I discovered this bookin 1992, effectively ending what had previously been a promising “Book It!”career. I read this book no fewer than 12 times that year, often rereadingchapters several times, just as I would years later when I tried to study whileintoxicated. The reasons for my infatuation can be summed up thusly: 1) ItsFaustian plot revolved around a regular guy who sells his soul to the devil tobecome a star baseball player. 2) My baseball skills were once described by myolder brother as “outstanding physical comedy.” 3) For a 9-year-old, I had anodd fixation with the Prince of Darkness.
Satan, to my pre-cynicalmind, was as real and tangible as my mom or my dog or Jesus. He wassimultaneously diabolical and debonair, and his possible existence (and, byextension, his inherent awesomeness) dominated my thoughts. And, if myscholarly understanding of him was correct, it was totally plausible that hemight have a sporting interest, since I already knew that he had spawned thelion's share of my hidden cassette tapes and all of the Clinton White House.Naturally, I had to see Damn Yankees.
“Underwhelming” isn'treally the word here, because 9-year-olds don't know how to be underwhelmed. Iwas just confused. The Satan that Iknew didn't sing or dance, and certainly not both at the same time. The Satan Iknew had balls for days. On a whim, my Satan could instantly morph into aserpent or an aging Vikings quarterback or a chili-cheese dog. But this Satan?He was effete and more smug than scary, like a baby-boomer Kevin Spacey. Iwouldn't lend this guy a pencil, let alone sell him my goddamn soul.
But, inexplicably to me,this show won awards. And apparently a lot of people liked itsmart people, whoprobably used words like “nuanced” and “spellbinding” and a bunch of othersthat mean fuck-all to a 9-year-old. A slew of stage revivals followed, and whenit's released as a film again (with Jim Carrey as the devil), I'll attend justbecause I like wasting money and hating things.
The reason for my strongfeelings is this: Whenever I think about this story, and in each subsequentattempt to reread what was once a book so vital that I purchased a copy solelyfor the bathroom, I don't see the faces and scenes my young brain invented. Isee spinning, whistling cartoons. I see an unfathomable bastardization of myimagined universe. In short, I see exactly what the director wanted me to.
All this, of course, isa loser's lament, and a pretty poor one at that; after all, if so many filmsweren't based on great books, they would probably still be making insufferablesequels to Rambo and Rocky and Die Hard. Even most movies adapted from children's stories areusually pretty excellent, but of course what's at issue isn't the actualquality of the movies themselves. The issue is undeniable: When a directortells a children's story in the way that it exists in his or her imagination,the film representation replacesor manipulates, at the very leastthe imageswe created for ourselves.
And this goes beyondmerely thinking Tom Hanks is bizarrely miscast as Robert Langdon, or thatseeing Angelina Jolie in Tomb Raidercompromises the way I play my Xbox; indirectly, movie adaptations of children'sbooks likely work to streamline the way an enormous number of people rememberstories that were originally very personal and formative. When we watch Narnia, and experience thecomputer-generated Aslan, what happens to the world we created?
Obviously, there's anelephant in the room, or, more specifically, Wild Things in the room. Two months ago, one of the mostuniversally loved children's books of all time was brought to the big screen,and no onemyself includedhas anything negative to say about it. However, abasic irony is glaring: The singular theme of the storythat a child'simagination is impossible to reign in or definemakes for some cumbersometail-chasing. What better way to convey a child's indefinable imagination thanby defining it? I'm not saying it's wrong, or even unwarranted. I'm just sayingthat no one will ever view the book the same way they once did.
Or the way they willnext year's Alice in Wonderland, broughtto you by repeat offender and all-around kook Tim Burton. Or CuriousGeorge, or The Polar Express, orthe entire Dr. Seuss filmography, or any of the other dozens of adaptationsthat, for better or worse, have collectivized our personal experiences intoneat 90-minute packages. In fact, if you look up the most popular children'sbooks of all time, it's hard to find any that haven't already been or won'tsoon be adapted. Except for oneand for that one, I'm thankful.
I'll always have you, Everyone Poops.
