Books to Movies: Is the Movie Giving Readers What They Loved in the First Place?

What do people love about a book? If a movie doesn't capture the thing that people truly love, has the movie failed?

I've read The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczt and frankly, it is over-the-top sentimentalism (in one scene, Percy kisses his wife's footprints). The legend of the Scarlet Pimpernel, however, is of a foppish, silly, mentally lacking gentleman who turns into a clever, brave operative. It's a variation, in some ways, on the laid-back hero. 

 

Anthony Andrews' Scarlet Pimpernel is the ultimate version--funny and high-energy, he engages both as the fop and as the clever spy. 

 

I was equally impressed--rather to my surprise--by Leslie Howard's Scarlet Pimpernel. He switches within seconds from drawling aristocrat to serious planner. He isn't quite as engaging as Andrews, who manages to retain his joie de vivre no matter his persona, but he does capture the legend.

Richard E. Grant's version doesn't quite capture those double roles. His Scarlet Pimpernel is less foppish and more sarcastic. He seems to be deliberately baiting his enemies rather than "hiding" in plain sight. Of course, the Richard E. Grant version takes place after Percy and Marguerite have reconciled and Chauvalin is already convinced of Percy's true self. 

 

The series has its points, namely the political and interpersonal wrangling between Chauvlin (Martin Shaw) and Ropiespierre (Ronan Vibert). 

 

But is the series a faithful rendering of the BOOK? Or, if not the book, of the legend that people love?

 

In many ways, the Blackadder III episode "Nob and Nobility" is more faithful. This is the episode in which BlackAdder pretends (or, rather, pretends that he is going to pretend) to be a spy in the style of Scarlet Pimpernel and keeps running into noblemen, including one played by Tim McInnery, who claim, "I am the Scarlet Pimpernel."

 

The issue here is why I feel that post-Hickson Agatha Christie BBC productions fail while Criminal Games, the recent French versions of Agatha Christie, succeed, despite taking enormous liberties. The things that I love about Christie (the hint of wryness, the anti-melodrama since everything is so ultimately normal, day-to-day life, matter-of-fact commentary) is distilled in the case of Hickson and Criminal Games. The other versions seem to take a tiny element and ignore the rest for the sake of BIG MEANING AND SELF-APPOINTED DARKNESS.

 

*Heavy sigh.*

 

Did the book get turned into a movie--or just the title?