Characters That Don't Change: Verne's Adventurers

It is a given in classical narration that the main characters will undergo some type of change. They will grow and develop and rejoice or despair and sink into disillusionment. They are occupants of Dante's circles, products of what they strove to become in the mortal realm. 

I more or less agree with the need for characters to change. 

There are, however, characters who remain entirely what the author established them to be. Verne's characters fall into this category. 

I write elsewhere how Jules Verne and H.G. Wells represent the two sides of the sci-fi genre. Verne belongs to the older side which focused on the world and discoveries around the characters. Wells, a decade after Verne's Journey, uses a modern approach with War of the Worlds, not only through first-person narration but through a detailed examination of the narrator's emotional state. Verne does not require this type of internal investigation. 

When Verne is put to film, however, the need for character change quite literally enters the picture. The Brendan Fraser version of Journey to the Center of the Earth provides a character searching for his parents and then having to deal with their loss. The 1959 version provides a villain and a romance as the main character, Lindenbrook played by James Mason, becomes more and more disheveled. 

Nearly every 20,000 Leagues' version stresses the choice Aronnax has to make between Ned and Nemo; in fairness to Verne, that choice is given space within the book; it just isn't as important as all the *wow* stuff Nemo drives his submarine through and around. 

The differences indicate several points: 

(1) film goers are products of a modern age that wants character development; we want more than simply a series of images or visual extravaganzas; 

(2) a liking for extravaganza lingers, however; a film that introduces us to an amazing world goes a long way to satisfying our desires--Jackson's Tolkien's films are some of the few I went to the theater to watch (rather than waiting for the DVDs) since I wanted to SEE big Middle-Earth; 

(3) nevertheless, a film requires story in a way that a book does not; I suggest one reason the book does not is not because people don't want characters to grow and change but because reading between the lines enables readers to identify characters with stories and personalities beyond what shows up on the page. 

Static characters have their place. Generally speaking, current writers need to know how to give characters weaknesses over which to stumble or conquer. But not all plots have made the same requirement because not all plots have had the same purpose. 

Books to Movies: Verne and the Problem of the Travelogue Continued

Can the travelogue have a successful narrative arc?

Like most seeking-for-parents/family movies, In Search of the Castaways is a shaggy dog story, which means it is entirely in keeping with Verne's approach. As Wikipedia states about the book, the search for the children's father along the 37th parallel south provides A "pretext to describe the flora, fauna, and geography of numerous places to the audience."

That is, the search for the parent provides a pretext to send ordinary people into various dangerous and exciting situations. It's not that different from Hitchcock's Torn Curtain. 

This approach works with books in part because the individual chapters are rather like graphic novel/manga volumes--the adventure and momentary interactions are the point. Out of the Verne books I've read, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea grabs me the most (despite the singular inability to explicate Captain Nemo's motivations) because the under-ocean setting is so enthralling. I can imagine that for budding sci-fi readers in the late-1800s, Verne offered something that captured both the steampunk impulse and the exploration impulse.

On screen, however, I prefer more of a definitive narrative arc. 

So, can the travelogue be transformed into a arc? 

One of my mom's favorite novels, Nevil Shute's Trustee from the Toolroom, is a "searching" travelogue that would make a great movie! The main character--a non-wealthy, unassuming man of mechanical genius--has to get across the world by relying on contacts (nope, not email! contacts created through letters). He has to problem-solve various hiccups, including how to retrieve and safely guard his niece's inheritance from her dead parents' yacht. 

The parents thankfully don't turn out to be alive. And yes, frankly, I prefer that. I always found the BBC Little Princess far preferable to versions that keep the father alive. To me, that story is about survival and revelation, not about a return to the status quo. Likewise, Trustee is about the uncle doing everything he can for his niece, not about everything going back to what it was before.

Written in 1960, Trustee would now be a historical film!

In sum, one approach to turning a travelogue into a film is to present a series of events, cameos, and interesting settings. There's nothing wrong with that approach!

