Nicholas Cage in Spike Jonze’s 2002 film “Adaptation”.
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Is it possible to make a good film about writing?

Too often, films are very inarticulate when talking about books. 

In Wim Wenders’ very earnest new film Every Thing Will Be Fine, James Franco plays a young writer, Tomas, who is involved in a fatal accident and can’t seem to decide if it has affected him badly or not. The inference one is probably expected to draw is that it has had an adverse effect but literary success follows so maybe it was not such a bad thing after all. When challenged at one point in the film about his books after the accident being better, Tomas says, in a scene that might have been culled from a daytime soap: “I’m a writer. With every book I write I hope to get a little better. That’s all there is to it.”

Wenders used to make beautifully wistful films about social misfits, nostalgia and lack of belonging. That was way back in the 1970s and 1980s. These days, a few serviceable documentaries aside, his work is of a far lower stamp. Every Thing Will Be Fine does not quite plumb the depths of his career nadir, The Million Dollar Hotel, a 2000 collaboration with Bono, but it takes itself way too seriously for such an insubstantial film. Part of the problem is Franco in the main role, who despite how much he might say it on screen, does not pass muster as a writer, and certainly not a critically acclaimed one. Franco in real life is a published author, but he is also an artist and a filmmaker, none of which he is particularly accomplished at (his two Faulkner adaptations, As I Lay Dying and The Sound and the Fury, were as pointless as they were bloodless, and thankfully barely noticed by anyone). He is more campus dilettante than Renaissance Man but another problem with Every Thing Will Be Fine is that watching mournful films about writing and writers is just not much fun. Few writers in history, the good as well as the bad, have led interesting lives (as recent events have shown, they are sometimes not even very smart) and their craft is a particularly undramatic one.

Every Thing Will Be Fine (Wim Wenders, 2015)

A Perfect Man (Yann Gozlan, 2015)

Another recent film, the French thriller A Perfect Man, directed by Yann Gozlan, makes writing very dramatic indeed by portraying it as fraudulent. Mathieu, played by Pierre Niney, is a twenty-something aspiring novelist gifted with the industriousness common to budding writers who don’t realise how untalented they are. He knocks off a novel in a hurry, probably without even rewriting it, sends it off to a Left Bank publishing house and receives a suspiciously abrupt rejection letter. He loses faith until, one day when working as a removal man, he stumbles upon a rather gripping war diary left behind by a recently deceased veteran of the Algerian War. Sensing an opportunity, he types it up and submits it as a novel. It is a roaring success, the reviews dythrambique, as the French would say, and he lands an improbably sexy young literary critic (Anna Girardot) for a girlfriend. She grants him access to the French haute bourgeoisie and the royalties on the book allow him to live comfortably until his publishers get antsy about the delay on his “difficult” second novel. Mathieu then starts getting anonymous threatening letters from someone who appears to have seen through his ruse.

A Perfect Man is a silly, enjoyable caper that is deliciously trashy but nonetheless resolves the conundrum of making a none-too-convincing character’s literary success credible. Not that it’s terribly original – its storyline is similar to the 2012 Bradley Cooper film The Words, which in turn has been accused of plagiarising a Swiss novel from a decade earlier. And while A Perfect Man cannot be considered too realistic, it does provide a palpable sense of the fear and shame one gets from going a sustained period without writing.

The better, more enjoyable films about writers tend to externalise the writerly angst in a heightened, almost baroque fashion. John Torturro’s Barton Fink struggles to write on his first job in Hollywood and winds up being framed for a murder. Two of the more accomplished Stephen King adaptations Misery and The Shining play on the anxiety of literary fame and writer’s block respectively. In Rob Reiner’s Misery, bestselling novelist Paul Sheldon (James Caan) falls into the clutches of Annie Wilkes, a deranged fan, played by Kathy Bates. Sheldon is promptly, ahem, “persuaded” as to the folly of killing off his bestselling character Misery Chastain and by immobilising him with some heavy-handed tactics, Annie sees to it that he has no distractions from his writing.

In Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (1981), writer Jack Torrance takes on the job of winter caretaker of the Overlook Hotel in the Rockies, bringing his young family with him. He is convinced that the isolation and the light workload will be conducive to getting to work on his novel. It is a feeling familiar to many writers, convinced that a retreat will be the catalyst to productivity. The reality turns out to be somewhat different with Torrance stalling for weeks on end and eventually being driven to madness, apparently by ghosts of the hotel’s past. Jack works through his writer’s block by typing “all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” repeatedly, and he also takes to writing on the walls of the hotel. Though Stephen King himself disliked the film, it is, in its particular over-the-top fashion a fine parable of thwarted literary effort. The fact that Jack, in his madness, turns on his wife (Shelley Duval) and young son is a barely sublimated portrayal of the writer who allows devotion to their work destroy their relationship with their family.

