Book to Film Adaptations: The Struggle for Narrative Nuance

What is Hollywood without adaptations? From “Pride & Prejudice” (2005) and “The Hunger Games” (2012-2015) to “Dune” (2021-present), Hollywood has loved to turn hit book series into movie adaptations. Growing up, I was taught that the book version of a story would always be superior to the movie version. But then, I grew up and realized that this wasn’t always the case. My first read as a college student was Frank Herbert’s great and indomitable “Dune” (1965). I love “Dune.” It has changed my life. It is one of the richest books out there. Do I love “Dune: Part One” (2021) and “Dune: Part Two” (2024)? Absolutely. Do I mourn the changes made in the film? No. Do I think about them? All the time. “Dune” is one of those rare exceptions where you can change core plots and cut key storylines and still make the story feel majestic and purposeful. I grew curious about the evolution of my film theory. Somewhere along the path of growing up, I went from loving books so much more than movies to now becoming the opposite. I should have poked holes in “Bullet Train” and “Dune: Part Two,” but I didn’t. I considered how I felt so strongly about these movies despite having different experiences. I read “Dune” before I watched either part. However, “Dune” is a novel with more than 700 pages spanning decades of conflict. Of course it couldn’t be 100% brought to life. But, for “Bullet Train,” I watched the movie first. I’ll admit, I love stories with action and engagement, so on the surface level, that’s why I’ll always prefer the movie. However, when I consider a movie made strictly, or stricter to the material, I don’t get the story that the cast put together. It just doesn’t work. The changes of the movie serve the author’s theme so well that the original feels plain in comparison. I approached Professor Simone Brioni from the Department of English and asked him: What are the limitations and acceptances of interweaving intertextuality in film versus outright transgressing it? “Adaptations and remakes are an effective production formula,” he said. “It is very easy for artists to have a healthy model creation. It’s not necessarily good or bad if critics find the original or remake better or not. I care about what the adaptation does. How do the changes [or lack thereof] make us think about the infinite possibilities of what the story could have been?” Brioni posed an interesting proposition. One way or another, “Different interpretations enable stories to survive,” he said. He explained that they force directors, production companies and the viewers to think about the movie and what is defined as clinically successful. Adaptations can be clever. Take “Frankenstein” (2025) and Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein” (1818). Were there key differences from the text in the film? Yes. Did the core aspect of the film remain and offer a deeper, more intimate understanding of the Creature’s pain, even as said by the director himself? Yes. When I left the theater with my best friend, we talked about what we liked about the film. She said that while the grandfather’s death was different, she liked that they had given the Creature a companion, because it was another real loss forced onto him. Changing Elizabeth to be his brother’s wife and not Victor’s allowed the character to be more sadistic and furthered conveyed Victor’s heartlessness. Another example is Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “The Scarlet Letter” (1850).The movie adaptation of “The Scarlet Letter” (1995) is remarked to be “one of the worst book adaptations ever made.” Reviewers commented that the thematic message is discarded and portrayed as a tragic, forbidden romance. However, take “Easy A” (2010). It is perhaps a mockumentary of the film, but it was seamlessly incorporated into the contemporary world and was enjoyable to watch, especially for a storyline that aligns with the beauty of teenage rebellion. Brioni finds value in every adaptation — faithful or not. “There is always something more,” he said. “Even if an adaptation is poor, watching it precisely to see the changes that deviate from a single narrative lets you see something about the culture at the time that the adaptation is created, and why it is relevant again.” His argument? “Regarding limitations of adaptations, you need to acknowledge whether a text is an adaptation or an inspiration based on the director,” he said. “An adaptation always strays from an original. The movie is now addressing a new audience; therefore, it needs to change because we as a society change. Directors want us to notice or not notice something that relates to politics. What is the original result of us reading?” It’s an age-old question. Movies are meant to be critically interpreted. People are not taught enough media and film literacy and it clearly shows. Denis Villeneuve, the director of the “Dune” saga, said in an interview with Screen Rant that his changes to Chani’s character from a faithful lover of Paul to a hardened Fremen were to give the audience a visual guide into the dangers of Paul’s descent. Having