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.

It is hard not to find yourself immersed in the theatrical world of Ewald Andre Dupont’s Piccadilly. Indeed as early on as the opening scene the audience is bombarded with upbeat music, electric signs, flashing lights, and busy streets filled with flowing traffic and hurrying bodies. Piccadilly is presented as an illuminated, spectacular location, in which we found ourselves - like the bodies on the screen – immediately drawn to.


Interestingly, Dupont decided to have his opening credits amongst the action of this opening scene. That is, rather than have the opening credits roll in the traditional sense (before the film begins), Dupont presents them as advertisements, literally lighting up and flashing as part of this theatrical space. Such a technique immediately foregrounds how the ‘reality’ of the film becomes blended with the theatrical world of the film when watching Piccadilly.



The fight scene between Victor and Valentine further illustrates this notion. Mixed with the use of music and exaggerated movements, the fight between the two men begins to resemble a kind of stylized dance rather than a spontaneous, uncontrollable fight over the affections of a woman. Even the way the scene fades out - much like a spot light - gave me the sense that these characters were performing; that the stage of the nightclub was blurred with the ‘stage’ of the actual film.


Moreover, because the fight is not vicious or bloodthirsty, it becomes almost humorous to watch, and thus more obviously artificial. I also found it no coincidence that as this fight scene played out, I drew comparisons to the dance between Victor and Mabel from the previous scene.


Did anybody else make this comparison?


The characterization of Mabel is also interesting to discuss in this regard. Given her over-the-top costume and movements throughout the film – both on and off the nightclub’s stage - Mabel becomes a figure, even an allegory, of the non-naturalistic nature of theatre, and upon closer analysis, a representation of how the theatrical world and the film’s reality constantly blend in Piccadilly.


Even her persona in the film becomes blurred with her theatrical persona. More precisely, both on and off the club's stage, Mabel sparks no emotions and holds no charisma; indeed like her lover Valentine, the audience of the club forgets her after the introduction of Shosho.


What’s interesting is that like the audience in Piccadilly’s club, I also began to forget Mabel. She began to appear pale, almost invisible, in comparison to Shosho.


Which causes me to pose the question: Does our world also begin to blend in with the films, or perhaps more specifically, do we begin to blend in with the audience of the Piccadilly nightclub?


Which leads me to Anna May Wong’s character, Shosho, who in complete contrast to Mabel represents the organic, charismatic, and mesmerizing quality of Piccadilly. Indeed Shosho not only moves the club’s audience, but when off the club's stage, moves men and women alike. Clearly Dupont, once again, representing a blending of worlds.


Dupont purposefully represents Shosho as different; she is dressed differently, moves and dances differently, and most noticeably of course, is of a different ethnicity. It is because of this difference that Shosho becomes such a literal stand out to watch. Indeed we become, like the women and men in the scullery, mesmerized by her. I got so whisked away by her performance – on and off the nightclub's stage – I had almost forgotten the film was silent and that the dialogue was represented by broken inter-titles. Techniques, I believe were used by Dupont for precisely this reason.



Clearly Piccadilly is a film where worlds are blurred, not only do the characters find themselves constantly performing, and thus confused in the theatrical space of the film, but with the introduction of Shosho, we too found ourselves absorbed.


Which leads me to wonder what the film would be like without the introduction of Shosho, would we still be like the audience of the club, mesmerized, and as captivated by Dupont’s Piccadilly?

At the beginning of Victor Burgin’s reading, a discussion of Andre Breton’s and Jaques Vache’s strange method of ‘movie hopping’ from one theater to another is discussed. Burgin writes of how these two men never watched an entire film, leaving whenever ‘boredom tugs at the sleeve’.

The relevance of such a method, as Fatimah Tobing Rony points out, lies in the fact it highlights certain Surrealist techniques of chance, disruption and dislocation – all techniques which are visible in Joseph Cornell’s silent footage film, Rose Hobart.

Cornell primarily establishes these techniques through the cutting and reordering of footage from the 1931 jungle flick, East of Borneo, into his obsessive 19 minute montage of actress Rose Hobart. Through the emphasis of close-ups, jump cuts and repeated shots, East of Borneo loses all narrative order and sequence, and appears, as P. Adams Sitney describes, ‘as a randomly broken, oddly scrambled and hastily repaired feature film that no longer makes sense.’

Moreover, by slowing the speed of the film, muting all dialogue, and projecting a blue glass filter, East of Borneo further transforms into a dislocated, dream-like landscape, where nothing is explained and all meanings (and indeed a linear narrative) are thwarted.



As a result, my experience of the film was none other than confusion. I felt like I was constantly watching and waiting for something to jump out at me, so I could yell at the top of my lungs, “O.K, I get what’s going on here. I get this movie.” But the sad reality was... I didn’t get it.

However the fact nothing ever makes sense in Rose Hobart, is precisely what I found so interesting. All we have are disconnected moments and unmotivated, incomplete actions and gestures that leave us completely confused, yet we watch and wait with a detached bemusement.

The soundtrack of the film adds to this. In most instances the music, or absence of, works to help illustrate the emotional content of the narrative, and thus manipulate and even heighten our emotional state as the viewer. However in Rose Hobart, the upbeat Brazilian music is merely a background noise which holds no relevance to the events on screen, it is nonsensical, and thus in no way shapes our emotions towards the on-goings of the film. The soundtrack of the film marches on in a repetitive and random way, almost appearing cluttered for the abstract, fantastic space.

It’s interesting that Cornell chose to strip away the original soundtrack of East of Borneo and replace it with a soundtrack purposefully disconnected from the visuals on screen. Why did he choose to distance his audience, rather than guide us in an aural experience of the film? Was it to highlight the constructed nature of the text, or was it all merely experimental?

While it certainly prohibited me from loosing myself in Cornell’s fantasy, it also made me feel like Hobart was trapped in a world in which she didn’t belong; mastered by Cornell through his re-editing of shots and nonsensical music.

The way the camera lingered on Hobart’s every movement and gesture only intensified this feeling. Indeed the voyeuristic nature of the camera’s movements made the experience not only unsettling to watch, but demonstrated how Hobart was merely an image, a representation of Cornell’s fantasy, locked into the frames of the film.



Perhaps this explains why the music is so detached from the visuals, to forbid any depth, or humanization of Hobart?

Given the cutting and reordering of narrative, the absurd music, and lingering camera movements, I question if Rose Hobart is in fact an ode to the actress, reflecting a kind of infatuation, or does it go further and reflect a kind of incarceration?

A belated, yet very warm welcome everyone! I have tried to avoid writing on here as the 'blogword' is extremely new to me. Nonetheless, a blog discussing Rose Hobart will be on here for you all very soon. Stay tuned..........