Without question, Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead (1947) is exceptionally suited for a cinematic adaptation. Indeed Rand not only writes cinematically, but the subject matter of her novel is premised on the visual; which naturally is fitting for cinema. However this is not my point of concern, rather my interest lies in how King Vidor’s 1949 cinematic adaptation takes on a novelistic form in itself.

I think it is fair to say that most of us have, one way or another, read and/or heard of Rand’s The Fountainhead before studying this course, after all it is ‘A Worldwide Bestseller’. But let’s say for a moment that we hadn’t, and that we just happened to stumble across Vidor’s film one lazy afternoon. It becomes clear, from the moment the film begins, that the film is heavily representative of a book; from the film’s credits displayed on pages of a book, to an image of a building reminiscent of a book cover; the film candidly lets us know, this is an adaptation.

So from its earliest moments, The Fountainhead literally takes on a novelistic form. Surprisingly however, its form also made my experience of the film much like ‘reading a book’ (so to speak), which followed with me throughout the entirety of the film.

I think the characters hearty, and somewhat cumbersome dialogue is the main reason for this. Indeed it was no surprise when Melissa informed us Rand expected the film to follow her screenplay word for word; however in bearing such a strong fidelity to the original text, the characters in the film appear non-naturalistic, stilted; performing as though they are simply speaking written words. More precisely, it felt as though the characters were on screen merely to speak, or perhaps more literally, to give voice to Rand’s philosophical perspectives.



I struggled to find just one example to demonstrate this notion, even when looking over my notes on the film - which incidentally is covered in quotes – it became clear that Vidor’s film as a whole, is very much about words. Thus by remaining faithful to Rand’s novel, and essentially her words, the film becomes considerably novelistic.

While I enjoyed the bold, theatrical nature of Vidor’s film, the heavy dialogue did eventually wear thin. I found myself drifting away; distracted by small insignificant things around me, rather than engaging in the happenings on screen.

But perhaps this reflects how, with any adaptation, some changes must be made. I ask you, do we not have different expectations when reading a novel, and watching a film? Naturally, these two very different mediums must change and alter in order to successfully adapt from each other.

With that being said however, Vidor did manage to turn Rand’s lengthy novel into a 120 minute film. Not an easy task! But a task I believe was achievable, and indeed made successful, through Vidor’s use of sound and close-ups.



Throughout the film these two techniques stood out to me the most (and why wouldn’t they, they saturated the film!). Rather than read page after page, and build up to, or even on, how we are intended to feel and/or think, Vidor uses visual and aural techniques; an illustration of the transition from novel to film. For instance, Vidor’s scene in the granite quarry, highlights not only his use of close ups with Howard Roark and Dominique Francon - to highlight the sexual tension and sense of longing between these two characters - but implements this scene with an overwhelming sense of sound; of blasting granite on the one hand, and cliché ‘love’ music on the other, to ‘sway' the viewer into feeling/thinking that these two uncompromising characters are unwillingly attracted.

So, while the film is significantly novelistic, it does also adapt to the cinematic; maintaining a strong fidelity to the original text, but changing and altering in order to fit within its world of cinema. But my question is: Does this work? Can a text successfully do both? I think Vidor’s The Fountainhead, is a testament to the fact it can, just.

“I’m going out to make the greatest picture in the world, something that no one’s ever seen or heard!” When adventure film producer Carl Denim states these lines in Merian C. Cooper and Ernest B. Schoedsack’s King Kong (1933), we intuitively know he's referring to the film we are about to watch… and how right he was! Indeed today King Kong stands as a rolled-gold classic, its status remains untarnished and revered, and remarkably, as John McGowan-Hartmann writes, “[as a character, icon and film] is one of the most recognized images in all of cinematic history.”

Even today the popularity of this appropriated beauty and the beast fable remains just as great as when it was originally released almost eighty years ago. For instance, Christopher Tookey’s The Critics Film Guide cites it as having an average critical rating of 9.53 out of 10, the Internet Movie Database has it in its top 250 user-rated films; evidently this film has a tremendous amount of universal appeal.

But the question is how? How does a film, which is so light-on-plot, has dated special effects, and B-grade acting, still remain as one of the film 'greats'?

I believe the answer essentially lies in the spectacle of the film.

Indeed the popularity of the ‘big-on-special-effects’ blockbusters of recent years remains unabated. One only needs to look at Peter Jackson’s billion dollar grossing Lord of the Rings trilogy, to realise people take pleasure in escaping the clenched jaws of reality. Interestingly however, this artform, that is, these big-on-special-effects blockbusters, was built on films like that of King Kong. As Stephen Rowley elaborates:

“Cinema, right from the start, was split between competing artistic sensibilities, neatly embodied by two of its earliest practitioners: the Lumiere brother, who made ‘actuality films’ depicting everyday scenarios… and Georges Melies, who saw film as essentially a giant magic act, and set about using the technology to depict the impossible… it is from the Melies-inspired tradition from which King Kong derives, and it is a reminder that cinema remains an artform particularly suited to grand displays of showmanship.”

These “grand displays of showmanship” lead us to the real star of the film, Willis O’Brien’s special effects. O’Brien’s discovery of stop-motion animation - initially established in The Lost World (1925) - allowed Kong to become, as Rowley describes “a stop motion character, rather than simply a beast.” Indeed the magic of the film lies in the beast’s life-like movements; from the beating of his chest to his remarkable hand gestures, Kong is one astounding creation.



While the affects are somewhat dated now, O’Brien’s work remains impressive; one only needs to look at Kong’s astonishing sense of motion, best illustrated in the famous fight sequence against the Tyrannosaurus - in which O’Brien depicts Kong in a fighter’s stance, pummeling the dinosaur with his fists – to appreciate this.

But more than this, the films dated, vintage ‘feel’ takes on its own aesthetic. Indeed contemporary audiences today revel in King Kong’s archaic quality, recognizing that not only has the film provided groundwork for modern day blockbusters, but enjoy the glimpse of cinematic history the film provides, which ironically, through its vintage feel manages to show us (modern day spectators) something unique, and ‘new’.

On another note, despite Kong’s life-like movements, I felt restrained from feeling any empathy for the beast; he remained distant, only a figure to watch, not feel for. From his constant battles against strange creatures in the jungle, to his killing of innocent people in the city, it is clear Kong’s presence on screen is there only for spectacle.

While there are parts of the narrative which (may) provoke some kind of empathy, I believe they are only by default. More precisely, feeling for the beast, seems only in defiance to the script. For instance, Kong’s love-interest, Ann “Queen of Scream” Darrow is never seen at ease with her beast, on the contrary, she screams or faints any time the beast comes near. Similarly, Carl, Jack and Ann are all seen to (rather cheerfully) endorse Kong’s captivity in the New York Theatre.

Did anybody else feel that the production side intended us to feel emotionally detached from the beast? Especially when compared to Peter Jackson’s 2005 re-make.

It is important to note, that I'm not attempting to argue King Kong is a depthless film; indeed many critics have seen the film as much more than just another ‘big monster movie’ by imbuing depth and complexity to its narrative; revealing connections with race, gender, repressed sexuality and so on to the beast - which perhaps is a greater reflection of why the film is still popular today.

Nevertheless, I maintain that the film’s universal appeal is a result of its “giant magic act”, as it allows us to be thrilled and shown something new (still today), which after all, is what Carl Denim claimed.