The other, as with Trustee, is to make the journey itself a matter of character development or revelation--that is, the characters solve problems rather than having things happen to them. In many ways, this solution is the mystery novel solution: the protagonist/traveler as detective moving towards an epiphany. 

Books to Movies: Verne and the Travelogue

A few years ago, I read some Verne books and watched a great many Verne movies. Links to reviews and other commentary are listed below.

This time around, I decided to watch ones I hadn't watched before, including Jackie Chan Around the World in 80 Days and In Search of the Castaways

First, the problem: 

Do main characters in a film need more than a series of adventures?

Many stories fall back on MacGuffins: a pointless or offhand excuse for characters to go and do interesting things. The pointless excuse doesn't need much focus or even a pay-off. It just needs to happen. 

 

Film is a visual medium. It seems like the one medium where MacGuffins would be standard (and they kind of are). After all, does it much matter why the characters are, uh, stealing The Declaration of Independence or trying to escape Germany?

 

However, I would argue that the MacGuffins is more noticeable in films than in books. 

 

Verne wrote travelogues (see the link below about Verne versus Wells). Quite honestly, while reading Verne's books, I don't much care why the characters are stuck on a submarine or going around the world. The travel is what matters. 

 

But in a movie, it rather does matter.

 

Surprisingly enough, Brendan Fraser's Journey to the Center of the Earth comes closest to capturing Verne's vision of an ongoing series of adventures. Though, honestly, my favorite part of that movie is the main characters trying to pronounce Icelandic names.

 

As for Jackie Chan's version:

It is clearly a tribute to Cantinflas. The main character is the stunt-performing "servant"--in this case, the stunt-performing research assistant.

Phineas Fogg, though not exactly the Phineas Fogg of the book, values efficiency and time management and argues with his girlfriend about fantasy versus realism (dogs playing poker without opposable thumbs).

In many ways, the movie is very meta. A scene in a French art gallery involves Jackie Chan performing stunts with buckets of paint and...Vincent Van Gogh! In fact, the movie is one feat of slapstick after another, not my favorite movie genre. But everyone in the movie seems to be having fun, which I'm not always sure of with modern remakes.

As for a narrative arc...actually, there is one! Jackie Chan's character, Lau Xing, is responsible for pressuring Fogg to take the journey so Lau Xing can return an important object to his village. In many ways, arguably, the movie is an excuse for Jackie Chan and a host of his fellow martial artists to have a confrontation in China. 

The movie does end with Fogg et al. back in London. And it is engaging enough not to flag too much after the China scenes. But it does lose its impetuous. 

A classic narrative arc ENDS with the climax--the Death Star blows up; Hans falls from the skyscraper; Dorothy gets home; Wells' character learns what happened to the aliens.

Around the World in 80 Days, the book, has a kind of climax or epiphany--but I'm not sure a movie is the best way to deliver it. It seems a great many scenes to sit through for a character to say, "Oh, now, I get it."

Links to posts about Verne:

• Verne and Wells
• 2,000 Leagues Under the Sea
• Around the World in 80 Days
• Part 1 
• Part II
• Part III

 

 

Verne and Wells: the Two Sides of Sci-Fi

Verne's Wonders

Jules Verne (1828-1905) and H.G. Wells (1866-1946) are both sci-fi writers, the earliest serious writers of that genre. They represent two sides of the sci-fi equation: nineteenth century sci-fi travelogue and twentieth century sci-fi story.

Verne writes the sci-fi travelogue, a sub-genre that has largely gone out of style (although Arthur C. Clarke could be similarly classified). Verne is the heir of proto-sci-fi writers Jonathan Swift (Gulliver's Travels) and Daniel Defoe (Robinson Crusoe). Both books have problems and characters but no definitive narrative arc.

