From Page to Screen Tagged Articles at Cinematical

Where the Wild Things Are is ten sentences long, but they're some sentences. They – along with Maurice Sendak's magical illustrations, of course – are at once angry, heartwarming, troubling and reassuring. They get at something profound that kids feel, and that I still do from time to time, frankly: a desire to rage, to leave the world behind, backstopped by an even deeper need for home – a warm dinner – a hug.

These feelings aren't trivial, especially in kids. The authors who understood them best were Sendak and Roald Dahl. Dahl wrote for an older audience; he abhorred sentimentality, his wounds and his anger were usually laid pretty bare, and his stories weren't always appropriate for the single-digit-ers. But Sendak's Wild Things is a book that grows up with you. It's cathartic and comforting at any age. Those are, as I say, ten pretty remarkable sentences.

Then there are the pictures, which are strange enough to be subtly disquieting, but which have a warmth and softness that make it pretty clear everything's going to be okay. And I'm not talking just about the wild things themselves, which (deservingly) tend to get all the attention, but the fact, for example, that Max's idea of mischief is terrorizing his family's terrier with a fork while wearing a wolf costume. The previous page shows him wielding a hammer twice the size of his head to construct a blanket fort, off one edge of which we see he's suspended a pathetic-looking teddy bear from a clothes-hanger. Why? Who knows. But if you're going to be sent to your room, it should probably be for something fun.

When he went on the Late Late Show to promote The Strain, Guillermo del Toro – who co-wrote his first novel with seasoned crime writer Chuck Hogan – told Craig Ferguson that his goal with the book was to reclaim vampire lore from the decidedly unmenacing lover-vampires popularized by Anne Rice and, God forbid, Stephenie Meyer. (Watch the Late Late Show excerpt below the jump – worth it just for Ferguson's uncannily accurate take on Twilight.) I do think he overstates his case a bit – the last decade has offered such a surfeit of vampire stories, that there would seem to be something for everyone (not least del Toro's own Blade II, easily the best of that franchise). Still, I'm grateful to have del Toro's twisted imagination provide an antidote to the glittering fairy-vampire nonsense everyone always insists on discussing these days.

The novel, which came out June 2nd, just popped up in the #9 spot on the New York Times Bestseller List. It's not every day that a filmmaker as worshipped as del Toro makes a popular literary foray, so I thought The Strain was worth talking about. It is not currently pegged for a film adaptation, but I suspect that won't remain the case for very long. Whatever its merits as a book, it would make a kickass horror flick.

Hey – remember when I correctly pointed out that Dan Brown's Angels & Demons was wretched, insulting nonsense, and everyone yelled at me? The consensus seemed to be that I didn't know from good populist entertainment; that I expected everything to be brainy, couldn't appreciate a good action-packed mystery, and basically should just shut up. (My favorite was when people informed me that I was wrong because Dan Brown is richer than I am.)

I stand by what I said about Angels & Demons, but I should have mentioned a counterexample to Dan Brown: an author who writes simple, unabashedly goofy page-turners that sell like hotcakes but are actually readable, with characters who aren't obviously morons, sentences that don't make grown men cry, and messages that are coherent, if not nuanced. One such author is John Grisham, whose books are preachy, ludicrous, and simplistic – but also absorbing and breathlessly entertaining. You scoff, but all the while you're furiously flipping pages.

Grisham's newest, The Associate, has already been tapped for a feature-film adaptation, starring Shia LaBeouf as a Yale Law School grad bound for a low-paying but noble public interest law career but who is blackmailed into taking a prestigious, soul-sucking law firm job by nefarious types who want access to some ultra-secret documents for corporate espionage purposes. The novel covers some of the same ground as Grisham's classic The Firm, except this time grounded in what Grisham perceives as the reality of life for young, bright law school graduates seduced by the high-paying but miserable jobs as associates in corporate law firms. It's hugely silly and hugely entertaining in the best Grisham tradition; with the right director and screenwriter, it could take a place of honor in the less-than-illustrious history of Grisham film adaptations.

