Threads, Embellishments, and Presence of Culture--TWIN PEAKS

From the opening title sequence image of a bird in a country setting fading to factory stacks and metal being machined, David Lynch’s attention to detail, and his ability to capture the audience’s, becomes clear. Welcome to Twin Peaks, population 51,201 - and dropping. Time is used as a cinematic embellishment, and silence becomes a communication tool throughout the series. The extremely long opening title sequence is uncomfortably long and introduces each and every episode. Discomfort, with what feels like wasted screen time seems intentional, and extended pronounced moments of awkward silence become a stylistic indicator. In the first episode, after the high school principal announces that Laura Palmer has been found dead, and a moment of silence is observed, visuals of an empty hallway with unattended lockers, and an awards case with the homecoming queen’s photo, is accompanied by silence. At the Palmer home, the audience sees a homecoming photo of the victim. Her mother (in agony) is supported only by the couch on which she sits, and there is prolonged silence before Harry asks what time Sarah last saw her daughter.

A similar tragedy-related silence is featured after a young boy is killed by Richard Horne. Bystanders stand silently on the street’s edge (S3, E6) as a mother cradles the broken body of her son. Only an electrical sound accompanies the camera’s tilt up to reveal a plaque stating Pole 6. Previously, when Bobby is being questioned at the Sheriff’s Office with his lawyer, he is asked if he killed Laura. Cooper lays down the ground rules stating, “This is how it works. We ask questions, you answer briefly and to the point.” The following silence in this instance is used to heighten anxiety and elicit an emotional response from the audience. A video of Donna and Laura begins to break or increase the tension, depending on your perspective.

Wally Brando’s reunion with Lucy, Andy, and Sherriff Truman (S3, E4) features poetic monologuing from the road weary biker. Yet, thereafter, Lynch cuts between characters who are saying nothing; only the Sherriff seems to feel as uncomfortable as the viewer. Silence further embellishes the series (S3, E6) as Cooper sits on a bench next to a bronze statue after work at the insurance company. He is holding case files, and a security guard approaches him twice. The lack of dialogue when Cooper is by himself is symbolic of his vegetative state. Even when he is brought home and is eating a sandwich with his wife, the uncomfortable silence is present. Cooper’s condition is similar to caring for an Alzheimer's patient or assisting an individual in occupational therapy in which one must relearn the most basic tasks. An interesting nugget to ponder occurs after the photo of Jade is discovered: the phone rings, Dougie’s wife answers, and Cooper attempts to put his fingers to her lips in a gesture of silence. Season 3, episode 8 (almost in its entirety) is an example of using silence to communicate.

Though Lynch’s embellishments of silence and inactivity on screen seem to imply the desire to slow life down, the culture presented in the series is one of stimulation. Coffee, cigarettes, and cocaine are not only tied to all three seasons, but to all episodes therein. Smoking, it was more acceptable in the 90s, and shortly after the series opens, we see Laura’s body being turned. Lynch cuts to a shot of her mother (Sarah Palmer) smoking in the kitchen. Leo is able to ascertain that Shelly has been unfaithful in their home because two brands of cigarettes are found in the ash tray. Donna transforms into a 1950s femme fatale (after James is arrested) when she seductively smokes. Even in season three (E5), smoking continues to been seen in the series when it is now relatively taboo to show cigarettes on any sized screen.

Another example occurs when Dr. Jacoby is webcasting about bodies being poisoned and diseases as a result of corporate greed. Jerry Horne (wearing a ski hat and leaning against a tree in the woods) is watching the program on his laptop; he is smoking a cigarette. In the same episode, a young unscrupulous looking character (Richard Horne) smokes under a no smoking sign, and money is transferred in an empty cigarette pack. In episode six, the addiction is briefly discussed on a ride to town; an old man (Carl Rodd) has been smoking every day for 75 years, and his younger carpooling companion (Mickey) recently quit. Director Cole also quit, and he laments “Ah, the memory of tobacco,” in season 3, episode 7. Diane is the character that seems to be smoking in places that no one else could: she smokes on the plane to question Evil Cooper and in the FBI office right after the awful window cleaning with a hearing aid scene. Further, the Woodsman’s recurring line “Got a light?” shows that even the supernatural characters have addictions. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

