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The Ray Bradbury Theater: A case study of the adaptation process from the written artifact to the cinematic text

McConnell, Mary Beth Petrasik, Ph.D.

The Ohio State University, 1993

UMI 300 N. Zeeb Rd. Ann Arbor, MI 48106

THE RAY BRADBURY THEATER: A CASE STUDY OF THE ADAPTATION PROCESS FROM THE WRITTEN ARTIFACT TO THE CINEMATIC TEXT

DISSERTATION

Presented in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree Doctor of Philosophy in the Graduate School of The Ohio State University by

Mary Beth Petrasik McConnell, B.A., M.A.

% * * 4c

The Ohio State University 1993

Dissertation Committee: Approved by J. Makau

J. Foley A d v iser S. Foss Department of Communication To my husband, without whom this dissertation would be a ream of misnumbered blank pages.

ii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to acknowledge the help and assistance of my dissertation committee, particularly my adviser, Josina Makau, whose patience and perseverance have seen me through the entire process. I would like to thank my parents, Mary and George Petrasik, for believing in me and for instilling in me both the love of learning and the importance of an education. And, finally, there are no words to describe all the help and encouragement my husband Kenrik and son Jacob have given me, but I want them to know how much I appreciate their love and support. VITA

197 6 ...... B.A., Indiana University, Bloomington, In d ia n a

197 7 ...... M.A., The American University, Washington, DC

1977-1985 ...... Staff Associate Director, WKYC-TV, Cleveland, Ohio

1985-1988 ...... Teaching Assistant, Department of Communication, The Ohio State University, Columbus, Ohio

1988-1993 ...... Instructor, Department of Telecommunication, Bowling Green State University, Bowling Green, Ohio

Major Field: Communication

iv TABLE OF CONTENTS

DEDICATION...... ii

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS...... iii

VITA ...... iv

CHAPTER PAGE

I. INTRODUCTION...... 1

II. THE MURDERER...... 52

Introduction...... 52 Cinematic Versus Literary Description ...... 54 Cinematic Versus Literary Language...... 61 Cinematic Versus Literary Chronology...... 76 Cinematic Double Register (Image and Sound) Versus the Literary Single Register...... 82 Cinematic Versus Literary “Universe” ...... 121 Cinematic Objective Versus Literary Subjective Viewpoints...... 133 Cinematic Versus Literary Narrator and Point of V iew...... 145 Cinematic Versus Literary Transitions ...... 147 S um m ary...... 148

III. THERE WAS AN OLD W OM AN...... 157

Introduction...... 157 Cinematic Versus Literary Description ...... 159 Cinematic Versus Literary Language...... 170 Cinematic Versus Literary Chronology...... 193 Cinematic Double Register (Image and Sound) Versus the Literary Single Register...... 197 Cinematic Versus Literary “Universe” ...... 236 v Cinematic Objective Versus Literary Subjective Viewpoints...... 239 Cinematic Versus Literary Narrator and Point of View...... 244 Cinematic VersusLiterary Transitions...... 247 S um m ary...... 250

IV. CONCLUSION ...... 257

BIBLIOGRAPHY ...... 278

APPENDICES A. Literary transcription of The Murderer ...... 297 B. Literary transcription of There Was an Old W oman ...... 306 C. Cinematic transcription of The Murderer ...... 319 D. Cinematic transcription of There Was an Old W oman ...... 344

vi CHAPTER I

Introduction The process of adapting written to cinematic texts has played a significant role in both the motion picture and television industries since the turn of the century. According to Madsen (1990), the proportion of motion pictures adapted from other media has been as high as 85 per cent in a given year (p. 59). Further, cinematic adaptations of novels, biographies, or short stories provide an overwhelming percentage of award-winning films. Since the inception of the Academy Awards in 1929, more than three-fourths of the best picture awards have gone to adaptations (Miller, 1980, p. 209). Seger (1992) notes further that 45 percent of all television “movies of the week” are adaptations (p. xi). According to Seger (1992), a striking 70 percent of all the Emmy award winners come from these films (p. xi). Another major media user of written material is the television miniseries. Eighty-three percent of recent miniseries were based on written works, of which 95 percent of the Emmy award winners were drawn (Seger, 1992, p. xi). Because adaptations play such an important part in the television and film media, there has been much research on them. From Asheim’s (1951) early analyses of some of the first films, Bluestone’s (1957) seminal labors on the adaptation process to Madsen’s (1990) and Seger’s (1992) more recent looks at film and

1 2 television, among others, the adaptation process has been the subject of considerable attention. These many and diverse studies of the adaptation process have revealed a set of complex problems associated with any attempt to adapt from the written to the cinematic. Morrissette (1985) identified several categories of these inherent concerns (p. 17). They are as follows: •cinematic versus literary description •cinematic versus literary language •cinematic versus literary chronology •cinematic double register (image and sound) versus the literary single register •cinematic versus literary “universe” •cinematic objective versus literary subjective viewpoints •cinematic versus literary narrator and point of view •cinematic versus literary transitions While other adaptation studies have addressed one or more of these concerns, no one has attempted to provide a detailed elaboration of the constituent elements, constraints and creative potential encapsulated in these key concerns. Doing so would contribute significantly to the adaptation literature. This dissertation--a case study of the adaptation process—provides such a detailed account of the process’s most central concerns. The discussion to follow will detail the nature, method and purpose of the stu d y . That the adaptation process is an important aspect of the cinematic industry is confirmed by Giannetti’s (1987) estimate that one-fourth to one-fifth of all feature films have been literary adaptations (p. 260). Historically, literary works have been a primary source of material for films dating back to Uncle Tom’s Cabin in 1904 and the Birth of a Nation in 1915 (Farber, 1982, p. 42). According to Corliss (1991), the predominance of adaptations occurred “despite two facts that might trouble studio executives: novels appeal to a readership older and better-educated than the typical moviegoer; and reading them is a distinctly minority entertainment. A film can’t lead the weekend box-office list, even in the slow season without about a million admissions. A book can get on the bestseller list with as few as 20,000 copies” (Corliss, 1991, p. 40). And in 1991, four of the five leading top Oscar contenders for best picture in 1991 were “based on books or as sequels to books, and all ten films in the best actor/actress categories were inspired by books or plays” (Corliss, 1991, p. 40). According to Horne (1982), as film evolved into a popular medium of entertainment, the production companies developed an insatiable appetite for narrative materials (p. 31). While film producers were trying to maximize their profits by capitalizing on popular fiction, they still felt they needed to “rise above film’s plebeian roots in the peepshow parlors and nickelodeons” (Horne, 1982, p. 32). In France, Pathe and others worked hard to bring traditional culture to the screen so that inevitably the majority of their productions were adapted from novels and plays. These filmed adaptations of classic novels and plays attracted a new middle class audience (Home, 1982, p. 32). Britain saw the rise of films based on Dickens and other Victorian novelists as well as those adapted from the plays of Shakespeare (Horne, 1982, p. 32). And the Italian cinema developed the costume spectacular, based on the historical romances of Bulwer Lytton and Henryk Sienkiewicz, and Quo Vadis showed lions battling the Christians in 1912 (Horne, 1982, p. 33). After 1927, when moving pictures were synchronized with sound to tell stories, describe events, imitate human actions, expose problems and urge reforms, Mast (1982) was not surprised to find that such uses of film provoked speculative comparison with the other major human system for those same activities—verbal language (p. 278). According to Horne (1982), the early film industry retained a schizophrenic attitude toward adaptations in that the producers wanted the freedom to transform literary sources to the medium and their actors while still coveting the legitimacy, kudos or the respect the original afforded (Horne, 1982, p. 34). One reason that adaptations have remained popular after nearly a hundred years is that they have already proven themselves and are, “in effect, presold . . . to audiences [who] are attracted to the movie because of the success of the film or the play” (Miller, 1980, p. 210). In fact, Miller (1980) added, the prior recognition factor had been so important that until recently, beginning writers with good original screenplays were advised to turn their screenplays into novels and have them published, holding their scripts in reserve if Hollywood showed an interest in the book (p. 210). As a known quantity, a book with demonstrated audience appeal and critical response provides a security blanket of sorts for those bankrolling a project (Miller, 1980, p. 210). Television network executives spending ten million dollars on an adaptation “can read the novel and know what they’re getting into” (See, April 1987, p. 27). According to See (April 1987), there exists a certain ‘“snob appeal’. . . for a book on The New York Times best seller list, or if there’s been a book-club sale or a book award” (p. 27). Well-known writers, too, offer producers “an awareness factor which can’t be discounted . . . The networks want entertainment first; they want big books by best-selling authors” (See, April 1987, p. 27). To study the adaptation process generally and the eight identified concerns particularly, this dissertation will focus on one particularly illustrative exemplar of the adaptation process,The Ray Bradbury Theater. The Ray Bradbury Theater is a half-hour television anthology series, currently airing on the USA cable channel. The series has won numerous CableAce awards for cable excellence, has been nominated for Gemini awards (the Canadian equivalent of an Emmy) and is seen in more than 25 countries. The two most recent recognitions were awarded on January 17, 1993 when the series won the CableAce award for the best dramatic series and one of its directors, Ian Mune won for directing one of the episodes in 1992.1 6

Bradbury serves as the screenwriter for each episode, as well as the executive producer, having the ultimate say in the final edit of the production. This study will focus on how how Ray Bradbury, an acclaimed writer and screenwriter, adapts his own works when he has control over the script and the final edit. Although he has been accclaimed in both the written and visual fields, Bradbury’s initial work was primarily of the written text. Bradbury has written essays and books on the art of writing, participates in writers’ groups (Seidenbaum, 1963), attends and addresses writing seminars, and credits his short story writing teacher, Jennet Johnson and his poetry teacher, Snow Longley Housh with shaping his career (Nolan, 1975, p. 45). It has been noted that in his early writing career [when he was in his twenties], Bradbury lived at home with his parents and sold newspapers on street corners, earning just enough money “to keep him eating so he could write,” while reading everything he could about the process of writing (“Author hits jackpot,” 1950). With his first sale in 1941, Bradbury established a routine of writing, that Mogen (1986) argues, committed him fully to a career in writing. He wrote a story a week, a level of production he has tried to maintain ever since” (p. 8). Bradbury continues to take his own advice and writes at least 1000 words a day and stresses that the only way to write is to write four or five hours a day (Savoy, 1970). Bradbury’s first sale to the major “slicks” or “quality” magazines, was “The Big Black and White Game,” that appeared in the August 1945 issue of American Mercury, followed by sales to other slicks including Charm. Mademoiselle. Collier’s. Saturday Evening Post and The New Yorker. According to Greenberg & Olander (1980), Bradbury was a pioneer in placing science fiction stories outside its genre magazines (p. 10). And he proved that “quality writing is possible in that much-maligned genre . . . [for he is] a careful craftsman, an ardent wordsmith whose attention to the niceties of language and its poetic cadences would have marked him as significant even if he had never written a word about Mars” (McNelly, 1980, p. 23-4). Bradbury’s name, along with those of Salinger, Updike, Dahl, Cheever, O’Hara and Roth, was included in a National Observer article about the top short story writers in 1964 (Davis, 1964, p. 18). According to Davis (1964), Bradbury has a “solid critical reputation. He is no mere inventor of monsters and moons. He is a serious social commentator who uses the world of tomorrow to comment upon today’s” (p. 18). In 1976, Mitchell (1976) wrote of Bradbury, “It is his skill as a short-story writer, not his expertness in science fiction, that has been his passport to the lectern, to TV talk shows, to urban planning committees, to meetings of civic leaders, where he popularized his causes, shares his views, teaches and learns” (p. 4). He delivers approximately 40 lectures a year, (turning down offers of about 300 more) at high schools, universities, writing conferences, libraries and corporations where he always suggests better ways for people to express their creative instincts (Mitchell, 1976, p. 4). Bradbury has written six novels and several hundred of his short stories have been printed in more than a thousand anthologies and textbooks and in two dozen of his collections. Some 350 editions of his books been translated in thirty countries around the world. According to Johnson (1980), it is a testimony to Bradbury’s popularity that, in spite of the fact that short story collections do not tend to sell well, all his books are still in print2 (Johnson, 1980, p. 3) and at least five of his books have sold well over a million copies in paperback and have remained in print for decades (Greenberg and Olander, 1980, p. 10). His trophy shelf includes the O. Henry and Best American Short Stories Awards for his short stories and awards from the National Institute of Arts and Letters in 1949 for his contribution to American Literature, as well as the Benjamin Franklin Magazine Award in 1954 and the Boys Club of America Junior Book Award in 1956. On the science fiction side of the shelf, Bradbury was selected for the Science Fiction Hall of fame in 1970. He received the Jules Verne award in 1984 and the World Fantasy award in 1977 for life achievement. And in 1971, the Apollo 15 rocket crew named a section of the moon “Dandelion Crater” in honor of his work.3 Bradbury’s demonstrated commitment and skill in the craft of writing help support selection of his work for this study. Because his early work was written exclusively for a reading audience, rather than with an eye to adaptation, this work can serve as an exemplar of the adaptation process. As will be shown later, the demonstrated difficulty of adapting Bradbury’s work to film further supports selection of his work for this research. First, however, will be a consideration of his experience with film. After establishing himself as an author of short stories and novels, Bradbury began to write for the big and small screens. According to Greenberg & Olander (1980) Bradbury became an important Hollywood screenwriter in the 1950’s, working on the Beast from 20,000 Fathoms and “most importantly, Moby Dick,” his adaptation of Melville’s novel for the big screen (p. 215). According to McNelly (1980), “Moby Dick may forever remain uncapturable in another medium, but Bradbury’s screenplay was generally accepted as being the best thing about an otherwise ordinary motion picture

(p. 19). Bradbury has participated in the film production process in two very different capacities. He has been as an author of fiction whose works have been translated into film, sometimes with and sometimes without his participation, and he has been a screenwriter for both film and for television. And, despite his enthusiasm for film, Bradbury “deliberately waited until he had established himself as a fiction writer before beginning film work” (Mogen, 1986, p. 134). Bradbury’s film experience began in the early 1950’s. In 1952, Warner Brothers Studio called to see if he was interested in working with his friend, visual effects technician Ray Harryhausen, on a monster movie. To Bradbury’s amazement, he found that the proposed project was his very own story, lifted from a year-old publication in The Saturday Evening Post. When he pointed out the similarities between his story and the film concept, “the producer’s jaw dropped to the floor. He suddenly realized who he’d stolen it from” (Shapiro, 1972). The next day Bradbury received a telegram 10 from the studio offering to buy the rights to his story (Mogen, 1986, p. 135). He agreed but was disappointed when they kept only the “title, plus one idea which was used for about two minutes and ignored the story’s underlying metaphor which might have given the film genuine impact” (Mogen, 1986, p. 135). Reviews on the film were mixed. One critic and film director called it an “exercise in Ray Harryhausen special effects, in which the monster rampages King Kong-like through New York . . . an efficient but undramatic formula thriller which, whatever its merits, had nothing of Bradbury in it” (Dante, 1969). The film is noteworthy, according to Indick (1989), because its “rather graphic rendition of car-, house-, and people-stomping” foreshadowed the Japanese Godzilla films (p. 14). This experience introduced Bradbury to the difficulties involved the the adaptation process. Bradbury’s biggest screenwriting challenge came in 1956 when he was asked to adapt Melville’s Mobv Dick by Warner Brothers film director John Huston, a man he greatly admired. After spending what he called an “alternately exhilarating and maddening” six months in Ireland with Huston, Bradbury produced a screenplay that he thought effectively compressed the action of the novel while preserving its spirit (Mogen, 1986, pp. 136-7). Indick (1988) found the Moby Dick script to be more than an adaptation. “It is a collaboration in which skillful dramatic writing has made a classic come alive, quite original in itself, yet seemingly employing actual words and scenes from the book” (Indick, 1988, p. 17). According to Indick (1988), Bradbury eliminated a full third of 11

Melville’s text that dealt with whale and whaling while adding a becalmed sequence, a near mutiny and a storm to enhance dramatic tension (Indick, 1989, pp. 16-17). Bradbury wrote that he “wanted the ‘essence of Melville,’ which means Melville boiled down, I hope, to his essentials. We have had to rearrange some of his scenes and ideas to give us a step- progression for films: in other words a series of quiet scenes, dramatically loud scenes (you might say) and a sense of small climaxes building to a grand finale. It is, in a way, a symphony” (W. Nolan, personal communication, April 28, 1954). Bradbury’s career as respected adapter had begun. During the fifties and sixties, Bradbury wrote original teleplays and also adapted short stories for Alfred Hitchcock’s Alfred Hitchcock Hour and for Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone. These included “Shopping for Death” (1956), “Design for Loving” (1958), “Special Delivery” (1959), “The Faith of Aaron Menefee” (1962), and “The Life Work of Juan Diaz” for Alfred Hitchcock Presents.4 In 1961, Bradbury wrote the voice-over narration for the film King of Kings and then shared screenplay credit with George Clayton Johnson on the 1962 Academy award-nominated animated short, Icarus Montgolfier Wright from Format Films. This film was based on his short story of the same name and featuring animated paintings designed by artist Joe Mugnani. Another short film based on a Bradbury work was The Picasso Summer, filmed in 1969 for Warner Brothers-Seven Arts but shown only on television three years later. It was based on “In a season of calm weather,” “an ironic and 12 poignant” Bradbury short story, in which a Picasso fan at a French seaside sees his idol doodling in the sand (Indick, 1988, p. 14). It starred Albert Finney and featured several animated carton sequences and “manages, regrettably, to miss Bradbury’s exquisite ending, even while referring to it" (Indick, 1988, p. 15). Once again, efforts by others to adapt Bradbury’s work fell far short of his expectations. In 1966, Francois Truffaut invited Bradbury to write the screenplay and observe the filming of Fahrenheit 451. It was Truffaut’s first English-speaking film as well as his first color film and was to be based on Bradbury’s novel of the same name. Bradbury said he declined the offer because he had recently adapted the novel for the theater and felt he lacked a fresh view of the material (Mogen, 1986, p. 137). Truffaut, who scripted the film with Jean-Louis Richard, kept a journal during the filming, parts of which were published in the French film journal, Cahiers du Cinema. “This film, like all those taken from a good book, half belongs to its author. . . Bradbury (came) to my aid, providing me with the strong situations I need in order to escape from the documentary” (Truffaut, 1966, p. 11). Truffaut also wrote, “On the screen you will see only what was in our two heads, Bradbury’s brand of lunacy and then mine, and whether they have blended together well” (Truffaut, 1966, p. 11). Critical reaction to Fahrenheit 451 varied. Saturday Review said that Truffaut “played with slow motion, maskings and movements and constantly (kept) the screen as alert and aware as 13

Bradbury’s own sensibilities would dictate” (Knight, 1966) while The New York Times called it “bloodless, pompous . . . a pretentious and pedantic production” (Crowther, 1966). Although Dante (1969) found it to be a “lyrical, eccentric and darkly humorous” production he also believed it did not solve all the problems inherent in its transfer from a book about books to a film about books. In later years, Bradbury viewed Fahrenheit 451 as an object lesson. “I have learned, at times, to relax and enjoy a director’s interpretation of me, even if it is wrongheaded, as long as he is trying. I think Truffaut honestly tried” (Dearmond, 1981, p. 183). Subsequent major adaptations of Bradbury’s work proved to be even more disappointing. A brief look at what happened when Warner Brothers-Seven Arts attempted to film The Illustrated Man in 1969 underscores this pattern of failed efforts. Dante (1969) wrote, “That Bradbury was not involved in its creation is painfully obvious. Jack Smight’s direction is hollow, without feeling, without style . . .Were Smith’s lack of empathy for the material the only problem, the film might still have survived. But Kreitsek’s TV-style adaptations and improvements on the original are hopelessly dull and heavy-handed. The stories are extensively rewritten with most of dialogue changed to include ‘in’ vulgarisms and out-of-place scatological references. ‘The last night of the world’, originally a lovely vignette in which one couple represents humanity as it realizes the world must end that night, like a losing of book, has been expanded into a trick-ending gimmick story with the introduction of a new twist in which the parents are required to put their children to 14 a painless death through poison capsules. Even so, it might have had some value but for the trowel-like direction which robs the climax of so much impact. The story bridges are even less effective . . .where Bradbury’s character was tired and somewhat mystical, Smight’s is near psychopathic, his intent vengeance on the vanished illustrator taken to tedious lengths, with a new sexual slant, plus nude scenes . . .picture their story conference: we’ll make this more than just science-fiction . . . we’ll make it adult!! There is nothing of the dream, the nightmare or even the reality of the original, and even on its own the film is colorless, meaningless, frequently boring and finally pretentious, an implacable mediocre Hollywood entity created by minds apparently incapable of responding to the challenge posed by the material. A far more interesting and intriguing 103-minute film could have been made of Ray Bradbury’s face as he watched The Illustrated Man for the first time” (Dante, 1969). Bradbury complained that the film wasted many opportunities available to a visual medium. Instead of concentrating on the very cinematic qualities of a video nursery, he felt the filmed version of “The Veldt” emphasized the parents “mooning about with nothing to do” (Strick, 1969). “There’s nothing wrong with ‘The Veldt’ that just ripping the pages out and stuffing them in the camera wouldn’t cure”, Bradbury told one reviewer (Johnson, 1980, p. 140). And, he felt the producers “just didn’t follow the stories . . .they obviously hadn’t read the book. When that’s true, there’s no reason to see the film” (“Stranger than fiction,” 1989). 15

And Bradbury himself told a heart-breaking tale about the Los Angeles premiere of The Illustrated Man. Before the showing, there were lines around the block, full of eager Bradbury fans calling out his name. But when it was over, the author recalled, a “ten-year-old boy looked up at me and said, ‘Mr. Bradbury, what happened?’ I started to get tears in my eyes. I couldn’t tell him that jerks had worked on the film” (“Stranger than fiction,” 1989). Mogen (1986) wrote that the film would have benefited from Bradbury’s input because the film “falls apart most glaringly where it departs from Bradbury’s text to develop a melodramatic frame narrative about the illustrated man” (p. 138). The next adapting “disaster” was NBC’s attempt to turn The Martian Chronicles into a television miniseries. Because of his history with adaptations, Bradbury had said that he would not sell any of his stories to films unless he knew who the director was and could work with him or her on the screenplay. He then turned his book over to Alan Pakula and director Bob Mulligan at Universal (“Bradbury demands,” 1964). Bradbury himself selected veteran screenwriter, Richard Matheson, to do the screenplay. Matheson had been Bradbury’s friend for almost thirty years, and had written for T h e Twilight Zone”, Night Gallery and Star Trek. Matheson is best known for his short story, “The Shrinking Man,” and the novel, Bid Time Return, which was the basis for the 1980 film Somewhere in Time. Bradbury complained that Matheson had written “a very good script but then they [producer and director] didn’t follow it! They changed the endings of stories, the dialogue and in some cases, cut the ends of 16 scenes so they don’t make any sense” (Hart, 1968). Bradbury himself had written a theatrical treatment of the book which was later produced by the Studio Theatre Playhouse of Los Angeles in 1977. He also had tried more than once to write his own screenplay for a feature film based on his novel but had trouble condensing ihe novel into a two-hour film. Matheson thought Bradbury’s problem was insurmountable because the novel was too big to be reduced to a feature film but it was possible to adapt it into a four hour and 48 minute miniseries (Hart, 1968). The telecast of The Martian Chronicles elicited some colorful comments from Bradbury. “I never drank so much beer in my life!” he told one reviewer about his viewing of the program (Steams, 1984). Bradbury told another reviewer that his idea of hell was having to watch the program (Indick, 1988, p. 11). Brown (1980) offered advice on how one could better spend the time involved in watching the series. “In six hours you can read The Martian Chronicles twice. Do it. A venerable landmark of the science fiction genre imbued with vivid imagery and an almost theological message of hope--has been turned into a lumpen, leaden bore in which the sum of its many disjointed parts wouldn’t add up to good episode ofStar Trek” (Brown, 1980). Mogen (1986) found that though individual episodes were effective, the overall production dragged, “losing the brisk, vivid pacing of the book. By creating a plodding frame narrative in an attempt to integrate the chronicles into a more unified story, the production substitutes a 17 lethargic narrative for the lyrical, kaleidoscope effect created by Bradbury’s collage of images and counter images” (p. 139). Zicree (1989) offers a succinct summary of why Bradbury’s works are uncinematic and hard to adapt. “Ray Bradbury is very difficult guy to dramatize, because that which reads beautifully on the printed page, doesn’t fit in the mouth, it fits in the head” (Zicree, 1989, p. 274). “And you find characters saying the thing that Bradbury’s saying and you say, wait a minute, people don’t say that. Certainly Bradbury’s dialogue does lean to the poetic and this might have been a consideration” (Zicree, 1989, p. 274). [Zicree was referring to an attempt to adapt a particular Bradbury story for Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone, that was never produced due to the overwhelming special effects demands of the story]. The demonstrated difficulties in adapting Bradbury offers strong support for selection of his work for this study. Because Bradbury’s early work was carefully crafted for the written medium and demonstrably difficult to adapt, study of successful adaptation of his early written work is likely to afford valuable insight into the adaptation process.5 And given the access to adaptations over which Bradbury himself had considerable control—episodes of The Ray Bradbury Theater—selection of Bradbury’s work for this study is particularly appropriate. Further, this projects selects two particularly representative examples of Bradbury’s work to study the adaptation process. The two stories were chosen in an effort to provide the greatest opportunity for analysis, for they are examples of works, that given their uncinematic qualities, should prove 1 8 difficult to adapt to another medium. Bradbury’s “There Was an Old Woman” and “The Murderer” are the two stories and both were written before Bradbury began screenwriting. Both stories contain much of highly metaphoric literary language for which Bradbury is known. Highet (1965) found that besides being metaphoric, Bradbury’s imagery can be described as possessing a brilliant and stylized nature with “youthful hyperboles and empathetic repetitions” (pp. vii-viii). And, Pell (1980) wrote, “if imagery is an index to able craftsmanship, of beauty and poetry of style, Bradbury qualifies as a master of imagery marked by originality and imagination. . . . [that] relate to common experiences of mankind (p. 188). Both stories are static, in that their narratives take place primarily in one location and both are what Madsen (1990) termed “introspective works” (p. 71). As opposed to more descriptive works, introspective works tend to “probe the psyches of its characters to reveal their thoughts, their feelings, their fears, fantasies and phobias—sometimes with little overt action on the part of the characters” (Madsen, 1990, p. 71). The setting of “The Murderer” presents a particularly unappealing visual experience the primary character sits in a jail cell and tells his tale to psychiatrist, while the protagonist of “There Was an Old Woman” naps and sits in a chair in her parlor and tells her story to a character who cannot speak. This character who could not speak was called, appropriately, the Listener and the following quotes represent some of the ways he 1 9

relayed information silently in the written text of “There Was an Old W om an”. •“Something in his face suggested the basket wouldn’t be so light after a while” The dark young man looked at Aunt Tildy as if she were tired O, wouldn’t she like to rest, too? he seemed to murmur. Rest, rest, nice rest. . . .” (p. 226) •“He seemed to know everything, with the dark, cold shining of his eyes, before she opened her mouth. . . . Yes, the dark young man smiled from the antique rocker, he knew how Aunt Tildy had stuck to her nice old phonograph records. . . All this the young man knew. (p. 228) •”He had no intention of coming again, ever. . . .The dark young man twinkled his eyes. . . “‘Quit lookin’ like the cat that ate the bird,”’ cried Aunt Tildy.” (p. 229) All these unspoken bits of information will have to be communicated somehow in the visual adaptation. The two stories represent opposite ends of the time continuum. “The Murderer” takes place in the future, which can be difficult to visualize without looking like pages tom from a comic book. “There Was an Old Woman” takes place in the past, and it is not always easy to capture the essence of a bygone era. Reference points will have to be created for present day audiences so that they can identify with the time of the narrative. But besides possible adaptation problems that may be caused by the setting, characters and time of the two stories, there is another element which could prove even more of a challenge to the 20 adapter. This is the element of special effects, or more specifically, how to create visual representations of “The Murderer’s” battle with many different machines and for the scene in which Aunt Tildy, the protagonist of “There Was an Old Woman” re-enters her own body. And finally, these two themes are representative of Bradbury’s works on two levels. Both address the character’s conception of good versus evil, with one character tackling technology, the other the fear of death. McNelly (1980) argued that the conflict in Bradbury’s stories “is ultimately between human vitality and the machine (p. 20) or as Mengeling (1980) wrote, “the possible death of artistic creation and imaginative imagery” (p. 104). These two episodes are representative of Bradbury’s works, which in turn, are representative of written works that are difficult to adapt to a visual medium. Using the eight givens as a guide, this study will attempt to determine how Bradbury as author and adapter, addressed these concerns. This study will use as guidelines, the eight primary concerns, formulated from the works of those who have analyzed adaptations previously, to discover how Bradbury as the author and adapter and executive producer addressed them in The Ray Bradbury Theater and how other adapters might learn from his solutions to these problem s. To help expedite the nature of these eight concerns, The discussion to follow will highlight problems associated with each of the eight givens. 2 1 Cinematic versus literary description Morrissette (1985) asked whether analogies were possible or impossible in the two disparate worlds of verbal and visual languages (p. 18). Bluestone (1957) summed up the difficulty by stating that “where the novel discourses, the film must picture” (p. 47). Battestin (1967) saw the rhetoric of the two art forms to be fundamentally different in that “the arrangement of words in sequence is the business of the novelist but the maker of a film deals in the arrangement of images” (p. 36). Mast (1982) found that converting a novel’s purely verbal text into a succession of sights and sounds (only some of which are verbal) to be one of the most basic problems in adaptation (p. 289). And Giannetti (1987) concurred because “in fiction we get to know the person through his words, through his judgment and values, which are reflected in his language. But in movies, we get to know a character by seeing how he reacts to people and events” (p. 295). Cinematic versus literary language Morrissette (1985) perceived that the visual media found it difficult to create analogies for the syntax, punctuation, metaphors and semantics fundamental to the verbal media. Jinks (1971) agreed, in that the film must necessarily render abstractions such as metaphors, similes and symbols in concrete images (p. 18). And Bluestone (1957) saw film as leaving behind “those characteristic contents of thought which only language can approximate: tropes, dreams, memories, conceptual consciousness. In their stead, the film 22 supplies endless spatial variations, photographic images of physical reality, and the principles of montage and editing” (p. 48). For as Richardson (1969) noted, “literature often has the problem of making the significant somehow visible while film often finds itself trying to make the visible significant” (p. 68). Cinematic versus literary chronology Morrissette’s (1985) definition of chronology includes real versus filmed time, tempo, and film’s absence of tenses (p. 18). In dealing with real time as opposed to filmed time, events that occur over decades or take volumes to encompass may have to be presented visually in less than two hours. With theatrical films now averaging under two hours and television programs clocking in at thirty minutes to two hours, only the television miniseries with its four hour to twenty hour time frame approaches the time luxury of a novel (Armer, 1988, p. 191). Therefore, another obvious and acknowledged given is that adaptations need to condense or shorten the original work. One pioneer of adaptation analysis, Asheim (1951), concluded from his content analysis of twenty four films that condensation was required because the viewer’s eye and body fatigue limit the time an audience can devote to the screen (p. 259- 60). And more recently, Madsen (1990) found condensation to be frequently necessary in adaptation because the scope of a novel more often than not exceeds the potential scope of a single film (p. 73). “A novel may encompass a time span of years, even millennia, moving easily between the past, present, and future within a paragraph and without disrupting the continuity or losing the reader. 23 Novels cast in the epic mold of James Michener’s Hawaii that encompass the lifetimes of generations of characters cannot be filmed with anything like the scope of the original book” (Madsen, 1990, p. 73). Visual texts employ a pyramidal structure that is much more rigid structurally than a written one in that “what happens in act two must grow out of the incidents in act one” (Armer, 1988, p. 192). This is often, according to Armer (1988), the antithesis of the novel’s usually episodic pattern (p. 192). Because act one is the base of the pyramid in the visual text, the major story conflict and all of its characters are usually established in this act (Armer, 1988, p. 192). The story conflict, Armer (1988) expanded, “develops throughout acts two and three as the protagonist struggles to achieve a goal . . . and provides a sense of purpose and direction. The hero has to make progress or receive setbacks in relation to the goal” or the audience will lose interest (p. 192). Novels, on the other hand, can journey at their speed. They may introduce digressing subplots, describe scenic sites and have the luxury of introducing their many characters as slowly as the author desires. Nathan (1966) admitted that film offered no counterpart, at least so far, to the “quiet, contemplative flow of the novel” (p. 130). “Quiet and contemplation are for the singular and lonely reader; when people come together to be entertained, the pace and rhythm of entertainment must be set for them . . . to please them all, each singly, and all together" (Nathan, 1966, p. 130). 24 Film’s absence of tenses can be related to its immediacy. According to Lawson (1964) film can place events in any time order but features their immediate impact by treating the past and even the future as if they were in the present tense (Lawson, 1964, p. 212). Seger (1992) described film as “immediate, now, active” and emphasized the event (p. 24), while Boggs (1985) found that unlike the novel, filmic events are not things that once happened and are only now being remembered and recalled (p. 310). Rather they are “happening right now as we watch . . . even though [the film itself] may be set in a framework of the past or take us into the past by way of flashback, a film unfolds before our eyes, creating a strong sense of present tense, of a ‘here and now ’ experience” (Boggs, 1985, p. 310). But m ost novels are written in the past tense (Boggs, 1985, p. 310). This gives the reader a very definite sense that the events (in the novel) occurred in the past and are now being remembered and recounted by a novelist who has had time to think over and reflect on the importance and meaning of said events (Boggs, 1985, p. 310). Novels may be, as Seger (1992) wrote, “reflective—emphasizing meaning, context or response to an event” ( p. 24 ). And the novel’s sense of the past, with its descriptive and analytical powers, “cannot be subjected to word-for-word and scene-for scene-transcription, in the manner in which a book is translated into another language” (Lawson, 1964, p. 218). Jinks (1971) found one of the more exciting features of the cinematic experience to be its immediacy, because it is occurring 25 “right now, before the audience’s eye” (p. 160). He added, that although immediacy often promotes greater involvement [with the audience], it tends to create certain time consideration problems for the filmmaker (Jinks, 1971, p. 16). Jinks (1971) cited as an example the problems inherent in adapting the phrase, “Every day for six months at precisely eleven thirty-two, he would seat himself at a park bench on 27th Avenue and count the busses that passed” (p. 16). The filmmaker would have to find ways to portray the passage of a six month time period as well as the passage of time within the shot (Jinks, 1971, p. 16).

Cinematic Double Register (Image and soundl Versus the Literary Single Register Morrissette (1985) labeled the category “double register [image and sound] in film versus the single register in the novel” and indicated that film’s capacity to present both image and sound creates a problem for the single register presented in the novel or more generally, in the written text. This label and definition are unclear in so much as they could be interpreted to mean that adapters must find ways to translate material from a medium that possesses one register (words) to a medium that has, in addition to the one register of words, the second and visual register of image and sound. Or it could be found to mean that the single register is that of images created by words and the second register consists of sound. This study chooses the former interpretation. Morrissette’s (1985) use of the term “double register” (p. 18) to indicate film’s capacity to present both image and sound can be 26 compared to what Winston (1973) termed its “total visibility” (p. 61). Total visibility occurs when the camera unintentionally records details not required for the dramatic development of the work (Winston, 1973, p. 61). This is in direct contrast to a written work. Only those details that an author of a written text wishes to include will find their way to the printed page (Winston, 1973, p. 61). Or as Blumenberg (1975) explained, “the novelist selects those parts of an action that allow us to interpret the whole action. The film gives it all to us at once and provides for a more immediate type of interpretation. In film we cannot see all the interior thoughts and feelings. Yet no matter how detailed the description in fiction, it cannot match the direct visual representation of all the details that a film can give us” (p. 13). McDougal (1985) called it the total visual context of film that shapes what is seen and heard (p. 117). “When for example, Kane reads his “declaration of Principles” to Leland and Bernstein in Citizen Kane, the dark shadows on his face and the low camera angle undercut the lofty ideas he espouses” (McDougal, 1985, p. 117).

Mise-en-Scene This total visual context can be analyzed by looking at its mise- en-scene, which incorporates the production elements vital to the visual adaptation of a written work. The literal definition from the French is “putting into the scene” and according to Withers (1983), refers to the arrangement of actors, props and action on a set or on location (p. 23) or of “objects and figures within a unified space”

(Giannetti, 1987, p. 8). It also incorporates the technical design of the 27 scene, including the lighting, visual composition and camera placements (Withers, 1983, p. 23). Setting. Mise-en-scene encompasses the setting and the actor and props that people it. Setting, defined as the “place in which the characters think and act” (Foss, 1989, p. 231) must be analyzed in a visual adaptation because its total visibility requires that the setting be shown. A setting that may require several pages of exposition in a novel may be shown in seconds on the screen, to be grasped by the viewers in an instant, “without effort and without awareness of even doing so” (Madsen, 1990, p.

Actor/character. The adaptation of a narrative’s characters, or the “people, figures, or creatures who think and communicate in the narrative” (Foss, 1989, p. 231) depends not only on the actor or actress cast in the role but what changes are made their function, number, role and personality, if they are altered at all from the written text (Carter, 1983, p. 6-7). Their physical appearance is essential to the adaptation process and is shown by their hair style, makeup and costume as well as their walk, gestures, facial expressions, and control of their bodies (Klinge & McConkey, 1982, p. 51).Also important is whether they are portrayed as flat, with a few dominating traits or round with a variety of traits (Foss ,1989, p. 2 3 3 ). Orlik (1988) stressed that the visual impact is of utmost importance to actors who must be emotionally and physically 28 believable in terms of the role to be played (p. 85). “T he intimate nature of the television camera and picture tube will magnify any awkward contrivance and expose any slippage of characterization” (Orlik, 1988, p. 85). “Under such a microscope, wrote Russian filmmaker V.I. Pudovkin, performers would do well ‘to exercise the finest shading of voice and gesture’ ” (Pudovkin cited in Orlik, 1988, p. 85). And Orlik (1988) concluded that the “time-constricted productions on the small screen require that even the most intimate action be marshalled in the quick registration of character” (p. 87). P ro p s. According to Klinge & McConkey (1982), properties or props, are both physically and psychologically important to a film (p. 67). Psychologically, they are related to persons, ideas and other objects (Klinge & McConkey 1982, p. 51) and supply “convenient ways for actors and actresses to express both the obvious and subtle aspects of their characters” (Klinge & McConkey 1982, p. 67). Physically, props possess “size, shape, color, weight, position, location and function” (Klinge & McConkey 1982, p. 51) in that they can be “worn, handled, eaten, thrown, lived in, rode in, used or abused in almost infinite variation with near limitless effect” (Klinge & McConkey 1982, p. 67). As Withers (1983) defined mise-en-sc&ne to also embrace the technical design of the scene, this study will include the cinematographic elements of the camera variables of distance, angle and movement as well as the variables in lighting and color, editing and the audio variables of sound effects and music. 29 Camera distance/horizontal plane. To address the use of shot size in adaptations, this study will use Orlik’s (1988) horizontal continuum to define the camera shots that range from the “screen-filling intimacy of the extreme close-up (ECU) to the panoramic cover shot (CS) or full shot (FS) that surveys the entire scene” (p. 90). In between are long shots (LS) or wide shots (WS) that would show, at the minimum, a character from head to toe (Orlik, 1988, p. 90). Medium shots (MS), according to Orlik (1988), can vary widely, depending on the scene’s scope, but are generally considered to be the “upper two-thirds of a standing character with minimal additional revelation of the set behind” (p. 90). Medium long shots (MLS) and medium close-ups (MCU) would define the continuum further. And, the close-up (CU) would show the character or prop filling most of the screen, with the head and shoulders shot of a person providing the most common f. An extreme close-up (ECU) or (XCU) of that same person would be limited to one body part, such as their nose, mouth or hand (Orlik, 1988, p. 90). A close-up is more intimate than a medium shot because it removes all distractions and concentrates the viewer’s attention on the speaker’s face or whatever object is in the frame. An example of this would be love scenes or emotional outbursts that are usually shot in close-up. A long shot is often called an establishing shot because it does just that in showing a character in the context of the surrounding world. And the most common of shots, the medium shot, 30 shows him or her in closer relationships with other characters or objects. A close-up is a form of extreme manipulation in the visual medium. On a long shot or even a medium shot, the viewer is free to focus his attention on any object shown on any part of the screen. With a close-up, there is only one object on-screen and the viewer can look nowhere else. And informational close-ups can be employed to show important details that may not be visible to the viewer in a larger shot. A shot that is often seen in close-up, the “reaction shot,” occurs when one person speaks and/or acts off-screen while the audience sees the other person’s response to his words and/or actions. It is a subjective camera shot that lacks exact fictional equivalent because a writer cannot simultaneously relate one person’s words and another’s responses (Marcus, 1971, p. 231). This “nonverbal commentary” (Orlik, 1988, p. 93), done by shooting from a reverse angle, allows the viewer to look with instead of just at a character, (as explained in the subjective camera section) to see the impact of his or her words or actions and see through his or her eyes. Camera angle/vertical plane. Another way to manipulate the attention of the viewer is by making a change in the vertical plane, where the angle of view creates a “psychological distortion” (Klinge & McConkey, 1982, p. 94- 5) that affects how each character is perceived. If the camera is positioned high above the actor/actress, it creates a foreshortened perspective (Klinge & McConkey, 1982, p. 94) that lets the viewer 3 1 “look down” on him or her from a superior position. A low camera angle creates an exaggerated perspective (Klinge & McConkey, 1982, p. 94) that appears to be looking up at character or object as if from admiration or fear. When used with two characters, the low and high camera angles can illustrate the relationship between the two: a parent is usually shot from a low angle, and a child from a high angle. Shooting from eye level creates a “normal” perspective that draws no attention to itself and creates no assumptions about the characters. A tilted angle usually indicates deviation of some sort: mental illness, drunkenness, awaking from sleep. Camera movement. Camera movement, defined by Winston (1973) as the movement of the camera in relation to the subject being filmed (p. 31), is the third major camera consideration. Blumenberg (1975) includes panning, tilting, trucking, tracking, booming and zooming as the most common camera movements that can create visual interest and help provide rhythm inside a shot (p. 23). A stationary camera may pivot or pan horizontally, to follow a subject in motion or give a panoramic view of the scene. And tilting would be any vertical movement of the stationary camera head. Tracking and trucking are traveling shots that Blumenberg defined as the camera itself moving through space (Blumenberg, 1975, p. 23). These can include tracking or dolly shots where the camera moves parallel to a moving object, along tracks like a train, to create a “fluid, dynamic feeling to the action” (Blumenberg, 1975, p. 24). A trucking shot involves the camera following the action while 32 mounted on a three- or four-wheeled vehicle (Winston, 1973, p. 31) while a boom or crane shot mounts the camera on a crane that can move vertically or horizontally through a wide area (Blumenberg, 1975, p. 24). The zoom shot is an optical process that employs a special lens to give the illusion of camera movement toward or away from the subject while the camera remains stationary (Winston, 1973, p. 32). Lighting and color. Casty (1971) found that lighting, like color, is both a functional and expressive aspect of the visual image (p. 118). Lighting’s “workday function” is to insure a clear composition but it can produce expressive effects in mood, tone, contrast and emphasis (Casty, 1971, p. 118). Low-key lighting refers to a scene where most of the set is in shadow and just a few highlights define the subject (Boggs, 1985, p. 145). On the other hand, high key lighting has more light areas than shadows, with the subjects seen in “middle grays and highlights, with far less contrast” [than low-key] (Boggs, 1985, p. 145). The best-known lighting effect is probably the low-key, shadowy effect of “film noir” where the lighting is as much a part of the “fatalistic, despairing universe where there is no escape from mean city streets, loneliness and death” (Giannetti, 1987, p. 470) as the wailing saxophones and the rumpled private investigator. But, even the normal associations for a certain type of lighting can be modified in such a way that a different, even opposite tone is 33 obtained, according to Casty (1971) (p. 119). Scenes of bright light in particular can be used for this effect so that a bright and antiseptic whiteness creates a feeling of mocking emptiness rather than fulfillment (Casty, 1971, p. 119). Color can be both functional and meaningfully expressive in the associations it can shape and create (Casty, 1971, p. 114). “In its most generalized artistic use, color can help suggest the tone, the atmosphere of the time and place in which the drama is acted out” (Casty, 1971, p. 114). This can be achieved, according to Casty (1971), by filtering colors to match art and style associations for various periods as in The Taming of the Shrew and in Tom Jones ( p. 114). Color also can produce associations related to a film’s specific themes and moods. According to Klinge & McConkey (1982), it can be used to establish, develop, and sustain mood (p. 65). Color can thus enhance the motifs created by other production elements to bring symbolic associations to a scene (Casty, 1971, p. 114). Editing.

Editing can be described as the ordering and arrangement of scenes for the best continuity or for the greatest dramatic impact (Klinge & McConkey, 1982, p. 11). According to Madsen (1990), a film’s rhythm or tempo is controlled by the length of time a shot is held on the screen. “As a rule, the longer the shot, the more relaxed the tempo; the shorter the shot, the more exciting” (Madsen, 1990, p. 266). Madsen (1990) added that the classic method to build suspense starts with long shots and gradually shortens them to accelerate the tempo as the film moves toward the climax (p. 266). 34 Different directors create their own tempos with different methods. According to Giannetti, (1987), a formalistic director from the Hitchcockian school will rely more on editing juxtapositions to convey characterization while realistic directors will use long shots and lengthy takes to encourage sustained performances from the actors (p. 185). Sound p.ffects. To compose with sound is to arrange the voices, music and sound effects before the microphones and record them in such a way as to create the desired mental imagery (Klinge & McConkey, 1982, p. 141). Sound effects (SFX) can include everything other than voice and music, and can be divided into natural, mechanical and electronic effects (Klinge & McConkey, 1982, p. 11). Madsen (1990) found that the primary purpose of sound effects is to complement and enhance the viewer’s understanding of what he or she sees on the screen (p. 3 0 6 ). Sound effects can also serve two symbolic functions: one that is determined by the dramatic context and the other which is more universally understood (Giannetti, 1987, p. 156). In Luis Bunuel’s Belle de Jour, the sounds of jingling bells represent the heroine’s sexual fantasies while Ingmar Bergman’s Wild Strawberries, uses a more universally recognized symbol. In the latter film, the protagonist, an elderly professor, has a nightmare in which the surrealistic sequences are virtually silent except for the insistent sound of a heart beat, or what Giannetti (1987) termed, a ‘“memento 35 mori’ for the professor, a reminder that his life will soon end” (p. 157). Madsen (1990) and Giannetti (1987) agreed that audio effects can also serve to extend or expand the limits of sound beyond the confines of the frame. An example of extending visual limits would be a scene of a woman working in a kitchen accompanied sounds of unseen children playing, TV set droning, and a lawn being mowed. Thus the viewer is led by sound to believe what he or she sees on the screen is only part of a big world beyond (Madsen, 1990, p. 306). Or as Giannetti (1987) phrased it, “off-screen sounds bring off-screen space into play" (p. 155). At the other end of the sound spectrum is silence. According to Giannetti (1987), “absolute silence in a sound film tends to call attention to itself. Any significant stretch of silence creates an eerie vacuum—a sense of something impending, about to burst” (p. 160). Citing Arthur Penn’s Bonnie and Clyde as an example, Giannetti (1987) elaborated on the conclusion of the film. “The lovers stop on a country road to help a friend (actually an informer) with his car, which has presumably broken down. Clumsily, he scrambles under the car. There is long moment of silence while the two lovers exchange puzzled, then anxious, glances. Suddenly the soundtrack roars with the noise of machine guns as the lovers are brutally cut down by policemen hiding in the bushes” (p. 160). Music. The dramatic use of music was probably established in the early days of radio and “silent” films, where atmospheric music 36 added a great deal to the overall appeal of a performance. Early silent films were frequently accompanied by a piano, organ or even a full orchestra . . . to help them portray emotion and offer a rhythm to their performances (Blumenberg, 1975, p. 19). According to Madsen (1990), this dramatic emphasis is the most pervasive use of music in film. “A single word or phrase in the story, or even a noise, may be loaded with content significance that could be missed by some viewers if not underscored with an orchestral crescendo” (Madsen, 1990, p. 303). While films made around World War II favored what Madsen (1990) called “the heavy handed use of music to complement every crisis” (p. 303) and “slathered” music over an entire film, the recent trend has been to use the musical emphasis primarily at moments of intense crisis (Madsen, 1990, p. 304). Orlik (1988) suggested that radio and television critics are not in the “business of critiquing music for itself but rather must evaluate music’s contextual effectiveness within a certain broadcast/cable framework” (Orlik, 1988, p. 74). Within the framework, those critics can determine whether “some other musical treatment or even a completely nonmusical element would have been more effective in that particular programming” (Orlik, 1988, p. 74). Music must also be considered in the associative role it plays in conjunction with other productional elements (Orlik, 1988, p. 74). “Since media critics therefore are reprieved from the awesome task of attempting to critique music as music, they can concentrate on 37 whether the musical choices made in a given programmatic context are optimal ones” (Orlik, 1988, p. 74).

