Literature, Film, and Their Hideous Progeny

Home , Keith Carradine, Rocky the Musical

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© Julie Grossman 2015 All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6–10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The author has asserted her right to be identiﬁ ed as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2015 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN Palgrave Macmillan in the UK is an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS. Palgrave Macmillan in the US is a division of St Martin’s Press LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies and has companies and representatives throughout the world. Palgrave® and Macmillan® are registered trademarks in the United States, the United Kingdom, Europe and other countries. ISBN 978–1–137–39901–4 This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. Logging, pulping and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

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Contents

List of Figures viii Acknowledgments x

Introduction 1 Part I Journeys and Authorship 1 “It’s Alive!”: The Monster and the Automaton as Film and Filmmakers 25 2 Lightening Up: Reappearing Hearts of Darkness 41 3 Hideous Fraternities: The Coen Brothers Hit the Road 62 Part II Textual and Marginal Identities 4 Imitations of Life and Art 83 5 The Quiet Presence of “The Yellow Wallpaper” in Todd Haynes’s film [Safe] 105 6 Musical Theater and Independent Film 126 Part III Immersive Theater and the Monstrous Avant-Garde 7 Adapting Time and Place: Avant-Garde Storytelling and Immersive Theater 147 8 Time Will Tell: Adaptation Going Forward and Film at the Art Museum (Christian Marclay’s The Clock) 167 9 Cape Fear, The Simpsons, and Anne Washburn’s Post-Apocalyptic Mr. Burns, A Post-Electric Play 177 Epilogue 191

Notes 195 Works Cited 210 Index 219

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Introduction

Literature, Film, and Their Hideous Progeny: Adaptation and ElasTEXTity argues on behalf of creative adaptations that reread and rewrite prior works of art, forging new perspectives and variant ways of looking not simply at source texts as their origins but at the creative means by which adaptations come to be. My hope is that the analyses that follow can model for students, readers, and viewers a way of engaging cultural production that promotes greater openness to the ingenious if challenging conversations that can take place among creative works across time and medium. Because of their potential for promoting cross-textual conversations and observing connections among sometimes very dissimilar works, studies in adaptation, when construed broadly, invite a kind of critical thinking that moves viewers and readers beyond their comfort with inherited boundaries and preexisting patterns.1 I join other scholars working in a field that has moved beyond fidelity criticism, approaches that focus mainly on how closely an adaptation follows, re-presents, or is faithful to its source text. As Robin Wood observed with simple clarity, “There is no such thing as a faithful adaptation” (7). Following the groundbreaking work of scholars examining dialogic intertextual, intermedial, and interart models of adaptation,2 I employ several critical and metaphorical lenses for reevaluating our ways of reading source texts and their adaptations, all of which work against a popular affinity for films and works of art and literature that are easily digestible. The central metaphor I explore is borrowed from Mary Shelley’s figure for her novel Frankenstein, “hideous progeny,” “monsters” birthed with difficulty. Adaptations conceived as “hideous progeny” change not only the way we view but also our ideas about what we are viewing. They “destroy” other texts, even as they create new ones, revealing new perspectives on human identity and culture.

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The horror genre has itself been explored as “monstrous” in its “adaptation” of the theme of change and mutation. In Richard J. Hand and Jay McRoy’s 2007 anthology Monstrous Adaptations: Generic and Thematic Mutations in Horror Film, a number of writers explore what the editors call the horror genre’s “obsession with corporeal transformation” (3).3 However, I want to argue that any adaptation might be considered “monstrous,” that is, isolated from its predecessors because it is born of new concerns, new desires to express ideas in a different medium, with a changed-up narrative reflecting shifting cultural priorities. Because of these altered contexts, adaptations are often born resisting the original desires of their sources. A provoking figure for reanimations of earlier source texts, “monstrous” describes the shocking violation of original and organically pure matter when adapted or reshaped in new contexts. Adaptations conceived as “monstrous” subvert the stereotype that they are unoriginal; instead, these “hideous progeny” are, at least potentially, original, asking new questions about fundamental issues of human and textual identities, just as Mary Shelley’s Creature leads us to rethink our understanding of what is human. If “hideous progeny” describes adaptations that force us to shift our perspective in sometimes radical ways, the elastextity in this book’s title refers to the state of being for sources and adaptations that are indivis- ibly connected. I am interested in texts that are elastic, sources and adaptations whose flexibility “implies a process of change,” as Peter Brooker has observed, “and not an alignment of two fixed objects” (Brooker 118).4 Indeed, elastextity follows the non-teleological studies in adaptation of Robert Stam, Thomas Leitch, and Linda Hutcheon, among others, with a marked shift in focus on the process of and myr- iad contexts for adaptation—their “modes of engagement,” to quote Hutcheon—and the “subversive potential” of adaptation that may “be part of the appeal of adapting for adapters and audiences alike” in the first place (A Theory of Adaptation 174). Elastextity is a way of thinking about texts as extended beyond themselves, merging their identities with other works of art that follow and precede them. In their elastextity, adaptations invite in-depth investigation and close reading that are part of the more general critical frame of intertextuality. The idea of elastextity conceives of sources and adaptations as part of a vastly stretched tarp or canvas. As the metaphor implies, the state of being pulled beyond an initial form to encompass other objects, texts, and identities can have monstrous results, as texts appear to be misshapen or distorted. Adaptations are thus “hideous,” at least until we grow accustomed to looking at their new forms. This is a version of

Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Introduction 3 how the avant-garde functions, reorienting our viewing practices and introducing us to new forms of artistic being. Adaptations can change our ways of determining where individual works of art begin and end, and shift our ideas about what constitutes art in general. Indeed, while it may seem as if adaptation marks the end of the avant-garde in its reprocessing of familiar source texts, I argue that creative works that are in dialogue with previous texts and self- conscious about the multitudinous influences on any one work of art may be seen as the new avant-garde. 5 The most provocative adaptations not only create initial dissonance for us as viewers/readers, just as avant- garde works do, but they also train our critical eye on cultural progeny rather than on origins. The works treated in the final chapters of this study are adaptations and avant-garde meditations on culture and storytelling, suggesting the powerful link between re-visioning texts and the groundbreaking attributes of experimental art. The metaphors I employ to discuss adaptation link to the issue of perspective that is at the core of this project. I want to endorse a way of thinking about adaptation that emphasizes its power to “slant” (create a different viewpoint on) a source text, to shift our way of filing known literary works in our mental cabinets. I think an important byproduct of theoretical arguments for intertextuality (in both the practice and the reading of adaptation) is its enhanced focus on scholarship and peda- gogy themselves—the way we reimagine the relations among texts—as fundamentally creative activity.6 Many of the adaptations addressed in this study are not interested in re-presenting other works but in engaging them in conversation from a new viewpoint and, often, a surprising context. By way of illustration, there is the recent photo-series by photographer Sandro Miller, Malkovich, Malkovich, Malkovich: Homage to Photographic Masters, which adapts not only famous works of photography and art but also the most memorable scene in Spike Jonze’s millennial postmodern film Being John Malkovich (1999). At one point in the film, Malkovich (playing himself) enters a portal into his own self, which is rendered as a nightmare landscape of multiplied Malkoviches (everyone in a crowded restaurant scene, for example, is Malkovich [Figure I.1]). The menu is filled with his name. Nothing is spoken except “Malkovich.” As in that strange and ingenious scene, all 35 photographic images in Miller’s exhibition restage famous portraits by inserting Malkovich into them. The daring image below (Figure I.2), as it adapts Dorothea Lange’s “Migrant Mother” (1936), exemplifies the creative potential of adaptation conceived of as experimental and innovative,7 igniting our sense

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Figure I.1 Being John Malkovich

Figure I.2 Sandro Miller, “Malkovich, Malkovich, Malkovich”: Dorothea Lange/ Migrant Mother, Nipomo, California (1936), 2014 Source: Courtesy of Sandro Miller.

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“that art,” to quote Robert Hughes writing about the avant-garde of the late 19th century, “in the most disinterested and noble way, could find the necessary metaphors by which a radically changing culture could be explained to its inhabitants” (9). Two other of Miller’s photographs in the series (see Figures 1.3 and 1.4), adapting film icons Bette Davis and Jack Nicholson (as the Joker), are similarly uncanny. Resituating a familiar work of art in a new context not only provides a unique perspective on its topic or theme but also models a way of recombining intellectual matter that sparks further creativity. Conceiving of adaptation as newly creative art leads the way, I think, for more flexible discussions of the ways in which the arts depend on what has been made before. Hitchcock’s oft-quoted comment about adaptation builds a path toward a widened definition of adaptation as

Figure I.3 “Malkovich, Malkovich, Malkovich”: Victor Skrebneski/Bette Davis, Actor, November 8 (1971), Los Angeles Studio, 2014 Source: Courtesy of Sandro Miller.

