Introduction to Film Novelization

Bastardization of Novels: the Crossbred Offspring of Film and Novels

The novelizations of Hollywood blockbusters often enter and leave the shelves of stores unnoticed. Indeed, the general response received when explaining this project to people was “Which films have been novelized?” The answer is just about any film ever made that wasn't already a book: Indiana Jones, Alien, Rocky, Star Wars: Episodes I-VI, Ghostbusters, Batman Begins, Terminator, E.T., Saturday Night Fever, Poltergeist, Transformers, The Mummy, Gladiator, Jaws 2, Pacific Rim, the list goes on (and on). In his article for Slate.com, a current affairs and culture magazine, Jim Pagels points out that “since 2000, the top twenty grossing American films that were not directly based on a book already were all made into mass market paperbacks.” For novel theorists and critics, it can be puzzling to know what to do with this relatively unknown set of literature. However, the discussion is inevitable. As critic Morris Dickstein affirms, “movies and novels are more closely allied than any other cultural forms” (12). For this project, I will argue that the film novelization is not a novel at all but rather a Hollywood product designed only to generate interest and money for the film it novelizes. I will explore pertinent questions about writing novelizations, present problems of authorship, and demonstrate how the visual format of the film fails to successfully transition to the verbal format of a book. Critic Thomas Van Paryn sums up the two arguments nicely: “The repression of the visual in their [films] adapted counterparts [novelizations] supports the notion that the novelization is merely intended as a reading companion to the film, a promotional product rather than a novel in its own right” (289). To demonstrate this lack of intermediality between films and novelizations, I will make comparisons between the text and film versions of The Dark Knight Rises, one of Hollywood’s commercial successes that was novelized by Greg Cox in 2012.

            Novelizations are anomalies for a variety of reasons. A review of the difference between novels-to-films and films-to-novels is in order. When a film is spawned from a book (an adaptation), there is of course no guarantee that readers will see the same story that they have read. The screenwriters have the ability to change things as they see fit, hence the term “adaptation.” Sometimes the films hardly resemble the novels, for example Alfred Hitchcock’s adaptation of John Buchan’s The 39 Steps (1935), or the more recent attempt at filming Max Brook’s novel World War Z (2013). Other times, it captures the essence and spirit of the novel extremely well and includes much of the original dialogue from the text as seen in Baz Luhrmann’s version of The Great Gatsby (2013) or the adaptation of Louis Sachar’s young adult novel Holes (2003). In addition, the film adaptations can be separated from the books in a critical sense and viewed as a separate artistic project through the possibilities of musical score, tonal lighting, and plot adjustments that may make a story more relevant for a particular audience or period. In the case of The 39 Steps, Hitchcock adds a blonde who acts as a romantic interest for the protagonist. In The Great Gatsby, Luhrmann adds contemporary hip-hop music to emphasize the shocking and jarring lifestyle Americans were living during the Jazz Age. While undeniably tied to the source text, films adapted from books do not require the average filmgoer to have read the novel to appreciate the film-viewing experience.

On the other hand, Johannes Mahlknecht indicates in his informative essay on the creation and marketing of novelizations that one of the goals of film novelization is “a repetition of the pleasure experienced while watching the film” (143). In other words, readers will read exactly what they saw in the theater with no change or variation. Jan Baetens, one of the leading contemporary critics in this field of literature, states the following in his work on the subject: “In the case of a cinematic adaptation, once the adaptation rights are bought, the director can freely transform the source text. In the case of a novelization, the situation is very different, since the genre is characterized by a larger number of constraints on the transformer” (Baetens, 65, Example, my italics). Few, if any, liberties are allowed the novelizer by the screenwriters. The final product is an exact reproduction of the dialogue or action contained in the screenplay, which makes for a rather boring book. While I do not claim that novels cannot be dialogue-driven or action-filled, the exact repetition of novelizations furthers the notion that the novels are pure advertising devices for their films. The very definition of the word “novel” is inapplicable to film novelizations: new and not resembling something formerly known or used (Merriam-Webster). If novels are stories and material previously unseen, novelizations hardly fit the bill; they are merely duplications.

Baetens quotes Christopher Priest, a successful novelist who novelizes on the side (under a pseudonym, which is telling): “At the time the novel is being written, the author only has a screenplay to work with. It’s probably not even a final version, a shooting script. You have no real idea which actors will be in it, or where the film will be shot. You have no knowledge of the music, the pace, what the special effects will look like, the way the lighting will be used, the overall style” (Baetens, Example, 67). The novelization is paradoxical in that the author is expected to accurately portray the feel or tone of the film—theoretically using all of the elements described by Priest—while not having seen the final cut. Jim Pagels offers his findings: “Some studios tell authors that they must describe a scene in print exactly as it appears on screen—but don’t allow them to see any of the filmed scenes.” Ironically, the goal of a novelization is to help the reader see and hear exactly those things that the novelizer is unable to see while creating the novelization of the film.

Priest also adds, “They [the screenwriters and producers] want the book to be ready so that it can be on sale at the same time as the film is released” (Baetens, Example, 67). The publication date is based solely around the date that the film will appear in theaters; no matter that the book may contain any number of grammatical and spelling errors. The speedy, almost to the point of careless, publication process indicates that if the novelization appears on shelves after the film has come out, the value is heavily decreased. Again, the novelization is not a separate artistic project with its own contribution to the literary canon but is rather connected solely (and financially) with the film it copies. Baetens notes that “the target readership of novelizations . . . is seen as unsophisticated” (Example, 73). Indeed, novelizations are rarely reviewed by professionals at all (Cox).

