Can we comment on a translation without knowing the original?

1/ Amidst all the shock and horror on twitter over people never having heard of The Odyssey, arose a new quarrel about Emily Wilson’s translation (is it woke? is it badly written? or are detractors simply ignorant?). A few white knights have come to the rescue, saying that those who don’t read ancient Greek don’t get to have an opinion and call it a bad translation. 

Isn’t that just a way to shut down conversation?  

Of course, the opinions of people who can read the original are more valid—they can talk about accuracy and fidelity (or lack of)—but others can still comment on other aspects of the translation: how it reads in the target language, whether it’s good prose/ poetry, if it ends up being translationese, and so on and so forth. After all, do we not make a judgement when we compare passages in order to pick a translation to read? 

Also, we may not be able to criticise Emily Wilson if we only have her and Fagles (who I have heard has a habit of embroidering the text), but why can’t we if we have multiple passages in multiple translations—by Lattimore, by Fitzgerald, by Fagles, by Rouse, by Butler, by her? 

2/ So I’m not going to feel guilty about taking a dislike to, and telling others not to read, Washburn’s translation of The Tale of Genji. I don’t speak Japanese, true, but having compared Waley, Seidensticker, Tyler, and him, I can see what Washburn’s doing and I don’t like it. 

3/ Nor am I going to feel bad about my dislike of Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. But it’s not an entirely ignorant view—Gary Saul Morson has pointed out what’s wrong with their literalist approach. 

4/ Knowledge is sometimes a hindrance, though. I would never be happy with any translation of Truyện Kiều. Would any Vietnamese? 

5/ I guess Chinese speakers feel the same about translations—especially of Chinese poetry—into Western languages. 

I don’t speak Chinese, but I read Hong lou meng in a Vietnamese translation and occasionally glanced at the English text by David Hawke and could see some of the changes he made—Bảo Ngọc’s (Baoyu) building “Di hồng viện”, “hồng” (“hong”) meaning red, became “Green Delights” because of different connotations of the colours in the two cultures; his nickname “Di hồng công tử” in the poetry club became Green Boy.  

6/ I know a Vietnamese intellectual whose translations I would never criticise to his face. I know what he would say. He would ask about inaccuracies and I would have no responses. He would talk about the two schools of translation (that John Rutherford calls the cavaliers vs the puritans) and I would have no arguments. But no amount of rhetoric will persuade my ears that his translations are well-done, because his sentences in Vietnamese would follow the sentence structure and order of English or Spanish or whatever the source language—it ain’t natural Vietnamese. 

7/ I do think we should not criticise a poet if we cannot read them in the original. My friend Himadri (Argumentative Old Git) is irritated by Nabokov casually dismissing Tagore as a mediocrity, and I can see why. Criticise novelists and playwrights and other prose writers if you like; but I don’t think we can dismiss poets who wrote in a language we do not read. More is lost in translation. 

(I am of course talking about poets who are highly esteemed and influential). 

Anyway, Happy New Year!

On picking a translation

Under my last blog post, I got a comment from Thomas Parker asking how I selected translations, so let’s jot down some thoughts. 

1/ Anyone who loves Russian literature knows about the translation wars. Anna Karenina and War and Peace each have about a dozen translations—how do we choose? Here are my rules: never Constance Garnett (except her Chekhov); never Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. Garnett, because she has a reputation for being fast and making mistakes and throwing out difficult passages. Pevear and Volokhonsky, because their sentences are clunky and I’m no fan of the literalist school of translation (nor am I a fan of their pumping out one translation after another of books that have been translated a million times—how convenient—contrast them with Robert Chandler, who introduced the Anglophone world to Vasily Grossman). 

Anna Karenina I’ve read in two translations—Aylmer and Louise Maude, and Rosamund Bartlett—both were enjoyable, I preferred the latter’s prose. 

War and Peace I’ve also read in two translations, and I tend to recommend Aylmer and Louise Maude, revised by Amy Mandelker. Other versions may modernise the language or anglicise the names or remove the French passages or remove the feminine endings in names—the Maude-Mandelker seems to be the best option—I want something close to the original without being clunky or awkwardly literal. 

My choice of Ignat Avsey for The Brothers Karamazov went against my general preference and habit (I’m full of contradictions), largely because of my struggle to get into Dostoyevsky in the translation of David McDuff. Next time will be a different version. It flowed well and I ended up loving the book, but once in a while something stuck out like a sore thumb, such as the phrase “my ex”. 

