Books vs. Movies: Queenie

Queenie by Candice Carty-Williams made waves when it was released in 2019, exploring the nuanced experience of a Jamaican-British woman navigating life in London. The recent Hulu adaptation gives us an opportunity to examine how stories transform across mediums, especially when the author serves as show runner.

The core story remains consistent in both versions – we follow 25-year-old Queenie Jenkins through a messy breakup with her white boyfriend Tom, as she spirals into a series of harmful sexual encounters while dealing with workplace discrimination and family trauma. What makes this adaptation particularly fascinating is how the changes enhance rather than diminish the original story.

One significant difference comes in how Queenie's relationship with Tom unfolds. The novel begins after their breakup, while the TV series shows us the relationship's dissolution in real-time. This structural change allows viewers to witness the emotional impact of their separation more vividly. When Queenie discovers she had a miscarriage in both versions, the TV adaptation creates a more immediate connection between this traumatic event and the breakdown of her relationship, adding layers to her emotional journey.

The portrayal of Queenie's coping mechanisms differs subtly between versions. While both show her engaging in self-destructive sexual behavior, the TV series takes more time to show her attempting alternative coping strategies first. This progression feels more natural and helps viewers understand her descent isn't immediate but gradual, making her character more three-dimensional.

Perhaps the most meaningful divergence comes in the story's resolution. The book concludes with Queenie single but surrounded by her support system, emphasizing her journey to self-reliance. The TV series pairs her with a new, more compatible partner while focusing on her healing relationship with her mother. Additionally, the book has Queenie return to her newspaper job in a better position, while the TV Queenie quits to forge her own path in journalism. Both endings offer different yet equally empowering visions of what healing can look like.

The way Queenie processes her childhood trauma also varies between versions. The novel presents a somewhat accelerated path to forgiveness with her mother, while the series takes a more measured approach. For many viewers and readers, the TV treatment feels more authentic to the gravity of maternal abandonment, showing that forgiveness is complex and takes genuine time and effort.

What makes this adaptation so successful is Carty-Williams' involvement as show runner. The changes feel purposeful rather than compromised, suggesting these adjustments represent another vision of the same story rather than a dilution. In many ways, the TV series and novel complement each other, offering different perspectives on Queenie's journey that, when taken together, create a more complete picture of this complex character.

Whether you prefer Queenie finding fulfillment in independence or seeing her take a chance on a new, healthier relationship, both versions deliver a powerful message about the importance of self-worth and healing. This adaptation stands as an example of how books and their visual counterparts can exist not in competition, but in conversation.

 

 

Books vs. Movies: Rosemary's Baby

Ira Levin's "Rosemary's Baby" and its 1968 film adaptation directed by Roman Polanski stand as cornerstones of horror fiction and cinema. However, as Orlando expertly dissects in this podcast episode, the differences between these two versions reveal something far more unsettling than demonic possession – the subtle portrayal of psychological manipulation and abuse.

The novel "Rosemary's Baby" provides readers with a rich internal landscape of Rosemary's thoughts and feelings that simply couldn't translate to the screen. This crucial difference transforms our understanding of her character from potentially "hysterical" (as Polanski reportedly wanted viewers to question) to a woman systematically isolated from her support systems. The book explicitly shows that Rosemary's Catholic family has cut ties with her after her move to New York, leaving her vulnerable with only her friend Hutch as real support – a detail largely missing from the film adaptation.

Perhaps most disturbing is how the book portrays Guy, Rosemary's husband, as overtly manipulative and controlling from the beginning. He constantly belittles her, dismisses her opinions, and works to separate her from her friends. The pivotal scene where Guy has sex with an unconscious Rosemary (actually allowing Satan to impregnate her) is followed by his chilling comment that it was "fun in a necrophile sort of way." While this line appears in both versions, the book gives us Rosemary's horrified internal reaction, highlighting the violation she experiences. The film glosses over this moment without examining its deeply disturbing implications.

