How Film Adaptations Make the Original Poetic

1 Introduction: Walter Benjamin and Pure Language

In “The Task of the Translator,” Walter Benjamin argues the translatability of literary works is born out of their untranslatability, and that only through the plurality of languages and different modes of expression in relation to one another can pure language be re-discovered. The task of the translator is to get the sense, let the foreignness of the other language flow through him or her, and achieve a combination of deterritorialization and reterritorialization.

We may be puzzled about what a literary work exactly says or conveys, but in fact for those who really understand it, it conveys very little:

For what does a literary work “say”? What does it communicate? It “tells” very little to those who understand it. Its essential quality is not statement or the imparting of information. Yet any translation which intends to perform a transmitting function cannot transmit anything but information-hence, something inessential. This is the hallmark of bad translations. But do we not generally regard as the essential substance of a literary work what it contains in addition to information-as even a poor translator will admit-the unfathomable, the mysterious, the “poetic,” something that a translator can reproduce only if he is also a poet? (Benjamin 1968, 69–70)

This essay argues that film adaptations of literary works make the original poetic, because the mode of expression changes from “telling” to “immersion.” And if the original means to convey anything to its readers, this “something” could be easier to grasp in films, which is partially because dialogues and narratives are changed into theatrically authentic relations among actors. Readers and audiences do not need to struggle to find the essence in the ocean of information, but can eliminate the inessential content and generate a longing for the unfathomable, the mysterious, and the poetic with the help of music and colours. We might want to ask, what is poetry? John Stuart Mill gives us a substantial answer for this question. “If a poet describes a lion, he does not describe him as a naturalist would, nor even as a traveler would, who was intent upon stating the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. He describes him by imagery, that is, by suggesting the most striking likeness and contrasts which might occur to a mind contemplating a lion, in the state of awe, wonder, or terror, which the spectacle naturally excites, or is, on the occasion, supposed to excite.” (Mill 2006, 1047) In other words, an immersion in imageries which might generate tender or intense emotions is what poetry actually does.

In the same essay, Walter Benjamin also aims to discuss the exact location where the relatedness of two languages resides, and he believes “all suprahistorical kinship of languages rests in the intention underlying each language as a whole – an intention, however, which no single language can attain by itself but which is realized only by the totality of their intentions supplementing each other: pure language.” (74) These words, in my eyes, can also help explain the relatedness of two different forms or mediums: the first represented by the written world, while the second represented by the world of images and sounds. The intention is concealed and locked when words serve as the only medium. It achieves a gradual emancipation and experiences a reincarnating process when images and sounds become its equally important, if secondary, reality. To borrow Benjamin’s expression, only by the totality of the mediums and forms supplementing each other can the original sense or intention reach a higher purpose and purposiveness, and thus the pure form, the poetic form, underlying the kinship of different mediums, is born, which is analogous to the pure language underlying the kinship of different language systems. As Benjamin tells us, “It is translation which catches fire on the eternal life of the works and the perpetual renewal of language.” (74) To alter it a bit, it is adaptation which catches fire on the both eternal and transient life of the original works and the perpetual renewal of various forms as modes of expression. Film adaptations are more poetic, in the way that they change what is previously intentionally ungraspable into something tangible and perceivable; what is previously informatively graspable into something picturesquely unconveyable; what is previously eternally mysterious into something transiently discernible; what is previously transiently adorable into something eternally inspirative.

Benjamin also defines translation as a realm of reconciliation where the linguistic air has sensed the possibility of freedom: “In translation the original rises into a higher and purer linguistic air, as it were. It cannot live there permanently, to be sure, and it certainly does not reach it in its entirety. Yet, in a singularly impressive manner, at least it points the way to this region: the predestined, hitherto inaccessible realm of reconciliation and fulfilment of languages. The transfer can never be total, but what reached this region is that element in a translation which goes beyond transmittal of subject matter.” (75) To some extent, film adaptations of literary works could also be seen as a reconciliatory zone, a place of compromise beyond explanation. Film adaptations point to a way which even authors themselves could not foretell, because they bring out the pre-destined, the a priori, the essentially inaccessible and transform them into an imaginative reality, which does not assume an air of doomed decay or simple mystery, but rather, a profound freshness, an estranged fulfilment, and a “singularly impressive manner.” In this sense, film adaptations are the becoming-poetic because they serve as an artistic gesture, which is forever on the road defined by an unfamiliar familiarity and a familiar estrangement in conflict and in concert. Poetry is only made possible through the entanglement of these two seemingly opposite forces.