Drug use is also a recurring theme and cultural element in the series. This exemplifies how close the criminal and darker elements are to the “normal world,” and is established in the first season when the viewer learns that high school students Ronnie and Laura (disenchanted with previously established norms) become drug-abusing prostitutes with ties to a brothel owned by a fellow student’s father. Even One-Eyed Jacks’ Madame, Blackie O'Reilly, is seen preparing a tension-producing tourniquet for the heroin provided by Jerry Horne. Further, Jacques Renault confesses that he, Leo, Laura, and Ronnie were high on cocaine when they went to Jacques cabin the night that Laura died. Cocaine use is also responsible for the pedestrian hit and run fatality in season three episode six. Richard Horne is high and thoroughly agitated after a run in with Red and his thugs. He curses, yells, cries, and then smiles in a cocky-arrogant manner before becoming impatient and passing on the left through an intersection; a young boy is killed. Shelly’s daughter, Becky Burnette, and her husband (Steven) are also using cocaine. Steven has been denied a job and been lambasted for unprofessionalism by Mike Nelson. Becky borrows money (again) from her mother, and Steven has already consumed a large amount of cocaine before offering his wife “a taste.” Becky’s drug-induced euphoria is portrayed onscreen with a close up of her face, hair in the wind, as she and Steven enjoy a ride in their Firebird convertible. His later apparent suicide, which the viewer does not witness (S3, E15) is the result of a bad trip. Cocaine in cars is also seen when Evil Cooper is arrested with drugs, a gun, and a dog leg in the trunk.

Coffee adoration (or addiction depending on your point of view) is cultural, social, and thematic in Twin Peaks. It begins in season one, episode two. Agent Cooper is suspended upside down speaking into a voice recorder to Dianne. How the town is judged, and how the day will go in general, will be determined in half an hour when the first morning cup of coffee is served. It’s a “damn fine cup of coffee!” Double R Diner employees serve up the magic bean water by the gallon, and Cooper’s affection for coffee continues even after he returns from The Black Lodge with no memory of his identity. In season 3, episode 5, Cooper (in Dougie’s life) is in the elevator with his back to the door. Phil Bisby, who also works at Lucky 7 Insurance Company, is carrying two trays of cups stacked on top of each other. Cooper gets a cup and cherishingly savors the coffee as he walks through the lobby; he pauses to eye cups belonging to others seated before Phil prompts him to the meeting room. Once there, still loving his coffee, Cooper is preoccupied as Phil offers a coworker the green tea latte in place of the coffee he is drinking.  This continues into episode six where Cooper is seen holding the cup with two hands (like a child) as his boss reviews case files covered in drawings. Even Director Cole expresses his appreciation (S3, E7) while sipping a cup at Diane’s apartment, “Damn good coffee!”

Though most classic detectives would stereotypically be pictured with a double shot of whiskey, coffee is the fuel the private investigator relies on when doing late night stake outs. Clearly, connective plot and character threads exist between the three seasons, but the series as a whole is an adaptation of Hollywood’s film noir detective genre. Instead of a hard-boiled detective, Twin Peaks features the sensitive, emotional, and loveable Agent Dale Cooper. Instead of interrogations under hot lights and “roughing up” the perp to get answers, Cooper’s tactics are unconventional. He analyzes dreams and utilizes games of skill and chance (like the bottle breaking scene) to root out suspects. However, he is a wounded male after his first love, and the wife of his former partner, was murdered by said partner. Yet, until his visits The Black Lodge and Red Room, Cooper remains well above the fray of morality; his darker side isn’t really him at all but doppelgangers.

