Disappoint Me

I love feeling disappointed by a film adaptation of a beloved novel. As I leave the theater after two hours of such a good try, I tread the familiar territory of all failures previously experienced to leap the ravine between entertainment medias. The dialogue is rushed. The words are cheapened. A character is overlooked. Another is poorly portrayed. Yet another is altered unimaginably to serve the poor twists required of a new, shorter plot. A precious scene is left out. Another hamfistedly drenched in drawn-out drama, just to make sure you didn't miss the significance of that character's death.

I am never surprised at my disappointment. I accept it with the same quiet resignation that I hope someday to accept my death. Because in the end, I am the winner.

The drive home delights me as I hark back to lines I've treasured. I think hard to recall just how that scene was phrased that made me love it so very much. Yes, the actress certainly got the delivery wrong on that. I'm certain of it. And with growing anticipation, like waking on Christmas morning, I come home.

I welcome off my shelves the beloved copy I own and, as old friends, retire to the sofa to lose myself in the joy of perfect prose. Characters, closer than sisters to me, leap from pages to tease a smile from my careworn eyes. I laugh with them as heartily as though they sat beside me. Together we brave the fears, the dangers, the heartbreaks, and the joys. I walk beside them and smell the salt breeze in the open evening. Each and every time it renews my soul in a way unlike any other. As I close the tome after hours among those dearest to my heart, I almost look forward to another attempt. 

What will Hollywood try next? Which will be the next friend I come home to greet off my shelves? I hope they try some Tolstoy. I haven't visited Anna Karenina in ages.