Walter Benjamin also compares the task of the translator with that of a poet. He believes “the task of the translator consists in finding that intended effect upon the language into which he is translating which produces in it the echo of the original. This is a feature of translation which basically differentiates it from the poet’s work, because the effort of the latter is never directed at the language as such, at its totality, but solely and immediately at the specific linguistic contextual aspects.” (76) The task of the translator, in my eyes, is similar to the process of film adaptations. Even though the task of the translator differs from that of a poet, I argue the effect of translations or adaptations is similar to that of poetry. Translators and adapters need to focus on the totality of original literary works, from which they can grasp the subtlety of exact senses. However, in order to transfer this totality into their translations or adaptations, they still need to borrow, or rely on specific linguistic contextual aspects. Poets, on the other hand, need to focus on specific linguistic contextual aspects at the very beginning, but at the moment when a poem is finished, the specificity is immersed into the totality, just like a figure in the carpet. Film adaptations of literary works become poetic, because in the process of carrying the sense of totality from one medium to another, they need to allow this very sense to flow out from a particular perspective. Audiences will thus feel, that this artistic piece is itself a perfect unity while at the same time conjured and more profoundly defined by some particulars. What makes a film adaptation poetic is not the process, but the effect it generates in its observers: how the specificity and the totality are intimately interwoven and constantly shaping or reshaping each other.

Walter Benjamin goes on providing contemplations on “a language of truth”: “If there is such a thing as a language of truth, the tensionless and even silent depository of the ultimate truth which all thought strives for, then this language of truth is-the true language. And this very language, whose divination and description is the only perfection a philosopher can hope for, is concealed in concentrated fashion in translations. There is no muse of philosophy, nor is there one of translation. But despite the claims of sentimental artists, these two are not banausic. For there is a philosophical genius that is characterized by a yearning for that language which manifests itself in translations.” (77) In other words, the intermediary zone between philosophy and translation can become the very muse for both two categories. A philosophical genius is hidden within a longing for the re-invigoration and re-imagination of language, which could only announce its very existence in another form. In a similar vein, by adapting literary works into films, the philosophical genius obtains the potential to be released, and if this is successful, films become the exemplars of the purification of language and assume a poetic characteristic in the realm of higher order.

The only capacity of translation, in Walter Benjamin’s imagination, is “to turn the symbolizing into the symbolized, to regain pure language fully formed in the linguistic flux.” (p80) And the pure language achieved through this purpose “no longer means or expresses anything but is.” (80) An ideal translator, should “release in his own language that pure language which is under the spell of another, to liberate the language imprisoned in a work in his re-creation of that work.” (80) Film adaptations are also re-creation of original literary works, to save the pure language, form or self which is locked in a haunted castle under a spell. The removing of the spell is at once a transformation and a re-identification. Benjamin uses a vivid and perfect example to discuss the magical lightness and playful fidelity of translation process. He says,

Just as a tangent touches a circle lightly and at but one point, with this touch rather than with the point setting the law according to which it is to continue on its straight path to infinity, a translation touches the original lightly and only at the infinitely small point of the sense, thereupon pursuing its own course according to the laws of fidelity in the freedom of linguistic flux. (80)

Film adaptations, if they are faithful to the original in this regard, become poetic, because with the light touch of a circle setting the basic law, adaptations as translations are forever in pursuit of infinity, extension and immensity. Meanings are no longer fixed but may vary along with time in a hopeful fluidity. Imaginations are no longer contained within a pre-established framework, but instead, become the fountainhead of variations and exuberance, to be continuously absorbed by multiplicities. Original literary works are untranslatable only “because of the looseness with which meaning attached to them.” (81) On Walter Benjamin’s view, Hölderlin’s translations could be the most profound prototypes, because “in them the harmony of the languages is so profound that sense is touched by language only the way an aeolian harp is touched by the wind.” (81) The looseness of the meanings does not need to reconcile with the necessity or any practical purposes of fixity, but instead, become the very transcendent spirit, or Ariel’s music in The Tempest, or the thing itself. This is the very harmony in a more epistemologically profound and indiscernible sense than a simple reconciliation between two languages or forms. Translations or film adaptations of literary works are not poetic, but become poetic, in which “meaning plunges from abyss to abyss until it threatens to become lost in the bottomless depths of language.” (82) Walter Benjamin concludes by arguing that the only stop from “the bottomless depths of language” is the Scriptures in which “literalness and freedom are united.” (82) According to my observations, a true poetic spirit also follows this logic essentially, in other words, an embodiment of the perfect translation of how “literalness and freedom are united.”

