Film

DISNEY REMAKES: The Gospel Truth

Everyone has a film, that special film that played a huge part in their respective childhoods. Mine was Disney’s 1991 classic, Beauty and the Beast. From the first few chords of the haunting, glass-stained window opening, to the final steps in the transformed ballroom, I was mesmerised. Family photo albums are full of pictures showing me delightedly prancing around the living room in a tiara, white gloves and a cherished golden replica ball dress. I loved that film with all my little heart, and when I heard nearly two decades later that it was being transformed into a live-action film I wasn’t entirely sure what to think. Although I was happy to think that another generation of young people would fall in love with this wonderful story again, I wondered whether the remake could build upon the original in any way. I however retained some glimmer of hope that something of the originals magic could be retained- this was perhaps a foolish line of thinking. Apart from the addition of a few soppy ballads, some minimal character backstory, and other half-baked details, the 2017 remake contributed nothing to the original. Well nothing, or nothing good at least. Grossing over $1.2 billion worldwide, Beauty and the Beast was a jewel in Disney’s eyes, but a disappointing mess in mine. Nearly two years later, I’m certain that fans of Aladdin will be experiencing the same process of disillusionment as I did.

‘I loved that film with all my little heart, and when I heard nearly two decades later that it was being transformed into a live-action film I wasn’t entirely sure what to think’

The idea of the remake has been floating around Hollywood for as long as anyone can remember, it’s a tale as old as time, but it’s become more of a hot topic of late. After all, one of the most successful films in past year, Bradley Cooper’s A Star Is Born, was arguably the most talked about best picture Oscar contender and the third remake of a film dating back to 1937. But Disney’s monopolisation of the remake since 2015 has characterised the studio’s activity more than its production of original films. Disney has never been above profiting off of its more creatively inspired productions, as evidenced by the abundance of sequels, prequels and made-for-tv series that populated our screens in the late nineties and early noughties. The childhood gems that were Beauty and the Beast: The Enchanted Christmas, The Return of Jafar and Pocahontas II: Journey to a New World were, of course, substandard in comparison to their original filmic stimuli. Yes, they were kind of terrible but they never stooped to directly copying their predecessors, instead generating totally new adventures for their beloved characters.

This is not the case for Disney’s latest cinematic endeavours. Of course, the whole concept of the remake relies on a reconstitution of a previous film, but superficially at least, the newest version offers something uniquely different from the original. Striking the perfect balance between replication and innovation has proved challenging for Disney. Although Maleficent, for example, spurred on this remake trend by performing well at the box office, its success was primarily to do with the fact that Maleficent’ s two-dimensional characterisation in Sleeping Beauty was more morally outdated for modern audiences. Disney could afford to play around with the canonical narrative in its remake, as audiences have become more critical of the post-war gender politics that dictated the demonization of the film’s antiheroine and the deification of its passive heroine. We want to understand the characters onscreen, not through the simplistic prism of good and evil but through that of psychological rationality and sympathy. Disney updated Sleeping Beauty with their production of Maleficent in a manner that was less hesitant to radically innovate and realise fault with their previous incarnation of the female characters in the film.

‘Disney has stuck to the attitude of replication but attempted to avoid accusations of regurgitation by placing emphasis on completely irrelevant ornamental details and aesthetics.’

This attitude of innovation however, was not the one advocated for the remakes of the Disney renaissance films. Fearing the potential for ire from adult audiences familiar with the original films, Disney has stuck to the attitude of replication but attempted to avoid accusations of regurgitation by placing emphasis on completely irrelevant ornamental details and aesthetics. By lifting old dialogue and clumsily inserting it within the new script and duplicating scenes shot-for-shot, Disney forcefully nudges us into recognition of parallels in an attempt to stimulate nostalgia. To me, this self-conscious hybridisation of restricted new features and oddly placed old ones in their remakes can never work artistically.

Sorry Disney, although I loved Moana and enjoyed Frozen until Indina Menzel’s solo Let It Go began to follow me round like a bad smell, I simply cannot buy into your campaign of remakes. Everything about them seems manufactured, lazy and robotic- the characterisation is lacklustre, the dialogue forced and stilted, and the acting at times absolutely dismal- because you pump all of your energy into aesthetic and narrative ornamentation to cover up a lack of creativity. The costuming may be sumptuous and the cinematography astounding, but the feeling of emptiness at the centre of these films is palpable. Although you will continue to throw all the celebrity names, novelty “never before seen” details and beautiful spectacles at me I shall not be buying tickets to Aladdin, The Lion King and whatever other cherished classics you decide to ruin for future generations. That’s the gospel truth.

