The Art of Adaptation

by Linda Seger

  “Much of my work was cutting. There are cuts in almost every single scene. Bruce was helpful in this regard. We would look at a speech, and he could see what we could lose.

  “Some of the work meant adding to the play. Since Bruce is Australian, he didn’t know much about the South. He would ask me, ‘Tell me what you remember about your childhood that you think is interesting.’ That conversation resulted in a scene that isn’t in the play, a scene without dialogue when Hoke serves Daisy her dinner and then goes back in the kitchen and eats his own dinner off a different plate with different cutlery.

  “I also added a scene with two policemen. I wanted them in the play, but we weren’t able to hire two actors to have bit parts in the play. But I could bring them into the film.

  “Audiences seem to identify with the film. Often people comment on the film or play by saying ‘You must have known my mother,’ or ‘You must have known my Uncle Joe.’ It seems to me that my family must have been like a lot of people’s families.”

  Driving Miss Daisy was nominated for eight Academy Awards and won four, for Best Picture, Best Screenplay Adaptation, Best Actress, and Best Makeup. This small film, which many producers and studios said no one would go to see, has now made well over one hundred million dollars.

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  WHY THE TRUE-LIFE STORY RESISTS FILM

  When I was a girl growing up in a small town in northern Wisconsin, reading biographies and autobiographies of famous people expanded my horizons and taught me valuable human lessons. From Clara Barton I learned about strength and determination; Jane Addams taught me about compassion; and Amelia Earhart taught me that it was all right to be different. As I grew older I learned about introspection and a very private spirituality through Dag Hammarskjöld, about dignity and justice through Martin Luther King, Jr., and about overcoming overwhelming odds through the story of Sir John Hunt’s expedition to Mount Everest.

  Biographies took me around the world to places I never expected to visit. They introduced me to people I would never meet. Biographies also explored the inner lives of people unlike myself. They took me into the subjective world of different experiences, attitudes, feelings, and perspectives. Other people’s inner lives are rarely accessible to us, except for those of our very best friends. Rarely do we have the privilege of learning what it’s like to be someone else, to see the world through someone’s else’s eyes—for instance, what it means to be of another race (Black Like Me by John Griffin, or The Autobiography of Malcolm X), or of another religion (The Diary of Anne Frank); or what it means to have a disability (My Left Foot).

  The subjects of true-life stores can move us with their courage. They can point the way, by helping us explore careers, relationships, other realities. They can teach us values as well as issue a warning about dangers and the consequences of certain behavior. They can take us into dark worlds, educating us about corruption and injustice, manipulation and victimization, wasted and decadent lives.

  A good biography can take us inside the heart of its subject. Listen to how Christy Brown describes the moment when he realized he was different.

  I was now just ten, a boy who couldn’t walk, speak, feed or dress himself. I was helpless, but only now did I begin to realise how helpless I really was. I still didn’t know anything about myself: I knew nothing beyond the fact that I was different from others. I didn’t understand what made me different or why it should be. I just knew that I couldn’t run about, or play football, or climb trees, or even feed myself as the others did. I couldn’t reason this out. I couldn’t even think clearly about it. I could only feel it, feel it deep down in the very core of me, like a thin sharp needle that worked its way through all the fancies and dreams of my childish mind till it tore them to shreds, leaving it naked and powerless to avoid the stark reality, that I was a cripple.

  Later he writes:

  I could now no longer run away from myself, I had grown too big for that. In a thousand ways, large and small, as each day went by, as the family grew up one by one and became—to me—strange self-supporting adults, I saw and felt the limitations, the boredom, the terrible narrowness of my own existence. All around me were signs of activity, effort, growth. Everyone had something to do, something to occupy them and keep their minds and their hands active. They had interests, activities and aims to make their lives an integrated whole and give their energies a natural outlet and a natural medium of expression. I had only my left foot.

  Through these words we share Christy’s struggle. This is the book’s strength. But this kind of material does not translate well into film. Biography resists the objectivity of film. If all you have with biography is a rich inner life, it will be a difficult, perhaps an impossible, adaptation. The screenwriters of My Left Foot certainly saw that problem and approached this very subjective material by not following the book at all. By drawing on other material besides the book and combining and changing characters and situations, they created a film.

  CHOOSING A WORKABLE STORY LINE

  Film is a story medium. Aristotle told us that drama is about “one action,” one consistent story line. Clearly he wasn’t thinking of the true-life story. There are many stories within one life; a life defies cinematic neatness and creates difficulties for anyone choosing which story to show. If you’re doing a film on Martin Luther King, Jr., for instance, are you going to tell his whole life story or only emphasize his part in the civil rights movement? Are you going to focus on his relationship with Coretta Scott King? Or perhaps it should be the story of the theological journey that led him to make a number of decisions about the relationship of religion and social action? What are you going to do about some of the negative stories we’ve heard about this man: the affairs, or possibly even the alleged plagiarism that has come to light recently? What’s going to be your take on King? Which of the stories has a clear beginning, middle, and end? Of course, in the case of Martin Luther King, Jr., we know him for his work with the civil rights movement, so we can see some center around which we could fashion a story.

