Last week I wrote about the daggers that rip through an author’s heart when an actor perceived as all wrong is cast in the movie version of their book. But as much as it hurts to see a beloved character misrepresented, it may hurt even more when changes to tone and plot produce a movie the author feels buries (or even loses) the original intent of the work.

Below are several authors who would rather you read their book than watch the movie:

Daphne du Maurier thoroughly disliked Alfred Hitchcock’s film version of her short story “The Birds,” despite the fact that the director had adapted two previous films from her work (Jamaica Inn and Rebecca). In her mind, Hitchcock’s decision to set the film in northern California instead of the wild, isolated Cornish coast she wrote about tamed the stark elemental tone of her work, warming it beyond effectiveness.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, Stephen King hated Stanley Kubrick’s take on The Shining, because he found the film’s tone too emotionally cold. He also felt that the movie downplayed the novel’s supernatural elements to focus instead on domestic tragedy, which had never been his intent. He later described the film as “a fancy car without an engine.”

Ernest Hemingway detested the film version of A Farewell to Arms, claiming that it put too much emphasis on the romantic elements of the novel and not enough on the depiction of wartime brutality.

Winston Groom found the film version of Forrest Gump overly sentimental and depoliticized. Much to his displeasure, plot points from the book were omitted, and some language and sex scenes were sanitized.

Ken Kesey (One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest) wanted the film to be narrated from Chief Bromden’s perspective, as it is in the book, and was upset when told that a movie which focused on the point of view of a deaf, mute Indigenous American would be impossible to sell to any studio. Although Kesey could not bring himself to watch the movie for a very long time because of this change, he eventually conceded that he was glad the film had been made.

Sometimes a film adaptation inspires more of a reaction from an author than mere loathing. It’s one thing to disagree with a movie interpretation of your work, quite another to carry the remorse Anthony Burgess felt regarding the film adaptation of A Clockwork Orange. The film’s gratuitous violence angered Burgess, as did the fact that the book’s redemptive ending was changed. He regretted that “[his book] became known as the raw material for a film which seemed to glorify sex and violence.” In Burgess’s case, the film did more than dismay him: it made him wish that he’d never written the book at all.

Sometimes a bad experience with screen rights has a lasting impact on an author’s future choices. Back in the 1940s, J.D. Salinger was eager to sell Samuel Goldwyn the film rights to his short story “Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut.” Salinger changed his mind when the movie, retitled My Foolish Heart, debuted to scathing reviews. Worse, his story had been turned into a melodrama that bore little resemblance to what he’d written. Salinger never again permitted film adaptations of his works, despite repeated overtures by various producers. (His bestseller The Catcher in the Rye has been called the “holy grail of screen rights.”)

P.L. Travers (Mary Poppins), too, was so upset by the sugary movie that replaced her darker book that she refused to allow any future screen adaptations of her work. Her displeasure spilled into other versions as well: when British producer Sir Cameron Mackintosh spoke to her about a staged musical of Mary Poppins, Travers initially refused. She did not agree to the project until Mackintosh promised that no one connected with the film version–in fact, no Americans at all–would be involved in the development phase of the stage production.

It’s possible that authors can never be satisfied with any interpretation of their book other than their own. Can anyone ever love and know our characters, our stories, our plots as completely as we do? I have no idea how well I’d handle suggestions regarding film adaptations of my work.

But I’d love the chance to find out.

“I was deeply disappointed.”

It’s “crummy.”

Ouch. Hardly the responses movie directors want after a screening. Worse, these comments didn’t come from random viewers, but from the authors of the books on which each film was based. (Which author said which is noted at the end of this post.)

Although authors dream of sharing their stories on the big screen, it’s also a scary proposition. Most authors retain very little control over the film version of their work. This isn’t for lack of trying: E.L. James (Fifty Shades of Grey) sought approval of actors, production staff, and production decisions, yet still walked away with only script approval and very little creative control; P.L. Travers (Mary Poppins) had script approval, but her edits were mostly ignored; Ayn Rand hated the final version of The Fountainhead even though she herself had written the screenplay. All the legal wrangling in the world can’t change the fact that for an author, giving up any amount of control over a book is an emotional event. It’s no wonder that so much can–and does–disappoint.