Review: Dead to Me

I began watching Dead to Me on Netflix on Saturday night and despite the fact I had an exam on the Tuesday afternoon, I had finished it by Sunday morning. The balance achieved between the very real and traumatic loss of Jen’s husband, Nick, and the easy watching aspects of the series that Netflix was trying to create, work in perfect harmony. The plot is substantially engaging and dynamic, if slightly predictable. But I would go as far as to say that I did enjoy it. It was quite satisfying to be able to predict the twists and turns and it made them no less entertaining.

‘Dead to Me recreates the convincing realism required to carry off a comedic take on a brutal murder.’

Despite the nature of the series, it does not make you feel sad. There are moments of raw emotion from the characters but they are not intense or long lived enough to really make you feel it too. Some see this as a flaw, I see this as a bonus. I didn’t want to watch something sad because, frankly, I didn’t have the time for any emotional trauma. Had I watched the trailer and realised the programme revolves around a tragic death then I would not have started it. Instead, it pulls on themes of drama and murder mystery, along with the obligatory comedy elements. It channels the vibe of recently (tragically) cancelled Netflix series, Santa Clarita Diet. If you enjoyed that, you will enjoy this. Watching Drew Barrymore viciously tear apart local Nazis was bizarre, but only if you really thought about it. Dead to Me recreates the convincing realism required to carry off a comedic take on a brutal murder.

The most intriguing aspect of the series is the dramatic irony that we see throughout. The whole plot relies on the fact the audience know what some of the characters do not. This is what makes it so predictable but then so rewarding. We watch not for the shock factor, but because we want to see our predictions come true.

‘We watch not for the shock factor, but because we want to see our predictions come true.’

The one real downfall of Dead to Me, for me, was the ending. In what had, up until now, been a relatively convincing storyline, the ending seemed to undermine everything the characters had built and had been shown to be. I walked away feeling disappointed in the fact that Netflix seem to have thrown away anything they had built in this series, to ensure they could make another. It was blatantly obvious that they wanted to keep open the possibility for another series, but in doing so, compromised the ending of this. It seems to be a common occurrence for Netflix to deliberately write an ending that means they can renew it for another series, even if they decide not to (Santa Clarita Diet RIP). Although it may be satisfying for their bank accounts, it is not necessarily satisfying for the fans, or the integrity of the show. Netflix are producing so much content at the moment, and it is hugely influential in the streaming world, but they run the risk of losing their status for an easy buck. Not cool, Netflix, not cool.

Overall, Dead to Me, is something I would recommend. Up until the ending I was quite enjoying it and perhaps it was just me being fussy. Perhaps Netflix have an even better second series up their sleeves. We shall have to wait and see.

Sh – aaaaah – zam!

As you’re likely aware, one of the most revolutionary, mechanically interesting, and just darn great superhero movies was released to cinemas this Easter. I am, of course, talking about DC’s Shazam!

Okay, okay, I know critics are raving about Avengers: Endgame– and I’m not denying its acclaim. The fact of the matter is, I cried more during Shazam! than I did during Endgame. I’m not entirely certain as to why myself. After all, Endgame is an elaborate tapestry of an epic, and Shazam! is about a child who changes into a super-powered adult when he yells a silly word. Or, sorry, the name of the last wizard of the high wizard council. Yeah, it gets weird.

That’s the thing, though – comic books are weird. There’s the Pet-vengers, staring frog Thor, AKA Throg. There’s the time batman wore zebra-print suits for a week. And who could forget the time Daredevil faked a twin brother, just to kill this creation off? Awesome, butt-kicking heroes with witty one-liners are all well and good, but a lot of superhero movies lack the self-awareness of just how damn weird their plotlines are. It’s dressed in lowkey lighting, dramatic and ominous background music, and a gritty antiheroic lead who only speaks in a tone so gravely you’d think he was a middle-class driveway.

The fact of the matter is, I cried more during Shazam! than I did during Endgame

Shazam! starts with a small child getting transported to the last of the council of wizards. There’s no caveats, the audience is just expected to roll with it. And they do. Of course they do because superheros are inherently silly. It’s one of my favourite genres, don’t get me wrong, and a great setting for discussion of morality issues, but the fantasticality of the superhero story comes hang in hand with campness and ridiculousness. The only time the dreadnought of the MCU has ever touched on these themes is with the widely revered masterpiece, Thor: Ragnarok

As well as embracing the silly-ness of its origin genre, Shazam! keeps the focus on one of the most important and prevalent themes of superhero narratives: the family. A foster-kid protagonist who (Spoilers!) ends up realising the importance and significance of his foster family over his biological mother, who is revealed to have abandoned him. Reinforcing the message that it is his family that both literally and metaphorically gives our protagonist power, whether or not they are biological.