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Figure I.4 Sandro Miller, “Malkovich, Malkovich, Malkovich”: Herb Ritts/Jack Nicholson, London (1988) (B), 2014 Source: Courtesy of Sandro Miller. creative but also fundamentally disorienting in its dispatch of sources: “What I do is to read a story only once, and if I like the basic idea, I just forget all about the book and start to create cinema” (Truffaut 71). The director suggests an unconscious reworking, a forging of creative space cleared as a result of sublimating an earlier text. Here, adaptation becomes a recasting or reanimation that is connected to the preceding work, but not chained to it as a representation. In his turn, writer Julio Cortázar said of Blow-Up (1966), Michelangelo Antonioni’s adaptation of Cortázar’s short story of the same title, “I left Antonioni absolutely free to depart from my story and follow his own ghosts; and in search for them, he met with some of mine” (292). In a 2010 National Public Radio interview about Mark Romanek’s screen adaptation of his novel Never Let Me Go (2005), Kazuo Ishiguro commented on the importance of seeing film adaptation as its own artistic activity. The adaptation, Ishiguro

Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Introduction 7 insists, “absolutely has its own authority—to the extent that even I as the author almost forgot the story.” All three of these artists’ comments suggest a distinct value in an amnesiac relation to earlier texts.8 In a 2004 article in The Guardian about Edward Hopper and cinema, Philip French refers to Hopper’s paintings as “stills from a movie we can’t quite remember,” another instance of adaptation’s amnesiac ele- ments. While many may recognize a visual and thematic continuity between the urban alienation and chiaroscuro in Hopper’s paintings and film noir, fewer may know that when Abraham Polonsky made the noir classic Force of Evil in 1948, he apparently took his cinematogra- pher George Barnes to a Hopper exhibit and said, “‘That’s what I want this picture to look like.” Hopper was inspired to paint his most famous work “Nighthawks” (1942) after reading Ernest Hemingway’s 1927 short story “The Killers.” The relation between painting and cinema in this instance was mutually enhancing when, four years later, Hemingway’s story was adapted to film. Citing Hopper’s biographer Gail Levin, French observes that

[in] the classic 1946 movie version, Robert Siodmak, German-born master of the film noir, recreates Hopper’s painting in black and white. The film used two typical Hopper loci for the ex-boxer’s squalid lodging and humble workplace, i.e. the dark room in a hotel or boarding house where a single person broods, and the desolate roadside filling station as in Gas and Four Lane Road. (French)

More than simply a study of influences or consideration of muse-like inspiration, this kind of analysis reminds us that written and visual texts, as well as other media and cultural matter, are always convers- ing, and, ideally, listening well to one another. Such conversations go on indeterminately, since the best conversations never conclude, even when they reach difficult terrain. As Edward Scissorhands, another adapted figure of the Frankenstein Creature, says in his first encounter with Peg Boggs in Edward Scissorhands, “I’m not finished.” Adaptation studies root out the multiple relationships among intertextual sources and adaptations: relationships that can confound viewers and readers. To anticipate examples I later describe in detail, the narratives about passing in Chapter 4—Nella Larsen’s 1929 novel Passing; Fannie Hurst’s 1933 novel Imitation of Life and its 1934 and 1959 film adaptations by John M. Stahl and Douglas Sirk respectively; and Toni Morrison’s 1970 novel The Bluest Eye—stage a difficult conversation among film and literary texts about the painful choices made

Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 8 Literature, Film, and Their Hideous Progeny when social-psychological survival requires shifting notions of identity that may be necessary but can also be deeply controversial. Similarly, as I discuss in Chapter 5, Todd Haynes’s [Safe] (1995) explores the attempts of a desperate woman, Carol White, to survive a disease that defies diagnosis and treatment. Like the grotesque figure of long-time resident Lester haunting the margins of the desert retreat she moves to, the film itself is a “monstrous” scion of Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s 1892 short story “The Yellow Wallpaper.” Lester, a “hideous” version of the woman in the wallpaper, forces the female protagonist, as well as the reader/ viewer, to confront the traumatic maladies these stories explore. The musicals discussed in Chapter 6 are also about marginalized figures, but their stories are given new expression on the musical stage. While the analysis in Chapters 5 and 6 (on [Safe] and “The Yellow Wallpaper” and musical theater adaptations of independent films) is more straightfor- wardly comparative than the more collage-like dialogical approach used in other chapters, the discussion remains committed to drawing out multiple perspectives on sources. The immersive theatrical productions Sleep No More, Then She Fell, and Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812 discussed in Chapter 7 force radically different perspectives on their sources. They also enact beautiful recombinations of their textual sources using music, visual images, creative sets, and dance. In Chapter 8, I address Christian Marclay’s 24-hour video installation, The Clock (2010), which “hideously” carves up films and television episodes in order to rematerialize them in a stunning montage of thousands of scenes. In Anne Washburn’s Mr. Burns, A Post-Electric Play (2012), the focus of Chapter 9, the post-apocalyptic performances of episodes of the Fox television show The Simpsons are untethered from (have utterly “forgotten”) their sources, as well as the civilization that produced them, and yet they provide artistic rituals that allow their audiences to look forward despite living in a ravaged world. Adaptations can illu- minate a creativity or hopefulness often tied to devastation, as is sug- gested by the image on this book’s cover. In Victor Erice’s El Espíritu de la Colmena (The Spirit of the Beehive, 1973), Ana (Ana Torrents) is a figure of traumatized innocence directly linked to Frankenstein’s Creature.

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I borrow the metaphor of “hideous progeny” that inspired this study from Mary Shelley: adaptations can very usefully be understood as difficult offspring, or as a creation tied at the same time to obliterating a univocal view of the source(s). Because of the agonistic relationship

Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Introduction 9 between an adaptation and its sources, other canonic figures of horror, namely the vampire and the zombie, might also represent an “undead” story that transcends mortality and scares its viewers or readers by bringing a familiar tale back to life. Ken Gelder captures the abiding fascination with the vampire, for example, as a cultural touchstone. As Gelder observes, “this creature may be highly adaptable. Thus it can be made to appeal to or generate fundamental urges located somehow ‘beyond’ culture (desire, anxiety, fear), while simultaneously, it can stand for a range of meanings and positions in culture” (141). Similarly, the zombie figure ignites thinking about the assault of adaptations that are paradoxically living and dead, like the stories we seek to adapt (or, for that matter, like the celluloid image, which records mortality even as it insists on an eternal afterlife for its source). In Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, Seth Grahame-Smith’s 2009 parody novel soon to be released as a film, a famous literary introduction is creatively refigured as “mon- strously” adaptive predation: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains” (Grahame-Smith 13). While such appetitive drive in the zombie figure can serve nicely for adaptation, the draw of “hideous progeny” has to do with its complex evocation not only of stories that don’t, won’t, or cannot die, but also of figures that “feed”—as the vampire and zombie do in particular— on past stories in order to survive. More than this, however, it is the poignancy of the paradoxical creativity that is often received or seen as destructive that is privileged in the idea of “hideous progeny,” tied as the notion is to an historical author, Mary Shelley, whose imagination and life experience saw creation and destruction as uncannily and traumatically linked. As a woman writing among men at the beginning of the 19th century, Shelley is herself an icon of adaptability. Writing from the margins, she assimilated early modern feminism, scientific experimentation, and the influence of literary Romanticism into a story that has continually reasserted itself over time. In the preface to Frankenstein, Shelley calls the novel her “hideous progeny” in part because of the horror of the story of the Creature and his creator, Victor Frankenstein, and in part, as critics have noted, because of her own anxiety about authorship.9 I want to draw an anal- ogy between this structure of relations and the difficult birthing of adaptations from originary texts. In his 2005 essay “Beyond Adaptation: Frankenstein’s Postmodern Progeny,” Pedro Javier Pardo García points toward a methodology derived from Shelley’s “hideous progeny.” In saying that Shelley “could not be aware of how her statement

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[my hideous progeny] would be prophetic of the cinematic afterlife of her masterpiece” (223), Pardo García suggests a link between the idea of “hideous progeny” and the spate of works that adapt the myth of Frankenstein as much as they adapt Shelley’s novel itself. Focusing his analysis on Kenneth Branagh’s 1994 film Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein as intertextually related to other adaptations of Frankenstein (as well as the novel), Pardo García’s analysis suggests a further use of the notion of “hideous progeny” for adaptation studies: “Adaptation, Branagh’s adaptation and the creature featuring in it, are all patchwork quilts made out of fragments, texts or body parts” (240). While Pardo García concludes, “Branagh’s creature is a perfect emblem of the composite nature of artistic creation in postmodern times” (240), I suggest that Shelley’s idea of “hideous progeny” does something else for adaptation studies. In its insistence on the penchant for adaptations to create and reconstitute, the idea of “hideous progeny” suggests the radical or paradoxical shifts in perspective presented by adaptations birthed with difficulty.10 Like a pregnant body, the relationship between sources and their progeny can be strange to behold. And like the Creature—both the character in Shelley’s novel and the book itself as her ambivalent creation—the most powerful adaptations are “hideous progeny” that threaten an interpretive status quo, such as Joel and Ethan Coen’s O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000), an adaptation of Homer’s ancient Greek epic poem The Odyssey by way of Preston Sturges’s classic comedy Sullivan’s Travels (1941), discussed in Chapter 3. These films are not passive conduits of the source text, but agents in their own right, perverse yet active deliveries that seek to propel thinking about a set of ideas or character patterns. In the case of these triplet texts, the Coen brothers trouble Homer’s exploration of the journey home at the same time as they transpose Sturges’s message about the palliative value of film comedy into a quirky celebration of music as a means of transcendence. The choice of works to be explored in this book has been determined in part by a recognition that some of the most interesting adaptations seem to focus on the recurring themes of the journey to find meaning and the role of the outcast. That these two themes predominate in visitations of earlier texts should not surprise us, since both preoccupa- tions are theoretically bound to the process of adaptation. Adaptation attempts to dialectically revisit a source text recognizing that it cannot go “home” again; that there is, as Elisabeth Bronfen has argued, “no place like it.” The journey, as treated in Chapters 2 and 3, thus becomes a particularly ripe way for adaptations to explore the loss and gain of

Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Introduction 11 circuitous traveling toward and away from a source text that has in part given rise to it.11 If the journey’s end lacks closure, as it does in many of the works to be discussed in these pages, such indeterminacy productively destabilizes the identification one seeks in experiencing an adaptation as a re-presentation of a familiar source text, the pattern- seeking drive to be comfortable with what I call the “home” text. The often zealous desire to relate to adaptations via an internalized text— what Barbara Hodgdon calls “a particular reader’s ideology of the text” (v)—can be very limiting. As Brian McFarlane observes, “[Viewers] are too often not interested in something new being made in the film [adaptation] but only in assessing how far their own conception of the novel has been transposed from one medium to the other” (“It Wasn’t Like That in the Book” 6). If the journey suits adaptation as a topic that helps the latter to find an artistic destination via a vehicle that may already be known, the road from sources to adaptations is a haunted landscape, full of creation and destruction, as Shelley foretold.12 Adaptations disorient us, but also compel us, the way Hitchcock or Martin Scorsese have used the dolly zoom technique, or “Vertigo zoom”—zooming in a zoom lens while the camera dollies away from the subject—to suggest an idea of paradoxical movement. So, too, adaptations travel toward and away from a source text, creating a new “slanted” perspective, an unheimlich or uncanny re-viewing of a work, that, happily, appears to be dynamic.13 Such uncanniness can be seen in Danny Boyle’s 2011 Royal National Theatre production of Frankenstein, adapted by Nick Dear, in which actors Jonny Lee Miller and Benedict Cumberbatch alternated the roles of Victor and the Creature. Of course, this is a way to mirror a thematic point about the doppelganger relationship between the two central figures of the story. In the play, the Creature says at the end, “You and I, we are one.”14 In a short documentary that precedes the film broadcast of the production, Miller suggests a theatrical rendering of this idea when he says that “bits of my Creature go into Victor.” The instability of the form—blending the actors and their roles—foregrounds the idea that adaptation is by its nature about shifting perspectives. Literalizing this notion in the performance strategy, Boyle’s Frankenstein is inherently multiple and textually irresolvable.15 In Boyle’s Frankenstein, the stage sets (done by Mark Tildesley) imagi- natively draw out the contradictory Romantic and industrial contexts for a 19th-century Frankenstein. We see resonances of William Blake in the visual imagery, Ben Brantley rightly observes, which evokes the natural innocence of the Creature as he experiences the burnt

Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 12 Literature, Film, and Their Hideous Progeny orange-painted sun and smothers himself in a strip of green grass (“It’s [Gasp] Alive”).16 In an earlier scene, however, the production depicts the horrors of industrial machinery. A figure for dehumanization and the dangers of technology gone amok, a cacophonous locomotive full of sparks of electricity and spitting steam lurches across the stage as the Creature tries to find safety.17 But the most striking element of this production is its opening scene, which exploits a birthing metaphor to introduce the Creature on stage. The beginning of the play features a drum-like structure with canvas sides that hold the creature within the tarp waiting to be “born.” The figure within pushes against the interior of the canvas, distending its material and emulating an image of a dynamically pregnant body. When the Creature finally emerges, he begins an extended sequence of contorted dance movements that eventually result in his autodi- dactically learning to stand and to walk. At the end of this scene, the Creature nevertheless tries to find his way back to the tarp, from which a rope extends (the umbilical cord), representing this hideous progeny’s link to his sources at the same time as he must make an arduous journey in a different direction. The outcast or marginalized figures in this book—Mary Shelley and her Creature; Carol White in [Safe]; the women in Imitation of Life, Passing, and The Bluest Eye, for example—cannot find a place of comfort, although, like Boyle’s Frankenstein, their stories reveal grim perspectives on the societies and conventions that cause their suffering. Thus, in the content as well as the form of many of these works, meaning is pursued through the figure of an outsider defined from some perspectives as a monster. This figure is the one, however, that illuminates new ways of reading and viewing what we thought we knew, and when adaptations revisit these outsider themes, such themes are redoubled, multiplied, enriched. Max Cady, discussed in Chapter 9, whether played with the dangerous insouciance of Robert Mitchum or threatening violence of Robert De Niro in the film versions of Cape Fear, or even with the mis- hap energy of Sideshow Bob in The Simpsons, represents the monster’s vengeance not only on an illusory notion of home but also, in the field of adaptation studies, on the “home text.” Exiled from the “home text” and any faithful relationship to it, adaptations make their own way. With his/her/its instinct for survival, this “hideous progeny” will carry familiar stories into the future, even as that journey is uncomfortable to witness. I begin this study with analysis of adaptations of canonical sources— Frankenstein, The Odyssey, Heart of Darkness—and the book as a whole

Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Introduction 13 takes the shape of elastextity, moving from familiar texts to more challenging forms of adaptation, such as immersive theater, Marclay’s The Clock, and Washburn’s Mr Burns. I end this study with a brief discussion of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s brilliant musical theater adaptation of Ron Chernow’s biography of an American founding father, Hamilton (2015). The project seeks to demonstrate how adaptation studies can stretch from exploration of familiar literature and film to new or newly imagined art forms and media. At their most daring, adaptations reflect an avant-garde experimentation with form and content, reshaping and transforming stories for new ages and new audiences. Video games, comic books, and mobile apps are not addressed in these pages, and I only briefly address television adaptations, interactive technologies, and other new media. While these are important areas of future research in adaptation studies, they are too far afield of my interests here to explore in this book. I am also aware of the gaps created by my central focus on American films (and theater). Despite my necessarily limited purview within this expansive and global field, I have tried to include a wide array of media and diversity of texts and genres. My hope is that in modeling conversations across a wide range of texts under the umbrella of the metaphor of “hideous progeny,” the analyses here will reenergize our ties to the works themselves and reorient our relation to the value- laden patterns that often guide or can influence our reading, viewing, and theater-going practices, and our experience of art in general. Adaptations need not deliver a prefabricated “home text”; they can invite us to come along for the ride, taking us on journeys that are disturbing, whose ends are indeterminate, and whose landscape and climates are deeply imaginative. In this spirit, Henry Jenkins describes much contemporary storytelling as “world-making.” Transmedia adaptations follow the Wachowski Brothers’ efforts, as Jenkins observes, in making The Matrix (1999) a “trigger [for] a search for meaning; they did not determine where the audience would go to find their answers” (419). The immersive theater adaptations discussed in Chapter 7 exemplify these intermedial crossings, which push us to change our perception of previous works, as well as of the media and the role of various agents within and outside of the works, such as audience/ viewers. Even in mainstream media, as in the ABC television series Once Upon a Time that premiered in 2011, adaptation has enhanced what is on offer.18 A recent example of a thoroughly creative television adaptation that exemplifies Jenkins’s “world-making” is the FX series Fargo, which premiered in 2014 and, much more than a strict adaptation of the