2/ It’s because of my wish for something close to the original that I read The Tale of Genji as translated by Royall Tyler. Madness. But Murasaki Shikibu referred to her characters by title or nickname or relation to someone else—the characters have no names—Royall Tyler retains the same effect and it reflects the world in which Murasaki and her characters live.  

As for you, read Seidensticker if you wish. No strong opinion there. But I would advise against Washburn—I know I’m no expert, but The Tale of Genji is a very subtle novel and Washburn removes all subtlety—he explicitly states that he incorporates explanations into the text itself rather than use notes. 

3/ If I read Chinese literature, which you may have noticed I don’t often do, it’s a matter of course that I would always go for a Vietnamese translation rather than an English one. 

So I might not be able to read Hong lou meng in the original, but at least I’m closer, much closer to it than an English speaker is. 

4/ More is lost in translation of poetry. Perhaps all is lost. Nguyễn Du in translation is no longer Nguyễn Du. Is Hàn Mặc Tử? Is Bùi Giáng? 

People ask me what I recommend for Truyện Kiều and I never know what to say except to stay away from Timothy Allen. 

5/ I haven’t read Pushkin, but then I also don’t read poetry in translation. 

But I don’t read poetry anyway, you’re going to say— but I do a little and will do more—even if I am to take the extreme position of never reading poetry in translation, there’s still a world of Vietnamese poetry and English poetry to read. 

6/ I might contradict myself and read Tang poetry in (Vietnamese) translation. 

7/ I’m sad I can’t read Cervantes, Flaubert, Proust, Pushkin, Homer… in the original. English native speakers complaining about Shakespeare’s English and saying that the rest of the world have the “advantage” of reading/ watching his plays in translation is something I could never understand.  

Between languages

1/ I have just finished reading another book of my uncle’s, a kind of memoir. Makes me sad about Vietnam, about writers in exile, about a myriad other things. 

My uncle’s a (retired) literary critic and professor of Vietnamese Studies in Australia. And a dissident. Denied entry twice into Vietnam, at the airport. 

(You see, I’m from a family of “difficult people”). 

2/ The book also makes me feel the acute pain that I have lost my roots. I still write in Vietnamese, I still speak it, my tongue is not robbed from breathing its native breath, and yet I have lost my roots. I immerse myself in English-language literature; I aim, like A. C. Bradley or Henry Fielding, to absorb Shakespeare into my bloodstream. Shakespeare rather than Nguyễn Du. Rather than any of our writers. 

3/ And yet English will never fully be my language. I can read Shakespeare, I can read Melville, some day I may read Joyce, but it will forever be a foreign tongue. 

I still sound like an outsider, still stumble over multi-syllabic words, still lose grammar together with my temper. 

4/ Past Lives is not a good film—most of the dialogue is banal—but there is one great scene. In it, the main character, a South Korean woman who in childhood migrated to Canada and then to the US, is in bed talking with her American husband and he says she dreams in Korean—“You dream in a language that I can’t understand. It’s like there’s this whole place inside of you where I can’t go.” 

5/ Studies have shown for years that multilinguals have different personalities in different languages, but it was only during my time visiting a Vietnamese writer and her family in Berlin a few months ago that I realised I was different and felt different as I switched between languages in conversation with her. In English, the hierarchy ceased to exist, the sense of intimidation disappeared. I was free. 

Against philistinism—reading ideas for 2025

Over the past 10 days, I’ve been having a few arguments on the hell-site (still) known as Twitter. Foolish, I know. First, because a “former English major” and a few others said Shakespeare was “inaccessible and alienating to students” and should be dropped from school. Then because one said Shakespeare’s considered a genius only because “there was a lot of low-hanging fruit,” and another said Shakespeare and Mozart were “both very usual” and “The Artistic Genius is a myth that is forged by cultural institutions over decades and centuries.” Some of you are surely glad you’re not on social media. But no, it got worse. A couple of days ago, the news of Christopher Nolan’s new project revealed that a few film youtubers had never heard of The Odyssey; there were strong reactions; numerous philistines appeared in defence of ignorance, asking if people are supposed to know “every single piece of literature” and calling others pretentious; a few appeared to think The Odyssey was American or written in English (one for example asked “How do they expect people who don’t speak English as their first language to know this book?”, but there were others). 

Dismal.

Even if there is little impact, I can’t help feeling an urge to fight against anti-intellectualism and inverted snobbery, against identity politics and Critical Race Theory, against philistinism and the School of Resentment. 

