Entry 02: Novels adapted to Film
The Power of the Dog by Thomas Savage (1967)
Enthralled by Jane Campion’s film, I wanted to see how it aligned with, or deviated from, the novel. In the film, the scenic mountains are stunning visuals, of course. I also wondered whether the visual language of film conveys information about the characters that might not have been apparent to readers of the novel. I don’t think this is the case — all that is relevant about these characters from the film is accessible in Savage’s novel, a work that is funny and yet moving, breathing life into unique, deftly rendered characters. We are riveted by the brilliant and talented Phil, a man who ‘likes to teach people a lesson,” because, despite his abundant gifts, there’s something in him that is thwarted and curdled. In the film, he’s handsome, too — how is it that a man with such extraordinary gifts nurses a mean streak a mile wide? The vulnerable Rose, who “couldn’t be anything unless someone believed in her,” sets certain events in motion without intending to. It’s the boy, Peter, who I fretted over the most.
Watching Peter in the movie is pure anguish. He is slender, painfully vulnerable, and is openly mocked. I worried not only for his self esteem, but that Phil, who is sadistic, was setting him up. After all, Phil is crafting a rope, dangling the suggestion that Peter might pursue the same fate that his father chose. In the end, Peter escapes this fate and emerges unscathed — he has something to teach us about strength. I am not conflicted over feeling relief for him, the stakes for him were high. All the information is there in the novel for those who observe closely. Savage’s subtlety helps ratchet up the tension incrementally; the author’s restraint is mirrored in his extraordinary character. “Phil knew the thing unsaid is more potent than the thing said.” There are aspects of these characters that Campion’s film makes more explicit than in the novel — and there’s information about the characters that Savage presents right at the outset, but which Campion chooses to withhold until the end. Both choices are effective. The film is probably Campion’s best; the novel is wonderfully literary and, thanks to the film, will be rediscovered by modern readers like me. This novel and author were both unknown to me previously. The “Afterword” by Annie Proulx brings to light autobiographical information that Thomas Savage surely drew upon when creating two indelible, unique characters. These are sharply observed characters who feel real and true. Their encounter, and its aftermath, sends shivers down the spine. **** Highly Recommend.
2.The Lost Daughter by Elena Ferrante (In Italian, 2008; this English Translation 2020)
Once again, I saw the movie first, then read the novel. I’d previously enjoyed Ferrante’s Neapolitan Quartet, which shares thematic content with this — dolls are symbolic, the author pursues intellectual aspirations, she vacations at the beach, she feels the ambivalent push/pull of her Neapolitan family and community, loving them yet feeling ashamed when their passions get the best of them, she’s ashamed of their lack of refinement. These themes reappear in The Lost Daughter, but despite the thematic overlap, I wasn’t bored with Leda, she’s a multi-layered, complex character. In the film version, when Ed Harris’s character visits her flat, she tells him, “I’m mean.” This exchange doesn’t appear in the novel, but it’s true to Leda and it’s refreshing to encounter this character. She is intriguing.
Leda is haunted by her own abandonment of her daughters for three years when they were quite small. She did eventually return to them, but she understands she missed out on something. Now, a successful academic with grown daughters, during a beach vacation she is caught in the orbit of a loud, larger-than-life, vulgar group of Neapolitans. She’s drawn to the elegant Nina, who has married into this clan, she identifies with Nina. When Leda first observes her, Nina and her young daughter are playing with a doll, rubbing sunscreen on it, dressing and undressing the doll, and Leda hungrily watches Nina minister to her daughter’s every need and whim. The doll is a testimony to “perfect motherhood,” for Nina is a good mother, while Leda understands that she herself is “an unnatural mother.” When the girl wanders away from her family, it’s Leda who finds her and returns her to Nina, sparking a friendship of sorts. But the girl is inconsolable because her doll is missing. We don’t see Leda take the doll, but take it she does. In Gyllenhaal’s film, the doll is a constant presence, an object that is constantly on the verge of discovery by the other characters — this is both visual pun, torment, and a means of stoking suspense. In the novel, Leda wants to return the doll at various points. But even more, she wants to dissuade Nina from making a mistake.
Why does Leda take the doll? There’s a feast of symbolism for the reader to chew on, but Nina finds it preposterous that Leda, who devotes her time to reading, writing, and thinking simply doesn’t know why she has given in to the impulse. Through flashbacks and her own internal musing, the reader understands Leda and empathizes with her. I recommend both the book and the film.
***Recommend