Walter Benjamin’s wisdom leads me to rethink many film adaptations as the becoming-poetic, and I will use a few of them as case studies to show what exactly makes them more poetic than original literary works.

2 The Sense of an Ending

In Julian Barnes’s celebrated novel, The Sense of an Ending, he describes that along with an individual life coming to an end, we also begin to notice some cruel facts: the life we have once lived is not our own. The ending of The Sense of an Ending has an eschatologically pessimistic sense, and I will quote the last two paragraphs full here:

You get towards the end of life – no, not life itself, but of something else: the end of any likelihood of change in that life. You are allowed a long moment of pause, time enough to ask the question: what else have I done wrong? I thought of a bunch of kids in Trafalgar Square. I thought of a young woman dancing, for once in her life. I thought of what I couldn’t know or understand now, of all that couldn’t ever be known or understood. I thought of his son cramming his face into a shelf of quilted toilet tissue in order to avoid me. I thought of a woman frying eggs in a carefree, slapdash way, untroubled when one of them broke in the pan: then the same woman, later, making a secret, horizontal gesture beneath a sunlit wisteria. And I thought of a cresting wave of water, lit by a moon, rushing past and vanishing upstream, pursued by a band of yelping students whose torchbeams criss-crossed in the dark.

There is accumulation. There is responsibility. And beyond these, there is unrest. There is great unrest. (Barnes 2011, 163)

After reading this ending, it feels like I am occupied or seized by the sense of an ending which has thrust me into an unnameable despair and a profound melancholy. It is as if all the cheerful sounds and sweet memories were ruthlessly slipping away. It is as if it were not a matter of having truly lived or not, but rather a bare truth that life itself is like a brief candle, shining momentarily, full of sound and fury, suddenly plunging into a bottomless dream defined by nothingness, signifying nothing. It is as if Julian Barnes has finally transferred this sense of an ending from his fictional characters to us, when theatrical life and authentic life are interwoven, when history and story are merged.

It is also worth noticing the discussions of “history” in this novel, especially Adrian’s definition of history, and I will also quote the relevant paragraphs full here:

We could start, perhaps, with the seemingly simple question, What is History? Any thoughts, Webster?

‘History is the lies of the victors,’ I replied, a little too quickly.

Yes, I was rather afraid you’d say that. Well, as long as you remember that it is also the self-delusions of the defeated. Simpson?

Colin was more prepared than me. ‘History is a raw opinion sandwich, sir.’

For what reason?

‘It just repeats, sir. It burps. We’ve seen it again and again this year. Same old story, same old oscillation between tyranny and rebellion, war and peace, prosperity and impoverishment.’ ‘Rather a lot for a sandwich to contain, wouldn’t you say?’ we laughed far more than was required, with an end-of-term hysteria.

‘Finn?’ “‘History is that certainty produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation.”’ ‘Is it, indeed? Where did you find that?’ ‘Lagrange, sir. Patrick Lagrange. He’s French.’ ‘So one might have guessed. Would you care to give us an example?’ ‘Robson’s suicide, sir.’ There was a perceptible intake of breath and some reckless head-turning. But Hunt, like the other masters, allowed Adrian special status. When the rest of us tried provocation, it was dismissed as puerile cynicism – something else we would grow out of. Adrian’s provocations were somehow welcomed as awkward searchings after truth.

‘What has that to do with the matter?’ ‘It’s a historical event, sir, if a minor one. But recent. So it ought to be easily understood as history. We know that he’s dead, we know that he had a girlfriend, we know that she’s pregnant – or was. What else do we have? A single piece of documentation, a suicide note reading “Sorry, Mum” – at least, according to Brown. Does that note still exist? Was it destroyed? Did Robson have any other motives or reasons beyond the obvious ones? What was his state of mind? Can we be sure the child was his? We can’t know, sir, not even this soon afterwards. So how might anyone write Robson’s story in fifty years’ time, when his parents are dead and his girlfriend has disappeared and doesn’t want to remember him anyway? You see the problem, sir?’ We all looked at Hunt, wondering if Adrian had pushed it too far this time. That single word ‘pregnant’ seemed to hover like chalk-dust. And as for the audacious suggestion of alternative paternity, of Robson the Schoolboy Cuckold … After a while, the master replied.