One of the ways to fight is reading and analysing and promoting classic books.

So next year, I’m gonna read The Odyssey. It would be a sudden jump, but that shouldn’t matter—I’m curious about George Steiner’s comparison of Dostoyevsky to Shakespeare and Tolstoy to Homer. The question is which translation. 

(At some point, I will get to Ovid because of his influence on Shakespeare and Cervantes, but perhaps not yet). 

In 2025, I’m gonna continue exploring the 18th century. At the moment I’m taking a tiny break from Tom Jones to read a book by my uncle the literary critic, and may pick up something else whilst in Leeds. Should also expand beyond novels—I know I’m narrow. 

I’m also gonna see more of the 17th century. Perhaps read some more Spanish Golden Age plays. Or just explore 17th century French drama. I haven’t read Molière. And of course reread a few Shakespeare plays and read some more Shakespearean criticism. 

Those are the main projects. 

There are also some loose ideas scattered around. For various reasons I’m now more interested in Ulysses, so I’m gonna have to build up for it—try Dubliners again and build up. 

I’d also like to read more Jewish literature. Over the past year, I read Primo Levi, Isaac Babel, Isaac Bashevis Singer. Tom of Wuthering Expectations gave me as birthday present a collection of classic Yiddish stories. Should read those. And perhaps more. 

Even if the philistines and authoritarians win, even if the public becomes increasingly ignorant of classic works because of tiktoks and a million other distractions, I will not lose—because these books I read are mine. 

2024 in reading and viewing

1/ I’m sure none of you are surprised to hear that the greatest novel I’ve read this year is Don Quixote, the funniest and saddest of novels. 

It blows my mind still that Shakespeare and Cervantes were contemporaries—I have seen Shakespeare everywhere, now I see Don Quixote everywhere. 

2/ My reading in 2024 discovered two interesting things. 

One was that Don Quixote led to the exploration of the Spanish Golden Age: 3 plays by Lope de Vega (The Dog in the Manger, Fuenteovejuna, The King the Greatest Alcalde), 3 plays by Pedro Calderón de la Barca (The Surgeon of Honour, Life Is a Dream, Love After Death), 1 play by Cervantes (The Siege of Numantia), 1 play by Tirso de Molina (The Trickster of Seville, the original Don Juan), 12 stories by Cervantes (Exemplary Novels). 

I have known a bit of 17th century Britain. Now I know a bit of 17th century Spain. Also went to the Spanish Gallery in Bishop Auckland (I know, it’s great to be an art lover in England). 

To sum up my impression, Lope de Vega has a better sense of pacing and structure, and his characters are more vividly drawn, but Calderón’s plays are the ones with complexity and depth. Neither of them is Shakespeare. Neither of them is Cervantes. But who is? Life Is a Dream is a great play, the best among these plays, and you should read it. The Dog in the Manger and Fuenteovejuna are also good fun. 

(Those of you who have often scolded me for only reading novels—you know who you are—where’s my cookie?) 

The other thing in 2024 is that I started filling my 18th century gap: Dangerous Liaisons, (part of) Pamela, Shamela, Joseph Andrews, Evelina, The Female Quixote, Candide, and now Tom Jones.

(Each of these, except Candide, got multiple blog posts).

Am I going to read Clarissa? Maybe. Don’t know. Perhaps someday. But right now there are plenty of writers to get to first: Sterne, Swift, Defoe, Goethe, etc. Enjoyed Dangerous Liaisons, Evelina, and Henry Fielding. 

3/ The best non-fiction I’ve read this year is Primo Levi: If This Is a Man, The Truce, and Moments of Reprieve. 

The best book of literary criticism is possibly What Happens in Hamlet by John Dover Wilson. Followed closely by The Imperial Theme by G. Wilson Knight, which has a couple of interesting essays about Antony and Cleopatra. 

4/ This year, I saw two Shakespeare plays onstage: Macbeth (2023-2024, dir. Simon Godwin, starring Ralph Fiennes) and A Midsummer Night’s Dream (2024, Royal Shakespeare Company, dir. Eleanor Rhode, starring Mathew Baynton as Bottom).

Both productions were enjoyable enough. 