Cinematic Versus Literary “Universe” The problems inherent in adapting the extremely diverse worlds of the written and the visual media can be addressed by examining Morrissette’s (1985) categories of the time, place and psychology. T im e The first question of time finds that readers have the luxury of setting their own pace while cinema-goers are bound by the “relentless rate of a projector” they cannot control (Bluestone, 1957, p. 50). This difference in the “mode of beholding” (Bluestone, 1957, p. 50), is another essential difference, or given, between the two media. Because a visual medium is usually viewed at only one sitting, the viewer generally cannot digest and absorb as much as the novel reader who may review any part of the book and adjust his or her reading speed to the difficulty of the passages (Winston, 1973, pp. 56-57). The reader may linger as long as he or she likes, controlling the pace, rereading or even stopping to reflect on the author’s ideas (Boggs, 1985, p. 310). But the cinematic pace is predetermined and “the very quickness with which a film sweeps by, its quality of cinematic restlessness, distinguishes it from the novel” (Boggs, 1985, pp. 310-311). While VCRs and laser-disc players have freed home viewers from the relentless projector rate, those true aficionados who want to experience the film on the big screen are still at the mercy of the persistent projector. 38 Cinematic restlessness is heightened even further by television, when a program is interrupted by its almost mechanical division into quarter, half and full hours (Seldes, 1962, p. 107). This segmentation is a legacy from radio and has “virtually imposed an artificial limitation of attention, which television producers with more ambitious projects have a hard time overcoming” (Seldes, 1962, p. 107). Another artificial time constraint television inherited from radio is the commercial interruption. Breaking away from the narrative every few minutes requires writing in segments and creating artificially strong act endings or “cliffhangers” that occur just before a commercial, or in the case of miniseries, at the end of each episode (See, June 1987, p. 55). Space Filmic space is synthesized with filmic time, according to Cohen (1979), because the “dynamic structuring of filmic space requires the dimension of time” (p. 65). Cohen (1979) elaborated, “in other words, perception of the three-dimensional {referential} space cannot take place without the moment-moment changes [i.e., movement] introduced by duration" (p. 65). An illustration of this would be a photographic still from a film, where space is perceived as two- dimensional. When the same scene is “perceived as part of the projected film, when mere chronological elaboration has been added, space is perceived in its very development and assumes the illusory third dimension” (Cohen, 1979, p. 65). Psychology 39 The psychology of viewing, according to Roemer (1971) is predicated upon a far more immediate and total experience than can be provided by other art forms (p. 42). While literature and the theatre depend on the word and the static visual arts on the image, “only film renders experience with enough immediacy and totality to call into play the perceptual processes we employ in life itself’ (Roemer, 1971, p. 42). This the camera makes it possible to use “the stuff of life itself, without the amplification or statement and without any loss in dramatic value” (Roemer, 1971, p. 43). Simplificati on/ExplicifnftSS What can be lost in adaptation process are some of the more complicated contrivances used by novelists. Most viewers cannot take time to reflect on w hat they are seeing or hearing, resulting in filmmakers’ tendency to favor simpler constructions than those of the novelists (Winston, 1973, pp. 56). This occurs so frequently, that, “though it can never be accepted as a justification—that if many films were translated into literature, they would resemble dime novels or, at best, crime thrillers” (Winston, 1973, pp. 56-57). Simplification’s task is to prevent the audience, whose ability to comprehend a film is more limited than their ability to comprehend a book, from being inadvertently confused (Winston, 1973, p. 57). According to Asheim (1951), filmic ideas and concepts are “rendered less complex, related to contemporary general knowledge and stated with greater explicitness” that those of a novel (p. 263). Madsen (1990) concurs in that ideas and complex forms of knowledge are simplified and, if dated, made current by relating them to topical 40 events (p. 74). This simplification also may be due to film’s economic need for a broader audience than that required by the novel because production costs for a film or television program are higher than those for printing a book. This need, according to Madsen (1990), carries with it, “rightly or wrongly, the assumption that viewer comprehension is on the whole lower than reader comprehension, with a concomitant need for simplification of content” (p. 74). Asheim (1951), in his twenty-four film survey, found that the assumed level of audience comprehension was generally lower for the film than for the novel and that every effort had been made by the screenwriters to avoid the possibility of confusion, misinterpretation and incomprehension on the part of the audience (p. 263). Moreover, the film is usually more explicit in almost all details than the novel is (Asheim, 1951, p. 263). This greater explicitness, that is, the “explicitness of detail which characterizes visual presentation” (Asheim, 1951, p. 261) contributes further to the need for simplification because its explicitness renders “subtleties directly into graphic perceptual images” (Madsen, 1990, p. 74). Personifying good and evil And when “explicitness is combined with simplification,” it results in an all-white/all-black presentation of character and issues rather than the more deeply analyzed “gray” of the novel . . . thus “transforming the protagonist and antagonist into the more popularly acceptable ‘hero’ and ‘villain’” of the film (Asheim, 1951, p. 263-4). With this all-white/all black dichotomy comes the centering of good 41 and evil in “specific individuals in the film to a greater extent than in the novel” (Asheim, 1951, p. 265), reducing the problem of evil “to one of combating a specific villain whose defeat provides the solution of the conflict” (Asheim, 1951, p. 265). With a specific villain, evil is personified in a film and the protagonist’s battle with him or her becomes a personal struggle. Madsen (1990) and Asheim (1951) both found that a film adaptation will change a novel’s universal issues into personal solutions and personify good and evil. Where a novel will tend to imply that evil exists in institutions and social forces, and that the villain is the instrument through which evil works, a film reverses that relationship until “all the properties of evil are invested in a specific individual whose evil apparently exist without context and whose destruction provides the solution to the conflict and an end to evil” (Madsen, 1990, p. 81). Asheim (1951) discovered that the majority of the films he studied “personalized and individualized the story to such an extent as to eliminate its typicality” (p. 265). Madsen (1990) concluded that film usually eliminated universal meanings and its outcome was most often offered in terms of the consequences to individual characters and thus drained of any broader implications (P- 81). Cinematic Versus Literary Viewpoint For the sake of space and clarification, Morrissette’s (1985) two categories of objective and subjective viewpoints will be consolidated into one that addresses both concerns. 42 According to Seger (1992), the narrator in the novel tells the reader about subjective experiences, but the film, through its visuals, shows the viewer an objective experience (p. 25). “In a film the voice-over narrator may tell us how someone is feeling. But this voice-over may be disruptive because we’re trying to concentrate on the objective expression on a character’s face” (Seger, 1992, p. 25). Corliss (1991) described the objective/subjective concern succinctly when he wrote, “films observe and novels analyze. Films are outside; novels are inside. Films are about what people do; novels are about what people think” (p. 45). Withers (1983) noted that adapting a film from a literary work requires a shift away from interior monologue passages, which do not translate easily to film, and toward physical action, visual and spatial effects and concrete objects (p. 180). “The filmmaker must find ways of casting the content of such passages into the filmic devices of action, dialogue, sound and image” (Withers, 1983, p. 180). Or as Braudy (1977) wrote, books can give us insight into a character’s inner life, but film must accept the necessity of defining problems of character “primarily in terms of a character’s actions and statements” (pp. 184-5). Presenting in words and images a protagonist’s mental content (Morrissette, 1985, p. 24) can be difficult, if not impossible, on either the small or large screen. To Stanton (1977), a film is unable to reveal the thoughts of a character as “effectively and profoundly as a novel can with its techniques of interior monologue or stream of consciousness” (p. 39). Hilliard (1984) concurred in that the author of 43 a prose work can “describe people, explain their feelings and clarify the situations, motivations and even the action through examples or illustrations” (p. 345) while the screenwriter cannot. “She or he can explain nothing, but must show everything” (Hilliard, 1984, p. 345). These differences McDougal (1985) defined as the differences between “telling and showing” (p. 116). Bluestone (1957) agreed that film cannot show thought directly, for although it might show characters thinking, feeling, and speaking, it cannot show their thoughts and feelings (p. 48). Cinematic Versus Literary Narrator and Point of View Using voice-overs is just one of the more dramatic ways to convey a particular point of view in a film. The point of view chosen for the program creates a powerful psychological involvement with the audience. The narration can remain or become first person, omniscient, third person limited, concealed, or even stream of consciousness interior monologue (Farber, 1982, p. 46), but dramatizing a novel’s narrated scenes is a basic problem in the adaptation process (Mast, 1982, p. 289). Some points of view may prove more effective than others in establishing audience identification with a character. According to Marcus (1971), a reader will weigh the words of first-person narrator by assessing his or her character and his or her interpretations of the events he or she reports. And because the first-person narrator is so close to the action, it is very easy for a reader to identify with such a character (p. 231). 44 In film, the viewer normally identifies with the performer seen from the position of the camera (Weiss, 1975, p. 51) and this position varies with each camera shot. Cameras themselves offer two points of view: objective and subjective. An objective view of the action eavesdrops in an attempt to mirror reality and allows the viewer to observe all the action (Marcus, 1971, p. 231).). On the other hand, subjective shots create “a perception as seen through the eyes of a character in the movie” (Marcus, 1971, p. 230), such as an unfocused ceiling coming into focus for a post-operative patient or when a character looks at something outside the frame and the subsequent shot reveals what he sees, as he sees it (Marcus, 1971, p. 231). These subjective shots can range from “realistic perceptions to distorted images” but they do tell the audience what the character sees and allow them to see through his or her eyes (Marcus, 1971, p. 231). Boggs (1985) describes how the change from objective to subjective is often accomplished. An objective shot will show the character looking at something off screen [look of outward regard], thus cuing the audience to wonder what he or she is looking at. The following shot is an eye-line shot that shows subjectively what the character is seeing. The “simple logical relationship between the two shots provides a smooth and natural movement from an objective to a subjective point of view” (Boggs, 1985, p. 130). It would appear that the ultimate identification would occur in a film shot entirely from a subjective point of view, as was the 1946 film, The Lady in the Lake, directed by Robert Montgomery, and shot 45 from the point of view of one of the characters the viewer never sees. Instead it had precisely the opposite effect. “We feel most alienated from him (the subjective character) because our view is so artificially constricted” (Eric Sherman, cited in Weiss, 1975, p. 51). Sherman concludes that the audience tends to identify with the leading characters (cited in Weiss, 1975, p. 51). Cinematic versus literary transitions The final fundamental tenet of adaptation as described by Morrissette (1985) is that of transitions or “how one is propelled from one shot to the next” (Orlik, 1988, p. 94). The simplest and quickest transition is the “cut” or instantaneous take from one picture to another and draws the least attention to itself. Dissolve A dissolve, [or the French fondu], where one picture gradually replaces another, can suggest a passage through time or space and draws attention to itself while doing so (Morrissette, 1985, p. 18). According to Madsen, this passage through time or space is either a minor change of location or a short lapse of time (p. 153). Winston (1973) saw the dissolve as signifying a “slight break in the temporal continuity of a film” and compared it to dropping of the curtain in a play momentarily between the scenes of an act. Morrissette (1985), believed that the dissolve could be considered the visual counterpart of such written adverbs as “meanwhile,” “elsewhere,” “later,” and the like (p. 18) and quoted Balazs (1985) as saying it created a “deeper connection” [than a cut would] between the two shots involved (Balazs cited in Morrissette, 1985, p. 19). 46 F ade Similar to a dissolve is the fade-out or fade-in where the picture fades to black or fades up from black. This signified a break, with passage of time or displacement of space (Morrissette, 1985, p. 18). According to Madsen (1990), the length of the initial fade-in implied the “emotional flavor of the film to follow: heavy drama may be introduced by a fade-in as long as a minute to connote a foreboding quality. A comedy may fade-in with a snappy six frame, little more than a soft cut” (p. 153). Within the body of the film, fades can be used to separate major scenes, as “viewers have been conditioned to accept the fade- out, fade in as signifying a major change of time or location, from one scene to the next” [and] . . . a long, long dissolve is sometimes used in dramatic films to create the effect of slow awakening to reality” (Madsen, 1990, p. 153). And according to Morrissette (1985), the viewer will accept that months and even years have transpired during the minute the picture faded to black and back up again. Thus, “time, space, cause and effect are thus synthesized by the time- lapse dissolve” (Morrissette, 1985, p. 19). W ipe

A wipe is another attention getting device, one that shouts “look at me” while it pushes off one picture to reveal another, often by using any one of a variety of shapes. The television program, Home Improvement, uses a wipe between scenes or before a commercial to echo or illustrate an action or idea from the previous scene. For example, a bowling alley scene was compressed into a ball 47 and “rolled” into the next shot, thus underscoring the preceding scene’s importance and relating it to the next scene by repeating the former’s main action. Solid Dissolve Recently, according to Morrissette (1985), the dissolve has evolved into a transition device that employs, to an ever-increasing degree, shared objects in the two images. For example, telephone one would fade into answering telephone two. “From this has emerged what may be termed the “solid” dissolve—there is no apparent film movement or change from telephone one to telephone two, but when the camera angle rises, we are in a different room, looking at a different actor” (Morrissette, 1985, pp. 18-19).

Because of its importance to the fields of film and television/visual media, the adaptation process has received considerable scholarly attention. Despite the extensive research in this area, no one has provided a detailed account of the eight concerns most often associated with adaptation. Nor have researchers attempted to discern from analyses of actual adaptations, sets of constraints and creative potentials associated with these eight concerns. This study fills this void. One promising means for discovering inherent problems and creative potentials in the adaptation process would be to analyze the work of someone who understands the liabilities of both media and who is demonstrably skilled in addressing these liabilities. Ray Bradbury’s acknowledged expertise in the fields of writing and 48 screenwriting, his role as both original author and screenwriter for the Ray Bradbury Theater, and his role as executive producer of the series make the program’s productions ideally suited for this resea rch . Selection of exemplars from among the series’ sixty-five episodes were based on the following criteria: fundamental difficulty in adapting the written to the visual; uncinematic aspects; and the potential for adaptation problems in the areas of character, setting, time, special effects, as well as the inherent introspective nature of the two stories. To further ensure a challenge to the adaptation process, two of Bradbury’s early works were chosen. As has been noted, Bradbury concentrated his early writing efforts exclusively on the written genre.

Chapter Outline To complete the project, one chapter each will be devoted to actual analysis. Chapter II will analyze the adaptation of Bradbury’s short story “The Murderer”. Chapter III provides a detailed analysis of “There Was an Old Woman.” The final chapter summarize key findings and suggests implications of the study to existing research on the adaptation process. This chapter also offers suggestions for future research. 49 CHAPTER I End Notes

ICableAce Awards are presented by the National Academy of Cable Programming.

^Except Dark Carnival which had a limited printing and has been out of print for years.

3 It is worth noting that in 1964,Bradbury’s screen writing ability earned him a distinctive honor and what Mengeling (1980) called his

“greatest attempt to explore the possibilities of film” (p.97). The United States government commissioned Bradbury to write the screenplay for An American Journey, a short film that was projected on 110 screens for the 1964-1965World’s Fair in New York.

According to Mengeling (1980), Bradbury used the film medium to “tie together our past, present, and future, to help bring us to a greater understanding of ourselves as people” (p. 97) “Circuiting the darkness on a traveling platform, 500 years of American history ‘happened’ to the viewers wending their way through 110 cinema screens of all sizes and shapes, accompanied by a narrator and a full symphony orchestra. It was my job,” says Bradbury, “to tell us what we were, what we are, and what we can hope to be. We were, I said, the people of the triple Wilderness, who crossed a Wilderness of sea to come here, a Wilderness of grass to stay here, and now, late in 50 time, move toward a Wilderness of Stars to live forever.” (Mengeling, 1980, p. 97).

4 lane Wvman’s Fireside Theatre (series'!: The Marked Bullet (1956)

Steve Canyon (series!: The Gift (1958) Trouble Shooter (series!: The Tunnel to Yesterday (1960) The Twilight Zone (series'!: I Sing the Body Electric (1962) Alr.oa Premiere (series!: The Jail (1962) Curiosity Shon ('series'): The Groom (1971)

5Considerable work has been done on Bradbury’s early works. Note, however, that no prior research has taken advantage of the opportunity to use Bradbury’s unique expertise and control that he exercises on The Ray Bradbury Theater to study the adaptation process. DeArmond (1981) evaluated the adaptation of Bradbury’s novel, Fahrenheit 451. to both film and chamber theater, to argue that Bradbury tried to use mythic motifs and classic archetypes in a modem context to “define Future Man in contrast to his ancestors” (p. 16). Carter’s (1983) cross-media narrative analysis of Bradbury’s novel, The Martian Chronicles, looked at how the book was treated as a radio play, a theatrical endeavor, a major film and a television miniseries. For additional dissertation and thesis research on Bradbury’s works, see Dauben (1967), Pettichord (1967), Gutierrez (1970), Dimeo (1970), Foster (1973), Touponce (1981), Anderson (1987), and Wolbers (1988). Books and essays addressing Bradbury and his works include Indick (1988), Greenberg & Olander (1980), Johnson (1980), Mogen (1980), Slusser (1977), Nolan (1975), and Manning (1977). CHAPTER II The Murderer Introduction This chapter provides a detailed analysis of author Bradbury’s adaptation of one of his short stories into an episode of a television anthology series. As discussed in Chapter I, the short story “The Murderer” was chosen for this study precisely because it is not a visually oriented story and its nonvisual story elements make its adaptation to a visual medium difficult at best. The story is representative of Bradbury’s work with its abundance of metaphorical language and by its “technology is evil” theme and the character’s unconventional method of dealing with the conflict between man and machine. Furthermore, as the discussion below will illustrate, Bradbury’s adaptation of his work has been successful. The short story, “The Murderer,” was first published in 1953 in Areosv. a British magazine and was included in the 1953 collection of Bradbury’s works, The Golden Apples of the Sun. The televised episode of “The Murderer” first aired on The Ray Bradbury Theater on July 27, 1990. It starred Hill Street Blues’ Bruce Weitz with Cedric Smith, Donna Akeston and Michael Haigh.1 It was directed by Roger Tompkins and written, of course, by Bradbury. This episode, like the others on The Ray Bradbury 52 Theater, was filmed, rather than videotaped. The term “story” will be used when referring to the written text of the short story, and the word “program” when the episode of The Ray Bradbury Theater is being discussed. Overall, the visualization is fairly faithful to the written text. There have been some additions, omissions and changes that will be discussed in this study and because it was written almost forty years ago, some aspects of the story have been modernized to bring it up to date. But the story and its message remain the same and may be more appropriate now than they were in 1953. When it was included in Bradbury’s anthology, The Golden Apples of the Sun, the front cover of the 1967 paperback edition contained the phrase “A masterwork of fantasy” above the title as well as the quotation, “The world’s greatest living science-fiction writer,”2 above Bradbury’s name. The book was also classified as “science fiction” on its spine. The collection of fantastic machines for the home and office found in “The Murderer” would appear to be a textbook example of science fiction as defined by W ebster’s New World Dictionary as “highly imaginative fiction typically involving real or imagined scientific phenomena” (Guralnik, 1976, p. 428). But when reading it, or seeing it visualized today, the tale could be the depiction of “a day in the life” of someone struggling in today’s highly mechanized world, or in the very near future’s, rather than a warning from the distant past. 54

Cinematic Versus Literary Description In both the story and program, the action revolved around a conversation in a penitentiary interview cell between Albert Brock, a man who has been arrested for destroying his house and other machines, and Dr. Albert Fellows, a prison psychiatrist. Passive into Active In both media, Brock recounted the events that led to his frustration with the mechanized world around him and precipitated his destructive retaliation against machines. The story and the program used two different methods to recall these events which is precisely what Madsen (1990) predicted for an adaptation: that the passive passages in the novel would be rewritten to be revealed in action and dialogue on the screen (p. 76). In the story, Brock described his “transgressions” in response to the psychiatrist’s questions while the program used action and dialogue-filled flashbacks to reveal Brock’s recollections to the psychiatrist and the audience. These recitals/flashbacks were vital to the narrative in that they provided a step-by-step revelation of Brock’s growing disenchantment with his communication and laborsaving devices. While Brock’s destructive responses to the machines were virtually identical in both the story and program, the exact provocations differed slightly. The program’s dialogue remained fairly faithful to the story’s and to illustrate that, the first encounter between the psychiatrist and Brock will be analyzed. The remaining dialogue passages will be analyzed in relation to their context in the adaptation categories- 55 Story “Go away,” said the prisoner, smiling. The psychiatrist was shocked by that smile, A very sunny, pleasant warm thing, a thing that shed bright light upon the room. Dawn among the dark hills. High noon at midnight, that smile. The blue eyes sparkled serenely above that display of self-assured d e n tistry . “I’m here to help you,” said the psychiatrist, frowning. Something was wrong with the room. He had hesitated the moment he entered. He glanced around. The prisoner laughed. “If you’re wondering why it’s so quite in here, I just kicked the radio to d eath .” Violent, thought the doctor. The prisoner read this thought, smiled, put out a gentle hand. “No, only to machines that yak-yak-yak.” Bits of the wall radio’s tubes and wires lay on the gray carpeting. Ignoring these, feeling that smile upon him like a heat lamp, the psychiatrist sat across from his patient in the unusual silence which was like the gathering of a storm. “You’re Mr. Albert Brock, who calls himself The Murderer?” Brock nodded pleasantly. “Before we start....” He moved quietly and quickly to detach the wrist radio from the doctor’s arm. He tucked it in his teeth like a walnut, gritted, heard it crack, handed it back to the appalled psychiatrist as if he had done them both a favor. “That’s better.” The psychiatrist stared at the ruined machine. “You’re running up quite a damage bill.” “I don’t care,” smiled the patient. “As the old song goes: ‘Don’t Care What Happens to Me!”’ He hummed it. (p. 242) P ro g ram INT CELL-DAY SILENCE LA MS Dr. Fellows in interview cell LA MLS Brock, face still hidden from view VERY HIGH ANGLE OSS of Dr. Fellows in foreground and Brock in far right corner, his face hidden in darkness.

Brock: Go away.

VERY HIGH LS reversal shot of Dr. Fellows from Brock’s perspective 56 Dr. Fellows. Look, I’m here to help you.

LA MLS Brock, face still hidden from view.

Brock: You’re wondering why it’s so quiet in here. MCU Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: Yes.

LS Brock kicking the remains of the radio toward the Dr. Fellows.

Brock: I just kicked the radio to death. Don’t worry

Brock walks toward Fellows. I’m really not violent, except to machines that go yak, yak, yak.

Dr. Fellows: So you’re Brock, Albert Brock?

Brock: The murderer. Excuse me.

CU Brock removes Dr. Fellows’ lapel phone, puts it in his mouth and bites down on it. SFX: Crunch, whirr Brock: Welcome to tranquility.

MS Brock hands the crushed lapel phone back to the Dr. Fellows who puts it in his pocket. Dr. Fellows: This will cost you $300.

Brock: I don’t care, (singing) I don’t care. I don’t care. Dr. Fellows: Well, then, shall we begin?

MS Dr. Fellows pushes a button and places small tape recorder on the table between them. LS2S Profile. Brock: Sure, sure, whatever you say, Doc.

CU Zoom of Brock picks up tape recorder and drops it into a pitcher of water Brock: I know, that’s another 300 dollars. These two exchanges are similar but their few differences include some important changes. When the program added the cost of the replacement lapel phone to the psychiatrist’s lines, it accentuated the fact that the psychiatrist exists in a world where he must be concerned with the monetary value of objects while the patient, content in his state-supported cell, does not. Brock’s casual acceptance of the additional cost of replacing the water­ logged recorder showed his good humor regarding his incarceration while his act of destruction showed his insistence on retaining the upper hand and controlling the psychiatrist-patient relationship. The psychiatrist’s refusal to become angry showed a great deal of control and training on his part as a psychiatrist.

Verbal into Visual Brock’s actual singing, “I don’t care” in response to the psychiatrist’s replacement cost estimate, demonstrated that the program can show what the story m ust tell as M ast (1982) predicted when he wrote that verbal text must be converted into sights and sounds (p. 289). In the story, Brock smiled, “I don’t 58 care” and said, “As the old song goes, ‘Don’t care what happens to me.’” The reader may not know the melody of the song Brock refers to and cannot actually hear the lighthearted lilt to his voice, while the viewer is allowed to be audience to his actually singing. And because its melody is engaging, the song might conceivably remain with the viewer as the program unfolds. Another example of how Bradbury supports Mast’s (1982) discussion of the conversion of verbal text into visual sights and sounds was Brock’s biting of the psychiatrist’s lapel phone. This was the first destructive “action” described in both the story and program and set the stage for the rest of his destructive actions. Brock knew from prior experience that his time with the psychiatrist would be laced with interruptions that he could not control. And so he struck first and bite the psychiatrist’s phone into bits, before it could squawk even once for attention. Brock’s fear of interruptions proved to be a valid one because the second act opened with a bodiless voice-over complaining that she could not reach Dr. Fellows because his lapel phone had been turned off. If Brock had not destroyed Dr. Fellows’ lapel phone, that same voice would be interrupting his session with the psychiatrist. This also foreshadowed Brock’s recollection of his wife interrupting him at work on his lapel phone to remind him of after-work errands in the following scene: PROGRAM: INT Brock’s office reception area-MORNING MUSIC LS Brock entering area. 59 Agnes (VO lapel phone): Albert, are you there?

Brock: (to his lapel phone) Yes, dear.

Agnes (VO lapel phone): Don’t forget to pick up the pate . . .

Brock: (to his lapel phone) Yes, dear.

Agnes (VO lapel phone): . . . and the baked Brie from Gourmet Goodies. And be sure to be home by eight because the Dorfmans are coming over tonight. Would you mind picking up the clothes from the cleaners?

MLS Brock pulls at his collar and looks uncomfortable. The only written verbal counterpart to this very vivid scene of “yes-dearing” was when Brock tells the psychiatrist: “I love my friends, my wife, humanity, very much, but when one minute my wife calls to say ‘Where are younow , dear?’” (p. 243). This wholly created scene dramatically illustrated both Madsen’s (1990) view about rewriting passive passages into action and dialogue (p. 76) and Mast’s (1982) view regarding verbal text conversion. This scene, combined with the unattractive image of her reciting Spanish in bed, also offered a depressing view of both Brock’s wife and their marriage. Showing Brock as a hen-pecked husband could help create sympathy for his character by showing him to be a long-suffering, patient man who finally ran out of patience. 60 “The Murderer” is almost a textbook example of Mast’s (1982) findings that a verbal text must be converted into a succession of sights and sounds, only some of which are verbal (p. 289). Instead of Brock telling the psychiatrist about his miserable experiences with machines, he showed him by reenacting his encounters via flashbacks. This was also exactly what Madsen (1990) predicted for an adaptation: that the passive passages in the novel would be rewritten to be revealed in action and dialogue on the screen (p. 76). Brock’s verbal passive accounts o f his past, revealed in a session with the psychiatrist were translated into action-packed and dialogue-heavy flashbacks. This is to be expected in a visual medium, especially because two talking heads in a jail cell are not visually appealing. The program does stand in direct opposition to Madsen’s (1990) statement that in order to exploit the cinema’s ability to dramatize actions and movements, film adaptations tend to emphasize plot rather than character development (p. 76). Although it did develop plot with the flashbacks, the program also took time to develop its characters, particularly those of Brock and the psychiatrist. Brock by his manner and interaction with others appeared to be a mild-mannered, even meek, amiable man. As previously mentioned, his “yes dear, yes, dear” replies to his wife, created the image of a henpecked husband. The psychiatrist on the other hand, did not give in to his son’s repeated appeals for money, possibly showing a stronger backbone than Brock. But by the end of the program, both had changed dramatically: Brock was 6 1 confident and relaxed while the psychiatrist appeared rattled and no longer sure of what he believed in. As Battestin (1967) w rote, the arrangement of words is the novelist’s business but the arrangement of images must concern the filmmaker (p. 36). So Bradbury the adapter has taken the words of Bradbury the author and created action-packed flashbacks and cliffhangers that led logically from the image of man henpecked by his wife to one of a man henpecked by all of society, pummeled and hammered by machines wherever he went. The significance of this section lies in the adapter realizing that some written images must be changed and intensified, as illustrated by Bradbury’s addition of the ruined tape-recorder to underscore his protagonist’s feelings. And that whole scenes may have to crafted, as was the vivid scene where Brock’s wife nags him over his lapel phone, to create visual images that are as powerful as the written ones originally formulated in the text.

Cinematic Versus Liter^y Language According to Withers (1983), the literary devices of images and metaphors d o not translate easily to film (p. 180). Then how does Bradbury the adapter “cast the content of such passages into the filmic devices of action, dialogue, sound and image?” (Withers, 1983, p. 180). Rendering Bradbury the author’s richly colorful “written abstractions of metaphors” into concrete images on the program (Jinks, 1971, p. 18) would be a challenge to the author h im self. 62 There is also the challenge of deciding which literary devices should be eliminated, how the remaining ones should be brought to life and how to visually create new ones. Because the figurative language in “The Murderer” concentrated on metaphors, hyperbole and personification, the adaptation process involved with these three written abstractions will be analyzed in this study.

Metaphors adapted

Smile as an adapted metaphor. Addressing metaphors in “The Murderer,” the written description of Brock’s smile was an example of how the adaptation attempted to illustrate the lavish imagery supplied by the author. The following is the written description of Brock’s smile during the psychiatrist’s first encounter with Brock:

Story ‘“Go away,’ said the prisoner, smiling. The psychiatrist was shocked by that smile, A very sunny, pleasant warm thing, a thing that shed bright light upon the room. Dawn among the dark hills. High noon at midnight, that smile. The blue eyes sparkled serenely above that display of self-assured dentistry.”(P- 242). . . “feeling that smile upon him like a heat lamp.” (p. 242). . . “The psychiatrist sat there in the sunshine of that beatific smile” (p. 246) The phrases “High noon at midnight” and “dawn among dark hills” both indicate the cyclic aspect of the sun’s appearance in the sky each day while “warm thing” and “heat lamp” suggest the sun’s temperature component. Since the interview takes place in a windowless jail cell, Bradbury the adapter could not even juxtapose cuts of a sunny window scene with close-ups of Brock’s smile to create an obvious connection between the two objects. What the program did do was hide Brock in the shadows where the psychiatrist and the audience could hear but not see him for the first encounter. When he finally emerged from the shadows, the image could be compared to that of a long-awaited sun emerging from behind a cloud. However, it was a visual metaphor that successfully transferred an abstraction into a solid image without the actual recreation of the written metaphorical vehicles of sun, dawn, heat, etc. This proved that it is possible to create metaphors using image and lighting that reflect written in ten t. Walnut as an adapted metaphor. Another metaphoric image that Bradbury chose to adapt was walnut metaphor in the following written description:

Story “Brock nodded pleasantly. ‘Before we start’ . . . He moved quietly and quickly to detach the wrist radio from the doctor’s arm. He tucked it in his teeth like a walnut, gritted, heard it crack, handed it back to the appalled psychiatrist as if he had done them both a favor. ‘That’s better.’ (p. 242). The adapted scene immediately followed Brock’s emergence from the shadows:

P ro g ram CU Brock Brock: The murderer. Excuse me. 64 Brock bites lapel phone. SFX: electronic whirring, crunch.

Welcome to tranquility.

Here the written metaphor comparing the communication device to a walnut was graphically translated by both sound effects and the use of a close-up that is close enough to show Brock’s teeth. The sound effects of whirring and crunching added immeasurably to the image of the wrist radio/lapel phone as a mere walnut to be masticated into oblivion. The close-up of Brock’s mouth provided an uncomfortably close image of his teeth actually grinding metal. And it showed that Brock had found an effective, if violent, way to control at least one of the irritating machines that aggravate his situation. Indirect metaphor adapted. Yet another adapted metaphor, although more indirectly expressed in the written text than the two just described, was more graphically translated to the visual medium. The written text follows: Storv: Convenient for my office, so when I’m in the field with my radio car there’s no moment when I’m not in touch.In touch\ There’s a slimy phrase. Touch, hell. G ripped! Pawed, rather. Mauled and massaged and pounded by FM voices. You can’t leave your car without checking in: ‘Have stopped to visit gas-station men’s room.’ ‘Okay, Brock, Step on it!’ ‘Brock, whattook you so long?’ ‘Sorry, sir.’ ‘Watch out next time, Brock.’ Yes ‘ , Sir*’ This was translated with both a flashback and a close-up discourse in the cell as the film transcription will indicate: i n t . b a t h r o o m -d a y LS Brock walking from urinal to sink and washing his hands

Brock (VO): For my office to find me no matter where I am ?

Cut to CU Brock in foreground, turning and looking at wall intercom in background

(VO wall intercom): Mr. Brock, Mr. Jessup just called. He can’t seem to reach you on your lapel phone. He’d like you to get in touch with him right away. Come in please, Mr. Brock.

Zoom to XCU Brock Brock: In touch. How I hate that phrase...

INT. CELL CU Brock Brock: Gripped, mauled, pounded by FM voices is more like it! I mean there’s literally no place where a person can go anymore to find some peace. Not the bathroom, not even your own car. The metaphorically descriptive words, “gripped, mauled, pounded by FM voices” were reserved for the static close-up of Brock talking excitedly to the psychiatrist. Weiss’ indignant delivery of them added to their impact, but not to the extent of the visual interpretation in the scene immediately preceding it. In this scene, as the transcription reveals, Brock was in one of the last places a person can hope to find privacy and freedom from interruption: the bathroom. But thanks to the marvels of 66 modem technology, even this bastion was no longer inviolate. Even though Brock had destroyed his lapel phone, his office could still track him down and find him in the bathroom. The audio and visual effects of this scene heightened the outrage Brock [or anyone] would feel at such an invasion of privacy. Shot in ghastly yellow-green fluorescence, the scene began with a long shot of the bathroom. When the wall intercom broke into his ablutions, the scene cut abruptly to a close-up and Brock and the intercom, with Brock in the foreground dominant position. This close-up with its “screen-filling intimacy” (Orlik, 1988, p. 90) that allows nothing else to be seen, concentrated even more attention on the situation. The menacing bass-string musical accompaniment further underscored Brock’s horror at being interrupted. The woman’s voice from the speaker, like every machine-transmitted voice on the program, was mechanical and cold, as if any signs of humanity were not to be channeled through a speaker. The camera’s final zoom-in to an even closer shot of Brock’s resentful face then highlighted the great offense he had taken at this affront to such a personal matter. Thus while Bradbury had his character/actor very clearly state his views on privacy invasion, the visual and audio of the flashback even more plainly established and transmitted the message. By manipulating the cinematographic elements such as lighting, music and camera, the adapter can create an audio-visual metaphor that accentuates the original written metaphor. 67 Voice Metaphor Created Sound effects supplied the means to translate yet another image from the page to the screen. Bradbury the author wrote about what a telephone can do to a human voice, “some cold fish of a voice, all steel, copper, plastic, no warmth, no reality” (p. 243). And Bradbury the adapter made sure that all the computer voices on the program, including the security checkpoint at the penitentiary, the computer polltaker, the kitchen voices of the oven, microwave and coffeemaker as well as the house’s doormat and clock-radio, were given the most unappealing voices possible. This was accomplished by recording nasal monotone voices and electronically filtering them to remove any bass resonance, thus creating uninflected and “dead” voices without life or ambience. The significance of these created metaphors would be that it is all too easy to overlook the audio portion of a program to concentrate on the visuals. “The Murderer” found a battery of sound effects that brought Bradbury’s metaphors loudly and clearly to life.

Metaphors omitted Three metaphors for silence in the story were omitted from the program. The story’s Brock described silence as “putting ice cream in my ears” (p. 244), as a “big bolt of the nicest softest flannel ever made” (p. 244) and said, “I’m just going to sit around for a long time stuffing that nice soft bolt of quiet material in both ears” (p. 246). These descriptive passages were not literally translated in that at no time did Brock put ice cream or flannel in his ears. A visual translation of these vivid metaphors would have 68 made Brock a laughing stock and undermined his message. The implication here is that an adapter should not be afraid to try other options rather than attempt a transfer of the literary metaphor to the cinematic text.

Spoken Metaphor Treated To compensate for the omission of three written metaphors about silence, Bradbury the adapter created another one for the program. But it was not a visual or audio metaphor. Rather, it was a spoken metaphor that Brock related to the psychiatrist. First, the story’s silence metaphors:

Story “Silence happened next. God, it was beautiful. That car radio cackling all day, ‘Brock go here, Brock go there, Brock check in, Brock check out, okay Brock, hour lunch, Brock, lunch over, Brock, Brock, Brock.’ Well, that silence was like putting ice cream in my ears.” “You seem to like ice cream a lot.” “I just rode around feeling of the silence. It’s a big bolt of the nicest, softest flannel ever made. Silence. A whole hour of it. I just sat in my car, smiling, feeling of that flannel with my ears. I felt drunk with Freedom!” And the program’s matching sequence: Program MS Brock Brock:

Silence, that’s what happened. Wonderful beautiful silence. I just sat in my car for a whole hour, drinking it in. It was incredible. I felt drunk with freedom. MS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: Freedom, Mr. Brock? 69

MS Brock Brock: Yes, Doc, freedom from one more damn note in the whole screeching symphony.

The new metaphor is that of “drinking” in silence, rather than putting ice cream in an ear or riding around in flannel. This metaphor related closer to the milkshake Brock had just poured into his fax machine, in that one drinks a milkshake, as opposed to eating or spooning ice cream as he did in the story. And the drinking metaphor related directly to the phrase that immediately followed it: “I felt drunk with freedom” which is taken verbatim from the written text (p. 244). Therefore, the new metaphor of Brock drinking in the silence was closer to the original text than the original written metaphor of flannel in his ears. This could indicate to adapters that it is possible to introduce new metaphors that will work as well or even better than the written ones did in the existing text. Thus, of the metaphors from Bradbury’s short story, only three were adapted, three were omitted and two were created. A large percentage of his written metaphors were also personifications, as well as hyperbole, and their deposition in regard to the adaptation will be discussed shortly. This study has shown that metaphors can be translated visually without trying to duplicate exactly the terms used in the written text. Creating new visual metaphors and intensifying the existing metaphors is possible with cinematographic techniques 70 that use lighting and camera techniques in addition to sound effects and music to enhance the written metaphor. H yperbole Besides being metaphoric, Bradbury the author’s imagery has been described as possessing a brilliant and stylized nature with “youthful hyperboles and empathetic repetitions” (Highet, 1965, pp. vii-viii). Hyperboles, as Harrington (1973) defined them, are tropes that use conscious exaggeration to achieve emphasis or create a comic effect (p. 151). The hyperboles Bradbury chose to adapt, the ones he omitted and the new ones created expressly for the program will be discussed. Omitted hyperbole. First the hyperboles Bradbury chose not to include in the adaptation of “The Murderer” will be addressed. In the story, hyperbolic terms were used to indicate questionable arrangements of music. His examples included musical pieces described as “Vienna woods chopped down” (p. 244) and a “canary mangled” (p. 244). These hyperboles were not directly translated into visual images, that is, there were no close-ups of injured birds or denuded forests. Created hyperbole. But the program did create a few hyperboles of its own in the form of Brock’s exaggerated physical movements and facial expressions (Harrington, 1973, p. 151). At the end of the first act, Brock pulled the covers up over his head in an attempt to “escape” from his wife’s Spanish recital in bed. This futile movement on 71 Brock’s part to screen out sound would be considered one example of hyperbole. Another example of hyperbole that includes both physical movements and facial expressions was illustrated by Brock’s reaction to the fourth set of revised faxes sent to his office. As he yanked yards and yards of paper from the machine and stretched them like taffy until they tore, he howled and scowled. Both hyperbolic actions illustrated precisely how irritating the machines were to Brock’s daily existence and the actions served to foreshadow behavior of a more devastating nature. The program’s opening title sequence also created a hyperbole not mentioned in the story. It used fast-paced live animation that suggested the “fast motion” that Harrington (1973) called one of film’s chief devices for hyperbole (p. 151). But the joyless music and annoying noises accompanying the fast-moving characters and vehicles precluded it from portraying the “comic sense of frenzy” hyperbole most often creates (Harrington, 1973, p. 151). Instead it offered a depressing image of commuters moving like machines, speeded up and caught like cogs in the city’s mechanism. It also foreshadowed the Bradbury the adapter’s [and Bradbury the author’s] concern with over-mechanization and the abuse of technology to be revealed in the program. Thus, Bradbury the adapter did not try to transfer any hyperbolic sequences from the story to the program. Translating the written hyperboles regarding music could have created laughable and ridiculous images that would have hampered the delivery of Brock’s message. Instead he created new hyperbolic 72 sequences involving actor voice and movement to highlight Brock’s increasingly erratic responses to the machines in his life. And he produced an opening sequence that used fast-paced hyperbole against accepted type to intensify and anticipate his message concerning the dangers of technology. Personification Even more than metaphors and hyperbole, personification, defined as conferring animal and human traits upon machines (Harrington, 1973, p. 152), played a large role in both the story and the program. In fact, the title itself, The Murderer, personified the protagonist as someone who kills, when all he actually did was destroy some appliances and communication devices. The program retained the majority of the personifications conceived in the story, and added no new adaptations of machines as people or people as animals. Bradbury the author used personification to endow his human characters with animal characteristics and to confer animal and human traits upon machines (Harrington, 1973, p. 152). The animal-like descriptions of people include, “Like a headless turkey, gobbling, my wife whooped out the front door” (p. 246) to describe Brock’s wife after he destroys the house as well as “sheer, animal panic!” (p. 244) and “squirrels chattering in cages!” (p. 245) to describe Brock’s fellow commuters after he used the diathermy machine on their communication devices. The “headless turkey” metaphor was adapted into a visual image by Donna Akeston, who played Brock’s wife Agnes. She was 73 tall and wore a loose jacket with full sleeves and uttered something close to a “whoop” before she ran out of the house in that scene. And her flapping arms in their billowing sleeves did resemble feathered wings as she fluttered through the house. As for the animal metaphors of “sheer, animal panic!” and “squirrels chattering in cages!” (p. 245) during the diathermy scene, Bradbury the adapter tried to reproduce the visual equivalents of such personified images. In the program, Brock waved his diathermy machine down the aisle of the subway car, leaving the riders stunned and their machines disabled. As the commuters watched Brock exit the subway car, they could be compared to confined animals of some sort. But no one in the program seemed to be as hysterical as the written text of “sheer, animal panic!” and “squirrels chattering in cages!” (p. 245) might suggest. No one attacked Brock physically or even verbally when he destroyed their possessions. Most seemed too flabbergasted at the sights and sounds of their sputtering machines and Brock’s maniacal laughter. Perhaps Bradbury the adapter did not want the scene to be humorous, which it could have become, at the sight of people panicking at the loss of contact via phones and forced to chatter with those sitting next to them. Instead, the confused stares and muttering provided a way to show the stunned reaction of commuters to the destruction of their phones and communication devices. Their phones and communication devices were just two of the many machines endowed with human or animal-like traits in 74 the story. To describe the telephone, Bradbury used terms such as “Ghost machine" (p. 242) and “voices without bodies" (p. 242) and “the telephone rang like a spoiled brat” (p. 245). To enter Brock’s home, one had to open “a front door that barks ‘You’ve mud on your feet, sir’" (p. 245) or listen as “the front door shrilled ‘Dirty feet, muddy feet! Wipe your feet! please be neat!’ "(p. 245). One would have to avoid stepping on “an electronic vacuum hound that snuffles around after you from room to room, inhaling every fingernail or ash that you drop" (p. 245) and try to sleep on “beds that rock you to sleep and shake you awake” (p. 247). The kitchen was fully populated by an “Insinkerator . . .(that) purred like a sleepy lion” (p. 245) “a stove was just whining, ‘Turn me over!’" [and would “sizzle” and “scream” after Brock shot it] (p. 245). Of the above listed humanized or “animalized” machines from the story, only the electronic vacuum was not included in the program. The bed that rocks you to sleep and shakes you awake was rendered into a clock radio that offered personalized wake-up calls and weather forecasts. The voice of doormat scolding Brock and his son to wipe their feet was particularly odious with its metallic tones. The oven and coffeemaker’s helpful cooking comments and nagging reminders were adapted almost verbatim. The doormat’s barking and shrilling from the story were softened to a very clipped but coolly polite, “Mud on the floor, please-wipe your feet. Thank you. Have a nice day.” As mentioned earlier, all the computer voices and announcing rings were annoying and machine-like in their tone and delivery. By making these machine 75 voices unpleasing and dissonant, the adapter is making a statement regarding the machines themselves: that each machine that makes our lives “easier” adds unwelcome noise to the world. The psychiatrist’s office was a meadow-like menagerie of insects and flying creatures. “He took his broken wrist radio from his pocket like a dead praying mantis” (p. 246) and replaced it with one that “buzzed like a wounded grasshopper” (p. 247) while “music flew in through the open door” (p. 247). To get to his office, he had to walk through a “beehive of offices, in the cross­ pollination of themes” (p. 241). These animal metaphors from the story were recreated in the program primarily by sound. Although the program’s small black box that housed the lapel phone [the wrist radio in the story] did not much resemble a praying mantis dead or alive, its high- pitched beep-beep-beep-beep-beep sound could be compared to the chirps of a wounded grasshopper. Music flying in doors and cross-pollinating themes was dramatized by the abrupt change in music as Dr. Fellows left one room or hallway and entered another. Only the “beehive of offices” was not quite realized in that no series of small windowless rooms that might resemble a beehive was ever shown. Instead Brock’s and Dr. Fellow’s offices have windows and the reception areas are open and airy. In conclusion, the program ofThe Murderer did overcome some of the difficulties Withers (1983) predicted in translating the literary devices of images and metaphors to film (p. 180). Bradbury the adapter managed to “cast the content of such 76 passages into the filmic devices of action, dialogue, sound and image” (W ithers, 1983, p. 180) by creatively using lighting, special photography techniques [slow-motion and fast action], camera movement, music, costume, actors’ appearance and performance, sound effects and silence to illustrate the metaphors, hyperbole and personification in his texts. Adapters should note the care taken to create unpleasant sounding machines in the program and how these irritating sound effects and their pervasiveness can reveal the negative feelings an adapter may wish to convey about those machines. This analysis supports Harrington’s (1973) claim that “metaphors can be constructed from a montage of sound plus sound, visual plus visual or sound plus visual” (p. 149) by showing how Bradbury combined the audio elements of sound effects, voice-over and music with the cinematographic visual elements of lighting and camera techniques to create his audio-visual metaphors. This study has shown that metaphors can be translated visually without trying to duplicate exactly the terms used in the written text. Creating new visual metaphors is possible and using sound to enhance the metaphor and complement the visuals is an option that should continued to be pursued to produce “an effective cinematic metaphor where the whole becomes much greater than the sum of its parts” (Harrington, 1973, p. 149). Cinematic Versus Literary Chronology Adapting the written text’s concept of time to the visual’s can create problems concerning chronology: real versus filmed time, 77 tempo, and tenses that the program of “The Murderer” had to address in recreating the story. Real versus filmed time As Asheim (1951), Madsen (1990) and Armer (1988) noted, the visual text will often compress time or as Armer (1988) found, jump in halfway through the original narrative when the dramatic pressure begins to build (p. 191). These changes are demanded when a long novel must be condensed into the average two-hour film. In this case study, like the majority of anthology programs, a short story was adapted for a thirty-minute program, and did not necessitate condensation or a leap into the narrative, thus facilitating the adaptation process.3

What it did necessitate, according to Hilliard (1991), was early exposition to reveal the background of the characters and clarify their present circumstances for the audience (p. 78). Because “The Murderer” was part of an anthology series, where there are no continuing characters, plots or settings that would be familiar to an audience, the need for exposition was greater and the length of the program, and according to Hilliard (1991), “permits only a minimum of exposition. Exposition has got to be presented as early as possible, to make the characters, plot and conflict understandable to the audience” (p. 78). But unlike “There was an Old Woman” that fulfilled Hilliard’s (1991) expectations and began its program with an immediate exposition, “The Murderer” followed the lead of the story it was based on and began with the psychiatrist’s walk to the cell. It 78 delayed its exposition until Brock told his story to the psychiatrist. It was a natural revelation of background information and delivered in the traditional psychiatrist-patient manner, i.e., with the former supplying the questions and the latter, the answers. Although the program did not begin with an exposition, the information provided by the introductory scenes complemented Brock’s later exposition by offering a point of reference for his complaints about the amount of noise and interruptions present in the modern world. To visualize Brock’s complaints, the program used flashbacks, which, as defined in Chapter I, are expositional devices used to show events that occurred earlier (Madsen, 1990, p. 268). In fact, since the program focused on Brock’s actions that led him to his incarceration, the majority of the program was done in flashbacks. This allowed the program to use sound and visuals to a greater extent than if the action had been confined to the interview cell. So that besides allowing the program to maneuver about in time, the flashbacks permitted it more freedom in visualization. Tem po Foss (1989) raised important questions regarding the tempo or pace of a narrative (p. 234) and it is necessary to note any changes in the pace from the written to the visual text. The pace of both the story and program of “The Murderer” was relatively slow; that is, Brock’s account of the events leading to his incarceration, seemed unhurried in both media. Both psychiatrists permitted to take his time, nodding “I see” and “Mmm” at appropriate intervals, 79 while encouraging Brock to start his tale of anti-technology from the beginning. Brock recounted the specific events of his destruction one exploit at a time. And the final description of the demolition of his house was the slowest of all in order to incorporate all the damage details. This could indicate that Brock was enjoying himself and wanted to savor the feelings evoked by the recalled memories. And it also allowed the program to contrast Brock’s slow-paced recital and his new “leisure” as a prisoner with his frantic former life as shown in the flashbacks and once again, reveal the author/adapter’s views on society’s over-mechanization. These memories of Brock’s former life were recalled in a pyramidal structure that was expected in a visual adaptation, and very much apparent in “The Murderer,” in that “what happens in Act II must grow out of the incidents in Act I” (Armer, 1988, p. 192). In fact, it could be a textbook example of Armer’s (1988) pyramidal tenet. Act I, as the base of the pyramid, supplied the narrative’s major conflicts and characters (Armer, 1988, p. 192) in that Brock met the psychiatrist, destroyed his communication devices, and then told him about his problems with machines at work and at home. By these actions, Brock set the stage for the next two acts and provided what Armer (1988) called “a sense of purpose and direction” (p. 192). Act I also created the pattern of Brock’s home complaints contrasted with his office complaints, and the accumulative effect of both on him. The restructuring of the visual text will be discussed in Section 5. 80 Film/text - tenses The story itself was written in the past tense as most novels or short stories are (Boggs, 1985, p. 310). This created a sense of reflection, as Boggs (1985) and Seger (1992) noted, because the character recounting the events presumably has had time to think over and “reflect” on the importance and meaning of said events (Boggs, 1985, p. 310). This seemed true of the story in that Brock has had nothing but time to contemplate the events that had deposited him in the penitentiary, so that apparently what he was telling the psychiatrist were not wild ramblings, but thoughts he had deliberated and meditated upon. The program took place temporally in the present tense that is created by film, when it appears as if the filmic events are unfolding “before our eyes, creating a strong sense of present tense, of a ‘here and now’ experience” (Boggs, 1985, p. 310). This immediacy, as Jinks (1971) called it, occurs even if the past is invoked by way of flashback (p. 160) as happens in “The Murderer.” This is possible, according to Lawson (1964), because a film can place events in any time order but features their immediate impact by treating the past and even the future as if they were in the present tense (p. 212). So although Brock was recalling his past exploits, their flashback reenactment made them seem be taking place in the present tense, and provided his misdeeds with a greater sense of immediacy. 8 1 M em ory During those flashbacks, voice-over audio techniques were used to capture the sense of past memories (Boggs, 1985, p. 310). Each time the program flashed back to one of the events in Brock’s past, his voice was used to set the scene. But in the first flashback, Brock’s voice set the scene although he did not appear in the flashback and only his older voice-over voice was heard in the flashback. This first flashback reminiscenced about his first love over pictures from a video phone. The rest of the flashbacks employed Brock’s voice and body as part of reenactment, as well as the voice-over narration. Thus Brock actually participated in all the flashback dramatizations except for the first one. And the reason for that might be because another actor would have been needed to play the teen-aged Brock. And, perhaps this distant flashback was not considered as urgent as the other more recent ones that showed the current machines that were driving Brock to his destructive behavior. So that the use of just Brock’s voice-over in the first flashback separated it from the fully dramatized, contemporary ones. In conclusion, “The Murderer” was characteristic of other short stories adapted for other half-hour anthology series and did not have to shortened as Asheim (1951), Armer (1988), and Madsen (1990) had predicted. Against “advice” from Hilliard (1991), the program did not start with an exposition but instead began with data that provided a reference point for Brock’s later exposition. Flashbacks enabled the program to be “action-filled” as 82 opposed to being limited to the inaction of the interview cell and they gave the program of sense of immediacy. Voice-overs were used during the flashbacks to create a sense of past even within the program’s present tense as Boggs (1985) predicted (p. 310). Adapters concerned with the time aspects of an adaptation should heed the program’s implied suggestion to “match” the length of a program with the length of the story to be adapted, i.e., use a short story for a half-hour program. This study suggests further that adapters would be well advised not to automatically begin with an exposition, but to consider other methods, [as Bradbury did with the psychiatrist’s noise and interruption-filled walk to the cell] to relay necessary information early in the program. The tempo of the narrative could be contrasted with the action being described to create a juxtaposition that could underscore the desired message. And the utilization of flashbacks from the past can liberate the visualization from its moorings in the present.

