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.