read the book, I didn’t need a visual reminder of the dangers of corruption. But I can see why some would, especially when they’re used to trusting the narrator. Emily Mandracchia, a junior majoring in English, echoed similar sentiments. “In academic settings, students are often taught to analyze certain characters and characteristics without being taught why. It becomes formulaic,” she said. “Growing up, I was taught to look at every single detail and it frustrated me. So what if the curtains were blue? Or the wallpaper was yellow? On the other side of the creative process, it deeply matters.” Mandracchia pointed out the storyteller’s matter of intention heavily influenced adaptation choices. “It’s about what the director is trying to create in telling the story. Where it’s coming from matters because the story built from an author is now being told by an entirely new storyteller and their storytelling characteristics,” she said. “Books have an obvious meaning. We’re taught to analyze them, unlike movies. Neither can be reduced to entertainment or visuals,” she said. Mandracchia brought up a classic example of a failed adaptation: “Lolita” (1997), based on Vladimir Nabokov’s “Lolita” (1955). She described the adaptation as “why movie adaptations are so misunderstood today.” If the director doesn’t understand the characters and the theme of the novel, how can the audience? She mentioned that the author never wanted little girls or lips on the cover, as “Lolita” exists as a commentary. “People don’t see that as much in a movie. People see what they want to see, so they’ll see anything,” she added. “Any film adaptation is never 100% accurate. You have to omit details, but film interpretations rely on the audience choosing to educate themselves or not.” Mandracchia brings up a paradox that deserves more attention. It’s no secret audiences love to watch films, but how are they analyzing movies? I love watching movies and writing reviews, because it forces me to critically review everything. I love scrolling on Instagram and Threads and seeing people’s theories, which add layers to my own ideas. Metaphors run deep in film. It’s a non-hyperlinkable fact. Give people the tools, or lack thereof, and they’ll come out with something. More often than not, there’s an overlap in analysis. “Nostalgia is probably one of the most powerful currencies in our cultural economy right now. It sells comfort in a world that feels increasingly unstable, politically, economically and even existentially. It’s almost like a psychological safety net,” Professor Emre Ulusoy, a professor in the College of Business, wrote in an email to The Statesman. “From a sociological and consumer culture perspective, nostalgia functions as emotional risk management. It lowers uncertainty. When the world feels unpredictable, audiences turn to stories they already know how to feel about. Familiarity becomes a kind of safety. The industry knows this very well; that’s why we see endless sequels, reboots, and cinematic universes. The past becomes a renewable resource. And ironically, change, or progress, becomes the real risk,” he wrote. When we retell a story over and over, or change critical details, I fear … we’ve lost the plot. We end up in a state of, according to Ulusoy, “cultural déjà vu, new on the surface, but emotionally pre-scripted.” Take the cultural phenomenon, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Great Gatsby” (1925). Fitzgerald’s story has been adapted into film three times and is currently a hit Broadway show. The most recent film adaptation was in 2013, with the same title, starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Tobey Maguire. If you google the film, the movie is labeled as a “romance/musical.” Now, if you’ve read the book, you know that Fitzgerald’s story isn’t romantic, nor musically inclined. “The Great Gatsby” does not have a single reliable narrator. While Jay Gatsby is the star of the show and is the center of Nick Carraway’s attention, Nick is an incredibly flawed character himself. His admiration for Jay occludes his ability to maintain any ethics and relay events after internalizing them. He is easily influenced by the partying and cheating around him; his initial presence as a bystander inclines the reader to trust him, but then, when he becomes actively engaged in Jay’s lush life, it becomes hard to trust, let alone root for him. From the first page, Fitzgerald/Nick’s voice is cynical, because the events have already happened. In the 2013 movie, not so much. Perhaps it was a director’s choice to pull the audience into Jay’s illusions and fallacies so we see through Nick’s eyes and feel what he does, but perhaps not. A key shift in Nick’s reliability is when he gets into a relationship with Jordan. Key lines are cut out. Again, this begs the question: You can have a star-studded cast, nail most of the themes, but is the adaptation meant to serve the medium created perfectly? Should it? Adapting stories always risks a loss of intimacy between viewers and the storyline, especially when directors opt to make cuts central to what made the original medium so successful. Erasing key