Additionally, jazzy detective-style music is more often than not in the background, and the role of femme fatale changes throughout the series. For Harry, it’s Josie. For Cooper, Audrey applied for the position early on, but for Dale (the man behind the badge), his femme fatale comes in the form of a former nun. Further, crime is much closer to the surface than one would expect in a small town. Drug running, prostitution, murder, general thuggery, and corporate espionage seem to be common occupations in Twin Peaks. This theme is repeated in 2017 when a mere boy witnesses an explosive device being planted on a car and later exploding with people inside. This child has only crackers to eat, as his mother is addicted to opioids and remains unconscious when not saying “119” repeatedly. 

The system itself is also not reliable, as is seen when a former FBI agent (Windom Earle) becomes the villain. And if the system cannot be relied upon, the world and reality itself are questionable when the veil between an alternate universe and Earth as we know it is breached on numerous occasions in the series. These otherworldly encounters are accompanied by distorted sounds in The Black Lodge, seemingly unending visuals of atoms and explosions (S3, E8), and characters like Bob, Evil Cooper, the insect that inhabits the body of a girl, and the Woodsman. From the first frames of the first episode, David Lynch utilizes surreal heavily stylized cinematography, which is also considered to be a direct tie to the film noir genre. His use of slant camera angles, jump cuts, intercutting, superimposed images, and a plethora of high and low angle shots, as well as intercutting scenes from dreams, indicate that Twin Peak, at least in part, is an adaptation of the film noir genre.

Some season 3 characters identified at http://twinpeaks.wikia.com/wiki/Twin_Peaks_Wiki

On Robert Stam’s “Beyond Fidelity” and Julie Grossman’s Literature, Film, and Their Hideous Progeny Introduction

Robert Stam was able to reiterate previously covered material from Hutcheon in a palatable manner while providing new insights regarding adaptation and its criticisms. These criticisms have been prudishly moralistic and based on fidelity or a perceived lack thereof. The author concedes that there is truth in a film’s inability to be 100% faithful to a text; however, the term “unfaithful” should be utilized to describe disappointment with the finished product in relation to our expectations as viewers, which are based on “imaginative reconstruction” as readers. Further, there are logistical factors which prevent a film adaptation from attaining complete accuracy to the source text. An adaptation is inherently different and original simply due to its change in medium. While we imagine words of a novel in the mind’s eye, a director must be specific with all included details of a scene. Film requires these specifics, but they may not have been included in the original material. Even shifting from the single-track medium(written word only) of a novel to the multi-track medium of film requires embellishment; the director must consider the sound track, performances, effects, sets, etc., and the complexity of resources available. Needless to say, literal fidelity to source text is therefore impossible.

Additionally, there may not always be the assumed “golden nugget” in an original text, as authors are sometimes not even aware of their own deepest intentions. Because each text is received differently by each reader, the source material remains open to be interpreted and imagined individually. As per Stam, “any text can generate an infinity of readings.” Yet, readers change with time and by location; this means that the meanings of references in literary texts can be lost. As learned in Critical Perspectives on Literature, to be successful, an allusion (or reference to a literary or historical event, figure, text, or object) requires the reader to share knowledge or experience with the author. Stam simplifies this by saying that the greater the lapse in time, the more likely a source text will be reinterpreted with present values: “Each adaptation sheds new cultural light on a novel.”

Stam suggests that the essence of the medium of expression (or “medium-specify”) be that to which an adapter remains faithful; every medium has its positives and negatives, and both the novel and film have “cannibalized other genres and media.” This reduce, reuse, recycle, he states, has film adaptations caught in a cycle of “intertextual reference and transformation, of texts generating other texts in an endless process.” Adaptations in subsequent works can include changes in plot events, locale, time, language, point of view, historical context, language, voice, tone (from serious to parody), characters (quantity and individually), and much more. “The adopting film can then take up, amplify, ignore, subvert, or transform.” Consequently, we as critics should not be concerned with literal fidelity. Rather, more attention to “dialogical responses” will allow us to welcome “the difference among the media.”

