Literary adaptations

Why is it that when television and film production companies decide to adapt a nineteenth century novel it tends to be either Charles Dickens or Jane Austen?

I know there has been countless adaptations of Frankenstein, Sherlock Holmes and Dracula, but in most cases, they stray from the originals outrageously that they are almost not worth one’s notice here.  And to notice them would only add weight to my argument anyway.

The countless Dickens and Austen adaptions there have been have kept closely to the originals.  And when they do adapt Dickens, it is usually the same half dozen or so.

If adapting a period drama they should broaden their horizons.

Mary Braddon and Ellen Wood equalled Dickens in sales and popularity (and possibly eclipsed him, if truth were told).  If either of them are adapted, they rather lazily opt for Lady Audley’s Secret or East Lynne.

I am really surprised no one has bothered to adapt Benjamin Disraeli’s Coningsby or Sybil, for instance.  Not only are they powerful dramas and fluffy romances, but the satire is savage and sophisticated and the humour hilarious.

Likewise the tales and novels of Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu.  If you ignore the trifles concerning leprechauns and fairies, much of his other works would make brilliantly dark dramas and sparkling comedies.

And as for Maria Edgeworth, isn’t it about time someone adapted her Castle Rackrent, or Ennui?

I am sure many an actress would kill to portray a character like troubled socialite Lady Delacoeur or independent-minded Belinda Portman, from Belinda.  Both of them are groundbreaking characters; one for making breast cancer a central feature and topical subject in a romance novel; and the other for seriously contemplating an inter-racial marriage as late or early as pre-emancipation 1801 (more groundbreaking, however, was the inter-racial marriage between a footman and a maid, which the author played down as to be practically an insignificant incident hardly worth notice except as perhaps a binary opposition to the central characters).

I could add other authors to this, but I have already exceeded the word length. 

Why I love/hate Charles Dickens

I have a love-hate relationship with Charles Dickens.  The first novel I read of his was Nicholas Nickolby, which I enjoyed thoroughly.  It was dark and disturbing, shot through with savage satire.  It was long and at times heavy going, but I got through it, and looked forward to reading more of his work but not immediately.

I went on to read Bleak House, Domby and Son, and Oliver Twist – enjoyable all in their way.  However, also in their way is their author’s style that makes the experience rather heavy going. 

I would recommend Dickens to a reader but I would caution that he is an acquired taste.

If I were to suggest an introduction to Dickens from his work, I would probably recommend A Tale of Two Cities.  It was the first of his novels produced for weekly serialisation.  His earlier serial novels had been meandering monthly affairs in which he cultivated and indulged his distinctive narrative style.

A Tale of Two Cities remains distinctly Dickensian but there is less of it than usual.  Its length is less challenging than the customary triple deckers of the period, but more than that, Dickens displays an astonishing restraint in his awe-inspiring command of rhetoric, narrative devices and comic capers. 

Compared to the concise style of A Tale of Two Cities, his earlier works begin to look as if they are one-third story and two-thirds padding to fill the allotted magazine space for a monthly serial.

As I say, Dickens is an acquired taste.  He can spin a long and intriguing yarn.  If any young reader was thinking of dabbling in Dickens for a spot of recreational reading, I would suggest trying A Tale of Two Cities first.  One might say that along with Oliver Twist, it is the Dickens-lite of his novels. 

It is an historical romance set in the time of the French Revolution.  It has for its hero the brilliant Sidney Carton.  There is a noble sacrifice.  One could easily be seduced by Dickens deft hand and you may well find yourself hooked upon harder works such as Little Dorrit, possibly the most diabolically Dickensian novel of all.

A Dickens novel is not to be feared but it is something to remain wary of.  I can read only two or three of his novels a decade.

Do not get me wrong, I think Dickens deserves thoroughly his reputation as the greatest of Victorian writers.  His astonishing output was influential and far-reaching.  I acknowledge him as the godfather of pulp; I could probably sing his praises until kingdom come.

However, for all his command of rhetorical devices, narrative frames, campaigning crusades, social reform, and savage and sophisticated satire, I find his humour can be somewhat lowbrow and populist – particularly his odd and sometimes grotesque characters with their comic capers and idiosyncrasies.

If I had to choose between reading a novel by Dickens or by the similarly prolific Mary Braddon or Ellen Wood, I would most probably choose one of the female authors.

However, if it were a choice between Dickens and his tiresome protégé and sometime collaborator Wilkie Collins, then Dickens would win without a doubt.