Giles Foden, whose novel was turned into a Bafta-winning film, reflects on the dangers of being adapted
The Guardian, Saturday February 17 2007
It's been a good year for those lowliest of scribes, adaptors of books into films. Earlier this week, one of the most graceful of that crew, Peter Morgan, won a Bafta for his adaptation of my novel The Last King of Scotland, along with his co-writer Jeremy Brock.
Why lowly? I think so, at any rate, because adaptors of books are in an even worse bind than original scriptwriters. Not only do they suffer the usual ego-depressing ignominies that the film industry, like a prison chef serving sour dumplings, puts on all writers' plates, they also have to contend with the fact that, however brilliant their script may be, it's always a second-hand production.
This is why, despite having written the odd screenplay, I would never wish to adapt any of my own fiction. Quite apart from the awfulness of being told what to do by producers, again and again, I couldn't stomach being in a parasitical relationship to myself. It would be like being a tongue-louse on your own tongue.
I don't mean in any way to denigrate the adaptor's art, in particular not that of Morgan and Brock, two British masters whose next work Hollywood eagerly awaits. I feel very lucky to have been subjected to their talents: it is rather as if one has visited a very superior pair of masseurs at a Turkish bath and come out with a torso like Daniel Craig's. How could one not feel grateful?
Novels by Ian McEwan, Philip Pullman, Monica Ali are all in the process of being adapted for film. But producers must also give original screenwriters their head. The reason they go for adaptations is a fair one - to mitigate risk with a known cultural quantity - but the danger is that a whole generation of scriptwriters will fail to produce original work.
As for authors, they should remain wary. By and large I have had a good experience of adaptation, but not everybody can say the same. A few weeks ago I wrote a piece for the magazine of the Society of Authors advising its members on what to put in book-to-film contracts (answer: everything). One of many responses was from the writer Roger Lewis, whose The Life and Death of Peter Sellers came out as a movie in 2004. He had an awful time being adapted: in his letter he says he was not invited to any premieres and, in interviews, the director and cast described the film as constructed from "a variety of sources" and not exclusively from Lewis's book.
I heard of a similar case recently in which a writer was refused permission to use an image from the film on his tie-in edition. But these are actually the minor dangers to book writers. The real danger - and it doesn't just apply to authors - is the way screen-derived celebrity culture can seep into your head. Attending the Baftas, I was dumbfounded by the potential for displays of ruthless vanity.
