Writing these words on a Greyhound speeding down I-95 toward New York City, I find myself thinking of Dean Moriarty. Having first encountered On the Road in my younger and more naive days, it struck a chord of recognition inside me. It represented the possibility of having the wind blow through my hair as I sped down the road of a life lived to its fullest. Rebelling against the voices of adults who decried it as corruptive, I took the tale full of drugs, sex and violence and used it to my own selfish ends, imagining myself in the shoes of Kerouac’s vitally alive characters.
It would be difficult to make any claims of irrelevance on behalf of this novel, as this year has seen a resurgence of interest in On the Road. The collected literary and personal effects of Kerouac have been acquired by the New York Public Library and will soon be available for avid fans and researchers to plumb through. An equally saddening piece of news is the sale of the original manuscript of On the Road to the owner of the Indianapolis Colts for $2.4 million. The 120-foot long scroll consisting of the entire text in one long paragraph is now in the hands of a man who arguably has no concern for its societal value. This artifact will not likely be available for public view anytime soon.
My dismay over this news stems from the fact that this book was a staple of my young adulthood, as it was for many others. On the Road was able to perform some sort of black magic, enchanting youths to identify with Dean, Sal and their assorted pals. Even today, readers develop a desire to live life with reckless abandon, to set out on some foolish mission across the country in a car to find themselves. Such a thing seemed as American as anything could: the use of this country’s solidly constructed cars on its stretching roadways to undertake a grueling cross-continent jaunt. Responsibilities, obligations and expectations faded away under the weight of the ultimate romantic journey.
This outpouring of emotion only works because of the simple effectiveness of Kerouac’s writing. He sums up the core of day-to-day existence, talking, living, desiring, but imbues it with the essence of energy necessary to push it past any semblance of ordinariness.
If you haven’t gathered by now, I am pretty passionate about this book. Because of this, it saddens me to report that On the Road will soon be made into a major motion picture coming to a 25-screen multiplex near you. Francis Ford Coppola, who has been knocking them out of the park lately, has owned the movie rights to the novel for several years. Finally, he has found someone that he deems worthy of directing it—Joel Schumacher. That’s right, Mr. Schumacher of such gems as Flatliners, 8 MM, and the last two Batman films. This is the man who destroyed a perfectly good comic book franchise by making the Caped Crusader colorful, cheesy and adorned with nipples and a codpiece. On the Road will star Brad Pitt (Fight Club) and Billy Crudup (Almost Famous). It has been written by Russell Banks, author of Affliction and The Sweet Hereafter. While I am blinded by the pure wattage of star power on display, it simultaneously depresses me as I lament on how bereft Hollywood is of any originality.
While the Dream Factory has always been dependent on novels for a certain amount of their scripts, there are some works that have never been touched. One prime example is Catcher in the Rye, which if adapted into a movie would be one of Hollywood’s worst signs of ignorance to what comprises good art. The obvious difficulty in such adaptations is the foundational difference between literature and film. Sure, they are both, for the most part, narratively driven. Literature, however, exists solely in our minds. Yes, we can hold a book in our hands, but the magic takes place in our mind as we imagine the characters living their lives. Film is simply different. It is a visual medium. The ironic thing is that movies are a direct opposite to books. Film is an illusion, still pictures run at 24 frames per second, tricking us into believing we are seeing life on a big white screen. We cannot hold a movie in our hands, but often the images wedge themselves into our minds forever. These images are someone else’s, though. They can never measure up to the movie in our heads, the ones that develop from our reading of letters on a page. These images are completely ours, the most personal artistic collaboration between two people that there is.
That is why On the Road, no matter how good of a movie, will be dirt compared to Kerouac’s immortal words. They can’t do it. It’s going to be a mess. Schumacher is going to convince Brad Pitt to wear some kinky outfit while driving to California. It’s going to be some crazy, postmodern thing where the characters are reading On the Road while they are acting out the events of the book. Can you see Tyler Durden reciting in a voice-over Kerouac’s exhortation to life? Somebody please stop them. I am too weak from crying.
