Okay, here's the deal. I'm always amazed when somebody gets the idea to make a film out of a book. It's the norm these days, I know. Some folks even wait to see the movie instead of reading the book (which speaks volumes about some folks' brainage.) I'm not saying it's a good thing or a bad thing, mind you. I let the movies themselves decide that. Forrest Gump was a book, and the movie turned out pretty dang good, even though the movie and the book are as far apart in style as a Ming vase and a Mason jar. And, yes, before you argue the point, I know Gone With The Wind was a book, and that movie is a classic. I also know The Postman and The Hotel New Hampshire were books too. Guilty as charged, Your Honor.
At the risk of getting a whole can of whup-tail opened on my precious, I offer the following theory: there are some books that should never have been made into movies. I don't apply this theory to literary trash, mind you. It should go without saying that crappy books are rarely, if ever, turned into great films. My theory does, however, apply to certain books and authors that write in such a unique way that their visions just don't translate well to the screen. But, in true Hollywood fashion, anything with a best-seller tag is immediately sold for movie rights before the book even leaves the presses good. John Grisham, it is said, sold the movie rights to his book, The Chamber, based on an eight-page outline. He hadn't even written the book, and the movie was already being planned. That's not unlike the auto mechanic who decides how much to charge, based on how shiny his customer's shoes are.
Think about authors like Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., a writer I admire for his quirky sense of humor and dry irony. The dude's written something like 30 books over his career, and a collection of short stories, too. Only one of them, Slaughterhouse Five, made it into a good film. Others have tried, mind you. Jerry Lewis, of all people, tried to make Slapstick into a movie, and, if you saw the movie, you wouldn't have recognized the story at all. Keith Gordon tried valiantly to make Mother Night into a good movie, but came up woefully short. PBS, believe it or not, made the best version of a Vonnegut story on their series "American Playhouse", with a short story called Who Am I This Time? It starred Chris Walken and Susan Sarandon, and it is one of the finest short films I have ever seen.
Toni Morrison has long been hesitant to allow her books to be filmed, with good reason. Morrison's a wonderful writer, who tells complex and moving stories that come at you from many different levels. It's hard to capture ideas like that on film. But, finally, she gave in, and Oprah Winfrey managed to get Morrison's Beloved to the screen. She lined up a cast and crew that, on paper, should be stuffing Oscar nominations in the glove compartment right now. But, once again, the point is made -- the spirit of some books just cannot be captured.
Beloved tells the story of a freed slave named Sethe (Oprah Winfrey), who's now living in the Reconstruction-era farming country of Ohio. The story traces Sethe's history back and forth through time, both as a free woman and as a young slave (Lisa Gay Hamilton) on a plantation known as Sweet Home. When another former slave, Paul D (Danny Glover) wanders into Sethe's life, he stirs up memories of her past. Paul D wants to help her forget those memories, but her back carries horrible scars from the beatings of a lifetime under the control of another man, making forgetting almost impossible. The ghost of a baby daughter also keeps Sethe's memories alive, a spirit bent on evil and destruction. One day, a strange woman appears in Sethe's yard, covered in insects and speaking in a "possessed" voice, shall we say.
This strange woman is called Beloved (Thandie Newton). Sethe takes Beloved in and ignores her disgusting behaviors like vomiting on everything and wetting the bed and trying to seduce Paul D. I'll let you guess who Beloved actually is, if you haven't read the novel, but it's quite obvious onscreen after about ten minutes.
I'd be less than honest if I spared you my opinion that this is one of the more blatant attempts to score some springtime gold, folks. This is a roll on the crap table of Hollywood with loaded dice. Director Jonathan Demme didn't just fall off the turnip truck when it comes to making movies. He's one of the true masters of filming "moments" that grab you in a vice and let you go only when he's through with you. He can create great atmosphere and feeling, and, with the right actors, construct a scene that can mesmerize you. Witness Silence of the Lambs if you doubt me, or the "aria" scene from Philadelphia. Here, he gets some incredible work from Danny Glover and Kimberly Elise, who plays Sethe's other daughter Denver. Both are strong focal points and know the difference between "acting" and "ACTING", something more people should learn these days. Miss Oprah justifies herself again as an actress rather than the Queen of All Media. Oprah's eyes are some of the most expressive eyes in the business. She can show the strength of a hundred men in her eyes, and she can show the pain and suffering of a thousand souls. Her talent is much larger than her persona. The beautiful Thandie Newton gets caught in the trap of having to force everything she does to match the talent around her, though, and she rarely gets to the level she needs.
That being said, this is also one of the most irritating, jumbled-up, incredibly long movies I've seen in a few years.
Does that contradict everything I've said so far? Good!
Folks, let me put it to you plain and simple. Everything that made the novel Beloved so rich and wonderful is gone from the screen. Oh, the names are the same, and the basic plot's there, but there's no beauty of the word, no lyric sense, and, worst of all, it seems like it was all sacrificed to make sure there were some good scenes to show during the Oscar telecast. The first hour is all hallucinatory and packed with some "Holy Sh%&!" violence that just freaks you out instead of making any real point. We get all this "dreamscape" look and everything is plodding along, then, wham! Everything just mires up in mud and spins wheels from there on out. It really makes me wonder if Toni Morrison was ever offered the opportunity to see this thing before it was released. Morrison's magic is in the written word, the lyric poetry of every word forming a picture, which builds into an image, layer after layer. None of that is here. This is The English Patient as if Stephen King had written it. Long, drawn-out, blatant Oscar pleading with some shock-value violence thrown in here and there. Hmmmmm, isn't Stephen King's new book about a haunted slave cabin? Do I smell lawsuit? Sniff, sniff...
It almost seems impossible that these stellar acting jobs are mixed into this myriad of nada. Part intellectual literate horror movie, part quirky historical drama, and part sittin' up and gold-statue beggin'. At times it makes perfect sense, and, more than once, I understood a point they were making after I'd gotten home and relaxed, but, more often than not, I was almost as lost as Shangri-La. Maybe, once this thing hits video, I can make perfect sense of it all, with a remote control that works and a notepad to jot things down on. For now, though, it's a conundrum that holds a boredom booby prize for even a second's distraction.
Image copyright Touchstone Pictures.
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under the knife