"The End of the Affair" is an excellent example of a curious sort of film adaptation, shall we say a fourth category of adaptations. First, there are the great majority of adaptations which fall far short of the source material; they completely re-write characters for dubious purposes; they trivialize the author's concerns; they end of a falsely upbeat note, etc. Examples of this type of film are legion.
Second, there are films which measure up to the original material, and in so doing remind one of what was good about the original work. See, for instance "The World According to Garp"; "Deliverance"; "Tess"; "Doctor Zhivago."
Third, there are the rare films which manage to transcend the material on which they are based. The Godfather by Puzo, lest we forget, is really a potboiler; hardly a classic piece of literature. Somehow, Coppola is able to infuse Puzo's book with a spirit and mood all his own; the text is transformed into something truly great. Other films which are superior to the source material might include "All the President's Men"; "The Ice Storm"; "The Day of the Jackal." I'm sure you can think of a few more.
Finally, there are films like "The End of the Affair," faithful and intelligent adaptations which nonetheless leave so much to be desired that one is forced to question one's opinions about the novel in question. I liked Greene's novel; I thought it did a good job of balancing sexual and spiritual issues and of conjuring up the atmosphere of wartime London. The characters were a bit slight (almost as if they had been sketched for the screen, actually), but well drawn nonetheless. For me, the novel fell somewhere in the middle of Green's canon, but until I viewed Neil Jordan's film, I would have hardly been liable to cast aspersions on the book.
Jordan's film, however, though reasonably faithful to the book, decently cast (although the choices are not inspired), admirable photographed, etc. is dreary almost to the point of being unwatchable. Very few directors can film unremitting dreariness to good effect. Bergman is the only example that comes to mind. Downbeat, depressing, pessimistic, cynical, yes. But even superior directors like Tarkovsky (Nostalgia), Allen (Interiors), and Malle (Vanya) are tripped-up by dreary. Jordan's "End of the Affair" just wears one down with its persistent ponderous dreariness. Fiennes projects misery and loathing; Moore, with a marginally passable British accent, is exhausting to behold; Rea is rain-sodden and crumpled. Among such a cast of characters, Ian Hart's performance as the private detective Parkis, apt to be overlooked in a different film, stands out. Hart is able to convey a wealth of emotions and attitudes (other than hate and guilt) with which we can identify, pride in his job, longing for companionship, love for his son, professionalism, and as a result brings much needed life and light to the film.
But I digress. The point is, this film is at once so dreadfully unpleasant yet so skillfully done in a technical sense that I began to wonder, what did I like about the book in the first place? If this is the result of a good adaptation, either the book itself is not very good, or the book is more or less unfilmable.
Incidentally, the other film that caused me to question the value of a novel I had enjoyed was Keith Gordon's "Mother Night." Two films do not quite a category make, do they? I wonder if other film fans have had a parallel experience?
Second, there are films which measure up to the original material, and in so doing remind one of what was good about the original work. See, for instance "The World According to Garp"; "Deliverance"; "Tess"; "Doctor Zhivago."
Third, there are the rare films which manage to transcend the material on which they are based. The Godfather by Puzo, lest we forget, is really a potboiler; hardly a classic piece of literature. Somehow, Coppola is able to infuse Puzo's book with a spirit and mood all his own; the text is transformed into something truly great. Other films which are superior to the source material might include "All the President's Men"; "The Ice Storm"; "The Day of the Jackal." I'm sure you can think of a few more.
Finally, there are films like "The End of the Affair," faithful and intelligent adaptations which nonetheless leave so much to be desired that one is forced to question one's opinions about the novel in question. I liked Greene's novel; I thought it did a good job of balancing sexual and spiritual issues and of conjuring up the atmosphere of wartime London. The characters were a bit slight (almost as if they had been sketched for the screen, actually), but well drawn nonetheless. For me, the novel fell somewhere in the middle of Green's canon, but until I viewed Neil Jordan's film, I would have hardly been liable to cast aspersions on the book.
Jordan's film, however, though reasonably faithful to the book, decently cast (although the choices are not inspired), admirable photographed, etc. is dreary almost to the point of being unwatchable. Very few directors can film unremitting dreariness to good effect. Bergman is the only example that comes to mind. Downbeat, depressing, pessimistic, cynical, yes. But even superior directors like Tarkovsky (Nostalgia), Allen (Interiors), and Malle (Vanya) are tripped-up by dreary. Jordan's "End of the Affair" just wears one down with its persistent ponderous dreariness. Fiennes projects misery and loathing; Moore, with a marginally passable British accent, is exhausting to behold; Rea is rain-sodden and crumpled. Among such a cast of characters, Ian Hart's performance as the private detective Parkis, apt to be overlooked in a different film, stands out. Hart is able to convey a wealth of emotions and attitudes (other than hate and guilt) with which we can identify, pride in his job, longing for companionship, love for his son, professionalism, and as a result brings much needed life and light to the film.
But I digress. The point is, this film is at once so dreadfully unpleasant yet so skillfully done in a technical sense that I began to wonder, what did I like about the book in the first place? If this is the result of a good adaptation, either the book itself is not very good, or the book is more or less unfilmable.
Incidentally, the other film that caused me to question the value of a novel I had enjoyed was Keith Gordon's "Mother Night." Two films do not quite a category make, do they? I wonder if other film fans have had a parallel experience?