‘I see the problem, Finn. But I think you underestimate history. And for that matter historians. Let us assume for the sake of argument that poor Robson were to prove of historical interest. Historians have always been faced with the lack of direct evidence for things. That’s what they are used to. And don’t forget that in the present case there would have been an inquest, and therefore a coroner’s report. Robson may well have kept a diary, or written letters, made phone calls whose contents are remembered. His parents would have replied to the letters of condolence they received. And fifty years from now, given the current life expectancy, quite a few of his schoolfellows would still be available for interview. The problem might be less daunting than you imagine’. ‘But nothing can make up for the absence of Robson’s testimony, sir.’ ‘In one way, no. But equally, historians need to treat a participant’s own explanation of events with a certain scepticism. It is often the statement made with an eye to the future that is the most suspect.’ ‘If you say so, sir.’ ‘And mental states may often be inferred from actions. The tyrant rarely sends a handwritten note requesting the elimination of an enemy.’ ‘If you say so, sir.’ ‘Well, I do.’ Was this their exact exchange? Almost certainly not. Still, it is my best memory of their exchange. (18–20)

The reason why I’ve quoted these paragraphs is because they contribute immensely to the theme of the entire novel. Tony Webster defines history as the lies of the victors, and he is reminded that history could also be the self-delusions of the defeated. Tony’s definition of history and the reminder he has got go parallel with his own life story: Since his defeat in the battle of love, Tony has adopted a cynical attitude towards people and things. He believes the entire history lying behind him is full of lies and wicked laughter of the victors. But when it eventually comes to the ending of his life, he finally grasps the sense that all his previous construction and imagination of history or story are nothing but his illusions. His own life story is defeated by his self-delusional definition of history. Adrian Finn defines history as “that certainty produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation.” And this definition of history also goes parallel with his own life story and how it is interwoven with Tony’s. Tony’s imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation after Adrian’s suicide. Adrian is reminded that “historians need to treat a participant’s own explanation of events with a certain scepticism. It is often the statement made with an eye to the future that is the most suspect.” Tony Webster later reads history at Bristol, a historian in a broader sense, and finally realizes that his own explanation of events as a participant is problematic. And his abominable letter to Adrian exemplifies “the statement made with an eye to the future that is the most suspect.” If in a Fregean sense, some words might refer to the same thing but have different senses, then in this case, “history” and “story” could be a perfect example. And in fact, in German, “Geschichte” could mean both history and story.

The Sense of an Ending is a tragic story with the inevitability of history and unreliability of story interwoven most painfully into its hidden logic. This novel was adapted into a movie in 2017, which was directed by Ritesh Batra and written by Nick Payne. According to my observations, the film has made the novel more poetic because it to some extent achieves a reconciliation, a compromise, and a new beginning born from the ending. The film version has emancipated the story previously locked in a doomed logic and helps it search for and convey a rebirth or renewal of “pure language” as defined by Walter Benjamin. How exactly does the film version differ from the original novel? The most remarkable one could be how the ending is profoundly, if slightly, altered.

When the film comes to an end and Tony Webster finds out how he has made a drastically terrible mistake, he also notices that his watch has stopped ticking. However, this “stop” and “end” also leads to a new beginning. When Tony Webster reconciles with his past, his story has also obtained a new future. He later receives a gift from his ex-wife, which is a new watch announcing a new beginning. And his daughter Susie has also given birth to a new life – the painful past is still and will always be there, but the future life story looks promising again: In every ending there is a new beginning. I also quote the relevant concluding part of the film here:

Tony’s voice:

How often do we tell our own life story?

How often do we adjust, embellish, make sly cuts?

And the longer life goes on, the fewer are those around us to tell our life is not our life. It is just a story we’ve told about our lives. A story about our lives told to others, but mainly to ourselves.

I’ve been turning over in my mind the question of nostalgia, and whether I suffer from it. I suppose I am nostalgic. I think of my time with Margaret and Susie’s birth and her first years. A bunch of kids in school. A girl dancing for once in her life. A secret horizontal gesture beneath a sunlit wisteria. I think of Adrian’s definition of history. I think of everything that has happened in my life and how little I have allowed to happen. I, who neither won nor lost, who avoided being hurt and called it a capacity for survival. I think of how our lives get entwined and went along together for a time. And when I look back, now, on that time, however brief, I am moved more than I thought possible. Indeed, I am sorry that I have known nothing of your life in the years since. No doubt you could have taught this old fool a thing or two. Perhaps in a way, you have.