Moreover, the screenwriters are willing to sacrifice continuity between the book and the film in order to get their film poster pasted on the cover of about 200 pages of novelization for additional commercial promotion. If the stories in the novelization and the film differ, it is not because the book presents a different message but because the screenwriters simply changed the story after the book was sent off to publication. These changes do not refer to minute dialogue differences or the location of a certain event but larger incidents in the story that can have an impact on the end result. Mahlknecht recounts the story of how the ending of Terminator Salvation came about in both the film and the novelization:

In the case of Terminator Salvation, the screenplay underwent substantial alterations before the film went into production. Foster [the novelizer] accordingly rewrote large parts of the novelization after finding out that the shooting script differed greatly from the screenplay that the studio had originally given him. And yet, despite these changes, the novelization’s final version still has a radically different ending from the finished film, because the studio was so secretive about the ending it was going to use that it did not inform even the novelizer about it (157).

In the novel, all the characters survive. However, in the final film version, one main character sacrifices his own life to save that of another character. The lack of artistic integrity and accuracy demonstrated by Hollywood producers, especially in the case of Terminator Salvation, decreases whatever value the novelization had to begin with.

The commercialization continues. On the cover of many novelizations, the screenwriter’s or the director’s name is more prominent than that of the novelist himself. For example, on the cover of The Sixth Sense novelization, the title is M. Night Shyamalan’s The Sixth Sense. The credit goes all to the director and writer of the film rather than the actual author of the pages readers are holding in their hands. On the title page, M. Night Shyamalan is again given credit for The Sixth Sense. This leads to confusion on the reader’s part, or at least misinterpretation. Did M. Night Shyamalan write the novelization? It is not until after readers finish the novel that they turn the page and see the “About the Author” paragraph and realize that the credit for the story they just read goes to Peter Lerangis. However, even that statement isn't accurate.

A film novelization is a bastard in the true sense of the word: the lack of true parentage of these works creates an identity crisis for this form of literature. Baetens points out that “novelization does not so much aspire to become the movie’s other as it wants to be its double” (Baetens, Genre, 50). It isn’t trying to be a novel; it’s trying to be the film in book form. The novelization is a replication; there are no additions or variations, despite one writer handing off the baton to another. The author who creates the novelization can’t claim credit for the story and characters, yet the screenwriters can’t declare the 60,000-plus word version of their screenplay as purely their own work either, so to whom does the novelization belong? Mahlknecht makes the point that even lowbrow writers like Dan Brown and John Grisham can at least claim all of their characters and plots as their own (150). However unsophisticated their novels may be, they are able to take pride in an idea of their own that comes to fruition on the page.

This sort of pride is something that neither the screenwriters of the film nor the author of the text can have when discussing their novelization. Ironically, each might give credit to the other for the book itself: the author would thank the screenwriter for giving him such good material; the screenwriter would credit the novelizer for such a nice execution of his material. There is something lost when a piece of work is a shared product on such a broad level. The collaboration of novelizers and screenwriters can hardly be called a team effort when it is possible that they will never meet in person.

Financially speaking, novelizing is not a fulfilling occupation. Screenwriters make much more than the novelizer (Mahlknecht 148), which reinforces the idea that the novel version of the film is lower in value. The fact that film novelizations rarely get a second printing (Baetens, Genre, 46) makes the lover of literature question again if the project of a film novelization is more than an advertising ploy similar to action figures or coloring books. (The Omen, which was written by the screenwriter, Gladiator, and E.T. are among the few that made the reprinted list.) Once the hype over the film is done, the novelization becomes the stuff of online auction websites and charity shops and is forgotten.

All these facts support the idea that film novelizations are not meant to create another piece to add to the modern-day literary canon, but are rather a corporate maneuver to rake in even more money for the film the novelization has wordified. Peter Kobel agrees. In an article written for The New York Times, he criticizes novelizations in the following way: “Novelizations can make a John Grisham book seem like high art. More than even the movie industry itself, novelizations are about commerce, not art.” In short, novelizations serve the same purpose as action figures. Action figures draw children to the films they represent; novels draw readers to the films they represent. The action figures are a money-making device, and they are not viewed as sculptures. In the same way, novelizations should not be regarded as novels but one more way the film poster can be on display. As Malknecht declares, “Irrespective of the quality of the writing, it is the corresponding film that will (almost) always be considered the novelization’s main selling point” (142).

Having established the blatant commercial nature of novelizations, I will now take a theoretical turn and discuss the inability of films to transmedialize, or change from one format to another, into novels, the second key factor in the bastardization of novels. While comparing novel-to-film adaptations and film-to-book novelizations is similar to comparing apples and oranges in many respects, there is nevertheless a process of transmedialization that occurs in both instances. In Jan Baetens’s essay “Novelization: A Contaminated Genre?,” he acknowledges the existence of the transmedial factor but underplays the importance of it: “Most of the novelizations are in fact based on one form or another of screenplay, that is, on a verbal pretext, which entails, among other things, that the problem of the ‘translation’ from one semiotic system to another is systematically eluded” (Genre, 46). I contend that the problem of “translation from one semiotic system to another” is not “systematically eluded” when a film is turned into words.

Baetens argues that novelizations are not attempting to cross semiotic systems (that is, from visual to verbal) because the novelizations are based on a screenplay, making it a transition from verbal to verbal. But the screenplay is written for a visual audience. It is not meant to be read, but viewed; this is the screenplay’s objective. Therefore, when the dialogue and directions from the screenplay are changed to a full-fledged descriptive narrative, the entire work undergoes transmedialization. The story is now meant to be read. Novelizations attempt to convey the visual aspect of film (being based on the visually-oriented screenplay) in book form, which is something that is difficult to accomplish when the novelizer is allowed so little freedom with his characters, dialogue, and setting.

