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Last night, I watched the second half of Night of the Living Swamp Yankees...er...I mean 'Salem's Lot. What a ridiculous mess. I've never been very fond of the 1979 adaptation, but it's far and away superior to the hatchet job that Mikael Salomon has performed on King's novel. Indeed, there's little remaining of the novel in this fang'd turkey, and I kept thinking, Surely he has enough money that this wasn't necessary. But maybe I'm wrong. Or maybe it's that Stephen King has long since ceased to care what people do to his work. I remember the fuss he made about Kubrick's version of The Shining, but, hell, at least that was a good film, even if it wasn't a particularly faithful adaptation of the novel. Who on the gods' green earth thought that Rob Lowe would make a good Ben Mears? And why rewrite the story to the point that it's all but unrecognizable? I'd love to see a few explanations for this atrocity, but I doubt they'll be forthcoming. And poor Donald Sutherland, hopping about like Edward Gorey's demented twin brother. Someone should hurt for this, in that dank level of Hell reserved for the perpetrators of dull, stupid, lifeless television films. But it did make me want to read the novel again, if only to remind myself that I have cause to be angry at all the whoevers responsible for that script.

I think my skull needs an enema.

Looking at the calendar this morning, crossing off the day, I realized that I've somehow managed to lose almost an entire month. You'd think I were a rich woman, behaving like this, frittering away time that might have been spent writing. You'd think people were churning out unwatchable made-for-TV movies with my name plastered upon them.

Tomorrow night, we leave for Kingston, and there's so much to do that hasn't been done.

And I still have to proof the galleys of "Night Story, 1973."

This morning, the baby thrashers are wiggling about in their nest, and Spooky got this shot of a young cardinal in a bush outside the livingroom window:



They've got guest biographies up at the Fiddler's Green website. Jean-Pierre, the Existentialist Snail, is so pleased we were asked to be a part of this convention.

We had a wonderful couple of thunderstorms yesterday.

And I'm prattling on, aren't I? Disconnected thoughts. Random paragraphy.

Leh'agvoi (aka, setsuled) just sent me a new Nar'eth pin up, which I hope I'll have time to add to Nebari.net later today, or maybe tomorrow morning. Inspired by my recent difficulties with Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time, it's sort of a collision of Hindu weaponry and Nebari anatomy. I'm pleased. Now I should shut up and make myself some semblance of useful...

Comments

wishlish
Jun. 23rd, 2004 01:45 pm (UTC)
I've read Elmore Leonard talk about movies based on his work, and he says that no matter the quality of the movie, the book still exists. Maybe King feels the same way.

And Alan Moore still hasn't seen the movies based on his works (From Hell, League of Extraordinary Gentlemen) and has had his name taken off the next project (Constantine).

And Janet Evanovich signed away control of any movie based on the Stephanie Plum character.

For these writers, the important thing is getting the book done, not worrying about the movies that will come from the books. I'm not saying this is right or wrongh, just the perspective of some.
greygirlbeast
Jun. 23rd, 2004 02:31 pm (UTC)
Maybe King feels the same way.

He said something to that effect about The Shining after Kubrick's film.

For these writers, the important thing is getting the book done, not worrying about the movies that will come from the books.

That attitude might be fine, were the authors' name not used to sell the films.
jacobluest
Jun. 23rd, 2004 02:43 pm (UTC)
It's strange, with movies starting to emerge as the new form of literature, that writers can find their books transformed into something completely different, that will most likely be remembered by the public more often than the book.
I saw an official post-movie copy of I, Robot, complete with photo of Will Smith on the front. I can only imagine the reader's confusion when they read Asimov's original stories, when what they're expecting is kung-fu robots with guns.

~Jacob
greygirlbeast
Jun. 23rd, 2004 03:02 pm (UTC)
I saw an official post-movie copy of I, Robot, complete with photo of Will Smith on the front. I can only imagine the reader's confusion when they read Asimov's original stories, when what they're expecting is kung-fu robots with guns.

This one's really hard for me, because I adore Alex Proyas almost to a fault. But only almost. I will not pay money to see this silly, wrong-headed bastardization of Asimov's work, not matter how much I want to see its director succeed.