The novel, The Sense of an Ending, ends with a deep unrest. The film adaptation also ends with a revelatory unrest, but an unrest with new recognitions of self and new possibilities of future. All the details are still preserved in the film adaptation, but the sense it provides for its observers is essentially different. This adaptation is just like Walter Benjamin’s metaphor, namely, how ideal translation could be compared to a tangent touching lightly on the circle, and then in a forever pursuit of infinity and freedom. The film, The Sense of an Ending, ends with a piece of music reminiscent of the once vivid colours and fragrant memories. Maybe, past life has ended at some point. Or maybe, there is no real end. And in any case, life still needs to go on. Film as an interesting form contains the potential to make the pre-given materials poetic, and in this particular film adaptation, the effect is made more astoundingly obvious and deliberate, because it provides new entryways for reconciliation or compromise. And this kind of reconciliation does not ruin the painful profundity of the original work, but makes meanings previously loosely attached to it more beautifully poetic. A good translation or adaptation does not block the light of original works, as Walter Benjamin tells us, but lets the light flow through a different language or perspective as a new-born life. A poem is a magical place where all the details, all the particulars, and all the painful logic still matter, as always, but are ultimately absorbed into a larger picture, an extension of imagination and existence, and an erasure of too much tidiness in cognitive impulses or logical concerns. The poetic possibility embodied by this film adaptation also assumes a sense of authenticity, which can prepare us better for a future which is yet to come.

3 Possession: A Romance

The example above shows how film adaptations could transform a style of revelatory harsh observations into a style of hopeful reconciliation. The next example I want to discuss is A. S. Byatt’s Possession: A Romance and its adaptation into a film in the year 2002. This example shows how film adaptations could transform a style of snowy detachment and elegant indifference into a style of unconveyable joyfulness and dreamlike possibility. These two examples both show how film as an interesting medium could create an immersive landscape to arouse more tender and pre-destined emotions.

The novel, Possession: A Romance, tells how Roland Michell and Maud Bailey, two scholars in the modern era, gradually discover the hidden romance between two fictional Victorian poets, Randolph Henry Ash and Christabel LaMotte. And this discovery has also to some extent led to their re-discovery of self, a new comprehension of story and history, and a gradually emerging romantic relationship between themselves. In Byatt’s novel, when Maud Bailey eventually discovers that she has in fact descended from both Randolph Henry Ash and Christabel LaMotte, she feels strange and a mixture of ambiguous feelings. And when Roland reminds her that she resembles Ash at the corner of the eyebrow and at the edge of the mouth, she replies that she doesn’t quite like it. I will quote her conversation with Roland in entirety:

I don’t quite like it. There’s something unnaturally determined about it all. Daemonic. I feel they have taken me over.

One always feels like that about ancestors. Even very humble ones, if one has the luck to know them.

He stroked her wet hair, gently, absently.

Maud said, “What next?”

What happens next? To us?

You will have a lot of legal problems. And a lot of editing to do. I – I have made some plans.

I thought – we might edit the letters together, you and I?

That’s generous, but not necessary. You turn out to be a central figure in this story. I only got into it by stealing, in the first place. I’ve learned a lot.

What have you learned?

Oh – something from Ash and Vico. About poetic language. I’m – I – I have things I have to write.

You seem angry with me. I don’t understand why.

No, I’m not. That is, yes, I have been. You have your certainties. Literary theory. Feminism. A sort of social ease, it comes out with Euan, a world you belong in. I haven’t got anything. Or hadn’t. And I grew – attached to you. I know male pride is out of date and unimportant, but it mattered.

Maud said, “I feel – ” and stopped.

You feel?

He looked at her. Her face was like carved marble in the candle-light. Icily regular, splendidly null, as he had often said to himself.

He said, “I haven’t told you. I’ve got three jobs. Hong Kong, Barcelona, Amsterdam. The world is all before me. I shan’t be here, you see, to edit the letters. They aren’t to do with me.”

Maud said, “I feel – ”

“What?” said Roland.

When I feel – anything – I go cold all over. I freeze. I can’t – speak out. I’m – I’m – not good at relationships.

She was shivering. She still looked – it was a trick of her lovely features – cool and a little contemptuous. Roland said, “Why do you go cold?” He kept his voice gentle.

I – I’ve analysed it. Because I have the sort of good looks I have. People treat you as a kind of possession if you have a certain sort of good looks. Not lively, but sort of clear-cut and –

Beautiful.

Yes, why not. You can become a property or an idol. I don’t want that. It kept happening.

It needn’t.

Even you – drew back – when we met. I expect that, now. I use it.

Yes. But you don’t want – do you – to be alone always. Or do you?