Verne likewise focuses more on "stuff keeps happening" than on a problem followed by rising action followed by a climax. The first part of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea establishes the problem which is then shelved for approximately thirty chapters until the very end. Stuff definitely happens! But the stuff is almost entirely disconnected from the problem. And hints about Nemo's extracurricular activities are never really paid off, probably because Verne didn't care (this explains why every director feels compelled to give Nemo some type of backstory).

Journey to the Center of the Earth is so devoid of a narrative arc that the 1959 film resorted to throwing in a villain. Oddly enough, Journey to the Center of the Earth, 3D (the most recent version) backs off from a narrative arc for a series of adventures. Although I generally deplore this type of approach in modern movies, it is touchingly close to the original (the one arc that I was sure was going to be paid off in Shirley Temple maudlin fashion wasn't, which was more than slightly impressive).

Wells's narrative has a modern theme:

under duress, individuals may depart

tragically from their normal behavior.

In comparison, H.G. Wells is writing story. War of the Worlds is related entirely as a narrative. There is no objective narrator--or even objective scientist character--to stand outside the action and inform the readers of its meaning or purpose. The reader is caught inside a point of view, including a problem that may or may not resolve itself. The distinction may appear subtle but relating an event from a point of view is radically different from relating a series of events as they happen to people. For example, although the reader knows how this particular event ends (germs kill the Martians; yes, it is a spoiler, but really, everyone should know that!), actually experiencing the result is awesome--in the biblical sense of the word--precisely because it is seen through the character's eyes.

Consequently, the book War of the Worlds is nearly impossible to render on film. The 1953 movie does a fine job. But it fails to capture the story (this event is happening to someone). The big picture (What is happening around the world? What is the military doing?) is too tempting to pass up. (Independence Day attempted to solve this problem by getting the audience to invest in multiple characters).

The end sequence where the hero searches desperately for Sylvia comes the closest to matching the book's unnerving tone and pace. But only a book could deliver the final sequence in which the hero, wandering seemingly deserted London, hears the far-off, monotonous cries of the dying Martian and does not yet understand what they mean. Even when he stumbles across a dead Martian, he fails to comprehend the "why?"--no third party steps in to explain what he is seeing in that exact moment.

I don't fault any movie for not being its book, by the way. The requirements of the medium dictate that a deserted city be shown from an aerial vantage, an omniscient (and non-story-like) viewpoint used to devastating effect in the 1953 film. The point is that STORY provides a differing approach to travelogue. And Wells delivered story while Verne delivered travelogue.

Not only do the two authors highlight changes in sci-fi, they highlight changes in fiction generally. Defoe gives us travelogue (Robinson Crusoe). Richardson gives us polemic mixed with story (Pamela). Austen gives us story with a semi-omniscient, wry narrator (Pride & Prejudice) as does Dickens. Conrad comes along and shatters the world with prose delivered from a single viewpoint.

But Wells got there first (barely).

Another Verne Movie: 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea

Disney's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (1954) is a strange movie. Generally speaking, I am an advocate of movies NOT being like their books. And I would seriously cut/par down/alter Verne's book to make a movie. But Disney's changes bewilder me (I am writing this as someone who quite enjoyed Journey to the Center of the Earth, 3D, starring Brendan Fraser; it is surprisingly close in vision, if not detail, to the original text):

Regarding 20,000 Leagues, here are two odd script choices:

1. M. Aronnax, who should be the protagonist, isn't. 

Aronnax is much younger in the book (forty) than Paul Lukas's respectable if unimpressive rendering, and there was no good narrative reason to make him older (other than Disney's discomfort with bromances).

Aronnax is the quintessential nineteenth century explorer-scientist, the mirror version of Phineas Fogg: a geek who is willing to risk life and limb for a hypothesis though Aronnax demonstrates far greater investment in noticing his surroundings. He focuses on expanding his knowledge not out of some tired inability to run away from natives but from choice.