That disappointment can start with the casting of characters who are almost like family to the authors who created them. Here are a few instances where authors longed to save their characters from the Hollywood treatment:

Despite their friendship, P.L. Travers felt that Julie Andrews’s Mary Poppins was a “betrayal” of the character. As written, “Poppins” is plain, odd, and a little frightening. At least Travers didn’t fault Andrews for the more saccharine finished product: “[Andrews] was quite prepared to put on a black wig, with a knob of hair at the back … But to her surprise, as well as mine, Disney turned [Poppins] into a very pretty girl, which really loses the point.”

Stephen King would have preferred Jon Voight, Christopher Reeve, or Michael Moriarty in the role of The Shining‘s Jack Torrance. He feared that casting Jack Nicholson made the character psychopathic from the start instead of allowing a descent into madness. King also objected to Shelley Duvall as Wendy, feeling that she projected too much emotional vulnerability to play a character he’d always considered a blonde cheerleader type.

Poor Jack Nicholson. Ken Kesey hated on him, too, and would have cast Gene Hackman over him as McMurphy in One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

Anne Rice (Interview with The Vampire) had plenty to say when Tom Cruise was cast in the role of Lestat. She thought the choice “bizarre”: “[He is] … no more my Vampire Lestat than Edward G. Robinson is Rhett Butler.” First choices for the role were Daniel Day Lewis (who didn’t want to play a vampire) and Jeremy Irons (who was deemed too old).

Roald Dahl (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory) lobbied hard for comedian/writer Spike Milligan to play Willy Wonka, and found Gene Wilder’s interpretation “pretentious” and “bouncy.”

Ian Fleming was horrified when 31-year-old Scotsman Sean Connery was cast as James Bond, considering the rough-edged actor the antithesis of his smooth, refined protagonist. Fleming preferred either Cary Grant or David Niven in the role.

Truman Capote condemned Breakfast at Tiffany’s as “the most miscast” film he’d ever seen. The Holly Golightly of his book was a tough character, nowhere near an Audrey Hepburn type. He’d wanted the role to go to his friend, Marilyn Monroe, and later said that Jodie Foster would have been perfect to play Holly as he’d written her.

So, how did these casting choices work out?

Julie Andrews and Jack Nicholson (One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest) won Academy Awards for best actress/actor. Audrey Hepburn was nominated for an Academy Award. Gene Wilder earned a Golden Globe nomination for best actor. In addition, a few authors had a change of heart: Anne Rice ultimately praised Tom Cruise’s performance as Lestat, and Sean Connery’s James Bond became so iconic that Ian Fleming started incorporating aspects of the actor’s movie portrayal into his books.

Print and film are very different media. Should authors simply accept the fact that what they create on paper may not translate so smoothly to the screen? Should they trust the visions of those who may be more knowledgeable about what works in film?

Casting is one thing … what happens when changes are made to plot and story tone?

To be continued next week…

Quote Attributions: 1. P.L. Travers; 2. Stephen King; 3. Roald Dahl

(This post was originally published on Late Last Night Books blogsite in December 2013 — think of it as a summer rerun.)

When I was a kid, I hated even the smell of coffee. The worst part of shopping at A&P with my dad was lining up to pay, because there was a coffee grinder at the end of each check-out line. Most shoppers considered it a perk (sorry) to bring home freshly ground beans. I just wanted to hold my nose and bolt for the door as quickly as possible.

My coffee aversion lasted until sometime during college, when I started drinking instant with sugar and fake creamer. I’m not sure this even counts as real coffee. Thankfully, that phase was over in a hot minute, and I’ve been making up for lost time ever since. I’m not exactly an addict, but I can see it from here.