Cinematic Double Register (Image and Sound) Versus the Literary Single Register This Morrissette (1985) category of double register, as discussed in Chapter I, includes the difficulties inherent in transferring the words, or single register of the written text, into a medium that possesses the capacity to present image and sound. 83 Mise-en-Scene The French term “mise en scene” implies this total visual context of a scene [“putting into the scene”] which Withers (1983) defines as the arrangement of actors, props and action on a set or on location as well as the technical design of the scene, including the lighting, visual composition and camera placements (p. 23). These production elements: setting, actor, props, camera placement, lighting and special effects necessary to aid the visual composition, will be discussed in this section. Setting. If, according to Foss (1989), a setting is the “place in which the characters think and act” (p. 231), then the story and the program share the same basic setting. The primary setting of “The Murderer” was the interview cell where the psychiatrist and Brock conduct their session. The structure of both the story and the program was tied to this cell in that it provided a home base to return to after each of Brock’s re-enacted flashback sequences. But the psychiatrist was a part of the outside world whose settings included the corridors between the psychiatrist’s office and the penitentiary, the exteriors of the buildings as well as the psychiatrist’s office. In addition, the most important actions of the program occurred during Brock’s flashbacks so that the settings of those actions, which include Brock’s home, office, car, a subway car and station must also be considered. Bradbury the author did not offer much setting description in his written text. In fact, the answer to Foss’ (1989) question “Is 84 the setting textually prominent—highly developed and precise—or negligible?” (p. 233) would have to be “negligible.” “White halls,” an “office door,” an “anteroom,” “long halls” and a “beehive of offices” are the only written descriptions of the offices and penitentiary. A “beehive of offices” did project the image of worker bees and/or drones hurrying from one part of the hive to another, the human equivalent being any office building in any city. Bradbury the author did specify what music was heard in each hallway and office that the psychiatrist passed through on his way to and from Brock’s cell and his use of music will be addressed in the audio channel portion of this section. In the program’s unnamed and undated world, the words “stark” and “sleek” could be used to describe its appearance. Chrome and reflective surfaces covered the walls of utilitarian designed skyscrapers. The building lobby Dr. Fellows entered in the first scene was window-walled with skylights and glass doors. If it was to be a “beehive,” as Bradbury the author indicated, it was not an unattractive one with gleaming tiled floors, drawerless desks, receding glass doors and chrome-framed black chairs. And upon every flat surface rests a communication device of some sort. The subway appeared clean and light with no visible signs of graffiti. It was crowded with commuters talking on various communication devices. The passengers ascended via escalators to an enclosed glass-windowed mall-like area. The exterior setting there revealed only a light pole, sidewalk and an overhanging tree branch. 85 Security was an important part of this world. The very first close-up was of a portable fax machine transmitting the psychiatrist’s visitor pass that will permit him to talk with his patient. Beyond showing his pass to a helmeted guard, he also had to identify himself verbally to a computer and then key in his security code. The gun shop where Brock purchased his weapon featured a wall of protective fencing between BTOck and the merchant. Because there was no description of a gun shop in the story at all, this frightening image was developed by the adapter. Since communication devices are a large part of Brock’s complaint against the society, the setting was consistent in that communication devices abounded in both the story and program. In the story psychiatrist’s office, three phones, an intercom, his wrist radio and a voice in the ceiling device vie for his attention. In the program, a videophone, lapel phone, intercom and fax are his office companions. Besides the equipment, not much was revealed about the psychiatrist’s office or lifestyle, i.e., there are no framed pictures of a family visible on his desk or wall. There are diplomas on the one visible wall and a window allows light to pour into the ro o m . Brock’s office in the program was also well lit, with natural light spilling in from the window, competing with the overhead projector’s transparency beamed on the wall in one scene. Although his occupation was never specified, the drawing easel near the window, the blueprints hanging on the wall and a scale model of a building development indicated the office of an 86 architect. His desk, like the psychiatrist’s, was also covered with communication devices. Whatever his occupation, the program’s Brock appeared to be a member of the affluent upper middle class. The interior of his car revealed passive restraint seatbelts, a moon roof and portable fax machine capabilities while his house boasts a swimming pool, various sculptures and much electronic gadgetry. The exterior shot of his home showed it to be a large multi-level dwelling with tall narrow windows. Inside were white walls bordered with glass- tiled columns, precisely placed art work and French doors. While Bradbury the author was not specific in describing colors, materials or furnishings in Brock’s home, he did use vivid phrases and metaphors to describe some of the machines that occupied the house. He described the house as one of “those talking, singing, humming, weather-reporting, poetry-reading, novel-reciting, jingle-jangling, rockabye-crooning-when-you-go- to-bed houses” (p. 245) that “screams opera to you in the shower and teaches Spanish in your sleep” (p. 245) and as “one of those blathering caves where all kinds of electronic Oracles make you feel a trifle larger than a thimble, with stoves that say, ‘I’m apricot pie, and I’m done,’ or ‘I’m prime roast beef, so baste me!’ and other nursery gibberish like that” (p. 245). Several of these cited descriptions were translated almost verbatim from page to screen. On the program, the clock radio did talk and offer them a personalized weather forecast, “Good morning Albert, Good morning Agnes. It’s time to get up on this 87 marvelous day. The weather is going to be ju st great with a temperature reaching a high of 72.” While this passage served to take the place of “poetry-reading, novel-reciting, jingle-jangling, or rockabye-crooning” the concept of a clock radio speaking one’s name could be frightening in itself. Instead of opera “screaming” (p. 245) at Brock in the shower, an upbeat song from a bathroom speaker kept repeating its perky refrain. And instead of “teaching Spanish” to them in their sleep, (P- 245), the program Brock’s wife wore headsets to bed and recited Spanish back to a tutorial Walkman audiotape before going to sleep. As to Bradbury the author’s comparison of Brock’s house to a “Blathering cave where all kinds of electronic Oracles make you feel a trifle larger than a thimble, with stoves that say, ‘I’m apricot pie, and I’m done,’ or ‘I’m prime roast beef, so baste me!’ and other nursery gibberish like that” (p. 245), the program was quite similar to the story. The oven’s last words before annihilation were “The roast needs to be turned over now” and instead of apricot, the program oven offered baked apples: "The baked apples are ready and you may now remove them. Enjoy.” A coffeemaker with a time frame was added to the program, “Coffee will be ready in five minutes.” The phrase “nursery gibberish” referred to the sim ply constructed phrases uttered by t*16 appliances. The doormat’s “Mud alert, please wipe your feet. Thank you. Have a nice day” seemed to be particular irritant, f°r ^ was repeated twice during the program ’s flashbacks, and if were the first sounds to greet 88 him upon entering the house, his hostility toward it would be understandable. Such a detailed transformation of objects into props provided a plethora of audio and visual information to help the viewers understand how overwhelmed Brock felt by machines at home and at work. In conclusion, the minimal setting description offered by Bradbury the author had be expanded upon by Bradbury the adapter because any action in a film must take place in a visual and audio setting. Security safeguards, communication devices and talking appliances dominated this brightly lit world and care was taken to recreate the talking house that precipitated many of Brock’s acts of destruction. Creating a visual world that provided the appropriate backdrop for the characters and paying particular attention to such details as the audio aspects of the setting, as Bradbury did, will add much to a visual conceptualization. Actor/character. Each character mentioned in the story (Brock, his psychiatrist, his wife, his secretary, the psychiatrist’s son, the psychiatrist’s secretary, the psychiatrist’s supervisor, the commuters on the bus and the police) was included in the program, disproving the adaptation tenet that says the number of characters is usually reduced. In fact, the program actually added characters by providing names and faces for those only identified by occupation in the story. 89 The unnamed psychiatrist of the story was given the name Albert Fellows in the program. This name could be construed to represent an Everyman, a good fellow, or one of the boys. His unnamed secretary was christened Chloe, Brock’s wife was called Agnes, and Brock’s boss, Mr. Jessup. The added characters include a female security guard in the penitentiary security clearance sequence, and two fast food-selling teenagers who handed Brock his chocolate milkshake. The security guard appears to have been added to provide the psychiatrist with his only human contact in the four-step security clearance he was subjected to before reaching Brock’s cell. She, too, underlined the phone syndrome revealed throughout the program: talking on the phone while trying to do another task as did the receptionists, Mr. Jessup, and Brock himself. The majority of the roles have been expanded from the story. The sequence with Brock’s boss has been analyzed in sections 3 and 5 but it is important to note here that he was wholly created from just a mention in the story. Stary ‘Hey, Al, thought I’d call you from the locker room out here at Green Hills. Just made a sockdolager hole in one! A hole in one, Al! A beautiful day. Having a shot of whiskey now. Thought you’d want to know, Al!’ (pp. 243-244). His creation added to the development of Brock’s character by creating sympathy for Brock and providing motivation for his office-based destruction well. The psychiatrist’s supervisor in the program was provided with a face and voice for the video phone as opposed to just being 90 a voice speaking from the ceiling in the story. And as previously mentioned, the psychiatrist’s secretary was given life after being an intercom in the story. These last two characters were probably developed for the program’s new ending so that they could contribute to the noise and irritants in the psychiatrist’s final scene. There were no physical descriptions of characters in the story on which to base any physical traits of the characters (Foss, 1989, p. 231) except for the flowery depictions of Brock’s smile that were discussed in the figurative language section. This permitted the adapters to choose almost anyone for the roles. Playing Brock is Bruce Weitz, who is best known for playing an undercover policeman Mick Belker on the acclaimed television series Hill Street Blues. As Belker, Weitz was infamous for his scruffy unwashed appearance and for his unorthodox manner of handling recalcitrant suspects. Because he actually bit other people in his role of Belker, viewers who recognized him fromHill Street Blues might have less of a problem accepting him as a biter on The Ray Bradbury Theater. Klinge and McConkey (1982) believe that having watched well-known and well-established “stars” develop, viewers are quite ready to believe anything these personalities wish them to believe (p. 24). This recognition factor would aid in the audience’s identification with Weitz and therefore, Brock, so that they do not brand him a criminal. Adapters should be aware that this form of stereotyping can work against a character, as predicted by Harrington (1973) when he wrote that “even when he 9 1 [or she] might try to portray another personality, he [or she] still must combat all of the associations his [or her] audience has with his [or her] usual persona” (p. 154), in some cases Noting his hair style, makeup and costume as Klinge & McConkey (1982) suggest, (p. 51), Weitz has dark eyes and dark curly hair, is short with an average build and presented a compact and non-physically threatening figure, attired in Brock’s light- colored and well-tailored suits. The psychiatrist was played by Cedric Smith, an actor of average height and weight, with a receding hairline and slight paunch. With nondescript graying brown hair and brown eyes, he wore a bow tie and a baggy and wrinkled suit and hung his glasses on a cord around his neck. In short, Dr. Fellows was an Everyman. As to what Foss (1989) called the mental traits of the character, Brock of both the story and program appeared to be a nice hen-pecked, mild-mannered man who was worked hard and cared about the world around him. If he changes at all throughout the narrative, he appeared to become more confident and content. The nervous traits and sense of restlessness he revealed in the flashbacks were replaced by good humor and a more relaxed attitude in the cell. The psychiatrist of both the story and program seemed to be made of sterner stuff than Brock. His reluctance to immediately grant his son’s money transfer showed either a very busy man or one who was determined to teach his son patience or the importance of earning his own spending money. With the revised 92 ending of the program, he seemed to change over the course of the narrative (Foss, 1989, p. 231) because he went from trying to reform Brock to mimicking Brock’s acts of anarchy. To answer Foss’s (1989) questions regarding the presentation of character (p. 233), Brock of both the story and program was presented sympathetically, not as a crank or a crazed fanatic, but as a basically good person who got tired of listening to the world around him. This was accomplished, in part, by the use of eye- level camera angles and even a few low angles that gave credence to what Brock was saying by treating him as an an equal (the eye- level shots) and as a superior [the low level shots]. Weitz created two different Brocks: the stressed-out Brock of the flashbacks and the relaxed Brock of the interview cell. The flashback Brock moved constantly: he pulled his hair, grimaced, nodded “yes, dear” into his lapel, and yanked at his tie and collar as if they were choking him. The interview Brock smiled easily, giggled at his own jokes and leaned back with his feet up on the table. The only time he appeared upset was when he was reliving a traumatic or stressful past experiences. Since the actor’s walk, gestures, facial expressions, and control of his or her body are aspects of his or her performance (Klinge & McConkey 1982, p. 51), Weitz used his facial and body movements to differentiate between the two Brocks he played. The psychiatrist’s character seemed flat instead of round (Foss, 1989, p. 233) in that he appeared to be the stereotypical, even Freudian psychiatrist. He nodded and murmured “Mmmmm” 93 or “I see” with a calm, couchside manner. He recited all the bromides to Brock, suggesting that he should have tried writing petitions or joining groups, and even told him he should have been a “good soldier.” His role seemed to be that of the good listener, allowing Brock a professional audience for his story. In conclusion, the actors cast in the two leading roles are emotionally and physically believable in terms of the roles they played and the use of their appearance, gestures and facial movements (Orlik, 1988, p. 85) contributed to the credibility of their performances. To the adapter, the actors/actresses can do much to recreate the characters envisioned by the author, and as Russian filmmaker Pudovkin wrote, those performers would do well “to exercise the finest shading of voice and gesture” (Pudovkin cited in Orlik, 1988, p. 85). Care also should be taken in the choice and number of performers to create the appropriate effect desired for the adaptation. PfQPSt Given that props are both physically and psychologically important to a film according to Klinge & McConkey (1982), and supply “convenient ways for actors and actresses to express both the obvious and subtle aspects of their characters” (Klinge & McConkey 1982, p. 67), the addition and change of props from the written text to the visual text should be noted. There were some prop revisions that were made in the program to update the story. This was necessary because when Bradbury wrote “The Murderer” in 1953, he set the story in a 94 future world. By adapting it almost forty years later, Bradbury had to update and revise elements of his story to encompass the electronic developments that occurred during the intervening decades. Bradbury did not imagine junk Faxes, videophones or Walkmen® in 1953, which are all new additions to the program. The further addition of Brock drowning the psychiatrist’s tape recorder in the water pitcher underscores today’s reliance on machines in the job force. In 1953, psychiatrists (and reporters) could not rely on recording devices to take notes for them. Tape recorders in 1953 were large clumsy 1/4-inch reel-to-reel machines that were too cumbersome to be used as portable recorders. Today, tiny unobtrusive audio cassette and even digital recorders are available for business or recreational use. Other story props were gently updated to bring the program closer to the twenty-first century. The author’s wrist radio of 1953 became the adapter’s lapel phone, which is only a step away from today’s cellular phone that is quickly moving from emergency to popular usage. Bradbury’s 1953 car radio became today’s portable fax machine that connects to a cellular phone, now in use by government agencies and select police forces, among others. What he termed the televisor from television’s early years evolved into the wide-screen televisions and VCRs that are now appearing in households as home entertainment centers. The corner multiplex with its many screens replaced the motion pictures Bradbury pictured “projected on low-flying clouds” and the elimination of 95 Brock smoking a cigarette suggests that a smoke-free environment is more important now than in 1953. By replacing the story’s wrist radios with lapel phones that are not yet available as of this writing, Bradbury the adapter placed the program in a future just beyond today, still allowing the story to be considered a futuristic warning. One rather large prop was transformed on its way from the story to program. The commuter bus was converted into a subway for the program. This reinforced the big city look of the program and added to the claustrophobic feel of travelling underground: bus passengers can at least look out the windows at something besides walls and stations. It also created a cattle drive effect of animals being herded into freight cars that echoed the mass robotic exodus effect of the opening shot of the program. Some simple everyday props were changed from the story to the program as well. For example, the story’s paper cup of water poured into an intercommunications system became a pitcher of coffee poured into a videofax system. The change may be based purely on color in that a brown liquid would show up better on camera and contrast better with the electrical sparks flying up from the system. The change from French chocolate ice cream to a chocolate milkshake may have been motivated by that fact that Brock was eating in his car when he decided to short-circuit his portable fax machine and a fast food chocolate milkshake was easier to obtain than a carton of French chocolate ice cream. 96 Prop additions to the program included several audio devices that added to the noise and irritation level in Brock’s life. The first was Dr. Fellows’ small audiotape recorder, with which he was going to record his session with Brock [presumably for later transcription,] until Brock managed to dunk it in a water pitcher. Another was the large audiotape player, or boom box, that the teenaged boys were playing when attacked by Brock’s diathermy machine. And two pairs of headsets added their output: the pair Brock’s wife wore in bed to learn Spanish and the headsets his son wore into the house. The actual noise these last machines would have added to Brock’s life would have been minimal. But they served to show how ubiquitous machines were in Brock’s world and how little thought is given to their presence in every corner of the world: from the bedroom to the boardroom to the bus. In conclusion, some props were updated to bring the forty- year-old story up to date while other machines were added to create more noise and irritation in Brock’s life, as well as underline Bradbury’s belief that society is over-mechanized. Suggestions to adapters would include the importance of updating certain telling aspects of a story if one wishes the story to be applicable to the more sophisticated audience that is watching it. And in updating the story, the adapter can, as Bradbury did, reinforce the desired image and message of the text even further. 97 Camera distance/horizontal plane. To analyze the different sized shots in adaptations, this study will use Orlik’s (1988) horizontal continuum that ranges from the screen-filling intimacy of the extreme close-up to the panoramic cover shot (p. 87). Close-ups were used sparingly throughout “The Murderer.” By reserving the close-ups primarily for Brock, he was singled out as the protagonist. The psychiatrist was also permitted a few close-ups, but Brock’s family and boss were shot in distancing medium and long shots. Only Brock’s first video love was shown in close-up and that one close-up was presented on a black-and-white video screen. The flashback of his first love began with the close-up on a small videophone screen which then became a medium shot, and then a medium long shot. This progression underscored visually Brock’s voice-over describing the distance a phone can put between friends. Several close-ups and one extreme close-up were used to show Brock near his breaking points. When the fourth revised fax was scrolling out of his office machine, Brock was first shown in a medium shot, which quickly cut to a close up from almost the same angle, creating a disruptive jump cut effect that visually echoed his screams as he ripped the faxes into pieces. The screams and jumpcut complemented each other by adding a out-of-control and panicky feel to the shot. In another shot, when the intercom “found” him in the bathroom, Brock was shown in almost an extreme close-up, in a shot so tight that the top of his head was cut 98 off. These shots, with their emotional intimacy, forced the viewers into Brock’s face to share his anger and frustration at the machines in his life. Close-ups were also used to show an extremely emotional exchange between the psychiatrist and Brock. Just prior to the second commercial break, the horrified psychiatrist was shot in a close-up asking Brock if he was going to murder his wife. The response to this inquiry was a close-up reaction shot of Brock smiling slightly. This close-up forced the audience to look into the eyes of a possible murderer and wonder about the forces that led him to this point. Another intense close-up occurred during Brock’s tirade about being gripped and mauled by FM voices. The camera moved in so close that his face and voice overwhelmed the screen until the audience may felt that they, too were being gripped and mauled by forces beyond their control. One important close-up involving the psychiatrist was his one face-to-face close-up encounter with a human being on his walk to Brock’s cell. This took place when he showed his visitor’s pass to the security guard, who was on the phone but managed to nod her head at him when he held his pass up. Dr. Fellows nodded and almost winked in response, happy to interact with a living breathing person, even though the contact was fleeting and her attention divided. Informational close-ups were used throughout the program to relay details about various machines used by the characters. 99 The first one was of the psychiatrist’s portable fax machine in his briefcase that was close enough to see the faxed picture scrolling out. Brock’s portable fax machine in his briefcase [that precipitated the milkshake incident] also was seen in close-up. And Brock’s device of destruction, the diathermy machine, merited two close- ups to allow a second look at the dials and levels Brock was setting on it. Other close-ups drew more attention to the various communication devices at their moment of destruction. Brock biting down on the psychiatrist’s lapel phone was shown in close- up so that his teeth could be seen chomping on the mechanism. His follow-up destruction of the psychiatrist’s tape recorder was also seen in close-up with the camera zooming to cover its descent into the water pitcher. During the flashbacks, close-ups were used to enhance the effect of the damage Brock was generating. His videophone system filled the screen in a close-up with sparks and coffee spewing out, making the explosion appear larger and more sensational. A close- up of Brock’s portable fax machine showing the chocolate shake oozing into its rollers was followed by a medium shot of Brock and the fax machine, to show Bock’s carefree toss of the cup at the machine. The garbage disposal mangling the portable phone was shown in close-up as was the coffee machine exploding in slow- m otion. But the demolition of doormat/bell box was shown in a medium shot, preceded by a close-up of Brock’s feet deliberately 100 muddying the doormat. This could be because it was the first item Brock shot in his house and the medium long shot was used to establish the image of Brock and his outstretched gun arm. It could also be that muddying the mat was a greater crime than shooting the bellbox. And the mat had similarly admonished Brock’s son in an earlier scene, thus setting the stage for retaliation. Another appliance demolished in close-up offered a vivid image that will be explored further in the point of view section, but merits a mention as a close-up as well. Immediately after Brock shot the doorbell box, the scene cut to a shot of a white- masked villain waving a gun around. It happened so quickly and was all the more frightening because it was a close-up without the reassuring outline of the television screen. The tension was relieved only when it cut back to a long shot of Brock with his gun pointed at the television set. Another close-up of the television screen followed, showing a sheep exploding just as Brock shoots the television, allowing a better look at the damage Brock was causing. Because close-ups were used so sparingly in the program, the significance of those very few Bradbury the adapter chose to highlight is considerable. Most character close-ups were reserved for Brock and his interactions with Dr. Fellows while none were shown of his family. Besides implying Brock’s lack of intimacy, the lack of close-ups could be a visual statement from Bradbury about how machines are distancing people from each other, and that 101 people are “closer” to their machines than to their friends and fa m ilie s. Camera pngle/vertical plane. The exaggerated perspective (Klinge and McConkey, 1982, p.

9 4) created by the use of a low camera angle was reserved solely for Brock in “The Murderer.” An extremely low angle, [as if the carneraperson were lying on the ground shooting up], was used to sh0vv Brock stomping on his lapel phone. This shot framed Brock impressively against the sky and skyscraper, making him appear almost god-like in his anger and destruction. Another low angle was used on Brock as he talked to the psychiatrist about being a minority. This gave what he was saying added importance because the viewer had to look up to him. And Brock was shot from a very low angle after he shoots his television set at home, underscoring his “triumph” over his adversary. A graphic use of the extremely high angle called a bird’s eye, so called because it is shot from a bird’s perspective of the scene, occurred during Brock’s videophone system destruction. By shooting from directly above the object, the shot allowed the viewer to peer directly down into the machine and watch its inner workings explode directly toward the camera. Camera Movement. Recall that Blumenberg (1975) defined camera movement as the camera’s panning, tilting, trucking, tracking, booming and zooming to create visual interest and help provide rhythm inside a shot (P- 23). Extreme variations in angle, accomplished by tilting 102 the camera up or down, were used three times in the program. The first occurred immediately after the commercial break. The shot began with a very low angle view of the top of a skyscraper and then quickly tilted down the entire length of it, as an offscreen voice complained that no one can reach Dr. Fellows because his lapel phone was off. This tilting shot served several purposes. It acted as a re­ establishing shot to reorient the viewer to Brock’s situation in the program and to figuratively bring him down to earth. With its fluid movement, it flowed directly into the next shot revealing Brock leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his back. Both camera moves were slow and graceful and moved from one end of a figure to the other and in Brock’s case, underscored Brock’s new-found state of relaxation. The second tilting shot was the first and only view that was shown of Brock’s house. It was from Brock’s point of view getting out of his car and looking up at his house, as if he were reflecting on what he was about to do. The tilt echoes the tall narrow windows of the house but because the shot was short and it took place at night, it was difficult to detect any specific features of the house. The third tilt took place in Brock’s office. Starting with a close-up of Brock’s phone, the camera quickly tilted up to a medium close-up of Brock as he lifts the receiver. This shot mimicked Brock’s movements in answering the phone, thus helping the viewer participate in his “one big listen” day. 103 The single use of the traveling camera effect, which according to Winston (1973) can also draw the audience closer to the subject and make them participants in the story instead of passive observers ( p. 33), was reserved for Brock’s most public display of destruction, his diathermy machine episode. It began with a very long dollying or trucking shot down the aisle of a subway car that “finds” Brock and holds on a medium shot of him. After cutting to a close-up of his hands and the diathermy dials, then to a medium shot of Brock smiling and the close-up of his hands again, it cut back to the same long trucking shot as he stood up and danced down the aisle, zapping every portable phone in sight. This move, as Orlik (1988) and Winston (1973) found, helped the viewer enter the picture and participate in the action. Overall, the camera distance, camera angle and camera movements worked together to emphasize the protagonist Brock and bring the viewer closer to him and his problems with machines. The close-ups provided better access to Brock and what he was experiencing with the machines that surrounded him, the low angles gave him credence and the moving shots brought the viewers into his world. Lighting. There were two basic lighting set-ups for the program, one for the interview cell and one for the flashbacks. The interview cell was dark and filled with shadows, a low-key effect that aspired to realism. It did seem that the only light in the cell was from the 104 actual lighting fixtures visible in the room. There was an overhead light covered by a screen, and an old-fashioned table lamp. There were no windows to bring in natural light so that the source of light must have been artificial. The cell then, generally speaking, with its wide range of difference between light and dark areas could create “more powerful and dramatic images than scenes that are evenly lighted” (Boggs, 1985, p. 145). As Boggs (1985) found, this kind of low-key lighting can also increase intimacy and dramatic intensity, (p. 146) which Brock and the psychiatrist seemed to achieve beyond any other scene in the well-lit outside world. The flashbacks were lit in accordance with their surroundings, but the scenes still radiated with light. The offices of Brock and the psychiatrist are lit in high-key, that is, with strong light and few shadows. In Brock’s house, his bedroom and bathroom were shown full of morning light and his kitchen, living room and hallway were all brightly lit. There were no dark comers and menacing shadows in this house. Casty (1971) found that lighting can be modified in such a way that a different, even opposite tone can be obtained from the bright lighting usually associated with joy and optimism (p. 119). That seems to be precisely what happened in the brightly lit house he finds so “evil.” If it had looked like a house of horrors, lit with the dark lighting that is associated with somber, mysterious or tragic moods, (Casty, 1971, p. 118) then Brock’s acts of violence against it might bemore understandable to the psychiatrist and society. 105 CQiQr, If color can help suggest the “tone, the atmosphere of the time and place in which the drama is acted out” as well as produce associations related to a film’s specific themes and moods (Casty, 1971, p. 114), then the two distinctly colored tints of “The Murderer” are important. The flashbacks had a yellowish cast that might appear warm and reminiscent but it may have been too bright and too warm. Because these were flashbacks from Brock’s past, it might be that they were to appear sepia-toned, like the old tintypes, to underscore that these events occurred earlier in time. They could have even been shot in black-and-white to distinguish them from the interview scenes. But their golden glow seemed more related to the over-bright lighting that seemed to create the opposite tone described by Casty (1971). The blue tint to Brock’s jail cell produced a cool and calming atmosphere. While blue can be used to create a cold and impersonal ambience, here it tended to imply tranquility and escape, like a dive into a deep pool on a hot summer day. This could be Brock’s refuge from the over-lit and overactive world. Thus, it appears that the lighting and color effects were chosen for their opposite effects: the darkly-lit blue-toned cell was meant to be more inviting and intimate than the too-sunny yellow flashback scenes. The lighting and color effects also provided a contrast between the flashback and cell scene that allows the viewer to immediately ascertain where each action is occuring. It 106 also created the image of an over-lit, over-mechanized world, where Big Brother was watching, a world where there was no place to hide, no dark comers to flee to, echoing the first shot of Brock hidden in the shadows of the cell. Special effects. Given that this was a production set in the future, there were surprisingly few special effects employed in the program. There were several uses of slow motion photography, where the film is shot at a faster speed than normal and then projected at the regular speed to create the illusion of speeded-up action. But other than slow motion, the only other special effect was to be found in the opening sequence. The program’s opening sequence used a stop-action photography technique to blur and animate images of cars and people zooming about city streets. The bustling of the city was amplified by the stop action to give it an inhuman, machine-like appearance, thus setting the stage for Brock’s attack on machines. There were several examples of slow motion (slo-mo) used in the flashbacks of “The Murderer” to “concentrate attention on a relatively brief period of action and intensify whatever emotion is associated with that action by stretching out that fragment of time” (Boggs, 1985, p. 139). When Brock stomped on his lapel phone, the action was slowed so that the viewer could see little electronic pieces fly out from underneath his feet as the slo-mo exaggerated his physical effort and even suggested superhuman speed and power (Boggs, 1985, p. 140). This effect drew attention to this 107 vivid visualization of the written text and underscored the pleasure that Brock took in destroying one of the irritants in his life. This was opposed to Brock’s munching down on the psychiatrist’s lapel phone and the psychiatrist’s subsequent crunching of the replacement lapel phone which were both shot at regular speed. Perhaps it was because the sight and sound of someone biting down on a little transmitter/receiver was powerful enough to preclude the use of a special effect. During Brock’s final wrecking spree in his home, slo-mo was selectively employed. When he fired at the television screen showing a sheep being blown to bits, the slo-mo effect showed the television screen exploding and pieces of glass floating away. This distinguished Brock’s “slow” shooting of the television set from the television’s regular speed bombardment of the sheep. The next appliance demolished was not shot in slo-mo; rather the telephone was shown at regular speed, spinning and sparking in the garbage disposal. The phone was moving quickly enough to present a dramatic image of a familiar instrument in an unfamiliar place. And the use of regular speed for the phone demolition provided a break from the slo-mo effect that enhances its use in the subsequent shots. These shots then showed the leisurely slo-mo destruction of a dessert-baking oven and a roast-cooking microwave as well as the coffeemaker. In conclusion, slow motion was one special effect used, like the close-up and camera angles, to draw attention to the content of 108 a particular scene and intensify its appearance. Because of its nature, slow motion photography makes it possible to selectively extend the image in a given scene, thus prolonging and intensifying the action therein. E diting. As Madsen (1990) wrote, “A film’s tempo is controlled by the length of time a shot is held on the screen. As a rule, the longer the shot, the more relaxed the tempo and the shorter the shot, the more exciting the tempo” (Madsen, 1990, p. 266). The editing in “The Murderer” was dependent upon Brock and his recollections from the story. When he had a long speech to give, the cuts were fewer and the shots were longer, providing a more relaxed tempo. There were no fast-paced montages or instances of parallel editing and the majority of the shots lasted five to ten seconds with two longer shots occuring during the same scene. The longest continuous shot was the camera’s slow truck down the aisle of the subway car, as mentioned in the camera movement segment. The camera’s trucking shot toward Brock in a medium shot lasted 25 seconds and the truck backing up with Brock, as he pointed his diathermy machine at the commuters, lasted 19 seconds. This was quite long when compared to the remaining shots of the program that last a few seconds at most. Thus the editing in “The Murderer” did not draw attention to itself but followed the flow of the segments. The two longest shots 109 were combined with camera motion to emphasize the diathermy scene and allow it stand out from the destruction scenes. In conclusion, the visual channel was utilized to create scenes that emphasize the expected elements of mise en scene. The protagonist Brock was shown in close-up, with low angles and with camera movement to draw viewers closer to him. The bluish lighting tones created a haven for him in his cell and the slow motion effects extended the impact of the damage he was causing. Attention was drawn to the flashback scenes of destruction by the extended length of one scene and by the use of high angles, slow motion and close-ups in others. Auditory channel Composing with sound to “arrange the voices, music and sound effects before the microphones and record them in such a way as to create the desired mental imagery” (Klinge & McConkey, 1982, p. 141) played a large role in communicating the message of both the story and program. In the story, Bradbury the author used descriptions of noises and music to illustrate how loud and disruptive Brock’s world had become. During the program, the music and noise levels were as high or even higher than the vocals, at a level that was almost irritating, and probably the very effect Bradbury wished to achieve. It imitated the “real world” viewers are accustomed to outside their television sets and not the carefully controlled audio track they expect from television where the voices are louder than 110 the music and sound effects, and audio-limiters mix the out-going audio signal at a preset level. The sound effects, silence, voice and music comprised the different “noises” the viewer heard in the program. Sound effects. The majority of the many noises mentioned in the story were transformed into sound effects for the program that can be divided into several groups for analysis. These included sounds produced by various communication devices, sounds emanating from computers, city sounds, and sounds issuing from office interiors and Brock’s house. The primary sound effects of the program were concentrated on the various communication devices. Because these devices appeared to annoy Brock the most with their disruptive intrusions into his life, much attention was given to conceiving abrasive and irritating sounds for them. To fulfill Giannetti’s (1987) claim that high-pitched noises produce a sense of tension (p. 155), the pitch of the five beeps (Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep) that preceded each lapel phone pronouncement was irritatingly high. And the extended beeping, with five instead of one or two beeps, could be considered long enough to fall in the “prolonged” category of Giannetti’s (1987) where “the shrillness can be totally unnerving” (p. 155). Less irritating, but just as abrasive, “B-r-rings” announced each old-fashioned telephone call and “boop-a-doop” prefaced each video phone call. This differences again showed the care that the Ill adapters took in creating these audio signals to differentiate between calls and create an even more irritating environment around Brock. As opposed to phones that must be answered by picking up a receiver or pressing a button, the program’s lapel phones, video phones and intercoms did not necessitate an action from the person called. The callers started speaking, assuming that their listeners were giving them their undivided attention. They seemed to forget that other communication devices might be in operation at the same time and vying for an audience with the same person. This electronic “marvel” provided the adaptation with yet another addition to the overall irritation Brock was experiencing at the “hands” of the machines. As discussed in the metaphor section, the numerous computers in the program were equipped with monotone voices filtered to remove any bass tones. Their clipped and uninflected tones lacked vibrancy and emotion, exactly what one might expect if an oven or doormat were given voice. To provide a background for these robotic sounds, the noises of the city were recreated with their familiar clamor. Sirens wailed through the streets and car horns bleated at intersections. Added to the expected hubbub was the undercurrent of voices talking into lapel phones or cellular phones. The program’s everyday office sounds captured the ambience of a busy workplace. Office machines chattered and clattered over the piped-in music. Elevators chimed and airlock 112 doors whooshed to announce the arrival and departure of workers and clients. Fax machines beeped and then tweeted like mechanical sparrows as they whirred out their interruptions. In addition, Brock provided two sound-producing machines that could not be categorized. His diathermy machine squealed “screeee pop!” as it ruined the commuters’ phones and its high- pitched sound created the kind of “strident” noise that Giannetti (1987) predicted can produce a sense of tension in the listener (p. 155). And his gun provided the expected “pow” as he fired it at various appliances in his house. Brock’s house offered many machine sounds, both before and during its destruction by Brock. Most of the sounds were actually mechanical voices: his doormat nagging him to wipe his feet, the cooking units calling out their requirements and the last snap- crackle-pop rattles of his house’s demolished machines. As Madsen (1990) noted, the primary purpose of sound effects is to “complement and enhance the viewer’s understanding” (p. 306) and Giannetti (1987) concurred that they can be “precise sources of meaning in film” (p. 155). The sound effects in “The Murderer” did help the viewer understand the basic “noise” problems Brock was having in his office and home. But they also helped create what Madsen (1990) termed a particular mood (p. 306) in that the different noises combined all added up to a cacophony that was intolerable and not only destructive to one’s ears but to one’s mind and well-being as well. Suggestions to adapters would be to take as much care as the audio technicians 113 did in adaptation of “The Murderer” to create, for example, precise and separate sounds for each communication device. By doing so, it is possible to create several levels of distinct sounds to draw attention to the audio and make it a part of the program’s message.

Silence. Bradbury the adapter appears to have approached the adaptation of the story’s description of silence with caution. He adapted two mentions of silence in the story and omitted one. The story’s very first mention of silence, “The psychiatrist sat across from his patient in the unusual silence which was like the gathering of a storm” (p. 242) had to be adapted into the sudden silence that confronted the audience and the psychiatrist when he walked into Brock’s interview cell. After the psychiatrist’s noise- filled walk through the hallways, the silence of the cell was like slamming into a wall and calls attention to itself, as Giannetti (1987) predicted when he wrote “any significant stretch of silence creates an eerie vacuum—a sense of something impending, about to burst” (p. 160). The story’s description of Silence! " A terrible, unexpected silence.”(p. 244) after Brock’s diathermy sequence, was not attempted in the program. In fact, Brock’s maniacal laughter and the sputtering emitted by the broken machines were heard instead. The effect of silence would have been lost in the visualization of Brock running amok through the subway and station, especially since there was no way the adapters could have 114 stunned such a large area into silence. Thus the addition of Brock’s laughter and static from machines in the program compensated for the omission of silence and created a more believable scene. The program’s final scene between Brock and the psychiatrist adapted and expanded the concept of silence expressed in the story: Storv “Can I go back to my nice private cell now, where I can be alone and quiet for six months? “Yes,” said the psychiatrist quietly. “Don’t worry about me,” said Mr. Brock, rising. “I’m just going to sit around for a long time stuffing that nice soft bolt of quiet material in both ears.” “Mmmm,” said the psychiatrist, going to the door. “Cheers,” said Mr. Brock. “Yes,” said the psychiatrist. The program’s matching quiet scene reads as follows: P rogram CU Brock Brock: I just want to go back to my nice quiet cell, please.

OSS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: (lifting hands in frustration) I see.

MS Brock Brock: I’ve enjoyed our little talk, Doc

MS 2-shot profil®* . Nice quiet chat.

Dr. Fellows: Yes, but . . . (turns to leave) Brock: (Interrupting) Shhh, listen.

(SILENCE) MS 2-shot Dr. Fellows hesitates and then walks back to Brock, looks at him and shakes his head. Brock: (finger to lips, shakes his head) Shhh.

MLS Dr. Fellows turns and leaves cell. In this scene, the term “quiet” was used three times in the story and twice in the program to describe both Brock’s cell and his chat with the psychiatrist. But he does not refer at all to stuffing anything in his ears as the story does: “I’m just going to sit around for a long time stuffing that nice soft bolt of quiet material in both ears.” What Brock did do was hold his finger to his lips in the traditional signal for quiet and “Shussh” the psychiatrist twice. Brock’s refusal to talk any further and his wish for the psychiatrist to do the same could be an indication of rudeness or it could have been his honest desire to return to the quiet of his cell. He may have become accustomed to silence in his cell and now craves it when he is away from it. He also told the psychiatrist to “listen,” and the psychiatrist’s answering silence forced the viewers to listen. Brock did not say what he wanted the psychiatrist to listen

12 ., but the actual quiet of the interview cell was implied. And the interview cell segments were the quietest parts of the program, thanks to Brock’s destruction of its radio and the psychiatrist’s lapel phone. This was especially obvious when the 1 16 psychiatrist first entered the cell and when he left it. T he effect could be compared to that o f turning a c a r’s ignition o f f with the radio still turned up and when the car is started later, the driver is blasted backwards from the volume. After sitting in the Brock’s cell where the only sounds were their voices and their answering echoes off the walls, the psychiatrist stepped out into the corridor. There, in extreme contrast to the silent cell, the hallway’s piped-in music and ambient noise sounded so loud to him that he actually covered his ears. Note the difference between the story’s description of the doctor’s exit and the program’s. Story “He pressed a code signal on a hidden button, th e door, opened, he stepped out, the door shut and locked. Alone, he moved in the offices and corridors. The first twenty yards of his walk were accompanied by “Tambourine Chinois.” Then it was “Tzigane,” Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue in something Minor, “Tiger Rag,” “Love Is Like a Cigarette.”

Pxp&i.a.m MLS Dr. Fellows turns and leaves cell. SFX: Office Building Noise Music MLS Dr. Fellows holds one hand over his ear and grimaces. The story’s doctor did not seem to the fazed by the contrast between the cell and the corridors. There was no mention of noise, only the names of the music numbers that accompany him on his walk back to his office. But the program’s doctor was so jolted by the extreme contrast between the cell’s silence and the noise of the outside world that he actually grimaced and covered his ears. These were the same sounds and music that did not appear to 117 bother him on his way to the cell. This could be an example of the program’s ending simplifying the story’s ending which will be discussed in the Simplification/explicitness part of the Cinematic Versus Literary “Universe” section of this chapter. Thus the best way silence could be shown in the adaptation was by contrasting it to the noise and music in the program. And, since silence can be used to symbolize (Giannetti, 1987, p. 160), it could be said that the silence represented freedom to Brock. Other adapters can take heed and use the absence of sound as well as sound to help “visualize” their message. Voice. According to Klinge & McConkey (1982), the qualities of a voice include resonance, pitch, volume and accents (p. 148) which reveal the speaker’s character (Klinge & McConkey, 1982, p. 149). The voices of Brock and Dr. Fellows were for the most part well- modulated, medium-pitched, unaccented and of normal volume. The exceptions occurred when Brock became upset during his flashbacks and his pitch rose and his volume increased until the doctor told him to quiet down. The flashbacks also includes voice-over or off-screen narration, when the speaker can be heard but not seen. This effect was used extensively with Brock’s running commentary over the audio (voices, sound effects and music) from the flashback. Voice­ overs were also used for the various communication devices: the cellular phones, office intercoms, lapel phones, desk telephones, cordless phones, police speakers and clock radios, and these 11 8 machine voices have already been described in the sound effects section. In conclusion, Brock’s voice-over created another layer in the already multi-layered audio track of sound effects, music and voices to produce an even more irritating effect. Music, Filmic music can serve several purposes, according to Blumenberg (1975) and Giannetti (1987) and Madsen (1990). It can be used from the beginning, to set a tone for the entire film. It can “announce” a character with a particular motif and it can forewarn the viewer (Blumenberg, 1975, p. 19). These three practices will be discussed and filmic examples of each will be p ro v id ed . According to Blumenberg (1975) the choice of music can set a light or somber tone to the program from its very opening strains (p. 19). The opening theme of the program was an electronic piece, menacing with murmurings and mechanical chirps and beeps, indistinguishable voices and street noise. It served, as Giannetti (1987) indicated, as a “kind of overture, to suggest the mood or spirit of the film as a whole” (Giannetti, 1987, p. 162). It concluded with a synthetic cymbal crash that turned into the Ding! of an elevator door opening. This theme also served as what Blumenberg (1975) termed a musical motif (p. 19), in that it recalled the opening scenes and highlighted Brock’s most vociferous complaints, injustices as well as opening and closing the remaining two acts. 119 Bradbury the author employed many specific musical references throughout the story. But as Orlik (1988) suggested for the program, television critics should evaluate music’s contextual effectiveness rather than attempting to critique music as music and concentrate on whether the musical choices made in a given programmatic context were optimal ones (p. 74). Bradbury the adapter’s selection of electronic music appeared optimal as it accentuated his message of the over-mechanization of society. These electronic musical compositions also served as transitions that separated, rather than linked, several scenes. On Dr. Fellows’ walk to the interview cell, he passed through at least three different pieces, including an electronic rendering of the first movement of Bach’s Third Brandenberg Concerto in G Major and the andante movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata #8 until he reached the absolute silence of Brock’s cell. Brock’s cell was the only silent comer of their program where music and sound effects and voices are heard everywhere from public washrooms to home showers. The piped-in music in Brock’s shower, was particularly irritating and its unfortunately unforgettably repetitious refrain, served to emphasize the absurdity of having music everywhere. This piece was all the more annoying because its bouncy carnival-like tune never came to a cadence but kept circling around like a child on a carousel. This pervasiveness follows the story’s exhaustive written listing of musical pieces. Each scene was provided with its own electronic musical accompaniment, and if Brock had not destroyed 120 the radio in the cell, that too, would have had its own audio interpretation. Emphasizing the omnipresent aspect of the music could make the audience aware of the insidious pervasiveness of music in their own everyday life.4 In addition to the music being everywhere, it was even more ominous in that the point of origin was rarely shown. None of the music was shown emanating from an actual instrument. And as for showing a transmitting device as the point of origin, only Brock’s shower radio, the washroom wall intercom, the teenager’s boom box, and Brock’s son’s headsets were shown on the screen. This was important in that the source of the majority of the irritating background noise was neither shown nor known. This made its pervasiveness even more frightening and Big-Brotherish. And because the program’s music was pre-recorded and apparently electronically enhanced with a synthesizer, it effectively distanced the listener from the original musicians and music. So in conclusion, Bradbury the adapter attempted to transfer a good part of the sound effects and musical selections he specified as Bradbury the author. By layering the background music, sound effects, voices and voiceovers, he created an almost intolerable cacophony of clamor that dominated every scene except those taking place in Brock’s silent cell. The most memorable sounds adapted from the story were the five irritating beeps that announced a lapel phone call, the utter pervasiveness of music from showers to subways and the sudden silence experienced upon entering Brock’s cell. Because Bradbury exhaustively 121 delineated all the noises that interrupted and irritated Brock in the story, their careful translation into multiple layers of sound was of no little importance. Adapters should listen to “The Murderer” and realize in general, how crucial the audio signal can be in transmitting an adapted message, and more specifically, how multiple layers of distinct and carefully crafted sounds can produce an attention-getting and viable effect that complements and intensifies the program’s visual element as well. Cinematic Versus Literary “T Ini verse” Restructuring Although the program retained the story’s basic structure of a psychiatrist-patient encounter, the program did restructure the story as See (June 1987) predicted, creating artificially strong endings for the first act and second acts. [“Act” describes the time between commercial breaks (p. 55)]. These two endings, or cliffhangers, centered on Brock’s wife and imbue her with more influence and impact than the story does. In fact, the program implies Brock has been pushed far enough to want to kill her while the story does not suggest this at all. The following scene occurs just prior to the first commercial break: P rogram 1NT BEDROOM-NIGHT Brock’s wife AGNES is sitting in bed wearing headsets and reciting Spanish into her Walkman while BROCK, sitting next to her, is trying to read. A gnes El mercado esta abierto rnahana.

(VO Walkman): El mercado esta abierto manana. 122

Agnes: El mercado esta abierto manana.

(VO Walkman): El mercado esta abierto manana.

Agnes: El mercado esta abierto manana.

Brock: A rggh.

MS Brock buries his head under the covers while Agnes keeps reciting. Agnes: El mercado esta abierto manana. Fade to black. And then just before the second commercial break: Program INTCELL-DAY CU Brock Brock: I got home that night to a completely hysterical wife because she had been out of touch for 3 hours. Damn it. That’s why I decided I had to murder.

CU Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: You decided to kill your wife?

CU reaction shot of Brock with a slight smile on his face. Fade to Black.

After watching this second unsettling scene, those who have not read the story would naturally assume that Brock intended to murder his w ife and would stay tuned to find out if he actually did kill her. Those who have read the story would be confused because 123 they would remember Brock being in jail for killing his house, not his wife. Therefore the restructuring of the program actually forced a change in the storyline by creating a subplot around Brock’s wife and making her a larger target of his destructive vengeance. This is an important consideration to anyone adapting story, to be aware of what concentrating more on juggling the work to fit the commercial break structure, than considering the possible effects of new scenes on the overall plot. The program further restructured the story by delaying the majority of Brock’s recollections until the second act. The beginning of the program’s first act follows the story in that there is a psychiatrist-son exchange during psychiatrist’s walk to the interview cell, a psychiatrist-patient introduction involving the destruction of the psychiatrist’s property followed by Brock’s recollection of phones in his life. The delayed destruction recollections in the second act of the program retained the story’s basic ordering of Brock’s recollections: Brock’s office descriptions, the destruction of his lapel phone, the ice cream in the transmitter incident, the diathermy episode, the psychiatrist’s majority lecture, and Brock’s acquisition of a weapon. This reordering created a more logical flow of events in the program. As Armer (1988) wrote, the first act sets the stage for the second act, forming the base of the pyramid (p. 192). By delineating each one of Brock’s complaints during his “one big listen” day, the first act provides some justification for his 124 destruction spree itemized in the second act. It also creates a pleasing pattern of events in that his grievances alternate between those directed at his personal life and those aimed at his professional life. The home and office cycle is somewhat adhered to in the story but the program’s more structured arrangement makes the cycling more apparent. Therefore the reordering of a story can serve to make the storyline easier to follow and its structure more satisfying. Personifying good and evil As to Asheim’s (1951) prediction that good and evil will be personified in the adaptation, (p. 265) they are already personified in the original text. In the story, Brock thinks the electronic devices in his life are evil and must be demolished or at least rendered inactive. Even the title, “The Murderer” personifies the destruction of inanimate objects by referring to Brock as a murderer rather than a destroyer. And Brock’s beliefs from the story are amplified by the program. Both the story Brock and the program Brock battle what they believe to be society’s over-dependence on machines by attacking individual machines that they see as representing society. But the program goes one step farther when it centers its attacks on Brock’s wife. She becomes a specific villain, who by her audible and visible abuse of machines, turns Brock’s battle into the personal struggle that both Madsen (1990) and Asheim (1951) had predicted. In defeating his wife by destroying her domain [the house], the program’s Brock seems to have reduced the battle with 125 evil to that of combatting a “specific villain whose defeat provides the solution of the conflict” as Asheim (1951) believed (p. 265). And although he has been arrested, having “lost” his battle with society, Brock has “won” the contest with his wife, in the sense that he does not have to live with her or in her house, because he has been incarcerated. Simplification If it is true, as Winston (1973) states, that most viewers cannot take time to reflect on what they are seeing or hearing, and this time constraint results in simpler constructions in the visual media than in the written media (p. 56), then Bradbury’s program ending may be an example of such a simplification. The program’s ending does appear to simplify the story’s ending, rendering it “less complex, related to contemporary general knowledge and stated with greater explicitness” as Asheim (1951) predicted (p. 263). The doctor returned to his office: Story He took his broken wrist radio from his pocket like a dead praying mantis. He turned in at his office. A bell sounded; a voice came out of the ceiling, “Doctor?” “Just finished with Brock,” said the psychiatrist. “Diagnosis?” “Seems completely disoriented, but convivial. Refuses to accept the simplest realities of his environment and work with them .” “Prognosis?” “Indefinite. Left him enjoying a piece of invisible material.” Three phones rang. A duplicate wrist radio in his desk drawer buzzed like a wounded grasshopper. The intercom flashed a pink light and click-clicked. Three phones rang. The drawer buzzed. Music blew in through the open door. The psychiatrist, humming quietly, fitted the new wrist radio to his wrist, flipped 126 the intercom, talked a moment, picked up one telephone, talked, picked up another telephone, talked, picked up the third telephone, talked, touched the wrist-radio button, talked calmly and quietly, his face cool and serene, in the middle of the music and the lights flashing, the phones ringing again, and his hands moving, and his wrist radio buzzing, and the intercoms talking, and voices speaking from the ceiling. And he went on quietly this way through the remainder of a cool, air-conditioned, and long afternoon; telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio. .

