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Cutting Edge Film - The Scarlet “A”
By Steve Fishman (Contributing Writer)
Oct 26, 1995
I did an English colloquium on this whole thing last year.
Not Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, of course, ‘cause that would have bored my audience to tears, but on this whole adapting books into films thing. I think the axiom was “Good books make bad films and bad books make good films.” English professors felt tears welling in their eyes when Moore was cast as Hester Prynne in the newest version of the literary classic, and cried even more when she claimed “not many people read TSL” when justifying the radical altering of the novel’s plot and tone. But remember, folks, it’s an adaptation. Changes can, will and must be made.
So here we have a perfect case of good into bad. The Scarlet Letter - directed by The Mission’s Roland Joffe - is an instant camp classic in its own right, filled to the brim with gushing melodramatics, funky patchwork costumes, and orgasmic sex in hayseed piles, a little bit of Ghost mixed in with Last of the Mohicans. It’s a bad film, sure enough, but it’s funny enough to make you think twice about it’s utter lack of shamelessness. This is first class smut in wool dresses and bonnets and dammit, it’s fun!
In case you really haven’t read the book, its about some goofy Puritan woman who gets impregnated by the local minister, and has to wear the letter “a” on her chest as a reminder of her sin. Eventually (in the book) people begin to appreciate and respect her “a” while Reverend Dimmesdale goes a little bit nutty because he has to repress his feelings or something like that. He dies at the end of the boo from this guilt, where as the film provides your typical Hollywood-ized happy ending.
This version, and I think there have been at least three others, is fairly literate in terms of dialogue, but falls flat when it comes to actions and motivation. It begins with the genesis of the affair, rather than dwelling purely in its aftermath. It’s silly enough to consider using a red bird as a symbol of sexual desire, while repeatedly emphasizing the dangers of going through an Indian gauntlet (you might go insane and start scalping people at random). Along the way there’s a noisy witch trial, people are beaten to death, and throats are cut in mindless sprays of arterial red blood while Native Americans whoop and burn the pig imperialist oppressors. Puritanism was never so much fun.
The acting is suitably overwrought, but as usual, the technical aspects are up to par. Feminist-flag burner Moore is lost in her usual “don’t give me any crap” persona, while Robert Duvall, a normally fine actor, is, well, a ham as Chillingsworth, Moore’s happily psychotic husband. But the best flourishes come from yet another usually excellent actor, Gary Oldman, as our tortured pal Dimmesdale. His impersonation of a drunk Jim Baker at a Sunday sermon is worth the price of admission alone, a freaky hallucinogenic montage of senseless repeated cuts and silly double exposures laughingly scored to Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings.
“I’m in Hell!” screams out Dimmesdale - Oldman had to be doing this for the money - as he bemoans the fact that his lover must publicly bear the burden for their sin alone. One would think that’s what Hawthorne fans would be screaming instead. In one interview, Oldman pointed out that this film, had it been made in the forties, would have been just the same, “except for the sex.” Sorry, Gary, but forties’ films never endorsed adultery, even if it was plausibly justified. And they never showed the leading man’s genitalia either. But hey. It’s all in the name of art, isn’t it?
(R- Violence, nudity, sexual situations, attempted rape)
Trailer for The Scarlett Letter
++++
I think my writing has improved since then, but it's fun to look back at my older work. Regardless, one thing I do need to do is start re-archiving all my work (digitally speaking) before all my physical copies become too fragile to use. (I have saved copies of The Holcad from 1993-97 that have my many, many articles)
By Steve Fishman (Contributing Writer)
Oct 26, 1995
I did an English colloquium on this whole thing last year.
Not Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, of course, ‘cause that would have bored my audience to tears, but on this whole adapting books into films thing. I think the axiom was “Good books make bad films and bad books make good films.” English professors felt tears welling in their eyes when Moore was cast as Hester Prynne in the newest version of the literary classic, and cried even more when she claimed “not many people read TSL” when justifying the radical altering of the novel’s plot and tone. But remember, folks, it’s an adaptation. Changes can, will and must be made.
So here we have a perfect case of good into bad. The Scarlet Letter - directed by The Mission’s Roland Joffe - is an instant camp classic in its own right, filled to the brim with gushing melodramatics, funky patchwork costumes, and orgasmic sex in hayseed piles, a little bit of Ghost mixed in with Last of the Mohicans. It’s a bad film, sure enough, but it’s funny enough to make you think twice about it’s utter lack of shamelessness. This is first class smut in wool dresses and bonnets and dammit, it’s fun!
In case you really haven’t read the book, its about some goofy Puritan woman who gets impregnated by the local minister, and has to wear the letter “a” on her chest as a reminder of her sin. Eventually (in the book) people begin to appreciate and respect her “a” while Reverend Dimmesdale goes a little bit nutty because he has to repress his feelings or something like that. He dies at the end of the boo from this guilt, where as the film provides your typical Hollywood-ized happy ending.
This version, and I think there have been at least three others, is fairly literate in terms of dialogue, but falls flat when it comes to actions and motivation. It begins with the genesis of the affair, rather than dwelling purely in its aftermath. It’s silly enough to consider using a red bird as a symbol of sexual desire, while repeatedly emphasizing the dangers of going through an Indian gauntlet (you might go insane and start scalping people at random). Along the way there’s a noisy witch trial, people are beaten to death, and throats are cut in mindless sprays of arterial red blood while Native Americans whoop and burn the pig imperialist oppressors. Puritanism was never so much fun.
The acting is suitably overwrought, but as usual, the technical aspects are up to par. Feminist-flag burner Moore is lost in her usual “don’t give me any crap” persona, while Robert Duvall, a normally fine actor, is, well, a ham as Chillingsworth, Moore’s happily psychotic husband. But the best flourishes come from yet another usually excellent actor, Gary Oldman, as our tortured pal Dimmesdale. His impersonation of a drunk Jim Baker at a Sunday sermon is worth the price of admission alone, a freaky hallucinogenic montage of senseless repeated cuts and silly double exposures laughingly scored to Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings.
“I’m in Hell!” screams out Dimmesdale - Oldman had to be doing this for the money - as he bemoans the fact that his lover must publicly bear the burden for their sin alone. One would think that’s what Hawthorne fans would be screaming instead. In one interview, Oldman pointed out that this film, had it been made in the forties, would have been just the same, “except for the sex.” Sorry, Gary, but forties’ films never endorsed adultery, even if it was plausibly justified. And they never showed the leading man’s genitalia either. But hey. It’s all in the name of art, isn’t it?
(R- Violence, nudity, sexual situations, attempted rape)
Click to viewTrailer for The Scarlett Letter
++++
I think my writing has improved since then, but it's fun to look back at my older work. Regardless, one thing I do need to do is start re-archiving all my work (digitally speaking) before all my physical copies become too fragile to use. (I have saved copies of The Holcad from 1993-97 that have my many, many articles)