Further, the direct transfer of screenplay to book takes away from the subtlety of the visual format that makes films special in the first place. In a discussion of how to teach film and literature in the classroom, John Golden makes a distinction between scenes that are “directly filmable, which are words and phrases that can be readily translated into film with little interference” (Golden 26), and “indirectly filmable . . . where a director needs to rely on a variety of cinematic and theatrical elements to translate the print to screen” (26). In a similar vein, I propose that there are scenes from films that are “writeable” and “non-writeable,” meaning that the translation from screen to book may be effective in cases, but not in others. The way characters’ facial expressions work together to convey an unspoken message, edits that are only seconds long to show one event in different locations, and instant visual registration of scenery, physical appearance, and tone of voice all are visual elements of films that can become clunky and drawn out when a novelization attempts to capture them in word form.

Further, the novelizer must add explanations and background to give credence to the character’s actions and thoughts because the novelization must be more than a simple presentation of the screenplay. However, since the book is verbatim screenplay material (and therefore a visual medium at its base), that means that anything essential to the plot and characterization will be properly communicated through the characters, either with their words or their physical expression. Therefore, any additional “help” from the novelizer, while perhaps interesting, is unnecessary to understand the story. This “padding,” as it is referred to by Grady Hendrix, creates clunky passages and unnecessary explanations. Padding adds to the flatness of novelizations and makes readers wonder why they should waste time reading the novelization when they can see the film. What takes thirty minutes to read may take ten to watch. The visual ten minutes will inevitably also be more exciting.

To further illustrate the visual-to-verbal challenges that face the novelization, I will examine the film The Dark Knight Rises and its novelization.

Visual to Textual -- The Dark Knight Rises

--One of the problems discussed in the introduction is the transmedialization of film to books. This problem of transferring visual to verbal is by far the biggest problem facing the novelization.The following excerpt from the film The Dark Knight Rises and its novelization demonstrate this difficulty in crossing from visual to verbal. In this scene, the audience (or reader) discovers the curious maid's true characterization: a confident, sassy cat burglar. There is a key moment when Bruce Wayne confronts Selina Kyle's seemingly innocent facade and she realizes that it's pointless to continue. Before the transformation takes place (and because readers must imagine what is going on and how people look), the text has to help readers out by noting that "she struck him [Bruce Wayne] as very young and embarrassed." The moment of change in character from "young and embarrassed" maid to a cocky, sensual cat burglar is split-second and very effectively executed in the film. However, in the novelization, the time it takes to realize what has just happened renders the experience somewhat bland and unintimidating. In short, the extremely visual scene has missed its mark in book form.

The sitting room was just as expensively furnished as the rest of the mansion. Despite the urgency of her mission, she couldn’t resist taking a moment to snoop around.

Careful, she warned herself. Don’t dawdle too long.

A set of framed photos, some noticeably singed around the edges, occupied a place of honor upon a table She recognized Thomas and Martha Wayne, tragically murdered in an alley more than three decades ago. A third frame held a portrait of an attractive brunette who somehow managed to look serious, even when she was smiling for the camera.

Rachel Dawes, realized the maid, who had done her homework. Harvey Dent’s dead girlfriend. Killed by the Joker—or so they say—shortly before Dent was killed by the Batman.

The row of pictures was like a miniature cemetery, complete with headstones. The maid ran her fingers over the gilded frames before moving on to the most conspicuous oddity in the room—a full-sized archery target mounted to a large wooden cabinet. More than a dozen arrows were stuck in the target, clustered around the bulls-eye. Intrigued, she reached out to inspect one of them, only to yank her hand back as a new arrow thwacked into place, only inches from her fingers.

Startled, she spun around to see Bruce Wayne, looking rather more haggard than the dashing billionaire playboy the world remembered. He stood at the other end of the room, clutching a large compound bow. She was impressed, despite herself.

She couldn’t remember the last time someone had snuck up on her.

Bruce lowered the bow. He put it aside and picked up his cane.

“I’m. . . I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Wayne,” the maid stammered sheepishly. She struck him as very young and embarrassed. “It is Mr. Wayne, isn’t it?”

He nodded and limped toward her.

“Although you don’t have any long nails,” she babbled nervously, “or facial scars…” Her voice trailed off.

Bruce inspected the inquisitive young intruder. He didn’t recognize her as one of the regular maids. Must be a temp taken on for tonight’s festivities, he figured. Couldn’t resist snooping around.

“Is that what they say about me?” he asked. She shrugged.

“It’s just that…nobody ever sees you.”

That’s the idea, he thought.

A flawless pearl necklace graced her slender neck. Bruce came closer.

“That’s a beautiful necklace,” he commented. “Reminds me of one that belonged to my mother. It can’t be the same one, though. Her pearls are in this safe—”

A large mahogany bureau rested against a wall. He used his cane to press down on a recessed wooden panel, which slid aside to reveal a hidden compartment.

“—which the manufacturer assured me was uncrackable.”

The door of the safe swung open.

“Oops,” the maid said. “Nobody told me it was supposed to be uncrackable.”

Her whole attitude changed in an instant. She dropped the coy, girlish act and took on a cockier, more confident posture. It reminded him of the way he had once discarded the role of a careless, immature playboy, whenever it was time to let his true self out. He was impressed, despite himself.

Bruce nodded at the pearls.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you take those.” They had been a gift from his father, which his mother had worn on the night they were both murdered. In a very real sense, they had cost his parents their lives. He wasn’t about to let anyone walk away with them.