That which makes us uncomfortable can also make us think. Dr. Grossman’s introduction immediately reminded me of her comments prior to the class screening of Sergei Eisenstein’s 1925 Soviet silent film, Battleship Potemkin. The difficult and unpalatable propaganda piece not only changed the way I view film, but also my ideas about what I was viewing. That one still sits in my gut like a bowl-full of marbles, but a new perspective was indeed gained regarding “human identity and culture.” Adaptations also bring up new concerns and ideas in different media, and all three can shift with cultural priorities. These can be considered violations from the original source material, but - in fact, if new questions about fundamental issues are asked, the adaptation is potentially an original itself. Elasticity, or the linking of all associated works that precede or follow a text, allows for critical thinking, in-depth investigation, and “fundamentally creative activity.” Experimental and innovative adaptations engage with new viewpoints and “surprising contexts.” If successful, they recombine “intellectual matter that sparks further creativity.” Though the source escapes me, a paraphrased Asian martial arts saying comes to mind: the measure of a master is how many masters he has created. Perhaps the measure of an adaptation is how many additional works it inspires, and each (regardless of medium) should be seen as an individual artistic activity. Those done well may be untethered from the metaphorical umbilical cord of the parent work.

Throughout the introduction, Grossman utilizes Mary Shelley’s metaphor of a “hideous progeny.” Undead monsters are the source text, resurrected and reborn as difficult offspring (or adaptations) that feed on predecessors in order to survive and transcend mortality. The rebirth is painful and can be both strange and uncomfortable to watch; bits and pieces of parents are sewn together to create a new life. The more different the child, the more unsettling it is for the parent’s loved ones to behold. Watching this offspring’s journey can be unsettling and unfamiliar if an expected apparent pattern is lacking. Yet, this child, at its most daring, becomes experimental in reshaping and retelling their ancestors’ stories in new and relevant ways. It takes us along as a passenger away from the “home text” on a “deeply imaginative” journey to challenge conventional boundaries and “change our perception of previous works, as well as of the media.” Consequently, autonomous life and “unique expressiveness” are made possible “when elastic relations among texts are enacted.” Similarly, a child in most circumstances grows and flourishes best under the influence of multiple relations; the mother is only one element contributing to its healthy development, and isolation is detrimental to not only a literal child, but also to the figurative progeny adaption. The fragility of unnurtured offspring is explored, and warnings are provided against procreation motivated primarily by financial gain. Adaptations “only become hideous when appropriated and mangled by commercial hands.” Instead, we are asked to “reorient ourselves to our knowledge base and our relationship with previous texts.” We are invited to “respond with imagination and compassion…read the story in a new context and…to meet the Creature on its own terms.”

Fan Fiction Responses to TWIN PEAKS: Referencing Ryan's "Transmedia Storytelling" and Voigt's “Memes and Recombinant Appropriation: Remix, Mashup, Parody”

In order to explore the connections between fan fiction responses to Twin Peaks and written works from Marie Ryan and Eckart Voigt, one must first understand what is being proposed in the essays. Marie Ryan's essay on "Transmedia Storytelling" begins by introducing a new concept in popular culture and its associated studies. This form of adaptation is said to be the “narrative form of the (digital) future,” and it is built around what is termed “cult narratives.” Transfictionality includes “the sharing of elements, mostly characters, but also imaginary locations, events, and entire fictional worlds, by two or more works of fiction.” It relies on three key factors: new stories to the fictional world, plot differences in the original narrative, and preservation of the main story, but with changes in time or setting. With adaptation, the story remains relatively consistent and changes are sometimes made to the fictional world. Conversely, in transfictionality, the fictional world is the constant, and the story is either changed or expanded. Transmedia narrative is currently debated, but according to the Producer’s Guild of America, three or more storylines must exist within the same fictional universe on a variety of media platforms.  Adaptation, therefore, is not transmedia if it only represents an existing story but does not expand the fictional world. Transmedia prioritizes the world over the story and is systematically dispersed over multiple delivery channels in order to create a “unified and coordinated entertainment experience.”