The pacing differences between the two mediums create another significant contrast. The film moves rapidly between scenes, sometimes failing to establish the necessary emotional groundwork for pivotal moments. For instance, when Rosemary declares "You don't even look at me anymore," film viewers haven't actually witnessed this behavior from Guy, while book readers have experienced multiple examples of his growing detachment. This fast pace undercuts the gradual unraveling of Rosemary's sense of reality and safety that makes the novel so effective.

A fascinating aspect of this comparison involves how the ending differs in subtle but important ways. The film's ambiguous conclusion, where Rosemary appears to accept her role as mother to Satan's child, contrasts with the book's more nuanced resolution. In the novel, we witness Rosemary's thought process as she contemplates killing the baby or herself before ultimately deciding to raise the child with the intention of guiding him away from evil. This internal journey gives her character agency that the film version lacks, transforming her from passive victim to a woman making a difficult choice within impossible circumstances.

The podcast discussion also reveals something particularly troubling about Polanski's directorial intent. According to Orlando's research, Polanski deliberately wanted the audience to question whether Rosemary was simply experiencing hysteria rather than actually being manipulated by a satanic cult. This approach misses what makes Levin's novel truly horrifying – not the supernatural elements, but the realistic portrayal of how an abusive partner can isolate, gaslight, and control their victim. The real villain of "Rosemary's Baby" isn't Satan; it's Guy, who sells his wife's body and autonomy for career advancement.

 

 

Books vs. Movies: Doctor Sleep

In the world of adaptations, few tales spark as intense discussions as those penned by Stephen King. In this episode, I delve into "Doctor Sleep," the sequel to King's iconic "The Shining," exploring both the novel and its 2019 film adaptation directed by Mike Flanagan. As I unravel the layers of the story, I discover the challenges of remaining faithful to a novel while appealing to a cinematic audience. The narrative plumbs the depths of trauma, addiction, and the supernatural, weaving a rich tapestry of characters and chilling experiences.

The plot centers on Danny Torrance, now an adult grappling with the ghosts of his past, including his battles with addiction and the horrifying memories of the Overlook Hotel. Alongside him is Abra Stone, a young girl possessing a powerful form of "the Shining." As Danny adopts the mantle of "Dr. Sleep," offering comfort to terminally ill patients, the stakes rise when the sinister group known as the True Knot targets Abra. This captivating, yet dark premise lays the groundwork for examining both the novel and its cinematic counterpart, highlighting their respective strengths and weaknesses.

One of the most notable points of divergence between the novel and film is the portrayal of characters like Dick Halloran. The film adaptation presents a stark contrast, comparing how he exists in both mediums. While the book showcases Halloran as a living mentor, the film introduces a different interpretation where he appears as a ghost, which offers a fascinating yet troubling lens through which to view character development and narrative direction. We also touch on the significant plot points favoring the adaptation, such as the speed with which events are presented and the intensity of certain scenes, particularly around child endangerment issues.

An intriguing aspect of my discussion revolves around the choices made by filmmaker Mike Flanagan to appeal to both King fans and those who cherish Stanley Kubrick's classic film. King's apprehension towards Kubrick's adaptation of "The Shining" looms large over this new film, as Flanagan faced the challenge of reconciling the differences while weaving in new elements. My conversation explores how he sought to provide closure to fans of "The Shining" while adhering to the core themes of "Doctor Sleep."

In exploring the various adaptations, I foster discussions about not just the narratives but also the exploration of trauma, the weigh of familial bonds, and the impacts of isolation. Further examination brings readers into the realm of supernatural elements manifesting in both adaptations, especially regarding Abra's role in confronting the True Knot. The conclusion of the episode emphasizes the importance of well-crafted endings in literature and film, illustrating how the resolution in "Doctor Sleep" serves as a form of redemption not only for Danny but also for King in terms of adaptations.

As I rate both the novel and film, I recognize that while the cinematic experience might appeal to a broader audience, the depth of King's writing resonates deeply with readers. The episode culminates with my concluding thoughts on King’s enduring legacy and the evolving landscape of book adaptations. Fans of the horror genre, as well as viewers intrigued by adaptation contrasts, will find this exploration informative and enriching.