‘The only people for
me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be
saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say
a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn...’
That quote will soon
be framed on the walls of Indie kids, alongside their signed copies of Mumford
and Sons lyrics, and their first pair of non-prescription glasses. In this
cage, the meaning of Kerouac’s ferociously energetic attack on the
repressiveness of post-war America, and his 250 page thesis on self-discovery
through hedonistic acts, will be forever lost among the limitless horizons of indoor-scarves
and all-things denim.
This is because Walter
Salles’ film adaptation of Kerouac’s classic, possibly my favourite (half)
novel, amplifies the book’s, supposed, failings. As well as exposing its
plotlessness, and the sheer one-dimensional misogyny plastered onto his female
characters, Kerouac’s outrageous self-indulgence on the importance of the Beats
is adapted perhaps a little too faithfully. The film is hopelessly pretentious,
alienating anyone who hasn’t read the book, and therefore anyone who
understands that its self-importance is part of its majesty. The awkward ‘intellectual
Jazz’ score doesn’t help things. It’s this factor, rather than its potential to
be something genuinely inspirational, which will appeal to the ‘individualistic’
masses. This, perhaps, only furtherly emphasises what we fans already knew;
that it is unadaptable.
But the film is
respectably faithful to the book, and is well-made in its own right. It’s well
shot, although with a tad overuse of shaky-cam, though in a post-Greengrass era
this is forgiveable, the colour scheme cleverly changing according to mood; bright
yellows, greens and blues when the parties are in full swing, greys and browns
for the crashing-back-to-reality hangovers. The soul of each American city is
captured well enough, and the scenes ‘On the Road’ identify the isolated,
almost secret, beauty and barrenness of rural America. Sam Riley is excellent
as Sal, as is Kristen Stewart as Marylou, giving credibility to my assertion,
mocked ever since she emerged as the Vampire’s pouting sex-object, that she is
a good actress. The supporting cast perform amicably, especially strong is Tom
Sturridge as Carlo Marx. The man personifies Ginsberg’s writing, as Carlo is
Kerouac’s pseudonym for Allen Ginsberg, arguably the most fundamental poet of
the Beat era, to perfection, and in many ways steals the film. The star of the
show is Garret Hedlund as Dean. Dean as a role is, in my opinion, the
equivalent of playing Hamlet or Anna Karenina; one of the most challenging,
complex and fascinating in fictional history. Hedlund is fantastic, flawlessly
embodying the wonderfully flawed icon’s infectious charisma and endless series
of contradictions.
As someone near
obsessed with the adventures of Dean and Sal, it was more minor interpretative things which frustrated;
the explicitness of the homoeroticism, the use of Sal as a narrator (I hate
narration, I’ve always considered it lazy writing in cinema and TV. Same goes
for flashbacks) the glazing over of an important scene or character, and most
annoyingly, the lack of expose on the sexual contrast between Sal and Dean; Sal’s
necessity to infuse sex with love and meaning, and Dean’s necessity to shag
everything with at least half a sex organ.
These don’t detract
from the film itself though, especially if you’re just a casual fan of the
book. The biggest compliment I can pay it, is that it, even in just a small
way, evokes Kerouac’s energy. That excitement for the unexpected, that desire
to explore new physical, emotional and psychological realms, seeps through the
screen. Minutely, but it is present. I can thereby confirm that, if do like, or
love, the novel, it is worth viewing.
It’s a pretty good
film, with an extremely ponderous second act, but with an effective opening,
and a great ending (If you appreciate the story behind Kerouac’s actual writing
of the book back in New York, you’ll get as childishly excited as I was). It
never descends into boredom, nor rises to greatness. I’d qualify it as being about
as good an adaptation of the novel as can be made. And, in this small way, it
can be classed as a minor success. I would still love to see Sofia Coppola have
a go though.
It’s now time to sit
in dread anticipation for the seemingly awful adaptations of The Great Gatsby and Great Expectations...