Voight’s initial focus is on how emerging technologies are challenging the “theory and practice of adaptation,” with the internet allowing for performative models of adaptation. Cultural reproductions (such as memes) require “user involvement,” and “derivatives” are considered adaptions if there is a “sustained recognition where the adaptation utilizes the text it adapts or appropriates with a purpose.” Recombinant cultural data requires conditions in order to be spread (immediacy, personalization, interpretation, authenticity, accessibility, embodiment, and fundability) as internet phenomena. Further, digital media is beginning to enter the world of adaptation studies. Fan fiction, fan edits, and fan dubs are considered genres, which are “frequently produced by fans in voluntary affiliation with transmedia franchises.” According to Voight’s essay, “More often than not, the concept of fandom does not do justice to participatory communities seeking an outlet for the message. Hence, the overwhelming fan response to Twin Peaks, which one is able to glimpse online by merely searching “Twin Peaks fan.”

A quick Google search reveals Twin Peaks fan clubs, festivals, forums, FAQs pages, a Facebook page, blogs, a merchandise collection (available at Showtime’s official store), and even Twin Peaks themed-restaurants. This indicates that Twin Peaks is an example of transmedia storytelling, which refers to “a promotional practice involving merchandising, adaptations, sequels, and franchising.” Franchising (in this case) indicates the dissemination of material/ content across platforms, but transmedia storytelling also applies to adaptations and appropriations that are not franchised. The transmedia goal is to “create a sustained and intensified experience of fictional worlds,” and the minds behind Twin Peaks have done just that. Viewers can hardly wait for more banter between Agent Dale Cooper and Sheriff Harry Truman. As with Sherlock, the example used in Voight’s essay, Twin Peaks also has multiple seasons, thoroughly engages viewers across multiple platforms, and adds to the capitalistic coffers. The “notion of participation” to which both Sherlock and Twin Peaks adhere, allows users to “create, curate, circulate or critique content.”

On Leitch's Twelve Fallacies of Adaptation

Leitch's Twelve Fallacies provides a deeper dive into the study of adaptation, predominantly the adaptation of a novel to film. He leads with an eye opening critique on contemporary adaptation study itself, which has been “so largely ineffectual” due to practice “in a theoretical vacuum.” Though individual works may be studied, what actually happens when a film is adapted from a literary text remains relatively unobserved. Our only glimpse (thus far) has been relayed through Katrina Onstad’s NY Times article in which Sarah Polley’s long-time fixation with Grace Marks was relayed. Nevertheless, novels are generally the effort of a single person, and movies are collaborative, but the heavy lifting to adapt the former to the latter remains a mystery. Further, since screenplays are written texts used in film production, an adaptation’s relation to a source or home-text is technically comparable to that of the script. As source texts are concerned, why are novels adapted more than any other form of literature? We, as critics and scholars of contemporary adaptation study, are encouraged to follow Stam’s suggestion and pay more attention to the “dialogical responses” which lead to an educated appreciation of “the difference among the media.” Additionally, as per Grossman, the concept of Elasticity must be contemplated in order to link all associated works that precede or follow a text in order to fully comprehend the “fundamentally creative activity” of adaptation.

This brings us to the fourth fallacy; novels are better than film. As Leitch states, “literature carries an honorific charge cinema does not.” This general assumption (usually from critics who believe that literature is richer and more sophisticated) is based in part on an outdated prejudice against the Hollywood mogul star system. Their spray and pray movie making style, intended for an undifferentiated target audience, did not generally encourage works known for their subtleties, nor were (are) most films created for in-depth analysis. This negative impression lingers on long after the film industry has evolved beyond a shallow popular culture money-maker. Consequently, it’s safe to assume that critics are ignoring that the novel too was once new. As the novel rose to popularity two centuries ago “entrenched representational forms” similarly greeted the new comer with suspicion and hostility. The same was true for the Broadway musical challenging the Metropolitan opera. The business-minded would describe these media devotee conflicts as a battle for market share, but economics do remain a driving force. Nevertheless, per Linda Hutcheon's chapter on adaptation, as long as the adaptation’s theme remains aligned with the source text, the media in which it is presented should be appreciated for its own merits.