The book provides multiple opportunities for Aronnax to satisfy his curiosity as the Nautilus sinks beneath the South Pole, hides inside a volcano, parks next to sunken Atlantis, and takes a roller-coaster ride through an underwater passage connecting the Red Sea to the Mediterranean (quite literally a "ride"--it would make a great special effect!). It is Aronnax who witnesses Nemo knifing the shark and communicating with a possible confidant (the diver) near the Greek islands. 

Yet all the impressive scenery and mysteries of Verne's novel are lost to the fighter (Ned Land) at the expense of the explorer. Aronnax is portrayed as a bookish gentleman whose age presumably explains his refusal to beat up people with his bare hands.

The result is that the 1954 Disney movie lacks an emotional arc since the hero, Ned Land, never changes. In the book, not only does Aronnax have to choose between Nemo and his friends, he is the only character to suffer true internal change--from respect to disillusionment (Nemo's possible internal change is only hinted at). His behavior, however lightly conveyed, is far more interesting than Ned Land's antics and his story should have been the primary arc, not the, uh, tertiary one.

Woody's dilemma mirrors Aronnax's.

2. Kirk Douglas's Ned Land is utterly annoying.

The Ned Land of the book is far more rational. Consequently, his arguments against Nemo to Aronnax towards the end of the book carry weight. Aronnax has to chose between continual exploration (satisfying his passion) and escape for himself and others. In sum, he is Woody from Toy Story 2: Do I chose the life of the museum where my value/accomplishments will be admired by future generations? or Do I escape to a life in the real world?

Kirk Douglas's Ned Land, in contrast, is emotional, histrionic, preachy, and unreliable. He is so annoying, in fact, one begins to wish that Captain Nemo would (finally) fulfill his threat and throw Ned off the boat.

Speaking of Nemo . . . 

The saving grace of the 1954 movie is James Mason. 
 
The most interesting outcome of the book and the movie is that the underwater world and the man responsible for showing it to us become too fascinating to throw away. The story is, in sum, Beauty and the Beast; by the end, the audience has come to care more about the Beast than either the problem or the solution. Okay, so Beauty is a prisoner, and the Beast might be tired of having to file down his teeth, but come on, make us happy and stay the way you are!

Mason to the left. Then Lorre and Douglas.

So it is easy to see why Captain Nemo became the remembered part of the movie (as he is of the book) rather than the Scooby Gang. Like the eponymous villain of Dracula, the supposed villain of 20,000 Leagues, once visualized, outstrips the lesser characters. It helps that James Mason's Nemo is far less creepy and more charismatic than book Nemo. It also helps that he captures both book Nemo's aloofness and passion. And, well, you know, that voice! 

It additionally helps that Mason spends about half the movie running around in a white turtleneck and getting wet. Which makes him look even sexier than usual--if that's possible.

Nemo is so enthralling that the movie's end (which I won't give away here) leaves one dissatisfied in a way that the 1959 Journey to the Center of the Earth--equally radically changed in many ways--does not. James Mason shows up again and doesn't disappoint. He still has that wonderful voice. He demonstrates excellent comedic timing. And he continues to look good disheveled. Plus the writers have no wariness of bromance--perhaps because they supplied the story with a female protagonist.

(Back to 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea: Okay, I confess, I like the seal.)

Around the World in 80 Days: 1956 v. 1989, Part II

1956

The 1956 movie is a love song to travel. It is beautifully made (if incredibly long) with many scenic pauses. The 1989 miniseries is a romp.

The 1989 miniseries is less accurate to the book; however, BOTH the 1956 and 1989 productions expand the Europe section with added twists and turns . . .

Including the balloon.

Yep, that's right, the balloon isn't in the book.

In the 1956 movie, the balloon gets Fogg and Passpartout from France to the Spanish coastline. It is completely gratuitous but does allow for the beautiful scenery mentioned above. (Watching the 1956 movie is rather like watching an adventure tale plus three National Geographic episodes all at the same time.) 