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1996 film of the same name by the Coen brothers, creates a world of Fargo-icity, in which the characters of the film are evoked but not re-presented. More than adapting a single source (the film Fargo), the television series adapts the world of the Coen Brothers, drawing on their themes of randomness, outsiders and down-and-outers sinking into moral quagmires in distinctly American landscapes, and violence perversely wedded to humor. While the vast snowy landscape in the television series Fargo imitates the mise-en-scène of the film, the general Coen-esque quality of the television series is most immediately found in the characters, who do not schematically correspond to those from the film. Some organically become more like the film’s characters as the story progresses, while others simply bring them to mind. From the beginning of the series, the crime-solving Molly Solverson (Allison Tolman) seems to evoke Marge Gunderson, but by episode 8, after becoming pregnant and marrying Gus Grimly (Colin Hanks), she settles into a recognizably Gunderson household (We’re doing good,” she says to Gus, whose link to gentle Norm is quietly evoked in the stamps we see populating their bedroom). William H. Macy’s Jerry Lundergaard is in the background of Lester Nygaard (Martin Freeman), a similarly desperate salesman who turns to violent crime to assert a masculinity he cannot otherwise express. Several episodes into the first season, Lester has fully “broken bad,” transforming from a midwestern loser into an award-winning “salesman of the year,” adored by his new wife Linda. The only impediment in Lester’s new life is the malevolent Lorne Malvo (Billy Bob Thornton), whom Lester repeatedly goads into making trouble. Malvo himself is reborn within the series from an assassin with a Frankenstein haircut in the first episodes to a hit man hiding under cover as a handsome dentist. The shift in the fates of these two doppelganger figures further exemplifies a Darwinian competition among survivors. Malvo evokes the chilling force of Anton Chigurh (Javier Bardem) from No Country for Old Men (2007), an imp of the perverse whose gleeful troublemaking accentuates an uncanny juxtaposition of hopeful, benevolent people with the sense of arbitrariness and evil that also characterizes the world and idea of “Fargo.” The Solversons, as their name suggests, believe there’s meaning in the world, despite the presence of Malvo and the viciously narcissistic self-preservation of Lester Nygaard. Molly Solverson, her wise and generous father (an ex-state cop played by Keith Carradine), and Gus Grimly are all survivors, a kindly and competent reverse mirror to the evil and desperate machinations of most others in the story. The Solversons and Grimly find their strength within this Darwinian landscape as “the season” evolves, and the

Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Introduction 15 weaker though well-meaning characters, such as Chief Bill Oswalt (Bob Odenkirk) are weeded out. The show additionally alludes to the Coen Brothers’ fascination with ethnic minorities striving to adapt within a homogenously white American cultural landscape. A Jewish neigh- bor strangely tells Lorne Malvo not to be a “nudnik,” and Nygaard’s Asian-American wife Linda (evoking the fragile ethnic outsider Mike Yanagita from Fargo the film) uncomfortably idolizes her violently over- compensating husband Lester, the show’s doomed schlemiel. Fargo the television series fully exemplifies the world-making Jenkins refers to and offers a fascinating experiment in transposing a source text into an evocative wholly different kind of work, adumbrating its source and expanding (rather than simply digesting) it in a different medium.19 Experimental works of adaptation very usefully challenge the reader’s or viewer’s comfort with conventional boundaries of identity and textuality, a theme that emerges strongly in the later chapters of this project. Throughout the book, however, I endorse a more elastic notion of textuality that blurs the lines dividing discrete texts. Textuality that is stretched across time and media gives birth to what often appear to be misshapen works of art. These adaptations, however, force us to reconsider preconceived notions about sources and their afterlives and the value of difficult art work. Such a reading of cultural production not only allows us to appropri- ate for adaptation studies an emphasis on the relations among texts, their elastextity, bypassing the more typical focus on discrete works of literature, film, art, or theater, as well as their readers, viewers, or audiences. It also shifts the emphasis in studies of adaptation to theorizing about initially startling though often beautiful illuminations adaptations can create by offering radically different perspectives on familiar cultural material. In Chapter 7, for example, I discuss the immersive theater adaptation of Lewis Carroll’s 1865 novel Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland entitled Then She Fell, which premiered in 2012. Then She Fell dissolves the conventional distance between audience member and performer as well as the textual distinction between the story of Alice in Wonderland and the identities of Charles Dodgson, Carroll’s actual name, and Alice Liddell, the little girl for whom he wrote the Wonderland books. In its performance of “divided” characters as multiplied identities (the presence of two Alices; Dodgson becoming Carroll; audience members mirroring characters), the production suggests relational art as a response to trauma. Then She Fell’s adaptation of Alice in Wonderland enacts a dissolution of discrete textual and human identities and argues for an associational model of art in its very form. Then

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She Fell practices an idea of adaptation that nicely exemplifies Kamilla Elliott’s argument for models of interart adaptation theory that focus on reciprocity:

reciprocal interart analogies differ from the usurping and rivalrous analogies … for their reciprocity creates a mutual and inherent rather than a hierarchical and averse dynamic. The reciprocity of looking glass analogies ensures an endless series of inversions and reversals rather than a one-sided usurpation. (Rethinking the Novel/ Film Debate 212)

Then She Fell literalizes Elliott’s concept of adaptation by performing its relationship to Carroll, Dodgson, “Alice,” and Alice Liddell, using not only mirrors as signs of texts and identities reflecting one another, but also audience members as co-creators of the work, although this can be an unsettling experience for many. Respecting the reciprocity of the production and the audience member, Then She Fell exemplifies a unique expressiveness made possible when elastic relations among texts are enacted. The importance of conceiving of adaptation in terms of multiple relations—McFarlane’s observation, for example, that an adaptation’s “anterior novel or play or poem is only one element of the film’s intertextuality” (“Reading Film and Literature” 27)—can be traced back to Shelley’s novel, in which Frankenstein’s transgression can be understood as over-reliance on one other being. The sole “source” of sustenance for Victor is his work on making and then destroying the Creature, a myopia that parallels one of the problems in popular conceptions of adaptations. As Mary Jacobus has argued about Frankenstein, “the monster’s tragedy is his confinement to the destructive intensities of a one-to-one relationship with his maker, and his exclusion from other relations” (130). Like Jacobus’s notion of the creature’s restricted relations, adaptations tethered to one source are limited in their purview and, in popular and critical writing, can be treated narcissistically, as projections of the critic’s or viewer’s own “home text.” More elastic adaptations seek to invent new ways of rewriting or interpreting preexisting texts and influences and prod readers and viewers to expand their understanding of texts and of textual influence. These adaptations may be experienced as “hideous” because, from the perspective of seeking “truthful” representations of single sources internalized by their readers or audiences, they so often seem “unsightly.” Like Shelley’s Creature born on a “dreary night,” they challenge readers

Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Introduction 17 and viewers to avoid Frankenstein’s error and respond with imagination and compassion, instead of the self-involved doctor’s “anxiety that almost amounted to agony” (56). Rather than fleeing the laboratory, we are called upon to read the story in a new context and asked to meet the Creature on its own terms, rather than projecting onto it our internalized “home text” and running from its hideousness. It is not surprising that Shelley’s story provides an especially apt metaphor for film adaptation, in part because of its “tapestry of cultural and textual references and influences” (Phillips 23) and its cultural “plasticity”—its propensity, as Susan Tyler Hitchcock observes, to “morph to match the times” (323). In a text as far afield from Frankenstein as Jim Jarmusch’s 1999 Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai, we find the novel’s presence, as Jarmusch “personally thanks” Shelley and lists Frankenstein as a source in the film’s closing credits. But the novel’s own fascination with changing and reconstructed forms of being makes it a ripe source for theoretical discussions of adaptation. Scholars have noted Shelley’s own interest in scientific debates about 18th- century Italian physician, physicist, and philosopher Luigi Galvani’s experiments with galvanism—the contraction of a muscle stimulated by an electric current—that would predict concerns about reanimation that disgusted some of Shelley’s readers, even to some extent Shelley herself.20 Some of that disgust can be paralleled with popular reactions to adaptations. While academics have moved away from fidelity models of adaptations, readers and film viewers still often scorn adaptations that seek to animate but also deviate from their sources; to many these appear to violate their foundational materials. The language not only of monstrosity but of difficult birth—or even abortion in some cases—helps us, this project assumes, to forge new metaphors for critical engagement with art and culture, conversations among texts that can supersede a more traditional language of adaptation.21 This project thus seeks to reclaim the suppressed language of monstrosity that seems traditionally to apply to adaptations. We needn’t view them as parasitic, a perspective evoked as early as 1926 by no less prominent a figure than Virginia Woolf, who saw film adaptation’s vulgar and parasitic relation to fiction as “immense rapacity” (182). Robert Stam characterizes this recurrent viewpoint that adaptation exploits its sources as “awash in terms such as inﬁ delity, betrayal, deformation, violation, vulgarization, and desecration” (54). One thinks, for example, of the 1996 birth of Dolly, the cloned sheep, and the paradox of a fluffy sheep defined culturally as a monster. I wish to reclaim the suppressed language of monstrosity in order to expose the extent to

Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 18 Literature, Film, and Their Hideous Progeny which the label “monster” is really an insistence on a particular, usually exclusionary, perspective. As the character James Whale (Ian McKellen) says in the film Gods and Monsters (1998), pointing to his head, “the only monsters are in here.” Since monstrosity is indeed a matter of mental construction rather than objective identities, we might recast the creatures of adaptation as a positive means of providing new perspectives on abiding themes and the many varied ways in which cultures produce meaning. The language of monsters is also helpful in conceiving of adaptation as a kind of psychosocial sampling, that is, as a process whereby we make new texts derived from other texts in order to make sense of the world. In her book Understanding Deleuze (2002), Claire Colebrook talks about the fact that the word “monster,” which “today,” she says, “refers to Frankenstein-like or alien figures, originally derived from the Latin verb monstrare (to show).” This suggests, Colebrook claims, “that the word ‘monster’ carries the meaning of being significant or revelatory” (10–11). I advocate bringing this understanding of the Latin verb “monstrare” to the study of adaptations, which can, in their most captivating form, rouse us into thinking in different ways about cultural production. Further, this reorientation to adaptation as revelation reminds us, as Leitch has observed, that “the noun adaptation is subordinate to the verb adapt” (Studia 101); the act of adapting and the examination of the relations among adaptations and their sources are dynamic processes.