narrative elements reduces the structure of both media. “Nostalgia is simply efficient,” Ulusoy added. “It taps into collective memory, a shared emotional archive that lowers the cost of persuasion. It is not that audiences reject new ideas; it is that novelty demands effort. It asks people to learn how to feel in new ways. Nostalgia, by contrast, allows them to feel something immediately recognizable. New ideas require interpretation and reflection, while nostalgia offers instant familiarity. It makes us feel at home, and that makes it easier to consume.” “It’s capitalism’s emotional algorithm. But it’s also evidence of our deeper cultural anxieties and desires. It exposes our collective longing for coherence, for meaning, for a sense of continuity in a fractured world. So, I guess, the real question isn’t whether nostalgia sells; it’s what we’re trying to remember, and what we keep choosing to forget as consumers, as citizens and, honestly, as earthlings trying to make sense of the times we live in,” Ulusoy wrote. Put simply, I agree. There are no rules anyone can impose on anyone else’s artistic vision and direction. As I said, adaptations are clever, because you take things that will draw a crowd and allow people to see your vision. But, like every form of art, in Ulusoy’s words, adaptations still function as “ideological barometers.” “They tell us how societies negotiate with their myths; what they choose to remember, what they sanitize, and what they reimagine. Adaptation, in that sense, is how collective memory updates itself for a changing audience,” he wrote. I don’t mind an adaptation. I don’t mind diluting or exaggerating events so long as one, they keep the story interesting, and two, they preserve the author’s authenticity of writing. As authors, we write because we have a story sifting in our bones and want to get it out. We need people to take our minds clean apart in a book, because no one else will voluntarily do it any other way. Writing is intimate. Whether a movie review, a social commentary piece, a special issue, a novel or a movie script, writing is personal. As Brioni said, it’s about what the movie makes you think about: What could have been done differently, or why this change might have been? Ulusoy agreed with Brioni’s take that adaptations have the potency to uphold and subvert culture based on its time. Ulusoy brought up the adaptation of “Fight Club” (1999), writing that it “remains one of the most incisive dissections of late-capitalist identity. It channels nihilism, anti-consumerism and alienation into a critique of the commodified self.” Stanley Kubrick’s 1980 adaptation of Stephen King’s “The Shining” (1977) set the standard of horror. He wrote, “Kubrick transforms a horror novel into something far more unsettling, a meditation on isolation, madness and the psychological collapse of the modern family.” What makes these adaptations successful? They don’t just repeat the same story; “they reframe. So nostalgia can definitely be a critical lens, not just an escape hatch. It can be a mirror that shows us what our collective longing is really about,” he wrote. “Works like ‘Fahrenheit 451’ (Ray Bradbury) and ‘V for Vendetta’ (Alan Moore and David Lloyd) show how adaptation can operate as a political allegory. They transform literature’s dystopian warnings into visual languages that speak directly to new generations about censorship, surveillance, propaganda, and the seduction of conformity. In these cases, adaptation does not dilute the source but amplifies it, using the immediacy of cinema to deepen the critique,” Ulusoy wrote. As for the barometers of success in the eyes of the public, Ulusoy considers the creative aspect to be key. So what if an adaptation isn’t successful? The market will rebrand art to entertainment as it pleases, but that doesn’t mean the film possesses no potential. “Some directors use that tension to say something deeper. Kubrick’s ‘A Clockwork Orange’ (1971) or ‘The Shining’ (1980) are great examples. Both are based on novels, but he turns them into cultural diagnoses, almost like cinematic Rorschach tests for violence, conformity or madness. They show that an adaptation can be both commercially viable and philosophically radical,” he wrote. Making art is intimate — exhilarating, even. However, sharing and distributing it leaves anyone to think and say whatever they want. It’s every artist’s qualm, but when you set aside the judgment and risk confronting narrative nuance head-on, you put yourself in a position like no other to take a story and tell it as you’d like. At its worst, an adaptation makes the crowd angry, and to the general public, it is another entertainment movie. But, as Mandracchia says, we have to enable ourselves to find and use the tools to bypass movies being pure entertainment and ask the questions that Brioni proposes: Why would a director make these changes and explore the realm of the age-old question of “what if?” at their best? Uluosy puts it quite eloquently, using a tale well-versed in adaptation — they’re Trojan horses. “They draw us in with recognition, then challenge what that recognition really means.”