1989

In the 1989 miniseries, the balloon is an early Hindenburg creation, which at least satisfies the Verne-Steampunk aficionados. Still, one is left with the impression that the balloon is there because a balloon was in the 1956 movie; it is certainly not in the book.

In the book, the "modern" part of the modern world is glided over with little to no comment. Fogg and Passpartout make it from England to the Mediterranean with no extraneous adventures. Why would they? Getting from England to the Suez is about as boring, in Verne's eyes, as describing a commuter flight from New York to Buffalo.

But the handling of Europe in the various versions does bring up an interesting problem that I mention in connection to Lord of the Rings. A book can dispose of scenes and places in a few well-chosen paragraphs. Okay, so everybody got from here to there; let's move on the main adventure.

But in a MOVIE about going around the world, appearing to skip the first part of the journey would look like cheating. Even Michael Palin, in his own trip around the world, spent time exploring Europe. To do anything else gives the appearance--gasp!--that one simply flew to the Mediterranean.

Michael Palin sets forth.

Interesting enough, it is now so easy to get around the world (even without flying) that Palin's crew scheduled breaks and interviews and sight-seeing. Palin is filmed being more of a Passpartout than a Fogg. This does cause complications and Palin has to get creative to stay on schedule. Still, this is NOT Fogg jumping quickly from train to steamer to elephant to rickshaw with no time to stop and peruse the scenery. This is a crew realizing that it over-scheduled its star (granted, an interesting problem in its own right: missing a boat becomes a huge deal; people just don't travel--actually travel, not cruise--by ship anymore).

In any case, the result of needing to add in Europe means that both the movie and the miniseries spend WAY more time on Europe than is all that necessary. But then both the movie and the miniseries were aimed at American audiences who presumably didn't mind more Europe despite this entailing, later on, less America.

Around the World in 80 Days: 1956 v. 1989, Part III

There was a board game! Before the movies!

In Jules Vernes' book, Phileas Fogg pays little attention to his surroundings. Yes, he is going around the world but not in order to SEE the world. He is going around the world to prove the advent and importance of modernity. Consequently, he never sight-sees and remains consistently indifferent to the various cultures through which he passes.

Both Foggs (of the 1956 movie and the 1989 miniseries) retain this perspective--to a point. It's part of the joke that neither one cares much WHERE they are, so much as WHEN. Even in the latter case, Fogg remains relatively indifferent to set-backs; it is his companions who get frustrated by delays. The only time Fogg gets irked is when he bops Detective Fix on the nose for arresting him (and the 1956 Fogg doesn't even do this!).

In his tongue-in-cheek book How to Talk About Places You've Never Been, Pierre Bayard argues that Fogg's detachment actually makes him a more objective and reliable witness. In the end, he'll be able to deliver the big picture while his companions will be stuck with their subjective experiences.

The problem with this wink wink nudge nudge approach, at least from a film perspective, is that viewers find it hard to invest in a story whose main characters are not invested.

In a book, the investment can be solved through an omniscient narrator; in a movie, viewers need to care about something or someone and if that something or someone is going to travel around the world, it would be nice if it, he, or she cared a little.

In the 1956 movie, this person is Passpartout (as he is in the book to an extent). Like the reader and viewer, Passpartout becomes invested in Fogg's success (despite knowing the ending, I found it almost painful to watch the end of both productions: Oh my gosh, is he going to make it?!). Passpartout is also the one who wanders through the cities in which he and Fogg dock. He eats the food, takes on work, gets lost, meets people . . . In addition, he is largely responsible for acting on Fogg's plans; it is Passpartout who rescues the princess and Passpartout who saves the train.

In the 1989 series, Fogg becomes more invested as the journey evolves. Almost against his will, he is forced to participate in increasingly complex (and many non-book-related) adventures. He is forced to care, to problem solve and physically act. At the end, he is as devastated as the viewer is to believe that he has failed (though he hides his emotional upheaval better). Most touchingly, he and his companions finally arriving at the Reform Club, he almost turns back when they stop at the doors. He has come so far with them, he expects to keep going with them.