“Look,” she said, smiling, as she stepped toward him, acting not at all concerned about being caught red-handed. She sized him up with a look. “You wouldn’t hit a woman any more than I would beat up a cripple…”

Without a warning, she kicked the cane out from under him. A karate chop to his shoulders dropped him to the floor. His bad knee screamed in protest as he hit the carpet. He clutched the injured joint.

“Of course,” she added, “sometimes exceptions have to be made.”

With a move worthy of an Olympic gymnast, she vaulted onto the bureau, taking the pearls with her. A high window provided a ready egress. “Good night, Mr. Wayne,” she said teasingly, before flipping backward out the window. Bruce heard her touch down lightly in the gardens outside.

 

* * *

--Later in the movie, an extensive high-speed road chase takes place after Bane and his crew hijack the Gotham stock exchange. Batman joins the fray and ends up cornered by the police. While an entire car chase scene is certainly incompatible with the written word, an important piece comes at the end of this particular chase scene where Batman finds himself cornered, or so it seems. Whereas in the movie no words are necessary to show that Batman is cornered, in the text, the novelizer has to help us along, making sure that we know that Batman has no escape. The surprise getaway on Batman's part (both visually and aurally) is surprising and thrilling when viewed on-screen, and the audience can see what the policemen see. However, in the text, the description of the vehicle is vague and it is clear that the novelizer could only guess what it was supposed to look like in the finished product. A visually stunning set-piece is reduced to a "black-matte aircraft" with "overlapping wings," "grilled metal vents," and "dual motors" and a "deafening roar" is conveyed by a capital VAROOM with four o's. The author has no choice but to attempt to make the visual verbal.

“How did you let him go?” Foley demanded.

The radio squawked in his grip.

“He’s got a lot of firepower.”

“And you don’t?” Foley wasn’t accepting any excuses.

“We’re not letting one nut with a bad attitude and some fancy gadgets run this town again, you hear me?”

      “He’s heading back downtown.”

Foley grinned.

“Then he’s as dumb as he dresses.” SWAT teams were already in place downtown following the attack on the stock exchange. He got the horn to Allen. “Close it down, gentlemen.”

Blake turned the cruiser around, joining the thousands of other cops converging on the downtown area. He’d never seen this many units chasing after a single suspect. Jockeying for position amidst the swarm of vehicles, he managed to get out ahead of the other patrol cars.

His eyes widened as he spotted Batman up ahead. He recognized the vigilante’s one-of-a-kind cycle from grainy news footage of Batman’s confrontation with the Joker years ago. Batman had once flipped over a speeding semi-trailer using the vehicle’s built-in grappling hook and cable. Despite his visit ot Wayne Manor, Blake had never really expected to see it with his own eyes.

Is this my fault? he wondered. Did I drag him out of hiding?

Batman zoomed down a wide boulevard, only to find another wave of cop cars charging at him from the other end of the street. Soaring choppers caught him in their searchlights, exposing him to the world. He was trapped in a vise made up of two oncoming walls of cars.

But he didn’t slow down. His cycle did a sharp ninety-degree turn, flipping over in the process, and darted into the sheltering darkness of a large blind alley. Cops cars squealed to a halt, blocking the entrance. The choppers hovered above them, providing air support. It looked like Batman had nowhere left to go.

Blake hit the breaks at the perimeter of the police lines, sealing the bottleneck. Foley jumped out of the cruiser and stalked toward the narrow opening between the buildings.

The young cop hurried after him.

“Like a rat in a trap,” Foley said confidently. He reached out for a bullhorn which was thrust into his hand. He started to raise it to his lips.

VAROOOOM.

A deafening roar, coming from the alley, drowned out whatever the deputy commissioner intended to say. The assembled cops exchanged puzzled looks. None of them, including Blake, knew what sort of machine could produce such a roar.

That’s no motorcycle, Blake realized.

“You may have the wrong animal there, sir,” a nearby cop said.

The copters’ spotlights blew out and a massive dark cyclone roared out of the narrow roadway, high above the street level, spinning the choppers sideways. Blake stared in awe at an intimidating matte-black aircraft like nothing he had ever seen before. Overlapping wings caught the air, while shielding grilled metal vents. A transparent windshield offered a glimpse of Btman seated inside a heavily armored cockpit. Dual rotors produced a powerful downdraft, forcing the cops to the ground. Flying dirt and litter were whipped about by artificial winds.

The craft thundered over the assemblage of GCPD, taking off into the sky.

Blake couldn’t resist.

“You sure it was him?” he asked.

Visual to Textual -- The Dark Knight Rises, Part 2

Visual images register in the human mind instantaneously. In a matter of seconds, an audience can see as many main characters as is necessary. In The Dark Knight Rises, simultaneous events are shown by quickly switching back and forth between characters in the same moments. While viewers can keep track of the events visually without any words, the novelization requires a much slower transition which can drag out one particular scene much longer than intended by filmmakers. The dramatic tone created by the quick montage of images and short speeches is also significantly decreased when converted to a verbal system. While quick action scenes are often well-executed in novels on a regular basis, it is difficult to reduce the quick flux of images on a screen to book form and retain all the original dialogue and sequence of shots. While the novelizer of The Dark Knight Rises tastefully adapts the film to text, the intensity of the scene is diminished. The tone is especially cheapened when the cornerback's thoughts come into play.

Foley followed his men into the subway tunnel, putting the lights of the platform behind him. He was tired of waiting. He needed to check on the search with his own eyes. He owed Gordon that much.

He owed Gotham that much.

“Sir!” a lieutenant came running after him. He thrust a radio into Foley’s hand. “It’s Blake. He says it’s urgent.”

Foley took the radio. As much as he hated to admit it, the hotheaded young detective had been on the ball so far.

“Foley,” he said.