The other, and perhaps the most frequently argued fallacy, is addressed in Leitch’s eighth point. The “near-fixation with the issue of fidelity” has put metaphorical blinders on adaptation studies. Since recreating a written text perfectly is only possible with a Xerox machine, and comparing an apple to an orange is an exercise in futility, why do some adaptation scholars still judge a film’s success by its adherence to a home-text’s specific textual details? A novel will always be the best version of itself - if that self is the standard by which it is being judged. If one is maintaining that a predecessor is always by definition better than an adaptation, they are not studying adaptation. Instead, they are seeking resources and examples to prove preexisting notions of source text superiority. Leitch highlights that only adaptation study “remains obsessed with asking whether a given film is any good as a preliminary, a precondition, or a substitute.” Stam agrees that a film cannot be 100% faithful to a text, but he suggests that the term “unfaithful” be used only to describe a film viewer’s disappointment in comparison with their “imaginative reconstruction” as readers.

On Linda Hutcheon's "A Theory of Adaptation"

Adaptation itself is debated among scholars and critics. It is considered to be both a process and a product, “repetition without replication,” and “both (re-)interpretation and then (re-)creation.” Works may be adapted from one format to another - from a poem into a song or a novel into a musical. An example is The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald by Canadian singer-songwriter Gordon Lightfoot[1]. In this case, song lyrics were written about an actual historical event, but the music used was a “mournful melody of an old Irish folk song.”[2] So, both the historical record of the event and the music it is set to were adapted to create the song. Adaptations may also be from existing stories that have been reinterpreted or recreated from a different point of view; think of the musical Wicked (from the alleged villain’s point of view) as opposed to The Wizard of Oz[3].  In this case, both format and point of view were adapted, as Wicked (the musical) is based on a novel, the novel is based on a movie, and the movie is based on yet another novel[4]. Further, historical events may be fictionalized, as is seen with nearly every Clive Cussler novel[5]. This includes Sahara, which was then adapted into a movie starring Matthew McConaughey in 2005[6]. Also, think of the blockbuster movie Braveheart, which was based on the medieval Scotsman, William Wallace[7].

Adaptations can be relayed to audiences in different ways, and there are three modes of engagement. Telling, showing, and interacting each allow different levels of participation with works. Oral traditions, novels, poetry, and the written word in general, allow for the audience to participate within their own imaginations; consequently, visual images are created within the viewers’ mind’s-eye. When a work is shown to an audience (in the form of film, television, or photography), the aforementioned mental images have already been created by the artist in advance. While this removes that portion of participation from the viewer, it allows the mind to make associations with previous works or experiences in that viewer’s existence. What does that image remind me of that I have seen in my past? How does that tie into the present viewing experience? With the interacting form of engagement, the viewer is most actively involved. This includes role play scenarios (such as Civil War reenactments), but the most common form comes with a joystick or game console. Video games allow the player to most actively participate in the narrative, though it may not remain true to the original story line if based on a literary work. However, as long as the story’s theme remains intact, the form is able to change in accordance with adaptation theorists criteria.

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[1]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9vST6hVRj2A

[2]https://www.detroitnews.com/story/entertainment/music/2015/11/06/wreck-edmund-fitzgerald-song-gordon-lightfoot-th-anniversary/75336330/

[3]https://wickedthemusical.com/broadway-tickets

[4]https://books.google.com/books/about/Wicked.html?id=E_90o7hjkvsC&printsec=frontcover&source=kp_read_button#v=onepage&q&f=false