*** When we emphasize origins in discussing film adaptation, we focus on the preexisting text as the authority, like a controlling parent. If we applied a healthier model of parenting—mothers and fathers who create an environment in which their offspring can thrive—we might more easily conceive of the independent lines of inquiry and ingenious expressions of art that these descendants explore. An over-reliance on the authority of origins and anxiety about parents pulsates through many of the texts referenced in this study, and Shelley herself wor- ried about healthy parenting. As critics have noted, Frankenstein very prominently explores Victor Frankenstein’s “total failure at parenting” (Mellor 41). Shelley was desperate to imagine a model of family relations that balanced the notion of thriving children with the guilt and danger of creation. She was competing with her husband Percy (who, interestingly, strongly identified with Victor Frankenstein) and their (at the time) much more famous friend Lord Byron, and she recognized the

Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Introduction 19 fragility of creations that weren’t nurtured. According to Mellor, Shelley felt that “a rejected and unmothered child can become a killer, especially the killer of its own parents, siblings, children. When the nuclear family fails to mother its offspring, it engenders homicidal monsters” (47). A second understanding of the figure of the “monstrous” in adaptations, one proposed by this book, pushes discussion of adaptation beyond the parental power relations implied in the first model of “monstrous” adaptations as “hideous progeny.” Anxiety about artistic creations going forth beyond parental purview feeds ambivalent views and conventional models of adaptation. Novelist Ron Hansen gave a talk about the 1996 film adaptation of his 1991 novel Mariette in Ecstasy. The talk was entitled “Look What They’ve Done to My Baby,” as Hansen saw in the film a bastard child of his novel: a film, purporting to re-present his fiction, that had gone awry. He wrote the film’s screenplay and admired its direction by John Bailey, but Mariette in Ecstasy’s post-production effects were problematic (including the addition of an odd voiceover that Hansen had nothing to do with and a clichéd musical score). While there are other authors who have more famously rejected the film scions of their novels,22 Hansen’s gothic language for describing this process is noteworthy. A fan of adaptations who sees himself as a writer who “thinks visually,” Hansen is very fond of The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, Andrew Dominik’s 2007 adaptation of his 1983 novel of the same name. Hansen’s figuration for the distortion of Mariette, however, is horror; his talk title evokes another story of grotesque transformation: Henry Farrell’s 1960 novel What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?. Concerning the cinematic progeny of his novels, Hansen represents this process as at least potentially dreadful, “monstrous.” Living authors of source texts (or the persons or institutions that control the copyright for such works after the author or artist has died) are in a unique and difficult position—at one and the same time giving license to adapters to change their work, but also understandably maintaining a parental protectiveness over their work’s upbringing, development, and future life. Ron Hansen’s birthing metaphor in discussing what went wrong with the filming of Mariette suggests the pitfalls of attempting to do novels filmically, though the baby Hansen refers to is not the adaptation but the novel itself, which, like Victor’s creation in Frankenstein, went off the rails once it had left the laboratory of creation. Hansen’s progeny only became “hideous” when appropriated and mangled by commercial hands. A good example of adaptation as a certain kind of stillbirth, Mariette in Ecstasy was never released.

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Hansen’s invocation of adaptation as monster underscores the problem with adaptation in the first place. Any text purporting to ren- der a prior work invites criticism because, as Leitch reminds us, it cannot be the text it seeks to reanimate (Film Adaptation and Its Discontents 16). Readers who have internalized the novels they have read are also proxy figures: surrogate parents enjoying their “home texts,” as I term it, with the loving and domestic pleasure of a doting caretaker who wants to protect and control the life of those children into maturity. Surrogate parents for these fiction-babies released into the world, readers and viewers, as well as critics, of adaptations revile the “monstrous” journeys of their progeny.23 Indeed, the notion that these offspring have been raised badly can be carried logically into the realm of corporate or Hollywood interests, motivated by ticket sales and revenue. As Timothy Corrigan observes, “the traditional cultural and aesthetic values that have informed the exchanges between film and literature become overshadowed by financial value” (45). Trying to cash in on popular, successful, or widely known source texts, some adaptations convert good or interesting literature into commercial goods, and like Shelley’s Creature ranging through the forest, the baby cries out: first, she is vulnerable to becoming exploited by organized institutional forces designed to harness her cries; second, she may become enraged, resentful of having been conceived of and treated like a monster. This “monster” of corporate or popular appropriations of works of literature, corrupting the innocence of the baby source text—as Wordsworth said, “The Child is father of the Man,” and indeed, the Romantic idolatry of originary sources,24 the babies who take on inauthentic masks as they proceed into adulthood, going out into the world in different forms—is revealed as central to popular conceptions of adaptations as knock-offs, as evils in a culture wanting to process “natural” beings into consumable products. As babies are socialized, they lose their innate goodness. The forces of culture and consumption lying in wait to exploit natural ingredients into processed goods may well be figured as “monstrous” and their products as “hideous.” Instead of imagining the trajectory of textual children as “hideous” because of their appropriation by the forces of cultural consumption, we might instead embrace the potential for shifts in perspective and changes in orientation on source texts and the authors and cultures that produce them and their progeny or adaptations. Clearly, some adaptations are made simply to cash in on the monetary potential in bringing a popular or classic literary or film text to the screen (or to the stage, as also discussed in this book), marketing old material to new audiences who

Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Introduction 21 encounter “art” through new media. Beyond this dynamic ruled by capital, however, we could be engaging in a more open-minded reflec- tion on the “out-sourcing” of texts by adaptations,25 seeing the ways in which adaptation can become avant-garde in its creative engagement with form and content. As Patty Jenkins showed in her film Monster (2003), hideous figures are often only seen as hideous because they are evaluated in isolation from their multiple contexts. Adaptations ask us to reorient ourselves to our knowledge base and our relationship with previous texts—our “home texts”—and imagine that “home” is a construct that may disguise an extensive series of previous works that build upon a set of ideas and textual productions.26 In the introduction to the 1831 edition of her novel, Shelley warns of missing this point: “Every thing must have a beginning, to speak in Sanchean phrase; and that beginning must be linked to something that went before” (x). Resisting a conventionally Romantic emphasis on originality, Shelley questions a fixed notion of sources. “The Hindoos,” she goes on, “give the world an elephant to support it, but they make the elephant stand upon a tortoise.” Charlize Theron’s Aileen Wuornos is indeed a “monster” in her murder of the innocent in Monster, but she is also a part of a process of exploitation, objectification, and a machinery of destruction put in play by class and gender assumptions leading to her miserable fate. Jenkins’s film is, as its title announces, about perspective, about the ease with which we label what we don’t like and what does not accord with our patterns of understanding the world. This theme recurs repeatedly throughout discussion in this book and can again be traced to Mary Shelley’s exploration of monstrous creations and relations. Monstrosity can describe evil agency, actions that are brutal or that seem inhuman. Often, however, as Shelley shows and Patty Jenkins’s film also rehearses, monstrosity is a perspective that is brought to bear on people and events. Mellor, like most readers, links the Creature’s “monstrosity” to the Creature’s rejection by Victor and the subsequent rejection by everyone the Creature meets, based solely on appearance: “He thereby condemns his creature to become what people behold, a monster” (102). Adaptations are thus “hideous progeny” in their potential to be perceived, beheld, as “monstrous” for violating their source text when in fact they catapult sources into new eras and new media. Imagining a longer more elastic history of influence in the case of any given story can broaden our understanding of adaptations, loosening their grip on individual source texts. These are the “progeny” that I am interested in exploring in this book. Such adaptations are monstrous

Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 22 Literature, Film, and Their Hideous Progeny in the way they shock us into rethinking the patterns that guide our reading and viewing habits. Indeed, they can be seen as allied with the avant-garde in their forcing a new mode of relation to the arts and to the products of our individual and collective imaginations. As James Naremore observes,

The study of adaptation needs to be joined with the study of recycling, remaking, and every other form of retelling in the age of mechanical reproduction and electronic communication. By this means, adaptation will become part of a general theory of repetition, and adaptation study will move from the margin to the center of contemporary media studies.” (Film Adaptation 15)

In 2014, following its hit video series The Lizzie Bennet Diaries, Pemberley Digital, a web video production company, premiered Frankenstein M.D. on YouTube. In this digital “elastext,” Victoria Frankenstein, a medical student, obsessively works to try to make her name in science and medicine, tapping the highly charged contemporary debates on women in STEM fields. Projects such as Frankenstein M.D. should prod us “to allow the term ‘adaptation’,” as R. Barton Palmer and David Boyd have enjoined, “to broaden and expand” (12). Later discussions in this book include a number of works—for example, Haynes’s [Safe], Marclay’s The Clock, and an episode of the Fox television series The Simpsons—that would not be considered adaptation in any strict or traditional sense of the term. However, as Julie Sanders comments, “With readership and audiences already well honed in the art of searching for wider referential frameworks and contexts for the material they are receiving we need in turn to develop a more dynamic theoretical vocabulary to describe and mobilize these processes of response” (155). Expanding our conception of adaptations—their elastic nature; their multitudinous relation to sources; and their potential for avant-garde critique—will help to reshape our understanding of adaptation as serving a vital role in cultural production.27 Within this broadened landscape, it is the alien text, film, or artistic work, the one that revisits or haunts its sources and us, that elicits the most compel- ling insights and makes way for yet other “progeny”—new creative and critical works—to be born.