“It’s a trap!” Blake’s voice shouted. “Pull everyone out! Bane’s been pouring concrete laced with explosives—”

Foley froze in his tracks.

“Where?”

“There’s a ring around the tunnels, Blake answered. “They’re gonna blow it up and trap the cops underground!”

Foley spun around and stared back at the mouth of the tunnel which suddenly seemed dangerously far away. His mouth went dry.

“Pull out!” he shouted. “Pull ‘em out!”

He raced toward the light.

The boiler room was in a sub-basement of the stadium, far below the cheering crowds. With all eyes on the field, no one was watching as Bane’s men broke through the basement floor. Drills and explosive charges had carved out a path from the tunnels below. The mercenaries climbed up into the stadium.

Bane emerged from the underground. His utility harness was strapped to his chest.

The National Anthem could be heard wafting down from above. He imagined thousands of sports fans, standing at attention as they paid tribute to bombs bursting in the air. No doubt the mayor had his hand over his heart.

The mercenaries advanced to the empty locker room tunnels. They took out their detonators. Bane cocked his head at the sound of the kick off, like a hunting dog scenting the wind.

Now, he decided.

“Let the games begin.”

The men hit the detonators.

Foley scrambled for the light. Along with his men, he raced out of the subway tunnel only heartbeats before explosions rocked the underground. The tunnel roof collapsed behind him, and enormous slabs of concrete crashing down onto the tracks. Sparks flared from the electrified third rail.

A billowing cloud of dust and debris filled the station. Booming echoes were amplified by the tunnel walls, forcing him to throw his hands over his ears. Cops and SWAT team members dived for cover. An injured officer screamed.

Somehow Foley managed to stay on his feet. Panting, he made it all the way back to the passenger platform before turning around to inspect the damage. Pulverized stoen and concrete caked his sweaty face. He coughed hoarsely, chocking on the dust. His eyes bulged from their sockets.

Tons of fallen concrete blocked the mouth to the tunnel. Frantic radio reports, coming from all around the city, confirmed Blake’s dire prediction. Explosions and cave-ins had closed off every entrance to the underground, trapping thousands of cops beneath the city. Foley gazed in horror at the heap of rubble. He may have gotten out just in time, but what about the rest of his people?

He already knew the answer.

Practically the entire GCPD had been buried alive.

The football spiraled through the air.

Come to daddy, the Gotham receiver thought as he caught the ball and made a break or the end zone. The hometown crowd went wild, screaming their lungs out as eh started his run, pursued by the visiting linebackers. He ran past the mayor’s box, guessing that His Honor was cheering, as well, and ducked past a Rapid City cornerback who was trying to block him.

The looming goal posts called out to him. He could practically taste his victory.

Touchdown, here I come!

The mayor’s box exploded, raining blood and debris onto the field. The cheers turned to screams. People panicked and leapt from their seats. Smoke blew over the field.

What the—?

Confused, the receiver glanced behind him—and saw the grassy field drop away into the earth, swallowing players. Rogues and Monuments alike tumbled into a smoking chasm that seemed to be chasing after the receiver as eagerly as any opposing linebacker. The pigskin slipped from his fingers as he sprinted even faster than before, desperate to stay ahead of the collapsing field.

An earth-shaking rumble competed with the shrieks of more than sixty thousand spectators, many of whom were already stampeding for the exits. The terrified player stumbled past the end zone, abandoning all thought of scoring.

Get me outta here!  

* * * 

This last example of the difficulty the novelization of The Dark Knight Rises finds in transferring visual to verbal takes an extensive passage from the book and shows the efficiency with which the film establishes a situation and what happens as a result. Bane inciting Gotham to free the prisoners of Blackgate Prison and revolt against the upper classes is a prime example of effective visual timing gone wrong in book form. Bane's speech is drawn out line by line while the camera shows the effect of it: total anarchy. What the film does in just shy of two minutes the text takes six pages to show. While I do not claim that a novel on its own cannot portray a dramatic scene of revolt and bloodshed, the problem is when the written word attempts to capture what viewers see on the screen on the page. In this case, presenting the excerpt from the film first is more advantageous to illustrate the problem.

“We take Gotham from the corrupt,” Bane ranted, shouting over the clamor of the mob. “The rich. The oppressors of generations who’ve kept you down with the myth of opportunity. And we give the city to you, the people. Gotham is yours—none shall interfere.

“Do as you please!”

Hellfire blasted from the cannon, blowing the heavy iron gates to pieces. Twisted metal fragments clattered down onto the sidewalk, leaving an open, smoldering cavity in the walls of the prison.

“But start by storming Blackgate and freeing the oppressed,” he continued. “Step forward, those who would serve . . .”

Bane’s men rushed the prison, surging through the burning gates. The mob chased after them, eagerly joining in the revolt. Pounding boos trampled over the blackened remains of Harvey Dent’s photo. Alarms sounded, but the outnumbered guards offered little resistance.

The cell doors slid open and the prisoners poured out, trashing the place on their way out. Unlucky guards—the ones who hadn’t fled or hidden in time—found themselves on the receiving end of eight years of pent-up grudges. It wasn’t a good day to be wearing a uniform or a badge.

Taking advantage of the chaos, Selina quietly slipped away through the throng.

In the hours and days that followed, Bane’s fiery oration was played constantly over the airwaves, as all that he prophesied came to pass.

“For an army will be raised. . .”

Mercenaries had handed out weapons to the prisoners escaping Blackgate. Shots were fired into the air in celebration, as the criminals rampaged through Gotham, encountering no resistance. Other men and women, eager to join in the looting, poured into the streets as well, swelling the ranks of the ad hoc army. They found the city ripe for the taking.

