Rear Window & Memento

One of the most obvious differences between novels and short stories is length; this certainly true in page number, but most novels contain more content as well. During class discussion, we noted that novels are adapted into film much more frequently than short stories, possibly because novels give the filmmakers and screenwriters much more to go off of when putting together their movies. There is generally more plot, more backstory, and better developed characters. This is what readers love about novels, and it is what they are expecting to see when they watch the film. Yet certain filmmakers have found that short stories allow for much, much more creative freedom on the filmmaker’s part, without risking too much backlash from audiences (who most likely were unaware of the source text’s existence).

Two great examples of this are Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window (1954) and Christopher Nolan’s Memento (2000). Both are puzzle-picture, mystery-thrillers with dubious points-of-view, and both clearly bear the indelible stamp of their auteur-minded creators. In its first shot alone, that slow pan around the courtyard, Rear Window is technically and logistically impressive even by today’s standards, and Memento is a brilliant showcase for Nolan’s gift of meticulously plotted storytelling. And interestingly enough, both are based on short stories—albeit very loosely.

Though the films were made almost 50 years apart, their method of adaptation is quite similar. Each borrows the concept of their source (a house-bound man spying on his neighbors, a man with short-term memory loss trying to track down his wife’s killer) and expands upon it, taking the concept in directions entirely absent from the source text.

Therein lies the brilliance of adapting a short story. The directions taken by our auteurs seem like natural expansions to the concept, rather than imposed contrivances. For example, Hitchcock adds an ethical dimension to the story, questioning whether it is morally right to look inside the window of an oblivious homeowner, to spy on people without their knowledge. In the short story, the narrator brushes the issue aside, to be forgotten in the wake of the immediate plot. It makes little difference in the short story, because it has an entirely different focus. A film, however, needs to beef up its storytelling with such thought-provoking ideas to keep the audience engaged. They serve to make the story relatable, too; the film’s eerie social commentary (“We’ve become a nation of peeping Toms”) has become even more relevant with time. (What would Hitchcock’s film look like today, given our culture’s consumption by social media?) The film finds so much more to say about the paradoxical disconnection we have with people we “follow” so closely than the short story ever did.

"You don't know the meaning of the word neighbor..."

Memento follows much the same pattern, though perhaps shares even less with its source than Rear Window does. They share the concept of the 10 minute man, his driving obsession, and the distinctly segmented nature of the narrative. And really, that is about it. Whereas the Jonathan Nolan’s story is intriguing, ultimately the reader can glean little from it in terms of actual story or plot. In this regard, it effectively communicates the lost, disjointed, “something’s missing” feeling that the protagonist lives with daily. When adapting it to the screen, Christopher and Jonathan kept and expanded that theme into the much broader: “What is truth? How do I know what is true or real?” The open-ended nature of the question is another trait that is uniquely Christopher Nolan, yet its organic and seamless application made me wonder why I never picked up on it in the story. Since everyone has been deceived, misguided, lost or confused more than one in their life, the audience can relate to it as well. We feel for Leonard. We relate to his search for truth and his desire for justice. I found this not be the case in the short story; there was sympathy for his plight, but there just is not enough provided about the character for us to root for him, to care whether he succeeds or not. The nonlinear nature of the film helps too; it forces us to become more involved, more invested, than the short story does. While the film and the story both arrive at the chilling notion that he will not remember when he has completed his mission, the realization is especially horrifying in the film because of the added plot and the added time we have had to grow close to the character. If we relate to him—and his mission reflects our search for truth—then what does his blatant self-deception at the end of film say about us? Do we lie to ourselves to be happy? It is perhaps less social commentary than a rumination on human nature, but it hits close to home in way that the detached, limited viewpoint of the story is not able to.

"Do I lie to myself to be happy?...I have to believe that my actions still have meaning, even if I can't remember them."

Let it never be said that the film is never as good as the book—I would argue that these two films are even better than their source texts. The directors dug deeper, finding more insights and significance to the concepts than was mentioned in the stories. Fidelity was not their primary concern; rather, “How can I make a film worth making?” They deserve credit for seeing the untapped potential in these concepts and inspiring us to look for new, imaginative ways of thinking about the stories we read. 

Gatsby '74 vs. Gatsby '13

We watched two version of The Great Gatsby (1974 & 2013) as a class.

The films share a source text, but have little else in common. In Jack Clayton’s 1974 rendition, we are shown the events of the novel, like a picture book—but the result is a slow, unengaging, and ultimately boring film. Baz Luhrmann’s film, however, is emotionally resonant, tense, and visually sensational. They are almost opposites. Yet they were both widely panned by reviewers, with critics citing a bad case of style over substance for both films. Looking at the films side by side, however, it is clear which one has more substance—and it certainly was not the one I expected.

