I find myself ponder over whether the separation of film and novel should be enforced upon reviewing their
similar, or perhaps dissimilar content. In some cases I have been relieved with exterior knowledge of motives and ideas and themes that only derive themselves from their original source, thus making the movie-going experience different than a companion, say, who formulated their own theories, however founded they may be. And though relief is in a sense rewarding to an otherwise lackluster piece of art, it is also
frustrating in that the art should stand strong and stand alone. Isn't interesting how you only see novels being made into movies, and not vice
versa? Isn't it more interesting how more often than not, they would have been better off untouched?
Let it be said, the novel-turned-movie phenomenon has saved me on more than one occasion. I deeply appreciated the eight hour saga of Pride and Prejudice that accompanied me during AP Literature class in high school (though after reading the book thereafter-- I have to say- still so much better). And I'd much rather watch infamous The Godfather than sit down to the mere 400-page Mario Puzo novel. Even recently, I thoroughly enjoyed the brave adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are, though I was sincerely disappointed over the lack of little monster costumes this Halloween. But anyway...
Cormac McCarthy is a force to be reckoned with. Despite his ever-so-visual novel, full of specific imagery that haunted me for weeks, the images themselves contained something deeper. They represented the utter terror of what it means to be human, to be an animal, to be subject to the unpredictable whims of life we so effortlessly ignore on a day to day basis. His themes are rooted deeper than the burning forests, faltering agriculture and human hope presented in The Road. And these exact themes, translated in McCarthy's exact imagery and unforgettable journey, are exactly what were missing from John Hillcoat's film.
The awe of what haunts every futuristic-pessimist is truly misleading in the film, The Road. A post-apocalyptic world, seemingly and vaguely all too familiar with its modernity, is visually enrapturing. The depleted roads, the vanquished lots, the decrepit remains of things once colorful, are washed with gray and ash. The stark contradiction of vibrant, orange flames against a sooted canvas is mesmerizing. Certain questions become unavoidable. What would I do if this were my road? (Or in my case-- Is this film relying on this sort of cop-out?)
I have to compliment director, Hillcoat, for strictly honoring the unfolding of events in adaptation from book to movie, almost to a tee. This is perhaps where artistry should be challenged more candidly for such a creative forum. The bridge from one medium to the next should be supported with the tiers of success that were originally present. In McCarthy's case, these were built from the essence of humanity and its most simple and instinctual choices. The film's foundation depended too much upon a confined translation, shouldered with pre-ordained visuals, albeit hypnotizing.
At the end of the day, however stuffed with post-thanksgiving feasts I was, however high my hopes were post-No Country, and however disgruntled I entered the holiday season post-The Road-viewing, I can recognize how these were perhaps shortcomings in my cinematic experience. I still wonder if I should have entered the film without notion of the novel, as to lighten the blow (a little). Oh, the number of roads that leads one to their opinions. Regardless, I still recommend the high road, which is to say for people to skip the film and read the book instead.