I used to attribute the change to taste buds, because I totally believed the line that taste buds change every seven years. It turns out this isn’t true. We’re born with approximately ten thousand taste buds which are replaced every two weeks or so — approximately 10% of the cells inside them actually turn over each day. Over time, the number of taste buds we have starts to decrease. This means that many of the flavors that seem too strong when we’re kids become easier to tolerate as we age, leading to an acceptance of more sophisticated flavors as we reach our twenties.

This supports my college-era coffee-awakening but does not explain how I drank the sweet California swill that got passed off as Chablis in the late 1970s. Science says my taste buds were old enough to know better.

Of course, liking certain foods/drink is attached to more than science. My love for coffee dovetailed with the new experiences and camaraderie that came after I left home and began to navigate the world on my own. Even a poor student could afford the bottomless pot of fresh coffee that appeared magically on the table through late-night exam cram sessions at HoJo’s. The boring survival job where staying awake was hard even if sleep happened the night before was fun when accompanied by coffee and co-workers who quickly became friends. Long conversations with new acquaintances ran deeper when bolstered by caffeine.

This is the subtext I pass on to my characters when they’re doing that drinking-making-buying thing. Coffee in my books is more than a prop. It helps set a mood, provides insight into a character’s state of mind and comfort level. Even non-coffee-drinkers recognize the social significance of coffee-fueled gatherings in our culture (I’m looking at you, Central Perk). When my characters share a cup of coffee, they’re usually lowering their defenses and letting someone in.

And if coffee doesn’t do the trick, there’s always wine.

Although it was obvious to me that dolls were alive, the outside world did not agree. So, I set up a series of tests to prove it. There was the “location” test, where I noted each doll’s specific place and pose before leaving the room (they were so good at staying still!). When I returned–usually abruptly, aiming for the surprise factor–one or more of my dolls had always neglected to snap back to her original pose. There was the “hunger” test. Since dolls never got to eat, it made sense that when left alone, they’d be hard-pressed to resist a cookie strategically placed in the middle of the room. Sure enough, careful examination always revealed a discreet nibble or two, more than enough proof for me, but maybe not enough to convince the doubters.

Oh, how I wanted to convince the doubters…

I don’t think I was a weird kid (I’ll leave that to you). Most kids are like this, able to intertwine “real” and “not real” at will. Those boundaries solidify for each of us in different ways for different reasons. Fortunately for me, I’m a writer. This has allowed me to keep the boundaries flexible for a long time.

Each of my three published books involves the supernatural. As with the thought of dolls parading about in my presence, I’m not comfortable writing horror. I lean more toward allowing a paranormal layer to co-exist with physical reality in a matter-of-fact way. For some of my characters, this reflects the world as they understand it to be. Other characters are not as accepting–nor should they be if there’s any hope of moving a plot along.

I’m used to my characters’ responses to the unseen in my books. I was less prepared for the reactions of some of my readers. For a very small number of them, the supernatural element in my stories isn’t simply unbelievable or even merely fictional…it’s downright offensive, a siege on their five senses and everything they know to be true. For these readers, that boundary between tangible and intangible has progressed beyond solid to something utterly impassable. They let me know that not only have I failed to pull the wool over their eyes, they’re insulted that I even tried.

Humans come in layers. We can rotate between belief and doubt over the same issue(s) throughout our lives. We’re also capable of believing and doubting simultaneously. This was true for me every time I left the room before each doll test. I’d announce loudly to the dolls that I knew very well they were alive, so if they wanted to hang out or eat a cookie or do whatever it was living dolls did, their secret was safe with me. I knew that if by some sad chance the dolls weren’t alive, they wouldn’t hear me anyway. But if they were alive…they might reveal secrets I’d never know if I didn’t take the chance and ask.

Even if the doll tests didn’t turn out exactly as I’d hoped, they did help put into perspective some of the unexplainable events that followed in my life. I’ve learned that not everything has to be explained. I’ve also learned that there’s no point in trying to convince those who doubt.

Best of all, I know that suspending disbelief is worth the risk.