Once there he calmly delivered his prognosis on Brock to his supervisor and then, replacing his Brock-broken wrist radio with a new one and worked through the “remainder of a cool, air- conditioned and long afternoon,” talking “calmly and quietly, his face cool and serene, in the middle of the music and the lights flashing, the phones ringing again, and his hands moving, and his wrist radio buzzing, and the intercoms talking, and voices speaking from the ceiling.” The words “serene,” “cool,” “calmly,” and “quietly” used to describe this doctor imply someone who is at ease in his/her surroundings and comfortable with the technology around h im /h e r. But the final scene of the program is quite different from the story’s ending. S tory He pressed a code signal on a hidden button, the door, opened, he stepped out, the door shut and locked. Alone, he moved in the offices and corridors. The first twenty yards of his walk were accompanied by “Tambourine Chinois.” Then it was “Tzigane,” Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue in something Minor. “Tiger Rag,” “Love Is Like a Cigarette.” 127

Program MLS Dr. Fellows turns and leaves cell. MUSIC SFX: Noise MLS Dr. Fellows holds one hand over an ear and grimaces. The psychiatrist still leaves Brock’s jail cell, but as he did so, he was assailed by the very loud Muzak he had left behind when he entered Brock’s silent cell. He reacted violently by covering an ear and grimacing. [The story indicated no overt response from the psychiatrist when he left the cell]. But the program was achieving what the story attempted with its list of musical onslaughts, as indicated in Section 4. The program’s psychiatrist acknowledged each musical shift by looking up as he passes from one room or hallway to the next. He then stopped at the desk of Chloe, the receptionist/secretary to drop off his broken lapel phone, once again drawing attention to Brock’s unorthodox destructive techniques. Once in his office, the program’s psychiatrist was bombarded by each one of his communication devices. INT DR. FELLOW’S OFFICE-DAY MS Dr. Fellows at desk SFX: Birring. CU Inspector on Video Screen

(VO video phone): Well, Fellows, what’s the prognosis on Brock? He’s top priority, you know.

MS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: I just got back, Inspector. Give me a moment to write up my notes. 128

CU Inspector on Video Screen Inspector: No need for lengthy reports. Just give it to me in a nutshell.

LS desk as Chloe walks in with replacement lapel phone and places it on desk and walks out. Dr. Fellows: Well, he’s obviously suffering from...

S£2£.(beep beep) (VO lapel phone): Dad, it’s Lee. The money didn’t come through.

Dr. Fellows: feelings of persecution.

CU Inspector on Video Screen Inspector : Can you rehabilitate him? We can’t have people running around destroying our modern means of communication. . .

MLS Dr. Fellows (VO Chloe on intercom): A messenger is here for your monthly reports, doctor. Shall I send him in, or will you be faxing them?

(VO lapel phone): Dad?

Dr. Fellows: In a minute.

(VO video phone): What did you say?

(VO Chloe on intercom): They need them right now. 129

(VO lapel phone): Dad? Are you there?

MS BROCK covers transmitting camera of video phone and picture becomes snowy. Inspector (on video phone): Now, I can’t see you Your video phone seems to be...

(VO lapel phone): Dad? I’m going to fax you. . .

Dr. Fellows: Later, son.

Brock returned to him in a flashback saying,“My day was one big listen” as Dr. Fellows’ office machines continue to clamor for his undivided attention FLASHBACK to CU Brock Brock : My whole day is one big listen.

SF X : whir

FLASHBACK to CU Brock Brock : Somewhere, somehow, what I’ve done will have an effect.

MS Dr. Fellows bites down on lapel phone SFX: Crunch, whir. (VO Chloe on intercom): Dr. Fellows, what shall I tell the messenger?

SFX: Brr-whiir of fax machine MUSIC MLS Dr. Fellows turning to look at fax machine.

Dr. Fellows: Chloe! 13 (VO Chloe on intercom) Yes, Dr. Fellows.

MS Zoom to CU Dr. Fellows

Dr. Fellows: Would you get me a chocolate milkshake?

CU Dr. Fellows smiling FADE TO BLACK But while the story psychiatrist was calmly proceeding through his afternoon, answering his calls and summons, perhaps he too wished he were alone in a quietly padded cell enjoying uninterrupted silence. The repetition of the written phrase “telephone, wrist radio and intercom” five and a half times in the final paragraph suggests tedium, as does the word “long” used to describe the afternoon. There is no real sense of closure in the endless repetition of the same tasks in the same order, over and over, especially since the last phrase in the story is incomplete, terminating the story with an ellipsis. In comparison, the program’s ending was very obvious and very simple. Any uncertainty regarding the psychiatrist’s response to Brock has been removed in the program’s ending when the psychiatrist bites his own lapel phone and calls for a milkshake. It seems almost too obvious, too much like television’s or film’s melodramatic dying scenes where the victims clasp their hearts, fall down and die. Perhaps Winston (1973) was correct when he wrote that most viewers cannot take time to reflect on what they are seeing or hearing, requiring simpler constructions in visual media than in books (p. 56). Bradbury appears to consider his 131 viewing audience slower than his reading audience, just as Asheim (1951) found the assumed level of audience comprehension was generally lower for the film than for the novel in his 24-film survey (p. 263). Or Bradbury may be trying to guarantee that his warning of the perils of over-mechanization will be broadcast and feels the simplification is justified in trying to transmit his m essage. Besides oversimplifying the story’s ending, the program’s ending also drained the story of its broader implications. As Madsen (1990) prophesied, the program’s outcome was offered in terms of the consequences to an individual character (p. 81) in that the psychiatrist appears to be embarking on a path similar to that taken by Brock when he bites his own phone and orders a m ilkshake. And yet, addressing Asheim (1951), the program has not “personalized and individualized the story to such an extent as to eliminate its typicality” (Asheim, 1951, p. 265) There are still universal meanings there (Madsen, 1990, p. 81) to be retrieved by anyone who has ever had their dinner interrupted by an unwanted phone call or been ignored in face-to-face situations in favor of a telephone. Conclusions to the adaptation given of “Cinematic versus literary ‘universe’” include the program’s restructuring of the story, its battle with a specific villain, the personification of good and evil, the simplification and explicitness involved in the program’s revised ending. 132 By restructuring the story as See (June 1987) predicted, two artificially strong act endings, or cliffhangers, were created to precede each commercial break. But the reordering of the program

did provide a more logical account of Brock’s experiences.The first act’s consolidation of the events that triggered his destructive

spree in the second act, provided a motivation of sorts forhis ever-increasing acts of violence. Asheim’s (1951) predicted creation of a “villain” to be destroyed was achieved by the program’s production of an intensified specific villain in the character of Brock’s wife, whose implied destruction or defeat provided a solution of sorts to Brock’s conflict (p. 265). Although his destruction of her domain/fortress was only scattered and temporary, in that he did not completely raze the house, he triumphed over her because he no longer had to live with her or the machines.

Winston’s (1973) conclusions that time constraints force visual constructions to be simpler than written ones (p. 56) has been proven by Bradbury’s adapted program ending that is “less complex . . . and stated with greater explicitness” than his story’s ending as Asheim (1951) predicted (p. 263). The program’s ending also fulfilled Madsen’s (1990) projections by showing the consequences to one character [Dr. Fellows], thus draining the story of its broader implications to some extent (p. 81). And yet, the program has not erased its typicality entirely as Asheim (1951) predicted (p. 265) or lost its universal meanings that Madsen (1990) (p. 81) feared would be eliminated. The idea that machines should be controlled instead of letting them control us is still th e re for the viewers to retrieve. Adapters can retrieve the understanding from this section that some restructuring is probably going to be necessary and care should be taken that the changes do n o t mislead or confuse the audience. Created villains and black and white solutions can be avoided, as well as o v e r­ simplified endings, without losing either typicality oru n iv ersal m eanings. Cinem^Hc Objective Versus I.iterarv Subjective Vipmpoints In observing the objective and subjective viewpoints o f “The Murderer,” the program was consistent with Seger’s (1992) views that the narrator in the novel can tell the reader about subjective experiences, but the film, through its visuals, must show the viewer an objective experience (p. 25). Corliss (1991) described the objective/subjective concern succinctly when he wrote, “films observe and novels analyze. Films are outside; novels are inside. Films are about what people do; novels are about what people think” (p. 4 5). Interior Monologue The only “mental content” of a character (Morrissette, 1985, p. 24) or the “inner life of a character” to be illustrated (Braudy,

1977, pp. 1 8 4- 1 8 5) or an interior monologue passage to be translated into “filmic devices of action, dialogue, sound and image. • • physical action, visual and spatial effects and concrete objects” (Withers, 1983, p. 180) occurs immediately after the psychiatrist enters the interview cell. 134 Story: “ ‘I’m here to help you,’ said the psychiatrist, frowning. Something was wrong with the room. He had hesitated the moment he entered. He glanced around. The prisoner laughed. ‘If you’re wondering why it’s so quiet in here, I just kicked the radio to d e a th .’ Violent, thought the doctor.” (p. 242) This was adapted into the following dialogue from the program: Program : LA MLS Brock, face still hidden from view

Brock: You’re wondering why it’s so quiet in here.

MCU Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: Yes.

LS Brock kicking the remains of the radio towards the Dr. Fellows.

Brock: I just kicked the radio to death. Don’t worry, (Brock walks toward Fellows) I’m really not violent, except to machines that go yak, yak, yak.

This dialogue was prefaced by the psychiatrist gazing up and then around the room as if he were disoriented and unsure of himself and his surroundings. His inquisitive facial expression would be an answer to the question suggested by Stanton’s (1977) statement that the expressions of an actor’s face can be used to indicate a character’s state of mind (p. 39). The psychiatrist’s nonverbal movements gave Brock enough hints of what he was thinking that Brock was able to “read’ his mind. And too, Brock was 135 probably anticipating the psychiatrist’s response and reaction to the silence he had “created” in the room by destroying the radio. Brock’s verbalizing of what had been the psychiatrist’s thought in the written text precisely illustrates how dialogue can be used to translate thoughts or what Withers (1983) termed an “interior monologue passage” (p. 180). This fulfills Withers’ (1983) prediction that “filmic devices of action, dialogue, sound and image” can be used to transfer thought (p. 180). Therefore the illustration of Withers’ (1983) interior monologue passage, Morrissette’s (1985) mental content or Braudy’s (1977) inner life of a character only occurs in this one short scene in “The Murderer.” But this fleeting incident is enough to show that some thought processes can be expressed in a visual medium by facial expressions and body movements. And, other thought processes can be relayed by having one character say aloud what another character was only thinking in the written

text. Adapters can thus look to nonverbal methods and the transfer of dialogue to another character to translate unspoken passages from the page to the screen. Voice-over Marration The voice-over narration that indicates what a character feels (Seger, 1992, p. 25) is used constantly throughout the program. From his cell, Brock identifies each situation in the program and describes his reactions to each during the flashback scenes via voice-over narration. For example, in the scene where Brock destroys his lapel phone: 136

Program : MLS Brock sitting outside eating

Brock (VO): I was outside enjoying my lunch when this obnoxious. . .

(SFX: beep beep, shrill computer voice)

(VO lapel phone): This is computer poll number 9. . .

Brock(VO): . . .started yelling at me.

(VO lapel phone): . . . .What did you eat for lunch, Mr. Brock? What did you eat for lunch, Mr. Brock? Your early reply will be appreciated. Mr. Brock?

Extreme low angle LS SLO MO as Brock jumps on, and smashes his lapel phone CU Brock’s foot grinding phone into ground. MS Brock chewing lunch contentedly.

Brock (VO): Heh, heh, heh. Felt even better, felt great. The screen shows Brock peacefully eating his lunch until he is interrupted by the computer poll. The viewer hears Brock offering his voice-over description of the scene from the interview cell. But the voice-over is not needed to understand what is happening on screen. It is obvious that Brock is eating, that the computer’s voice is obnoxious, and that he feels better after stomping on his lapel phone. His voice-over exposition is unnecessary in this case. In the rest of the scenes, Brock’s voice-over is welcome and serves to set the scene, while stepping back at other times to allow the flashback drama to enfold on its own. The overall voice-over effect of the program does illustrate Seger’s (1992) concept that voice-over can provide insight into what a character feels (p. 25). It can also allow the adapter to provide additional information to help explain what is happening in a scene and is especially useful to relay needed background material to a flashback. Showing Versus Telling A good example of the visual clarifying the written (Hilliard, 1984, p. 345) by showing instead of telling (McDougal, 1985, p. 116) the character’s problems in terms of his actions and statements (Braudy, 1977, pp. 184-5) is the sequence featuring Brock’s boss, who is given the name “Jessup” for the program. The story refers to a similar situation twice: StQry “The telephone’s such a convenient thing; it just sits there and demands you call someone who doesn’t want to be called. Friends were always calling, calling, calling me. Hell, I hadn’t any time of my own . . .What is there about such ‘conveniences’ that makes them so temptingly convenient? The average man thinks, Here I am, time on my hands, and there on my wrist is a wrist telephone, so why not just buzz old Joe up, eh?” (p. 243).

And: Story “Convenient for friends: ‘Hey, Al, though I’d call you from the locker room out here at Green Hill. Just made a sockdolager hole in one! A hole in one, Al! A beautiful day. Having a shot of whiskey now. Thought you’d want to know, Al!” (pp. 243-244). 138 Bradbury the adapter translates Brock’s diatribe into a simple, visually-inspired scene that can be universally appreciated and understood. In response to Dr. Fellow’s question of why he couldn’t adjust to the telephone, Brock responded:

P rogram OSSBROCK Brock: Ha, Ha. Why are we always adjusting to m achines?

LS 2S PROFILE Brock: They’re like spoiled kids - always making demands. We’re adults, we should have control over them.

OSSBROCK Brock: And the telephone just sits there and demands to be used.

Then the scene flashed back to Brock’s office where Brock is trying to show his boss his latest effort:

FLASHBACK INT BROCK’S OFFICE-DAY HA LS 2S ROOM Brock: Mr. Jessup, good. I wanted to show you the new plans for the information center I drew up. SFX: beep, beep Jessup: Oh, excuse me, Brock, (into portable cellular phone) Jessup here. (holding up a finger in a signal to wait) 13 (VO portable cellular phone): I just hit a hole in one, had to tell ya, at the seventh.

MS REACTION SHOT BROCK Jessup (VO into portable cellular phone) You don’t say. So, you’ll be buying drinks at the nineteenth.

With only five lines, the visual scene graphically illustrates what the written text was trying to say in 39 lines. Anyone who has ever had a face-to-face meeting interrupted by a phone call will appreciate what Brock felt during this scene. Whether it is at a retail sales counter or during an important presentation or interview, the one left waiting during the phone call might feel as neglected and rejected as Brock looked at the end of this short scene. The scene also validates Brock’s earlier disposal of the interview cell’s radio and Dr. Fellows’ lapel phone by showing just how difficult it is to accomplish anything when constantly barraged with interruptions. The visual impact of this scene was heightened by several small details. In a long shot, Jessup is shown standing m> in Brock’s office, which could indicate that he did not want to or could not spend much time listening to Brock’s proposal. But more importantly, Jessup is standing up between an overhead projector and its screen, thus effectively blocking its transmission and allowing its image of Brock’s plans for the information center to be displayed across his face and body. This is where Jessup was standing when he took the interruptive cellular phone call from his 140 golfing friend. And by responding enthusiastically to the phone call and holding his finger up as a signal for Brock to wait, Jessup made the situation worse in Brock’s eyes because his actions implied he cared more about a friend’s golf score than Brock’s project. And Brock made his disappointment clear when he sighed deeply. Brock’s architectural plans burned onto the face of a man who is so wrapped up in an irrelevant phone call that he does not even notice what is written all over his face (!) is an image that is difficult to forget. It serves as a wonderful example of how the visual can clarify the written (Hilliard, 1984, P- 345) by showing instead of telling (McDougal, 1985, p. 116) and shows other adapters that imaginative visual solutions can be found to translate written ideas. Showing and telling via flashbacks would be the answer to Morrissette’s (1985) question on how memory is presented (p. 18) in this adaptation. In the story, Brock reminisces and tells the psychiatrist about the events that led to his incarceration, while the program jumps back and forth between the cell and Brock’s past life via flashbacks. Most of the flashbacks were straightforward reenactments, according to Brock’s perspective, of course, but the program’s first flashback differed from the rest. The first flashback offered an illumination of Brock’s distant past, relative to his experience with phones. There was no exact equivalent in the story, only the following paragraph: Story “It frightened me as a child. Uncle of mine called it the Ghost Machine. Voices without bodies. Scared the living hell out of me. 141 Later in life I was never comfortable. Seemed to me a phone was an impersonal instrument. If it felt like it, it let your personality go through its wires. If it didn’t want to, it just drained your personality away until what slipped through at the other end was some cold fish of a voice, all steel, copper, plastic, no warmth, no reality. It’s easy to say the wrong thing on telephones; the telephone changes your meaning on you. First thing you know, you’ve made an enemy. Then, of course, the telephone’s such a convenient thing; it just sits there and demands you call someone who doesn’t want to be called. Friends were always calling, calling, calling me. Hell, I hadn’t any time of my own.” (p. 243)

Program OSS BROCK Brock: O h, at first, I loved ‘em. I m ean when I was growing up we had them all over - the kitchen, the bathroom, in our cars. Then, when I was 16, my folks gave me my first videophone, only it was so new, no one else in town had one, so I had nobody I could call.

FLASHBACK in t t e e n a g e d g ir l ’s r o o m day Brock (VO): But, then, Emily Foster the prettiest girl in town got one. Started to get real close.

INT CELL OSSBROCK Brock: But, the phone changes you. Even if it has a p ictu re,

FLASHBACK INT TEENAGED GIRL’S ROOM DAY Brock (VO): it drains your personality, so what comes through the other end is some cold fish of a voice saying the wrong things; changing the meaning on you. 142

INT CELL OSSBROCK Brock: Next thing you know you’ve made an enem y.

This adaptation took the generalized idea that phones can create enemies and personalized it into a specific image of a teenaged girl’s feelings hurt by a misunderstanding transmitted by phone. By using a video phone to underscore how any phone can twist one’s meanings, it intensified the written passage that dealt with only a non-visual phone. Bradbury even mentions it in this short translation when Brock says, “Even if it has a picture, it drains your personality” to forestall any arguments that might claim that the video phone, as opposed to an audio-only phone, would be able to translate the emotion or meaning that is only present in actual physical proximity. And using the sad story of young lost love is bound to touch a chord with most viewers. The remaining flashbacks center on Brock’s problems with machines at home, at the office and on the street. They are dramatizations from Brock’s perspective and are naturally biased toward his interpretation of the events. For example, Brock’s wife would probably recall the following scene differently from what her husband recalled. P ro g ram : INT BROCK’S OFFICE RECEPTION AREA-DAY MUSIC LS Brock entering area. Agnes (VO lapel phone): Albert, are you there? 143

Brock: (to his lapel phone) Yes, dear.

LS Brock’s wife walking around the house with a cordless phone.

Agnes (VO lapel phone): Don’t forget to pick up the pate. . .

Brock: (to his lapel phone) Yes, dear.

Agnes (VO lapel phone): . . . and the baked Brie from Gourmet Goodies. And be sure to be home by eight because the Dorfmans are coming over tonight. Would you mind picking up the clothes from the cleaners?

MLS Brock pulls at collar and looks uncomfortable. Obviously, Brock’s wife was not shown in the best light here because it is Brock’s memory of the event. He may have been, in his own way, attempting to justify what he has done to his house and consequently to his wife, by portraying her in a most unfavorable light. This scene was created wholly for the program, based on the part of the story where Brock finds his wife hysterical at being out of touch with him for half a day. Story: “If a little music and ‘keeping in touch’ was charming, they figured a lot would be ten times as charming. I went wild] I got home to find my wife hysterical. W hyl Because she had been completely out of touch with me for half a day. Remember, I did a dance on my wrist radio? Well, that night I laid plans to murder my house.” (p. 245) 144 Again, this adds to the subplot created in the adaptation that portrays Brock’s wife as the villain. Conclusions to this section addressing the problems in translating the objective and subjective viewpoints from the cinematic to the literary include information on the adaptation of a character’s inner life, how voice-over narration is used to reveal a character’s feelings, showing versus telling, and the portrayal of memory. An illustration of Withers’ (1983) interior monologue passage, Morrissette’s (1985) m ental content or Braudy’s (1977) inner life of a character only occurred in only one short scene. But this fleeting incident was enough to show that some thought processes can be expressed in a visual medium by facial expressions and body movements and other adapters can look to nonverbal methods to translate unspoken passages from the page to the screen. Seger’s (1992) concept of using voice-over narration to indicate what a character feels (p- 25) was illustrated throughout the program by Brock’s recollections and expressed opinions that accompany the flashbacks. And Morrissette’s (1985) view of memory (p. 18) was handled visually by the use of flashbacks throughout the program, including one with Brock’s wife that was invented wholly for the program. Showing versus telling (McDougal, 1985, p. 116) the character’s problems in terms of his or her actions and statements (Braudy 1977, pp. 184-5) so that the visual clarified the written (Hilliard, 1984, p. 345) was strikingly portrayed by the the 145 addition of a face-to-face meeting that employed actor’s faces and audio and an overhead projector to convey the story’s idea of telephones interrupting our lives. This example shows adapters that they can look for unexpected ways to create effects that show, rather than tell in the visual medium. Cinematic Versus Literary Narrator and Point of View Like most programs in the visual media, “The Murderer” employed several points of view. The primary one was the third person point of view that was also employed by the story. For example, the psychiatrist was viewed objectively as he walked to his appointment until the perspective shifted to his subjective view of his briefcase as he waited for his fax identification. The point of view then shifted between the psychiatrist’s subjective and an objective point of view until he walked into the cell to see Brock for the first time.

In the interview cell, the point of view alternated between the psychiatrist and Brock’s subjective views as well as providing an objective view of the two of them. An objective point of view was used during much of the flashbacks, rather than Brock’s own perspective. But his subjective point of view was invariably shown, usually in close-up, after he had destroyed a piece of machinery. This allowed the viewer to see exactly what Brock was seeing at the moment of annihilation or as Marcus (1971) wrote, to see “through” his eyes and create “a perception as seen through the eyes of a character in the movie” (p. 230). 146 Several shifts in point of view occurred when Brock blew up his television set. Immediately after he was shown shooting the doormat, there appeared a close-up of a white-faced monster wielding some sort of space-age weapon aimed at an unfortunate bullet-ridden victim. It happened so quickly and was all the more frightening because it was a close-up and the reassuring outline of the television was not visible. Then it cut back to an objective perspective with a long shot of Brock standing behind a young man and woman seated on a couch, pointing his gun at the television set. Then the camera again took Brock’s subjective point of view for a close-up of the TV screen and a sheep grazing in a field. Then the sheep exploded in a flash of white, followed by the television screen itself exploding in slow motion. Since it was shot from Brock’s perspective, the audience did not see Brock actually fire at the set. Instead it appeared as if the Brock timed his shot to match the shooting of the sheep. This allowed the audience again to see through Brock’s eyes and perhaps experience some of what Boggs (1985) called the emotional intensity of the character participating in the action (p. 129). In conclusion, the narration and point of view in the adaptation of “The Murderer” offered both an objective and subjective perspective. The use of subjective shots, especially during Brock’s acts of destruction, provided a way for the audience to better understand Brock’s point of view and offers significance to the adaptation process in the application of subjective point of view shots for further audience identification with the characters. 147 Cinematic Versus Literacy Transitions After the program fades up from black, the only transitions between scenes are straight cuts or takes until the final fade to black. There are no dissolves or wipes or additional fades to or from black. Using cuts exclusively gives the program a straightforward feel that might be considered unusual in a special effects-happy culture where even formerly somber newscasts and newspapers dress up their reports with bright graphics and eye­ catching effects. One might even expect to see ingenuous special effects as transitions between Brock’s flashbacks and interview scenes with the psychiatrist. The lack of such effects makes Brock’s recollections more straightforward and believable because there is little separation between the flashbacks and the interview. Thus, adapters should draw from this program that costly or overblown special effects are not needed to draw attention to flashback sequences, for audiences today are sophisticated enough to realize when they are watching a flashback and when they are watching the original narrative. And they do not need to be hit over the head with a special effect to “move” them from one location to another. Audio Transitions

Bradbury did use audio transitions to move viewers from one location to another in the actual narrative. Each time the psychiatrist left one section of the building for another, the music changed, providing an unnerving discontinuity that overshadowed the visual transitions. The sudden cessation of music when he 148 entered Brock’s cell drew more attention to the transition than a special effects wipe or dissolve could accomplish in the same scene. Bradbury’s use of audio transitions offers some suggestions to other adapters and reiterates that the audio portion of the program can be as effective, or even more so than the visual, in adapting a written work. Summary

Providing an almost perfect exemplar of Mast’s (1982) and Madsen’s (1990) findings that a verbal text must be converted into visual one and that passive passages must be rewritten into active ones, “The Murderer” provided action-heavy flashbacks to enliven the face to face interview in the jail cell. However, the program did contradict Madsen’s (1990) belief that cinematic adaptations emphasize plot over character development. Bradbury chose to expand the two primary characters, making them in Foss’s (1989) words, “round” with a variety of traits, rather than flat with only a few dominating traits (p. 233). In support of Battestin’s (1967) claim that the arrangement of words is the novelist’s business but the arrangement of images must concern the filmmaker, several literary descriptions were adjusted and augmented in the adaptation to make them more audially and visually appealing. And while adapting literary descriptions to the visual is a difficult enough assignment, Bradbury struggled with the even more demanding task of adapting the literary language devices of 149 metaphor, hyperbole and personification to the cinematic. As Withers (1983) predicted, Bradbury “cast the content of such passages into the filmic devices of action, dialogue, sound and image” (p. 180) with his skillful use of cinematic techniques such as lighting, slow and fast motion, camera movement, actors’ appearance and performance, music, silence and sound effects. The program’s use of sound effects was particularly inventive with the creation of annoying noises for each of the many machines, adding to the combined audio elements of other sound effects, voice-overs and music to construct the multi­ layered audio track that spoke volumes about the author’s/adapter’s view regarding noise pollution. This use of the audio as well as the visual elements to create images supports Harrington’s (1973) mandate that “metaphors can be constructed from a montage of sound plus sound, visual plus visual or sound plus visual” (p. 149). And using sound to enhance the metaphor and complement the visuals can produce what Harrington (1973) termed an “effective cinematic metaphor where the whole becomes much greater than the sum of its parts” (p. 149). Chronologically, “The Murderer” was found to be true to form when compared to other short stories adapted for other half-hour anthology series and did not have to be shortened as Asheim (1951), Armer (1988), and Madsen (1990) had predicted. Interestingly, the program went against established convention [Hilliard (1991)], and did not begin with an exposition. Rather, it 150 provided a glimpse into the world that surrounded the protagonist that offered a reference point for later exposition. Voice-overed flashbacks supplied both a sense of justification for the character’s actions and a sense of immediacy to the events within them. The mise en sc&ne elements (Withers, 1983) of setting, actor, props, camera placement, lighting, and special effects were carefully assembled to create a futuristic cinematic world, given very little descriptive help from the written text.With such minimal assistance from the written text, a setting revealing the world of the future had to be developed to provide the backdrop for the action. Details such as security safeguards, intrusive communication devices and high-tech appliances had to be incorporated into this high-key world to show what triggered the protagonist’s acts of destruction. Some of these props had to be updated to modernize the forty-year-old story and keep it in the future. More machines were added to heighten the noise and irritation levels, thus underscoring the author/adapter’s view that society is over­ mechanized. The two primary actors used their appearances, voices, gestures and facial movements to bring emotional and physical credibility to their performances as Orlik (1988) and Pudovkin (1988) suggested. The camera distance, angle and movements meshed to highlight the protagonist and draw the viewer closer to him and his concerns. The close-ups gave a clearer view of what he was 151 experiencing, the low angles gave him importance and the traveling shots brought viewers closer into his world. Similarly, slow motion and its ability to prolong and intensify action was used, like the close-ups and camera angles, to draw attention to the events in a critical scene and “extend” them. The lighting and color effects were apparently chosen to contrast the outside world with that of the jail cell, making the cell the more appealing and oddly comforting. The sound component of the program fulfilled Madsen’s (1990) view that the audio should create a particular mood and Giannetti’s (1987) consistent opinion that it can project “precise sources of meaning in film ” (p. 155). The sound effects in “The Murderer” let the viewer experience the same “noise” the protagonist was confronted by at home and at work. By layering the background music, sound effects, voices and voiceovers, an almost intolerable pandemonium was established for each scene, except for those taking place in Brock’s silent cell, the utter pervasiveness of music contrasting with the absolute silence in the cell. Restructuring the story, according to See’s (1987) predictions, created two artificially strong act endings, or cliffhangers. Yet, the program’s reordering of events provided a more logical flow that followed Armer’s (1988) pyramidal structure where the major characters and plots are introduced in the first act to lay a foundation for the remaining acts. 152 The program’s ending fulfilled Winston’s (1973) and Asheim’s (1951) conclusions that time constraints can force visual constructions to be simpler and more explicit than written ones. And the ending also realized Madsen’s (1990) projections because it revealed the consequences to only one character and thereby drained the program of some of its broader implications. And yet, the program’s typicality and universal meanings were not altogether lost as Asheim (1951) and Madsen (1990) suspected. The concept that machines should be controlled instead of letting them control human beings is still there for the viewers to retrieve, regardless of its over-simplified ending. The questions raised by Withers (1983), Morrissette (1985), and Braudy (1977) regarding interior mental thought processes were answered by the use of nonverbal methods of facial expressions and body movement. Seger’s (1992) perceptions regarding voice-over narration to indicate a character’s feelings and Morrissette’s (1985) question on how memory is presented were amply illustrated throughout the program by the protagonist’s voice-overs that accompanied each flashback with reminiscences and opinions. McDougal’s (1985) concept of cinematic showing versus literary telling and Braudy’s (1977) concurrent view that a character’s problems must be revealed in terms of his or her actions and statements, were vivified with the creation of a scene that used audio, facial expressions and an overhead projector to vividly illuminate the power of machines. 153 Like most visual programs, “The Murderer” offered several points of view with both objective and subjective perspectives. The subjective shots from the protagonist’s point of view, provided a clearer way for the audience to see from his perspective and perhaps to identify more closely with his beliefs. The straightforward transitions in “The Murderer” suggest that even flashback sequences no longer require special effects to “introduce” them, now that audiences are sophisticated enough to differentiate between a flashback and and the original narrative. However, audio transitions were used, as Orlik (1988) phrased it, to propel viewers from one shot to the next (p. 94) and to direct their attention to the utter pervasiveness of music. The abrupt silence following all the sound effects/musical transitions provided a more attention-getting transition than any wipe, fade or dissolve could hope to accomplish in the same scene. Thus, to highlight, “The Murderer” restructured the story to simplify it and provided cliffhangers to fit the commercial-format of the television program. It produced action-laden flashbacks to liven up static talking head shots as well as show the protagonist’s perspective of past events. And a multiple level sound track was created by using voice, voice-over, sound effects and music to be contrasted with absolute silence. Whether Bradbury followed these same inclinations with another of his adapted short stories will be discovered in the next chapter that examines the adaptation of “There Was an Old Woman,” a story that differs from “The Murderer” in several ways. 154 First, it was written earlier than “The Murderer,” during a time when many of Bradbury’s stories were being published by the pulp horror magazine, Weird Tales. Bradbury (1971) wrote that these stories presented a side of his writing that was probably unfamiliar to most readers, “and a type of story that I rarely have done since 1946” (p. vii). According to Wolfe (1981), many of Bradbury’s stories written at this time were connected to the Ay^.ird Tales tradition by their “grotesque imagery and morbid preoccupation with decay and disintegration” while many were also “compelling prose poems on themes of nature and mortality, slightly plotted and stripped of all but essentials of character and setting” (p. 65). Second, the two stories represent tales told from two different gender perspectives. “The Murderer” is the story of a middle-aged man and “There Was an Old Woman,” unsurprisingly, tells the tale of an old woman. While both characters could be what Kuttner (1952) called misfits or “outsiders,” not because of any physical deformity, but because they have been ejected or have ejected themselves from the “inside” (p. 22), Aunt Tildy of “There Was an Old Woman” is more of an outsider than Brock of “The Murderer.” This is because her advanced age qualifies her for what Kuttner (1952) found to be Bradbury’s portrayal of the “uncommon” character of the quite young 0r quite old, and significantly, helpless in their physical weakness of youth or age

(p. 23). 155 Third, as discussed in Chapter I, the two stories are located at different extremes of the time continuum. While “The Murderer” had to address the difficulties in creating a future world, “There Was an Old Woman” encountered the problems inherent in capturing the sense of the past. And finally, these two stories espouse two different themes. “The Murderer” takes on technology, while “There Was an Old Woman” undertakes the fear of death. 156

End Notes

1 Regarding casting, Doug Steeden, of Allarcom Television, one of the producers of The Ray Bradbury Theater , said that the USA Network wants the name star and Bradbury has little influence on casting. Steeden added that Bradbury receives an off-line edit copy of each program to make any changes and Bradbury has the final say in each episode” (D. Steeden, personal communication, April 2, 1993). Jeffrey Katz, vice president in charge of publicity for Atlantis Films, the company that produces The Ray Bradbury Theater added, “In episodic television or anthology drama as The Ray Bradbury Theater and the other programs they have produced [Kurt Vonnegut's Monkey House and the new Twilight Zones], you need one recognizable name, with a high TV-Q. . . like Bruce W eitz” (J. Katz, personal communication, May 3, 1993).

^Bradbury disagreed with his publishers who insisted his books be labeled as science fiction. He preferred the term, “speculative fiction.”

^ Other half-hour television anthologies include The Twilight Zone, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, and Amazing Stories.

^Bradbury waged his own battle, and won, against a campaign to pipe in music on Los Angeles city buses. CHAPTER IH There Was an Old Woman Introduction Like Chapter II, this chapter is a case study of Bradbury’s own adaptation of one of his short stories to a television anthology series, The Ray Bradbury Theater. As discussed in Chapter I, this short story, “There Was an Old Woman” is representative of his work as evidenced by the metaphor-laden style and the fear of death theme. Bradbury’s “There Was an Old Woman” was first published in the May 1, 1944 issue of Weird Tales and in 1949 in the British magazine, Argosv. It was later collected in his limited run [3000- copy] Arkham House printing of Dark Carnival in 1947 and it was one of the stories from that volume that Bradbury chose to be anthologized in The October Country in 1955. The adaptation of the short story aired during USA Network’s first season on May 21, 1988 and was directed by Bruce MacDonald and written, of course, by Bradbury. As in Chapter II, the word “story” will be used to indicate references to the written text of the short story and the word “program” will refer to the filmed episode. The story and program are about Aunt Tildy, a rebellious elderly woman who believes that death is ridiculous and that if

157 158 she does not believe in death, she cannot die. Death comes calling in the guise of a dark and silent young man who lulls her to sleep long enough for him to “separate her body from her soul [until] the old lady’s spirit counters by marching to the mortuary and reclaiming her body” (Johnson, 1980, p. 29). The story is similar to Emily Dickinson’s poem “Because I Could Not Stop for Death” (Allison et al., 1975, p. 406)1. According to Manning (1973), both the poem and story involve a character who is too active to even consider dying and both works depict Death as a “kind, polite, gentleman caller” (p. 83). Wolfe (1981) found the story to be a reversal of the usual pattern of stories published in Weird Tales, because Aunt Tildy’s body did not reject her (p. 65). Pettichord (1967) called Aunt Tildy a “reclusive old woman . . . who fears death so little that she overcomes it (p. 30). Slusser (1977) questioned whether Aunt Tildy ever really overcomes death, given the tone and emphasis of Bradbury’s story (p. 22). “One must complete the title, There was an old woman . . . who lived in what? In terms of her life, it is a tomb. . . She retreats to her house, cutting off all relations with other humans because they ‘believe’ in death” (Slusser, 1977, p. 22). While other critics have been concerned about whether or not Aunt Tildy dies, this study is not. The adaptation remained faithful to the written text in that it retained the ambiguity present in the story, leaving the viewer unsure of the outcome. In 159 fact, the program actually added to the ambiguity of the story with a few visual and audio touches of its own. Like “The Murderer,” the tone of “There Was an Old Woman” was set with the opening shot. First heard was a gate slowly creaking open and the first of many languid, fluid trucking shots pulled the viewer into what looks like the courtyard of an English country house. The accompanying music was a sweet and somewhat old-fashioned melody of strings and woodwinds that promised a sentimental or romantic program. The shot paused at a sign that read “Matilda Hanks, Fine Pictures and Clocks, By Appointment Only” before dissolving to an interior shot of clocks. This unhurried, flowing shot was the program’s signature shot because it is echoed several times throughout the program. It allowed the viewer to leisurely tour Aunt Tildy’s house and gaze, museum-like, at the pictures on her walls and the clocks on her tables. Smaller circling pans contained in the flashbacks created a similar effect but one that concentrated more on “zeroing in” on her memories. Cinematic Versus Literary Description Changing what Battestin (1967) called “the arrangement of words in sequence . . . to the arrangement of images” (p. 36) played a large role in the adaptation process in “There Was an Old Woman.” In these “two disparate worlds of verbal and visual languages” (Morrissette, 1985, p. 18), Bradbury the adapter has attempted to relay his written message in several different ways. 160 Verbal into Verbal Rather than converting the story’s purely verbal text into a succession of sights and sounds (only some of which are verbal), Bradbury the adapter seems to have concentrated on leaving some of the verbal as verbal (Mast, 1982, p. 289). In other words, much of Aunt Tildy’s discourse was brought directly from the page to the screen, using both dialogue with other characters and a running voice-over monologue. This allowed the audience to learn about Aunt Tildy through what Giannetti (1987) described as her judgment and values, that are reflected in a character’s language (p. 295).

Some of the verbal expressions that Bradbury did omit in his adaptation were several of Aunt Tildy’s more colorful colloquialisms, such as “Great sons of Goshen on the Gilberry Dike” (p. 226), “You kiss and skedaddle” (p. 227), “What ailed the girl? Didn’t sound like she had no more spunk than a flue-lizard” (P- 230), and “By the Lord Harry, what’s left will have to do, for a bit. Fetch my bonnet!” (p. 231). These phrases spoken aloud by even the most serious actress could turn Aunt Tildy into a comic figure, which would undermine the apparent seriousness and sincerity of her words. Such vivid words or turns of phrase could have been popular when the story was written in 1944 and may have been deleted from the 1988 adaptation to make the story appear more timeless and less dated. Or they could have been omitted because they sound like regional American idioms that would have seemed 161 inappropriate and even ludicrous when delivered in the upper class British accent of the protagonist. Passive into Active Beyond lifting words from page to screen, Bradbury the adapter did take a few of his passive passages as Madsen (1990) predicted and rewrite them into passages of action and dialogue. In the most dramatic example, flashback scenes were used to present striking images of past events in Aunt Tildy’s life. Instead of supplying with Aunt Tildy with more words to explain her isolation, Bradbury the adapter created a lover for her who showed quite poignantly one of the reasons she had shut out the world. First, the story’s long verbal explanation:

Story “The young man listened patiently, politely. Then he lifted his hand. He seemed to know everything, with the dark, cold shining of his eyes, before she opened her mouth. He knew about her and World War II, when she shut off her radio forever and stopped the newspapers and beat a man’s head with an umbrella, driving him from her shop when he insisted on describing the invasion beaches and the long, slow tides of the dead drifting under the silent urgings of the moon. Yes, the dark young man smiled from the antique rocker, he knew how Aunt Tildy had stuck to her nice old phonograph records. Harry Lauder singing “Roamin’ in the Gloamin’,” Madame Schumann-Heink and lullabies. With no interruptions, no foreign calamities, murders, poisonings, auto accidents, suicides. Music stayed the same each day, every day” (pp. 227-228). As evident from this excerpt, the story did not hint of a lover except for the intimation that Aunt Tildy was upset enough about the invasion deaths of the war to attack someone who mentioned them by beating him over the head with an umbrella. The written 162 passage could indicate that Aunt Tildy had lost a loved one during a war time invasion or that Bradbury the author was using war as a symbol of a death machine that Aunt Tildy would despise because it caused so many deaths and went against her philosophy. Bradbury the adapter took the former view and supplied Aunt Tildy with a lover, who even though he shared her philosophy, apparently could not stop death in an air raid. This lover, or “darling” as Aunt Tildy referred to him, was brought back to life for the viewer in the flashbacks. These sequences were important in their subtlety and their use of a combination of effects. The first “memory pan” of the lover swept slowly in a circle around the room, picking up shoes and clothes strewn about in the shadows, before coming to rest on a tastefully long shot of a couple sitting up in a brass bed. The second pan stayed with the long shot of the couple while Aunt Tildy voice-overed an explanation of her “philosophy.” The third one panned in a circle from a sheet hanging in what appears to be a utility room to an old-fashioned desktop radio across a table to an overflowing wastebasket. On the table was an old glass radio tube, presumably from the same radio, and a pair of scissors resting on a newspaper cut into long one-inch strips. The wastebasket was piled high with similarly cut newspaper, held together just enough that a headline is almost visible. While this third pan did not hold on the newspaper long enough for the viewer to read the headline, on the fourth pan, the headline “Air Raids Wipes Basque Town” and a partial subheading, 163 “Relays of Bombers” could be seen. Accompanying these last two pans were air raid sirens, the sounds of bombs exploding, and a garbled radio news report. The visuals and audio point to a conclusion that someone Tildy cared about died in the air raid. This must have upset her so much that she “killed the messenger,” that is, she pulled out the radio’s tube and cut up the offending newspapers. But what makes this memory even poignant and perhaps even pathetic is an additional pan that first appeared to be another “memory pan.” This one started with the utility room, as did the previous two pans, but in a longer shot, revealing an old wringer washing machine next to the same table with the scissors and radio tube and the same overflowing wastebasket. But this time the camera trucked out of the room and down the hallway, revealing a mirrored shot of the Listener and the four pallbearers waiting with the wicker basket, before it came to rest on a long shot of the Listener and Aunt Tildy in the parlor. Thus, the memory room itself was not a flashback--Aunt Tildy’s retaliations against the newspaper and radio had been preserved like a museum or mausoleum for the last twenty or more years! With its British setting and preservation of time from long ago, this scene was reminiscent of Dicken’s novel Great Expectations in which Miss Havisham’s wedding cake and wedding dress were present in the house years later. There was no single spoken reference to World War II [or the Spanish Civil War] or any “invasion beaches and the long, slow tides of the dead drifting under the silent urgings of the moon” (p. 227) or Aunt Tildy’s choice to listen to records that “stayed the same each day, every day” (p. 228). There was only her one line telling the Listener that she had shunned the world after her father’s death and she screamed if people so much as mentioned death. But the visuals that accompanied the sentence added an abundance of images to expand upon that one line. Bradbury’s attempt to replace the written explanation of her isolation with a series of memory pans and sound effects shows, that given the terms that Withers (1983) used to express filmic devices: action, dialogue, sound and image” (p. 180), image and sound can be effective as action and dialogue in showing emotions such as loneliness and isolation. The cinematographic techniques of a circular camera pan, blue lighting and various sound effects did portray Aunt Tildy’s thoughts and feelings without the use of either words or action. This would suggest that other avenues may be open to adapters to provide ways to illustrate the more difficult-to-adapt passages. Besides her memory pans, Aunt Tildy’s isolation was further echoed by the Listener’s lack of response to her words and his assistants’ total disregard of her. No matter how much Aunt Tildy yelled or threatened, the Listener would not say a word or show signs of anger or irritation. The assistants ignored her completely as if she did not exist at all. The only acknowledgement of her presence was from one assistant who brushed her hand off his 165 coat, as if he were shooing away a bothersome insect. These response or lack of responses underscored her aloneness. The Listener’s lack of response to these “monologues” of Aunt Tildy’s would appear be the most difficult passages to adapt. The following is a list of the Listener’s knowing looks from the story that would seem to be almost impossible to visualize: Slory •“stop starin’ at me with funny lights in your eyes. Land, it gives me the collywobbles.” (p. 225) •Something in his face suggested the basket wouldn’t be so light after a while, (p. 226) •The dark young man looked at Aunt Tildy as if she were tired, (p. 226) “No, I’m not!" she snapped, (p. 226) •He weaved back and forth on the chair, half-shutting his eyes, resting himself. O, wouldn’t she like to rest, too? he seemed to murmur. Rest, rest, nice rest.... (p. 226) •The young man listened patiently, politely. Then he lifted his (p. 227) hand. He seemed to know everything, with the dark, cold shining of his eyes, before she opened her mouth. He knew about her and World War II, when she shut off her radio forever and stopped the newspapers and beat a man’s head with an umbrella, driving him from her shop when he insisted on describing the invasion beaches and the long, slow tides of the dead drifting under the silent urgings of the moon. (p. 228) Yes, the dark young man smiled from the antique rocker, he knew how Aunt Tildy had stuck to her nice old phonograph records. Harry Lauder singing “Roamin’ in the Gloamin’,” Madame Schumann-Heink and lullabies. With no interruptions, no foreign calamities, murders, poisonings, auto accidents, suicides. Music stayed the same each day, every day. So the years ran, while Aunt Tildy tried to teach Emily her philosophy. But Emily’s mind was fixed on mortality. She respected Aunt Tildy’s way of thinking, however, and never mentioned—eternity, (p. 228) All this the young man knew. (p. 228) Aunt Tildy sniffed. “How do you know all those things? (p. 228) •The young man smiled, (p. 228) •“Don’t simper like a sick dog. (p. 228) ll •“Are you just goin’ to sit there, young man?” (p. 228) He w as. (p. 228) •The young man bowed with slow dignity, (p. 229) He had no intention of coming again, ever. (p. 229) •The dark young man twinkled his eyes. (p. 229), •“Quit lookin’ like the cat that ate the bird,” cried Aunt Tildy. ” (p. 229) •The dark young man whistled jauntily, turning his back to her, walking along behind the four staggering men. At the door he pointed to the wicker, offered its lid to Aunt Tildy. In pantomime he wondered if she would like to open it and gaze inside, (p. 229- 230) •The dark young man tapped a hat onto his head, saluted her crisply, (p. 230) The actor playing the Listener did his best to smile a closed- mouth smile that could be described as polite or simpering. He sat down, removed his hat and nodded when Aunt Tildy rambled on with her reminiscing. But there was no way for him to indicate that the wicker basket would be full on its way out” [“Something in his face suggested the basket wouldn’t be so light after a while” (p. 226)] or that “he seemed to know everything” or that he had no intention of ever coming again (p. 229). Only Aunt Tildy asking him aloud how he could know all those things would indicate that the Listener did indeed know more than his silence could attest. An attempt was made to visually illustrate one passage from the text: the following words describing one of the Listener’s unceasingly silent responses: Story: •He weaved back and forth on the chair, half-shutting his eyes, resting himself. O, wouldn’t she like to rest, too? he seemed to murmur. Rest, rest, nice rest . . .(p. 226) 167 The program did not use any of these words from the written text but instead tried to duplicate the weaving motion by gyrating the camera to create an almost hypnotic, if not nauseating, effect. This circular effect was first used on the long shot of Aunt Tildy sitting in her chair, from the Listener’s point of view, as if he were watching her. The motion was enhanced by bathing Aunt Tildy in a warm, yellow glow, accompanied by soothing string music. This hypnotic effect could have been the beginning of some sort of spell that would lull Aunt Tildy to sleep and allow the Listener to separate her from her body and take it away. But the next shot blanketed the Listener in the same warm glow, which seemed to imbue him with a sunnier disposition as well. He appeared to be the perfect suitor, nodding, smiling and regarding Aunt Tildy with something close to affection. It was if he were part of a dream she was having, or a long ago memory revisited. Then he was only shown in the harsh blue light of day that had been a part of the scene before the yellow shots. Only now, contrasted with the yellow, the blue daylight appeared much bleaker than before. The shots of Aunt Tildy from the Listener’s point of view alternated between the waving yellow and static blue, as if the adapters were trying to show Aunt Tildy in both her dream world and reality. What added to this dual effect was the music accompanying each shot. The Aunt Tildy theme with its optimistic high-pitched strings and woodwinds accompanied her sunny yellow world while the ominous sustained bass strings were a part of the blue shots. There were no real breaks in the music, 168 just changes in the string section and mood. This was a creative approach attempting to show Aunt Tildy in a dream-like state, where her thoughts and memories were predominant and adapt the written terms of “Guess it was my thoughts. Only—dreamin’. Land, yes, that’s it. Driftin’ off, off, off. . .” (p. 228) A further example of changing what Mast (1982) termed the verbal to visual in “There Was an Old Woman” was the transfer of the death scene of Papa, [Aunt Tildy’s father]. Here Bradbury the adapter attempted to lift a written metaphor directly from the page to the screen.

Story “But Papa wasn’t listening. He bleached out, faded away, like a photo left lying in the sun. She tried to talk him out of it, but he passed on, anyway. She spun about and ran. She couldn’t stay on once he was cold, for his coldness denied her philosophy. She didn’t attend his burial, (p. 227)

Program DIS to LS Papa thrashing on bed Zoom to CU Papa White out/White up/DIS to CU Tildy

Aunt Tildy: But you weren’t listening, Papa. You just faded away, like a photograph left lying out in the sun. I couldn’t stay after he was cold, it would have denied my philosophy. In the program, the term “white out,” refers to a photographic transition where the image “fades” to white instead of to black and the term “white up,” refers to the reverse. It is usually a startling sight since audiences have become accustomed 169 to seeing film images fade to black. It was probably accomplished by opening the iris or aperture wide enough to allow so much light into the lens that the image was almost completely washed out. On one hand, the effect seemed to be an obvious attempt to recreate Aunt Tildy’s metaphor of the fading photograph, which in itself could almost be considered a cliche. In the program, Aunt Tildy said, “You just faded away, like a photograph left lying out in the sun” just as her father is shown fading/whiting away. This could have appeared contrived and cartoonish were it not for the combination of effects before and after the image. While Aunt Tildy’s words, “fading away” implied a slow quiet passing, or wasting away, onscreen her father was not peacefully fading away. Instead he was shimmering out in a lightning flash explosion of white after an attack of some sort that forced him to scream and drop a breakfast tray and dishes to the floor. This was the same unearthly sound that was heard out of context in the scene where Aunt Tildy was shown lying on top of the bedspread. Whether or not it was intended to be an actual “death rattle” only adds to the uncertain ambience of the shot. Therefore, the possibly cliched visual metaphor was saved by special effects and the mixed messages sent by the audio and visuals. Another mixed message from that sequence was the slow dissolve from her father’s overexposed face to Aunt Tildy’s own overexposed face. The slow revelation of Aunt Tildy’s face from white nothingness to its normal shading, just after her father’s face faded to white, tied their two deaths together. It also suggested 170 that Aunt Tildy was actually dead when shown lying on the bed and that she just imagined her one-sided conversation with the L istener. Thus, Bradbury the adapter went from one extreme to another in trying to adapt his written text into a visual one. He lifted entire chunks of dialogue/monologue from his story to the program, eliminating only his protagonist’s more outrageous idioms to allow the viewer to learn about her from her thoughts spoken aloud. Bradbury also tried the visual route and experimented with lighting and sound effects, unexpected transitions, and repeated camera moves in an attempt to illustrate his protagonist’s thought processes as well as those of her silent antagonist. Other adapters could follow his lead and retain the portion of the written work that adds to the characterization as well as attempt some of the more venturesome effects, all in an effort to try and find ways to move from where the novel discourses, to where the film must picture (Bluestone, 1957, p. 47).

Cinematic Versus Literary Language In adapting Bradbury’s metaphor-rich stories, there will always be the problem of deciding which metaphors will be omitted, how the remaining metaphors will be treated visually and what kind of visual and audio metaphors the adaptation itself will create. Spoken Metaphors

Since the majority of the story metaphors poured out of Aunt Tildy’s mouth, many of them were retained for her spoken 171 monologue/dialogue in the program. These included the following metaphors, with the story’s phrase set off with immediately followed by the program’s phrase set off with transferred in dialogue: •Why, it’s silly people live a couple years and are shoved like wet seeds in a hole; but nothin’ sprouts.” (p. 227) --Why, it’s silly that people o n ly live a couple years and are shoved like wet seeds in a hole, but nothing sprouts.