[5]https://www.cusslerbooks.com/

[6]https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0318649/

[7]https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0112573/

Threads, Embellishments, and Culture -- Brick

At first consideration, the term “culture” brings up connotations of national origin or ethnicity; however, Rian Johnson’s film Brick also harkens back to the culture of kingpins and mafia hits, guys and dolls, and the post-World War II disenchantment with previously established norms. As epitomized in popular Hollywood Film Noir pictures of the early 40s and late 50s (and in Ernest Hemmingway’s works) a wounded male (Brendan, played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt) acts in a hard-boiled detective capacity; he is just above the fray of morality and has a darker side. Two femme fatale characters (Laura and Kara) both help and hinder the protagonist on his mission. The system itself is not reliable, as is seen when Assistant V.P. Trueman (Richard Roundtree) is making deals with the student-protagonist. How close the criminal element is to the normal world when The Pin’s (Lukas Haas) mother is serving milk to the boys before the climactic violent finale. Further, the heavily stylized cinematography is a direct tie to the genre. From the plot itself and the dialogue spoken, to the director’s use of slant camera angles, jump cuts, vertigo zoom techniques, and a plethora of high and low angle shots, one wonders if the film may have been just as at home in the 1940s as it is today; one would merely need to exchange drugs for alcohol and show Brick in black-and-white.

The film also indicates the presence of multiple present day cultures; there is the high school, and within that setting, two separate cultures emerge. The highly affluent is presented in stark contrast with the impoverished, drug addicted poor. We see an opulent and modern home at Laura’s (Nora Zehetner) party, but The Pin’s home is a throwback to the 1960s - with wood paneling and shag carpet. Even the frequently filmed mailbox is battered and past its prime. Though all but one character (Brad Bramish) appears to be Caucasian, the drug culture (usually associated with ghettos) is very present in the film.

It's also interesting to compare the film not to a source text but to an entire film genre. While we cannot say how the plot and characters were adapted from a specific author's novel (as we were able to do with both The Killers and Brooklyn), our perspectives are broadened as to what is able to be adapted. For example, one need not be limited only to the Cinderella story, but rather, can adapt the entire Prince Charming saves the girl theme; this was accomplished in Shrek. How about the helpless beautiful princess that needs rescuing? This theme was adapted in the movie Brave, where the fiery-redheaded daughter of the chieftain needed no prince and is perfectly happy being single. In conclusion, Brick's ties to a genre in lieu of a source text open the viewer's eyes to possibilities previously unknown.

Threads, Embellishments, and Culture -- ALIAS GRACE

Netflix’s adaptation of Alias Grace is strongly tied to the source text, yet it is interesting how this intricately woven work is quilted together. Fidelity to the plot, the characters represented, settings, and tone are remarkably accurate, but it is the omissions and additions to the television mini-series that enhanced the experience. Utilizing the multiple elements available with film (versus the single-medium of the written word), director Mary Harron is able to both move the story forward and take the audience back to key moments. Grace’s voice-over narration through the series cleverly shares her thoughts, allows visuals to show what she is saying simultaneously, and reads letters aloud. Intercutting is used to symbolize memories and/or thoughts, but it is not specified as to whether Grace’s repeated vision of Nancy Montgomery’s (Anna Paquin) body being unceremoniously dumped into the cellar is imagined or remembered. However, we do know that the image of James McDermott (Kerr Logan) butchering the bodies and holding up a severed leg does not actually happen. Further, Dr. Jordan’s frequent fantasies and daydreams of Grace are clearly imagined, but the first few cause the viewer to do a double-take. The ambiguity Atwood (as relayed in Katrina Onstad’s NY Times article) intended is honored.

Literary elements omitted from the mini-series are not missed. Dr. Jordan’s mother thankfully sends no notes regarding his marital status or her failing health. Mrs. Humphrey’s financial downfall and the details of her affair with Dr. Jordan are summed up in just a few scenes; rough sex and a room with only a carpet and plant stand are enough to satisfy those who have read the novel without causing loose threads for viewers. Neither is Dr. Jordan’s college friend mentioned, with whom he corresponds via letter on numerous occasions in the novel. The landlady and potential relationship with Grace’s father, as well as the efforts to keep the children fed (upon their immigration into Canada) are excluded as well. Also, nowhere to be seen are the frequent peonies from the book, but roses take center stage at the Kinnear house. As in the novel, Nancy is holding roses in front of the home, and we see this identifying image as an intercut flashback shot repeatedly.