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Index

ABC Movie of the Week or Superstar: Aronstein, Susan, 141 The Karen Carpenter Story, 106 Ashford, Annaleigh, 132 About Schmidt, 172 Ashford, Brittain, 161 Abrahams, Jim, 47, 63 The Assassination of Jesse James by the Hot Shots! Part Deux—A Filmmaker’s Coward Robert Ford, 19 Apology, 46, 48, 180 auditory innovations, 56 Abramovic, Marina authenticity, 85, 99 The Artist Is Present, 171 authorship, 67 adaptation Automaton, 26–28, 30–37, 40 “found adaptations”, 106 avant-garde, 3, 5 incursion, 128 storytelling, 147–166 as knock-offs, 20, 103 The Awakening, 91 as monster, 20 in multiple relations, 7, 16 Badalucco, Michael, 68 psychological, 152, 155 Bahr, Fax quiet, 41, 106, 107, 125 Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker’s as stillbirth, 19 Apocalypse, 41–42, 45–52, 57, 63, transmedial, 167 68, 138 Adaptation Studies and Learning, 41 Bailey John, 19 Aeneid, 69 Bardem, Javier, 14 Aguirre-Sacasa, Roberto, 127 Bargen, Daniel von, 65 Ahrens, Lynn, 143 Barnes, George, 7 Alice in Wonderland, 15, 152, 199n18 Barrett, Felix, 150 Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, 15 Bartleby the Scrivener, 39, 101 alienation, 110, 111, 162 Barton Fink, 63 All About Eve, 168 Beauty and the Beast, 127 Allen, William Rodney, 66, 72 Beavers, Louise, 85 Allen, Woody, 175 “Before It’s Over”, 131, 133 All That Heaven Allows, 105 Being John Malkovich, 3, 4 All the King’s Men, 74 Bergen, Polly, 174 ameliorative art, 105 Bergman, Ingmar American Society of Independent Cries and Whispers, 171 Artists, 66 Berkeley, Xander, 110 Andrew, Dudley, 195n2 betrayal, 17 Andy Warhol’s Frankenstein, 184 Betty Grable, 100 Angst essen Seele auf (Ali: Fear Eats the “Big Rock Candy Mountain”, 80 Soul), 102, 191 Bildungsroman, 141 anonymity, 67, 150 birthing metaphor, 12, 19 Antonioni, Michelangelo, 6, 107 Biskind, Peter, 51, 202n4 anxiety, 9 Blake, William, 11 Apocalypse Now, 42–45, 47, 50, 55, 57, The Blind Man, 27, 67 58, 60, 66, 68, 72, 170 Bloom, Harold, 32 Apocalypse Now Redux, 58 Blow-Up, 6

219

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The Blue Angel, 137 civil rights movement, 88, 89 The Bluest Eye, 7, 12, 83–87, 100, 158 Clay Boone, 25, 26, 36 Bob, Sideshow appearance and affect, 27 The Simpsons, 12, 22 in Gods and Monsters, 36 Boggs, Peg, 7 Clement, J., 38 Boyd, David, 22, 195n2 The Clock, 8, 13, 22, 157, 167–176 Boyhood, 172 Coen, Ethan, 14, 106 Boyle, Danny O Brother, Where Art Thou?, 10, Frankenstein, 11–12, 16, 32, 35, 62–80 37, 41 Coen, Joel, 14, 106 Bram, Christopher, 26 O Brother, Where Art Thou?, 10, Father of Frankenstein, 25 62–80 Bram Stoker’s Dracula, 184 Cohen, Sacha Baron Branagh, Kenneth, 184 “Gustave” (film character), 29–30 Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, 10, 179, Colebrook, Claire 184 Understanding Deleuze, 18 Brando, Marlon, 46, 68 Collins, John, 159 Branham, Kristi, 92 “Come to a Party”, 130 Brantley, Ben, 11, 182 Comfort, Bob, 128 Bride of Frankenstein, 25, 27, 28, 30, Comparative Drama, 148 32, 37 Condon, Bill Bronfen, Elisabeth, 10 Gods and Monsters, 18, 25, 27–28, Brooker, Peter, 2 32, 36–40 Brown, Sterling, 85 Conrad, Joseph, 52 Brown vs. the Board of Education, 89 Heart of Darkness, 12, 41, 42, 53–61 Burnett, T Bone, 76 Cooke, Trisha, 66 Butterfield, Asa, 25 Cool Hand Luke, 65, 74 Coppola, Eleanor, 41, 42, 44, Cady, Max, 12 47–48, 60 Cage, John, 54, 169 Coppola, Francis Ford, 41, 43–44, 4’33”, 151 48–49, 52, 68, 184 Cage, Nicolas, 174 Corrigan, Timothy, 20 Cape Fear, 12, 170, 174, 177–87, 190, Cortázar, Julio, 6 208n2 Crenna, Richard, 46 capitalism, 83 cultural identity, 84 Cardwell, Sarah, 195n2, 199n19 cultural monologism, 74 Carradine, Keith, 14 Cumberbatch, Benedict, 11 Carraway, Nick, 159 Carroll, Lewis Damn Yankees, 137 Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, 15 Davis, Bette, 5, 168 Cartmell, Deborah, 106, 195n2, 197n6 Davis, Glyn, 128 “The Case of Richard Mutt”, 67 Davis, Victor Cassavetes, John, 168 Hearts of Hot Shots! Part Deux— Chaplin A Filmmaker’s Apology, 46–50 Modern Times, 34, 201n4 Dawley, J. Searle, 29 Chernow, Ron, 13, 90, 192 Deagan, Raymond, 128 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, 31 Deakins, Roger, 77 Chinatown, 172 Deane, Hamilton, 29 Citizen Kane, 42–43, 52, 55, 56 Dear, Nick, 11, 35

Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Copyrighted material – 978–1–137–39901–4 Index 221 de Beauvoir, Simone Elevator Repair Service, 157 The Second Sex, 110 Elfman, Danny, 187 DeBona, Guerric, 54, 56 Elliott, Allison, 123 Dee, Sandra, 94 Elliott, Kamilla, 16, 152–153, 160, 173, “A Defence of Poetry”, 43 195n2, 198n8 deformation, 17 Ellis, Bret Easton DeLong, Blake, 160 American Psycho, 127 denial, 110 Ellis, Sarah Taylor, 120 De Niro, Robert English, Deirdre Cape Fear, 12 Complaints and Disorders: The Sexual desecration, 17 Politics of Sickness, 114 desire, 9 entrapment, 95, 110 Detour: A Hollywood Story, 94 Erice, Victor Diggs, Daveed, 193 El Espíritu de la Colmena, 8 digital photography, 77, 78 The Executioners, 177 Disney vs. high-art films, 171 Dodgson, Charles, 15, 16, 152 Far from Heaven, 105, 128, 134–136 Dogfight, 128–134, 138, 139, 141, 160 Fargo, 13–14, 66, 75 Dominik, Andrew Farrell, Henry The Assassination of Jesse James by What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, 19 the Coward Robert Ford, 19 fascism, 28, 55 Donahue, Troy, 88 Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, 96, 102, Douglas, Illeana, 187 106, 191 Doyle, Maxine, 150 Angst essen Seele auf (Ali: Fear Eats Dr. Seuss’ How the Grinch Stole the Soul), 102, 191 Christmas, 188 Father of Frankenstein, 25, 36 Du Bois, W. E. B., 91 Faulkner, William, 157 The Souls of Black Folk, 135 The Wild Palms, 63 Duchamp, Marcel, 57 fear, 9 Duchan, Peter, 129 female outsiders, 32 Dunning, Peter, 115, 119 Female Perversions, 123 Durning, Charles, 65 The Feminine Mystique, 110 Duvall, Robert, 59 Ferguson, Scotty, 150 Duvall, Wayne, 63 fidelity, 64 Fierstein, Harvey, 136 Ebert, Roger, 58 Film Quarterly, 65 The Economist, 60 Finke, Laurie A., 141 Edelstein, David, 169 Fischer, Lucy, 85, 89, 99 Edison, Thomas, 29, 30 Fischer-Lichte, Erika, 150 Edison Studios, 179 Fitzgerald, F. Scott, 159 Edward Scissorhands, 7 The Great Gatsby, 157–158 Ehrenreich, Barbara Flaherty, Jennifer, 148 Complaints and Disorders: The Sexual Flaherty, Stephen, 143 Politics of Sickness, 114 Fonda, Jane, 174 Ejiofor, Chiwetel, 136 Force of Evil, 7 Elastextity, 2, 13, 15, 22, 42, 84, 106, Forrest Gump, 116, 118 107, 139, 189, 192 Forry, Steven, 28 El Espíritu de la Colmena (The Spirit of found objects vs. bronze sculptures, 171 the Beehive), 8, 191 The Fountain, 66