• “It’d shake my convictions like a house of cards” (p. 227) -It would have shaken my convictions like a house of cards

•“Don’t simper like a sick dog. I’m too old to be made love at. That’s all twisted dry, like an old tube of paint, and left behind in the years.” (p. 228) -Don’t simper like a sick dog. I’m too old to be made love to. That’s all twisted dry, like an old tube of paint, and left behind in the years.

• “mule-stubborn” (p. 229) —stubborn as a mule.

• “the cat that ate the bird” (p. 229) -the cat that ate the canary

• “men with maggoty ideas” (p- 230) -Fool men with their maggoty ideas.

• “like a pigeon ready to be draw n and stuffed!” (p. 234) -Dear God, I’ve been drawn and quartered! As evidenced from the examples, the majority of the alterations were minor ones. Most of them were just rewritten to make them more pleasing to the ear: “Stubborn as a mule” rather than “m ule-stubborn” and others were updated in an attempt to modernize some of the forty-year-old expressions: “made love at” becomes “made love to.” B ecause the phrases were still being 172 uttered by an old woman, their “quaintness” was appropriate and added to her characterization. Omitted metaphors The story’s metaphors that were completely omitted from the program include the following: “with bones like rice-paper” (p. 225), “no more spunk than a flue-lizard” (p. 230), “fresh as paint” (p. 235), and “moved like a paw n on a chessboard” (p. 234). One reason for their omission might be that these analogies seem outdated and the 1988 viewers would not be expected to know what rice paper or flue-lizards were or would not have heard the expression “fresh as paint.” Although the chessboard metaphor may still be used today, it may have been omitted only because chess is not as popular as it once was and the references might not mean much to the viewers of the program. So Bradbury the adapter chose to eliminate a few metaphors but retained several of Aunt Tildy’s idiosyncratic phrasing that would help the viewer understand her character and views, without making her into a laughing stock or a caricature of a “crazy old lady.” This is significant because it shows that it would be better to omit a metaphor, no matter how colorful or creative, than to use one and confuse or alienate an audience. Adapted and Created Metaphors The metaphors that Bradbury did choose to adapt visually were the four major metaphors of clocks, pictures, needlework, and doors. He created three more for the program, those of windows, bed and war, and developed three minor ones as well. Door as an adapted metaphor. One of the strongest metaphors to be adapted was that of a door. Although it never quite developed into a metaphor in the story, it was important enough to be mentioned three times in the written text, and apparently Bradbury the adapter thought it worth cultivating further in the program. The story’s first mention of a door appeared in Aunt Tildy’s words to the Listener, in reference to his entering without knocking: “. . . you never rapped on the door or nothin’. You think you own the place” (p. 225). The second door reference is to Emily’s entrance after she thinks Aunt Tildy is dead: “The front door swung wide. Emily stood in the hall, holding to the brass doorknob.” (p. 230) These two references would suggest that there was no doorbell (“rapped”) and that Aunt Tildy did not lock her door, since almost anyone could gain entrance. This unlocked condition changed with the third reference in the story to Aunt Tildy’s door:

S lQry • “There’s a big, black funeral wreath on the door. Don’t mind that! Aunt Tildy left it there; that’s how her humor runs. You rap on the door. It’s double-barred and triple-locked, and when you rap her voice shrills out at you. “Is that the man in black?” And you laugh and say no, no, it’s only me, Aunt Tildy. And she laughs and says, “Come on in, quick!” and she whips the door open and slams it shut behind, so no man in black can ever slip in with you.” (p. 237) 174 Now “double-barred and triple-locked” (p. 237) and watch­ dogged by Aunt Tildy herself, the door no longer swung wide in any sort of welcome and was gruesomely decorated with a black funeral wreath. Though these three mentions of Aunt Tildy’s door in the story are not metaphors, they imply that the door is more than just a large piece of wood, thus setting the foundation for it to become more important in the program. In the program, the front door to Aunt Tildy’s house was wide and heavy with a large rectangular mail “box” attached to the inside. It opened from an arched entry way, beyond which was the courtyard and the creaky iron gate that opened and closed the episode. The massive door was shown slowly opening inward twice in the program, once to let the Listener in and once in a flashback showing a young Emily waiting outside. Both times it appeared that the door was either opening by itself or being opened by supernatural forces. This was probably because the door opening was shot from the inside and the hand opening it was not seen, thus making it appear more ominous than if the viewer were to realize the door were merely unlocked. When the Listener entered, the door was left open until the scene faded to black and only then was it heard to slam shut. This noise drew attention to the door, imbuing it with the kind of finality that only a slammed door can offer. But Aunt Tildy was not shutting someone out this time: the Listener had entered her fortress, so that the slam could be the 175 end of her watching and waiting for him and the signal for the battle to begin. Emily’s entrance, standing as a little girl dwarfed by the massive door gives rise to the question whether the door could be seen as the chink in Aunt Tildy’s armor. She allowed the little girl to enter her life, when she had refused to marry or let anyone get close to her after her father’s and her lover’s deaths. The same door is later seen when the Listener and his helpers were leaving Aunt Tildy’s house, carrying the wicker basket. After deciding that she did not want to see what was inside the basket, she let them leave and then slammed the door shut after them, in a cliched audio and visual reference to shutting the bam door after the horse has gone. The other door in the program, and one not mentioned at all in the story, was the bedroom door. In the last scene of Act I before the first commercial break, Aunt Tildy left the bedroom and locked the door behind her from off camera. So the last image in Act I was the long shot of the bedroom with the mattress rolled up on the bed in the foreground and the white door and dark latch in the background. And the last sound a viewer heard was the bolt being thrown, echoing the earlier slam of the front door. This could imply that Aunt Tildy was locking that door because she could not bear to look at the room or that she was closing off that part of her life. The subsequent scenes showed her sleeping in her chair in the parlor, rather than in her bed, which created the image of someone sleeping with one eye open and her guard up. 176 Similar in meaning to the doors shown in her house was the creaking gate in the opening and closing shots. Although it did not play much of a role in the program’s plot, its opening served to allow the viewers entrance into Aunt Tildy’s house and life and provided an additional barrier between Aunt Tildy and the rest of the world. Thus, all these doors in Aunt Tildy’s house could be considered portals that permitted access to her and having gained admission, the intruders, both the Listener and Emily, could “reach” Aunt Tildy from inside the walls she had built around her to keep the world out. The ominous image of the front door ponderously opening on its own to permit the “funeral procession” to enter and the poignant shot of little Emily framed in the big doorway are two powerful images that Bradbury created for the program. Together they showed that Aunt Emily was not as invulnerable as she seemed and that a door can allow as well as forbid entrance. Another interpretation would be to compare these doors to that of a coffin lid. Although Aunt Tildy is shown in the coffin and her perspective is offered from the coffin, its “door” or lid is never shown. The audio slams and latching could be related to the final closing of a coffin which produces the ultimate sense of finality, but one that Aunt Tildy did not have to experience. Relating the doors to the coffin would then associate them both with the wicker basket that featured prominently in both the story and program. Its comparison to the coffin is obvious as a Ill body conveyance but its relationship to the doors is only apparent in its lid being open and shut by the Listener at the house and by Aunt Tildy at the mortuary. This action created a visual pattern in opening and closing that reinforced the image of the door/gate as a portal that allows entrance and egress. Adapters could take note of the power in repeated patterns and try to build visual metaphors of associated objects that will relate and build the deeper connection that Harrington (1973) believed can extend the meaning of an image and make it more dense and pervasive than it is on the surface (p. 15).

Window as a created metaphor. Another portal-like image similar to that of a door is that of a window. While the only mention of a window in the story was Aunt Tildy’s statement that “Why, I’ll knit in this window the next thousand years. They’ll have to chew the boards down around me to get me out” (p. 229), there were several important window scenes created for the program. There were two parallel or matching scenes involving the one significant window in the program. [The other windows were shot only in passing pans that showed sunlight streaming in and provided natural light.] The first of the two corresponding window shots occurred immediately after the sound of the death crash in the beginning of Act I. Aunt Tildy was shown in a close-up at the window, pulling the lace curtain back. But she was not shown getting out of bed and walking to the window. Rather the scene cut from the slow pan of her lying on the bed to a shot of her almost 178 surreptitiously pulling aside the lace curtain to peer outside. And what she saw made her yank the curtain back: it was the Listener watching his four helpers remove a large wicker basket from the back of a black sedan. The second matching window shot took place just after Aunt Tildy shut the door after the L istener’s departure. Although her ascent is not shown, she must have run upstairs to the room with the window, and draw n back the curtain to w atch them leave. And this tim e she saw the car pull aw ay with the basket inside and the Listener still standing outside. This was important for it could mean that the Listener was not from the funeral home and was an agent of Death. This was verified in the story with Aunt Tildy’s statement to the mortician, “it’s exactly what I tried to tell that dark-clothed young m an!” (p. 233) and his response, “No one of that description works for us.” (p. 233) Therefore he must be working for someone else. In both window scenes, the Listener was seen gazing expectantly up at her window, as if he knew Aunt Tildy were going to be there. H e was standing in the same stiff pose, almost at attention, as if he were waiting for something. This pre-knowledge added to supernatural presence suggested by his eery silence and secret smiles. With waiting often comes watching and a window is a perfect place to watch the rest of the world, especially if there is a curtain to hide behind. Aunt Tildy might have been pulling aside the closed curtains to peak out at the world beyond as she did when 179 she watched Emily enter her house after the Listener’s visit. And because her curtains were made of lace, they created a one-way screen to let light in but “protect” the privacy of the room and persons within. The final curtain scene, like the two mentioned, also involved the Listener and Aunt Tildy but it differed from the other two in several ways. It occurred during the last scene of Act II, just after Aunt Tildy has reentered her body. This time instead of Aunt Tildy opening or pulling aside a lace curtain, it is the Listener who pulled a black curtain closed. So this scene involved opposites rather than parallels: the Listener, not Aunt Aunt Tildy, pulling the curtain; black opaque instead of white lace material; the curtain being pulled closed instead of opened and finally framed with the Listener on the right instead of Aunt Aunt Tildy on the left. In a way, it created a sense of closure, similar to the final curtain falling down on a drama with the Listener as the gracious loser doing the honors. And he smiled this time, a real smile, as he pulled the curtain to allow Aunt Tildy her privacy. With the Listener pulling the curtain, it appeared as if the program had ended and faded to black. It did fade to black but it returned after the commercial break to show Aunt Tildy sleeping in her parlor chair again, almost gloating over her victory with a voice-over follow-up. It was almost an unnatural ending, just like Aunt Tildy’s win and successful reentry into her body. And that could be why the Listener is smiling as he pulled what should have been Aunt Tildy’s final curtain. He either enjoyed the joke on him 180 and his battle with a worthy opponent or he will be coming back to try again to spirit her away in her sleep. The window metaphor offers an example of how an accepted visual metaphor such as the curtain coming down on a play can be used to dramatically close a production, even if the curtain is not part of a theatre stage. The earlier use of curtains created a visual pattern that suggests to adapters that the repetition of a visual image is an effective way of tying or relating two scenes.

Bed as a crated metaphor. Aunt Tildy’s sleep was the object of another metaphor and one that was created wholly for the program, in that the word “bed” was never mentioned in the story. In the program, the same four poster brass bed was shown at different times with Aunt Tildy, with her father, with Aunt Tildy and her lover and finally with the mattress rolled up. It could be considered a rite of passage metaphor in that one could be conceived, born, love and die in the same bed. Several of the bed scenes implied death beds. The shot of Aunt Tildy early in the program, lying prone on top of the chenille bedspread was a chilling one because she looked like a corpse, fully dressed and shod and not noticeably breathing. A flashback shot of Aunt Tildy’s father appeared to be a death bed scene in that he cried out and send the bed tray and dishes crashing to the floor. And the final shot of the bed was at the end of Act I when it was shown is stripped and empty, with its mattress rolled up and its pillows stacked and coverless. 181 These three bed scenes do seem to be related to death: Aunt Tildy laid out like a corpse, her father dying and the stripped bed empty. That her father was actually dying was confirmed by her voice-over saying: Program Aunt Tildy: But you weren’t listening, Papa You just faded away, like a photograph left out in the sun. I couldn’t stay after he was cold, it would have denied my philosophy.

And because the audience does not see Aunt Tildy getting up from her prone position on the bed to go to the window, she may very well be dead in that scene and her spirit played the rest of the program until she reclaimed her body. In addition to the death bed metaphor, there is the related “sleep as death” metaphor, which could be appropriate since A unt Tildy was shown sleeping, or at least napping, several times in the program. Her numerous naps could be due to her advanced age or they could be the program’s way of showing them as precursors to the eternal sleep of death. Besides death and sleeping, the bed also tied Aunt Tildy to her lover. Although the long shots of the flashbacks were dark and discreet enough to reveal little of the couple in bed, the clothes strewn around the room and the image of the man holding the woman implied they were lovers. Here the bed metaphor, accompanied by Aunt Tildy’s words, showed how much she held death responsible for her loneliness. 182 And the fact that this same bed, identified by its distinctive bedposts, held the two most important men in Aunt Tildy’s life gave it added importance in the program. But even more important was the correlation between the bed and the wicker basket and the bed and the coffin. They all tied Aunt Tildy to Death, her proclaimed nemesis, and the frequent appearance on the program of beds and baskets and coffins served to constantly remind the viewer of Aunt Tildy’s struggle. What can be learned from the bed metaphor is how weighted repeated and related metaphors can be in a narrative and one piece of furniture can tie together so many characters, both in the past and in the present. Needlework as an adapted metaphor. The image of needlework, involving either sewing and/or knitting, was prevalent in the story in that are are no fewer than nine mentions of some form of needlework: Storv: • “. . .don’t bother me, I got my tattin’ and knittin’ to do, and no never minds about tall, dark gentlemen with fangled ideas.” (p. 2 2 5 ) •“Now, you made me lose count! I’m makin’ myself a comforter. ” (p. 225) • “I got a hundred comforters, two hundred sweaters and six hundred potholders in these fingers, no matter they’re skinny! ” (p. 226) • “Why, I’ll knit in this window the next thousand years.” (p. 229) • “They cut and sew it so it ain’t no good to no one!” (p. 232) • “I got Emily to feed, sweaters to knit, clocks to wind—” (p. 233) • “. . .shows you her latest knitted sweater.” (p. 237) •’’The long blue scar where the autopsy was neatly sewn together. (p. 238) •“Not bad sewin’ for a man,” she allows.” (p. 238) 183 Some of the story’s sewing references related the task to the concept of time. With this relation, the images approached metaphors in that they meant more than just a way to tie material or threads together. Aunt Tildy’s sewing can also be viewed as an excuse to avoid dying. In the story, Aunt Tildy told her visitor that she needed time to finish all the comforters, sweaters and potholders in her, as if she were trying to convince herself and him that she could ward off death by keeping busy. Like Dickinson’s character in the poem, “Because I could not wait for D eaths Aunt Tildy, too, would be too busy with “leisure and labor,” to find time for dying (Allison et al., 1975, p. 406). In addition to relating to time, the story tied needlework to the autopsy stitches necessary to sew Aunt Tildy up after her experience. Although a somewhat gruesome reference, it could create a vivid word picture in a reader’s mind. And it became a way for Aunt Tildy to cope with her out-of-body experience, by relating it to something familiar that she could understand. In contrast to the story, the program only mentioned sewing three times. The first was when the Listener rattled Aunt Tildy and “made” her lose count in her knitting. Program : Aunt Tildy fussed w ith her lap. CUT to MS Aunt Tildy Aunt Tildy: There, you’ve made me lose count! 184 She seemed to spend more time making tea than knitting in the program, and her knitting was not a constant companion in every scene. The other two examples of sewing in the program were similar to the story’s reference to her autopsy stitches sewn by the mortician. Aunt Tildy commented on the fine needle and thread that the technician used to sew her back together and asked him whether her body was “all in one piece? Sewn back up, you hear?” just prior to her reentry scene. And in her final exposition she said, “And if people ask politely, I just undo this and show them the marks where that crazy autopsy man sewed me right back up. Not bad sewing for a man. Not bad sewing for a man.” Like the story, this reference could be considered morbid or a sample of Aunt Tildy’s gallows humor. Although the sewing metaphor appeared less frequently in the program than in the story, it seemed no less important. In fact, it was important enough for Bradbury the adapter to make it the final phrase of the program and have Aunt Tildy repeat it so that more even more attention would be drawn to it: “Not bad sewing for a man. Not bad sewing for a man.” It was a metaphor that recalled a slower-paced life when alm ost all women did needlework and it was one that revealed to the viewer and reader Aunt Tildy’s odd sense of humor that would let her show off her autopsy scars and her sly appreciation of fine needlework. Adapters should note that the metaphorical use of something that requires an old-fashioned or dated skill can be helpful in creating 185 a sense of past or endowing a character with old-fashioned traits. And it should be noted, too, that the use of a visual metaphor that is associated with closure, [with its threads all neatly tied up], adds greatly to the sense of closure that audiences of narrative appreciate, because it offers them the impression of a “nicely rounded palette of reality” that is not present with actual human experience (Luhr & Lehman, 1977, p. 180).

War/battle as a created metaphor. While the sewing metaphor showed a quiet productive side to Aunt Tildy, another metaphor revealed a more combative side. The program’s opening with Aunt Tildy’s voice-over exposition laid the groundwork for a battle royal, with her words: P rogram

This is my castle. I have waited amongst my clocks and picture for many years. I’ll not give in, oh no. One day he’ll come but this is my castle. I’ve all my ammunition here. Oh, he’ll come but he’s no chance. I’ll not give in. Oh, no.

In the program, she came out fighting, using militaristic terms and allusions to create an image of an armed and ready warrior. Even the term “castle” that Aunt Tildy used twice to describe her home added a vision of alligator-filled moats to the war-like picture she was drawing. The flashbacks with her “darling, ” also found Aunt Tildy offering violent ways to deal with the enemy, “Fight! Kick it below the belt!” And the flashbacks themselves were full of the sounds of war: air raids, sirens, bombers and dying screams. 186 And her statement to the Listener, after she realized what he had come for, added additional fuel, as well as reiterating the terms “castle” and “ammunition” from her earlier remarks: PrQgra m ; Young man, you are refused. Because I’m all of a piece, I add up. I’ve been fighting you all my life. I won’t give in now. This is my castle, My fortress, All my ammunition is here. I’ve been getting ready for you for years. You haven’t a chance.

And her final exposition after the battle:

Program : It has been a long fight and I have won. I’m Empress of my castle.

This military metaphor was created just for the program, for nowhere in the story is there a mention of battles or ammunition or fortresses. One would think because Aunt Tildy reacted so violently when someone mentioned war and invasions in the story that she would not embrace a military metaphor in an adaptation. Her fight with death was understood in the story and Bradbury the author did not find it necessary to use such the same abundance of military terms that Bradbury the adapter did. The only exceptions in the story would be the paragraph relating to World War II and when she told her father how they had to face death: “Fight!” she cried. “Strike it below the belt! Don’t believe in it!” (p. 227). The creation of such a strong military metaphor for a character who hated war is questionable. It detracts from the other metaphors of sewing, bed, windows and doors. One explanation for its existence could lie in the visual medium’s tendency to simplify the story to make it more easily understood, 187 which will be further discussed in Cinematic Objective Versus Literary Subjective Viewpoint. This analysis underscores the importance of choosing metaphors carefully and determining whether the chosen ones are appropriate for the character and the situation.

Pictures and clocks as adapted metaphors. Besides the domestic and martial aspects of Aunt Tildy, there was the commercial part of her being th a t was represented by the antique pictures and clocks that she sold from her home. The story revealed that she opened her shop after her father died, “She didn’t attend his burial. She didn’t do anything but set up this antique shop on the front of an old house and live alone for years, that is, until Emily came” (p. 227). The program very neatly used the visual approach to show the sign outside her house that read “Matilda Hanks. Fine pictures and clocks. By appointment only.” But beyond providing her with a livelihood, her choice of antiques to sell revealed much about her character. Both broken clocks and pictures can take moments and freeze them in time. The story mentioned her clocks, especially a bone-white one, several times:

StQry •The bone-porcelain, flowered clock on the mantel finished chiming three, (p. 225) •There was a noise. The mantel clock chimed three. Aunt Tildy flashed her eyes to it. Strange. Hadn’t it chimed three o’clock just five minutes ago? She liked the bone-white clock with gold angels dangling naked about its numerated face and its tone like cathedral bells, soft and far away. (p. 228) •Just the clock ticking away, busy as termites in wood. (p. 229) 18 •The clock chimed three again. Shame, old clock, now, shame. Have to have you fixed, (p. 229) •The clocks? What you got in that wicker?” (p. 229) •I got Emily to feed, sweaters to knit, clocks to wind—” (p. 233)

The program showed Aunt Tildy’s parlor cluttered with clocks and paintings. The sweeping pans glided over walls covered with old-fashioned portraits in oval frames. Most of her “pictures,” as she refers to them, were portraits, paintings of people frozen in time. Here one might compare Aunt Tildy to her objets d’art: both sealed behind glass, [in her case, windows], hidden away from the world. The flashbacks supported this comparison, especially the ones that showed the photograph of her lover, preserved forever in a drawer and the image of her father fading away, like a photograph left lying in the sun (p. 227). Thus Bradbury the author’s choice of antiques for his character to sell became a metaphor that was strengthened by Bradbury the adapter’s appropriate choice of portraits. The flashbacks contained photographic images that reinforced the protagonist’s ties to her wares, creating a clearer picture of her for the audience to see. Adapters could take heed and choose metaphors, such as pictures/photographs, which work well in a visually-oriented medium. Minor metaphors adapted. The minor metaphors employed by Bradbury for the program included the following ones from the story: Slaiy: • “brushed her aside like a moth” (p. 233) 1 • “A biting sensation of arctic coldness gripped her, followed by an unlikely nausea and a giddy whorling. She was two drops of matter fusing, water trying to seep into concrete. Slow to do. Hard. . . Seeping into cold, long granite. Seeping into a frozen and ancient statue. Squeezing all the way.” (p. 236) • “Like a butterfly trying to squirm back into a discarded husk of flinty chrysalis!” (p. 236) These minor metaphors are important in that they reveal more about Aunt Tildy to the reader and because Bradbury has chosen to include them in the program, to the viewer as well. The first one described Aunt Tildy being “brushed aside” by one of the pallbearers as they entered her house. He actually did brush down the front of his suit, as if “shooing” away an insect. This successful adaptation of a written image served to show that it is possible to directly translate some metaphors straight from the text. The image added to the viewer’s understanding of Aunt Tildy’s anger at both the unwelcome intrusion into her house and the cavalier manner in which she was being treated. And it showed the pallbearer to be either an insensitive lout or a tall person so intent on what he was doing that he did not see the petite Aunt Tildy. Or it could have meant she was already dead and was only a spirit that the Listener could see. But, as mentioned earlier, this study is not attempting to determine whether Aunt Tildy was alive or dead. The remaining two minor metaphors concern the scene where Aunt Tildy reunites with her body, which is described in detail in Section 4, but because they are metaphors they are included in this section. A brief discussion will reveal that Bradbury did attempt to adapt the two by employing a white wipe 190 effect, which could be considered to reflect the whiteness of “arctic coldness,” “concrete,” “granite,” and a “statue.” The “unlikely nausea” and “giddy whorling” were somewhat conveyed by the successively blurred point of view shots from inside the coffin. And the superimposition effect could have been compared to “two drops of matter fusing, water trying to seep into concrete.” Less successful was the same scene’s recreation of the metaphor, “Like a butterfly trying to squirm back into a discarded husk of flinty chrysalis!” The adapted scene appeared to emphasize the cold marble effect which is quite different visually from a “flinty chrysalis” in color, texture, and composition. While both metaphors are acceptable in combination in the written text, they do not “work” in the visual one. That is, the two metaphors are incompatible in the visual text because they represent two distinctly different vehicles: a chrysalis and a statue. This could inform the adaptation process concerning the transfer of metaphors from one medium to another. Thus, if there are conflicting written metaphors, only one can be adapted, to avoid confusing the viewer. And the justification for choosing one over the other would lie in the consideration of what visual and audio effects are available for the adaptation. Personification Beyond metaphor, the other figurative language aspect that emerges from “There Was an Old Woman” is that of personification. The primary example would be that of the Listener, who is obviously supposed to represent death in both the story and 191 program. Although the written description of him was that of a dark young man, the actor playing him was fair-skinned, with light brown hair and a somewhat pudgy face, not exactly the perception of death that viewers raised on horror films would expect. But what Bradbury in both media and Dickinson in her poem seemed to suggest is the concept of death as a gentleman caller. In fact, the Listener resembled a picture of Aunt Tildy’s lover, which would also explain her slightly flirtatious manner that included patting her wig to make sure it was in place. Therefore, the idea of personified death already existed in the story, but the adaptation carried the concept a step further by making death resemble Aunt Tildy’s lost love. This additional step fulfilled Harrington’s (1973) belief that metaphors can extend the meaning of an image by increasing its associations, thus making it more dense and pervasive than it is on the surface (p. 15). Although he may have looked like an insurance salesman to the viewers, in his resemblance to her lover, he was probably more welcome and yet more frightening to Aunt Tildy than any bearded, cloaked and fanged fiend would be. The implications here would be that personification in a visual medium is a delicate endeavor and care must be taken in bringing objects or concepts to life. By portraying death in an unexpected manner, Bradbury found a fresh way to personify it. And by creating an unassuming and non-threatening persona for death, and one that resembles a loved one of a character, the 192 viewers may be lulled into forgetting the threat the persona poses to the protagonist. In conclusion, to solve some of the problems inherent and predicted by Withers (1983), in translating the literary devices of images and metaphors to film (p. 180), Bradbury the adapter used the “filmic devices of action, dialogue, sound and image” (Withers, 1983, p. 180). He created several new metaphors, expanded upon others already present in the written narrative and omitted still others in an attempt to make visual the character of Aunt Tildy the metaphors had been used to describe. The audio and visual imagery supplied by her doors, her windows, her needlework, her wares and her martial outlook created metaphorical objects that represented and revealed much about the character and her way of life. And, choosing between two conflicting written metaphors provided further insight into the differences between the two media and the problems inherent in adapting one to another. Adapters should be informed that the additional associations created, such as sewing seen as closure, reinforced Harrington’s (1973) view that metaphorical language can extend the meaning of an image by increasing its associations and making it into something more dense and pervasive than it is on the surface (p. 15). And similarly, the personification of death or anything else, when it resembles someone from a protagonist’s past, can increase its associations and meaning beyond its surface appearance (Harrington, 1973, p. 15). 193 Cinematic Versus Literary Chronology As discussed in Chapter I, much consideration has been given to the aspect of chronology and time in an adaptation. Given the importance of the findings of Madsen (1990), Hilliard (1991), Armer (1988), Haight (1988) and others, this section will look at how “There Was an Old Woman” addressed the concepts of real versus filmed time, tempo, and film/text tenses (p. 18).

R e.al versus filmed time Like “The Murderer,” “There Was an Old Woman” was a half- hour program based a short story and thus created no need for the adaptation to “compress time or jump in halfway through the original narrative when the pressure is building” (Armer, 1988, p. 191). However, the program did add what Armer (1988) described as exposition, in the form of a narrator or flashback, to explain past events (p. 191).

Exposition. The program neatly followed Hilliard’s (1991) suggestion that the exposition be “presented as early as possible, to make the characters, plot and conflict understandable to the audience” (Hilliard, 1991, p. 78). With a thirty-minute anthology series, and its limited amount of time, it was even more vital to do so because “the need to get right into the conflict requires the exposition to be highly condensed and presented as soon as possible” (Hilliard, 1991, p. 78). 194 The exposition in the beginning was matched at the end with very similar language:

P ro g ram [Beginning]: I am Matilda Hanks. This is my castle. I have waited amongst (sic) my clocks and pictures for many years. I’ll not give in, oh no. One day he’ll come but this is my castle. I’ve all my ammunition here. Oh, he’ll come but he’s no chance. I’ll not give in. Oh, no. [Ending]: It has been a long fight and I have won. I’m Empress of my castle, Emily is back at college and comes if somewhat nervously to visit. My fine paintings and clocks sell well perhaps I’m the most curious antique of all. People come to stare as well as to buy. And if people ask politely, I just undo this and show them the marks where that crazy autopsy man sewed me right back up. Not bad sewing for a man. Not bad sewing for a man. This opening exposition clarified who Aunt Tildy was and what her conflict was, precisely as Hilliard (1991) suggested. It also identified her situation [that of waiting], and revealed something of her strong character to the viewer [“I’ll not give in, oh no”], which she said twice. The conflict was also foreshadowed with the certainty behind her words, “Oh, he’ll come.” By making these elements of character and conflict “understandable to the audience” with so few words in the first minutes of the program, Bradbury the adapter neatly filled Hilliard’s (1991) prescription for a successful television exposition (p. 78). If the introductory exposition provided the audience with necessary information, the final exposition with its near repetition of the opening exposition presented them with a sense of closure, that is associated with narrative structure, and offers the 195 “impression of nicely rounded palette of reality” that is not present with actual human experience (Luhr & Lehman, 1977, p. 180). To further aid in establishing closure, the program closed with the same sweeping shots that opened it, the same nostalgic music and the unchanged voice of Aunt Tildy. The only change was in her new autopsy scars. Sense of past. To create a sense of the past during the flashbacks, as Boggs (1985) predicted, Aunt Tildy’s voice during the flashback actually sounded younger than she did during the rest of the narrative. It was sweeter and higher-pitched, but with a richer and fuller tone than the slightly strident voice she used for the rest of her scenes. The seventy-eight-year-old actress could have pushed her normally lower-pitched voice into a higher register for those few scenes and her voice could have been electronically altered to give it more vibrancy. And the very use of voice-over reminded the viewer that she was retelling her past, not allowing them to relive it, as they might have with a total redramatization of her past in the flashbacks. This was doubly accomplished by the constant return to a present day close-up of Aunt Tildy in the middle of the flashbacks. Therefore, the use of voice-overs and close-up inserts of the character’s face during the flashbacks could be one answer to Boggs’s (1985) question of what effects can be used to create a sense of past time (p. 310). 196 TemD-Q The speed of the narrative (Foss, 1989, p. 234) was in keeping with Aunt Tildy herself. Mary Morris, playing Aunt Tildy, spoke slowly and distinctly and the visual dissolves and fades fit the pace established by her narration. The music, too, was leisurely and nostalgic, recalling days gone by, when life seemed to be taken at a slower pace. Chronologically, the program followed the story after its added exposition at the beginning helped the viewers ease into Aunt Tildy’s narrative with an early establishment of characters, plot and conflict (Hilliard, 1991, p. 78). Aunt Tildy told her tale as it happened at her own measured pace, with Bradbury adding the flashbacks to her voice-over to capture a sense of past memories (Boggs, 1985, p. 130).

Film /text tenses Like “The Murderer,” the story of “There Was an Old Woman” was told in the past tense and the program in the filmic present tense. The past tense, as described by Boggs (1985), allowed Aunt Tildy, like Brock, to appear reflective, having had time to think about the events she was recollecting in the written text (p. 310). The program’s present tense, again like “The Murderer,” carried its “immediacy,” as Jinks (1971) termed it, over to its flashbacks from the past, so that they, too, appeared to be happening in what Boggs (1985) called the “here and now” (p. 310). In this case, the “presentness” of the flashbacks served to show how much Aunt Tildy may have been living in the past, 197 especially since one of the flashbacks turned out to be a shot of a present day room, presumably untouched for years. Suggestions regarding real versus filmed time would be, as “The Murderer” chapter noted, to adapt a short story for a short thirty-minute anthology program. Regarding introductory expositions, one strategy learned would be to use voice-over narration over the setting to reveal both background data through words and location information through visuals. Tempo implications would be to match the pace with the personality involved. And to create a sense of past, an adapter could distort the voices of the actor or actress to invoke younger voices for the flashbacks. To further craft a sense of past, shots of the present day character could be intercut with the flashbacks to better separate the past from the present. Flashback implications are numerous in this program and will be dealt in detail in the next section. For now, it would be important to note that repeating similar camera moves in a flashback can help relate two or more images and that using what appears to be a flashback in conjunction with actual flashbacks, can create an unforgettable image and add much to the characterization and storyline.

Cinematic Double Register (Image and Sound) Versus the Literary Single Register Some elements involved in the adaptation of the written text to the visual can be analyzed by addressing the audio and visual 198 elements found in what Morrissette (1985) termed the double register in film (image and sound) versus the single register in the novel (p. 18). Those elements most affected in “There Was an Old Woman” include the props, setting, characters, lighting, color, camera, special effects, voice and music. Props. As Klinge & McConkey (1981) wrote, props are both physically and psychologically important to a visual medium (p. 67) and the majority of the props from the story were carried intact into the program. They served several purposes in both media and their addition, actual adaptation or deletion can inform the adaptation process as well as reveal some of the difficulties inherent in their transfer. It proved necessary to add several props to the program to flesh out the characters and supply what Klinge & McConkey (1981) called “convenient ways for actors and actresses to express both the obvious and subtle aspects of their characters” (p. 67), w h o had been provided with very little description in the story. The written text’s only physical description of Aunt Tildy mentioned the “lace at her throat [and] one high-buttoned shoe (p. 234). In the program she was dressed in a bowed blouse, high- topped shoes and a fiery red wig. This unlikely hairpiece could suggest that Aunt Tildy was still concerned with her looks or that she wished to keep the same hair color she had had when she was younger, although nothing about her hair color, young or old, was revealed in the story. 199 The flashbacks required the addition of visual paraphernalia that would enhance the wartime illusion provided by the audio sound effects of air raid sirens and explosions. These props that were not found in the story included the radio tube and the cutup newspaper articles about the bombings. Other supplemental props not found in the story were the bedroom’s brass bed and lace curtains. These provided the basis for two primary visual metaphors created for the program and discussed in Cinematic Versus Literary Language section. Therefore, the prop additions provided more information on the protagonist’s lifestyle, enriched the audio/visual metaphors and enlivened the flashbacks created for the screen. The majority of the props retained from the story and adapted to the program also served as metaphors in both media. What Aunt Tildy called her “pictures” were frozen portraits framed under glass and her clocks were timepieces that all kept different time. These two props, in addition to the front door/portal and the needlework that gave her an excuse to live, served as the basis for the metaphors discussed in the Cinematic Versus Literary Language section. Other adapted props from the story were the conveyances that brought her body from her house to the mortuary: the coffin­ like wicker basket and the black sedan. Using a wicker basket to remove her body supplied a nostalgic touch that would have missing from a stretcher or body bag. 200 Props specific to the mortuary were retained and embellished. The story’s “knives, tubes, jars, and instruments” (p. 233) became state of the art autopsy equipment and the “pews going back into gray silence, and a smell of flowers” (p. 234), a paneled receiving room filled with flowers and furnished with pew s. Story props omitted from the program included a phonograph, the mortician’s cigar and Aunt Tildy’s parasol. Their loss and probable reasons behind their omission will be the topic of the following discussion. Bradbury the author devoted a paragraph to the phonograph that Bradbury the adapter did not mention at all in the program.

Storv “Yes, the dark young man smiled from the antique rocker, he knew how Aunt Tildy had stuck to her nice old phonograph records. Harry Lauder singing “Roamin’ in the Gloamin’,” Madame Schumann-Heink and lullabies. With no interruptions, no foreign calamities, murders, poisonings, auto accidents, suicides. Music stayed the same each day, every d ay ” (p. 228) Its removal from the program may have been precipitated by the program’s concentration on the radio rather than the phonograph to render the flashback era. Using both may have been redundant or the phonograph may not have looked “old” enough. Or, since the radio was located in the “forgotten” and unused room, Bradbury the adapter may have wanted to furnish that room with props that Aunt Tildy would have no further use for. 201 Another missing prop was the mortician’s “big black cigar” (p. 235), whose ash disposal so disturbed the story’s Aunt Tildy: ‘“Where’d you put the ashesV she cried, in horror” (p. 235). This elimination could probably be attributed to health code standards and smoking bans that are now presumably in effect in mortuaries. Aunt Tildy’s parasol also got left behind in the story. “If a man got in whopping distance, she gave him a parasol whop” (p. 234). It could have been omitted from the program because the forty-year update would have precluded its suitability. But more likely, it was because a parasol implies a frilly and helpless female who needs protection from the sun [among other elements] and this image does not fit that of the feisty and girded Aunt Tildy who stockpiled ammunition, not accessories. In conclusion, some props were added to embellish Aunt Tildy’s image as well as to illuminate her past, while others became actual visual metaphors of the program. The remaining major metaphors were props that were adapted from the story to the program as discussed in section 2: Aunt Tildy’s clocks, pictures, door and knitting. And several props were omitted that may have detracted from the visual imagery in the flashbacks, the mortuary and from Aunt Tildy herself. Suggestions to future adapters would be to look carefully for props that will enhance the settings, the characterization and the metaphors chosen for the adaptation and to omit any from the story that will detract from the visualization by virtue of their incongruity or datedness. 202 Setting. As with “The Murderer,” Bradbury did not provide many suggestions for setting in “There Was an Old Woman,” making his description fall into the “negligible” category as devised by Foss (1989), as opposed to a highly developed and prominent setting description (p. 233). This lack of setting description gave the set designer almost a free hand in choosing set dressings to provide a backdrop to “fit” the adapted story. The parlor and foyer of her English2 country house provided an appropriate setting for Aunt Tildy, frozen in time. Her antique furniture, including a massive hall tree, old oval-framed portraits, flowered brocade chairs and settees, were all covered with antimacassars and bric-a-brac and could have been decorating those rooms for decades. Only her wigstand appeared out of place in her bedroom, next to an old clock on her dresser. Down the hall, the utility room with its wringer washer, old radio and dusty untouched wastebasket sketched a faded picture of long-lost dreams and memories. Together, the rooms of Aunt Tildy’s house offered a bygone setting untouched by the world outside. The mortuary, on the other hand, appeared bright and modern. The large electrical lamps, the motorized saw and other state of the art equipment place it nearer its adaptation date of 1988 than its written date of 1944. And the sound effects of a 24- hour all-hits radio station established a time frame in the 1980’s or later. 203 This set was bustling with noise, music and motion. After Aunt Tildy’s empty rooms peopled only by portraits and ticking clocks, the mortuary seemed crowded and loud. Incongruous music poured out of viewing rooms and workrooms to create the soundtrack for Aunt Tildy’s almost comic tear through the building looking for her body.

The contrast between the two sets on the programp r o v id e d

an interesting analogy not present in the story. AuntT ild y ’s h o u se became the quiet mausoleum while the place of death was bursting with life and light. This confirms what Slusser (1977) said about Aunt Tildy being the old woman “who lived in what? in terms of her life, it is a tomb. . .” (p. 22) because she retreated from life to escape death. Adapters need to be aware of the importance of the setting to the mood of the program and if there is little or no description of it in the written text, the adaptation’s set must be developed to suit the characters and the atmosphere of the program. Actors/characters. All the primary characters from the story were retained in the program of “There was an Old W oman” and their function, number, role and personality remained the same, in answer to Carter’s (1983) questions regarding these four conditions (p, 6-7). In her role as protagonist, Aunt Tildy, o r at least her voice, appeared in every scene. Her lined face and petite frame were supplied by Mary Morris, who is described by Halliwell (1988) as a “British character actress with dominant personality” (p. 794) and 204 who was born in 1915.3 Morris’ advanced age and diminutive size added to the characterization of Aunt Tildy, especially when she was being brushed aside by the much taller and heavier pallbearers, proving Orlik’s (1988) tenet that actors and actresses must be emotionally and physically believable in terms of the role to be played (p. 85). This is an example of how casting can play an important role in the adaptation process because the right look of an actress or actor can add much to the desired image of a ch aracter. Aunt Tildy’s personality remained constant in her transfer from page to screen. And following Orlik’s (1988) conclusions that the “time-constricted productions on the small screen require that even the most intimate action be marshalled in the quick registration of character” (p. 87), the program’s Aunt Tildy swiftly established herself as cantankerous and stubborn as the Aunt Tildy of the written text with her first words: P rogram : I am Matilda Hanks. This is my castle. I have waited amongst my clocks and pictures for many years. I’ll not give in, oh no. One day he’ll come, but this is my castle. I’ve all my ammunition here. Oh, he’ll come, but he’s no chance. I’ll not give in. Oh, no. Like the story, the program’s Aunt Tildy did not appear to change during the narrative, to answer Foss’s (1989) questions regarding the physical and mental traits of the characters and whether they change over the course of the narrative (p. 231). The program reinforced her character’s consistency by providing her with almost identical introductory and concluding expository statements. 205 Aunt Tildy’s character was further revealed by her running monologue and her interactions with at least ten other characters. She demonstrated a variety of character traits that could, according to Foss’s (1989) criteria, be considered conflicting, thus providing her with a round character (p. 233). She showed her tough and combative traits with her military metaphors but she also revealed some soft and tender tendencies when she talked about Emily or her lover. At those times Aunt Tildy’s sternly set face softened perceptibly and her voice took on a mellower tone. She showed girlish and flirtatious touches when she patted her head to make sure her wig was in place in several scenes and looked for reassurance from the mortician in the following scene:

P ro g ram CUT to LA LS pan up body, then follow Aunt Tildy looking at body to MS2S with Mortician. Aunt Tildy: (to Mortician) Why, I do look pretty.

Mortician smiles slightly and brushes something off the body’s forehead. FADE TO BLACK These little verbal and nonverbal details demonstrated what Russian filmmaker Pudovkin suggested that performers do “to exercise the finest shading of voice and gesture” (Pudovkin cited in Orlik, 1988, p. 85). The one character who could not use his voice, could have been a flat character, considering that could not express himself vocally. But the Listener’s walk, gestures, facial expressions, and 206 control of his body, those aspects of an actor’s performance that Klinge & McConkey (1982) found so important, revealed his character in lieu of his voice (p. 51). He used pantomime to communicate when he twice “asked” Aunt Tildy if she wanted to see inside the wicker basket. He nodded encouragingly, if condescendingly, while she was reminiscing and with his smile accomplished something close to a close-mouthed “simper,” so that Aunt Tildy’s description of him as “simpering” in both the story and program was an accurate picture of his expression. The story had alternately described him as a “tall, dark young man” (p. 225) and a “dark-clothed young man” (p. 233) leaving to question whether he wore black or had dark hair and coloring. He was given the name “The Listener” in the opening credits and that name has been used throughout this study. In the program, he was fair and light-haired, attired in a dark three-piece double-breasted suit. Accessorized by a pinky ring, a pocket handkerchief and a dark wide-brimmed fedora, his was a debonair and almost flashy appearance. He was played by Ronald Lacey, a “solidly built British character actor,” (Halliwell, 1988, p. 657), who can be recognized as one of the evil Nazis from the film, Raiders of the Lost Ark. Other minor characters were not on screen as often as Aunt Tildy and the Listener were, and as expected, were not as fully drawn as the two main characters. Aunt Tildy’s adopted daughter

Emily was played by Sylvestra Le Touzel, a dark-haired, attractive young woman, attired in conservative dress. She was hysterical in 207 her one on-screen scene so that an overall consideration of her character was difficult to achieve, because she was only seen scared and screaming in that short scene. The funeral director, or undertaker, was portrayed as a portly and prosperous businessman by Roy Kinnear, whom Halliwell (1988) described as a “bulbous British character comedian whose perspiring bluster is a quickly overplayed hand” (p. 643). Audiences may remember him from the film, Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (Halliwell, 1988, p. 643). [Kinnear died in 1988, the same year “There Was an Old Woman” was filmed]. Kinnear did not provide the somber sedateness usually associated with the portrayal of a funeral director. Instead he played it almost buffoon-like, sputtering, and raising his eyebrows at Aunt Tildy in comic disbelief. The mortician, on the other hand, appeared as the model of seriousness and efficiency in his rubber apron, gloves and scrubs. He was played by Finetime Fontayne, a balding and bespectacled middle-aged man. The four mortuary “assistants,” as they are listed in the credits, looked like the pallbearers they represented with their dark suits and pale faces. But those same faces provided a sense of comic relief with their incredulous expressions, raised eyebrows and at times, barely concealed looks of repulsion. One pallbearer looked decidely unpallbearer-like with a perpetually confused countenance framed by two very large ears. Another mortician at the funeral home kept popping up over the funeral director’s 208 shoulder, smiling goofily at the enfolding events, further adding to the lively comic and decidedly ungruesome atmosphere of the m ortuary. As Klinge & McConkey (1982) noted, the physical appearance is important to the characterization (p. 51). The actors and actresses cast in “There Was an Old Woman” provided expressive nonverbal movements to accent their performances and add to the mood of the program. These minute details such as head-patting and eyebrow-raising admirably illustrated Pudovkin’s (1988) prescription for the shading of voice and gesture (p. 85) and provide an example for future adapters to look for actors and actresses who will bring the written characters to life with their appearance, demeanor and movements. Lkhting. The lighting at the mortuary also enhanced its comic climate just described in the previous character section. The building was lit in high key, with an almost antiseptic over-brightness that distinctively played against the expected morbidity of the place.

Its high-key tonality gave it the cheerfulness and gaiety described by Madsen (1990) but not so much that it created “a sense of barrenness and sterility, as in a desert scene or a science fiction film about the antiseptic world of a technological tomorrow” (p. 226). The barrenness was precluded by the numerous cheery characters who peopled its rooms and the upbeat music, which will be described further in the music section. 209 Thus, the lighting added to the lively atmosphere of the mortuary, helping to destroy the gruesome visions a reader may have imagined when reading the story. Future adapters should take note that lighting can plays an important role in establishing the mood of a particular setting, as demonstrated by the mortuary scenes in “There Was an Old Woman.” As for the other principal setting used in the program, Aunt Tildy’s house appeared to be lit naturally. Sunlight filtered through the white curtains, supplying the light for Aunt Tildy’s rooms in the program. The fireplace did give off some light but the majority of the light came in through the tall lace-covered windows. There were no night scenes in her house that would necessitate the use of artificial light and no electrical or gas lamps were apparent in any scene. This lack of lighting fixtures and night scenes gave her house a timelessness that other adapters may wish to make note to retain a natural lighting look and not place the setting in any particular time period.

Color. As opposed to the bright lighting used in the mortuary, the colors shown in those scenes were predominantly black and white. If, as Casty (1971) believed, that color can enhance the motifs created by other production elements to bring symbolic associations to a scene (p. 114), then all the black revealed in the mortuary would be symbolic of death or dying. There was the shiny black of the hearse that conveyed the wicker basket to the mortuary, the unrelieved black suits of the pallbearers, and the 210 Listener’s black fedora and suit. In the scenes where Aunt Tildy confronts her body, the pallbearers’ black suits merge together to create a wall of black to prevent her and the audience from actually seeing the uncovered body. Light colors comprised Aunt Tildy’s living outfit while white was found in the lining of the coffin, the turban and sheet covering Aunt Tildy’s body. White was also represented in the paleness of that body’s face and the color of the wipe effect that joined the bodies. The paleness here did not portray “life” in that it indicated the absence of blood in her body and would be more associated with death than life. And it was related to the granite metaphor that Bradbury used in the written text to describe Aunt Tildy’s feelings as she entered her body. So instead of showing opposites, the use of black and white in the episode combined to symbolize death and the absence of life. Other colors represented in the program were the three primary hues of yellow, blue and red. Yellow appeared in the dreamy tint of Aunt Tildy’s thoughts in the scene when she drifted off in front of the Listener. Blue was the color of the ’’awake/reality” scenes that contrasted with the yellow sleeping scenes [This entire scene is further described under the Camera movement section]. The story used blue to describe Aunt Tildy’s scar from the mortician’s labors when she talked about revealing it to those who wished to see it, “The long blue scar where the autopsy was neatly sewn together” (p. 238). But because the 211 program did not show the scar, there was no way to ascertain its b lu en ess. Red was the distinctive color of Aunt Tildy’s wig. Rather than associate it with the stereotypically short-tempered redhead, it could be considered part of her philosophy “that death is ridiculous” (p. 227). It could be a flamboyant refusal to show or admit th at she has lost her hair. There was nothing to indicate that Aunt T ildy was a redhead when she was younger in either the story or the program. As colors can be used, according to Klinge & McConkey (1982), to establish, develop, and sustain mood (p. 65), so “There Was an Old Woman” concentrated on using black, with touches of white to represent death, blue to represent reality and yellow to show part of a dream. Adapters can use the extremes of black and white, light yellow and darker blue, to both relate images [death] and separate scenes [reality and dreaming], ram era: horizontal plane. This study used Orlik’s (1988) definition of camera shots on a horizontal continuum, especially regarding the use of close-ups to focus viewer attention. Understandably, the majority of close-ups in the program were of the protagonist Aunt Tildy and the antagonist, the Listener. In one scene in particular, extreme close- ups were used of both characters, compelling the scene when Aunt Tildy first realized why the Listener was calling on her, to greater importance. 212 P rogram XCU Listener Aunt Tildy So that’s what you’re up to? XCU Aunt Tildy Right. You just sit there until my little Emily comes home. XCU Listener She’ll take care of you, young man. She’ll shoo you out so soon-

XCU Aunt Tildy Let me tell you about Emily, my fair, sweet, child.

The intimacy inherent in the first of this scene’s close-ups dealt with the profundity of Aunt Tildy’s realization that the Listener was there to do battle. And her first line of defense was drawn not from within herself, but from Emily, the one living person that Aunt Tildy has allowed to touch her emotionally. And so the extreme close-ups moved to include Aunt Tildy’s story about Emily. The intimacy implicit in these later extreme close-ups would tend to suggest that Emily was important to her and that she has some affection for the girl. This was supported by Aunt Tildy’s words from the program, “my fair, sweet, child” which almost echoed those of the story, “my sweet, fair child” (p. 226) and by the way her face softened when she spoke of Emily. The extreme close-up brought this intimate moment that belied all of Aunt Tildy’s arguments about her philosophy into sharp focus. After all her safeguarded fortifications, she allowed a little girl to enter her castle and life. And the use of such a close-up to convey 213 this aspect of Aunt Tildy was consistent with Boggs’s (1985) view that a close-up of a face contorted in pain can make a viewer “feel” the pain more vividly than an objective shot from a greater distance (p. 131). The use of a close-up for the Listener would seem to indicate that Aunt Tildy’s relationship with him was to be a close one. As mentioned earlier, like Dickinson’s character in her poem, “Because I could not wait for Death,” 4 Aunt Tildy’s responses to the Listener did border on those of a woman receiving a gentleman caller. And the Listener’s close-ups juxtaposed with Aunt Tildy’s close-ups created a tete a tete intimacy appropriate for a courting couple. Significance to the adaptation process here could be drawn the importance of the close-up to indicate intimacy and emotion.

Camera: vertical plane. The low-angle shots that create the exaggerated perspective of looking up at character or object as if from admiration or fear (Klinge & McConkey, 1982, p. 94), were used for one character and in one scene. This occurred when Aunt Tildy was trying to determine the Listener’s mission. She was sitting in her chair and from her perspective she would have had to look up to see him. But the shot was exaggerated and his eyes were hooded by his hat, making the shot more menacing than just looking up to someone standing from a seated position. This “psychological distortion,” that affects how each character is perceived, according to Klinge & McConkey (1982), would be appropriate in this important scene as were the previously described close-ups that preceded it (pp. 94- 214 5). For Aunt Tildy was being intimidated by the Listener in her own parlor as she indicated by her words to him: “you come in here high and mighty with never a by-your-leave. You’d think you owned the place” that she said as she viewed him from her low angle perspective. The importance of this to the adaptation process lies in determining when to use the low or high angle perspective to reinforce what the characters are saying or the desired impact of the scene.