  Which story would you tell if you were going to write about John Glenn? Or Clare Booth Luce? Or Elizabeth Taylor? How would you focus the material if you had to write about playwright Eugene O’Neill or songwriter Stephen Foster?

  Many of these stories do not have clear beginnings, middles, and ends. Sometimes one theme in somebody’s life doesn’t end until the person dies, and another theme ends when the subject is twelve. Sometimes stories have no real development. A woman decides that she wants to become an actor, she goes to her first casting call, she is cast immediately. There’s no struggle, there’s no development, no conflict. She’s just plain lucky. How are you going to tell her story?

  Everybody is a combination of many stories; some begin and end early, some begin and end late, and some of them continue through sixty or seventy years of life. Some extremely important stories might be very, very short. Some parts of a life are epic, some episodic, some are short-term story lines but very important in contributing to the meaning of a person’s life.

  CREATING DRAMATIC ORDER

  Not only are there many stories in one person’s life, but seldom does anyone live his or her life in the right dramatic order. Instead of the stories building to one neat dramatic climax, the climax to one subplot might occur far later than the climax of the A, or main, story line. Some characters make one appearance and never appear again. And there are always some people who are an integral part of a person’s life but have nothing to do with the particular story you’re trying to tell.

  As a script consultant, I have worked with many true-life stories. In one case, I helped a producer evaluate the feasibility of a television movie about a country-western singer. Unfortunately, the climax of his career, winning a major country-western award, came before his subplot love story. There was no major conflict. And there was no relationship subplot that continued for a significant portion of his life. Although more research might have yielded a strong dramatic s
tory line, further thinking about the project showed us that the investment of time and money probably was not worth it.

  A few years ago I was called in on a project about a famous musician. I met with him and the producer to try to find a possible story line. After some discussion I discovered there was a strong dramatic story line in his rise to fame, culminating with his work with Louis Armstrong. When I outlined the possibility, he immediately countered, “But that doesn’t include when I used to dance and sing with the radio when I was four, or my visit to Berlin last year.” Although this could have been a viable and important story, the inability to focus the material led to its abandonment.

  The specific details of true-life stories often get in the way of creating a strong dramatic through-line. In 1989 I was hired by the Mormon church to work on a film about the Mormons’ epic journey from New York State to the area that became Salt Lake City in the middle eighteen hundreds. Since the church insists on everything being factual and has a staff of researchers, there was no room for dramatic license. On one occasion I asked Kieth Merrill, the director (and original writer), if we could shift the location of a certain speech to the east side of the river because it would make a stronger dramatic build for a particular sequence. He called Salt Lake City and reported back that since the speech took place on the west side of the river, we’d have to rework the sequence to be factual. He made several similar calls to Salt Lake with the same result. In this case, however, the work led to a successful result, and the film (Legacy) is now being shown in Salt Lake City as part of a historical introduction to the Mormons.

  THE TRUE-LIFE INCIDENT

  It is usually easier to adapt a true-life incident than a true-life story because the material often contains a rising dramatic line leading to a strong climax. Examples of true-life incidents are films that focus on one major event in someone’s life, rather than on an ongoing story line that may cover a number of years and a number of subplots. For instance, the television movie of Everybody’s Baby: The Rescue of Jessica McClure takes place over a three-day period. It contains a climax (her rescue) and the drama and suspense building up to it. The Karen Silkwood story takes place over a number of months, but also focuses specifically on the drama and suspense of Karen’s discovery of problems at the Kerr-McGee plant. The Burning Bed is built around an incident of murder and abuse. Murder in Mississippi is built around the murder of three civil rights workers. All of these stories are implicitly dramatic. No one has to look very far to see where the drama is, and to see a definite structure within the material that sets up the incident, develops it, and then ends the story with a strong climax. This doesn’t mean that the writer does not need to find artistic and original ways of ordering the material, but the writer can begin the process, knowing that the drama is there.

  The true-life epic demands much more detective work. What event, out of an entire lifetime, will be the focus of the drama? How do you keep a true-life story from becoming episodic? Clearly it is impossible to tell the “womb to tomb” story in two hours. Even if you could tell it, the story would be unfocused and unconnected and would not add up to compelling drama.

  WHAT DO YOU LOOK FOR?

  Some true-life stories are easy to adapt. If you see the following elements, you know there’s a reasonable chance of creating a successful film:

  1. A central incident that can help focus your subject. Even a true-life epic story like the story of Gandhi focused on his work to create change nonviolently in India. If the story centers on one event that is objective and external, you should be able to build a dramatic, focused story line. Separate but Equal, Crossing to Freedom, Friendly Fire, and The Murder of Mary Phagan all have an implicit focus in their stories.