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4’33”, 151 Grand Illusion, 160 Frankel, Scott, 134 Grane, Thomas C. Frankenstein, 1, 11–12, 16, 25, 27, 32, Hearts of Hot Shots! Part Deux— 35, 37, 41, 179 A Filmmaker’s Apology, 46–50, 61 Frankenstein: An Adventure in the The Grapes of Wrath, 68, 74 Macabre, 28, 30 Gray, Amber, 161 Frankenstein M.D., 22 Great Comet, 156, 160–166 Fraser, Brendan, 25 The Great Gatsby, 128, 157–158 freedom from oppression, 91 Greenberg, Richard, 134 Freeman, Martin, 14 Greta Garbo, Greta, 100 French, Philip, 7 Grey Gardens, 134 Friedan, Betty Griffith, D.W., 48 The Feminine Mystique, 110 Grundmann, Roy, 119 Friedman, Lester, 28, 29–31 The Guardian, 7, 66 Frost, Sue, 126 Gunderson, Marge, 14, 75 Frozen, 127 Gurr, Tony Adaptation Studies and Learning, 41 Gale, Dorothy “Gustave” (film character), 29–30, 33 The Wizard of Oz, 64, 65, 74, 78–79 see also Cohen, Sacha Baron, 29 Galvani, Luigi, 17 Guthmann, Edward, 118 galvanism, 17 García, Pedro Javier Pardo Hamilton, 13 “Beyond Adaptation: Frankenstein’s Hamilton, Alexander, 192–4 Postmodern Progeny”, 9–10 Hand, Richard J., 2 Gatiss, Mark, 32 Monstrous Adaptations: Generic and Gatz, 157–159 Thematic Mutations in Horror Film, 2 Gelder, Ken, 9 Hanks, Colin, 14 gender, 84 Hansard, Glen, 142 The General, 34 Hansen, Ron, 19, 20 Geraghty, Christine, 195n2 Mariette in Ecstasy, 19 Gilborn, Steven, 111 happening, 151, 161 Gilman, Charlotte Perkins Hat, Magic, 41 Women and Economics: A Study of Hay, Louise L. the Economic Relation Between Men The AIDS Book: Creating a Positive and Women as a Factor in Social Approach, 116–117 Evolution, 114 Hayes, Chris, 192 “The Yellow Wallpaper”, 8, 105–125, Haynes, Todd 170, 179 Far from Heaven, 105, 128, 134–136 Ginger Rogers, 100 I’m Not There, 157 Gittes, J. J., 172 [Safe], 8, 12, 22, 93, 105–125, 140, 179 Gods and Monsters, 18, 25, 27–28, 29, Haysbert, Dennis, 135 32, 36–40 Healy, Patrick, 127 “Gonna Fly Now”, 143 Heart of Darkness, 12, 41, 42, 53–61, Goodman, Benny 170 “A Nightengale Sang in Berkeley Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker’s Square”, 149 Apocalypse, 41–42, 45–52, 57, 63, Goodman, John, 63 68, 138 Grahame-Smith, Seth Hearts of Hot Shots! Part Deux— Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, 9 A Filmmaker’s Apology, 46–50

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Heathers, 127 Imitation of Life, 7, 12, 83–104 Hemingway, Ernest, 157 immersive theater, 13, 147–166 “The Killers”, 7 I’m Not There, 157 “Heretic Homer”, 183, 184 imperialism, 54 Herrmann, Bernard, 149, 150, 179, 187 In Camera, 77–78 Heung, Marina, 89 incompleteness, 43–44 Hickenlooper, George Indiscretion of an American Wife, Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker’s 173 Apocalypse, 41–42, 45–52, 57, 63, “I Never Knew”, 135 68, 138 Inferno, 69 Higgin, Peter, 152 infidelity, 17 Hitchcock, Alfred, 59, 147 interart adaptation theory, 16 Hitchcock, Susan Tyler, 5, 17 intertextuality, 28–29, 41 H.M.S. Pinafore, 187 superficial allusiveness in, 107 Hoberman, J., 181 In the Heights, 192 Hodgdon, Barbara, 11 The Invention of Hugo Cabret, 33 Holm, Celeste, 168 intimacy, 95 home, 12 Irglová, Markéta, 142 Homer Ishiguro, Kazuo, 6–7 The Odyssey, 10, 12, 62–65, 72–74 isolationism, 56 Antinous, 63, 69 “Hometown Hero’s Ticker Tape Jackson, Mahalia, 88 Parade”, 130 Jacobus, Mary, 16 homophobia, 28, 139, 140 James, Henry, 186 Hopkins, D. L., 147 Jarmusch, Jim Hopper, Edward, 7 Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai, “Nighthawks”, 7 17 Horne, Daryl Van, 172 Jaynes, Roderick, 66, 67 horror genre, 2 Jenkins, Henry Hot Shots! Part Deux—A Filmmaker’s The Matrix, 13 Apology, 46, 48, 180 Jenkins, Patty Hughes, Robert, 5 Monster, 20 Hugo, 25, 26–27, 29–34, 37–38, 40, Johnson, Brian, 59 179 Johnson, Isaiah, 134 Hunter, Holly, 63 Johnson, Robert, 74 Hurlburt, William, 30 Jonze, Spike, 3 Hurst, Fannie Being John Malkovich, 3, 4 “Glossary of Harlem Slang”, 99 Imitation of Life, 7, 12, 83–103, 105 Kane, 42–3, 52, 55, 56 Hurston, Zora Neale, 100 Kaplan, Al, 127 “Story in Harlem Slang”, 83 Kaplan, Jon, 127 Hutcheon, Linda, 2, 50, 106, 195n2, Kaprow, Allan, 151 195n4, 196n5, 198n12, 199n15, Karl, Andy, 143 207n14 Kavey, Allison, 29–31 Hytner, Nicholas, 127 Kazee, Steve, 142 Keaton, Buster I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang, 74 The General, 34 identity politics, denial of, 90 Keaton, Diane, 175 “I’ll Fly Away”, 76 Kempley, Rita, 108, 118

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“The Killers”, 7 Macbeth, 147–149 King, Chris Thomas, 74 MacDonald, John D. Kingsley, Ben, 25 The Executioners, 177 see also “Méliès, George” (film MacLachlan, Kyle, 174 character) Maclean’s, 59 Kinky Boots, 128, 136–141 Macy, William H., 14 Klena, Derek, 129 Mad Men, 134 Klute, 174 Malkovich, Malkovich, Malkovich: Homage Kohner, Susan, 84, 95 to Photographic Masters, 3, 4, 5, 6 Korie, Michael, 134 Malloy, Dave, 156, 157, 160, 161, Koumarianos, Myrto, 150 162–3, 164, 165, 166 Kubrick, Stanley, 107 Maltin, Leonard, 118 The Man and the Monster; or, The Fate Lamarr, Hedy, 100 of Frankenstein, 30, 31 Lanchester, Elsa, 32 Mandel, Emily St. John Lang, Fritz Station Eleven, 181 Man Hunt, 149 Man Hunt, 149 Metropolis, 34, 171 Mankiewicz, Herman, 52 Lange, Dorothea, 3 “Man of Constant Sorrow”, 62, 74 “Migrant Mother”, 4 The Man Who Wasn’t There, 66, 67 Larsen, Nella Marclay, Christian Passing, 7, 12, 83, 90, 100 The Clock, 8, 13, 22, 167–176 The Last Seduction, 175 Mariette in Ecstasy, 19 Lauper, Cyndi, 136 Marlowe, Hugh, 168 Leaving Las Vegas, 174 Mary Poppins, 127, 168 Leitch, Thomas, 2, 18, 20, 50, 121, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, 1, 9–10, 157, 195n2, 195n4, 200n24, 16, 17, 30, 179, 184, 200n21 201n25, 201n27 masculinity, 14, 129 Leland, Jedediah Maslin, Janet, 58, 119, 206n11 Citizen Kane, 43, 52 The Matrix, 13 Leopardi, Chauncey, 114 Maysles brothers, 134 Levin, Gail, 7 McCrea, Joel, 62 Levy, Emanuel McFarlane, Brian, 11, 16, 178, 195n2, Cinema of Outsiders: The Rise of 201n25 American Independent Film, 128 McKellen, Ian, 18, 25, 28, 39 Lewis, Juliette, 187 McKinnon, Ray, 63 Liddell, Alice, 15, 152, 153 “The McKittrick”, 147 Linklater, Richard, 172 McLean, Grace, 161 The Lion King, 127, 141 McRoy, Jay, 2 The Little Mermaid, 127 Monstrous Adaptations: Generic and “Little Orson Annie”, 53 Thematic Mutations in Horror Film, 2 “Livin’ la Vida Loca”, 188 Mead, Rebecca, 158, 192, 193 Lizzie Bennet Diaries, 22 melodrama, 94 Lockhart, Gene Melville, Herman, 39 “Little Orson Annie”, 53 “Bartleby, the Scrivener”, 101 Long, Christian B., 38 Mendez, Lindsay, 129 Luhrmann, Baz, 158, 200n23 mental dissociation, 152 Lundergaard, Jerry, 14 Mercury Theater, 51 Lynch, David, 169 Metropolis, 34, 171