Cam era mov? mf»nt. Blumenberg’s (1975) belief that camera movement can create visual interest and help provide rhythm inside a shot (p. 23) is demonstrated throughout “There Was an Old Woman.” If camera movement js defined by Winston (1973) as the movement of the camera in relation to the subject being film ed (p. 31), then the camera moves are concentrated on Aunt Tildy, her pictures and clocks and the memory pans of the flashbacks. Slow circular pans, or what Zettl (1992) defined as arcing or moving the camera in a slightly curved dolly or truck movement (p. 113) both open and close the episode. This echoing provided a sense of closure that Luhr & Lehman (1977) associated with narrative structure, offering the “impression of nicely rounded palette of reality” that is not present with actual human experience (p. 180). After the orbit around the courtyard, the scene dissolved to a close-up of Aunt Tildy’s clocks that also turned into an arc, this time around what appeared to be her parlor. By instead of panning 215 straight across or tilting up and down in straight lines, the camera continued the circular pattern established with the first shot of the program. Sweeping and graceful, the camera gazed around the room at the pictures on the walls spiraling down to the clocks on the tables and mantle, much like a person at a museum, staring at one exhibit and letting one’s eyes flow from one display to another. Flashback memory pans.

The flashbacks created and utilized their own circular movements for what this study will call “memory pans” because they were used in the majority of flashbacks and nowhere else. They were similar to the sweeping pans around the parlor, except that these pans tended to draw smaller circles, almost as if they were zeroing in on their targets, circling like small planes attempting to land. They started in the upper right corner of the screen and then circled counterclockwise to the left, ending in the lower right corner of the screen. But more important than the moving itself was the repetition of movement. There were three wartime memory pans in the utility room alone, in addition to the two more sweeping memory pans in the bedroom. A third bedroom pan that ended with Aunt Tildy putting her lover’s photograph away in the drawer is also part of the memory pan pattern. These repetitions provided a short-cut in comprehension: once the second memory pan begins, the viewer recognizes it and is already primed for what is to follow, like a child waiting for his or her favorite bedtime story. 216 Slight difference and additions to each shot keep the shots from becoming boring. Wavy shot. Besides the pans and arcs curving around the room, the program employed something this study has earlier described (in Section 1) as the “wavy shot” that attempted to recreate the sleepy, hypnotic feel of the final paragraphs in this excerpt from the written text: Story “Are you just goin’ to sit there, young man?” He was. “Then, you won’t mind if I take a little cat nap. Now, don’t you stir off that chair. Don’t come creepin’ around me. Just goin’ to close my eyes for a spell. That’s right. That’s right. . . ’” Nice and quiet and restful time of day. Silence. Just the clock ticking away, busy as termites in wood. Just the old room smelling (p. 228) of polished mahogany and oiled leather in the Morris chair, and books sitting stiff on the shelves. So nice. Nice. . . “You aren’t gettin’ up from the chair, are you, mister? Better not. I got one eye open for you. Yes, indeed I have. Yes, I have. Oh. Ah, hmmmm.” So feathery. So drowsy. So deep. Under water, almost. Oh, so nice. Who’s that movin’ around in the dark with my eyes closed? Who’s that kissin’ my cheek? You, Emily? No. No. Guess it was my thoughts. Only—dreamin’. Land, yes, that’s it. Driftin’ off, off, off. . .” (p. 229)

P ro g ram CUT to OSS Aunt Tildy Are you just going to sit there, young man? Then, don’t you move from that chair. Don’t you come creeping around me. CUT to CU Listener I’m just going to close my eyes for a m om ent. CUT to OSS Aunt Tildy 21 There. . . There. . .Y ou aren’t getting up from the chair, are you? CUT to CU Listener Better not. I keep one eye open for you. Yes, indeed, I will. I will. CUT to CU Listener with tilt up as he stands Who’s that moving about in the dark with my eyes closed? CUT to CU Aunt Tildy (yellow) CUT to LA CU Listener as he walks out of frame Who’s that kissing my cheek? CUT to MS Aunt Tildy brushing cheek, with arcing around to p ro file Emily? No. No. (laughs)Just my thoughts. Just dreaming. Drifting off, off, off- . . Fade to black

The wavy shot echoed the two larger pans just mentioned and made tiny mesmerizing circles as if the camera were weaving and bobbing in front of Aunt Tildy. Almost hypnotic in its sensation, the slow and easy circling movement of the camera could be reminiscent of the half-awake, half-asleep phase that occurs right before falling asleep. These circular patterns echoed Aunt Tildy’s words and represented what she was experiencing as she drifted off to sleep. Moving shots such as the sweeping pan, memory pan and wavy shot, as Winston (1973) indicated, seemed to draw the audience closer to the subject “to make them participants in the story instead of passive observers” (p. 33). By creating effects that attempt to mimic a character’s feelings and observations, this adaptation offers strategies for other adapters to find new ways to 21 8 use camera techniques to portray written descriptions of mental and physiological conditions. Special effects. The supernatural aspects of “There Was an Old Woman” demanded several different special effects, and as can be expected, a large number of the effects were concentrated in the scene where Aunt Tildy reentered her body. But prior to discussing that scene, a few other special effects should be noted. When Emily reached out a hand to touch Aunt Tildy, she found more than she had bargained for as the following scene indicates:

I t Qry She thrust her fingers out. They vanished inside Aunt Tildy. “What fool notion!” cried Tildy. “Take your hand away! Take it, I say!” Emily dropped aside, jerked her head, the golden hair shaking into shiny temblors. “You’re not here, Aunt Tildy. I’m dreaming. You’re dead!” “Hush, baby.” “You can’t be here.” “Land of Goshen, Emily—” She took Emily’s hand. It passed clean through her. Instantly, Aunt Tildy raised straight up, stomping her foot. “Why, why!” she cried angrily. “That—fibber! That sneak thief!” Her thin hands knotted to wiry, hard, pale fists. “That dark, dark fiend; He stole it! He toted it away, he did, oh he did, he did! Why, I— ” (p. 231)

P rogram CUT to CU Emily’s hand as she thrusts her fingers into the vicinity of Aunt Tildy’s stomach. SFX: Whoosh. Aunt Tildy: Take it out, Take it out, I say! 219

Pan up from hand to CU 2-shot Emily and Aunt Tildy Emily pulls out her hand. Emily: You’re not here, Aunt Tildy. I’m dreaming. You’re dead!

Aunt Tildy: Hush, baby. Emily...

Pan down to XCU Emily’s hand going inside Aunt Tildy. She takes Emily’s hand. It passes into her as before. SFX: Whoosh. CUT to CU Aunt Tildy looking down as camera arcs around her. Aunt Tildy: That—snake! That rapist! That sneak thief! That dark-eyed, dark fiend; He stole it, he did! He ran off with it, he did, oh he did, he did!

Here was Bradbury’s chance to bring out the mirrors and plaster casts of specially-made hands and stomachs to show Emily putting her hand into what is left of her aunt’s body. But instead of creating a sickening effect that would be at odds with the genteel quality already established in the program, the scene showed little and left much to the imagination. Instead of showing a hand entering and going through a body, the scene merely revealed a hand entering a blouse. Only the sound effect of a hissing whoosh and the two characters’ stunned faces indicated the supernatural nature of the scene. In a similar scene, Aunt Tildy mystically escaped from a captor, as the following excerpt shows: Story “George took her wrists. ‘This way, please-’ 220 Tildy extricated herself. Easily. Her flesh sort of—slipped. It even amazed Tildy. Such an unexpected talent to develop at this late day. ‘See?’ she said, pleased with her ability. ‘You can’t budge me. I want my body back!’ (p. 233)”

P ro g ram LS Pallbearer grabs Aunt Tildy around her upper arms. Aunt Tildy: Helllllllllllllllllp.

CUT to MS Funeral Director for reaction shot. SFX: SWOOSH CUT to MS Aunt Tildy slithering free from the grasp of the pallbearer.

In this effect, Aunt Tildy, in both the story and the program, managed to slip out of the grip of one of the pallbearers with only a barely audible “swoosh” providing any special effect. There was no slow-motion to indicate she had slipped into some kind of superhuman gear that would make her move like like a god or goddess (Boggs, 1985, p. 140). There was only Aunt Tildy looking puzzled but smug as she pulled away and the stunned pallbearers looking at her in disbelief. No close-up was shown of either her captor’s arms or Aunt Tildy’s, again allowing the viewer to imagine what occurred. These two effects were done without fancy or costly special effects and left the majority of the horror to the viewer’s imagination. In doing so, Bradbury the adapter fulfills Giannetti’s (1987) statement that “we tend to fear what we can’t see,” (p. 155). 221 Before describing the reentry scene, the atmosphere created to surround that scene needs to be discussed, so that the special effects elements of that climactic scene can be viewed in context. “There Was an Old Woman” offered its own version of mise-en- scene, using several of the related production elements to create a memorable mortuary scenes. These scenes were only minimally described in the written text, with the phrase, “not a fit place for a gentlewoman” (p. 232) and mentions of viewing and preparation rooms. But instead of creating a dark and gloomy laboratory, that would not really have been in keeping with the lighter image, Bradbury the adapter formulated a commonplace, if not comic, workplace. The scenes were brightly lit with the high key lighting that Casty (1971) associates with greater joy and optimism (Casty, 1971, p. 118) and which Boggs (1985) found suitable for comic or light moods (p. 145). It was peopled with diverse and colorful characters such as a mourner who resembled his snarling bulldog, an undertaker who grinned each time his boss uttered a word and a worker casually reading a newspaper on top of a coffin. A 9-shot of the characters crowded into a doorway recalled images of people squeezed into a phone booth or an oceanliner stateroom. The camera followed Aunt Tildy and her growing entourage as she ran through the building, opening door after door, looking for her body. But instead of the visual taking precedence, this time it was the audio that revealed the creativity behind this adaptation. As she threw open each door, different mourning 222 music poured out of the various viewing rooms. And a radio could be heard playing its happy 24-hour all-hit rotation in incongruous accompaniment to the morticians at their gruesome tasks. The lighting, actors, props, camera movement and above all, the audio, turned what could have been a gruesome scene incompatible with the rest of the program, into one of near hilarity. There is a definite significance here that the mise-en- scene, with its control over visual and audio elements, can create a memorable scene when all the images coalesce. For as Battestin (1967) saw, the rhetoric of the written and visual art forms are fundamentally different in that “the arrangement of words in sequence is the business of the novelist but the maker of a film deals in the arrangement of images” (p. 36). One special arrangement of images was formed by something this study will call, the pallbearer’s blocking ballet. While Aunt Tildy was trying to reach her body, the four pallbearers very neatly walked in front of her and formed a human wall to block her view and the audience’s, of whatever the morticians were doing to her body to prepare for her spirit’s reentry. Because their suits were the same dark black, their shoulders touched and blended together to form a black wall. Without showing an ounce of blood or formaldehyde, protecting both the audience and Aunt Tildy, the adaptation again avoided any gruesome shots such as close-ups of body organs. Like the hand disappearing shot with Emily and the shot where Aunt Tildy escapes, this shot let the audience’s imagination take over 223 and create its own image of what was happening behind the black- suited wall. Now with the background supplied by the previous discussion, the actual transcription of the scene where Aunt Tildy enters her body follows:

P ro g ra m The pallbearers lower Aunt Tildy slowly into the coffin.

Aunt Tildy: Careful, careful. I’m glass, I’ll break! Steady. Now take a deep breath, inhale. Now, exhale.

LS HA Body in coffin. Dressed and bewigged Aunt Tildy is supered over Aunt Tildy’s body in sheet and turban. LS LA Body in coffin Toes, feet, ankles, hear, take hold. Knees, thigh, attention,

CUT to POV Aunt Tildy looking out of coffin. take hold. Oh God.

LS LA Body in coffin Fingers, hands, arms grab hold.

SFX: White wipe effect with black edge starts near Tildy’s mouth and begins covering half her face and body and then the rest of her face and body until the dressed and bewigged Tildy disappears completely, leaving the Aunt Tildy in towel and turban. Oh, quick, head, breast, neck, hammer and nails, fix and finish in place.

(POV: Aunt Tildy) HA shot of four men looking down into coffin, surrounded by white ruffled edge of coffin lid. Heart, beat!

(POV: Aunt Tildy) Defocused HA shot of four men looking down into coffin, surrounded by white ruffled edge of coffin lid. 224 Lungs, suck!

(POV: Aunt Tildy) Very defocused HA shot of four men looking down into coffin, surrounded by white ruffled edge of coffin lid. SFX: Scream MUSIC CUT to CU Side of open quilted coffin lid CUT to CU profile Aunt T ildy rising up. CUT to CU profile Aunt T ildy crying. CUT to XLS casket and helpers For those familiar with the story, the most asked question would have been, “How w as Bradbury going to show Aunt Tildy getting back into her body?” The answer is that he used a “superimposition,” or what Zettl (1991) calls a “super” for short, and it is a form of double exposure. “The picture from one camera is electronically superimposed over the picture from another and a distinct characteristic of a super is that you can see through each of the two images that are superimposed . . .Y o u can then vary the strength of either picture” (Zettl, 1992, p. 379). The pallbearers carefully lowered Aunt Tildy into the coffin, during a long 35-second shot that avoided any actual shot of her and her body together until the wide super shot. The lowering was kept to a profile shot of the coffin, and once the camera reached the top edge of the coffin, it tilted dow n the outside of the coffin, thus avoiding shooting the inside of the coffin. This technique neatly avoided the entire issue of how to show the actress on “top” of herself. The n ex t shot in the reentry scene was the long shot that showed a bewigged and dressed image of Aunt T ildy superimposed over the tow el and turban-clad body from the 225 morgue. Both images were distinct, thanks in part to the fact that Aunt Tildy’s red wig was a bright enough contrast to the the white turban. As Zettl (1992) discussed, the strength of either picture can be varied and as Aunt Tildy commanded her body, it began almost imperceptibly to favor the turbaned and toweled body (p. 379). Then appeared an almost cartoonish effect. It was a black- bordered white wipe that started at her mouth, quickly covered one side of her face and body before completely enveloping the rest of her, until the dressed and bewigged Aunt Tildy disappeared into the Aunt Tildy in the towel and turban. The whiteness of the white was an obvious attempt to visually replicate the written text describing what Aunt Tildy felt as she first entered the body: “Seeping into cold, long granite. Seeping into a frozen and ancient statue. Squeezing all the way” (p. 236). It was an attempt to adapt a character’s feelings by almost literally translating her words by creating one of Bluestone’s (1957) “signs” that are arranged “for our visual perception . . . to lead us to infer thought” (p. 48). It was a startling effect but not one that would necessarily recall granite or any type of stone. The effect that more clearly showed Aunt Tildy’s feelings to the viewer were the three subjective point of view shots that are shown just after the wiping effect. They were high angle medium shots from Aunt Tildy’s point of view and showed the faces of five men, bordered by the white ruffles of the coffin lid. It was a shot not often seen and one not soon forgotten: gazing up at people peering down into a coffin. The next two POV shots are almost

4 226 identical except that they become increasingly out of focus and the undertaker and one other turn his head away. The shots did bring the viewer down into the coffin with Aunt Tildy to see from her perspective as Marcus (1971) noted, “a perception as seen through the eyes of a character” (p. 230). And the defocussing effect revealed to the viewer just how much the process was draining her. The third shot was barely in focus to reveal three very fuzzy faces at the edge of the screen, a distorted image that Marcus (1971) found, can reveal what a character sees and allow the viewer to see through his or her eyes (p- 231). In a way, like Aunt Tildy, it let the viewer cheat death, by seeing what it might be like to be dead and laid out in a coffin. In conclusion, the visual aspects of mise-en-scene created for “There Was an Old Woman” provide much information on the creative possibilities available to the adapter who is willing to spend some time experimenting with camera movement, defocussing and point of view shots as weH as sound effects. What can be gained front this adaptation could also be the consideration that simple effects [slipping away, hand in body, superimposition] can work just as well or perhaps better than the flashier ones by not overwhelming the subject they are supposed to be highlighting.

Sound effects^ In using sound, “There Was an Old Woman” quite clearly followed Madsen’s (1990) two prescriptions: “to complement and enhance the viewer’s understanding. . . and to extend the limits of 227 what is seen, create a particular mood” ( p. 306). Unlike “The Murderer,” the written text of “There Was an Old Woman” did not offer many clues to the noises or sounds Bradbury wished to express. The program had to create several sound effects to project the particular moods that Bradbury had envisioned as well as provide appropriate music and voices for each scene. This discussion will address the arrangement of those three aspects necessary to “compose with sound” (Klinge & McConkey, 1981, p. 141): the sound effects, voices, and music. As noted in previous sections of this chapter, sound effects were important aspects in creating metaphor and a sense of the past. The audio effects complemented the visual effects and in some instances, replaced what could have been visual effects. They served as transitions to drive the viewers from one shot to the next and they provided special effects with innovative results. This discussion will review briefly what purposes the audio served in developing metaphor and sense of past and discuss its transition and special effects roles. The major adapted metaphor of the door was first promoted by the suitable audio slam of the door after the visual had faded to black. Against the black nothingness, the sound of the slam seemed doubly loud and drew more attention than if it had accompanied the visual shot of the door closing. Since the viewers never saw the door being slammed, they had to imagine for themselves who had shut the door and in what manner, and this resultant ambiguity added to the ominous nature of the scene. Just as Giannetti (1987) 228 found that the sound that is heard but not seen can be the most powerful sound of all. “Since we tend to fear what we can’t see, directors will sometimes use off-screen sound effects to strike a note of anxiety” (Giannetti, 1987, p. 155). The second audio connection to the door as a metaphor occurred during the ending to Act I. After the viewers have seen the vivid visual effect of the rolled up mattress against the white door, they hear the latch being thrown. Like the door slam, this audio ending underscored the finality of the scene and served the universal symbolic function of sound that Giannetti (1987) wrote about (p. 156): the closing the door as an ending. Another adapted metaphor enhanced by an audio effect was the needlework found in both the story and program. This is an activity that does not create much noise at all, except for the clicking of needles in the knitting category of needlework. Although there was no apparent audio in the interrupted knitting scene, there was one crucial example of audio as it related to needlework in the mortuary scene. There the mortician had to sew up the autopsy incisions made on Aunt Tildy’s body. Instead of showing the needle entering flesh, the mortician is shown pulling a needle and thread high above the body in a long shot, followed by the sound of what had to construed as a needle entering and exiting flesh. It was by far the most graphic representation of the entire mortuary process, in a program that had deliberately avoided any sign of blood, formaldehyde or body organs. 229 By relying on an audio effect instead of a visual one to depict something that could be considered as offensive and inappropriate, the program showed how powerful sound can be in creating images, and in this case, adding to the metaphorical force of the needlework. An even more powerful use of sound occurred during the memory pans describing the war’s devastation. The sounds of air raid sirens, propeller planes, bombs exploding, human screams and a radio report reconstructed the intensity of Aunt Tildy’s memories of the past. Like those older individuals who can remember the distant past more clearly than the recent past, her thoughts of the war time destruction were recalled with clarity and detail. That it must have affected her greatly was apparent from the repetition of memory pans. But what is also apparent is that these were her thoughts being conveyed by sound and images: sound of bombers and broadcasters and images of old radio and cut-up newspaper clippings. They were not precisely what she was describing in voice-over, but presumably they were meant to illustrate what she had been thinking about in the story.

Story: He knew about her and World War II, when she shut off her radio forever and stopped the newspapers and beat a man’s head with an umbrella, driving him from her shop when he insisted on describing the invasion beaches and the long, slow tides of the dead drifting under the silent urgings of the moon.

P ro g ram : FLASHBACK: 230 DIS LS memory pan utility room with radio, strips of newspaper with headline ‘Air Raid wipes out Basque tow n. Relays of Bombs’

Aunt Tildy (VO) Why, it’s silly that p eo p le only live a couple years and are shoved like wet seeds in a hole; but nothing sprouts. What good do they do? DIS CU Aunt Tildy Lie there a million years, helping no one. Most of them fine, nice, decent people, or at least trying to be.

FLASHBACK: DIS LS memory pan radio room, strips of newspaper (young voice) But m o re than you my dearest Papa and m ore than dearest Mama, I lost my darling, (v o ic e breaking up) So, this technique created another multiple-layered audio effect similar to the one employed in “The Murderer”: Aunt Tildy’s voice-over inserted over the audio track of war time sounds of sirens, bombs, planes and newscasts. And while some of the audio levels were more indistinct than others, the total effect crafted an atmosphere of wartime combat and romance. By far, the most innovative and important use of sound in the program was with the mysterious scream and crash that occurred twice: first without a visual reference and then accompanied by a shockingly vivid death scen e. Its early unexplained appearance forced a connection with a scene yet to be witnessed, making it a precursor that meant nothing until the same sound was heard in context later. But when it was recognized in its second appearance, the connection provided the viewer with a sense of accomplishment for having ascertained its 231 out-of-context meaning. This forced relation almost makes it one of Giannetti’s (1987) more powerful sound effects, because its symbolic function has a meaning that is determined by the dramatic context (p. 156). Whether or not it was a symbol of death generated for the program, its importance lies in revealing the possibilities of tying two events together with nontraditional cinematographic techniques. Natural sound effects were found in the human screams that accompanied Emily’s encounter with Aunt Tildy, Aunt Tildy’s reentry and her father’s death. Although screams are often described in written texts, there is always something startling and immediate about them when they are actually heard in a audio or audio-visual medium. Perhaps it is because their loudness offers such a contrast to the surrounding normal toned voices or that the sound of human screams usually demands an rapid response from the listener.

Audio transition. As Orlik (1988) believed, aural transitions can be a significant part of the overall picture (p. 96). The primary audio transitions in “There Was an Old Woman” included a scream, door slams, clocks and a musical segue. One of the human sound effects, or screams, provided an audio transition of sorts. When her body and “spirit” merged, Aunt Tildy uttered a joyful scream and sat up. This scream provided a transition between Aunt Tildy’s struggle with the Listener and her 232 victory over him. It heralded her as the winner who retained enough strength to give emit a full-bodied yell. Another transition would be the door slams that are discussed in Section 2 under metaphors and in section 8 as part of fade transition. As an accepted way to “finish” a scene, the door slammed after the Listener entered her house and after he had left. What was unusual was that no visual image of the door was shown. Instead the scene faded to black, and then the door was heard to slam, before fading up from black to the next scene in another room. What Giannetti (1987) would have said about this use of an unseen slam was, because it could be heard but not seen, it could be “the most powerful sound of all. Since we tend to fear what we can’t see, directors will sometimes use off-screen sound effects to strike a note of anxiety” (Giannetti, 1987, p. 155). So, by using an offscreen door slam, Bradbury created a much more frightening and foreboding image than an onscreen one would have provided. A less menacing transition using sound was the ticking of Aunt Tildy’s many clocks. Given their frequent mention in the story, they were not provided with such a large role in the program. They did act as Aunt Tildy’s “alarm clock” when she awoke from her three naps, serving to orient her to the world of the awake. And a final transition could be the abrupt musical segue, from ghostly to bland, that occurred in the mortuary. Aunt Tildy had just regaled the undertakers and pallbearers with her colorful 233 verbal threats to haunt their establishment if she did not get her body back from them. Her expressive threats were accompanied by spooky music, moans and howls that served to mesmerize her listeners and the viewers: P rogram CUT Reaction shot M4S wall of pallbearers

Aunt Tildy: Bedsheets walking on the air. . .

CUT to CU 2S Aunt Tildy and Funeral Director

Spooky Music abruptly ends as SFX: Radio is heard Aunt Tildy: Right, then? Any objections?

Funeral director: Madam, (waving to pallbearers) the body is yours. The music and sound effects abruptly stopped to reveal the most banal music, presumably from the radio, that must have been playing while the special effects were on. [Or Aunt Tildy had the power to turn the radio on and off at will.] Aunt Tildy’s sudden change from weaving a spell to asking a question was unexpected enough without the added benefit of the abrupt music change. Thus, the change in music helped propel the viewer from the ghostly world of “bedsheets walking on the air” to the land of 24- hour a day radio. Voice, The voices throughout the program were possessed of British accents. Mary Morris gave voice to Aunt Tildy with a crisp and 234 precise enunciation, delivered in an upper-class accent. For example, the word “castle” she phonetically pronounced CAH-sil. Because her antagonist had no voice, Aunt Tildy as the protagonist was the voice heard in every scene. A less pleasant voice than Morris’s would have made listening to the constant Aunt Tildy monologue/dialogue a trial. As discussed in section 3, Aunt Tildy’s voice was distorted to appear younger during the flashbacks with no little effort extended on her part. Her voice did not show any of the quavering sometimes associated with advanced age but sounded strong, if strident, thus keeping in character with Aunt Tildy’s persona. Thus the actress Mary Morris accomplished what Pudovkin (1988) recommended and exercised “the finest shading of voice and gesture” (Pudovkin cited in Orlik, 1988, p. 85) to produce a voice that could carry a program almost entirely on her own as well as reflect the voice of a obstinate old woman. Music. “There Was an Old Woman” followed accepted tenets regarding music in a visual medium in that it provided the dramatic emphasis that Madsen (1990) called the most pervasive use for music in film (p. 303). Aunt Tildy’s theme was the one that introduced and closed the program. Its upbeat string and woodwind, and at times, harp-filled, melody called forth nostalgia and optimism. It was contrasted with the menacing “death” theme with its sustained cello and bass violins that followed the Listener on his journeys. 235 The high-pitched screeching strings that echoed Emily’s screams fulfilled Giannetti’s (1987) claims that high-pitched sounds are generally “strident and produce a sense of tension in the listener. Both the screams and strings lasted long enough to be considered prolonged which Giannetti’s (1987) found to be “totally unnerving” (p. 155). As discussed previously, the mortuary offered several musical interludes: the 24-hour all-hits radio station that added immeasurably to the light-hearted every day atmosphere of the setting. The individual mourning styles glimpsed and heard in snippets could have shown the different ways different people deal with death. And the ghostly music that accompanied Aunt Tildy’s threats to haunt the establishment if she were not granted access to her body, provided the appropriate aura of spirits and “things that go bump in the night.” As mentioned in the audio transition section, when Aunt Tildy suddenly finished her warning, the unearthly music also concluded abruptly to be immediately followed by a return to “reality” with the innocuous music from the all-hits radio station. In conclusion, the sound effects, voice and music in the adaptation showed how carefully arranging and recording these three elements can create the mental imagery desired in an adaptation (Klinge & McConkey, 1982, p. 141). Bradbury’s innovative use of sound effects as parts of metaphors and music as a transition showed the versatility possible in the audio track. His 236 use of audio to create the memory pans that provided insight into the thought processes of his protagonist could be an example for others as well as his truly creative use of a sound effect as a precursor to link two scenes together.

Cinematic Versus Literary “Universe” Bradbury the adapter, like all adapters, had to refashion a written work until it fit into the cinematic universe and his short story, “There Was an Old Woman” had to be altered on several levels to meet the new visual requirements. Restructuring Although the program of “There Was an Old Woman” was not as restructured as “The Murderer,” some changes were made to align Bradbury’s story with the three act program that is demanded by the commercial structure of a thirty-minute television program. More specifically, Aunt Tildy’s verbose story­ telling had to be divided into three visually-oriented segments. Although this prograrn did not have such obvious artificially strong act endings or cliffhangers that were created for “The Murderer,” that See (1987) had predicted (p. 55), the endings of both Act I and Act II in “There Was an Old Woman” were crowded with strong images. Act I faded to black on a long shot of Aunt Tildy’s bright striped mattress rolled up at the foot of the stripped bed with the white door in the background, as the latch was heard to lock from the outside. This shot occurred just after Aunt Tildy looked out the window to see the Listener gazing back up at her and the wicker basket being loaded into the black sedan. This Act 237 I ending had been wholly created for the program because the story had moved directly from Aunt Tildy’s denouncing of “Darned fool men with their maggoty ideas” (p. 230) to Emily’s arrival (p. 230). The second act ending was also created just for the camera and was mentioned as one of the window/curtain metaphors in Section 2. In this scene, the Listener was in the foreground, pulling a black curtain across a long shot of Aunt Tildy, who was sitting up in the coffin surrounded by morticians and pallbearers. The Listener’s curtain pull put the finishing touch onto Aunt Tildy’s story, especially since it occurred at the ending of Act II, just prior to the second commercial break. It was a theatrical touch, with the final curtain drawn by smiling Death the Stage Manager But it was not the ending of either the story or the program. Because it looked like an ending and was such a dramatic and stylized conclusion, the actual ending to the program appeared somewhat anticlimactic. But the actual ending did provide a sense of closure by reversing the opening shot and leaving the same way it entered. Thus the endings to both Act I and Act II were strengthened to provide the program with a more theatrical thrust. Neither act ending was a cliffhanger (See, June 1987, p. 55) but both provided the program with final finishing flourishes. The first presented a visual image of death as emptiness: everything rolled up and stripped, similar to what a student might see when moving out of a 23 8 dorm room or furnished apartment. And the second ending showed that the final curtain did njai go down on Aunt Tildy’s life. The third act has not yet been mentioned, but its short duration did not provide much information for analysis. It was more like an epilogue than an act, although it did provide the “denouement” that Boggs (1985) defined as “a brief period of calm following the resolution of the conflict, in which a state of relative equilibrium returns”(p. 443). F.xplicitness/Simplicitv Besides being molded into three acts with suitable endings, the visual adaptation of “There Was an Old Woman” had to be simplified and made more explicit than the story, according to the findings of Asheim (1951), Madsen (1990) and Winston (1973) . As Asheim (1951) supposed, the program was more explicit in almost all details than the story (p. 263). Aunt Tildy’s opening voice-over exposition in the program was more explicit than the story by its very existence since the story provided no opening exposition. Since Winston (1973) found that simplification’s task is to prevent the audience from being inadvertently confused (p. 57), this exposition should help the viewers to understand just who Aunt Tildy was, what she believed, and what she was willing to do to protect those beliefs. As discussed in the metaphor/war section, the adaptation added to the combative stance taken by Aunt Tildy in the story. By adding “fighting words” to her struggle with death, the program made her battle more explicit as Asheim (1951) and others had 239 predicted. In the program, Aunt Tildy’s use of words like ammunition, battle, castle, fortresses and weapons to describe her war with the Listener, also appeared to have reduced the generalized battle of staying alive to one of combatting “a specific villain whose defeat provides the solution of the conflict” (Asheim, 1951, p. 265). Therefore “There was an Old Woman” followed the adaptation dictates regarding restructuring to fit the three-act television format. It was made more explicit by the opening exposition and by the intensification of the military metaphor created in the story. Adapters can ascertain the importance of considering the constraints of the television or film medium and restructure their text to conform to them. And they should also be advised of the possibility that the story may have to be simplified or made more explicit to further “fit” their new viewing audience.

Cinematic Objective Versus Literary Subjective Viewpoint

Showing Versus Telling Approaching this section on the visual medium’s more objective viewpoint and the written medium’s more subjective viewpoint, these differences will be described according to McDougal’s (1985) argument that the visual media must show while the written must tell (p. 116). Aunt Tildy’s running “monologue” throughout “There Was an Old Woman” could be compared to what Withers (1983) called “interior monologue passages” which do not translate easily to film 240 (p. 180). Almost of all of her monologue was spoken aloud except for one short and barely noticeable passage. Aunt Tildy had just asked,’’Emily, what’s wrong?” in a normal tone and then, without moving her lips, she said, “Stop staring like that.” It was the only instance of her lips not moving while her voice was audible and its use was enigmatic. She may have been worried about Emily’s reactions to her spectral appearance and did not want to scare the young woman further by criticizing her for staring. But, no matter what her motivation, it was an example of her thoughts being conveyed in a visual medium. This could be considered one of Bluestone’s (1957) “signs” arranged “for our visual perception . . . to lead us to infer thought” (p. 48). A more commonplace way to show a character’s thought or state of mind, is by “the expression of an actor’s [or actress’s] face” (Stanton, 1977, p. 39). Mary Morris’s strong features consistently showed precisely what her character Aunt Tildy was feeling. In the scene when she talked about not getting married: P r p g ram DIS to XCU Aunt Tildy Aunt Tildy: I never got married. I feared the idea of living with a man twenty or thirty years and then having him up and die on me. It would have shakes my convictions like a house of cards. I shunned the world. her face dropped from the chin-up position she had held during her militaristic posturing to a softer and more pensive pose. In the 241 scene where she was trying to recall when she had seen a similar wicker basket,

Program CUT to CU Aunt Tildy looking up and then to the side. Aunt Tildy: Where’ve I seen a wicker like that before? Oh, yes. It was when Mrs. Dwyer passed away next door. she looked up as if seeing the answer on the ceiling and when when she realized just what it had been used for, her face literally fell and something close to fear crossed her countenance before she retaliated verbally and recovered facially. These uses of facial movement are significant in portraying thought in such an objective medium. Aunt Tildy’s role as a narrator in the adaptation appeared subjective and revealing, in direct opposition to Seger’s (1992) views that a novel’s narrator can tell the reader about his/her subjective experiences, while a film must show the viewer an objective experience through its visuals (p. 25). Aunt Tildy’s words, especially in the following long opening exposition,

Program I am Matilda Hanks. This is my castle. I have waited amongst my clocks and pictures for many years. I’ll not give in, oh no. One day he’ll come, but this is my castle. I’ve all my ammunition here. Oh, he’ll come, but he’s no chance. I’ll not give in. Oh, no. offered insight into her character traits of patience and tenacity. And this same scene further contradicted Seger’s (1992) complaint that a film’s voice-over narrator may be disruptive 242 because “we’re trying to concentrate on the objective expression on a character’s face” (p. 25). This scene’s voice-over narration was not disruptive because Aunt Tildy’s exposition was delivered, not over any character’s face, but over sweeping pans of the exterior and interior of her home. The bombing flashback scene could be considered yet another example of McDougal’s (1985) argument that the visual media must show while the written must tell (p. 116). Bradbury the author described Aunt Tildy’s reaction to World War II with the words: [She] “beat a man’s head with an umbrella, driving him from her shop when he insisted on describing the invasion beaches and the long, slow tides of the dead drifting under the silent urgings of the moon” (p. 227-228) and Bradbury the adapter tried to illustrate this sentence with several flashbacks. Because war was never addressed directly in the adaptation’s action or dialogue, the flashback scenes could be considered examples of Aunt Tildy’s mental content being transferred from the page to the screen, an effort that Morrissette (1985) believes can be difficult, if not impossible(p. 24). Stanton (1977) even went so far to write that a film is unable to reveal the thoughts of a character as “effectively and profoundly as a novel can with its techniques of interior monologue or stream of consciousness” (p- 39). And yet, the memory pans that circled slowly through the blue-tinted room, zooming past the old radio and its abandoned tube to land on the cut-up newspaper articles with their wartime headlines almost had to reflect a powerful recollection of Aunt 243 Tildy’s. The repetition heightened the memory sensation, like the old war hero who has his battle stories down to a familiar routine and loves to tell them the same way every time. And while this war story alluded to the Basques, the reference may have been too obscure for audiences today. Even if they did not recognize Basques as being part of the Spanish Civil War, the audio of planes dropping bombs and air raid sirens should have been familiar enough to be identified as “war sounds.” The fact that these sounds were repeated twice in flashback should indicate their importance to the viewer and though they may not recognize the exact reference, the overall impression of war, could inform them that Aunt Tildy had lost her lover in battle somewhere. Adapters should be encouraged from this example to try new ways to relate subjective information. While Bradbury used warlike sound effects and images of old radios and newspapers to create a memory, many other ways to address such translation problems are yet to be discovered. Recall that Bradbury added to the recollection effect by bathing the shot in blue light and drawing the viewer in with a circular pan, all to show Aunt Tildy’s thoughts about wartime deaths without using dialogue or action. Thus, “There Was an Old Woman” demonstrated Withers’ (1983) view that adaptations need to shift away from interior monologue passages, which do not translate easily to film, and moved toward physical action, visual and spatial effects and concrete objects (p. 180). By limiting the physical action, the memory pans provided visual effects using concrete objects to 244 depict a character’s thoughts and remembrances. Other adapters could heed and perhaps exploit some of Bradbury’s techniques found in these scenes. Cinematic Versus Literary Narrator ant) Point of View To address narration and point of view, the point of view of the story “There Was an Old Woman” was third person, although Aunt Tildy did most of the narrating. As Slusser (1977) wrote, “though the tale is told in the third person, it is Aunt Tildy that we hear. And death causes no break in this strange indirect monologue at all” ( p. 23). By carrying Aunt Tildy the narrator from the short story into the program, Bradbury may have been trying to give the program a more “literary” feel as well as to help convey information as Seger (1992) said that many writers do in adapting written media (p. 25). And while she may at times have added a “reflective dimension” to the program, Aunt Tildy’s presence was also valuable in providing information (Seger, 1992, p. 25), as she did in her expository speeches. As with most filmed or televised programs, “There Was an Old Woman” offered several points of view. As Weiss (1975) wrote, the viewer normally identifies with the performer seen from the position of the camera and this position varies with each camera shot (p. 51). And because Aunt Tildy was the protagonist, and in front of the camera for the majority of the shots, the program’s point of view was either omniscient and showed Aunt Tildy on screen or it was shot from her viewpoint. 245 The change from objective to one character’s subjective point of view, according to Boggs (1985), is a “simple logical relationship that provides a smooth and natural movement from one perspective to another” (p. 130). This change, Boggs (1985) elaborated, is often accomplished by the following shots: “An objective shot shows the character looking at something off screen [look of outward regard], cuing the audience to wonder what he is looking at. The following shot is an eye-line shot that shows subjectively what the character is seeing” (Boggs, 1985, p. 130). The clearest example of this eye-line shot occurred after an unexplained flashback showing a man walking around a clock- filled room and asking what someone was going to do with her life. When Aunt Tildy turned her head and asked, “Papa?,” the question of this man’s identity was answered. And the next shot, logically, provided the eyeline of what Aunt Tildy had turned to see: the continued flashback of her father. This provided a ideal example of a subtle change from objective to subjective point of view, as well as offering an innovative way to introduce a flashback. A spectacular subjective point of view shot occurred during Aunt Tildy’s reentry [into her body] scene where her view from the coffin was revealed three times, that was briefly described in Section 4. The first time was a shot framed by the white quilted material that lined the coffin and five disbelieving faces. The second time, the same shot was slightly defocused and one of the faces had turned away. The third time, it was barely in focus and only three fuzzy faces remained on the edge of her vision around 246 the edge of the coffin. It was an unforgettable shot because it offered the viewers a chance to peer out of a coffin, a sight very few are going to realize. In a way, like Aunt Tildy, it let the viewer cheat death, by getting a sample of what it would be like to dead and laid out in a coffin. Such a subjective shot, as Marcus (1971) noted, can create “a perception as seen through the eyes of a character” (p. 230), and whether it is a realistic perception or a distorted image, it can reveal what a character sees and allow the viewer to see through his or her eyes (Marcus, 1971, p. 231). In conclusion, Bradbury probably retained Aunt Tildy as the narrator to provide the necessary exposition for the program. The adaptation provided several subjective point of view shots to depict precisely what Aunt Tildy was seeing, that as Boggs (1985) found, not only provide viewers with a visual viewpoint, but also with the emotional intensity of the character participating in the action (p. 129).

These shots reveal the importance of allowing the viewer to see from a character’s perspective and perceive, to an extent, what he or she is experiencing on screen. Bradbury’s use of such unusual perspectives as someone turning to acknowledge an unexplained flashback or the point of view shot from the interior of a coffin, could suggest an adaptation strategy that searches for unlikely or unusual point of view shots to provide fresh perspectives for increasingly sophisticated viewers. 247 Cinematic Versus Literary Transitions Transitions used in the adaptation of “There Was an Old Woman” included fades, dissolves, and the distinctive “white-outs,” as well as the more common cuts between shots, all of which will be discussed in section. [Audio transitions were discussed in Section 4 under the subheading of Sound].

Fades Fades were used to indicate what Morrissette (1985) called a break in the passage of time or displacement of space (p. 18) or to signify a major change of time or location, from one scene to the next, as Madsen (1990) suggested (p. 153). The first fade occurred just after the Listener entered the house and was confronted by Aunt Tildy in the foyer. After he showed her that his large wicker basket was empty, the screen faded to black and then faded back up on Aunt Tildy and the Listener in the parlor, presumably some time later, therefore displacing both time and space. What is important to note in this fade was the the aural transition that Orlik (1988) contended was a significant part of the overall picture (p. 96). During the fade to black, a door was heard to slam. It was presumably the front door since it was still open when shown in the last shot. This audio sound effect drew attention to the door and the idea that more than a wooden door could be closing in Aunt Tildy’s life. And because the slam was heard but not seen, it could be, as Giannetti (1987) called it, “the most powerful sound of all. Since we tend to fear what we can’t see, directors will sometimes use off-screen sound effects to strike a note of anxiety” 248 (Giannetti, 1987, p. 155). Therefore, the sound of a creaking door in a darkened room can be more frightening than the image of someone stealing in through the door (Giannetti, 1987, p. 155). So, the use of an offscreen door slam created a much more ominous image than an onscreen one could provide. The most ominous fade of all was one that showed just a time lapse. After she and the Listener had chatted for a while, Aunt Tildy fell asleep in her chair and the scene faded to black. This interval was the chance the Listener and his pallbearers took to steal her body away in the wicker basket. When the scene faded back up from black, Aunt Tildy awoke and found the Listener supervising the removal of the wicker basket. This fade was the counterpart of the nap that left Aunt Tildy defenseless to the machinations of the Listener. Another fade was used to separate another major scene as Madsen (1990) had suggested (p. 153). This one separated the scene in the mortuary, where Aunt Tildy was fighting to get her body released from the mortician and the following one where she was trying to reenter her body. This fade involved what Morrissette (1985) called a “break in the passage of time” as well as a “displacement of space” (p. 18) as Aunt Tildy and her body were moved from an embalming room to a chapel-like room presentation room over some period of time. That a clear distinction between these two major scenes was desired was indicated by the use of a fade. 249 Dissolves While they are similar to fades, dissolves usually imply minor changes, as opposed to the fade’s more major change in time or location, according to Madsen (1990) and they are “most often used as a transitional device within the body of the film to imply either a minor change of location or short lapse of time” (Madsen,

1990, p . 153)

“There Was an Old Woman” used dissolves between the flashbacks and regular narrative, and within the flashbacks and the regular narrative. At times, they appeared to be used to create a “deeper connection” between the two shots involved, as Balazs described them (Balazs cited in Morrissette, 1985, p. 19). For example, within the young Emily flashback, the shot dissolved between Emily walking up to the door and her small body standing before the door as it opened slowly. This use of a dissolve would support the theory offered in Section 2 that the door was a metaphor with special meaning and its opening for Emily indicated she was entering Aunt T ild y ’s life as w ell as her house. That the dissolves w ere used to separate some of the flashbacks from the narrative itself could indicate the time distinction between the scenes, and to a lesser degree the place, since Aunt Tildy was sitting in the parlor and the flashbacks took place in the parlor, the utility room and the bedroom. Fade tn W hite As mentioned in section 4, the striking use of a “fade to white” [as opposed to black] transition was used between the 250 flashback showing the death of Aunt Tildy’s father and the present day shot of her describing her actions after his death. Aunt Tildy’s face materializing out of the white screen that had just been the shot of her dying father not only tied the two characters together but related their two deaths as well, providing the “deeper connection” between the two shots that Baldzs had found (Balazs cited in Morrissette, 1985, p. 19). In conclusion, the use of such transitions as fades and dissolves in “There Was an Old Woman” followed the dictates of Morrissette (1985) and Madsen (1990) in that fades were used to show major breaks in time and space and dissolves were to indicate more minor interruptions of time and space. The use of a “white out” as a transition provided a spectacular effect that served to connect the two images of Aunt Tildy’s death and her fath e r’s. This analysis suggests that while fades and dissolves have been used to separate scenes of different times and locations, possibilities exist of creating new ways, such as the white out, not only to separate but to relate two distinct images in a “deeper connection between two shots” (Bal£zs cited in Morrissette,1985, P-19).

Summary In adapting his literary story, “There Was an Old Woman” to the cinematic program of The Ray Bradbury Theater, Bradbury retained large blocks of his protagonist’s monologue [while 251 rewriting or eliminating some of her more dated and outlandish expressions], thus permitting the viewer to understand her by hearing what she was thinking. The program also explored unusual lighting, sound effects and camera movements to create an inspired “memory pan” that used what Withers (1983) called the filmic devices of sound and image without resorting to traditional dialogue or action to show emotion-filled recollections. Bradbury attempted to follow Withers’ (1983) advice to translate the literary devices of images and metaphors to film (p. 180), by using “filmic devices of action, dialogue, sound and image” (p. 180). In doing so, he created several new metaphors, expanded upon literary ones and omitted still others. Created metaphors with additional associations, such as closure, extended the meaning of images by making them more dense and pervasive (Harrington, 1973, p. 15). And the increased associations in the personification of death also led to the intensification of its effect. The chronology of the program followed that of the story except for an introductory voice-over exposition that revealed background data with narration as well as setting information through the visuals. A sense of past was projected with the creation of a younger voice by electronically distorting the protagonist’s voice for the flashbacks. The basic elements of mise-en-scene: the setting, props and actors/actresses as well as the more technical elements of lighting, color and camera movement were carefully constructed to create the two contrasting sets of the house and the mortuary. The actors 252 and actresses particularly fulfilled Klinge & McConkey’s (1982) emphasis on physical appearance with articulate nonverbal activity that accentuated their performances with the shading of voice and gesture that Pudovkin (1988) suggested. Colors were used, as Klinge & McConkey (1982) indicated to “establish, develop, and sustain mood (p. 65) with black and white representing death, while blue and yellow were used to contrast reality and a dream. Inventive camera shots such as the sweeping pan, memory pan and wavy shot, as Winston (1973) indicated, attempted to make the viewer a participant, rather than a passive observer (p. 33). Like “The Murderer,” “There was an Old Woman” also employed a multiple-layered sound track which was used to recall a memory and bring it to life. The program’s most innovative audio effect was the scream and crash that first occurred without a visual reference and then with a dramatic deathbed scene. This created an audio precursor that linked two scenes together, producing what Giannetti (1987) called the more powerful sound effect, because its meaning was determined by its dramatic context (p. 156). To adapt his story to fit the three-act television structure, Bradbury created act endings that, while they would not be termed cliffhangers (See, 1987), provided the program with distinct final finishing flourishes. The story was simplified and 253 made more explicit by the protagonist’s opening voice-over exposition and by the escalation of the story’s metaphors. “There Was an Old Woman” followed the adaptation tenets set down by Stanton (1977), Bluestone (1957) and McDougal (1985). The actress playing the protagonist supplied ample testimony for Stanton’s (1977) conventional view that “the expression of an actor’s [or actress’s] face” can show a character’s thought or state of mind (p. 39), while providing one of Bluestone’s (1957) “signs” arranged “for our visual perception . . . to lead us to infer thought” (p. 48). McDougal’s (1985) argument that the visual media must show while the written must tell (p. 116) was also well demonstrated in the series of memory pans that attempted to show the protagonist’s thoughts and remembrances. Retaining the narrator from the story allowed for necessary exposition in the program. Using subjective shots permitted viewers to see through the eyes of the protagonist as Marcus (1971) described, as well as to experience her emotional intensity as she participated in the action (Boggs, 1985). Exceptional perspectives were offered in the adaptation: that of the protagonist turning to answer an unexplained flashback and the point of view shot from the interior of a coffin. Regarding transitions, “There Was an Old Woman” followed the prescriptions of Morrissette (1985) and Madsen (1990) in that fades were used to show major breaks in time and space and dissolves for the more minor breaks. Aural transitions, that Orlik (1988) found to be a significant part of the overall picture (p. 96), 254 were also employed to propel the viewer from one shot to the next (Orlik, 1988, p. 94). And the most dramatic “white out” transition served not only to separate, but to relate two distinct images in what Bal£zs (1985) had called a “deeper connection between two shots” (Balazs cited in Morrissette, 1985, p. 19). To highlight, the program of “There Was an Old Woman” managed to adapt the written text by using innovative cinematographic techniques such as the memory pan, wavy shot Like the“The Murderer,” the audio was an important element in the adaptation: as a transitional device, as a precursor that linked two scenes, as a technique to create a sense of past and as a multi­ leveled sound track in the memory device. Similarly, it employed memorable flashback sequences that used image and audio to provide the protagonist’s perspective of past events. The next chapter will summarize all the findings of the dissertation and make suggestions for future research in the area of adaptations from the written artifact to the cinematic text.. End Notes

1 Because I could not stop for Death

Because I could not stop for Death- He kindly stopped for me- The carriage held but just Ourselves- And Immortality.

We slowly drove-He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility-

We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess-in the Ring- We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain- We passed the Setting Sun-

Or Rather-He Passed Us- The Dews drew quivering and chill- For only Gossamer, my Gown- My Tippet-only Tulle-

We paused before a House that seemed A swelling of the Ground- The Roof was scarcely visible- The Cornice-in the Ground-

Since then-’tis Centuries-and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses Heads Were toward Eternity -

Emily Dickinson

^Jeffrey Katz, vice president in charge of publicity for Atlantis Films, one of the companies that produce The Ray Bradbury Theater , said that “There Was an Old Woman” was filmed under 256 the auspices of Great Britain’s Granada Television in England, around the Manchester area (personal interview, May 3, 1993).

3When asked about casting Mary Morris, a British star not well known in America, Katz said they had to cast a British citizen and that Morris is well-known in Great Britain. Katz added that Kinnear and Lacey [the undertaker and the Listener, respectively, in “There Was an Old Woman”] are recognized in the United States for their film work (personal interview, May 3, 1993).