One of the great over-the-top films of this type is John Carpenter’s Lovecraftian In the Mouth of Madness, a critical and commercial flop on its release in 1995, but which is a brilliantly horrific account of the power of the writer. In this case, the writer, a reclusive horror master Sutter Cane (Jürgen Prochnow) is absent – he has gone missing and his publisher assigns an insurance investigator, played by Sam Neill, to locate him. Cane’s books have been known to induce violent hysteria in some readers and it appears his latest magnum opus, In the Mouth of Madness is the deadliest yet. The film is part satire of the publishing industry, part white-knuckle thrill ride, and is a hugely enjoyable example of a small sub-genre of film, where manipulative writers confuse and terrorise their characters.

In the Mouth of Madness (John Carpenter, 1995)

Alain Resnais’ 1977 collaboration with David Mercer, Providence, stars John Gielgud as an ageing novelist who conceives of his relationships with his family in a series of imagined “drafts”. This approach was later used in a rather clumsier way by Marc Forster in Stranger than Fiction (2006), in which Emma Thompson was the puppet-mistress of a bemused everyman played by Will Ferrell. The recent Norwegian film Blind (directed by Eskil Vogt) features a novelist who has recently lost her eyesight and who projects her fantasies and suspicions through her writing, imagining her husband cheating on her with a younger woman, upon whom, on a whim, she bestows sudden blindness.

Blind (Eskil Vogt, 2015)

More successful still is Spike Jonze and Charlie Kaufman’s Adaptation, in which two screenwriting brothers, a fictional version of Kaufman and his even more fictional identical twin sibling Donald, are living together while pursuing wildly different projects. Charlie is tasked with adapting Susan Orlean’s 1998 non-fiction book The Orchid Thief, about rare-orchid poaching in Florida, while Donald is attending Robert McKee seminars and is pitching a trashy thriller to a Hollywood studio. The pair end up collaborating after Charlie runs aground, and they encounter Orlean, played by Meryl Streep, and the film diverges sharply, or rather desists from attempting to follow, her original text. The screenwriting credits for Adaptation are shared by the two brothers, making Donald Kaufman, along with the Coen brothers’ editor Roderick Jaynes one of the few fictional people to be nominated for an Oscar. It is also one of the few instances where real-life authors have been integrated into the meta-textual fabric of a film (Guillaume Nicloux’s 2014 mockumentary The Kidnapping of Michel Houellebecq is another). One imagines the rarity of this happening is less due to reticence on the part of authors than the fact that most writers are simply not recognisable enough for the conceit to be fully effective.

Adaptation (Spike Jonze, 2002)

One of the main problems with films about writers is that the films are too often very inarticulate when talking about books. This is clear from some of the worse films of the sort, such as biopics of Sylvia Plath (Sylvia – 2003) where Ted Hughes, played by Daniel Craig actually tells the young Plath (Gwyneth Paltrow) to ‘write what you know’, and Iris Murdoch (Iris – 2001) where Murdoch’s lectures are rendered rather gauche by Richard Eyre’s terribly middle-brow direction. Jane Campion has made two of the better literary biopics in An Angel at My Table (1990), in which Kerry Fox plays the troubled New Zealand writer Janet Frame and Bright Star (2009) which dramatises the relationship between John Keats and Fanny Brawne. The first succeeds because it is based directly on the first volume of Frame’s memoirs, the second because it doesn’t concern itself overly with writing, focussing instead on the tale of doomed love.

Elsewhere, even films that have a credible writerly presence, such as Ethan Hawke’s Jesse (Hawke is another real-life writer) in the Before Sunrise trilogy, can’t escape sounding silly when talk turns to books, as a clunky conversation about Jesse’s work demonstrates in the third film Before Midnight. Curtis Hanson’s adaptation of the Michael Chabon novel Wonder Boys on the other hand undercuts the pomposity of the literary world, having a fabulously self-regarding Updikesque character played by Rip Torn (his opening words in a conference speech are “I… am… a… writer”). When Michael Douglas’ creative-writing professor Grady Tripp shows the manuscript of his long-awaited second novel to a student played by Katie Holmes, she is disheartened to find the two-thousand page behemoth is nigh unreadable, bogged down in superfluous details, such as “horses’ dental records”. Wonder Boys is an intelligent but light-hearted campus romp, its setting a site of literary ambition, both hopeful and frustrated (why else do creative writing MFAs exist other than to give a living to impecunious writers, themselves graduates of the same courses?) and it is as funny as the better Woody Allen films about writers (of which there are many, from Love and Death to Midnight in Paris).

Wonder Boys (Curtis Hanson, 2000)

Reprise (Joachim Trier, 2006)

One of the few better “serious” films about writing is the 2006 Norwegian film Reprise, directed by Joachim Trier, and written by Eskil Vogt, director of Blind. The film recounts the contrasting fortunes of two childhood friends, who attain literary fame at around the same time, one of them turning away from it after a bout of depression. Reprise is particularly good at talking about literature, in a way that most films about writers aren’t. Erik, Phillip and their circle sound like real writers in their conversations among themselves and also in their TV appearances, parroting Knausgaardian axioms about creating one’s own literary destiny by living it out. It is as annoyingly pretentious as it is credible but these are convincing young writers, possessed of a certainty they are radically reinventing literature from the cocoon of the world’s most comfortable society. Joachim Trier doesn’t spend any time showing us his heroes’ efforts at writing – the drama takes place at margins of writing – the bravado, the anguish of poor reviews and the withering confidence of the afflicted writer. Reprise is a good film about writers because it recognises that much of the stuff of writing and literary circles is, well, talk. And unlike many other such films, it can talk that talk.