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“Migrant Mother”, 3, 4 Naumann, Bruce, 169 Milioti, Cristin, 142 Nelson, Tim Blake, 62, 72 Miller, Jonny Lee, 11 Never Let Me Go, 6 Miller, Sandro, 3–6 The New Yorker, 158, 169, 192 Malkovich, Malkovich, Malkovich: Nicholson, Jack, 5, 6, 172 Homage to Photographic Masters, Nick of Time, 171 3, 4, 5, 6 The Night Circus, 151 Milner, Henry M. “A Nightengale Sang in Berkeley The Man and the Monster; or, The Square”, 149 Fate of Frankenstein, 30, 31 “Nighthawks”, 7 Miranda, Lin-Manuel Night of the Hunter, 178, 183 Hamilton, 13, 192–194 nihilism, 69 Mitchum, Robert, 12, 174, 177–8 No Country for Old Men, 14–15, 66, 175 Modern Times, 34, 201n4 “No One Else”, 162, 164 monster, 18, 20, 21 monstrous isolation, 28 O Brother, Where Art Thou?, 10, 62–80, Monty Python’s Spamalot, 141 170 Moore, Juanita, 84 The Odyssey, 10, 12, 62–65, 72–74, 170 Moore, Julianne, 105, 108, 135 Odenkirk, Bob, 15 Moretz, Chloe Grace, 31 Off-Broadway, 126, 127, 134, 152, Morgenstern, Erin 156, 188, 209n4 The Night Circus, 151 “Office Talk”, 134 Morrison, James, 125 O’Hara, Kelli, 134, 135 Morrison, Toni O’Keefe, Laurence, 127 The Bluest Eye, 7, 12, 83–87, 100, 158 Oliver Twist, 29 Sula, 124 Once, 128, 141–142 Morrissey, Paul Once the Musical, 142, 143 Andy Warhol’s Frankenstein, 184 Once Upon A Time, 13, 199n18 “Moscow”, 160 O’Neill, Edward, 108 motherhood, 83, 94 101 Dalmatians, 171 cultural ideation of, 90 “The Only One”, 134–135 Moye, James, 134 Ono, Yoko Mr. Burns, a Post-Electric Play, 177–190 Voice Piece for Soprano, 171 Mrs. Dalloway, 173 oppression, 87, 91, 105 “Much Apu About Nothing”, 183 Othello, 51 Mulholland Drive, 169 Oxygen Media, 119 Mulvey, Laura, 150 Mulwray, Hollis, 172 Palmer, R. Barton, 22, 72, 75, 80, Murphy, Kevin, 127 195n2, 203n2, 203n5, 203n6 musicals vs. plays, 171 Pandora’s Box, 172 musical theater, 126–143 Parchman Farm, 74 Mutt, Richard, 66 Pasek, Benj, 129 “My Nose Ain’t Broken”, 143 Pasquale, Steven, 134 Passing, 7, 12, 83, 90, 100 Naismith, Gaye, 108–109 Paul, Justin, 129 Naremore, James, 22, 41, 52, 55, 57, Peake, Richard Brinsley 203n12, 195n2, 203n10 Presumption; or, The Fate of Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of Frankenstein, 30, 31 1812, 8, 156, 160, 208n1 Peck, Gregory, 178

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Penley, Constance, 119 Renoir personal transformation, 116 Grand Illusion, 160 Philadelphia Art Museum, 143 Rethinking the Novel/Film Debate, 160 Phoenix, River, 129, 131 Reynolds, Malvina Picasso, Pablo, 50 “What Have They Done to the Poison, 106 Rain”, 130 Pollock, Jackson, 50 RFID (radio frequency identification), Polonsky, Abraham 151 Force of Evil, 7 Rhodes, John David, 106–7 Pontellier, Edna, 91 Rocky, 128, 134 Porter, Billy, 137, 139 Rocky the Musical, 143 postmodernism, 77 Romanek, Mark Potts, Sarah-Jane, 136 Never Let Me Go, 6 pranksterism, 77 Romeo and Juliet, 128, 200n23 preexisting text, as authority, 18 Romney, Jonathan, 72 Presumption; or, The Fate of Rosemary’s Baby, 168 Frankenstein, 30, 31 Rosenbaum, Jonathan, 51, 55, 124 “Pretty Funny”, 132 Rothenberg, Robert, 58 “Price and Son”, 138 Rothko, Mark, 50 Pride and Prejudice, 128 Royal National Theatre, 11, 35 Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, 9 Rubes, Jan, 174 Prince, Jocelyn, 158 Rushdie, Salman, 65 The Princess Bride, 127 “The Private and Intimate Life of the [Safe], 8, 12, 22, 93 House”, 162 “The Yellow Wallpaper”, presence Pulp Fiction, 107 of, 105–125 Punchdrunk Theater Company, 147 Saltz, Jerry, 169 Sanders, Julie, 22, 195n2 Quaid, Dennis, 135 San Francisco Chronicle, 118 Queer Film Classic, 38 Sarandon, Susan, 173 quietude, 85 Savoca, Nancy, 128, 130, 133 Schaefer, Betty, 69 race(ism), 76, 83, 84, 88, 90, 203n12 Schmidt, Warren, 172 racial degradation, 87 Schorr, Collier, 117 racial self-loathing, 86, 87 Scissorhands, Edward racist stereotypes, 85, 88 Edward Scissorhands, 7 radical freedom, 85 Scorsese, Martin, 52–53 radical self-help, 119 Hugo, 25, 26–27, 29–34, 37–38, 40, 181 “Raise You Up/Just Be”, 140, 141 Taxi Driver, 59 Raising Arizona, 63 The Second Sex, 110 Rauschenberg, Robert, 169 Seeger, Pete Raw, Laurence, 41, 195n2, 197n6, 202n1 “We Shall Overcome”, 130 Adaptation Studies and Learning, 41 Seeley, Tracy, 65 Rebecca, 147 Segarra, Josh, 132 Redford, Robert, 158 The Select [The Sun Also Rises], 157 Redgrave, Lynn, 28 self(hood) relational art, 15, 56, 195n1 Romantic, 85, 156, 163, 164 relational politics, 56 transcendent, 118, 119 reminiscence, 72 true, 84, 85, 99

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A Trip to the Moon, 37 Welles, Orson, 41, 46, 192 Tsika, Noah, 38, 201n5 Citizen Kane, 42–43, 52, 55, 56 Turner, Lana, 94 Othello, 51 Turner, Nat, 87 The Trial, 51 Turner, Victor, 150 “We Shall Overcome”, 130 The Turn of the Screw, 185 What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, Turturro, John, 62, 204n9 19 The Twilight Zone, 172 “What Have They Done to the Rain”, 130, 131 “Ulysses”, 69–71 Whelehan, Imelda, 106, 195n2, uncanny, 11, 14, 27 197n6 unheimlich, 11 When Harry Met Sally, 168 USA Today, 58 Where Art Thou?, 170 Whitaker, Cathy, 128, 134 Velez-Johnson, Martha, 114 White, Carol, 12 Vertigo, 147, 149, 150 White, Rob, 112 Vertigo zoom, 11 Wilde, Oscar, 138 Village Voice, 159 Wilder, Billy violation, 17 Sunset Boulevard, 69 violent crime, 14 Williamson, Lane, 120 Vollack, Lia, 127 The Witches of Eastwick, 172 vulgarization, 17 The Wizard of Oz, 64, 65, 74, 78–79 Walsh, Enda, 142 Wood, Allen W. Walt Disney Studios, 127 Karl Marx, 109 Walters, James, 78 Wood, Robin, 1 War and Peace, 156, 160, 166` Woolf, Virginia, 17 Ward, Ryan, 135 Woolly Mammoth Theater Company, War of the Worlds, 54, 55 185 Warren, Robert Penn Worthen, W. B., 149, 200n23 All the King’s Men, 74 Wuthering Heights, 163 Washburn, Anne Wynn, Ed, 174 Mr. Burns, a Post-Electric Play, 8, 13, 177–190 “The Yellow Wallpaper”, 8, 101, 170, Washington, Fredi, 89 179 Webb, Clifton, 168 presence in [Safe], 105–125 Webling, Peggy, 30 Young, Harvey, 158 Frankenstein: An Adventure in the Macabre, 28, 30 Zalewski, Daniel, 172