^See End Note # 1. CHAPTER IV Conclusion Findings This chapter highlights findings of this study. In particular, the chapter overviews how the analyses in Chapters II and III contribute to research on and practice in adapting written texts for cinem a. Among the many findings made in the two analysis chapters, there are five categories particularly worthy of note. These are grouped below under the headings Fade, Subjective/Objective, Audio, Metaphor, and Unanticipated Additional Findings. In each case, the relevant findings inform one or more of the eight concerns on which this project has focussed. The discussion below identifies each finding and explains its contribution to adaptation research on one or more of the relevant concerns. Fade One of the eight concerns addressed in this study was that of the transition. Recall that adapters are faced with the challenge of propelling the viewer from one shot to the next (Orlik, 1988). Previous research has recognized the role fade can play in addressing some features of this concern. For example, Madsen (1990) demonstrated that fades can be used within the body of a program to separate major scenes because viewers have been conditioned to accept the fade-out, fade in, as signifying a major 257 258 change of time or location, from one scene to the next. And Morrissette (1985) found that the viewer will accept that months and even years have transpired during the minute that the picture faded to black and back up again. In short, previous research has shown that the fade can synthesize time, space, cause and effect (Morrissette, 1985). Consistent with Morrissette’s (1985) and Madsen’s (1990) findings regarding the use of fades to indicate major breaks in time and space, the adaptations analyzed here employed the recognized fade to black and fade back up. However, the analyses challenge a fundamental assumption about the use of fade. All previous research has assumed that fade to black is the only viable tool available to propel viewers from one place in space and time to another. This study has revealed a creative alternative. Bradbury’s use of fade to white, instead of black, created an unsettling effect that resulted in a “deeper connection between two shots,” an outcome previously only associated with the use of dissolves (Balazs, 1985). This study’s discovery of this innovative transitional device brings to light the possibilities of creating new ways to not only separate but relate two distinct images. Subjective/Obiective

Critical to the study of the adaptation process, as we have seen, is the problem of translating subjective thought processes. Translating characters’ thoughts and points of view creates difficult problems for adapters (Morrissette, 1985). Hilliard (1984) clarified the nature of the problem. According to Hilliard, while an 259 author of a prose work can “describe people, explain their feelings and clarify the situations, motivations and even the action through examples or illustrations, the screenwriter cannot. She or he can explain nothing, but must show everything” (Hilliard, 1984, p. 345). This perspective-that the written medium can tell while the visual medium must show—is generally accepted and acknowledged. Some argue, like Morrissette (1985), that presenting a protagonist’s mental content can be difficult, if not impossible, on either the small or large screen. Others, like Corliss (1991), bluntly describe the dichotomy as if the two will never overlap: “films observe and novels analyze. Films are outside; novels are inside. Films are about what people do; novels are about what people think” (p. 45). As early as 1957, Bluestone suggested that film cannot show thought directly. According to Bluestone (1957), even the most refined efforts to show characters thinking, feeling, and speaking, do not succeed in showing directly their thoughts and feelings (p. 48). Braudy (1977) clarifies one major feature of this problem. According to Braudy, books can give us insight into a character’s inner life, but film must accept the necessity of defining problems of character “primarily in terms of a character’s actions and statements” (pp. 184-5). Stanton (1977) also contends that the visual medium is unable to reveal the thoughts of a character as “effectively and profoundly as a novel can with its techniques of interior monologue or stream of consciousness” (p. 39). Stanton 260 (1977) notes accordingly that “books can give us insight into a character’s inner life” while film cannot. In response to this difficult problem, Withers (1983) proposes shifting away from interior monologue passages and moving toward physical action, visual and spatial effects and concrete objects. More generally, Withers (1983) proposes that “the filmmaker must find ways of casting the content of such passages into the filmic devices of action, dialogue, sound and image” (p. 180). Traditionally, adaptation research has focussed on the first two of these elements. This is likely because most adaptations use action and dialogue to address the problem of communicating inner thoughts and feelings. This study reveals a creative alternative in line with Wither’s last two suggestions. Bradbury used sound and image to address his translation problem. For example, Chapter III revealed Bradbury’s use of the cinematographic techniques of a circular pan, color, and audio accompaniment to reveal the protagonist’s internal turmoil. His use of these techniques directly conveyed to the viewer specific thoughts and feelings without the use of either words or action. Bradbury’s effective reliance on image and sound provides a useful exemplar for other adapters faced with similar translation problems. Similarly, this study reveals that adapters have available to them other sophisticated, subtle camera techniques to convey emotions. Chapter III, for example, identified Bradbury’s use of camera focus, camera movement, and lighting effects to 261 communicate the protagonist’s inner thoughts and feelings. Once again, adapters attempting to translate written texts to the cinematic can effectively exploit the techniques introduced here. Finally, this study illustrated how adapters can combine cinematographic techniques, such as arcing and lighting, to achieve a heightened awareness of the protagonist’s feelings. This method of combining technical elements was illustrated in both Chapters II and HI and offers adapters a variety of innovative alternative approaches to translation.

A ud io Another important concern addressed in this study of the adaptation process is Morrissette’s (1985) recognition of the challenges involved in adapting a single register work, such as a novel, into one that uses a double register of image and sound, such as film or television. In each instance the adapter must make difficult choices regarding the audio component. This study reveals several creative alternatives available to adapters faced with this challenge. While the importance of the audio channel has been underestimated in favor of the visual, Giannetti (1987) found that sounds can provide precise sources of meaning. Madsen (1990) elaborated that the primary purpose of sound is to complement and enhance the viewer’s understanding of what he or she sees on the screen (p. 306). This study contributes specific insights and techniques and clearly underscores what others have realized regarding the potential value of the audio channel. 262 One of the most powerful sounds in a visual medium, according to Giannetti, (1987) can be the sound that is heard, but not seen. He amplifies: “since we tend to fear what we can’t see, directors will sometimes use off-screen sound effects to strike a note of anxiety” (Giannetti, 1987, p. 155). Therefore, the sound of a creaking door in a darkened room can be more frightening than the image of someone stealing in through the door (Giannetti, 1987, p. 155). This study supports Giannetti’s assertions. Chapter III found such an off-screen sound effect that produced not only anxiety but something similar to what Balazs previously described as a “deeper connection.” The off-screen effect [or what could be called a sound- over, as opposed to the more well-known voice-over], was used early in the program and then appeared later, with its matching visual effect. This technique produced a two-tiered result. First, the sound-over without visual references confused/annoyed the viewer but it also captured his or her attention. Later, when it was both heard and seen in context, a connection was created between the two events and the viewer was rewarded with a sense of accomplishment for having figured out the puzzle of the missing video. Since we fear what we can’t see (Giannetti, 1987), especially since in this case the sound-over was that of scream followed by a crash, the first sound-over without a visual reference was all the more effective in frightening the viewer. In deliberately using an effect that guarantees viewer confusion, Bradbury defied the Simplification/Explicitness tenets 263 found in Morrissette’s discussion of the Cinematic Versus Literary “Universe.” Further, Bradbury’s innovative use of sound defied the widely held precept, introduced by Winston (1973), that, because viewers cannot take time to reflect on what they are seeing or hearing and because the audience’s ability to comprehend a film is more limited than their ability to comprehend a book, everything must be done to keep them from being inadvertently confused. Bradbury recognized today’s audience, raised on a visually- stimulating diet of Sesame Street and MTV, to be more visually sophisticated than those of previous generations. He offered them a challenge, a puzzle to decipher. Bradbury’s innovative use of audio to enhance direct audience engagement directly addresses McLuhan’s (1964) concerns regarding television as a “cool medium” in which audiences respond only passively. Bradbury’s use of audio offers techniques for transforming “cool” to “hot” media. In sum, Bradbury’s innovative uses of audio offer encouragement to other adapters who would seek to challenge those who see inherent limits in cinematic and televisual communication. In addition to using audio to transcend the perceived limits of cinematic media, Bradbury also used sound to create mental imagery. This application of audio techniques supports Klinge and McConkey’s (1982) view that sound can effectively create mental imagery through carefully recorded arrangements of voices, music and sound effects (p. 141). As revealed in Chapter II, Bradbury reproduced many futuristic sounds he had written to produce 264 mental imagery. This was accomplished by exploiting natural, mechanical and electronic effects (Klinge & McConkey, 1982, p. 11). As a result, Bradbury was able to bring to life the sounds about which he had previously only written. Bradbury used beeps, buzzes, and other sounds to build a multiple-layered soundtrack deeply affecting the viewer [listener]. This method supports the widely accepted view that to be heard over music, people must talk louder, and then to be heard over the music and the louder voices, people talk even louder until they are almost screaming. In addition, however, Chapter II reveals an innovative technique not previously recognized in adaptation research. By contrasting multi­ layered sound with silence, Bradbury provides audible confirmation to his message of the danger of over-mechanization. Through this use of sound and silence, Bradbury was able to fully translate his apocalyptic message. Bradbury also used audio to address another key concern in the adaptation literature. Recall Morrissette’s (1985) concern with chronology. One central facet of this concern is the problem of recreating the past. The visual medium’s immediacy (Jinks, 1971) creates the strong sense of present tense, of a ‘here and now’ experience” (Boggs, 1985, p. 310) by treating the past and even the future as if they were in the present tense (Lawson, 1964). With all this immediacy, it is difficult for the medium to address the p ast. Traditionally, adaptation researchers focussed on the use of visual techniques such as special filters to create a sense of past 265 time [hazy faded images, sepia tones, etc]. Boggs (1985), however, proposed use of audio techniques to address this adaptation problem. According to Boggs, sound can be used to capture the sense of past memories. For example, voice-over narration of an adult recalling childhood experiences can be an effective audio amplification, creating an intimate sense of past time. This study supports and supplements Boggs’ perspective. Chapter III revealed the use of electronic distortion. With the help of a low-pass filter, the protagonist’s voice was altered to sound younger during the flashback scenes. Bradbury effectively alternated the voices of the elder and youth as the scenes switched from flashback to the regular narrative, even though the voice­ over was a continuous narration. This use of audio kept the audience aware of past and present time without any reference to the visual. Related is Casty’s (1971) recommendation that speakers’ voices can be used to reveal characters. In particular, Casty recommended that adapters use voice fluctuations to communicate emotions. Further, according to Casty, distorting the speaker’s voice, by paralleling their feelings, helps audiences experience the character’s emotional state (p. 107). Chapter III supports Casty’s findings. Here, the female protagonist's younger, sweeter voice belied a vulnerability besides recreating her youth. In this instance, however, Bradbury supplemented the use of voice with camera techniques. Intercutting close-up shots with flashbacks, Bradbury reminded viewers of the present. This combination of 266 camera work with audio techniques addressed both the past/present translation problem and the difficult challenge of communicating a characters’ feelings. Finally, this study underscores the important role audio can make in addressing the important and complex problem of transition. More particularly, this study vividly illustrates how audio can be used in concert with visual techniques to move viewers from one fram e and concept to the next. Orlik (1988) supports a role for aural transitions in this process. He cites in particular Hill Street Blues ‘ use of the roll call audio over a digital clock on a black screen to mimic our ears “waking” up before our eyes. As Orlik notes, the audio is killed at the end of a television newscast while the anchors are still onscreen “to suggest that they continue on in their duties even though their sharing with us is temporarily suspended” ( p. 96). This study reveals Bradbury’s use of similar techniques. In Chapter II, Bradbury helped propel audiences from scene to scene by complementing visual portrayals with different music backgrounds. Further, Bradbury used aural transitions to help create metaphors. As was discussed in Chapter II, this was accomplished this by providing “sound-overs” during the visual channel’s fades. Msiaplisis Metaphors represent another key concern for adapters. It has long been recognized that translating literary language to the cinema is laden with problems. As Jinks (1971) notes, the visual 267 medium must necessarily render abstractions such as metaphors, similes and symbols into concrete images. According to Bluestone (1957), film necessarily leaves behind “those characteristic contents of thought which only language can approximate: tropes, dreams, memories, conceptual consciousness” and supplies in their stead, “endless spatial variations, photographic images of physical reality, and the principles of montage and editing” (p. 48). Harrington (1973) identified metaphor as the first film trope. “As in verbal languages, a film metaphor is an implied analogy linking one image to another and associating qualities of one with the other” (Harrington, 1973, p. 148). According to Harrington, “most film metaphors work to evoke feelings in the viewer, chiefly by helping him to relate remembrances and associations from his (sic) own life to experiences handled on screen” (Harrington, 1973, p. 148). Harrington (1973) found further that metaphors are inherently illogical (p. 149). A person compares two things that have no natural relationship and yet [in an effective metaphor] the vehicle will throw light upon the tenor by forcing the viewer to consider similarities between the two and see them in a fresh way

(Harrington, 1973, p. 1 4 9). Harrington (1973) concluded that the visual language of the cinema had on© distinct advantage over verbal language of a written text in that a film can use both verbal language and film language (p. 149). “Metaphors can be constructed from a montage of sound plus sound, visual plus visual or sound plus visual”

(Harrington, 1973, p. 1 4 9). And, from montage’s counterpointing 268 and juxtaposing grows the effective cinematic metaphor where the whole becomes much greater than the sum of its parts (Harrington, 1973, p. 149). Finally, the importance of metaphors, symbols and allusions, Harrington (1973) stressed, is in how they all extend the meaning of an image by increasing its associations and making it into something more dense and pervasive than it appears on the surface. Given Bradbury’s reputation as a writer whose style explodes with literary metaphors, one could reasonably anticipate that his adaptation o f them would be replete with cinematic metaphors that could, *n Harrington’s (1973) words, “construct interesting and evocative im ag es with w idely ranging associations and implications” where the image takes on more meaning than its physical configuration alone suggests, just as a cross means more than one s tic k of wood nailed to another” (pp. 147-8). The frustration of this expectation in this study underscores the difficuity of this element of translation. Although a great many metaphors w e re transferred from the w ritten to th e visual medium, the largest majority of those adapted remained verbal rather than visual or audio metaphors, and were usually spoken by the protagonist, chapter III f0Und Bradbury had adapted four and created three metaphors of clocks, pictures, needlework, and doors. He created three m ore for the program, those o f windows, bed and war- Of the created metaphors, only two were visual while the third remained spoken in the protagonist's monologue. The two visual translations created for the program, showed, as might 269 be expected, the most ingenuity and thought. By mixing in easily recognizable metaphors (curtain falling as finale) with less established metaphors, Bradbury intensified the visual metaphor. Using the same metaphor several times in slightly different ways created a visual pattern that suggests the repetition of a visual image is an effective way of tying, or relating, two disparate scenes. The other created metaphor was more illuminating of the potential afforded by translation from written to visual texts. In this instance, Bradbury used frequent display to relate three different characters and to keep images vividly in the audience’s perception. Again the pattern of repetitions weighted this metaphor (bed) heavily in the narrative. Bradbury’s use of this technique supports Harrington’s (1973) recommendation to develop “a montage of sound plus sound, visual plus visual or sound plus visual” (Harrington, 1973, p. 149).

Although Bradbury did not do as much with visual tropes as was expected of an author who thrives on metaphorical language, the symbols and metaphors he chose to adapt and the ones he chose to create were particularly inventive, supplementing previous research in this area. The discussion below provides an overview of these contributions.

As Harrington (1973) notes, metaphors use images as analogies to illustrate and clarify an idea or quality (p. 149). With a metaphor, "the same images used in a different situation will take on another meaning . . .(but) a symbol • • -evokes a network of 270 interrelated meanings and is used consistently in the same way . . .call[ing] forth a level of meaning beyond what can be found in immediate detail” (Harrington, 1973, p. 149). Film symbols, like print symbols, come in two varieties: those with universal or widely agreed-upon meanings and those with meaning generated within a work (Harrington, 1973, p. 149). Examples of agreed upon meanings would include a circle to suggest continuity and endlessness, formed by the wheel or the wedding band (Harrington, 1973, p. 149). According to Harrington, however, the most effective film symbols will be those generated within a film to fulfill a particular rhetorical need (p. 150). Eisenstein opened his film Potemkin with shots of boiling borscht intercut inhuman working conditions, so that the borscht came to symbolize the increasing agitation of the crew which led to rebellion. Welles created the estate of Xanadu in Citizen Kane and it became a symbol of Kane: “greedily rich, large and dominating but hollow and cavernous” (Harrington, 1973, p. 150). The very abstraction of symbols offers cinematic adapters the opportunity to experiment with effects. As film director Pierto Pasolini explained, if cinema cannot directly express the metaphor, it can still create such an impression in the viewer’s mind by forcing the images. If the film-maker wants to represent Gennarino as having the characteristics of a hyena, she or he can show the image of Gennarino grinding his teeth in such a way that the viewer can form her or his own mental picture of the corresponding metaphor, i.e. the hyena, or if not exactly a hyena, 27 1 then perhaps a panther or a jackal” (Pierto Pasolini cited in (Winston, 1973, p. 60). Bradbury’s use of symbols as indicated in Chapters II and III again revealed the importance of using audio as well as video. As with metaphors, symbols can “be constructed from a montage of sound plus sound, visual plus visual or sound plus visual” (Harrington, 1971, p. 149). Chapter II showed how new hyperbolic sequences involving actor voice and movement were creatgd to show the protagonist’s progressively hyperbolic responses to events in his life. And the opening segment discussed in Chapter II showed how using a fast-paced hyperbole against accepted type can draw attention to and intensify a meaning in a scene. Further, the study revealed the use of film symbols to fulfill what Harrington (1973) called a particular rhetorical need (p. 150). One specific example of a generated symbol would be the sewing metaphor found in Chapter III in both the original story and the adapted program. Besides creating a sense of past by endowing a character with a somewhat old-fashioned trait, the needlework further defined the character as someone whose hands were never idle. That connotation could be considered what Harrington (1973) referred to as a universal or widely agreed-upon meaning. It was also used to show how the mortician put the protagonist back together in one piece. Recall that while the mortician was sewing back the protagonist, an audio effect was used to depict the sound of a needle going through flesh. This was the only even slightly morbid touch to a scene, that in different hands, could have 272 revealed body organs, blood, embalming fluid, etc. As noted in Chapter III, graphically portraying the procedure would not have been in keeping with the genteel ambience of the adaptation. Instead, Bradbury’s use of this audio effect served to highlight the sewing metaphor and strengthen its overall rhetorical impact. Perhaps more importantly, Bradbury supplemented this effect with a powerful use of voice-over and trucking out. In the very important position of the final line, making it the last words the viewer would hear in the program, the protagonist repeats the line, “Not bad sewing for a man, now bad sewing for a man,” referring to her autopsy stitches. Through this specific reference to the protagonist’s autopsy, this stated reference fulfilled the rhetorical need of closure (Harrington, 1973, p. 149). This use of a visual metaphor to indicate closure, [with its threads all neatly tied up], according to Luhr & Lehman (1977), would greatly increase the audience’s appreciation of it because it offered them the impression of a “nicely rounded palette of reality” that is not present with actual human experience (p. 180). Thus needlework, instead of merely indicating an occupation for a character, provided her with justification for living, [see Chapter II and Dickinson’s poem] indicated closure, and left the viewer with a vivid image of what the protagonist had been through. It further justified this study’s claim that audio effects should not be overlooked or underrated. Another example of a vivid metaphor and one created wholly for the adaptation process, was the bed discussed in 273 Chapter III. As a symbol of death, it was shown several times with lovers, apparently dead or dying bodies on it before it was graphically presented with a foreground-dominant shot of a rolled-up mattress. Even if its brass frame or stripped mattress did not resemble any bed the viewer had ever seen, it could still, as Pasolini (1973) indicated, be representative enough of deathbeds to allow the viewers to form their own mental pictures of such. And although it could be considered a universal symbol of death, its repeated use during the adaptation made it a strong symbol. One further example of Bradbury creatively presenting an evocative visual metaphor was discussed in Chapter II. He was attempting to create an analogous image for the extensive metaphorical language used in the short story to describe the protagonist’s smile. The exhaustive written references to contrasts in light [“High noon at midnight” and “dawn among dark hills”] could not logically and believably be reconstructed in the windowless jail cell where the scene took place, if he had wanted to juxtapose cuts of a sunny window scene with close-ups of the protagonist’s smile to create an obvious connection between the two objects. It was too early for flashback to provide any illustration, since the protagonist had yet to seen and therefore would not be recognized in a flashback, smile Rather than toss out the metaphor, Bradbury instead created an alternative visual trope. To create the bright smile contrasted with dark, the adaptation hid the protagonist in the shadows where the psychiatrist and the audience could hear but not see 274 him for the first encounter. When he did emerge from the shadows, his sudden appearance could be likened to that of the sun emerging from behind a dark cloud. Thus, while on the one hand this study underscores the difficulty in translating literary figures to visual texts, analysis of two Bradbury adaptations reveals ways in which adapters can create alternative strategies to translate their texts.

Unanticipated Additional Finding*;: As this study has shown, one of the important features of the adaptation process is the way in which adaptation uses cinematography to address some of the problems involved in translating material from a medium that possesses the one register of words to a medium that has both image and sound. This study supported, for example, Winston’s (1973) and Orlik’s (1988) view that the trucking camera shot can be used to draw the audience closer to the subject, and allow them to “enter” the picture. Further, the study illustrated the trucking shot’s potential value to opening and closing shots. Another camera move, that of the horizontal movement or pan (Blumenberg, 1975), was also shown to expedite the adaptation process. The use of a pan that swept across walls and props allowed the viewer to take a quick but close-up look at how and where the protagonist lived. This technique provided more expositional information in a more efficient manner than would be proffered by the more traditional static establishing long shot. 275 Innovations such as these fall into no particular category of problems to be anticipated in an adaptation. Rather, they supply important information on how the adaptation process could be improved. Perhaps another category labelled innovations would be an appropriate and viable addition to the current list of categories.

Suggestions for future research Based on the findings of this study, recommendations for future research would include focussing attention on the additional roles audio can play in the adaptation process. This could include the use of audio to enhance visual interpretations of written metaphors as well as the use of audio as a transitional device. While applying this suggestion specifically to the adaptations, the general use of audio in the cinematographic industry should be studied further, given the technological advances in the field of sound, [digital sound, home entertainment centers, etc.] in both transmission and receiving. Action and dialogue have been studied at the expense of sound and image in adaptation and this neglect could be rectified by concentrating study on how sound and image are also used to translate the written text to the visual. Image creation using innovative cinematographic techniques in the area of camera movement also needs to be explored further in the adaptation of a written work. Analyzing how these created images can be used to illustrate written metaphorical language is another avenue that could be explored. 276 And other case studies of authors/adapters similarly situated should be considered as well as additional studies on the multi­ talented Bradbury. Although Bradbury showed that much could be done with fades, objective and subjective view points, audio and metaphors, with an ever increasing sophistication in both the viewer and the visual m edia industry technology, th ere will be am ple opportunity for further study 0f the adaptation process in the future. B eyond theses specific issues raised by the discussion of the eight adaptation concerns, several additional questions regarding the future of adaptation research have come to light. The first and primary concern is what exactly are the constituents of adaptation: can anything actually be considered an adaptation- This dissertation reveals a num ber of m ajo r changes necessary for the transfer o f one story to another m edium , even for an author/adapter such as Bradbury who controls both media. These changes beg the question of whether the adapted tex t is the sam e artifact or not. A related concern, given the significant changes found in the adaptation of metaphors [omission, expansion, and extensive modifications], is whether it is meaningful to even use the word metaphor to describe visual imagery. And while these two questions have evolved from a general analysis of the adaptation process, a third question from an unrelated though potentially provocative area has been raised. Although not related to the eight concerns followed in this study, an assessment of the impact of the adaptation process on gender characterization is in order. The characteristics of the two female protagonists were altered in the two programs to create stereotypes that both weakened and demeaned the characters. For example, “The Murderer” turned a brief written mention that the protagonist’s wife called him at work into a leading character of a hen-pecking harridan. The other episode, “There Was an Old Woman” took the strong spinster protagonist and provided her with a dead lover and a more dominating father. Both changes were major departures from the written text. Future research may explore this phenomenon to determine what role, if any, the adaptation process itself has on generating gender stereotypes. Such work would contribute significantly to the field of communication. BIBLIOGRAPHY

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297 298 The following is transcription of “The Murderer,” a short story written Ray Bradbury, and collected in The Storing of Rav Bradbury. (1980, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, pp. 241-247).

Music moved with him in the white halls. He passed an office door: “The Merry Widow Waltz.” Another door:“Afternoon o f a Faun." A third: “Kiss Me Again”. He turned into a cross-corridor: “The Sword Dance” buried him in cymbals, drums, pots, pans, knives, forks, thunder and tin lightning. All washed away as he hurried through an anteroom where a secretary sat nicely stunned by Beethoven’s Fifth. He moved himself before her eyes like a hand; she didn’t see him. His wrist radio buzzed. “Yes?” “This is Lee, Dad. Don’t forget about my allowance.” “Yes, Son, yes. I’m busy.” “Just didn’t want you to forget, Dad,” said the wrist radio. Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet swarmed about the voice and flushed into the long halls. The psychiatrist moved in the beehive of offices, in the cross-pollination of themes, Stravinsky mating with Bach, Haydn unsuccessfully repulsing Rachmaninoff, Schubert slain by Duke Ellington. He nodded to the humming secretaries and the whistling doctors fresh to their morning work. At his office he checked a few papers with his stenographer, who sang under her breath, then phoned the police captain upstairs. A few minutes later a red light blinked, a voice said from the ceiling: “Prisoner delivered to Interview Chamber Nine.” He unlocked the chamber door, stepped in, heard the door lock behind him. “Go away,” said the prisoner, smiling. The psychiatrist was shocked by that smile, A very sunny, pleasant warm thing, a thing that shed bright light upon the room. Dawn among the dark hills. High noon at midnight, that smile. The blue eyes sparkled serenely above that display of self-assured d e n tistry . “I’m here to help you,” said the psychiatrist, frowning. Something was wrong with the room. He had hesitated the moment he entered. He glanced around. The prisoner laughed. “If you’re wondering why it’s so quite in here, I just kicked the radio to d e a th .” 299 Violent, thought the doctor. The prisoner read this thought, smiled, put out a gentle hand. “No, only to machines that yak-yak-yak.” Bits of the wall radio’s tubes and wires lay on the gray carpeting. Ignoring these, feeling that smile upon him like a heat lamp, the psychiatrist sat across from his patient in the unusual silence which was like the gathering of a storm. “You’re Mr. Albert Brock, who calls himself The Murderer?” Brock nodded pleasantly. “Before we start....” He moved quietly and quickly to detach the wrist radio from the doctor’s arm. He tucked it in his teeth like a walnut, gritted, heard it crack, handed it back to the appalled psychiatrist as if he had done them both a favor. “That’s better.” The psychiatrist stared at the ruined machine. “You’re running up quite a damage bill.” “I don’t care,” smiled the patient. “As the old song goes: ‘Don’t Care What Happens to Me!”’ He hummed it. The psychiatrist said: “Shall we start?” “Fine. The first victim, or one of the first, was my telephone. Murder most foul. I shoved it in the kitchen Insinkerator! Stopped the disposal unit in mid-swallow. Poor thing strangled to death. After that I shot the television set!” The psychiatrist said, “Mmmm.” “Fired six shots right through the cathode. Made a beautiful tinkling crash, like a dropped chandelier.” “Nice imagery.” “Thanks, I always dreamt of being a writer.” “Suppose you tell me when you first began to hate the telephone. “It frightened me as a child. Uncle of mine called it the Ghost Machine. Voices without bodies. Scared the living hell out of me. Later in life I was never comfortable. Seemed to me a phone was an impersonal instrument. If it felt like it, it let your personality go through its wires. If it didn’t want to, it just drained your personality away until what slipped through at the other end was some cold fish of a voice, all steel, copper, plastic, no warmth, no reality. It’s easy to say the wrong thing on telephones; the telephone changes your meaning on you. First thing you know, you’ve made an enemy. Then, of course, the telephone’s such a convenient thing; it just sits there and demands you call someone who doesn’t want to be called. Friends were always calling, calling, calling me. Hell, I hadn’t any time of my own. When it wasn’t the 300 telephone it was the television, the radio, the phonograph. When it wasn’t the television or radio or the phonograph it was motion pictures at the corner theater, motion pictures projected, With commercials on low-lying cumulus clouds. It doesn’t rain rain any more, it rains soapsuds. When it wasn’t High-Fly Cloud advertisements, it was music by Mozzek in every restaurant; music and commercials on the busses I rode to work. When it wasn’t music, it was interoffice ^communications, and my horror chamber of a radio wristwatch on which my friends and my wife phoned every five minutes. What is there about such ‘conveniences’ that makes them so temptingly convenient? The average man thinks, Here I am, time on my hands, and there on my wrist is wrist telephone, so why not just buzz Old Joe up, eh? ‘H ello,hell0r 1 love my friends, my wife, humanity, very much, but when one minute my wife calls to say ‘W here are younow, dear?’ anc* a friend calls and says, ‘Got the best off-color joke to tell y0u- Seems there was a guy-’ And a stranger calls and cries out, ‘This is the Find-Fax Poll. What gum are you chewing at this very instam? ’ W ell!” “How did you feel during the week?” “The fuse lit. On the edge of the cliff. That same afternoon I did what I did at the office.” “Which was?” “I poured a paper cup of water into the intercommunications system .” The psychiatrist wrote on his pad. “And the system shorted?” “Beautifully. The Fourth of July on wheels! M y God, stenographers ran around looking lostl What an uproar!” “Felt better temporarily, eh?” “Fine! Then I got the idea at noon of stomping my wrist radio on the sidewalk. A shrill voice was just yelling out of it at me, ‘This is People’s Poll Number Nine. What did you eat f°r lunch?’ when I kicked the Jesus out of the wrist radio.” “Felt even better, eh?” “It grew on me!” Brock rubbed his hands together. “Why didn’t I start a solitary revolution, deliver man fr°m certain ‘conveniences’? ‘Convenient for who?’ I cried. Convenient for friends: ‘Hey, Al, thought I’d call you from the locker room out here at Green Hills. Just made a sockdolager hole i*1 one- A hole *n one, Al! A beautiful day. Having a shot of whiskey now. Though* you’d want to know, Al!’ Convenient for my office, so when 1’n* *n the field with my radio car there’s no moment w h e n I’m not in touch. In touch! There’s a slimy phrase. Touch, hell. Gripped! Pawed, rather. Mauled and massaged and pounded by FM voices. You can’t leave your car without checking in: ‘Have stopped to visit gas-station men’s room.’ ‘Okay, Brock, Step on it!’ ‘Brock, whattook you so long?’ ‘Sorry, sir.’ ‘Watch out next time, Brock.’‘Yes, Sir.’ So do you know what I did, Doctor? I bought a quart of French chocolate ice cream and spooned it into the car radio transmitter.” “Was there any special reason for selecting French chocolate ice cream to spoon into the broadcasting unit?” Brock thought about it and smiled. “It’s my favorite flavor.” “Oh,” said the doctor. “I figured, hell, what’s good enough for me is good enough for the radio transmitter.” “What made you think of spooningice cream into the radio?” “It was a hot day.” The doctor paused. “And what happened next? “Silence happened next. God, it was beautiful. That car radio cackling all day, ‘Brock go here, Brock go there, Brock check in, Brock check out, okay Brock, hour lunch, Brock, lunch over, Brock, Brock, Brock.’ Well, that silence was like putting ice cream in my e a rs.” “You seem to like ice cream a lot.” “I just rode around feeling of the silence. It’s a big bolt of the nicest, softest flannel ever made. Silence. A whole hour of it. I just sat in my car, smiling, feeling of that flannel with my ears. I felt drunk with Freedom!” “Go on.” “Then I got the idea of the portable diathermy machine. I rented one, took it on the bus going home that night. There sat all the tired commuters with their wrist radios, talking to their wives, saying, ‘Now I’m at Forty-third, now I’m at Forty-fourth, here I am at Forty-ninth, now turning at Sixty-first.’ One husband cursing, ‘Well, get out of that bar, damn it, and get home and get dinner started, I’m at Seventieth!’ And the transit-system radio playing ‘Tales from the Vienna Woods,’ a canary singing words about a first-rate wheat cereal. Then—I switched on my diathermy! Static! Interference! All wives cut off from husbands grousing about a hard day at the office. All husbands cut off from wives who had just seen their children break a window! The ‘Vienna Woods’ chopped down, the canary mangled. Silencel A terrible, unexpected 302 silence. The bus inhabitants faced with having to converse with each other. Panic! Sheer, animal panic!” “The police seized you?” “The bus had to stop. After all, the music was being scrambled, husbands and wives were out of touch with reality. Pandemonium, riot and chaos. Squirrels chattering in cages! A trouble unit arrived, triangulated on me instantly, had me reprimanded, fined and home, minus my diathermy machine, in jig tim e.” “Mr. Brock, may I suggest that so far your whole pattern here is not very—practical? If you didn’t like transit radios or office radios or car business radios, why didn’t you join a fraternity of radio haters, start petitions, get legal and constitutional rulings? After all, this is a democracy. “And I,” said Brock, “am that thing best called a minority. I did join fraternities, picket, pass petitions, take it to court. Year after year I protested. Everyone laughed. Everyone else loved bus radios and commercials. / was out of step.” “Then you should have taken it like a good soldier, don’t you think? The majority rules.” “But they went too far. If a little music and ‘keeping in touch’ was charming, they figured a lot would be ten times as charming. I went wild] I got home to find my wife hysterical.W hy? Because she had been completely out of touch with me for half a day. Remember, I did a dance on my wrist radio? Well, that night I laid plans to murder my house.” “Are you sure that’s how you want me to write it down?” “That’s semantically accurate. Kill it dead. It’s one of those talking, singing, humming, weather-reporting, poetry-reading, novel-reciting, jingle-jangling, rockabye-crooning-when-you-go- to-bed houses. A house that screams opera to you in the shower and teaches you Spanish in your sleep. One of those blathering caves where all kinds of electronic Oracles make you feel a trifle larger than a thimble, with stoves that say, ‘I’m apricot pie, and I’m done,’ or ‘I’m prime roast beef, so baste me!’ and other nursery gibberish like that. With beds that rock you to sleep and shake you awake. A house that barely tolerates humans, I tell you. A front door that barks: ‘You’ve mud on your feet, sir!’ And an electronic vacuum hound that snuffles around after you from room to room, inhaling every fingernail or ash you drop. Jesus God,I say, Jesus God!” “Quietly,” suggested the psychiatrist. 303 “Remember that Gilbert and Sullivan song—‘I’ve Got It on My List, It Never Will Be Missed’? All night I listed grievances. Next morning early I bought a pistol. Ipurposely muddied my feet. I stood at our front door. The front door shrilled, ‘Dirty feet, muddy feet! Wipe your feet! Please be neatV I shot the damn thing in its keyhole! I ran to the kitchen, where the stove was just whining, ‘Turn me overV In the middle of a mechanical omelet I did the stove to death. Oh, how it sizzled and screamed, ‘I’m shortedV Then the telephone rang like a spoiled brat. I shoved it down the Insinkerator. I must state here and now I have nothing whatever against the Insinkerator; it was an innocent bystander. I feel sorry for it now, a practical device indeed, which never said a word, purred like a sleepy lion most of the time, and digested our leftovers. I’ll have it restored. Then I went in and shot the televisor, that insidious beast, that Medusa, which freezes a billion people to stone every night, staring fixedly, that Siren which called and sang and promised so much and gave, after all, so little, but myself always going back, going back, hoping and waiting until- bang! Like a headless turkey, gobbling, my wife whooped out the front door. The police came. Here Iam i” He sat back happily and lit a cigarette. “And did you realize, in committing these crimes, that the wrist radio, the broadcasting transmitter, the phone, the bus radio, the office intercoms, all were rented or were someone else’s p ro p e rty ? ” “I would do it all over again, so help me God.” The psychiatrist sat there in the sunshine of that beatific sm ile. “You don’t want any further help from the Office of Mental Health? You’re ready to take the consequences?” “This is only the beginning,” said Mr. Brock. “I’m the vanguard of the small public which is tired of noise and being taken advantage of and pushed around and yelled at, every moment music, every moment in touch with some voice somewhere, do this, do that, quick, quick, now here, now there. You’ll see. The revolt begins. My name will go down in history!” “Mmmm.”The psychiatrist seemed to be thinking. “It’ll take time, of course. It was all so enchanting at first. The very idea of these things, the practical uses, was wonderful. They were almost toys, to be played with, but the people got too involved, went too far, and got wrapped up in a pattern of behavior and couldn’t get out, couldn’t admit they were in, even. 304 So they rationalized their nerves as something else. ‘Our modern age,’ they said. ‘Conditions,’ they said. ‘High strung,’ they said. But mark my words, the seed has been sown. I got world-wide coverage on TV, radio, films; there’s an irony for you. That was five days ago. A billion people know about me. Check your financial columns. Any day now. Maybe today. Watch for a sudden spurt, a rise in sales for French chocolate ice cream!” “I see,” said the psychiatrist. “Can I go back to my nice private cell now, where I can be alone and quiet for six months? “Yes,” said the psychiatrist quietly. “Don’t worry about me,” said Mr. Brock, rising. “I’m just going to sit around for a long time stuffing that nice soft bolt of quiet material in both ears.” “Mmmm,” said the psychiatrist, going to the door. “Cheers,” said Mr. Brock. “Yes,” said the psychiatrist. He pressed a code signal on a hidden button, the door, opened, he stepped out, the door shut and locked. Alone, he moved in the offices and corridors. The first twenty yards of his walk were accompanied by “Tambourine Chinois.” Then it was “Tzigane,” Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue in something Minor. “Tiger Rag,” “Love Is Like a Cigarette.” He took his broken wrist radio from his pocket like a dead praying mantis. He turned in at his office. A bell sounded; a voice came out of the ceiling, “Doctor?” “Just finished with Brock,” said the psychiatrist. “Diagnosis?” “Seems completely disoriented, but convivial. Refuses to accept the simplest realities of his environment and work with th em .” “Prognosis?” “Indefinite. Left him enjoying a piece of invisible material.” Three phones rang. A duplicate wrist radio in his desk drawer buzzed like a wounded grasshopper. The intercom flashed a pink light and click-clicked. Three phones rang. The drawer buzzed. Music blew in through the open door. The psychiatrist, humming quietly, fitted the new wrist radio to his wrist, flipped the intercom, talked a moment, picked up one telephone, talked, picked up another telephone, talked, picked up the third telephone, talked, touched the wrist-radio button, talked calmly and quietly, his face cool and serene, in the middle of the music and the lights flashing, the phones ringing again, and his hands 305 moving, and his wrist radio buzzing, and the intercoms talking, and voices speaking from the ceiling. And he went on quietly this way through the remainder of a cool, air-conditioned, and long afternoon; telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio. . APPENDIX B LITERARY TRANSCRIPTION OF THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN

306 3 The following is transcription of “There. Was an Old Woman.” a short story written Ray Bradbury, and collected in The Stories of R av Bradbury. (1980, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, pp. .

“No, there’s no lief arguin’. I got my mind fixed. Run along with your silly wicker basket. Land, where you ever get notions like that? You just skit out of here; don’t bother me, I got my tattin’ and knittin’ to do, and no never minds about tall, dark gentlemen with fangled ideas.” The tall, dark young man stood quietly, not moving. Aunt Tildy hurried on with her talk. "You heard what I said! If you got a mind to talk to me, well, you can talk, but meantime I hope you don’t mind if I pour myself coffee. There. If you’d been more polite, I’d offer you some, but you jump in here high and mighty and you never rapped on the door or nothin’. You think youown the place.” Aunt Tildy fussed with her lap. “Now, you made me lose count! I’m makin’ myself a comforter. These winters get on mighty chill, and it ain’t fittin’ for a lady with bones like rice-paper to be settin’ in a drafty old house without warmin’ herself.” The tall, dark man sat down. “That’s an antique chair, so be gentle,” warned Aunt Tildy. “Start again, tell me things you got to tell, I’ll listen respectful. But keep your voice in your shoes and stop starin’ at me with funny lights in your eyes. Land, it gives me the collywobbles.” The bone-porcelain, flowered clock on the mantel finished chiming three. Out in the hall, grouped around the wicker basket, four men waited, quietly, as if they were frozen. “Now, about that wicker basket,” said Aunt Tildy. “It’s past six feet long, and by the look, it ain’t laundry. And those four men you walked in with, you don’t need them to carry that basket-— why, it’s light as thistles. Eh?” The dark young man was leaning forward on the antique chair. Something in his face suggested the basket wouldn’t be so light after a while. “Pshaw,” Aunt Tildy mused. “Where’ve I seen a wicker like that before? Seems it was only a couple years ago. Seems to me— oh! Now I remember. It was when Mrs. Dwyer passed away next d o o r.” Aunt Tildy set her coffee cup down, sternly. “So that’s what you’re up to? I thought you were workin’ to sell me somethin’. You 30 just set there until my little Emily trounces home from college this afternoon! I wrote her a note last week. Not admittin’, of course, that I wasn’t feelin’ quite ripe and pert, but sort of hintin’ I want to see her again, it’s been a good many weeks. Her livin’ in New York and all. Almost like my own daughter, Emily is. “Now, she’ll take care of you, young man. She’ll shoo you out’n this parlor so quick it’ll ” The dark young man looked at Aunt Tildy as if she were tired. “No, I’m not!” she snapped. He weaved back and forth on the chair, half-shutting his eyes, resting himself. O, wouldn’t she like to rest, too? he seemed to murmur. Rest, rest, nice rest.... “Great sons of Goshen on the Gilberry Dike! I got a hundred comforters, two hundred sweaters and six hundred potholders in these fingers, no matter they’re skinny! You run off, come back when I’m done, maybe I’ll talk to you.” Aunt Tildy shifted subjects. “Let me tell you about Emily, my sweet, fair child.” Aunt Tildy nodded thoughtfully. Emily, with hair like yellow corn tassels, just as soft and fine. “I well remember the day her mother died, twenty years ago, leavin’ Emily to my house. That’s why I’m mad at you and your wickers and such goings-on. Who ever heard of people dyin’ for any good cause? Young man, I don’tlike it. Why, I remember—” Aunt Tildy paused; a brief pain of memory touched her heart. Twenty-five years back, her father’s voice trembled in the late afternoon: “Tildy,” he whispered, “what you goin’ todo in life? The way you act, men don’t walk much with you. You kiss and skedaddle. Why don’t you settle down, marry, raise children?” “Papa,” Tildy shouted back at him, “I like laughin’ and playin’ and singin’. I’m not the marryin’ kind. I can’t find a man with my philosophy, Papa.” “What ‘philosophy’s’ that?” “That death is ridiculous! It run off with Mama when we needed her most. You call that intelligent?” Papa’s eyes got wet and gray and bleak. “You’re always right, Tildy. But what can we do? Death comes to everybody.” “Fight!” she cried. “Strike it below the belt! Don’t believe in it!” “Can’t be done,” said Papa sadly. “We all stand alone in the w orld.” 309 “There’s got to be a change sometime, Papa. I’m startin’ my own philosophy here and now! Why, it’s silly people live a couple years and are shoved like wet seeds in a hole; but nothin’ sprouts. What good do they do? Lay there a million years, helpin’ no one. Most of them fine, nice, neat people, or at least tryin’.” But Papa wasn’t listening. He bleached out, faded away, like a photo left lying in the sun. She tried to talk him out of it, but he passed on, anyway. She spun about and ran. She couldn’t stay on once he was cold, for his coldness denied her philosophy. She didn’t attend his burial. She didn’t do anything but set up this antique shop on the front of an old house and live alone for years, that is, until Emily came. Tildy didn’t want to take the girl in. Why? Because Emily believed in dying. But her mother was an old friend and Tildy had promised help. “Emily,” continued Aunt Tildy, to the man in black, “was the first to live in this house with me in all the years. I never got married. I feared the idea of livin’ with a man twenty-thirty years and then have him up and die on me. It’d shake my convictions like a house of cards. I shied off from the world. I screamed at people if they so much as mentioned death.” The young man listened patiently, politely. Then he lifted his hand. He seemed to know everything, with the dark, cold shining of his eyes, before she opened her mouth. He knew about her and World War II, when she shut off her radio forever and stopped the newspapers and beat a man’s head with an umbrella, driving him from her shop when he insisted on describing the invasion beaches and the long, slow tides of the dead drifting under the silent urgings of the moon. Yes, the dark young man smiled from the antique rocker, he knew how Aunt Tildy had stuck to her nice old phonograph records. Harry Lauder singing “Roamin’ in the Gloamin’,” Madame Schumann-Heink and lullabies. With no interruptions, no foreign calamities, murders, poisonings, auto accidents, suicides. Music stayed the same each day, every day. So the years ran, while Aunt Tildy tried to teach Emily her philosophy. But Emily’s mind was fixed on mortality. She respected Aunt Tildy’s way of thinking, however, and never mentioned—eternity. All this the young man knew. Aunt Tildy sniffed. “How do you know all those things? Well, if you think you can talk me into that silly wicker basket, you’re way off the trestle. You lay hands on me, I’ll spit right in your face!” 31 The young man smiled. Aunt Tildy sniffed again. “Don’t simper like a sick dog. I ’m too old to be made love at. That’s all twisted dry, like an old tube of paint, and left behind in the years.” There was a noise. The mantel clock chimed three. Aunt Tildy flashed her eyes to it. Strange. Hadn’t it chimed three o’clock just five minutes ago? She liked the bone-white clock with gold angels dangling naked about its numeraled face and its tone like cathedral bells, soft and far away. “Are you just goin’ to sit there, young man?” He was. “Then, you won’t mind if I take a little cat nap. Now, don’t you stir off that chair. Don’t come creepin’ around me. Just goin’ to close my eyes for a spell. That’s right. That’s right....” Nice and quiet and restful time of day. Silence. Just the clock ticking away, busy as termites in wood. Just the old room smelling of polished mahogany and oiled leather in the Morris chair, and books sitting stiff on the shelves. So nice. Nice.... “You aren’t gettin’ up from the chair, are you, mister? Better not. I got one eye open for you. Yes, indeed I have. Yes, I have. Oh. Ah, hmmmm.” So feathery. So drowsy. So deep. Under water, almost. Oh, so nice. Who’s that movin’ around in the dark with my eyes closed? Who’s that kissin’ my cheek? You, Emily? No. No. Guess it was my thoughts. Only—dreamin’. Land, yes, that’s it. Driftin’ off, off, off....

AH? WHAT SAY? OH! “Wait while I put on my glasses. There!” The clock chimed three again. Shame, old clock, now, shame. Have to have you fixed. The young man in the dark suit stood near the door. Aunt Tildy nodded. “You leavin’ so soon, young man? Had to give up, didn’t you? Couldn’t convince me; no, I’m mule-stubborn. Never get me free of this house, so don’t bother cornin’ back to try!” The young man bowed with slow dignity. He had no intention of coming again, ever. “Fine,” declared Aunt Tildy. “I always told Papa I’d win! Why, I’ll knit in this window the next thousand years. They’ll have to chew the boards down around me to get me out.” 31 The dark young man twinkled his eyes. “Quit lookin’ like the cat that ate the bird,” cried Aunt Tildy. “Get that old fool wicker away!” The four men trod heavily out the front door. Tildy studied the way they handled an empty basket, yet staggered with its weight. “Here, now!” She rose in tremulous indignation. “Did you steal my antiques? My books? The clocks? What you got in that wicker?” The dark young man whistled jauntily, turning his back to her walking along behind the four staggering men. At the door he pointed to the wicker, offered its lid to Aunt Tildy. In pantomime he wondered if she would like to open it and gaze inside. “Curious? Me? Pshaw , no. Get out!” cried Aunt Tildy. The dark young man tapped a hat onto his head, saluted her crisply. “Good-by!” Aunt Tildy slammed the door. There, there. That was better. Gone. Darned fool men with their maggoty ideas. No never minds about the wicker. If they stole something, she didn’t care, long as they let her alone. “Look.” Aunt Tildy smiled. “Here comes Emily, home from college. About time. Lovely girl. See how she walks. But, land, she looks pale and funny today, walkin’ so slow. I wonder why. Looks worried, she does. Poor girl. I’ll just fix some coffee and a tray of cakes.” Emily tapped up the front steps. Aunt Tildy, rustling around, could hear the slow, deliberate steps. What ailed the girl? Didn’t sound like she had no more spunk than a flue-lizard. The front door swung wide. Emily stood in the hall, holding to the brass doorknob. “E m ily?” called A unt Tildy. Emily shuffled into the parlor, head down. “Emily! I been w aitin’ for you! There was the damdest fool men here with a wicker. Tryin’ to sell me something I didn’t want. Glad you’re home. Makes it right cozy—” Aunt Tildy realized that for a full minute Emily had been staring. “Emily* what’s wrong? Stop starin’. Here, I’ll bring you a cup of coffee. There! “E m ily, why you backin’ away from me? “Emily, stop screamin’, child. Don’t scream, Emily! Don’t! You keep screamin’ that way, you go crazy. Emily, get up off the floor, 3 1 get away from that wall! Emily! Stop cringin’, child. I won’t hurt you! “Land, if it ain’t one thing it’s another. “Emily, what’s wrong, child . . .” Emily groaned through her hands over her face. “Child, child,” whispered Aunt Tildy. “Here, sip this water. Sip it, Emily, that’s it.” Emily widened her eyes, saw something, then shut them, quivering, pulling into herself. “Aunt Tildy, Aunt Tildy, Aunt—” “Stop that!” Tildy slapped her. “What ails you?” Emily forced herself to look up again. She thrust her fingers out. They vanished inside Aunt Tildy. “What fool notion!” cried Tildy. “Take your hand away! Take it, I say!” Emily dropped aside, jerked her head, the golden hair shaking into shiny temblors. “You’re not here, Aunt Tildy. I’m dreaming. You’re dead!” “Hush, baby.” “You can’t be here.” “Land of Goshen, Emily—” She took Emily’s hand. It passed clean through her. Instantly, Aunt Tildy raised straight up, stomping her foot. “Why, why!” she cried angrily. “That—fibber! That sneak thief!” Her thin hands knotted to wiry, hard, pale fists. “That dark, dark fiend; He stole it! He toted it away, he did, oh he did, he did! Why, I—” Wrath steamed in her. Her pale blue eyes were fire. She sputtered into an indignant silence. Then she turned to Emily. “Child, get up! I need you!” Emily lay, quivering. “Part of me’s here!” declared Aunt Tildy. “By the Lord Harry, what’s left will have to do, for a bit. Fetch my bonnet!” Emily confessed. “I’m scared.” “Certainly, oh, certainly not of me?” “Yes.” “Why, I’m no spook! You known me most of your life! Now’s no time to snivel-sop. Fetch up on your heels or I’ll slap you crack across your nose !” Emily rose, in sobs, stood like something cornered, trying to decide which direction to bolt in. “Where’s your car, Em ily?” “Down at the garage—ma’am.” “Good!” Aunt Tildy hustled her through the front door. “Now- — ” Her sharp eyes poked up and down the streets. “Which way’s the mortuary?” Emily held to the step rail, fumbling down. “What’re you going to do, Aunt Tildy?” “Do?” cried Aunt Tildy, tottering after her, jowls shaking in a thin, pale fury. “Why, get my body back, of course! Get my body back! Go on!”