I feel as she did. I keep my defences up because I must go on doing my work. I know how she felt about her unbroken egg. Her self-possession, her autonomy. I don’t want to think of that going. You understand?

Oh yes.

I write about liminality. Thresholds. Bastions. Fortresses.

Invasion. Irruption.

Of course.

It’s not my scene. I have my own solitude.

I know. You – you would never – blur the edges messily –

Superimpose –

No, that’s why I –

Feel safe with me –

Oh no. Oh no. I love you. I think I’d rather I didn’t.

“I love you,” said Roland. “It isn’t convenient. Not now I’ve acquired a future. But that’s how it is. In the worst way. All the things we – we grew up not believing in. Total obsession, night and day. When I see you, you look alive and everything else – fades. All that.”

Icily regular, splendidly null.

How did you know I used to think that?

Everyone always does. Fergus did. Does.

Fergus is a devourer. I haven’t got much to offer. But I could let you be, I could –

In Hong Kong, Barcelona and Amsterdam?

Well, certainly, if I was there. I wouldn’t threaten your autonomy.

“Or be here to love me,” said Maud. “Oh, love is terrible, it is a wrecker – ”

“It can be quite cunning,” said Roland. “We could think of a way – a modern way – Amsterdam isn’t far – ”

Cold hand met cold hand.

“Let’s get into bed,” said Roland. “We can work it out.”

I’m afraid of that too.

What a coward you are after all. I’ll take care of you, Maud.

So they took off their unaccustomed clothes, Cropper’s multicoloured lendings, and climbed naked inside the curtains and into the depths of the feather bed and blew out the candle. And very slowly and with infinite gentle delays and delicate diversions and variations of indirect assault Roland finally, to use an outdated phrase, entered and took possession of all her white coolness that grew warm against him, so that there seemed to be no boundaries, and he heard, towards dawn, from a long way off, her clear voice crying out, uninhibited, unashamed, in pleasure and triumph.

In the morning, the whole world had a strange new smell. It was the smell of the aftermath, a green smell, a smell of shredded leaves and oozing resin, of crushed wood and splashed sap, a tart smell, which bore some relation to the smell of bitten apples. It was the smell of death and destruction and it smelled fresh and lively and hopeful. (Byatt 1990, 548–551)

Maud Bailey is usually referred to as self-possessed, cold, distinctively white, “icily regular and splendidly null.” She is just like her ancestor, Christabel LaMotte, who can allow imaginations to flow most freely in her self-satisfactory and self-congratulatory solitude. Christabel LaMotte is holding on to her unbroken self-autonomy until she meets Randolph Ash, whose love continuously invades her boundaries, and eventually, makes her give in, soft and trembling, most willingly catching the fire of love. Similarly, Maud Bailey finally allows Roland to take a full possession of “all her white coolness that grew warm against him.” When self-possession is transformed into a possession by love, “the whole world had a strange new smell.” It could be the aftermath of explorations into love which announces the terrifying beauty in a timid but proud way. It is remarkably interesting how Byatt describes this kind of smell, the smell associated with the invasion of love and dissolving of boundaries: “a green smell, a smell of shredded leaves and oozing resin, of crushed wood and splashed sap, a tart smell, which bore some relation to the smell of bitten apples. It was the smell of death and destruction and it smelled fresh and lively and hopeful.” The smell of death and decay is entwined with the smell of birth and hope. Maybe this could be the death of the proud phoenix catching the flame, and at once a rebirth from the ashes (Randolph Ash’s name could also be suggestive).

As a reader, these words by Byatt have left me the impression of profound agony. She certainly describes a hope, but a fatefully tantalizing hope, a devastatingly controversial hope. What is hidden within this hope may be an excruciating quest for meaning and sense. A self-sustained coolness with a mathematical beauty like the Snow Queen could in fact be dangerously and overwhelmingly attractive with a faraway look and a charming detachment. The ending of this novel can in no way be described as “poetic.” It is as if everything had gained a new life and new meaning, but suddenly, with a series of emptily cheerful laughers, disappeared into “thin air” again. “Thin air, as Shakespeare said, the air of vanishing things and refinement beyond apprehension by our senses.” (287)

In Postscript 1868, readers have known from Byatt that Randolph Ash does meet her daughter, Maia Thomasine Bailey, and gets a lock of hair to remember her by. Maia Bailey, however, is not a reliable messenger, and the message she should deliver to her “aunt” is forgotten, forever forgotten. “And on the way home, she met her brothers, and there was a rough-and-tumble, and the lovely crown was broken, and she forgot the message, which was never delivered.” (555) This additional ending is also far from optimistic. It seems to suggest that when ice and snow are beginning to melt in real life and when the sense of spring reappears on everyone’s face, still, in a more faraway narrative and deeper corners of history, there is that thin air, that mist, that veil, that impossible-possible, that always-be-unachievable.