Shazam! keeps the focus on one of the most important and prevalent themes of superhero narratives: the family

Shazam! may certainly be comfortably slotted into several genres; the superhero, the comedy, the Christmas movie (Oh yeah, it’s set at Christmas) – anything feel-good and family friendly. Interestingly enough, the film’s director, David Sandberg, is a horror veteran. Whilst I was unaware of any overt horror techniques in Shazam!, thinking about it did prompt the realisation that directing a ‘good’ horror movie is essentially a masterclass in how to create narrative tension. Whilst Shazam! certainly felt narratively disjointed in parts, any suspense in the film is handled wonderfully, allowing for a more immersive narrative. And there are certainly parts which are brutal – I’m taking about the time a guy’s head gets eaten, of course.

The other interesting thing about this movie is the owners of the intellectual property (IP). Whilst, as previously discussed, Marvel gives us quippy and comic heroes, they don’t lean into the silliness as much as Shazam! wonderfully does. Moreover, DC, the owners of Shazam!, are known for their ‘gritty’ takes on superheroes. They even tried to make superman an anti-hero, remember that? And yet, after years of dark, serious, heroes dealing with dark, serious, problems, we now have Zachary Levi in a skin-tight red suit with the mind of a thirteen year old, who loves his foster family very, very much. I, for one, am thankful. Narrative fiction, for some reason, seems to be obsessed with the idea that silliness automatically makes for bad art. I’ve never understood it myself. So, in a world of antiheroes, it’s nice to see earnest enthusiasm, and a little immaturity. Isn’t the fantastic what heroes are all about?

Fashion on Film: Donna Sheridan

OK, so let’s forget the poncho. Donna Sheridan (aka the beautiful Meryl Streep or Lily James) from Mamma Mia! hits some serious fashion goals. First off: dungarees. Comfortable and great for when you need to spontaneously repaint your bedroom to a hot-pink. Find a billowy white shirt and you’ll look ready to hop on a random yacht with your new aesthetically-pleasing fling.

Following on from effortless one pieces, Lily James’ jumpsuit in the “When I Kissed the Teacher” scene is perfect for when you want to throw some moves and dazzle the crowd but still not really have to put too much effort into an outfit. Jumpsuits are honestly a saviour for the lazy-girl who wants to look cute while also being effortless and versatile. If you want to go full Abba do yourself a favour and invest in some killer platform heels (preferably silver).

Now, let’s just take a moment to remember the most mesmerising bit of accessorising from the first film: Donna’s pink chiffon scarf. You might recall this outfit-defining piece from the emotional “Winner Takes it All” scene where Meryl’s singing is outstanding but you can’t help but watch which direction the scarf is going to go in (or maybe that’s just me).

Scarves aside, we can’t talk about Donna Sheridan without mentioning flares. This is dangerous ground and unless you live in a world where all the songs are Abba and all the guys find you irresistible they are hard to pull off. If you’re willing to take the dive, remember to put on your platform shoes so you don’t trip over!

Donna is a dream for the girls who want to be comfortable and spontaneously break into dance (like me).

The Death of The Author: A Fun, Expensive Funeral

I just finished a Creative Writing course here in Exeter, which was lovely. It doesn’t make me art, or an artist, but it did make me create things and pore over them religiously. The last week of the course was entirely dedicated to the art of editing and raising awareness of the weirdness and clumsiness of our own writing. This was going really well for me, removing dodgy rhymes and stabilising my characters until I read this advice: avoid self-parody.

The artist might not be their art, but they do own their art

Everything I’d ever written flashed past my eyes. Weird anecdotes from my childhood. Slagging off my friends in crude word-puppets. The male narrator: everywhere, the male narrator. At week twelve, this crisis couldn’t have come at a better time. Is all writing either self-parody or appropriation?

Yes, it probably is both, but there are ways to navigate this little problem without being cringey or a dick. Published author Kamila Shamsie came to lecture at the university, and spoke eloquently on this exact topic. Shamsie explained how if no one explored other ways of life in art, every piece of writing would just be an autobiography. She suggested that if writers approach topics with research, empathy and respect, anyone can write about anything. And if anyone can write anything, then you can’t be your art, right?