The car roared, Emily clenched to the steering wheel, staring straight ahead at the curved, rain-wet streets. Aunt Tildy shook her parasol. “Hurry, child, hurry, before they squirt juices in my body and dice and cube it the way them persnickety morticians have a habit of doin’. They cut and sew it so it ain’t no good to no one!” “Oh, Auntie, Auntie, let me go, don’t make me drive! It won’t do any good, no good at all,” sighed the girl. “Here we are.” Emily pulled to the curb, and collapsed over the wheel, but Aunt Tildy had already popped from the car and trotted with mincing skirt up the mortuary drive, around behind to where the shiny black hearse was unloading a wicker basket. “You!” she directed her attack at one of the four men with the wicker. “Put that down!” The four men looked up. One said, “Step aside, lady. We’re doing our job.” “That’s my body tucked in there!” She brandished the parasol. “That I wouldn’t know anything about,” said a second man. “Please don’t block traffic, madam. This thing is heavy.” “Sir!” she cried, wounded. “I’ll have you know I weigh only one hundred and ten pounds.” He looked at her casually. “I’m not interested in your heft, lady. I’m due home for supper. My wife’ll kill me if I’m late.” The four of them moved on, Aunt Tildy in pursuit, down a hall, into a preparations room. A white-smocked man awaited the wicker’s arrival with a rather pleased smile on his long, eager-looking face. Aunt Tildy didn’t care for the avidity of that face, or the entire personality of the man. The basket was deposited, the four men wandered off. The man in the white smock glanced at Auntie and said: “Madam, this is no fit place for a gentlewoman.” 31 “Well,” she said, gratified, “glad you feel that way. It’s exactly what I tried to tell that dark-clothed young man!” The mortician puzzled. “What dark-clothed young man is that?” “The one that came puddlin’ around my house, that’s who.” “No one of that description works for us.” “No matter. As you just so intelligently stated, this is no place for a lady. I don’t w ant me here. I want me home cookin’ ham for Sunday visitors, it’s near Easter. I got Emily to feed, sweaters to knit, clocks to wind— ” “You are quite philosophical, and philanthropical, no doubt of it, madam, but I have work. A body has arrived.” This last, he said with apparent relish, and a winnowing of his knives, tubes, jars, and instrum ents. Tildy bristled. “You put so much as a fingerprint on that body, and I ’ll—” He laid her aside like a little old moth. “George,” he called with a suave gentleness, “escort this lady out, please.” Aunt Tildy glared at the approaching George. “Show me your backside, goin’ the other way!” George took her wrists. “This way, please.” Tildy extricated herself. Easily- Her flesh sort of—slipped. It even amazed Tildy. Such an unexpected talent to develop at this late day- “See?” she said, pleased with her ability. “You can’t budge me. I want my body back!” The mortician opened the wicker lid casually. Then, in a recurrent series of scrutinies he realized the body inside was . . . it seemed . • • could it be? . . . maybe . . . yes . . . no - • • no . . . it just couldn’t be, but . . . “Ah,” he exhaled, abruptly. He turned. His eves were w ide, then they narrowed. “Madam,” he said, cautiously. “This lady here is—a—relative— of yours?” “A very dear relation. Be careful of her.” “A sister, perhaps?” He grasped at a straw of dwindling logic, hopefully- “N o, you fool. Me, do you hear?M e\” The mortician considered the idea. “No,” he said. “Things like this don’t happen.” H e fumbled with his tools. “George, get help from the others. I can’t work with a crank present.” The four men returned. Aunt Tildy crossed her arms in defiance. “Won’t budge!” she cried, as she was moved like a pawn 31 on a chessboard, from preparations room to slumber room, to hall, to waiting chamber, to funeral parlor, where she threw herself down on a chair in the very center of the vestibule. There were pews going back into gray silence, and a smell of flowers. “Please, ma’am,” said one of the men. “That’s where the body rests for the service tomorrow.” “I’m sittin’ right plumb here until I get what I want.” She sat, pale fingers fussing with the lace at her throat, jaw set, one high-buttoned shoe tapping with irritation. If a man got in whopping distance, she gave him a parasol whop. And when they touched her, now, she remembered to—slip away. Mr. Carrington, Mortuary President, heard the disturbance in his office and came toddling down the aisle to investigate. “Here, here,” he whispered to everyone, finger to mouth. “More respect, more respect. What is this? Oh, madam, may I help you?” She looked him up and down. “You may.” “How may I be of service, please?” “Go in that room back there,” directed Aunt Tildy. “Yee-ess.” “And tell that eager young investigator to quit fiddlin’ with my body. I’m a maiden lady. My moles, birthmarks, scars, and other bric-a-brac, including the turn of my ankle, are my own secret. I don’t want him pryin’ and probin’, cuttin’, or hurtin’ it any way.” This was vague to Mr. Carrington, who hadn’t correlated bodies yet. He looked at her in blank helplessness. “He’s got me in there on his table, like a pigeon ready to be drawn and stuffed!” she told him. Mr. Carrington hustled off to check. After fifteen minutes of waiting silence and horrified arguing, comparing notes with the mortician behind closed doors, Carrington returned, three shades w hiter. Carrington dropped his glasses, picked them up. “You’re making it difficult for us.” “I am?” raged Aunt Tildy. “Saint Vitus in the momin’! Looky here, Mister Blood and Bones or whatever, you tell that—” “We’re already draining the blood from the—” “W hat!” “Yes, yes, I assure you, yes. So, you just go away, now; there’s nothing to be done.” He laughed nervously. “Our mortician is also performing a brief autopsy to determine cause of death.” Auntie jumped to her feet, burning. 316 “He can’t do that! Only coroners are allowed to do that!” “Well, we sometimes allow a little—” “March straight in and tell that Cut-’em-up to pump all that fine New England blue blood right back into that fine-skinned body, and if he’s taken anything out, for him to attach it back in so it’ll function proper, and then turn that body, fresh as paint, into my, keepin’. You hear!” “There’s nothing I can do. Nothing.” “Tell you what. I’m settin’ here for the next two hundred years. You listenin’? And every time any of your customers come by, I’ll spit ectoplasm right squirt up their nostrils!” Carrington groped that thought around his weakening mind and emitted a groan. “You’d ruin our business. You wouldn’t do that.” Auntie smiled. “ Wouldn’t I ?” Carrington ran up the dark aisle. In the distance you could hear him dialing a phone over and over again. Half an hour later cars roared up in front of the mortuary. Three vice-presidents of the mortuary came down the aisle with their hysterical president. “What seems to be the trouble?” Auntie told them with a few well-chosen infernalities. They held a conference, meanwhile notifying the mortician to discontinue his homework, at least until such time as an agreement was reached.... The mortician walked from his chamber and stood smiling amiably, smoking a big black cigar. Auntie stared at the cigar. “Where’d you put the a s h e s V she cried, in horror. The mortician only grinned imperturbably and puffed. The conference broke up. “Madam, in all fairness, you wouldn’t force us out on the street to continue our services, would you?” Auntie scanned the vultures. “Oh, I wouldn’t mind at all.” Carrington wiped sweat from his jowls. “You can have your body back.” “Ha !” shouted Auntie. Then, with caution: “Intact?” “Intact.” “No formaldehyde?” “No formaldehyde.” “Blood in it?” “Blood, my God, yes, blood, if only you’ll take it and go!” A prim nod. “Fair enough. Fix ’er up. It’s a deal.” 31 Carrington snapped his fingers at the mortician. “Don’t sta n d there, you mental incompetent. Fix it up!” “And be careful with that cigar!” said the old woman. “Easy, easy,” said Aunt Tildy. “Put the wicker on the floor where I can step in it.” She didn’t look at the body much. Her only comment was, “Natural-lookin’.” She let herself fall back into the wicker. A biting sensation of arctic coldness gripped her, followed by an unlikely nausea and a giddy whorling. She was two drops of matter fusing, water trying to seep into concrete. Slow to do. Hard. Like a butterfly trying to squirm back into a discarded husk of flinty chrysalis! The vice-presidents watched Aunt Tildy with apprehension. Mr. Carrington wrung his fingers and tried to assist with boosting and pushing moves of his hands and arms. The mortician, frankly skeptical, watched with idle, amused eyes. Seeping into cold, long granite. Seeping into a frozen and ancient statue. Squeezing all the way. “Come alive, damn ye!” shouted Aunt Tildy to herself. “Raise up a bit.” The body half-rose, rustling in the dry wicker. “Fold your legs, woman!” The body grabbled up, blindly groping. “See!” shouted Aunt Tildy. Light entered the webbed blind eyes. “Feel!” urged Aunt Tildy. The body felt the warmth of the room, the sudden reality of the preparations table on which to lean, panting. “M ove!” The body took a creaking, slow step. “Hear!” she snapped. The noises of the place came into the dull ears. The harsh, ex pectant breath of the mortician, shaken; the whimpering Mr. Carrington; her own crackling voice. “Walk!” she said. The body walked. “Think!” she said. The old brain thought. “Speak!” she said. The body spoke, bowing to the morticians: “Much obliged. Thank you.” “Now,” she said, finally, “cry!” 31 And she began to cry tears of utter happiness.

And now, any afternoon about four, if you want to visit Aunt Tildy, you just walk around to her antique shop and rap. There’s a big, black funeral wreath on the door. Don’t mind that! Aunt Tildy left it there; that’s how her humor runs. You rap on the door. It’s double-barred and triple-locked, and when you rap her voice shrills out at you. “Is that the man in black?” And you laugh and say no, no, it’s only me, Aunt Tildy. And she laughs and says, “Come on in, quick! “ and she whips the door open and slams it shut behind, so no man in black can ever slip in with you. Then she sets you down and pours your coffee and shows you her latest knitted sweater. She’s not as fast as she used to be, and can’t see as good, but she gets on. “And if you’re ’specially good,” Aunt Tildy declares, setting her coffee cup to one side, “I’ll give you a little treat.” “What’s that?” visitors will ask. “This,” says Auntie, pleased with her little uniqueness, her little joke. Then with modest moves of her fingers she will unfasten the white lace at her neck and chest and for a brief moment show what lies beneath. The long blue scar where the autopsy was neatly sewn to g eth er. “Not bad sewin’ for a man,” she allows. “Oh, some more coffee? There\ “ APPENDIX c CINEMATIC TRANSCRIPTION OF THE MURDERER

319 320 Transcription of the program, “The Murderer,” from The Ray Bradbury Theater.

FADE UP EXT. STREET-DAY Establishing shots city skyline MUSIC HA XLS City freeway with cars speed along street SFX: Crowd noises, beeps, mutterings HA XLS Commuters pour into cavernous train station MS street crowded with people moving quickly LS elevators. Doors open and DR. FELLOWS exits SFX: lobby noise MS Dr. Fellows walks toward camera MUSIC SFX: Crowd noises, 5 high-pitched beeps

Dr. Fellows: Fellows here.

(VO lapel phone): Doctor, I have your visitor’s permit for Meadowbrook. I’m faxing it now.

SFX: beep, whirr, tweet CU Dr. Fellows’s briefcase with small FAX machine and picture emerging from it LA MCU Dr. Fellows ponders patient’s picture CU Dr. Fellows folds picture in half and places it in pocket SFX : 5 beeps: Dr. Fellows: Yes?

(VO lapel phone): It’s Lee, Dad. Just reminding you about my allow ance.

Dr. Fellows: I know. I know.

LA LS Dr. Fellows walks through large glass enclosed hallway (VO lapel phone): 32 It’s just if you make the teletransfer now, I’ll get it in time to pick up the tickets for the show.

Dr. Fellows: You’ve made your point, son.

CU Dr. Fellows’s face with resigned expresssion

EXT. GLASS BUILDING SFX: passing car horn LA LS Dr. Fellows walks through automatic door, then through hall to door and enters security code

INT. MEADOWBROOK PENITENTIARY MUSIC SFX: Beep, beep, whirr LS Dr. Fellows approaches security desk CU female security guard on phone nods at his pass CU Dr. Fellows with slight smile Dr. Fellows walks to door and stands expectantly in front of it

(VO computerized voice, intercom) Deck 9. Identification, please.

Dr. Fellows: Doctor Arnold Fellows here to interview prisoner number 10069

(VO computerized voice, intercom) Code?

CU on Dr. Fellows’s hands as he keys in 4-1-1 security code at door MUSIC SFX: Beep,beep LS of Cell door opening SFX: Whoosh of door opening VERY LA CU Dr. Fellows after door opens and he enters corridor SFX: Whoosh of door closing

INT. CELL SILENCE 322 LA MS Dr. Fellows in interview cell L A MLS Brock, face still hidden from view V ERY HIGH ANGLE OSS of D r. Fellows in foreground and BROCK in far right corner, his face and upper body hidden in darkness.

Brock: Go aw ay.

V ERY HIGH LS reversal shot of Dr. Fellows from Brock’s perspective

Dr. Fellows. Look, I’m here to help you.

LA MLS Brock, face still hidden from view

Brock: You’re wondering why it’s so quiet in here.

MCU Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: Yes.

LS Brock kicking the remains of the radio towards the Dr. Fellows.

Brock: I just kicked the radio to death. D on’t w o rry , LS Brock walks toward Fellows I’m really not violent, except to machines that go yak, yak, yak.

LS Brock can now be seen Dr. Fellows: So y o u ’re Brock, Albert Brock?

Brock: The murderer. Excuse me.

Cu Brock removes Dr. Fellows’s lapel phone, puts it in his mouth and bites down on it. £ £ X : Crunch, w hirr Brock: 323 Welcome to tranquility.

MS Brock hands the crushed lapel phone back to the Dr. Fellows who puts it in his pocket

Dr. Fellows: This will cost you $300

Brock: I don’t care, (singing) I don’t care. I don’t care.

Dr. Fellows: Well, then, shall we begin?

MS Dr. Fellows pushes a button and places small tape recorder on the table between them L2S Profile Brock: Sure, sure, whatever you say, Doc.

CU Zoom of Brock picks up tape recorder and drops it into a pitcher of water Brock: I know, that’s another $300.

Dr. Fellows: Suppose you, uh, tell me when you first started to hate the telephone.

OSSBROCK Brock: Oh, at first, I loved ‘em. I mean when I was growing up we had them all over - the kitchen, the bathroom, in our cars. Then, when I was 16, my folks gave me my first videophone, only it was so new, no one else in town had one, so I had nobody I could call.

FLASHBACK 324 INT. TEENAGED GIRL’S ROOM-DAY Brock (VO): But, then, Emily Foster the prettiest girl in town got one. Started to get real close.

INT. CELL-DAY OSSBROCK Brock: But, the phone changes you. Even if it has a pictu re,

FLASHBACK INT. TEENAGED GIRL’S ROOM Brock (VO): it drains your personality, so what comes through the other end is some cold fish of a voice saying the wrong things; changing the meaning on you.

INT. CELL OSS BROCK Brock: Next thing you know you’ve made an enem y.

OSS FELLOWS Dr. Fellows: But, the phone is useful. Essential to all our lives. Couldn’t you adjust?

OSS BROCK Brock: Ha, Ha. Why are we always adjusting to m achines?

LS 2S PROFILE Brock: They’re like spoiled kids - always making demands. We’re adults, we should have control over them.

OSS BROCK Brock: And the telephone just sits there and demands to be used.

FLASHBACK INT. BROCK’S OFFICE-DAY HA LS 2S ROOM Brock: Mr. Jessup, good. I wanted to show you the new plans for the information center I drew up.

SFX: beep, beep Jessup: Oh, excuse me, Brock, (into portable cellular phone) Jessup here. (holding up a finger in a signal to wait) (VO portable cellular phone): I just hit a hole in one, had to tell ya, at the seventh.

MS reaction shot Brock Jessup: (VO into portable cellular phone) You don’t say. So, you’ll be buying drinks at the nineteenth.

CU Brock Brock (VO): ‘Member what happened when cellulars first came in? At first they were just supposed to be used for emergencies. Got stuck in traffic or had a break down. But then, people couldn’t resist using them - they always were calling and if it wasn’t the telephone, it was the television or the radio, AM, FM or the VCR or the computer or the fax machine or the Walkman or the Watchman or the Diskman or the motion pictures at the corner multiplex and then larger than life in your own living room 326 commercials coming at you from all directions and phone polls and junk fax. INT. CELL MS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: I understand, Mr Brock. Please calm down. Now, now just finish your story.

MCU Brock Brock: My whole day was one big listen.

INT. BROCK’S BEDROOM-MORNING LS Bed CU Clock radio (VO clock radio): Good morning Albert, Good morning Agnes. It’s time to get up on this marvelous day. The weather is going to be just great with a temperature reaching a high of 72.

INT. BROCK”S BATHROOM-MORNING LS Brock taking a shower MUSIC

INT. BROCK’S OFFICE RECEPTION AREA-DAY MUSIC

LS Brock entering area. Agnes (VO lapel phone): Albert, are you there?

Brock: (to his lapel phone) Yes, dear.

Agnes (VO lapel phone): Don’t forget to pick up the pate...

Brock: (to his lapel phone) Yes, dear.

Agnes (VO lapel phone): 327 and the baked Brie from Gourmet Goodies. And be sure to be home by eight because the Dorfmans are coming over tonight. Would you mind picking up the clothes from the cleaners?

MLS Brock pulls at collar and looks uncomfortable.

INT. BROCK’S OFFICE Brock is pulling yards of faxes up from the fax machine. (VO Intercom); Mr. Brock, It’s Mrs Wanley’s interior designer again. They’re faxing a new set of specifications. You can disregard the four sets sent just now.

MS Brock ripping up faxes. Brock: Argggh!

INT. BROCK’S HOME-EVENING LS Brock walking into house laden with packages (VO oven): The baked apples are read y and you m ay now remove them. Enjoy.

LS Long-haired male teenager enters wearing headset walks into house and wipes feet (VO doormat): Mud on the floor, please w ipe your feet, please wipe your feet. T hank you. Have a nice day.

INT. BEDROOM-NIGHT BROCK’s wife AGNES is sitting in bed wearing headsets and reciting Spanish into her walkman. Agnes El mercado esta abierto manana.

(VO Walkman): El mercado esta abierto manana. 328 Agnes: El mercado esta abierto manana.

(VO Walkman): El mercado esta abierto manana.

Agnes: El mercado esta abierto manana.

Brock: Arggh.

MS Brock buries his head under the covers.

Agnes: El mercado esta abierto manana. Fade to black.

Commercial break #1

ACT II EXT. Building-DAY XLS Tilt down building VO: We can’t get in touch with Doctor Fellows, his lapel phone’s off.

INT. CELL-DAY MLS Brock with feet on table and hands behind head Brock: Do you miss your lapel phone, Doc?

MLS Dr. Fellows stands up. Dr. Fellows: No, No, I uh, was just thinking about your description of your day. So you felt a little uptight, huh?

MLS Brock Brock: On the edge of a cliff. The next afternoon I did what I did at the office. 329

MLS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: Which was?

INT. BROCK’S OFFICE-DAY HA CU videophone Brock (VO): I poured a pitcher of coffee into the video phone system.

INT. CELL MLS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: And that helped?

MLS Brock Brock: A lot! Then I got the idea at lunchtime of killing my lapel phone.

MLS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: Oh?

MLS Brock sitting outside eating Brock (VO): I was outside enjoying my lunch when this obnoxious. . . SFX: beep beep Brock(VO): . . .shrill computer voice. . .

(VO lapel phone): This is computer poll number 9. . .

Brock(VO): . . . started yelling at me.

(VO lapel phone): . 330 What did you eat for lunch, Mr. Brock? What did you eat for lunch, Mr. Brock? Your early reply will be appreciated. Mr. Brock?

Extreme low angle LS SLO MO as Brock jumps on, and smashes his lapel phone CU foot grinding phone into ground. MS Brock chewing lunch contentedly.

Brock (VO): Heh, heh, heh. Felt even better, felt great. . . INT. CELL MS Brock Brock (VO): It positively grew on me. I started to think, why not begin a one man revolution to deliver us from our conveniences? Convenient for who, I asked myself. For friends who feel like talking regardless of w hat you have to do?

INT. BATHROOM-DAY LS Brock walking from urinal to sink and washing his hands.

Brock (VO): For my office to find me no matter where I a m ?

Cut to CU Brock in foreground, turning and looking at wall intercom in background

(VO wall intercom): Mr. Brock, Mr. Jessup just called. He can’t seem to reach you on your lapel phone. He’d like you to get in touch with him right away. Come in please, Mr. Brock.

Zoom to XCU Brock Brock: In touch. How I hate that phrase...

INT. CELL 331 CU Brock Brock: Gripped, mauled, pounded by FM voices is more like it. I mean there’s literally no place where a person can go anymore to find some peace. Not the bathroom, not even your own car.

INT. CAR-DAY SFX: Traffic noises MS Brock ordering from drive-through Brock: (to drive-through attendant) Can I have a chocolate milkshake, please?

SFX: brrring-whirr.(Fax sound) CU briefcase. CU Brock in car Brock (VO): I bought a chocolate milkshake and poured it into my fax machine.

SFX: static, flash, pop CU fax machine, drink poured in from the side MS Brock tossing cup down

INT. CELL MLS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows. Is there any special reason why you chose a chocolate milkshake?

MS Brock Brock: It’s my favorite flavor.

MLS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: I see. I see. So, uh,...

MLS Dr. Fellows sits down Dr. Fellows: 332 then what happened?

MS Brock Brock: Silence that’s what happened. Wonderful beautiful silence. I just sat in my car for a whole hour, drinking it in. It was incredible. I felt drunk with freedom.

MS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: Freedom, Mr. Brock?

MS Brock Brock: Yes, Doc, freedom from one more damn note in the whole screeching symphony.

MS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: But a symphony that enlarges our lives, Mr. Brock.

MS Brock Brock: You heard of passive smoking, Doc?

MS Reaction shot Dr. Fellows Brock: Of course you have. Well, there’s passive listening too, and we’re being poisoned by it, whether we like it or not.

MS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: Hmmm, go on.

LS Brock stands up and walks around cell. Brock: On my way home that night I bought my weapons. You heard of diathermies? MS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: Of course, I am a doctor.

MLS Brock bathed in blue light. Brock: (giggling and wagging his index finger) Yeah, but not a medical one. Anyway, I picked up a diathermy machine...

MS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: Electric currents, static, interference.

MLS Brock Brock: You got it.

INT. SUBWAY CAR-NIGHT MIJSIC SFX: People talking into phones. Long truck down subway car to Brock smiling with diathermy m achine. CU machine as Brock twist dials. MS Brock smiling CU machine as Brock twist dials. LS Subway car as Brock stands up. Long truck down subway car as Brock points the diathermy machine at random commuter’s communcation devices SFX: lights, static, flashes. Brock (maniacally) Ha, ha, ha.

INT. SUBWAY STATION-EVENING LS escalator going up: Brock running up escalator pointing his diathermy machine and detonating phones and computers.

EXT. CITY STREET-EVENING LS two boys playing a boom box. MUSIC. Brock dances into shot, pointing diathermy machine at them. Brock: 334 Keep cool, boys, it’s AM-FM smash and grab tim e.

LS boys shaking their recorder as police cruiser pulls up in the foreground. (VO Police): City Security. Stay where you are.

Brock (VO): A trouble unit arrived, triangulated on me instantly, had me reprimanded, signed and home in no time, minus my diathermy machine, of course.

INT. CELL MS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: Mr. Brock, may I suggest that so far your behavioral pattern is not very practical. Why didn’t you just start a fraternity of radio haters, circulate petitions, get legal and constitutional rulings? After all, this is still a democracy.

MLS Brock Brock: I’m that thing called a minority. I did protest. I tried a petition. Everyone laughed. Everyone else loved their audio­ visual cacophony. I was the one out o f step.

MS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: Well, then maybe you should have taken it like a good soldier. . .

MLS Dr. Fellows stands up Dr. Fellows: I mean to the majority o f people, fax machines, phones, walkmans, watchmans, they mean freedom. The freedom to live a 335 more efficient, trouble free life, (points finger at Brock)

MS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: But you, you selfishly tried to impose your minority idea of freedom on them. The majority rules.

MLS Brock walking Brock: They may rule, but they’re not always right. The majority have gone too far. Don’t you see that?. . .

MS 2-shot Brock: They figured if a little music was charming and keeping in touch was good. . .

X low angle CU Brock Brock: that a lot of a good thing would be that much better. But it’s not, because we’ve become dependent. We’re prisoners of our own progress, manacled by squawking m achines.

Ms 2-shot profile Brock: So what’s a man to do, Doc?.

CU Brock Brock: Get an equalizing machine, ain’t that obvious?

CU reaction shot Dr. Fellows CU Brock

FLASHBACK INT. GUNSHOP-EVENING 336 LS Brock buying gun from man in a fenced-in cage. Money is exchanged for a weapon MS Brock turning weapon over in hands.

INT. CELL CU Brock Brock: I got home that night to a completely hysterical wife because she had been out of touch for 3 hours. Damn it. That’s why I decided I had to murder.

CU Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: You decided to kill your wife?

CU reaction shot of Brock with a slight smile on his face. Fade to Black. commercial break #2 ACT II

FLASHBACK EXT. BROCK HOME-NIGHT XLS tilt down building LS Brock exiting car LS Brock running up stairs and wife Agnes coming out door. SFX: Wind whipping clothing. Agnes: Oh, Albert, where have you been? I couldn’t get in touch with you all day.

Brock: (holding her by the arms) In touch, Agnes, in touch. God, how I hate that phrase!

LS Brock breaks away and stomps flower bed Agnes: (Running after him) Where’s the phone? Where’s your briefcase? Don’t tell me you’ve lost the fax. What’s going on? 337 CU Brock’s feet muddying doormat (VO doormat): Mud alert, please wipe your feet. Please wipe your feet. Have a. . .

MS Brock shooting doorbell box SFX: BANG (VO doormat): niiiice daaaaay.

INT. BROCK HOME-NIGHT CU TV monster firing gun. (VO) Agnes: Albert, where did you get that gun?

CU TV monster shoots victim CU TV monster CU sheep LS sheep blown up LS Brock shoots TV set CU Slo mo pieces of glass exploding from TV SFX: Crackle, hiss, pop (VO) Agnes: Albert, Albert, what are you doing? Please stop!

SFX: phone rings MS Brock runs to phone. Picks it up CU Brock drops phone down disposal SFX: GRRRRR. MS Brock with gun in outstretched arm (VO oven): The roast needs to be turned over now.

CU of oven as shot hits it SFX: Crackle Pop MS Brock with gun in outstretched arm (VO coffeemaker) Coffee will be ready in five minutes

CU of coffeemaker exploding in slow motion SFX: Hiss, pop LS Brock with gun as police and Agnes enter from the right. Police: Police. Freeze. Drop the gun.

LS Brock drops gun.

INT. CELL MS Fellows Dr. Fellows: Didn’t you realize that in committing these crimes, the lapel phone, the Walkman,. . . OSS Brock Dr. Fellows: the fax machine, the videophone, that you were destroying personal and public property?

Brock: I ’d do it all over again, Doc.

MS 2-shot profile Dr. Fellows: So, you have no remorse.

MS Brock Brock: Uh-uhh.

MS Fellows Dr. Fellows: You don’t want any help from the Office of Mental Health?

MS 2-shot profile Brock: Uh-uhh.

Dr. Fellows: You’re ready to take the consequences?

OSS Brock Brock: 339 Of course, I am. You’ll see, this is the beginning. I’m the vanguard of a small segment of the population that is tired of noise, of having their privacy constantly invaded. Every with minute music, voices, do this, do that. The revolt has begun. . .

Reaction MS Fellows Brock: Somehow, somewhere, what I’ve done will have an effect. . .

CU Brock Brock: . . .My name will go down in history.

OSS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: Mr. Brock, if you will just give us a chance, I’m sure that we can rehabilitate you. . .

Reaction CU Brock Dr. Fellows: You have a wife, a family, surely you’d like to rejoin them?

Brock: It’ll take time, of course, but the seed has been sown. I got worldwide coverage (smiles), on TV, radio, and in the newspapers. Sound bites, sight bites. In fact, watch for a sudden spurt in the sale of chocolate milkshakes, (laughs)

OSS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows And then?

CU Brock Brock: Keep your eyes and ears open for small islands of silence. People killing their lapel 340 phones. People just simply tuning out. That’ll be the beginning.

OSS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: Don’t you want to get out of here?

CU Brock Brock: I just want to go back to my nice quiet cell, p lease.

OSS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: (lifting hands in frustration) I see.

MS Brock Brock: I’ve enjoyed our little talk, Doc. . .

MS 2-shot profile. Brock: Nice quiet chat.

Dr. Fellows: Yes, but. . .(turns to leave)

Brock: (Interrupting) Shhh, listen.

(SILENCE) MS 2-shot Dr. Fellows hesitates and then walks back to Brock, looks at him and shakes his head. Brock: (finger to lips, shakes his head) Shhh.

MLS Dr. Fellows turns and leaves cell. MUSIC SFX: Noise MLS Dr. Fellows holds one hand over an ear and grimaces. 341

INT. RECEPTION AREA DR. FELLOWS’ OFFICE-DAY Dr. Fellows walks in and hands his broken lapel phone to CHLOE behind the desk. Dr. Fellows: Chloe, have this replaced, will you?

Chloe takes it and looks perplexedly at it.

INT. DR. FELLOW’S OFFICE MS Dr. Fellows at desk SFX: Brrring. CU Inspector on Video Screen

(VO video phone): Well, Fellows, what’s the prognosis on Brock? He’s top priority, you know.

MS Dr. Fellows Dr. Fellows: I just got back, Inspector. Give me a moment to write up my notes.

CU Inspector on Video Screen In sp e cto r: No need fo r lengthy reports. Just give it to me in a nutshell.

LS desk as Chloe walks in with replacement lapel phone and places it on desk and walks out. Dr. Fellows: Well, he’s obviously suffering from...

SFX (beep beep) (VO lapel phone): Dad, it’s Lee. The money didn’t come through.

Dr. Fellows: feelings of persecution.

CU Inspector on Video Screen 342 Inspector : Can you rehabilitate him? We can’t have people running around destroying our modern means of communication. . .

MLS Dr. Fellows (VO Chloe on intercom): A messenger is here for your monthly reports, doctor. Shall I send him in, or will you be faxing them?

(VO lapel phone): Dad?

Dr. Fellows: In a minute.

(VO video phone): What did you say?

(VO Chloe on intercom): They need them right now.

(VO lapel phone): Dad? Are you there?

MS BROCK covers transmitting camera of video phone and picture becomes snowy. Inspector (on video phone): Now, I can’t see you Your video phone seems to be...

(VO lapel phone): Dad? I’m going to fax you. . .

Dr. Fellows: Later, son.

FLASHBACK to CU Brock Brock : My whole day is one big listen. 343 SFX: whir

FLASHBACK to CU Brock Brock : Somewhere, somehow, what I’ve done will have an effect.

MS Dr. Fellows bities down on lapel phone SFX: Crunch, whir. (VO Chloe on intercom): Dr. Fellows, what shall I tell the messenger?

MUSIC. SFX: Brring-whir of fax machine MLS Dr. Fellows turning to look at fax machine.

Dr. Fellows: Chloe!

(VO Chloe on intercom) Yes, Dr. Fellows.

MS Zoom to CU Dr. Fellows

Dr. Fellows: Would you get me a chocolate milkshake?

CU Dr. Fellows smiling FADE TO BLACK APPENDIX D CINEMATIC TRANSCRIPTION OF THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN

344 345 Cinematic transcription of “There Was an Old Woman,” fromThe Ray Bradbury Theater.

ACT I

EXT. English country house-DAY MUSIC SFX: Gate creaking XLS courtyard, pan to sign that reads: “Matilda Hanks. Fine pictures and clocks. By appointment only.” DIS to INT. CLUTTERED PARLOR-D AY MCU pan right to left across several clocks on table and around room to CU Aunt Tildy sleeping on chair. Zoom out and truck past her to LS pan of pictures on wall and more clocks on a table. SFX: Gate creaking

I am Matilda Hanks. This is my castle. I have waited amongst my clocks and pictures for many years. I’ll not give in, oh no. One day he’ll come, but this is my castle. I’ve all my ammunition here. Oh, he’ll come, but he’s no chance. I’ll not give in. Oh, no.

SFX: Strangled cry, crash

Slow pan into bedroom to woman lying on bed with eyes closed.

INTFOYER-DAY XLS Door opens slowly in, almost in slo-mo. Man wearing hat stands in the doorway and then moves very slowly into the house

Who’s that coming into my house? Hold on there, what are you doing? Who are these people? Are you delivering something? I didn’t order anything

He opens basket to reveal nothing is inside it.

So you’re not bringing something here. 346 Fade to black SFX: Door slam

Fade up on INT FRONT ROOM-D AY CUT to MS HA Aunt Tildy

CUT to MS LA Listener Aunt Tildy: If you want to talk to me, well, you can talk, but in the meantime I hope you don’t mind if I pour myself tea. There. I’d have offered you some, if you’d been more polite, but you come in here high and mighty with never a by-your- leave. You’d think you owned the place.

CUT to MS Listener

CUT to MS Aunt Tildy Aunt Tildy fusses with the knitting in her lap.

Aunt Tildy: There, you’ve made me lose count!

CUT to MS Listener as he takes off his hat and slowly sits down.

CUT to MS Aunt Tildy Aunt Tildy: Now start again, tell me things you got to tell me, I’ll pay attention. But no smut.

CUT to MS Listener smiling Aunt Tildy: And stop staring at me with that funny look in your eyes. Good Lord, it gives me the heeby jeebies.

CUT to MS Aunt Tildy 347 Aunt Tildy: Now, about that wicker basket And those four men. You don’t need them to carry that— why, it’s light as thistles.

CUT to MS Listener leaning forward on the antique chair.

CUT to MS Aunt Tildy looking up and then to the side. Aunt Tildy: Where’ve I seen a wicker like that before? Oh, yes. It was when Mrs. Dwyer passed away next door. Sothat’s what you’re up to?

CUT to MS Listener CUT to XCU Aunt Tildy Aunt Tildy: Right. You just sit there until my little Emily comes home. CUT to XCU Listener She’ll take care of you, young man. She’ll shoo you out so soon-----

CUT to XCU Aunt Tildy nodding Let me tell you about Emily, my fair, sweet, child. FLASHBACK MUSIC: Tildy theme CUT to LS Emily, DIS to door opening CUT to XCU Aunt Tildy I remember the day her mother died, twenty years ago, leaving Emily to me.

MUSIC: menacing DIS to Emily as door opens by itself Who ever heard of people dyin’ for good reaso n s?

CUT to XCU Aunt Tildy MUSIC: Tildy theme 348 That’s why I get so angry with you and your wicker.

FLASHBACK: CUT to foregound CU clocks, pullout to LS to reveal PAPA walking into the shot Papa: Tildy, what you going todo with your life?

CUT to XCU Aunt Tildy turning head screen right Aunt Tildy: P ap a?

FLASHBACK: CUT to MLS Papa walking in bedroom Papa: Why don’t you settle down, marry, raise a fam ily?

CUT to dolly to room to dark doorway DIS to MS Aunt Tildy Aunt Tildy: (old voice) I like laughing and singing and playin’. I’m not the marrying kind. . .

FLASHBACK: DIS MS PAN sweeping slow around bedroom, past shoes and clothing strewn around, to foot of bed Pull out/Pan to LS bed with couple sitting with her head on his sh o u ld e r

(VO) . .and I can’t find a young man with my philosophy, Papa.

Papa (VO): What ‘philosophy’s’ that?

Truck in/DIS to MS Tildy Aunt Tildy (VO): (young voice) That death is ridiculous! But Papa, just once I did find a man with my 349 philosophy. Oh my darling, just once. That man, he liked laughing and singing. . .

(Man’s voice) (VO): But w hat can we do?

Aunt Tildy: (young voice) Fight! Kick it below the belt!

DIS to M S Aunt Tildy (old voice) Don’t believe in it!

FLASHBACK: DIS LS memory pan from bed (VO): (young voice) Oh and that man, he liked laughing and singing. .

DIS to M S Aunt Tildy

Aunt Tildy: (old voice) And I’m starting my own philosophy here and now!

FLASHBACK: DIS LS memory pan utility room with radio, strips of newspaper with headline ‘Air Raid wipes out Basque town, Relays of Bombs’

Why, it’s silly that people only live a couple years and are shoved like wet seeds in a hole; but nothing sprouts. What good do they do? DIS CU Aunt Tildy Lie there a million years, helping no one. Most of them fine, nice, decent people, or at least trying to be.

FLASHBACK: DIS LS memory pan radio room , strips of newspaper (young voice) But more than you my dearest Papa and more than dearest Mama, I lost my darling, (voice breaking up) 350

FLASHBACK: DIS to LS Papa thrashing on bed, eyes staring, knocking dishes off tray to floor. SFX: Crash, Scream. Zoom to CU Papa Aunt Tildy: But you weren’t listening, Papa You just faded away, like a photograph left out in the sun.

White out White up/DIS to CU A unt Tildy SFX: Explosion I couldn’t stay after he was cold, it w o u l d have denied my philosophy.

FLASHBACK: DIS LS memory pan in bedroom from portrait on wall, pastcom bs and brushes to hands placing a photo of a man into a drawer. SFX: Clocking ticking Aunt Tildy (VO): (young voice) I lost my darling. He stole him. He took him away. T hat sneak thief stole him away. He did, he did, he did!

DIS to XCU Aunt Tildy sitting down Aunt Tildy: I never got married. I feared the idea of living with a man twenty or thirty years and then having him up and die on me. It would have shakes my convictions like a house of cards. I shunned the world.

DIS LS memory pan from LS utiliy room, rack focus to pan, to hallway mirror shot of Listener to shot of helpers waiting with wicker basket

I screamed i f people so m uch as m entioned d eath .

LS 2shot Listener and Aunt Tildy 351 Aunt Tildy: How do you know all those things? (laughs) If you think you can talk me into that silly wicker basket, you’re off your trolley. You lay hands on me and I’ll . . .

CUT to CU Listener smiling. Aunt Tildy: Don’t simper like a sick dog.

CUT to OSS Aunt Tildy I’m too old to be made love to. That’s all twisted dry, like an old tube of paint, and left behind in the years.

CUT to LS 2shot with dolly in SFX: Bluish light Listener sits back Young man, you are refused. Because I’m all of a piece, I add up. I’ve been fighting you all my life. I won’t give in now. This is my castle, My fortress, All my ammunition is here. I’ve been getting ready for you for years. You haven’t a chance.

CUT to OSS Aunt Tildy Are you just going to sit there, young man? Then, don’t you move from that chair. Don’t you come creeping around me.

CUT to MS Listener slumped in chair I’m just going to close my eyes for a m om ent.

YELLOW CUT to OSS Aunt Tildy MUSIC: Tildy theme There. . . There. . .You aren’t getting up from the chair, are you? Better not.

SWING BACK TO YELLOW MCU Listener I’ll keep one eye open for you. Yes, indeed, I will. I will. 352

CUT to CU Listener with tilt up as he stands Who’s that moving about in the dark with my eyes closed?

YELLOW CUT to CU Aunt Tildy BLUE CUT to LA CU Listener as he walks out of frame Who’s that kissing my cheek?

BLUE CUT to MS Aunt Tildy brushing cheek, arcing around to profile ??? SFX: Sirens, bomb landing, screams Emily? No. No. (laughs).Just my thoughts. Just dreaming. Drifting off, off, off....

Fade to black

Fade up INT FRONT ROOM-DAY CU Aunt Tildy Aunt Tildy: What did you say?

SFX: Clock chimes three times. The young man in the dark suit stood near the door. Aunt Tildy: Are you leaving so soon, young man?

CUT to MS Listener standing in doorway CUT to LS Aunt Tildy walking toward camera Had to give up, didn’t you? Couldn’t convince me; no, I’m stubborn as a m ule.

CUT to MS Listener smiling Aunt Tildy walks into shot Never get me out of this house, so don’t bother coming back to try!

CUT to OSS Aunt Tildy And you can stop looking like the cat that ate the canary 353 Listener walks out of shot. Follow. And get that crazy old wicker basket out of here!

LS 5shot four men carrying wicker basket on shoulders. Aunt Tildy runs after them. Aunt Tildy: Just a minute! Did you steal my books? The clocks? my pictures? my clocks? What have you got in there?

CUT to MLS 5shot Aunt Tildy and men The men stop. Listener begins to open basket. Aunt Tildy: No, no, you don’t! Get out!!

Listener drops lid and closes basket. The 4 men exit, carrying the wicker basket followed by listener. Aunt Tildy slams the door after them. Fool men with their maggoty ideas.

Aunt Tildy walks toward camera to XCU Never mind about the wicker. Doesn’t matter so long as they leave me alone! (eyes widen)

Aunt Tildy exits to right.

INT. BEDROOM-DAY CUT to OSS Aunt Tildy at window upstairs, pulling lace curtain back, to LS men at car from window, shutting trunk lid. MLS profile of stripped bed with striped mattress rolled up at foot and the bare pillows stacked at the head XCU Aunt Tildy LS Listener from window as curtain falls back MLS Aunt Tildy at door. CU dresser top with wig rest and clock reading 3:00. MLS Aunt Tildy patting head. Aunt Tildy opens door and locks it. (SFX: Latch) Fade to black, commercial break 354

ACT II

INT. FRONT ROOM-LATE AFTERNOON CU Aunt Tildy in chair. Aunt Tildy: Ah, Here comes Em ily. About time, too. How pale and wan she looks today and walking so slowly.

MS Aunt Tildy stands, walks toward camera I wonder why. Oh, she looks worried, she clearly does. Poor girl. I’ll make some tea.

Pan down wall and clocks to MLS Aunt Tildy’s hand making tea CUT to LS Emily walking into room, head down.

Aunt Tildy: Emily! Emily! I been waiting for you! There was the stupidest man here with a wicker basket, trying to sell me something I didn’t w ant.

Pedestal up to OSS Emily I’m so glad you’re home. CUT to LS Aunt Tildy It’ll make it all cozy again—

CUT to OSS Emily CUT to CU Aunt Tildy Emily, what’s wrong?

(without moving here lips) Stop staring like that. CUT to OSS Emily CUT to CU Aunt Tildy Here, I’ll pour your tea. There!

CUT to OSS Emily with follow as she screams and runs around room to Aunt Tildy finally consoling 355 Emily, why you backing away from me? Emily, stop screaming, child. Don’t scream, Emily! Don’t! You keep screaming that way, you go crazy. Emily, get up off the floor, get away from that wall! Emily! Don’t cringe, child. I won’t hurt you! Emily, what’s wrong, child . . .

Emily groaned through her hands over her face, cringing in corner

Aunt Tildy: Child, child, Here, take some tea. Sip this, sip this, child, Emily, that’s it.

Emily: Aunt Tildy, Aunt Tildy, Emily stands CUT to MCU 2shot Emily and Tildy Aunt Tildy, Aunt Tildy, Aunt Tildy, Aunt Tildy. . .

Aunt Tildy: Stop that!

Aunt Tildy slaps her.

Emily forced herself to look up again. CUT to CU Emily’s hand as she thrusts her fingers into the vicinity of Aunt Tildy’s stomach. Aunt Tildy: Take it out, Take it out, I say!

Pan up from hand to CU 2shot Emily and Aunt Tildy Emily pulls out her hand. Emily: You’re not here, Aunt Tildy. I’m dreaming. You’re dead!

Aunt Tildy: Hush, baby. Emily...

Pan down to XCU Emily’s hand going inside Aunt Tildy. 356 She takes Emily’s hand. It passes into her as before. CUT to CU Aunt Tildy looking down as camera arcs around her. Aunt Tildy: That—snake! That rapist! That sneak thief! That dark-eyed, dark fiend; He stole it, he did! He ran off with it, he did, oh he did, he did! Why, I—

Then she turns to Emily. Tilt down, follow Aunt Tildy to Emily cringing on floor Aunt Tildy: Child, get up! I need you!

Emily lay, quivering. Tilt up, follow Emily as she rises. Emily rises, sobbing Aunt Tildy: Part of me’s here! what’s left will have to do, for a bit. Fetch my hat and coat!

Pan around room follow Aunt Tildy and Emily as they leave. Aunt Tildy hustled her through the front door.

EXT COUNTRY ROAD-EVENING CUT to LS road, car approaches Emily: What’re you going to do, Aunt Tildy?

Aunt Tildy: Do? Why, get my body back, of course!

The car roars by.

EXT CITY STREET-NIGHT SFX: bells chiming 6:00 MUSIC: scary music starts DIS to city street MLS follow car to parking at curb, pan over and follow Aunt Tildy as she gets out and runs around to driver’s side Aunt Tildy: Come on, out (to Emily)

Pan from car, follow Aunt Tildy to mortuary. 357 CUT to MS Aunt T ild y running by camera, Crane up over wall ending with LS 4 men and wicker basket You! (to the four men with the basket) Put that dow n! What have you got there?

The fo u r men looked up. CUT to MS Aunt T ild y opening basket and closing again. Oh, my God!

CUT to LS 4 men and basket, Aunt Tildy runs around and in door, 4 men drop basket and pursue.

INT MORTUARY HALLWAY-NIGHT CUT to OSS MLS Aunt Tildy looking in viewing room with m o u rn ers. Aunt Tildy: Stop!

Dolly down hall following Aunt Tildy to CU. Stop whatever you’re doing. Stop.

Funeral Director walks into shot, A unt Tildy grabs him by lapels. Well, where is it? Huh?

Aunt Tildy walks out of shot, leaving bewildered Funeral Director and assistants. SFX: folk song CUT to door being opened by Aunt Tildy, with old man in chair and dog snarling. W here?

Aunt Tildy slams d o o r Where is it?

Funeral Director; It?

Zoom down hall, pan as Aunt Tildy walks into another viewing room, with mourners. Aunt Tildy: That which you have robbed and stole. 3 5 8 Pan down hallway Funeral Director: Are you a relative of the deceased?

Dolly down hallway following Aunt Tildy.

1NT MORTUARY LABORATORY-NIGHT SFX: radio — all the hits 24 hours a day. . . CUT to inside lab door, Aunt Tildy opens door and comes in Aunt Tildy: No, she’s me, she’s me.

CUT to LS over 2 men polishing new casket to Mortician in doorway looking out CUT to MS Aunt Tildy and Funeral Director Hey you, stop him.

CUT to MS Mortician shutting door Stop!

CUT to MS Aunt Tildy running to door with Funeral Director and assistant in pursuit. Cut to MS Funeral Director getting to door first, OSS Aunt Tildy Funeral Director: I ’m sorry.

Aunt Tildy: You haven’t begun to be sorry.

CUT to MLS room of assistants watching. Stand aside sir, I say.

Funeral Director: Uh, no, no, you wouldn’t want to see. . .

CUT to MS Funeral Director backing up to door. Aunt Tildy: It’s started? Has it begun already?

SFX: saw whirring (yelling at door) You, you in there. Stop. Stop, I say. 3 5 9

CUT to MS Funeral Director Funeral Director: I do not wish to use force, madam, (nodding to assistant off camera)

CUT to MS Aunt Tildy with assistant walking up behind. Aunt Tildy: Neither do I.

Assistant grabs Aunt Tildy around her upper arms. Aunt Tildy: Helllllllllllllllllp.

CUT to MS Funeral Director. SFX: SWOOSH CUT to MS Aunt Tildy slithering free from the grasp of the assistan t. Aunt Tildy realizes she is free and turns around and slaps assistan t. CUT to MS Funeral Director, with door opening behind him by M ortician. Aunt Tildy walks by and through door.

INT. PREPARATION ROOM-NIGHT M ortician: Now look, how can I possibly be expected to work with all this. . .

CUT to LA MS Aunt Tildy walks up and peers at her body laid out on a gurney. Aunt Tildy: How much have you done already?

4 assistants walk past and in front of Aunt Tildy blocking hers and the camera’s view of body. Aunt Tildy: Dear God, I’ve been drawn and quartered!

CUT to CU Aunt Tildy with Mortician looking over shoulder M ortician: Not quite. 360

Mortician walks around to make eye contact M ortician: You want your sister back?

Aunt Tildy: No,

Funeral Director walks into frame. Me, me, me\

Mortician walks around in front of Aunt Tildy, camera pans to CU Aunt Tildy. CUT to M4S wall o f assistants I’ll say this just once.

CUT to CU Aunt Tildy That pound of flesh is mine.

CUT to M4S wall o f assistants I claim it,

CUT to CU 2S Funeral Director and Aunt Tildy and if you don’t hand it back. . . Funeral director: What’ll you do, madam? SFX: Scary music Aunt Tildy: I’ll loiter about your premises and howl and scream .

CUT M4S wall of assistants I will tell the world you are body snatchers!

CUT to CU 2S A unt Tildy and Funeral Director Gravestone robbers! Death stealers!

CUT M4S wall of assistants Your establishment will no longer comfort but will set people ill at ease.

CUT to CU 2S Aunt Tildy and Funeral Director 3 6 1 Too much wind here at midnight! Too many strange sounds. Terrible sights of walking m ists.

C U T M4S wall o f assistants Immovable feasts of fog and rain.

CUT to CU 2S Aunt Tildy and Funeral Director Moans and sighs.

C U T M4S wall o f assistants Bedsheets walking on the air.

CUT to CU 2S Aunt Tildy and Funeral Director

Scary music abruptly ends as SFX : Radio is heard Aunt Tildy: Right, then? Any objections?

Funeral director: Madam, (waving to assistants) the body is yours.

CUT to M4S wall of assistants which disperses and reforms C U T to MCU Aunt Tildy with dolly back CUt MS wall of assistants, with Mortician working behind Aunt Tildy: All in one piece? Sewn back up,

CUT to M2S Aunt Tildy and Funeral Director CUT to MS wall of assistants, Mortician working behind. you hear? Jump to it!

CUT to M2S Aunt Tildy and Funeral Director CUT to MS wall of assistants, Mortician working behind. All in?

Mortician: (from behind wall) In.

CUT to M2S Aunt Tildy and Funeral Director 362 Aunt Tildy: All nice and neat?

CUT to MS wall of assistants, Mortician working behind. MUSIC: scary music starts. CUT to M2S Aunt Tildy and Funeral Director A fine needle and thread. SFX: thread pulling through flesh CUT to wall of assistants dispersing showing Tildy’s body on table CUT to LA pan up body, follow Aunt Tildy looking at body ending M2S with Mortician. Aunt Tildy: (to Mortician) Why, I do look pretty.

Mortician smiles slightly and brushes something off the body’s fo reh ead . FADE TO BLACK

INT. FUNERAL PARLOR SHOW ROOM-NIGHT LS Aunt Tildy and coffin surrounded by funeral workers. Aunt Tildy: Put me where I can get into me.

CUT to M2S Aunt Tildy and Funeral Director Come on, look alive.

MS profile (avoiding the inside of coffin) The helpers lower Aunt Tildy slowly into the coffin.

Aunt Tildy: Careful, careful. I’m glass, I’ll break! Steady. Now take a deep breath, inhale. Now, exhale.

LS HA Body in coffin. Dressed and bewigged Aunt Tildy is supered over Aunt Tildy’s body in sheet and turban. LS LA Body in coffin Toes, feet, ankles, hear, take hold. Knees, thigh, attention, 3 6 3 CUT to POV Aunt Tildy looking out of coffin. take hold. Oh God.

LS LA Body in coffin Fingers, hands, arms grab hold.

SFX: White wipe effect with black edge starts near Tildy’s mouth and begins covering half her face and body and then the rest of her face and body until the dressed and bewigged Aunt Tildy disappears completely, leaving the Aunt Tildy in towel and turban. Oh, quick, head, breast, neck, hammer and nails, fix and finish in place.

(POV: Aunt Tildy) HA shot of four men looking down into coffin, surrounded by white ruffled edge of coffin lid. Heart, beat!

(POV: Aunt Tildy) Defocused HA shot of four men looking down into coffin, surrounded by white ruffled edge of coffin lid. Lungs, suck!

(POV: Aunt Tildy) Very defocused HA shot of four men looking down into coffin, surrounded by white ruffled edge of coffin lid. SFX: Scream MUSIC: Scary music starts CUT to CU Side of open quilted coffin lid CUT to CU profile Aunt Tildy rising up. CUT to CU profile Aunt Tildy crying. CUT to XLS casket and helpers F.g. Listener pulls black curtain from right to left across screen Fade to black Commercial break

ACT III INT. Aunt Tildy HOUSE-DAY Pan across room starting with clocks, past Aunt Tildy asleep in chair, ending with clocks on mantle ( set at 3:00)

EXT COURTYARD-DAY DIS XLS Courtyard Aunt Tildy: 3 6 4 It has been a long fight and I have won. I’m Empress of my castle, Emily is back at college and comes if somewhat nervously to visit. My fine paintings and clocks sell well perhaps I’m the most curious antique of all. People come to stare as well as to buy.

DIS to OSS Aunt Tildy as she unfastens her blouse at the neck. And if people ask politely, I just undo this and show them the marks where that crazy autopsy man sewed me right back up.

Sweep pan of the parlor Not bad sewing for a man.

DIS to courtyard Not bad sewing for a man.

LS Iron Gate

Fade to black