i actually liked woman in the dunes a good amount (book), but i liked the movie better, i think! i couldn’t finish the face of another (book), it was interesting at first but grew boring/tedious pretty fast
Going askance but the only instance I can think of where Book = Film is Being There. The film has the best ending of all time (better than Diggstown, which someone once very very seriously claimed had the best ending of all time, which is just silly).
I thought it was one of his better short stories, although it’s not at the level of something like VALIS or Ubik. It thought the plot was well executed, and at the very least it’s entertaining. But the story is really just the twists — it’s not nearly as ambitious his better work.
The movie is pure glorious Verhoeven trash. It isn’t good by any means, but it is an awful amount of fun.
see, while i love the shining as a film, i wouldn’t necessarily say it’s “better” than the book because they’re so different. the shining was kubrick creeping us out with his total mastery of tone, the shining book was stephen king writing about his alcoholism with some incidental scares. i like them both for very different reasons.
Even if Brother Strugatskys “Roadside Picnic” is pretty funny and stuff, but Tarkovsky did something crazy again. Even if writers (Lem, Struatskys) not really appreciated his interpretations of own works, but: Stalker is genious in the freaky way.
I think the whole Stephen King fascination with the inanimate becoming alive and scary is kind of frustrating. I mean, making the human actor entirely the one responsible is, to me, the scariest aspect of Kubrick’s version — the novel feels like it cops out, by comparison. Not a bad book but not better than the movie.
I think The Virgin Suicides is a fantastic adaptation, and really close to the book… but the pacing near the end of the film ramps up, leaving out a lot of the decay and horror of the girls wasting away. It’s a close race, but in the end, I choose the book.
The recent New Directions publication of the English translation of László Krasznahorkai’s novel Sátántangó was in no way equal to or above the Hungarian director Béla Tarr’s film offering of the same. Not that the novel was not good, it was. But who could ever compete with the magnificent Béla Tarr film production?