Great Gatsby 1974 Reviews

Great Gatsby '13 Reviews

Luhrmann’s films are, by nature, controversial. Personally, I found nothing enjoyable about the chaotic mess that was Milan Rouge!, and have avoided Romeo + Juliet because of it. However, I was pleasantly surprised by Luhrmann’s treatment of The Great Gatsby, even if (according to Rotten Tomatoes) 51% of the critics were not. Some critics accused the film of being “vulgar,” “obscene,” “demeaning” and “ghastly”—yet other reviewers, such as Richard Roeper, call it “the best attempt yet to capture the essence of the book.”

Richard Roeper Gatsby Review

A novel like The Great Gatsby has many interpretations, angles and lenses through which it can be viewed. A myriad of themes can be identified. A problem with screen translations is that the filmmakers have to choose an interpretation and a reduced number of themes to explore.  On these grounds I have to agree with Roeper; Luhrmann’s film simply reflected
the themes of the book better than Clayton’s.

Take Gatsby and Daisy’s relationship, for instance. The 1974 version emphasized their romance, even featuring a montage of the couple enjoying each other’s company (most notably picnicking on a bright summer’s day). Luhrmann, in my opinion, does a much better job of capturing, as Bruce Handy describes it, the “anti-romantic” nature of Fitzgerald’s book. Yes, Clayton’s film portrayed a romance that is doomed, but never realizes that that is the point—I guess it was more important for them to get their stars some screen time together. Luhrmann, however, shows scenes of Nick surveying the ransacked mansion, and Daisy refusing to go to the funeral, conveying the tragedy of Gatsby’s unfulfilled dreams in a way that was not suggested in Clayton’s film.

Following Fitzgerald’s lead, Luhrmann at least attempted to breech the topic of race, giving the issue a brief (but nonetheless significant) mention. You know the scene—a small group of well-dressed, black partiers with a white chauffeur. It speaks of success over impossible odds, and gives credence to Gatsby’s incredible penchant for hope. Yet for whatever reason, Clayton cut the scene entirely, and I cannot recall seeing a non-Caucasian face in the film. By including that scene, Luhrmann paints a picture closer to the multifaceted, awe-inspiring world that Nick finds in the novel. And while I never would have thought that Luhrmann’s unique visual aesthetic would have been a good fit for Gatsby, I thought it formed a kind of “equivalence of meaning” between it and Fitzgerald’s vivid prose, while also reflecting Nick’s sense of wonder and nostalgia rather nicely. True, the white, billowy curtains were such a comically literal depiction that the scene bordered on farce. However, the ash heaps surrounding Wilson’s garage were so expansively bleak that the image helped to better convey Fitzgerald’s original conception, in a way mere words could not. The contrast between Wilson’s poverty and Gatsby’s wealth, though never explicitly mentioned, it explored in such vivid visual detail that it does not have to be. In this way, the style actually adds to the substance.

Note the contrast between the gray workers and the sharp colors of Tom and Nick's clothes.

For me, one of the most important aspects of an adaptation is the filmmaker’s attention to the characters. Everyone has their own opinions as to what they are really like, but the character we see on the screen comes from a mix of interpretations, including input from the screenwriter, the actor, and the director. Can we really expect these characters to be as we imagined? No, but it is fair for us to want to care about them, as we did the characters in the books. One of the most memorable moments of the 2013 film is when Gatsby loses his temper in the apartment scene. He shows us then the man he has always tried to suppress—and consequently, shows us that he is, indeed, a man. It should have been the most memorable scene in the 1974 film too, but Robert Redford never showed the audience a Gatsby that was not calm, cool and collected. Dicaprio showed us a Gatsby that is vulnerable beneath his suave veneer, making his Gatsby the only one we care about. This scene is representative of the whole of each film as well; Lurhmann’s film pulsed with an emotional tension that the 1974 film, too long and too slow, severely lacked.

My favorite aspect of Luhrmann’s Gatsby was the narrative set-up. In Luhrmann’s eyes, Nick is Fitzgerald. It seemed unnecessary to some critics, but to me it made the difference. Perhaps it is a personal thing; I found Gatsby’s story, and indeed the whole novel, entirely pointless before I understood that Fitzgerald was condemning the careless attitude of society’s elite. By exploring Nick’s motivations to write, it gave the film (and the character) a much needed sense of purpose and relevance. With this near-plot-less story, there is just no reason for us to care if we do not know why it is important to the teller. My feeling at the end of Clayton’s film was “So…what was the point of that?” But when Nick adds that crucial adjective to his title at the end, I knew exactly what the point of Luhrmann’s film was.

I am struck by one more way in which Luhrmann’s film is the more faithful of the two: it gives us something to talk about. Indeed, there is so much more I wanted to mention about the film, but this blog is too long as it is. The 1974 version fails to stir up any kind of reaction in those who watch it, emotional or otherwise, and as such, fails to interest us. Fitzgerald’s novel has held interest for nearly 100 years, but upon its release, meet its fair share of controversy—an “initial failure,” as David Denby says. It is fitting, then, that a film coming anywhere close to living up to the title should do the same.

What do you think? How do you feel about my claim that Luhrmann’s visual style may be an equivalent to Fitzgerald’s descriptive prose?