The Macbeth production was the fourth version I saw (though the first Shakespeare onstage), after Trevor Nunn (Ian McKellen – Judi Dench), Joel Coen (Denzel Washington – Frances McDormand), and Orson Welles (Orson Welles – Jeanette Nolan). The Trevor Nunn production is the standard—Ian McKellen and Judi Dench are the Macbeths—everything else suffers in comparison. But I did enjoy Indira Varma’s portrayal of Lady Macbeth, and enjoyed the comic touch in Ralph Fiennes’s performance. 

My first complaint is that the production was too bright—Shakespeare’s Macbeth is a dark and murky play, a play in which night strangles the travelling lamp, a play in which darkness does the face of earth entomb—it didn’t quite work the same way when the performance was in full light. 

My second complaint is that Simon Godwin increased the presence and significance of the witches but they looked too… human—there’s nothing strange or eerie or frightening about them as though they’re not the inhabitants of the earth—look at the witches in the Trevor Nunn production or Kathryn Hunter in Joel Coen’s film. 

They also cut the porter scene. 

The production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream was the second version I saw, after the 1968 film (which had a spectacular cast: Ian Holm as Puck, Judi Dench as Titania, Helen Mirren as Hermia, Diana Rigg as Helena, etc). 

It was enjoyable enough, largely thanks to Mathew Baynton as Bottom, and was especially funny towards the end. As it’s a modern-dress version, some of the costume choices were questionable and I didn’t particularly like the couples—my friend Zena Hitz thought the best of the four was Boadicea Ricketts as Helena and I think she’s right—Ryan Hutton was too camp as Lysander and the other two were forgettable—but unfortunately for Boadicea Ricketts, I had seen Diana Rigg in the same role. Mathew Baynton was the one who carried the production—I never thought of A Midsummer Night’s Dream as Bottom’s play—but this production belonged to Mathew Baynton. 

5/ Over the past few years, I’ve been complaining about contemporary cinema. But this year, I watched quite a few good films—cinema is not dead, baby, cinema is not dead—Anatomy of a Fall, La chimera, The Zone of Interest, The Holdovers, The Taste of Things—all from 2023. 

Anyway, enjoy the holiday, folks. In case I don’t write another blog post by then, Merry Christmas!

Tom Jones: “an impudent slut, a wanton hussy, an audacious harlot, a wicked jade, a vile strumpet”

1/ I like the sexual frankness of Tom Jones. 

“… Nor was her mind more effeminate than her person. As this was tall and robust, so was that bold and forward. So little had [Molly] of modesty, that Jones had more regard for her virtue than she herself. And as most probably she liked Tom as well as he liked her, so when she perceived his backwardness she herself grew proportionably forward; and when she saw he had entirely deserted the house, she found means of throwing herself in his way, and behaved in such a manner that the youth must have had very much or very little of the heroe if her endeavours had proved unsuccessful. In a word, she soon triumphed over all the virtuous resolutions of Jones; for though she behaved at last with all decent reluctance, yet I rather chuse to attribute the triumph to her, since, in fact, it was her design which succeeded.

In the conduct of this matter, I say, Molly so well played her part, that Jones attributed the conquest entirely to himself, and considered the young woman as one who had yielded to the violent attacks of his passion.” (B.4, ch.6) 

Henry Fielding is so likeable because he values goodness and virtue but he is tolerant and forgiving of human frailty—next to him, George Eliot and Edith Wharton and even Jane Austen may occasionally come across as rather harsh. 

“… Molly Seagrim approached. Our hero had his penknife in his hand, which he had drawn for the before-mentioned purpose of carving on the bark; when the girl coming near him, cried out with a smile, “You don't intend to kill me, squire, I hope!”—“Why should you think I would kill you?” answered Jones. “Nay,” replied she, “after your cruel usage of me when I saw you last, killing me would, perhaps, be too great kindness for me to expect.”

Here ensued a parley, which, as I do not think myself obliged to relate it, I shall omit. It is sufficient that it lasted a full quarter of an hour, at the conclusion of which they retired into the thickest part of the grove.” (B.5, ch.10)

Hahahahaha. You can probably see why I love Tom Jones. No wonder some contemporary critic called it a tale of “bastardism, fornication, and adultery” (if that doesn’t make you want to pick up the novel, I don’t know what can). But it’s fascinating to see sexual frankness and an embrace of horniness in the 17th century (like Shakespeare) or the 18th century (Tom Jones, Dangerous Liaisons) after being used for years to the reticence and prudishness of the 19th century. 

(Did Tolstoy ever read Fielding? My quick googling told me nothing. I’m rather amused imagining his shock and outrage upon reading Tom Jones). 