Further, performance enhances the overall presentation. The two most memorable instances involve Grace (Sarah Gadon) herself, and they begin with the opening of the first episode. While the novel provides words, the actress communicates visible emotions and a corresponding facial expression for each term used by others to label her. She becomes an inhuman female demon, an innocent victim, a person above her humble station, cunning and devious, and an idiot soft in the head. Ms. Gadon’s other incredible performance that embellishes the program occurs after Grace’s old friend Jeremiah becomes Dr. Jerome DuPont and hypnotizes the protagonist. Atwood wrote “The voice is thin, wavering, watery; but fully present, fully alert,” but Gadon’s change in voice and personality traits are portrayed so convincingly that it could have been a different actress.  “Really, Doctor, you are such a hypocrite! You want to know if I kissed him, if I slept with him. If I was his paramour! Is that it?” Grace truly becomes Mary-gone-wild under Sarah Gadon’s skillful portrayal and Mary Harron’s directing experience with “characters crossed with madness.”

As for culture, two distinct themes are present, with women and their lower station prevailing. From the beating Grace’s mother receives when she falls boarding the ship, to battering and attempted sexual abuse from her father, Grace’s childhood is just the beginning. Mary acts as an older sister after Grace arrives at the Parkinson residence, but the mentor is foreshadowing her own future while teaching Grace: “The worst ones are the gentlemen, who think they are entitled to anything they want; and it is always better to lock your door, and to use the chamber pot. But any kind of man will try the same; and they’ll start promising things… you must never do anything for them until they have performed what they promised; and if there’s a ring, there must be a parson to go with it.” (75) George Parkinson suffers no consequences or ramifications for his actions, but Mary dies, and George then set Grace in his sights. The visual image of her locked doorknob turning is unsettling even for those who read the novel and know he will not gain entry. Grace’s exposure to the nature of men continues on her journey to the Kinnear farm. In the carriage and after arrival to Richmond Hill, she endures the drunkard’s advances and assumptions. McDermott also speaks coarsely to her, insinuating a loose nature, and Kinnear may or may not be making improper advances. Certain abuse occurs while Grace is institutionalized. Seeing Grace strapped to a chair in the asylum with a doctor reaching up her leg is deeply disturbing. Even Dr. Jordan himself not only has sexual fantasies about Grace, but he disrespectfully violates Mrs. Humphrey before discarding her. A woman’s prospects in the workforce are limited, and prostitution is “easier work than a coal mine or a mill,” but “many of them got diseases, and were old by the time they were twenty.” (67) Yet, without income or financial stability, one is susceptible to subjugation, no matter their gender. 

The great difference between social classes in 19th-century Canada was also a poignant cultural touchstone in the book and adaptation. A rebellion had just been fought, led by William Lyon Mackenzie, against the gentry. This war not only provided McDermott with employment (with the Glengarry Light Infantry) prior to the Kinnear farm, but it was also responsible for Mary’s employment at the Parkinson residence. Her father died “through illness caused by hiding in the winter woods; and her mother had died of grief.” Additionally, the gentry’s public opinion of Grace almost threw the trial. Per Reverend Verringer, “The Tories appear to have confused Grace with the Irish Question, although she is a Protestant; and to consider the murder of a single Tory gentleman – however worthy the gentleman, and however regrettable the murder – to be the same thing as the insurrection of an entire race.” (32) The cultural preference toward the wealthy Tories would have caused Grace’s execution had she been tried for Nancy’s death. Per Mr. MacKenzie, Grace’s lawyer, “I couldn’t have got her off. Public opinion would have been too strong for me. She would have been hanged.” (183)

It is not surprising, as Margaret Atwood herself was the supervising producer, that the Netflix adaptation of Alias Grace is a remarkably faithful representation of the novel. However, this straight adaptation from literary work to television mini-series is surprising in its ability to draw in the viewer and entertain while simultaneously educate. Information about Canadian culture and history, women’s lack of rights in the 19^th-century, relationships, mental health care, and even the penitentiary system was relayed.