Writing, [Barthes] says, is the destruction of voice and origin…Meaning, therefore, is only created during reading

The questions of author identity and appropriation overlap in strange ways, but I think with enough research, everyone can be kept happy. Although, is thinking about the link between art and artist in this way responsible, or realistic? English students may remember an answer to this question from a cooky little text by Roland Barthes called ‘The Death of the Author’, which maintained that we should kill off the idea of the author in a text. Writing, he says, is the destruction of voice and origin. Obviously to us, writing is the creation and expression of voice, but Barthes suggests that at the point of expression, a text separates from its author. Meaning, therefore, is only created during reading. This is a cool way of looking at the production of art, but it has always seemed silly to me for Barthes to author something called ‘The Death of the Author’. Is it an authorial suicide note? How can we believe in an author who tells us not the believe in authors?

Is all writing either self-parody or appropriation?

Ultimately, its important to question the fixed identity of the artist, and keep Barthes’ ideas in mind. His assertions can get a bit convoluted and abstract though, to the same extent of Jaden Smith’s 2013 tweet ‘How can mirrors be real if our eyes aren’t real’. We take it for granted that art is actually tied to its artist in many ways, including stylistically, ideologically, and, in a crucial way, financially.

…if no one explored other ways of life in art, every piece of writing would just be an autobiography

Barthes criticises the idea of authorship as Capitalist ideology, but love it or not, we live in a Capitalist society. Zadie Smith may very well say ‘I am not my writing’, but her name is on the front cover of White Teeth, and it’s also on the fat checks she probably got from it. Barthes says that the birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the author, but in reality the writing costs money and it’s the reader who’s out of pocket. The artist might not be their art, but they do own their art.

if writers approach topics with research, empathy and respect, anyone can write about anything

This hits us today in the relationship between art and cancel culture. If someone does something bad enough, we cancel them, culturally. Art and entertainment is designed to draw our attention, and often that attention backfires on the artist when they do something wrong. When artists get cancelled, their art sometimes survives. Kill Bill is still a great film, even though we cringe when the word ‘Weinstein’ appears in the credits. I doubt any stadiums are booking Louis C.K. for stand-up, but R Kelly’s streaming figures have actually increased since the sexual misconduct allegations, which reflects pretty badly on society. The rapper, XXXtentacion, charged with abusing his girlfriend, received record streams and worldwide fame for his music.

You’re not funding a racist agenda if you buy the works of Edgar Allen Poe, a horrible racist

In some cases, artist’s actions can rewrite art. Kevin Spacey used to be my favourite actor. Even though his DVDs still play the same images, they’re not the same, really. The artist rewrites the page without changing the letters. I only feel comfortable watching Spacey films now where he’s the bad guy, like Seven or Horrible Bosses. Many consumers, including me, have taken a Barthesian ‘separate art from artist’ approach to excuse consuming good art made by dodgy, dodgy people. This, at best, is a moral grey area. By paying for art from scumbags, we essentially fund their lifestyle, whether they are their art or not. In a capitalist society, the financial connection between the two is more relevant than the philosophical separation.

This shifts slightly if the artist is dead, or not funded by consumption. You’re not funding a racist agenda if you buy the works of Edgar Allen Poe, a horrible racist. There is no financial connection, and according to Barthes, no authorial one either. However, the art could still be inadequate on an aesthetic level as well as a moral one: XXXtentacion’s music didn’t suddenly become listenable the moment he died.

The artist rewrites the page without changing the letters

Anyway, my stories for Creative Writing had bits of my life in them, but they weren’t all autobiographies. I think Barthes was right in saying the author isn’t in the text, and that writing is performative. However, the performances never stop: it changes every time it is read. The art and the artist are intertwined, rewriting each other with every reading and constantly hurling praise and accusations. You might not be your art, but if you sign your name under it, you’re tied to it forever.

John Le Carré’s Novels in Translation

Why do John Le Carré’s novels translate so well to TV and Film media?

John Le Carré has been a pioneer of the literary espionage genre for more than 50 years, from his debut novel, Call for the Dead through to 2017s A Legacy of Spies. He found fame at the height of the Cold War and his work has obviously dealt with the work of spies; the world of espionage as well as the drugs trade, arms deals and counter-terrorism. He is frequently seeking new stories to tell, particularly in the post-Cold War period.