Looters invaded a tree-lined boulevard across from the park. What had once been one of Gotham’s tonier neighborhoods was overrun by a lawless horde that stormed the luxury apartment buildings. Gun-wielding rioters shot off the locks or battered down the doors. Hopelessly outnumbered, cowed doormen and security guards either retreated from the mob or else joined the insurrection. Mercenaries, convicts, gang members, vandals, anarchists, and opportunists whooped uproariously as they helped themselves to the homes of the rich and famous.

“The powerful will be ripped from their decadent nests . . .”

On Park Boulevard, looters ransacked a palatial penthouse apartment. High-end televisions, computers, and other pricy electronics were seized and fought over before being hauled out the door. Drawers were yanked out and dumped onto the floor, the better to rifle through their contents. Antique desks and chairs were overturned, pricesless vases and paintings trashed.

The one-time owners of the apartment, an investment banker and his much younger trophy, cowered in a corner as the rioters rooted throught heir closets, tossing designer dresses and tailored suits onto the floor. Thirstier looters raided the well-stocked liquor cabinet, passing around rare vintages of wine and bottles of fifty-year-old Scotch and bourbon. Empty bottles shattered against the walls. Costly spirits spilled onto an imported Persian carpet. Cuban cigars were smoked with abandon.

“And cast into the cold world the rest of us have known and endured. . .”

At first, the terrified owners thought that they themselves might be spared, that the rioters were only after their possessions. But then men with guns descended upon them and herded them roughly out into the street, where they were rounded up along with the rest of their scared and affluent neighbors. Despite the cold fall weather, and not even given a chance to dress for the outdoors they were marched at gunpoint away from their former homes.

Raucous laughter followed them down the block. Thrown rocks and garbage pelted them. An empty bottle hit the banker in the face.

“Courts will be convened. . .”

The stock exchange, site of Bane’s first assault upon Gotham’s wheelers and dealers, was converted into a mock courthouse attended by crowds of jeering spectators. An escaped convict who had traded his orange prison jumpsuit for an ill-fitting black robe presided over the trial of the banker and his wife. They found themselves accused of high crimes and treason against the people of Gotham. They clung to each other, shivering in the dock, as Jonathan Crane, a convicted killer who had once terrorized the city, pronounced sentence on them.

He pounded his gavel upon the trading floor’s elevated bell podium.

The mob roared in approval.

Bane watched silently from an upper gallery.

“The spoils will be enjoyed. . .”

A once-exclusive apartment became Party Central. Dozens of squatters occupied the penthouse, helping themselves to whatever the first wave of looters had left behind. Winos, addicts, prostitutes, and homeless runaways cracked opened bottles of champagne, spraying one another with the foam while trampling over broken furniture and heirlooms. Hookers and crackheads put on an impromptu fashion show, modeling liberated furs and jewelry. A drunk peed in a corner.

Selina kept to herself, frowning as she watched the revelry.

“Blood will be shed. . .”

Officer Ross peered up at the daylight, high above his head. The light penetrated a narrow storm drain partially clogged with shattered concrete. A basket full of supplies was lowered into the ruins of the tunnels, where he and hundreds of other cops found themselves buried alive.

At first, he had expected the city to launch a full-scale rescue, employing heavy machinery and teams of workers to dig their way down to the trapped personnel, but apparently that wasn’t happening anytime soon. They remained stuck in the sewers.

He remained stuck in the sewers. Away from his wife and daughter.

Ross grabbed onto the basket, which contained stale bread, moldy fruit, and dented cans of lunch meat. His stomach growling, he handed them out to the other officers, hoping it would be enough, but knowing that it wasn’t.

He shivered, trying to remember what it was like to be warm.

“But the police will live, until they are ready to serve true justice. . .”

The reactor core glowed brightly, and lit gauges crept toward the red zone, as the large metal sphere was loaded into the back of an unmarked black truck. Mercenaries made sure the bomb was secured within the vehicle.

“This great city will endure. Gotham will survive.”

Inside the truck, a digital counter ticked toward zero.

Limited Characterization -- The Dark Knight Rises

It is a well-established fact that the novelizer is at the mercy of the screenwriters/screenplay. Often the author of the novelization is unaware of who is playing which role in the film, which leads to some problems in characterization. The author must be cautious when describing characters because he is assuredly not in control of what they look like. In The Dark Knight Rises, two physical descriptions are worth comparing between the film and the novelization. The deputy commissioner, Peter Foley, and Wayne Foundation board member Miranda Tate. The description of Foley could be that of a hundred different men, but when it comes to describing Miranda Tate, the novelizer describes her down to her unplaceable foreign accent. It appears that the novelizer knew that Marion Cotillard was cast as Miranda Tate and had to account for her slight trace of an accent somehow. If he had only seen the name "Miranda Tate" in the screenplay, it would be difficult to guess that she would have a trace of an exotic accent. However, Foley is mis- and under-described, showing that the novelizer didn’t know who was cast and is not in control of characterization. This lack of control demonstrates who is truly dictating what the story will be that the novelization tells and it isn't its author.

“Ever lay eyes on Wayne at one of these things?”

Gordon chose not to mention the figure on the balcony. He shook his head.

“No one has,” a third party cut in. “Not for years.”

Peter Foley, Gordon’s deputy commissioner, joined them at the bar. A real up-and-comer, he was half a decade younger than Gordon, but was already making a name for himself downtown. Dapper and well-groomed, with thick brown hair as yet untouched by gray, he wore his tailored suit more comfortably than Gordon, whose attire was already rumpled despite his halfhearted efforts to dress up for the occasion.

“You should spend more time with the mayor.”

Gordon snorted.