So there are these two high school dudes, right, and though they're seniors, they're so aggressively geeky and socially inept that losing their virginity doesn't even seem like a real-world prospect. But before they leave for college, they have the opportunity to have one last craaaaazy night of adventure that could well culminate in getting laid – in addition to drunk, beaten up, and/or arrested.

Wait: have you heard this one before? You could be forgiven for thinking – or at least hoping – that Superbad was the last word on this subject. But like it or not, here comes I Love You Beth Cooper, adapted by Simpsons vet Larry Doyle from his own novel and directed by that stalwart of the bland and inoffensive, Chris Columbus.

The book reads, indeed, like Superbad by a Simpsons writer: hyperactive, incessantly self-referential, with occasional bursts of sincerity in an attempt to give the proceedings some emotional heft. It's often very funny, though usually due to an oddball choice of words by Doyle rather than anything situational. ("This is... odd," he she-grunted.") Where Superbad balanced out the raunch with a disarming sweetness, Beth Cooper goes for a sort of detached, intellectual cool, obviously sympathizing with its besotted protagonist (Doyle claims that "Denis Cooverman" is inspired by his own high school experience) but also taking not-inconsiderable joy in pounding him into the dirt. Mileage may vary; I can see how this approach would seem insufferable to some.

In interviews, Michael Cera has been ambivalent about his newfound fame. He's even expressed gentle skepticism regarding the Arrested Development movie everyone's buzzing about. I'm sure he has legitimate personal reasons to be concerned about his celebrity – it can't be easy for someone who doesn't have a huge personality, and who isn't a natural attention hog. But we fans and viewers also have reasons to worry. Foremost among them is the concern that Cera's popularity could drive him to roles where his talents are wasted. Indeed, as this fall's Nick & Norah's Inifinite Playlist demonstrated, it's already begun to happen. For the first time in the comic's career, his presence hurt the project instead of helping it.

In my first go-round with Nick & Norah, after reading the book and before seeing the film, I was optimistic that the role of Nick was just the opportunity for Cera to expand his range – play a character who is a little more confident, a little less tentative and hesitant. Sadly, that's not what happened. Instead, some subtle differences aside, Cera transplanted his (very funny) stock character from Arrested Development, Superbad and Juno into a story where that character wasn't needed, or welcome. In the process, he turned what could have been a sweet, moving romance into a tepid, if still amusing, teen comedy.

I'm still reeling from Body of Lies' remarkable box office flameout. The $70-million, Ridley Scott-directed, heavily-advertised spy thriller starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Russell Crowe opened three weekends ago to third place and 12.8 million dollars, and will struggle to get to $35 million domestic by the end of its theatrical run. What the hell happened? A B-grade Jack Ryan movie with Ben Affleck can make almost four times that, and a film with this sort of pedigree winds up dead on arrival?

The answer, of course, is that The Sum of All Fears isn't the proper point of comparison. Because it turns out that Body of Lies isn't much of a "spy thriller" after all. Writing Part One of this column back in the summer, I mused that Scott and screenwriter William Monahan were going to have a tough time making author David Ignatius's ultra-realistic depiction of CIA grunt work into compelling pop cinema. I was probably right, because they didn't really bother. They responded to the problem by making the film less crackerjack and more political; less exciting, perhaps, but smarter, sadder. In doing so, they threw their lot in with the sorry batch of Iraq War films rather than Jack Ryan. It was a bold choice that resulted in one of the best movies of the year – and a resounding commercial failure.

Politically, Ignatius' novel more or less kept its head down. There was certainly a sense that Roger Ferris, the protagonist played by Leonardo DiCaprio in the film, was frustrated with constant, counterproductive interference by his US-stationed superior Ed Hoffman (Crowe), but the subtext of this, if any, was soft: the problem wasn't any systemic defect but rather just that Hoffman was an insufferable micromanager. The book mostly concentrated on the fascinating (albeit not terribly cinematic) nitty-gritty of CIA field work in the Middle East.