One of the most intriguing things I have found about his work is the sheer scale of adaptations based on his novels, especially in recent years where his lesser known novels have been frequently adapted in both film and television. Notably with the adaption of The Night Manager, starring Tom Hiddleston and Hugh Laurie in 2016 and The Little Drummer Girl, starring Florence Pugh, Michael Shannon and Alexander Skarsgård, which is currently on BBC One. Le Carré adaptations are by no means new, with his breakout hit The Spy Who Came in from the Cold having been turned into a major 1965 film starring Richard Burton. The BBC in the 1970s and 80s, which starred Alec Guinness, adapted two-thirds of his magnum opus Smiley Versus Karla.

Le Carré seems to thrive in having seemingly ordinary individuals thrust into the espionage game or, in the case of Jonathon Pine in The Night Manager, the arms trade. This is a common theme throughout his work; be it in The Honourable Schoolboy, The Constant Gardner or Our Kind of Traitor. The lead characters in these novels are all individuals thrust out of their comfort zone and perhaps offer some sort of connection to both a literary and cinema audience. His novels are often layered and nuanced, requiring multiple readings and viewings for their respective adaptations, drawing us into a murky world of espionage that is far less glamorous than the one presented by Ian Fleming in the James Bond novels and films.

Le Carré seems to thrive in having seemingly ordinary individuals thrust into the espionage game

There is always a feeling of substantial depth with Le Carre’s work. He builds his words so clearly and with such conviction that it is hard not be sucked in. The sheer attention to detail that’s gone into building his Cambridge Circus spy network, which is front and centre of the Smiley novels, is astonishing, and this largely translates across to the various adaptations with both Gary Oldman and Alec Guinness. The 2011 Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy adaptation stands as one of the most well received to date, receiving numerous Oscar nominations including a first for Oldman, and boasts one of the best ensemble film casts in the history of British cinema, with several actors appearing prior to becoming in-demand leading actors (Tom Hardy, Benedict Cumberbatch). The film stars the likes of Colin Firth, John Hurt, Mark Strong, Toby Jones and Stephen Graham. There is talk of a follow-up based on the third part of the Smiley Versus Karla series Smiley’s People, which I’m sure most Le Carré purists would welcome.

The Night Manager was one of the television events of 2016, leading many to label Tom Hiddleston as a front-runner to replace Daniel Craig as 007. It once again boasted a stellar cast with Olivia Coleman and Tom Hollander in supporting roles. This is perhaps a Le Carré adaptation that transcends its literary roots, with the novel – whilst enjoyable – being nowhere near as gripping as the adaptation, and the changes made to the ending proving intelligent and not detracting from the source material. It boasts luscious cinematography and stellar lead and supporting performances and gives me hope, along with the Little Drummer Girl, that the BBC and Le Carré can forge a lengthy partnership giving some of his lesser-known gems the attention they deserve.

This is perhaps a le carré adaptation that transcends its literary roots

Moving onto the Little Drummer Girl, this is a harder one to judge based on its first 3 episodes. It is once again well-acted and contains some of the best cinematography work I have seen in any BBC production. This is television on a truly cinematic scale. The shots at the end of the first episode of Athens’s Acropolis are truly breath-taking; as are the long takes of Charlie driving a red Mercedes which open episode 3. The costume design is perfect, giving a feel for the late 70s, and Florence Pugh gets to wear some astonishing yellow, green, blue and red dresses that really catch the eye. The one drawback of this adaptation thus far is its snail-like pace. Whilst I expect this to pick up later in the series, it may prove frustrating to viewers expecting another adaptation in the style of The Night Manager.

Life Imitates Art: ‘The Square’

To make a film that spends its energy sneering at modern art and its institutions, tearing apart the art world’s smug pretensions and meaningless concerns – while indulging in a few laughs at the pseudo-intellectuals behind it all to boot – would have been an easy feat for Ruben Östlund, the director of 2017’s ‘The Square’.

Indeed, from the first five minutes it seems like that is what we are in for, as a hungover chief curator stumbles into an interview and visibly struggles to explain a comical piece of art jargon from his museum’s website. We should be grateful that Östlund chose a different route. To be sure, ‘The Square’ does not deny all the criticisms of modern art we’ve all heard before, nor does it spare the often complacent, money-soaked environment its characters exist in; but beyond this is a far more complex and arresting piece of work. ‘The Square’ is an exploration of the boundaries between reality and performance, of the pitfalls of trust, and above all, of how we react to the unknown.

