The problem of film adaptation cannot be solved by reverence alone. For the spiritual soul mocks the coercive oppression that goes with gestures and refuses to be confined within the narrow circle of such art as the motion picture has at its command. Gold becomes a mere quasi-precious metal, beauty degenerates into paint and powder, truth is routed by phraseology.
No one who is at all judicious will ever attempt to adapt to the screen a bit of poetry whose entire art consists in a complete absorption by and amalgamation with the world of pure thought. Goethe’s transcendental works run but little risk. Those works, however, in which there is a union of the spiritual soul with a sensual soul stand in ever-present danger. Shakespeare’s works, for example, are remarkably divided in this regard; they are full of fissures: he hid his pure intellectuality in an action that is glaring, medieval, and vigorous.
Fig. 19. Scene from Destiny.
[See p. [91]]
What do we mean by film adaptation? We mean the separation of the sensual action from all the rest. The feelings, transfigured through pure intellect in the original poetry, are lifted from their initial surroundings. Adapt a poem of the spiritual soul in this way and a journalese tract is the result. Take the case of Hamlet: death through poison, the son as the detective, the queen mother suffering from aberrations, a duel with poisoned blades, and a conclusion of fourfold death by poison. In such a bungled compilation there would not be a single trace of Shakespearian spirit. In such a thing the riddle of Hamlet would not be solved but cracked.
But since film adaptations are the order of the day, we might as well pay them our respects, bow to them, and confess that they exist. There is no use to deny the existence of that which already exists; a fact is a fact. Moreover, film adaptation is not so contrary to all the laws of nature and art as it would seem at first blush. For there are many poetic creations of magnificent beauty of action whose picturesque fullness poetry alone can do nothing more than merely touch or indicate. There are other poems whose world of feeling is congealed in cold abstract thought. In such cases the motion picture reclaims its original due. There are also poetic works, such as Schiller’s Fiesko, which are just as effective in the poetic form as they are in the form they take on at the hands of the motion picture. A work, consequently, the sensual action of which is so strong that a masterful, and dignified, motion picture can be made from it, may be adapted to the screen.
To transform a creation of the human mind and soul which constitutes, judged from every conceivable point of view, a work of real and great art from the sphere in which it originally stood, and in which it was originally created, to another sphere, and into another species of art, is always more or less sacrilegious. If done, it must be done well, and done completely. There is no room here for piecemeal work. The adaptation of a poem to the film calls for a re-creator who is a stranger to mercy; he dare not shrink from tearing up the tenderest flower by the roots and transplanting it to a new and strange garden. Anything that does not fit in with his purpose must be ruthlessly cast aside. Follow this recipe, and a work that is not appreciated by the uncultured, great though it may be, may be metamorphosed into a work that is appreciated, on the screen. Indeed, a new work of real art may arise in this way. In a case of this kind, the original poet may after all have his renown increased despite the fact that the film to which his name is still attached corresponds in no way to what he originally had in mind.
Nor should we ever fancy that work of this kind is unnecessary. The Norse adaptation of Björnson’s Synnöve Solbakken, one of Björnson’s short stories, written when he was still a young man, seemed, in its finished form, as if Björnson had had the film camera in mind when he created it. Picture after picture was shown, and that at great length—and great breadth. Of Björnson’s unquestioned passionateness, however, which resembles the roaring power of an ice-cold mountain stream as it gushes down the hillside, there was not a trace.
To adapt is to use violence, to do violence. The adapter will never succeed in finding and filming the original purpose of the poet. The adaptation of Fiesko was good; it was a success; but it was not Schiller; it was not a child of his mind. And it would have been still better had it resembled Schiller even less than it did. The action should have been adapted much more to the needs of exclusive mimic portrayal. To try to spare the poet, to hurt his feelings in no way, is to render him a disservice.