Comparison of novel and film adaptations

¶ … temptation, Requiem for a Dream suggests, are perilously close to one another in the pursuit of dreams. And that condition may litter the road to realization with mines and pitfalls, slicks and rifts, all obscured by the voracity of the dreamer's forward momentum. The insertion of addiction into this mix will redefine that momentum wholly, rippling it into a jagged downward spiral. Such is the overarching theme of both Hubert Selby, Jr.'s 1978 novel and the film based on it, directed by Darren Aronofsky in 2000. And in fact, the movie does not simply echo the novel in sentiment, but is also relatively faithful in terms of characters, plot devices and plot action. Naturally, though, an undertaking such as the cinematic rendering of Selby's dark, troubling and unflinching story runs into the considerable challenge of meeting justifiably high expectations. After all, Selby's novel, though obscure in popular culture circles until the well-publicized acclaim of the film, is and has been a highly regarded piece of literature and an uncannily authentic representation of its bleak subject matter since its first release a quarter century ago. So the constant threat of that oft used phrase, "the book was better than the movie" hovers over this film's very existence. To dispel any suspense, this is mostly an accurate and warranted assumption. The pieces are similar enough in intent. Both follow the lives of four aspiring citizens, each hoping to achieve, even given only modest circumstances under which to operate. Harry Goldfarb and his friend Tyrone are young, middleclass men whose loftiest desires are to open a boutique. In need of capital, they hatch a plan to acquire and disperse one pound of pure heroin. Along for the business venture is Harry's intelligent and attractive girlfriend Marion, who hopes to escape the confines of her wealthy upbringing and find success of her own. Across town, Harry's widowed mother Sara wishes for little more than an accommodating figure with which to sport an old dress. In the simultaneously occurring processes, Harry, Tyrone and Marion are derailed by the demands accrued by their own heroin addictions and Sara's lonely life is plunged further into desperation by a dependence on diet pills. Aronofsky's film illustrates an appropriate understanding of Selby's goals, as it is a work of honest brutality. Its portrayal of addiction as a monstrously destructive and suffocating force is certainly effective, and the gritty wash of the cinematography implies the hazy strangle that Selby so vividly depicts in his narrative. And in the end, both pieces leave the audience with a sense of irredeemableness. The primary characters lose sight of their dreams as the support of their respective addictions takes center stage. Even those who begin the story with social support systems find themselves hopelessly alone in the end. Still, with all of these things in common, the novel and film were distinctive from one another. And such is most tangible with regard to the narrative style, the character development and the overall impression that one is left with upon the completion of each.

Selby's novel is a difficult read for certain. His take on dialogue is rather unconventional, given the absence of quotations or paragraph indentation throughout the novel. However, it doesn't take long to adjust to the approach.

And with adjustment comes appreciation. The winding clumps of dialogue mash together, often obscuring the identity of the actual speaker. And it makes for jumbled, anxiety-driven conversations that mirror the ticking edginess of addiction and craving. The effect is quite remarkable too, as the pacing and rhythm of Selby's prose draw the reader into the most unfathomable and undesirable of scenarios. Soon, the involvement invokes enough character recognition that the lack of traditional punctuation is no longer a hindrance in attributing spoken word to the intended character. And with the hastening of the characters' downward trends came a perceptible intensification of interactions and events. Selby executed the terrible change masterfully, capturing the reader first and then driving him headlong into the onslaught of abhorrent revelations. Undiluted by pauses and apprehension, the action and tragedy of Requiem plays out unhaltingly, forcing the reader to perceive addiction as constant and unrelenting. Ironically, while this was clearly a mutual aim of Aronofsky, his highly stylized interpretation of Selby's unique prose was the most damaging element to the film's poignancy. The visual aid provided by the medium of cinema, of course, made Selby's dialogue device obsolete. So, inexplicably, Aronofsky opted to substitute a quick-cut editing style, splicing the film into hundreds of short, crackling scenes. And the scenes truly were blunt and unapologetic, as required by the novel's content. But just as the seamless flow of Selby's writing style created an emotional connection between the reader and the characters, the razor sharp scene jumping serves to disconnect the viewer from those very same suffering players. Where Selby's stream-of-consciousness proclivities are emotive, Aronofsky's concision and speed come off as cool, and fairly evocative of celluloid compatriots like Quentin Tarantino and Guy Ritchie. That was fine for a film of the same subject matter like Trainspotting, where humor and fashion were skillfully inserted to offset the horrors of addiction. But Selby's harrowing volume is deserving of a more compassionate treatment.

It wasn't simply the conveyance of the central plot that suffered from the misinterpretation either. In fact, Selby's characters, likeable and sympathetic due mostly to the author's skillful temperance of emotional involvement, are rendered flat and dimensionless by the film's pointed haste. It isn't that the film fails to effectively depict the turbulence of addiction. In fact, that is it's greatest virtue. It doesn't waver from the necessary path, and Aronofsky prods his characters along with admirably harshness, forcing them to endure grainy, unforgiving indignities that may have defied imagination if not for his steady and assured impression of Selby's most striking and indelible moments. As such, it is fair to say that Aronofsky carried off the characterization of addiction most convincingly, detailing an entity of malevolence and insatiability. His human characters lacked flesh though. It may have been through no fault of the leading actors, all of whom seemed to understand their charge well. All four turned in strong performances that demonstrated an inkling of intimacy with the characters so painstakingly and overwhelmingly developed, through the lives of their addictions, in the novel. Particularly, Ellen Burstyn, who played the isolated and emotionally desiccated Sara Goldfarb, seems to have crafted a fine portrait of the afflicted senior. But her performance, as well as the others, was stunted by Aronofsky's cinematic conceits. Again, it is the critical difference between Selby's manic intuition and Aronofsky's mere conjecture. While Selby connects with his characters, Aronofsky only facilitates them. He thrusts them into the circumstances that will come to define them in his vision, and then gives them little space in which to develop. Once again, the choppy editing, while enjoyable on a strictly cinematic level, assures that the scene actions will have a greater impact than the characters therein. And perhaps this would be acceptable without cognizance of the novel's truer aim. The film is so taken by the controlling embodiment of addiction, that its actors must struggle to find some compelling voice in the mix. It works in direct contradiction to Selby's characters, who are the lifeblood of the novel.