This is a follow-up of sorts to my piece on Mikael Hafstrøm's adaptation of Stephen King's 1408. If you're interested, you should check that out. There, I half-marveled at and half-lamented the fact that the film managed to transform 1408 from a spectacularly scary, quasi-Lovecraftian horror tale into a personal, abstract meditation on grief and loss. In effect, the movie transplanted the story from the conceptual, hard-horror half of King's ouvre (think Cell and From a Buick 8) to the character-driven half (Lisey's Story, Bag of Bones). It was still a good film, but it needed someone who understood the existential terror that King is so good at evoking: a glimpse of something so alien, so divorced from the world we know, that it is simply beyond our comprehension. That's scary. Give me a movie like that.

At the time I wrote that post, such a film already existed. I suspected that this was the case, but I hadn't read the source material, and so couldn't validly make the comparison. Now I can: Frank Darabont's The Mist understands the sort of paralyzing, staring-into-the-abyss horror that King does so well. Even more impressive: not only does it brilliantly translate that aspect of the novella to the screen, it – like 1408 – fleshes out dimensions that the author barely implied. I knew I loved the film when I saw it, but only now do I understand how accomplished it really is.

Robert Zemeckis's Beowulf took a lot of hits for its perceived silliness, a verdict I could never quite sign on to. First of all, silly compared to what? Have these people seen the 1999 space opera Beowulf starring Christopher Lambert? Compared to that, Zemeckis's Beowulf is a sober meditation on the human condition. Have they seen the Gerard Butler clunker Beowulf and Grendel? Come on, guys: considering what the movies have done to this story in the past, last year's high-tech effort seems like serious business to me.

What about the source material – the ancient Old English epic poem upon which these movies purport to be based? If you've ever read it (or tried to read it), the perversions of the adaptations shouldn't surprise you. It's both begging for action movie treatment and impossible to faithfully adapt into anything resembling a compelling action movie. The story is credited with generating many of the archetypes we see in our fiction, and indeed, it's so archetypical that by modern standards, it's a skeleton; there's nothing there.

Seriously – you know how people complain about movies whose plots can be fully described in one sentence? A faithful Beowulf would take this phenomenon to new heights. A synopsis would read something like this: Beowulf beats up Grendel, Grendel's mom, and a dragon, and dies. The end. Some complained that the Zemeckis version distorted Beowulf, but I'd have liked to see their reaction to an undistorted adaptation. Trust me, it wouldn't work. There's a reason that all these screenwriters have scrambled to add elements to the story.

I think that everyone who loves Michael Cera's comedy – and that should be practically everyone – is a little worried about Michael Cera. Because even as Arrested Development becomes legend, Superbad wins over every twentysomething in sight, and Juno charms the pants off the entire nation, the hushed, often unspoken question is: how long can he milk this? Cera's shtick is killer, but it's also ultra-specific – he's the shy, unprepossessing, painfully awkward adolescent, a nice guy who's self-aware enough to get embarrassed but not confident enough to avoid it.

Cera is so good at playing this part in a way that's both touching and hysterical that it's propelled him to stardom. For me to say that I haven't enjoyed any of the incarnations of George Michael Bluth that he's given us over the past couple years would be a bald-faced lie. Indeed, I think the character he's crafted is one of the most impressive comic achievements of my adult lifetime. But even as I relish it, I start to fidget, because I can sense exasperation and annoyance threatening from just around the bend. Oh, maybe not mine – I could watch Cera do this forever, I tell myself – but certainly other people will soon lose patience and turn on the guy. One-trick pony, they'll yell. Do something else.

One of my concerns when I started doing this column was that each forthcoming adaptation I covered would equate to a new movie losing the ability to surprise me. What more effective way to strip oneself of the thrill of cinematic discovery, I thought, than to pore over the source material before watching? Ultimately I decided that the prospect of literary discovery along with the chance to write the column more than compensated for that risk, but here's some evidence that maybe I shouldn't have worried at all: having read Cormac McCarthy's The Road, I'm more excited to see John Hillcoat's adaptation – coming this November -- than I ever would have been otherwise.