle to achieve the uniformity that my OCD so desperately craves. I've yet to strike upon a satisfactory method of handling the reviews that were lost in The Lit Asylum's temporary demise; nor have I yet convinced myself to either lump Page to Screen Reviews in with the standard Book Reviews, or create for them a separate page. I also need to get my Links and Contact pages in order, so I can improve networking and begin a proper blogroll. Any and all suggestions and opinions would be most welcome. All in all, I feel this represents a tremendous amount of progress, and hopefully it, along with this open analysis, will prove useful to the blog's readers. 

In Which I Discover That No Writer is an Island...

Russian writer Evegny Chirikov, by Ivan Kulikov, 1904

It's been a long four months since my last post, and longer still since I've posted something fresh. I've heard it said that "as man proposes, God disposes", and though I'm not much for believing, I can see the aphorism's truth well enough. Now, I can pretend at a great many excuses as to why I seemed, for all intents and purposes, to have completely abandoned the cause, but the truth is it wasn't the cause I'd abandoned, but the comrades, my brothers- and sisters-in-arms. True, I'd let the various slings and arrows of not-quite-so-outrageous fortune lead me to a rather dismal place, but it was my own foolhardy decision to read these events as omens which heralded a season of solitude. It is perhaps instinctive, particularly for those who make a habit of exploring their injuries, to feel that compulsion to hunker down and tend to the wounds. But in that abysmal, lonesome sulking, I found no comfort whatsoever. Worse yet, I found no art. 

Many of us need, from time to time, to be disabused of the old myth regarding suffering and art, as if the latter cannot exist without the former. It seems so simple, as so many across every field of artistic achievement have seemed to rely on the transmutation of pain to create the masterpieces of old. And, to be sure, there is something to be said for the degree to which the agony and angst of existence inform the artist's vision. But just as man does not live on bread alone, neither does the artist need merely to suffer sufficiently for his or her art to be born. Despite my best efforts to play the alchemist and turn my languishing into skillful language, I can only claim to have discovered new depths to the curse of writer's block. It seemed to spread, until it pervaded my being entire. At the worst of the winter season, my entire life became similarly frozen, and I despaired such that I could never imagine writing so much as a grocery list again. What I found lacking at the heart of the matter, apart from my agency as a writer, was a proper environment in which to work. For all my romanticism, the existence I'd shaped for myself during those months was inadequate to the cause. I had all the tools of my trade, but no fellow tradesmen. Sadly, it has taken me far longer than I should like to realize I cannot, and likely will never be able to, do this alone. 

The Algonquin Round Table, from L-R: Art Samuels, Charlie MacArthur, Harpo Marx, Dorothy parker, and Alexander Woollcott

As a friend and fellow aspirant recently paraphrased, "Writers should never write in a vacuum." I should like to go a step further and suggest that, by and large, most writers could never write in a vacuum. Whether we rely on each other for technical advice, anecdotal input, or the simple camaraderie of sharing the same passion for language and its myriad uses, we writers need each other, as much as we need our favorite novels, our handy style guides, or the very pens with which we write. In my isolation, I felt as if I were stranded in a world which cared little, if indeed at all, for me, my thoughts, my imaginings. It became the most self-centered of perspectives, and yet also the most self-defeating. Now, having recently reached out to the aforementioned friend and others who answer to the same vocation's calling, I've felt myself warming, much as the weather has finally begun to do. Gone is the crushing weight of pressure which I'd placed on myself, supplanted by the gentle urgings and encouragement of others. It no longer seems impossible to think that I might have something worth saying, or better still, worth reading once it's been said.

We all do, and from that meager monosyllable of "we" do I find the bitter season running, as murky darkness rushes off in the presence of new light. No writer is an island, and had I known that sooner, I may have had something to read for those who have visited this site despite the dearth of new material. With any luck, and the usual amount of effort, I hope to remedy that, for whatever it may be worth. Maybe some writer, struggling as I had been, will stumble upon this very post, and the realization will spread. Maybe I'll read his or her blog next. And maybe, instead of the erstwhile season of bitter and paralyzing cold, this will be the beginning of a new season of warmth, of welcome, and most importantly, of writers.