“That’s your department.” Foley was better at working City Hall, and stroking the egos of politicians. Gordon preferred the nuts-and-bolts of old-fashioned police work.

With one last, rueful glance at the portrait on the dais, he decided he’d done his part for Harvey Dent Day this year. So he headed for the gravel driveway in front of the mansion where a long row of spotless town cars waited for their powerful and/or affluent passengers. He couldn’t wait to get out of here.

This got harder every year.

Back at the bar, the congressman shook his head at Gordon’s abrupt departure. He couldn’t’ believe the dumb schmuck was actually abandoning this fancy spread to go back to work, especially now that the war against crime had already been won.

“Anyone shown him the crime stats?” he said.

Foley shrugged.

“He goes by his guy, and it’s been bothering him lately, whatever the numbers.”

“Must be popular with his wife,” Gilly cracked. His own ball-and-chain was conveniently home with a migraine.

“Not really,” Foley replied. “She took the kids and moved to Cleveland.”

“Well, he’ll have plenty of time for visits soon.” Gilly lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. He leaned in toward the younger man. “Mayor’s dumping him in the spring.”

“Really?” Foley was surprised by the revelation—or at least seemed to be. “He’s a hero.”

“War hero,” Gilly said. “This is peace time.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Tate, but I’ve tried. He won’t see you.”

Alfred lingered in the hallway to converse with the stylish young woman who had attempted to enlist his assistance Miranda Tate—a member of the board of directors of Wayne Enterprises—was probably the most attractive business executive Alfred had encountered in his many decades of service. Lustrous dark hair framed a classically beautiful face. Striking gray-blue eyes shone with intelligence and determination.

“It’s important, Mr. Pennyworth,” she insisted. Her voice held a faint accent that, despite his extensive travels throughout Europe and elsewhere, he couldn’t quite place.

Mr. Wayne is as determined to ignore important things as trivial ones,” he replied wryly.

A derisive chuckle interrupted their conversation. John Daggett strolled up to them, looking smug and obnoxious—as usual. The business tycoon, who had inherited a thriving construction company, boasted a head of sculpted brown hair that would put Donald Trump to shame. His bespoke suit could barely contain his self-importance.

“Don’t take it personally Miranda,” he told her. “Everyone knows Wayne’s holed up in there with eight-inch fingernails, peeing into Mason jars.” Turning, he added belatedly, “Alfred… good of you to let me on the grounds.”

The butler did nothing to conceal his distaste. Daggett was the epitome of greed and vulgarity—quite unlike the Waynes, who had always used their wealth to better the world around them.

“The Dent Act is about Gotham,” Alfred replied evenly. “Even you, Mr. Daggett.” He bowed his head politely toward Miranda. “Miss Tate, always a pleasure.” He took his leave of them, but he could not help overhearing their voices as they echoed down the hall. Alfred stopped some distance away and turned to look.

“Why waste your time,” Daggett asked Miranda, “trying to talk to the man who threw away your investment on some save-the-world vanity project?” His voice was thick with derision. “He can’t help you get your money back.

“But I can.”

She replied coolly.

“I could try explaining that a save-the-world project, vain or not, is worth investing in, whatever the return. I could try, Mr. Daggett, but you understand only money and the power you think it buys, so why waste my time, indeed.” She spun about and left him standing in the hall. Scowling, he watched her go.

Bravo, Miss Tate, Alfred thought. Bravo.

 

Explaining Incongruities -- The Dark Knight Rises

Mahlknecht points out one advantage to the novelization: "The medium of the novel enables the novelizer to eliminate possible illogicalities or plot holes encountered in the script (Mahlknecht 17)." He goes on to explain that because of the visual nature of the film (or screenplay), the actors are unable to explicitly explain certain aspects of the plot without either running for hours on end or because of its depiction of real life; characters rarely justify in words things they already know in their mind. Another way this can be beneficial is to explain the plot holes, as Mahlknecht points out, that can leave viewers of the film confused and could cause some problems with plot logistics. He describes several cases in the film Terminator: Salvation where the characters fail to explain how they perform certain actions or where they obtained necessary resources like gasoline. The novelizer provides background information that the characters are aware of, yet are unable to relate to the audience without actually addressing the audience. The Dark Knight Rises is riddled with these types of incongruities but the the novel fails to patch these up for the reader as nicely despite opportunities to do so. Again, the novelization parrots the film, undermining its legitimacy as a piece of original or adapted literature.

“Get the barriers up!” Allen shouted. “No more in and out on this street!”

Wedge-shaped metal barricades, installed after the Joker’s reign of terror, rose up at the mouth of the street. The barricades were intended to stop any truck bombs from crashing into the stock exchange. SWAT teams fanned out around the building’s front entrance. A police sniper peered through a thermal scope, watching the door. Four large heat signatures bloomed, too large to be people.

      “I’ve got something!” the sniper called out.

A ferocious roar came from inside the stock exchange. The front door blew open, causing the nearest SWAT troopers to duck from the blast, as four high-speed motorcycles leapt from inside the building, jumping the front steps to touch down on the pavement in front of Allen and his men.

Terrified hostages could be seen strapped to the rear of the bikes, their silk ties blowing in the wind. Revving their engines, the bikes zoomed straight for the raised barricades—which designed to stop vehicles speeding toward the stock exchange, proved to be highly effective ramps for bikes heading in the opposite direction.

The bikes vaulted over the heads of the surrounding police officers before speeding away into the night. Flustered cops scrambled into their cars to give chase, even as the failed barriers retracted back into the pavement.

Allen swore loudly.

Where the author could have taken the liberty of explaining how four motorcycles got inside the stock exchange, the audience (and the reader) are left scratching their heads, wondering how Bane and his men either got the motorcycles through security in the first place or why they didn't take a speedy exit out a back entrance where they could have the motorcycles waiting.  

