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No Country for Old Men, according to my brother, is the one film that breaks the book-always-being-better rule.
I remember one thing about seeing it. The precise wording of a text message I got while half-asleep in the empty cinema. Entertainingly filthy message, heinously boring film.
In sum, I’m in no hurry to read the book.
But I was thinking about the “rule” while watching Monkey Grip (1982) for the first time earlier in the week. I was watching it, loving it, and feeling thoroughly convinced that it was better than the book I’d enjoyed as an undergrad.
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I’m not a believer in any blanket rules on books being better than films. They’re different - both equally worthy as art - and I’ve never had any interest in the high/low culture debate. One rule of course, that tends to prove itself time and time again, is that the more I love the book the more I’ll resent the film. (Less an indictment of the film, I suspect, and simply the impossibility of ever duplicating my initial fervour).
Off the top of my head:
Kathryn Stockett’s The Help: great book, forgettable film.
Stephen King’s The Dome: captivating book, laughable TV series.
David Nicholls’ One Day: devastatingly excellent book. Anne Hathaway was cast in the film. Oh my God why?
And it works both ways. Sometimes I liked the film enough to be cajoled into seeking out the prose. Inevitably a lackluster venture.
Bladerunner. Better on film
High Fidelity. Really better on film.
Shawshank Redemption. So much better on film.
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And then there are the film versions that may not have been great, but at least did the book justice: a grand compliment in a world where filmmakers do awful things to books.
Muriel Spark’s The Driver’s Seat is in my Top 10. And the film version was very passable considering the oh-so-hard-to-film crazy-town subject matter. I didn’t think much of the Swedish made-for-TV take on The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo but the American version was certainly worth the admission price.
By the time the Monkey Grip credits rolled however, I came to a startling realisation. (Certainly so for someone who prides herself on a good memory).
I hadn’t read the book.
I read and loved Dorothy Porter’s The Monkey’s Mask. And never saw the film. I loved Monkey Grip on film but haven’t actually read Helen Garner’s novel.
Forgivable surely? I mean, seriously, how many monkey-titled films without any bloody monkeys can one country produce?
Worth noting there are some truly wonderful takeaways from Monkey Grip that should encourage its sourcing ($9 on eBay in my case).
It’s sexy. Surprisingly sexy. Once I got over the thorough weirdness of seeing Noni Hazlehurst naked - of seeing the grandad from Packed to the Rafters looking all beardy and cool - it works.
There’s hair! The film opens with Noni is a bathing suit. And. She. Has. Armpit. Hair. And men are ogling her! And just in time for the I-doubt-it’ll-ever-take-off Ampits for August to boot.
Chrissy Amphlett! Acting, singing, divinely pouting.
With a long cue of books waiting to be listened to I’m in no hurry to seek out the Garner tome. Not that I need to, of course: I’m a sentimentalist and all about the first cut being the deepest.