Reflections on the Season

This article previously appeared on the PaperBackSwap Blog on 19 December, 2011

The last few months of each calendar year are positively riddled with holidays. It’s a time in which we find ourselves touching upon our own unique patterns of behaviors through which we hope to weather the darker, colder months of the year, as we also say goodbye to it and turn to welcome the coming of another.  These various traditions, both institutional and familial, all seem to possess, at their cores, a theme consistent with one another.  The universal aspects of the many holidays in which we participate spring forth from, and speak to, the very heart of our shared humanity.  It is in light of this perceived interconnectedness, this pervasive and perennial celebration not only of the passage of time, but of our truest inner spirits, that I approach the end of each passing year.

The holidays celebrated as autumn sets in are rooted in remembrance, of times past, as well as people who have passed.  The traditions we perform offer us some semblance of permanence in a world that is anything but.  Whether it’s the baking of a treasured family recipe handed down over several generations, or the passage of such traditions from one living generation to the next, the many feasts we enjoy are fraught with remembrance.  Whether or how we decorate for each passing holiday is often done in honor of the ways of the past.  Those of us who move on to forge new traditions have no less of an eye for reflection, investing now in similar nostalgia yet to be experienced.

We begin to take stock of the year as it enters its penultimate month, pondering how this year’s experiences compare to the summation of years that have preceded it.  In areas in which it may appear worse, we wax nostalgic, recalling with warmth and fondness days which we deem to have been better; in areas which have improved, we look proudly upon the distance traveled, the hardships successfully traversed and, with hearts abundant in hope, look excitedly to a future all but certain to begin once our ritualistic goodbyes to the past have been said to yet another year.

As the pace of time itself seems to quicken, these days of significance rush to meet us with fierce rapidity, we find ourselves clinging ever more desperately to our days, even as they nevertheless slip through our fingers as always.  In those moments, however, those all too brief, shimmering instances of clarity, we look at our lives, and hopefully each other, and see the innate value in even the least we behold.  Despite the winnowing of time, we experience small bursts of timelessness, of the Here, the Now, and the wonders that make life so worth living.

We approach the winter solstice with no small amount of eagerness.  On the day of that celestial event, as the Earth finally crosses the threshold of our shortest day, even without realizing it, we breath a collective sigh of relief.  Huddled together, in spirit if not in person, we await the moment at which the hours of daylight begin to grow again.  We forge ahead, across the whole of the northern hemisphere, thankful for having once more survived the darkest of months.  And, while the coldest months still lie before us, with that darkest day of the solstice behind us we raise collective cries of gratitude and joyousness, affecting our happiest and most generous personas for the festivities with which we bid farewell to the year.

As we reach what is to the West the bridge between the fading year and that yet to be realized, we continue our appreciation for the good things, and beloved peoples, in our lives.  And yet, at the doorway, we say our last goodbyes to all that has passed, and thusly unencumbered, turn hopefully and anxiously to face the impending year.  So it is that so many of us, peering into January from the precipice of December, sing out tearfully “Should old acquaintance be forgot…”  Ultimately, the year’s gloaming heralds the culmination and inevitable conclusion of another chapter in each of our lives.  Having spent months preparing for the darkness and cold, girding ourselves with warm thoughts and hearts, the focused and combined energies of our remembrances and regrets, our traditions and nostalgia, our hopes, dreams, triumphs, failures, gains, and losses, merge into a single feeling, one cathartic singularity, from which erupts the momentum that carries us through to the birth of another year, another chapter, and another trip around the sun on this curious blue island we all call home.

As the last few weeks of the year wind down, I am humbled and honored by the relationships I’ve had with those whom I have known, and look forward to those I will come to know in the future; I am grateful for the passage of time and all with which it has presented me over the years, and for everything it may yet hold in store for me; Smiling wide, I shake my fist at the cold, from the warmth of my heart; with eyes fixed on the future, I salute the year that has passed, and everyone who shares this purview. Wishing everyone the happiest of holidays, and the brightest of new years!