* * *
One of the key plot elements is Bruce Wayne's rise from depression and physical listlessness to his prior top physique (or almost) of the Batman days. For the first forty-five minutes of the movie and 118 pages of the novelization, Bruce hobbles around on a bad knee, unable even to stand up when Selina Kyle kicks his cane away from him. Somehow, though, he obtains an "experimental carbon-fiber brace" which fixes his knee in a matter of seconds. There is no explanation of where the brace came from, and the explanation of how the brace repairs lost or atrophied muscle is sketchy at best.

The experimental carbon-fiber brace arrived at Wayne Manor the very next morning. Bruce tried it out in the cave, away from the prying eyes of everyone except Alfred and the bats roosting overhead. He had gotten only a few hours of sleep since the masquerade, but wasn’t about to take time out for a nap. He had slept enough these last eight years.

He clamped the brace onto his right leg and pressed a blinking button on its side. The pivoted orthotic toned up at once, tightening around the joint. A thin layer of padding cushioned the brace. Bruce stood up and worked the knee, attempting deep bends and stretches. It took some effort, but the brace moved with him smoothly, without chafing or riding up and down his leg.

So far so good, he thought.

Alfred put down a thermos of hot coffee.

“You’ve got the wrong leg, sir.”

Bruce shook his head.

“You start with the good limb,” he explained, “so the brace learns your optimum muscle patterns.” He sat down on a slate cube and swapped the brace to his bad left knee. He rose cautiously, putting his weight on it, and grunted in satisfaction as the reinforced leg appeared to support him. He bent slowly, then rose again, more confidently this time. He threw a kick at the empty air.

A rare smile lifted his lips. He was liking this.

“Now we tighten it up.”

He pressed harder on the button, clicking it again. The brace contracted against his leg, the unyielding carbon fibers digging into his flesh. Grimacing, he gritted his teeth against the increased pressure.

Alfred looked on with concern.

“Is it terribly painful, sir?”

“You’re welcome to try it, Alfred.”

“Happy watching, thank you, sir.”

Bruce let out a howl as the brace clicked home. He took a moment to get used to the discomfort before rising to his feet again. Despite the pain, the leg felt more solid than it had in years. Than it had since the night Batman fell.

“Not bad,” he said.

A stack of bricks waited a few feet away. Bruce spun and delivered a furious roundhouse kick to the bricks, which went flying across the cave. Overhead, startled bats screeched in alarm. They flapped wildly among the stalactites.

“Not bad at all.”

   

The extra description given in the text of the novelization is largely unhelpful in this case. Are the carbon fibers replacing lost muscle? Repairing it? After eight years of disuse, a good brace is all it takes to be able to kick down brick walls again. Again, as with the motorcycles, the novelizer might have attempted to legitimize the quick recovery by explaining that, although undoubtedly advanced technology, Bruce must use the brace continually over a period of weeks. Whether owing to disapproval on the screenwriters or the novelizer unable to see the need for further explanation, the lack of detail in this quick scene passes by viewers quickly but will leave readers wondering exactly what they just read.

* * *
The most glaring incongruity of the story comes in the last forty minutes of the film and ninety pages of the novelization. Defeated, Bruce Wayne/Batman was sent to a prison "in a more ancient part of the world," as Alfred informs Bruce earlier, physically broken, financially depleted, and morally defeated, complete with a protruding vertebrae. However, the audience sees his recovery and escape from the hellish pit. Emerging, he sees "a huge, forgotten stone fortress, its imposing walls and towers showing the ravages of time, loom[ing] over the pit. Rocky hills beckoned in the distance. An arid desert stretched for miles in every direction." Wherever this place is, it is certainly far from Gotham, probably far from the United States itself. The last indication of how Bruce is going to return to his beloved city is the last line of the chapter: "He shouldered his pack and started walking."
After a quick death-sentencing scene, and an exchange between Gordon and Foley, Selina is back on the screen (page) defending an apple-bearing boy from would-be food thieves:

“Never steal anything from someone you can’t outrun, kid,” she advised him. That was something she’d learned a long time ago.

He stared longingly at the apple.

“Now you’re gonna take it, he said, resentment in his voice.

It was a tempting prize, she had to admit. Fresh fruit was had to come by in Gotham these days. She lifted it to her mouth and took a single perfect bit.

“Just tax,” she explained.

Licking her lips, she lobbed the rest of the apple back to the kid, who wasted no time in absconding with it, just in case she changed her mind.

A thank-you would have been nice, she thought, but she really couldn’t blame the little guy for getting away while the getting was good. She knew what it was like to be hungry and on your own.

“Pretty generous for a thief.”

It was a voice she had never expected to hear again. Spinning around, she found Bruce Wayne standing on the sidewalk behind her. He was dressed like a common laborer, with a scruffy beard and work clothes, but there was no mistaking the former prince of Gotham. His face was lean and weathered, but, much to her surprise, he was standing straight and tall—despite what Bane had done to his back.

The sound of that awful crack had haunted her dreams for months now.

“You came back,” she said. “I thought they’d killed you.”

“Not yet,” he said.

She got her guard up.

“If you’re expecting an apology—” But he shook his head, cutting her off.

“It wouldn’t suit you,” he said. “I just need your help.”

This is another opportunity for the novelizer to add some information for the reader that can't be shown or told to the viewer about how on earth Bruce Wayne managed to return from a faraway land with no funds (his bank account having been hacked by Bane and the mercenaries) and gaining access to an island city that has been quarantined under threat of atomic destruction. Perhaps Bruce Wayne had a tunnel built from the opposite side of the bay.