  2. A story building to a clear climax. The story of the civil rights murders implies two possible climaxes, depending on whether you start with the murder of the civil rights workers, as in Mississippi Burning, or end with the murder, as in the television film Murder in Mississippi. By starting with the murder the film version built to a climax that showed the arrest and conviction of the murderers. By ending with the murder, the television version focused on the work of the civil rights workers, building to their deaths as a consequence of their work. Clearly there was inherently dramatic material within this incident.

  3. Sympathetic main characters. Do we like the characters? Are they fascinating? Do we want to spend time in their company? Most true-life stories will center on compelling characters who have made some contribution to the world. Examples of these would be movies about George Washington, the Kennedys, Eleanor and Franklin Roosevelt, or Annie Sullivan and Helen Keller in The Miracle Worker. Some true-life stories, such as The Burning Bed, Killing in a Small Town, Roe vs. Wade, or Playing for Time, present us with subjects who are in a difficult situation. The film gives us insights and also awakens our compassion and understanding.

  This does not mean that the antihero can never work in an adaptation. The success of GoodFellas, based on the true story of Henry Hill, shows that a glimpse into the life-style of an immoral character can make a compelling film. But examples of this are rare. Before you attempt this kind of story, it’s important to recognize the potential for alienating audiences or finding that people don’t want to see your film because they don’t like your characters.

  4. A story that covers a short period of time. The shorter the time the story covers, the easier it will be to keep the story focused. The three-day period that Jessica spent in the well will implicitly be easier to deal with than the life of Karen Blixen (Out of Africa). The Montgomery, Alabama, bus boycott (as in The Long Walk Home) will be easier to deal with than the entire civil rights movement.

  5. Strong ongoing relationships between at least two characters. Drama is about relationship. People rarely go through life by themselves. If your subject spends most of his or her life alone, you will have considerable difficulty creating a dramatic, dynamic story line. If at least one relationship within the story has a strong conflict, perhaps between a protagonist and an antagonist, more drama will emerge. The antagonist can be a group, such as the law enforcement authorities in the TV movies Adam and M.A.D.D., or the whole welfare system, as in The Burning Bed, provided these group antagonists are actual people who represent the larger group, not abstract ideas. To get strong drama there needs to be some opposition.

  If the story also has an ongoing love relationship of some kind, this will give your character a confidante and give you further opportunity to dimensionalize the characters through a positive relationship. Think about the texture and dimensionality we saw in Karen Silkwood through her relationship with her boyfriend, or in Eric in Chariots of Fire through his relationship with his sister, or in Lieutenant Dunbar in Dances With Wolves through his relationship with Stands With A Fist.

  6. A story that can be told visually. Climbing Mount Everest is visual. Someone writing the all-American novel is not. Capturing drug dealers is visual. A story of Wolfgang Puck creating new recipes may not be.

  7. A rising dramatic line, rather than repetitive action. Stories that build to a great moment will be easier to translate than stories that are repetitious. Winning at the Olympics will be an easier story to tell than the story of a young ballerina practicing every day and finally getting a small part in The Nutcracker. Some films will use montages to move quickly through repetitive elements. This has worked well with many Rocky-type underdog triumph stories. But it doesn’t work as well with stories that are about practicing, rehearsing, preparing, or doing any of the same actions over and over again. The most dramatic stories will be those that build in tension, excitement, and/or intensity.

  BE CAREFUL

  Material that is dependent on a great deal of backstory information can cause a number of translation problems. Generally backstory information needs to be communicated through flashbacks and exposition. Both of these techniques can work against the drama of the story. The more there is to communicate, the more back-heavy the story
will be, and the more the story will continually look back to the information we need to know, rather than forward to the unfolding of the story.

  Material that is internal and psychological, that concentrates on inner thoughts and motivations, will be difficult to express dramatically. Many letters and diaries are about thoughts rather than actions. Although they can reveal fascinating characters, they may not contain a usable storyline.

  If too much time elapses in the course of the story the translation can be difficult. Epics are, by their very nature, the most difficult to adapt because the longer the period of time, the easier it is for the drama and focus to be dissipated. When too much time has elapsed in a story, it becomes difficult to bridge events. Transitions from one year to another are essentially nondramatic, and usually consist of words across the screen such as FIVE YEARS LATER. If we’re seeing only events that are far apart in time, we begin to lose their relationship and the story becomes episodic, rather than developmental.

  Be careful of material with no inherent conflict, and no antagonist. If no one opposes the subject of your story, there will be no relationship, no conflict, no drama.

  Be careful of material where your main subject is his or her own worst enemy. If the subject causes his or her own problems, we may lose sympathy.

  Be careful of subjects who have too much good luck. If all their goals are easy, with no obstacles in the way, it will be difficult for the audience to identify with them and to root for them.

  Be careful of subjects who have moved around a great deal over the years and have no ongoing relationships. If every ten minutes new characters come into their lives, it will be difficult to develop any subplots and any continuing relationships. People who are part of someone’s true-life story for only a short period of time can be confusing to audiences, resulting in “scenes from a life” rather than a cohesive story line.