‘The Square’ is an exploration of the boundaries between reality and performance

While ‘The Square’ is hardly an overt attack on everything modern art entails, one thing Östlund focuses on time and time again throughout the film is the disconnect between artistic naivete and the real world. Emotionless Stockholm inhabitants walk briskly past plaintive beggars and cripples in between scenes of curator Christian (Claes Bang) explaining the film’s centrepiece, a piece of concept art called ‘The Square’ that asks those inside it to be compassionate and caring – a message scorned by his PR team for being too plain and unprovocative. ‘Nobody would argue with that’, shrugs one, ‘it needs an edge.’ After Christian’s phone is stolen – the film’s first moment of discord – he tracks it with an app to an apartment building decidedly outside the centre of Stockholm. His bravado evaporating, he asks his assistant to go instead on the pretext that ‘I’m a semi-public figure…I might be recognised’ to which the reply comes, ‘not here!’

The film’s two crucial narrative elements, the artwork ‘The Square’ itself (marked out on a small section of cobblestones) and Christian’s robbery – brilliantly executed in an almost theatrical moment where he unwittingly protects a hysterical woman crying for help – both indicate one of Östlund’s central concerns: the problem of trust. If there is a message to be found here, it is that trusting others is not just always a bad idea, but nearly impossible in the first place.

‘What is the use of high culture and ideals’, Östlund asks us, that are so easily upended by our nature?

Christian becomes paranoid in an excruciating argument over a condom with the journalist he sleeps with, Anne (Elisabeth Moss). He resists letting her throw it away herself for an obvious, but unspoken reason that she mocks him for: ‘You really do think highly of yourself, don’t you?’ The scene shows Christian in a moment of intense psychological weakness, huddled under the sheets with both hands clasped to his chest and an expression of subdued fear on his face. Perhaps his guardedness is a natural reaction to his last undermining, which resulted in the loss of his possessions.

The cinematography of all the scenes in public brilliantly reinforces the viewer’s growing distrust of wider society, as the mass of people are shown impassive, bland, almost faceless. This idea is presented in miniature when Christian leads his two young daughters around an unopened exhibit, with the challenge to press a button marked either ‘I trust people’ or ‘I distrust people’. After stating they ‘trust people’ in general, the girls are confronted with a projection of scowling strangers and asked to leave their phone and wallet on the floor. ‘Does it feel strange?’, Christian asks them. ‘Yes’, they reply. Even in a space as secluded and controlled as an empty gallery, we are reminded, the most trusting members of society are unnerved by the reality of their own principles.

If there is a message to be found here, it is that trusting others is not just always a bad idea

However, for me the main achievement of ‘The Square’ was the fantastic way Östlund portrays high art and culture, and the subtle malevolence of a prosperous society, as practically inseparable. Often the boundaries of something, or the consequences of somebody’s actions seem to have been pushed too far, and exhibition or joke spirals into a grim new reality. In one scene, a man is hired as entertainment to stamp around a room full of financial donors like a ‘wild animal’. ‘If you show fear, the animal will sense it’, the announcer states. At first the guests laugh, but as the ‘animal’ gets bolder, the atmosphere degenerates horrifically.

‘What is the use of high culture and ideals’, Östlund asks us, that are so easily upended by our nature? The museum’s exhibit implores people to be kinder, but its PR campaign uses a violent shock-tactic CGI video to grab press attention. Christian is robbed trying to help somebody, and rashly looks for revenge, throwing his life further into chaos. The Square demonstrates that, even in a seemingly secure enclosure of symmetry, cleanliness, and languid comfort, as almost every frame emphasises, we cannot be sure of our own safety against whatever lies outside. If, as Terry Eagleton suggests, the role of culture is ‘to bite the hand [a developed, seemingly civilised society] that feeds it’ – – then ‘The Square’ provides the counterbalance in the form of that hand making a fist and lunging back.

The World of Literature Explored Through Film

While book to film adaptations in the world of modern cinema are easy to find, renowned classics and contemporary films centred around the art of literature itself are rarer. Films which explore the world of literature and the authors who create them can be just as valuable to the reader as an adaptation of their favourite book. Many recent efforts at making biographical films centred around the authors of great literature have garnered success in cinema and provide a look beyond the books themselves, which can be just as valuable for a reader.