The film version in 2002 is written and directed by Neil LaBute and starring Gwyneth Paltrow and Aaron Eckhart. The film version, again, has made the original more poetic. But how does it achieve this poetic effect? According to my observations, the most noticeable differences between the novel and the film version are the two endings of the entire narrative: the first involving Maud Bailey and Roland Michell, the second involving Maia Thomasine Bailey and Randolph Ash. In the film, both Maud and us as audiences are thrust into a “willing suspension of disbelief” as described by Samuel Taylor Coleridge on poetry. We see that in the final part of the film, Maud immediately gives in to the charming story and ecstatically embraces her own identity and new possibilities. And in the film, her romance with Roland Michell all along is never essentially hindered or blocked by anything – the love is always there, waiting for the historical turning point of breaking the ice. But in the original story, the ice, coldness, whiteness will always be lying secretly in a corner of Maud Bailey’s heart. Maud Bailey could catch the fire of love, but what this flame has kindled is nothing but a temporary rejuvenation of hope, warmth and freshness. This sort of love smells like an apple bitten by someone, which announces the success of invasion, while at the same time leaves a crack, a crevice, an emptiness, and a future reality of decay. It is certainly not romantic. The film is more romantic, and poetic, because in its new narrative, the recognition and reconciliation are one without doubt. While in Byatt’s original narrative, the recognition of selfhood and the reconciliatory force of love are not essentially compatible with each other and may separate in due courses. In the postscript part of the novel which tells readers how Maia Thomasine Bailey meets her father, I feel an unbearable heartache as a reader when I read that “and there was a rough-and-tumble, and the lovely crown was broken, and she forgot the message, which was never delivered.” These words, in my eyes, are full of distinctively unfathomable sadness. However, in the film version, when we see Maia Thomasine Bailey’s lovely smile and hear her lovely conversation with her father whom she will never know, we are immersed in this landscape, in this music, in the colours, in the world which has become eternally gentle and tender because of this very moment. Most importantly, we as audiences, after watching this movie, most delightedly draw a conclusion that even though the truth can in no way be fully revealed, still, all is well, and everything is exactly in a place, in a time, where and when it is supposed to be.

This film version is the afterlife of the original, but it has unlocked the desirable tenderness, aroused emotions, and evoked sentiments. This new translation or adaptation is not essentially faithful, but it has pointed the way to a new universe where words as the sole medium could never totally reach. It is the becoming-poetic, because the function of language in this new medium and form, is not only to reveal or narrate the reality, but also to reshape and transform the reality, and eventually, the language itself becomes the reality. In this dissolving of boundaries between language and reality, as in that between ice and fire, Maud Bailey and Roland Michell, Christabel LaMotte and Randolph Ash, we sense the smell of both decay and vitality, death and life, and still feel hopefully motivated, in every way humanly possible. This adaptation may be poetically faithful in this regard.

4 Harry Potter and The Twilight Saga

In a similar vein, I would also like to discuss briefly Harry Potter series, The Twilight Saga and their film adaptations. In the above two examples, film adaptations change what is generally pessimistic and sad into something hopeful and bright. The following two examples step even further, in which the medium itself is the message, which may reveal a more moving landscape. I will firstly quote the last several paragraphs of Harry Potter series here:

The last trace of steam evaporated in the autumn air. The train rounded a corner. Harry’s hand was still raised in farewell.

“He’ll be alright,” murmured Ginny.

As Harry looked at her, he lowered his hand absent-mindedly and touched the lightning scar on his forehead.

I know he will.

The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years. All was well. (Rowling 2007, 759)

In the novel, watching his son flow away from him is certainly not something to celebrate for Harry. The scar had not pained Harry for a while, but it was still there. The train carrying the newer generations “evaporated in the autumn air,” and the future is still to be constructed. Whether this future will be promising, more promising, horrible, or more horrible, we still need to wait and see. But in the film, the brightness on everyone’s faces suggests that the most horrible event has gone forever. The protagonists as well as we as audiences are fortunate enough to witness that after a long period of darkness and turmoil, the train of life is finally on the right track again. The film adaptation has made the ending more poetically optimistic.