"Go on," they cry, and he goes on.

Nellie Bly went around the world

in 72 days in 1889. Verne met her

at the start of her journey and

sent congratulations after.

Although this view of Fogg is not in keeping with Verne's vision, it is easy to understand why a scriptwriter--faced with an ostensible hero (the man who made the bet) and an action hero (the servant who does the heavy lifting)--would be puzzled at how to proceed.

After all, the Finch-Reese dynamic hadn't yet been invented--though one could argue that Steampunk-beloved Verne foresaw it. The man who wins the bet and the girl is the geek, the guy who knows his modern world so well, he knows that it can be circumnavigated in less than 80 days (the extra days are there in case).*

*Verne was right. Before the turn of the century, a number of people went around the world in 72 or fewer days!

Around the World in 80 Days: 1956 v. 1989, Part I

I recently read Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne. To celebrate, I watched the 1989 miniseries, starring Pierce Brosnan, Eric Idle, Peter Ustinov, and Julia Nickson after which I rewatched the 1956 version, starring David Niven, Cantinflas, and a WHOLE bunch of other people.

This series of posts will focus on the differences and similarities between the versions.

First up: the Phileas Foggs.

Both David Niven and Pierce Brosnan do respectable jobs conveying Fogg's personality, including his discipline, kindliness, and sangfroid. Brosnan is slightly more relatable for several reasons, most of which come down to the following:

The miniseries presents Fogg in a way that Verne himself did not--as a young man who is altered slightly by his experience. 

The whole hilarious point of Verne's book (and the 1956 movie) is that Fogg doesn't change after going around the world. He falls in love: that's all. But his cool-headed worship of timetables . . . one gets the impression that Mrs. Fogg will still be expected to get to the breakfast table on time, and if she doesn't, she'll get a mild-mannered yet cool rebuke. (The 1989 Aouda Fogg, played by Julia Nickson, would bop her Phileas over the head for being so ridiculous.)

David Niven gives us this unchanged Phileas. This makes sense since one suspects David Niven would--in real life--go right on expecting, say, the same level of hotel service during an earthquake as during a non-earthquake.

1989 Aouda

1989 Fogg, while not losing his quintessential reserve, subtly alters his views and life goals during his journey. He even (occasionally) gets emotional. For instance, a great deal more attention is paid in the miniseries to the romance between Phileas and Aouda; the Aouda of the miniseries is also far more outspoken and plays a far greater role in the group's adventures.

Brosnan's Fogg is also younger than Niven's. Brosnan was 36 when he did the miniseries (and looked younger) while Niven was 46 when he did the movie. Consequently, when Brosnan's Phileas pulls out a card deck on the train across America and insists on teaching strangers whist, it's completely hilarious, precisely because it is so incongruous. When Niven does it, well, it seems kind of normal. I mean, I would do that (says the woman in her 40s). The older one gets, the more one realizes that reading and playing cards are excellent ways to get through troubling (and/or boring) times, from a train trip to an earthquake.

Likewise, when Brosnan's Phileas arrives at the Reform Club at the end of miniseries, there is about him a kind of suppressed exhilaration. Despite greeting his fellow club members coolly, he is practically shaking with excitement, which makes him utterly adorable.

It's sort of hard to find David Niven adorable. Great actor! Totally personable! But adorable . . . ?

While Niven's Fogg's character is already set (and solidifying), Brosnan's Fogg, on the other hand, is at the mercy of his own youth: how much of his rigidity has been a pose? Believed in--but a pose nonetheless? (Brosnan's Fogg reminds me of Dana Andrews' cop character in Laura; he comes across as laid-back but resorts to playing a boy's game when under stress so he can keep his cool.)

All this is not to say that Niven's interpretation is wrong or uninteresting. It is more to say (1) the two films have different agendas (more on this later); (2) the 1956 film is more Passpartout's while the miniseries is more Fogg's.

To be continued . . .