…literature becomes immortalised and is able to ripple through time

Midnight in Paris takes a playwright suffering with writer’s block back in time to the 1920s where, while on a trip to Paris, he meets Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway and Salvador Dali among other artists and writers. The film takes its audience on a journey back to the ‘golden age’ of literature and presents the greats of the time performed by an acclaimed cast who do them justice. The film is made not only for the writer, but the reader too, reminding us of the rich culture, lifestyles and characters which permeate literature as an art. You can’t help but feel drawn to this presentation of the past, almost envious that you weren’t alive to experience literature as it was, yet we are also reminded of the greatness and power of the literary art, both past and present.

Films which explore the world of literature and the authors who create them can be just as valuable to the reader as an adaptation of their favourite book

Looking from Midnight in Paris to films that provide more than fleeting studies of the writers that they are about, Stephen Daldry’s 2004 drama, The Hours, explores the lives of three women, all surrounding Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway. The film explores Woolf, played by Nicole Kidman, as she battles depression to write her novel in her home. In separate decades, the film follows the stories of Laura Brown, played by Julianne Moore, a bored suburban housewife, and Clarissa Vaughn, played by Meryl Streep, who is trying to organise a party. The three storylines run parallel to each other and the film alternates between each story as it progresses. Woolf is shown beginning to work on her novel just as we are about to see Brown pick up the novel and read it in an attempt to escape from the mundanity of her life. The film is framed by the audience’s knowledge of Woolf’s eventual and tragic death. It lingers throughout the narrative but that isn’t what the film is about. We’re given an interpretation of how a great writer like Woolf may have worked; erratically, without plan and yet stationary. Woolf sits in one chair to write for the majority of the day and barely moves, but the film captures a sense of vivid movement and energy in the room as she works. The film cuts from scenes like this to the stories of the two other women who are both struggling in their own times and cities and, in that sense, the film not only offers a brilliant presentation of Virginia Woolf but also the ways that literature becomes immortalised and is able to ripple through time.

book to film adaptations will always be important to the reader and the world of cinema

Finally, John Krokidas’ 2013 film, Kill Your Darlings, follows the early lives of some of the first members of the Beat Generation, focusing on characters like Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac. The film is suitably dark and gritty for the time and culture that it presents. The anti-establishment feelings of the characters and counter culture of the 1940s are captured in the frantic and moody style of the film. We don’t see the characters how we, as readers, know them but how they began: young, inexperienced and dissatisfied with modern America. The performances of Daniel Radcliffe and Dane DeHaan, who play Ginsberg and Carr respectively, succeed in capturing the complicated essence of the relationship of the two characters. Where the film exceeds other films that have been made surrounding the Beat generation, is how it does not simply accept the movement for the philosophy that is now so widely known. The film questions the movement and at times seems sceptical of it, allowing for a much more insightful and valuable exploration of its controversy, centring its story around the Riverside park killing of Kammerer in 1944.

Kill Your Darlings looks past the often romanticised surface image of the Beat generation and creates an alternative and insightful portrayal, as many other films centred on literature are able to. While book to film adaptations will always be important to the reader and the world of cinema, those looking for a view beyond the book might consider watching some of these mentioned films.

Favourite Films Centred Around Literature

While book to film adaptations of renowned classics and contemporary fiction in the world of modern cinema are easy to find, film centred around the art of literature itself can be rarer to find. Films that explore the world of literature and the authors who create them can be just as valuable to the reader as an adaptation of their favourite book could be. Many recent efforts at making biographical films centred around the authors of great literature have garnered success in cinema and provide a look beyond the books themselves which can be just as valuable for a reader.

Midnight in Paris takes a playwright suffering with writer’s block back in time to the 1920s while on a trip to Paris where he meets Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway and Salvador Dali among other artists and writers. The film takes its audience on a journey back to the ‘golden age’ of literature and presents the greats of the time performed by an acclaimed cast who do them justice. The film is made not only for the writer, but the reader too, reminding us of the rich culture, lifestyles and characters which permeate literature as an art. You cannot help but feel drawn to the presentation of the past, almost envious that you weren’t alive to experience literature as it was, but we’re also reminded of the greatness and power of the literary art, both past and present.

Midnight in Paris… takes its audience on a journey back to the ‘golden age’ of literature

Looking from Midnight in Paris to films that provide more than fleeting studies of the writers that they are about, Stephen Daldry’s 2004 drama, The Hours, explores the lives of three women, all surrounding Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway. The film explores Woolf, played by Nicole Kidman, as she battles depression to write her novel in her home. In separate decades, the film follows the stories of Laura Brown, played by Julianne Moore, a bored suburban housewife, and Clarissa Vaughn, played by Meryl Streep, who is trying to organise a party. The three storylines run parallel to each other and the film alternates between each story as it progresses. Woolf is shown beginning to work on her novel just as we are about to see Brown pick up the novel and read it in an attempt to escape from the mundanity of her life.