I like the warm, good-humoured persona of the author: 

“… I question not but the surprize of the reader will be here equal to that of Jones; as the suspicions which must arise from the appearance of this wise and grave man in such a place, may seem so inconsistent with that character which he hath, doubtless, maintained hitherto, in the opinion of every one.

But to confess the truth, this inconsistency is rather imaginary than real. Philosophers are composed of flesh and blood as well as other human creatures; and however sublimated and refined the theory of these may be, a little practical frailty is as incident to them as to other mortals.” (B.5, ch.5)

The novel has a comic tone, but Fielding has no illusions about humanity. He depicts the greed and misogyny of Captain Blifil, the hypocrisy of Thwackum, the artful and dishonest behaviour of Master Blifil, the wantonness of Molly Seagrim, the carefree egotism and thoughtless cruelty of Squire Western, the deceit of Black George… but, like Tolstoy or Chekhov, he depicts all these characters with compassion. 

2/ It is good to read Fielding’s masterpiece after Joseph Andrews. Both are full of warmth, wit, and good humour, but one can see the improvements. 

First of all is the main character. Like Joseph Andrews, Tom Jones is handsome, “one of the handsomest young fellows in the world.” But if in his first novel, Fielding concentrated most of his energy on Parson Adams (and some on Lady Booby and Mrs Slipslop) and didn’t give Joseph a personality, he now does a good job with the characterisation of Tom Jones, who is impulsive and has a wild streak but who is nevertheless good-natured, loyal, generous, and lovable.  

Another difference is the plotting. I have written that Joseph Andrews, as a picaresque novel, is episodic and doesn’t have anything that holds it together—it is loose and drags on sometimes—Tom Jones in contrast is tightly plotted and I can see why Coleridge said it’s one of “the three most perfect plots ever planned.” 

I probably won’t say much about the plot and the characters till I’m close to finishing the book though. 

What a romp! 

PS: I’ve just read that Samuel Johnson said about Tom Jones: “I am shocked to hear you quote from so vicious a book. I am sorry to hear you have read it; a confession which no modest lady should ever make. I scarcely know a more corrupt work.” 

Hahaha.

Tom Jones: “we have […] adhered closely to one of the highest principles of the best cook”

I’ve noted that some bloggers complain about the narrator of Tom Jones—why?—this is one of the great charms of the novel.   

“The same animal which hath the honour to have some part of his flesh eaten at the table of a duke, may perhaps be degraded in another part, and some of his limbs gibbeted, as it were, in the vilest stall in town. Where, then, lies the difference between the food of the nobleman and the porter, if both are at dinner on the same ox or calf, but in the seasoning, the dressing, the garnishing, and the setting forth? Hence the one provokes and incites the most languid appetite, and the other turns and palls that which is the sharpest and keenest.

In like manner, the excellence of the mental entertainment consists less in the subject than in the author's skill in well dressing it up.” (B.1, ch.1) 

I used to think I disliked the intrusive narrator, until I discovered Thackeray and Fielding (turns out I just didn’t get along with George Eliot). 

“… As this is one of those deep observations which very few readers can be supposed capable of making themselves, I have thought proper to lend them my assistance; but this is a favour rarely to be expected in the course of my work. Indeed, I shall seldom or never so indulge him, unless in such instances as this, where nothing but the inspiration with which we writers are gifted, can possibly enable any one to make the discovery.” (B.1, ch.5) 

Fielding’s authorial persona is a delight—his influence on Thackeray is obvious. 

Tom Jones is divided into 18 books and each book begins with the author talking about his own writing—meta? I’ve come across readers who say that these chapters contribute nothing to the plot and that they are skippable, but they’re a carefully constructed part of the novel—like the essays in War and Peace or Life and Fate—in Joseph Andrews, Henry Fielding has created a warm, witty, large-hearted narrator as an essential part of the novel; in Tom Jones, he goes further, talking about the art of the very book we are reading. 

“… I mean here the inventor of that most exquisite entertainment, called the English Pantomime.

This entertainment consisted of two parts, which the inventor distinguished by the names of the serious and the comic. The serious exhibited a certain number of heathen gods and heroes, who were certainly the worst and dullest company into which an audience was ever introduced; and (which was a secret known to few) were actually intended so to be, in order to contrast the comic part of the entertainment, and to display the tricks of harlequin to the better advantage.” (B.5, ch.1)

I guess the advantage of the novel being such a new thing in the 18th century was that writers could do whatever they wanted (I know, I will read Tristram Shandy). Some features and techniques people commonly associate with postmodernism were there from the very beginning (including Don Quixote). 