Oliver Farry is an Irish writer, journalist and translator living in Paris.

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Why hasn’t British Asian entertainment built on the Goodness Gracious Me golden age?

It is 20 years since the original radio series of Goodness Gracious Me aired. Over two decades, the UK media portrayal of Asians hasn’t used its success to evolve.

Save for a handful of special one-off episodes, Goodness Gracious Me hasn’t occupied a primetime TV slot for nearly two decades. Yet still it remains the measuring stick for British Asian comedy.

The sketch show, which transitioned seamlessly from radio to screen (it started as a BBC Radio 4 series in 1996), has stood the test of time and is as much a staple of modern British Asian culture as Tupperware or turning up an hour late.

What Goodness Gracious Me did so expertly was to take a set of serious issues facing first, second and now, I suppose, third generation migrants, and turn them on their heads. 

In making light of the pressures of academic expectation or family drama, Goodness Gracious Me wasn’t playing down the poignancy of such concerns; it was raising awareness and combatting their uglier side with humour.

It offered resonance and reassurance in equal measure; it was ok to have an embarrassing uncle who insisted he could get you anything much cheaper, including a new kidney, because other people like you did too.

That Goodness Gracious Me was broadcast on a mainstream channel was also a victory for minorities; it made us feel integrated and, perhaps more importantly, accepted. Against the backdrop of Brexit, what wouldn’t we give for that treatment now?

Really, though, the jewel in Goodness Gracious Me’s crown was its willingness to recognise diversity within diversity. It is a relic of a departed era when discourse on TV around Asians was different, when the broad church of that term was truly represented, rather than reduced to one catchall perception of British Muslims.

Goodness Gracious Me offered insight into the experiences and idiosyncrasies – religious or otherwise – of Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Sri Lankans and even English people. It’s what made it so accessible and, in answering why subsequent programmes have failed to reach similar heights, this is a good starting point.

Without the flexible sketch format, the modern Asian sitcom Citizen Khan has struggled to cover multiple topics, and, by being specifically about a Muslim family, it leaves many non-Muslim Asians wondering: where’s ours?

I hasten to add that I feel plenty of sympathy for the British Muslim community, hounded by tabloid headlines that attack their faith, but it would be disingenuous to suggest that non-Muslim Asians are sitting pretty in 2016 and don’t need a similar level of support in terms of positive public perception.

The current volume of British Asian media products is fairly good. The BBC has its dedicated network, The Good Immigrant essay collection was one of the outstanding reads of the year, and we still have champions of comedy in Romesh Ranganathan and Nish Kumar.

But I think ultimately it comes down to the broadness of appeal, rather than the quantity of products. Goodness Gracious Me was not only able to engage the full spectrum of British Asia; it transcended its target audience and was on terrestrial TV.

The British Asian media on offer now is up against it, released as the country’s attitude towards foreigners completes a full circle back to the same suspicion my grandfather encountered in the Sixties.

Fewer outlets are willing to explore the stretch of what it means to be Asian, either by denying it due consideration in mainstream shows or by peddling their own monolithic observations. The BBC Asian Network, for example, is laudable in its existence, but does little to engage the young Asians who aren’t into techno spliced with Bhangra.

The mainstream representations of Asians in Western film and television that are commissioned, meanwhile, are irritatingly limited and sometimes inaccurate. In an article for the Guardian last year, Sara Abassi lamented the disproportionate appetite for “gritty post-9/11 films about conservative Pakistani families”, and that the researchers of American series Homeland failed to realise that the national language of Pakistan isn’t Arabic.

When I interviewed the actor Himesh Patel for the No Country for Brown Men podcast, he suggested that the answer to re-establishing Asians in mainstream media, both here and in America, was three-fold. The first challenge to overcome was for outlets to acknowledge that not all Asians fit the same religious or cultural profile; the second was to be open to placing Asians in non-Asian specific products to better reflect their presence in society.

Patel, who is best known for his portrayal of Tamwar Masood in the soap opera EastEnders, made his third recommendation based on this role. He felt that characters should be written with only their personality in mind, making the ethnicity of the actor who plays them incidental. Tamwar’s awkwardness but underlying kindness, Patel said, was what defined him – not his skin colour.

Goodness Gracious Me, though a primarily Asian show and a comedy at that, actually taught some salient lessons about representation. It succeeded in providing a window into a multiplicity of cultures, but at the same time wasn’t a total slave to the politics of identity – several of the 100-plus characters needn’t have been Asian at all. It was reflexive to the times we lived in and a perfect advertisement for empathy. That is why we still talk about it today.

Rohan Banerjee is a Special Projects Writer at the New Statesman. He co-hosts the No Country For Brown Men podcast.