The film is framed by the audience’s knowledge of Woolf’s eventual and tragic death. It lingers throughout the narrative but that is not what the film is about. We’re given an interpretation of how a great writer like Woolf may have worked; erratically, without plan and yet stationary. Woolf sits in one chair to write for the majority of the day and moves little but the film captures a sense of vivid movement and energy in the room as she works. The film cuts from scenes like this to the stories of the two other women who are both struggling in their own times and cities and in that sense the film not only offers a brilliant presentation of Virginia Woolf but also the ways that literature becomes immortalised and is able to ripple through time.

We’re given an interpretation of how a great writer like Woolf may have worked; erratically, without plan and yet stationary

Finally, John Krokidas’ 2013 film, Kill Your Darlings, follows the early lives of some of the first members of the Beat Generation, focusing on characters like Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac. The film is suitably dark and gritty for the time and culture that it presents. The anti-establishment feelings of the characters and counter culture of the 1940s are captured in the frantic and moody style of the film. We don’t see the characters how we, as readers, know them but how they began: young, inexperienced and dissatisfied with modern America. The performances of Daniel Radcliffe and Dane DeHaan, who play Ginsberg and Carr respectively, succeeds in capturing the complicated essence of the relationship of the two characters. Where the film exceeds other films that have been made surrounding the Beat generation is that it does not simply accept the movement for the philosophy that is now so widely known. The film questions the movement and at times seems sceptical of it, allowing for a much more insightful and valuable exploration of its controversy, centring its story around the Riverside park killing of Kammerer in 1944.

American Americans

America is not a nation known for its subtlety, so it’s hardly surprising that there’s an extensive list of films announcing their Americanness: American Beauty, American Psycho, American Hustle, and American Gangster, to name just a few. There’s even more when you consider the televisual American offerings such as American Horror Story, American Dad!, and American Gods. However, these ‘American’ films hardly have a consistent through-line. A double bill of American Sniper and American Pie is not a natural pairing. So with no obvious recurring theme, why is there such a range of films centring their titles on the United States?

Going back to the beginning of the trend in the prehistoric era of the 70s, the first film to use this prefix (according to IMDb), is George Lucas’ American Graffiti (1973). American Graffiti tracks a number of high school teenagers over the course of one night and its setting of 1962 allows for an exploration of the rock and roll culture of the 60s. This begs the question of whether we can organise these films by the periods of American history they represent, as an attempt to get at the essential psyche of a cultural moment. For example, American Psycho probes the extreme materialism of late-stage capitalism at the end of the 20^th century, and American Sniper centres on the post-9/11 War on Terror. But is this too simplistic an analysis? The rebellious teens of American Graffiti are not confined to the 60s, materialism and capitalism certainly hasn’t ended, and America was waging war for dubious reasons long before 9/11.

America says so much about itself that something must be said in response

That isn’t to say that these films don’t draw upon various time periods to criticise their contemporary moment, but there are far too many in the collection to simply paint them all with the brush of social satire. So perhaps these films are more atemporal, and are instead attempting to tap into something essentially American. American Pie’s title, which comes from a hit song of the same name and refers to an iconic scene in the film, also refers to the desire to lose your virginity in high school, which writer Adam Herz claims is as “American as apple pie,” boldly suggesting a certain uniqueness about the horniness of America’s teens. One of the taglines for American Gangster states that “there are two sides to the American dream,” drawing on another building block of the US collective consciousness: the apparent ability that every citizen has to make their own success. This might help us get closer to the reason behind this prevalent convention: America says so much about itself, that something must be said in response.

American society is fixated on its founding principles, regardless of how much founding in reality they actually have. The notion of freedom, the importance of the constitution, the cultural mannerisms that are figured as solely American; all of these things and more are hammered home to Americans and to the world on a daily basis, making them ripe for commentary, whether that commentary is a critical response (American Psycho) or one that reinforces those ideals (American Sniper).

When viewed as a single unit, this plethora of ‘American’ films creates a complex jigsaw of life in the US, delving in and out of time periods, dissecting social relations, and exploring some of the darkest recesses of American life. Perhaps only America could inspire such a volume of film about itself, because where a nation is so insistent on its moralist foundations, there will be those insistent on creating films that support them. But at the same time, art that is critical of those foundations will start to grow out of the cracks, and with America there is no shortage of cracks.