“Now, in reality, the world have paid too great a compliment to critics, and have imagined them men of much greater profundity than they really are. From this complacence, the critics have been emboldened to assume a dictatorial power, and have so far succeeded, that they are now become the masters, and have the assurance to give laws to those authors from whose predecessors they originally received them.

[…] Hence arose an obvious, and perhaps an unavoidable error; for these critics being men of shallow capacities, very easily mistook mere form for substance. They acted as a judge would, who should adhere to the lifeless letter of law, and reject the spirit. Little circumstances, which were perhaps accidental in a great author, were by these critics considered to constitute his chief merit, and transmitted as essentials to be observed by all his successors. To these encroachments, time and ignorance, the two great supporters of imposture, gave authority; and thus many rules for good writing have been established, which have not the least foundation in truth or nature; and which commonly serve for no other purpose than to curb and restrain genius, in the same manner as it would have restrained the dancing-master, had the many excellent treatises on that art laid it down as an essential rule that every man must dance in chains.” (ibid.) 

Take that, critics! 

The funny part is that now and then, the narrator pretends not to know everything. 

“Mr Allworthy had been absent a full quarter of a year in London, on some very particular business, though I know not what it was…” (B.1, ch.3) 

Who knows if you don’t, Mr Fielding? 

“… it is with jealousy as with the gout: when such distempers are in the blood, there is never any security against their breaking out; and that often on the slightest occasions, and when least suspected.

Thus it happened to Mrs Partridge, who had submitted four years to her husband's teaching this young woman, and had suffered her often to neglect her work, in order to pursue her learning. For, passing by one day, as the girl was reading, and her master leaning over her, the girl, I know not for what reason, suddenly started up from her chair: and this was the first time that suspicion ever entered into the head of her mistress.” (B.2, ch.3) 

This is even funnier: 

“As he did not, however, outwardly express any such disgust, it would be an ill office in us to pay a visit to the inmost recesses of his mind, as some scandalous people search into the most secret affairs of their friends, and often pry into their closets and cupboards, only to discover their poverty and meanness to the world.” (B.4, ch.3) 

Isn’t that against what novels are about? 

“… As to the name of Jones, [Blifil] thought proper to conceal it, and why he did so must be left to the judgment of the sagacious reader; for we never chuse to assign motives to the actions of men, when there is any possibility of our being mistaken.” (B.5, ch.10)

What would Tolstoy think? (I’m thinking of his criticism of Shakespeare for not only concealing but sometimes also removing characters’ motives). 

Let’s see if next time I find anything interesting to blog about. I’m enjoying Tom Jones, especially the references to Shakespeare and Don Quixote. 

Why do some great novels resist adaptation?

Yesterday I watched two Czechoslovakian films: Alice and When the Cat Comes (both of which I recommend). As I was watching Alice, Jan Švankmajer’s wonderfully dark and disturbing adaptation of Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, I thought about classic novels that were adapted for the screen over and over again. 

And I thought, why are some great novels so much harder to adapt than others? 

I’m not talking about novels with an odd structure, an obvious challenge such as Moby Dick or The Sound and the Fury or One Hundred Years of Solitude. I’m also not talking about faithful adaptations—you can’t accuse me of being a purist—just film or TV adaptations that can stand on their own as works of art. Like Jan Švankmajer’s Alice. Or Dr Strangelove. Or Ran.

But clearly some novels seem to resist adaptation. Take Don Quixote for instance. This is one of the most important novels in the world, this is a novel that has been adapted a million times, and yet—perhaps I am ignorant—there is not a single adaptation that is considered a good film of Don Quixote. BFI has an article called “The troubled history of Don Quixote on film”, about the failures of Orson Welles and Walt Disney and Terry Gilliam to bring it (successfully) to the screen. Terry Gilliam in the end managed to make The Man Who Killed Don Quixote in 2019, but it’s not successful, is it? Critic score of 66% and audience score of 59% on Rotten Tomatoes. 