The film adaptation of the concluding part of The Twilight Saga is also interesting. I quote the relevant paragraphs of the novel here:

“I want to try something,” I informed him, smiling slightly at his bewildered expression.

I put my hands on both sides of his face and closed my eyes in concentration.

I hadn’t done very well with this when Zafrina had tried to teach me before, but I knew my shield better now. I understood the part that fought against separation from me, the automatic instinct to preserve self above all else.

It still wasn’t anywhere near as easy as shielding other people along with myself. I felt the elastic recoil again as my shield fought to protect me. I had to strain to push it entirely away from me; it took all of my focus.

“Bella!” Edward whispered in shock.

I knew it was working then, so I concentrated even harder, dredging up the specific memories I’d saved for this moment, letting them flood my mind, and hopeful his as well.

Some of the memories were not clear – dim human memories, seen through weak eyes and heard through weak ears: the first time I’d seen his face … the way it felt when he’d held me in the meadow … the sound of his voice through the darkness of my faltering consciousness when he’d saved me from James … his face as he waited under a canopy of flowers to marry me … every precious moment from the island … his cold hands touching our baby through my skin …

And the sharp memories, perfectly recalled: his face when I’d opened my eyes to my new life, to the endless dawn of immortality … that first kiss … that first night …

His lips, suddenly fierce against mine, broke my concentration.

With a gasp, I lost my grip on the struggling weight I was holding away from myself. It snapped back like stressed elastic, protecting my thoughts once again.

“Oops, lost it!” I sighed.

“I heard you,” he breathed. How? How did you do that?

Zafrina’s idea. We practiced with it a few times.

He was dazed. He blinked twice and shook his head.

“Now you know,” I said lightly, and shrugged. “No one’s ever loved anyone as much as I love you.”

“You are almost right.” He smiled, his eyes still a little wider than usual. “I know of just one exception.”

Liar.

He started to kiss me again, but then stopped abruptly.

“Can you do it again?” he wondered.

I grimaced. “It’s very difficult.”

He waited, his expression eager.

“I can’t keep it up if I’m even the slightest bit distracted,” I warned him.

“I’ll be good,” he promised.

I pursed my lips, my eyes narrowing. Then I smiled.

I pressed my hands to his face again, hefted the shield right out of my mind, and then started in where I’d left off – with the crystal-clear memory of the first night of my new life … lingering on the details.

I laughed breathlessly when his urgent kiss interrupted my efforts again.

“Damn it,” he growled, kissing hungrily down the edge of my jaw.

“We have plenty of time to work on it,” I reminded him.

“Forever and forever and forever,” he murmured.

That sounds exactly right to me.

And then we continued blissfully into this small but perfect piece of our forever. (Meyer 2008, 752–4)

In the novel, Bella Swan seems more playful and self-contained, while in the film, she seems more romantically submissive. When Bella tells Edward that nobody has ever loved anybody as much as she loves him and Edward replies that there is one exception, Bella in the novel replies in an adorably tricky tone, “liar,” while Bella in the film immerses her vulnerably ecstatic emotion in a confirmative kiss. Another interesting point is, for this part in the novel Edward hears what Bella thinks, while in the film, Bella’s eyes have become a magic looking glass, and a window into the past showing how their beings are interwoven. Something audible has changed into something visionary. This is also the magic of film as medium, which itself reveals an exploratory landscape full of graceful love and gentility. The poetic sound of language has conjured a new world of images and colours, which are picturesquely authentic in their own way.

5 A Tentative Conclusion

This essay begins by discussing Walter Benjamin’s views on translation and language: how each text is untranslatable essentially because meanings are only loosely attached to the language. Translatability is born out of this untranslatability to help original works gain a new life. And in this transformative process, pure language is re-discovered thanks to the cooperation and communication between different modes of expression. I have argued in this essay that by translating original literary works, say, novels, into a different form, films, the kinship among different forms is revealed and film adaptations assume a poetic sense because a hidden self is at once liberated and estranged from the pre-established framework. I mainly use two celebrated novels, The Sense of an Ending, Possession: A Romance, and two other bestselling fantasy fictions, Harry Potter series and The Twilight Saga as examples. These film adaptations extract something minutely sensuous in the original and then interweave this secret inspiration with a new mental landscape. Original literary works still retain a value of their own, and the differences between the original and the adaptation will be available for those willing to find out. Yet, film adaptations of novels, in all their poetic and hallowed charm, might have the potential to invite more participants, since in this very process of becoming-poetry, not only does the theatrical assume the sense of reality, but it has also brought out something we are earnestly longing for – something we once lost in time unconsciously.