Wringing your hands about a film adaptation of your favorite book is a little tired, amirite? Listen: we’ve all been there. We’ve all been disappointed in the adaptation of our favorite books. When Faulkner died, did he know his unpublished manuscript Black Sheep would be adapted for the big screen? Probably not—but it was, and David Spade may not have done everything, but he did his best.
We are well aware that films cannot accurately convey what prose can; that the act of reading is a far more personal, participatory, one-on-one experience than the passive act of viewing a film (burn in hell, portable DVD players). We don’t need to talk about this.
OKAY FINE, let’s talk about this.
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