Anna Karenina, another favourite novel of mine, also doesn’t seem to work well on the screen. The challenge of the depth of Tolstoy’s characters is not the only reason. The 1972 adaptation of War and Peace, with Anthony Hopkins as Pierre, demonstrates that it’s possible to convey the depth of characters and the conflicts between them—the only flaw of that version is Natasha (many people love the Soviet version, but it’s only because they seem to be fine with Sergei Bondarchuk stripping away all psychological and philosophical depth and character development). But there is not a single good adaptation of Anna Karenina and I have seen six different ones: Greta Garbo (1935), Vivien Leigh (1948), Tatiana Samoilova (1967), Sophie Marceau (1997), Keira Knightley (2012), and Vittoria Puccini (2013). There is always something wrong—with Anna or Vronsky or Karenin or all of them—not to mention that the Levin strand is almost always reduced to a mere subplot. 

But I guess the complexity of Tolstoy’s characters is the main reason. Filmmakers tend to go for a simpler version. 

Wuthering Heights is another hard one. Jane Eyre has an excellent adaptation in 2006, with Ruth Wilson as Jane and Toby Stephens as Mr Rochester. Some people seem to like the 2011 film with Mia Wasikowska, for some reason. But Wuthering Heights has not had a single good adaptation—we all agree, yes? The news of the version currently in the works doesn’t particularly cheer anyone up either. How could Emerald Fennel possibly cast Margot Robbie as Cathy and Jacob Elordi as Heathcliff? Madness. 

My favourite Emma: Kate Beckinsale. 

The case of Jane Austen is easier to understand. Almost all of her novels have had a good adaptation: Lady Susan has a brilliant adaptation in 2016, confusingly named Love and Friendship; Northanger Abbey has been adapted only once* in 2007, with Felicity Jones, which seems popular enough; Sense and Sensibility has the Oscar-winning film in 1995 with Emma Thompson and Kate Winslet; Pride and Prejudice has the 1995 series, with Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth, leading to the Austen craze and the whole Janeite industry (though there are, oddly, some people who prefer the Keira Knightley film); Emma has a great adaptation in 1996 with Kate Beckinsale, which is my favourite, though the consensus is that the best one is Clueless; Persuasion has a celebrated version, also in 1995, with Amanda Root as Anne Elliot and Ciarán Hinds as Captain Wentworth. All filmmakers have left to do is to “ruin” them with some “subversive” adaptations, like Netflix has done with Persuasion and presumably will do again with Pride and Prejudice (well, for those who like that sort of thing, that’s the sort of thing they like). 

The one Jane Austen novel that has not had a good adaptation is Mansfield Park. But that is not hard to understand: modern filmmakers cannot handle a morally serious and sombre Jane Austen novel and a heroine so unlike the Strong Female Character trope of Hollywood—Fanny Price, strong in a different way, is not a girlboss or a kickass heroine—filmmakers keep feeling a misplaced urge to “improve” on the book.  

But I do wonder why Wuthering Heights hasn’t got a good adaptation. Is it only because filmmakers keep sanitising and romanticising the story? Or is there some fierce, intense quality to Emily Bronte’s story that makes it impossible to work on the screen? 

But I suppose people are going to attempt again and again. 

* Addendum: There is also a version in 1987 that I did not know about. Thanks, Brian. 

100 latest films and plays I've watched [updated]

I originally shared my 100 list on 27/11 but made a mistake (listing two Inside No.9 episodes twice, instead of listing them once and noting "twice" at the end as I usually do), so here is the updated list. 

From November 2023 to December 2024

In bold: films, plays, and TV episodes I think are good

1/ Inside No.9: Nana's Party (2015) 

2/ Inside No.9: Séance Time (2015) 

3/ Inside No.9: The Devil of Christmas (2016) 

4/ Inside No.9: The Bill (2017) - twice

5/ Inside No.9: Diddle Diddle Dumpling (2017) 

6/ Inside No.9: Private View (2017) 

7/ Inside No.9: Once Removed (2018) 

8/ Inside No.9: To Have and to Hold (2018) 

9/ Inside No.9: The Riddle of the Sphinx (2017) 

10/ Inside No.9: And the Winner Is... (2018) 

11/ Inside No.9: Tempting Fate (2018) 

12/ Inside No.9: Deadline (2018) 

13/ Inside No.9: The Referee's a W***er (2020) 

14/ Inside No.9: Empty Orchestra (2017) 

15/ Inside No.9: Death Be Not Proud (2020)  

16/ Inside No.9: Love's Great Adventure (2020) 

17/ Inside No.9: Misdirection (2020) 

18/ Inside No.9: Thinking Out Loud (2020) 

19/ Inside No.9: The Stakeout (2020) 

20/ Inside No.9: Wuthering Heist (2021) - twice 

21/ Inside No.9: Simon Says (2021) 

