When I take a bald look at my most private thoughts and behaviors, my need for psychological help becomes super-duper striking.
the opinion that movie-goers will be “misled” into buying Baz Luhrmann’s high-energy, bass-thumping carnival version of Gatsby at the expense of ever reading the novel is a needlessly pessimistic one. Everyone has a mind of her own, knows that this thing has a literary history predating 2013, and has the agency to read it; Luhrmann isn’t force-feeding his version to anyone.
The day people start treating film and literature as two separate animals with two separate ends will be the day we stop being chronically dissatisfied with one or the other.
God! No one’s doing anything to this book by filming it. It’s been consigned to posterity, relatively untouched, in print. Our beloved classic will still exist forever and ever and ever and ever.
Can we please just draw a line between the two in our brains, and shut the fuck up please?
Judith Slaying Holofernes - Artemisia Gentileschi