22/ Inside No.9: Lip Service (2021) 

23/ Inside No.9: Hurry Up and Wait (2021) 

24/ Inside No.9: How Do You Plead (2021) 

25/ Inside No.9: Last Night of the Proms (2021)

26/ Inside No.9: Merrily, Merrily (2022) 

27/ Inside No.9: Mr King (2022) 

28/ Inside No.9: Nine Lives Kat (2022) 

29/ Inside No.9: Kid/Nap (2022) 

30/ Inside No.9: A Random Act of Kindness (2022) 

31/ Inside No.9: Wise Owl (2022) 

32/ Inside No.9: The Bones of St Nicholas (2022) 

33/ Inside No.9: Mother's Ruin (2023) 

34/ Inside No.9: Paraskevidekatriaphobia (2023) 

35/ An Ideal Husband (1999) 

36/ Inside No.9: Love Is a Stranger (2023) 

37/ Inside No.9: 3 by 3 (2023) 

38/ Inside No.9: The Last Weekend (2023) 

39/ Inside No.9: The 12 Days of Christine (2015) 

40/ Coriolanus (2011) 

41/ A Christmas Carol (1984) 

42/ Blackadder's Christmas Carol (1988) 

43/ The Shop Around the Corner (1940) 

44/ Miracle on 34th Street (1947) 

45/ The Bishop's Wife (1947) 

46/ Nicholas Nickleby (2002) 

47/ Hamlet at Elsinore (1964) - twice 

48/ The Sound of Music (1965) 

49/ Chimes at Midnight (1965) 

50/ Henry IV, Part 1 (1979 BBC) 

51/ Henry IV, Part 2 (1979 BBC) 

53/ Anatomie d'une chute (Anatomy of a Fall - France - 2023) 

54/ King Lear (1971, dir. Peter Brook, starring Paul Scofield) 

55/ Past Lives (2023) 

56/ The Holdovers (2023) 

57/ Maestro (2023) 

58/ American Fiction (2023) 

59/ Macbeth (2023-2024, dir. Simon Godwin, starring Ralph Fiennes) - onstage 

60/ The Zone of Interest (2023) 

61/ May December (2023) 

62/ Thoroughly Modern Millie (1967) 

63/ Mai (Vietnam - 2024) 

64/ Certain Women (2016) 

65/ Charlie's Angels (2019) 

66/ All the President's Men (1976) 

67/ La Passion de Dodin Bouffant (The Taste of Things - France - 2023) 

68/ Reality (2023) 

69/ Inside No.9: Boo to a Goose (2024) 

70/ Mr Holmes (2015) 

71/ Inside No.9: The Trolley Problem (2024) 

72/ Inside No.9: Mulberry Close (2024) 

73/ Inside No.9: CTRL, ALT, ESC (2024) 

74/ The Protégé (2021) 

75/ Inside No.9: Curse of the Ninth (2024) 

76/ Inside No.9: Plodding On (2024) 

77/ Henry V (1979 BBC) 

78/ Widows (2018)

79/ No Way Out (1987) 

80/ Hit Man (2023) 

81/ The Bikeriders (2023) 

82/ 楢山節考 (The Ballad of Narayama - Japan - 1983) 

83/ Sur mes lèvres (Read My Lips - France - 2001) 

84/ 몽타주 (Montage - South Korea - 2013) 

85/ レイクサイド マーダーケース (Lakeside Murder Case - Japan - 2004)

86/ Cold Comfort Farm (1995)

87/ 恋や恋なすな恋 (The Mad Fox - Japan - 1962) 

88/ La chimera (Italy, France, Switzerland - 2023) 

89/ Perfect Days (Japan, Germany - 2023) 

90/ 山の音 (The Sound of the Mountain - Japan - 1954) 

91/ Plein soleil (Purple Noon - France, Italy - 1960) 

92/ Le Samouraï (France, Italy - 1967) 

93/ La piscine (The Swimming Pool - France, Italy - 1969)

94/ The Fall (2006) 

95/ 버닝 (Burning - South Korea - 2018) 

96/ Toni Erdmann (Germany, Austria - 2016) 

97/ Kuolleet lehdet (Fallen Leaves - Finland - 2023) 

98/ Mies vailla menneisyyttä (The Man Without a Past - Finland - 2002) 

99/ Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949) 

100/ Něco z Alenky (Alice - Czechoslovakia, Switzerland, the UK, West Germany - 1988)