{"id":59222,"date":"2013-09-10T16:59:13","date_gmt":"2013-09-10T20:59:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=59222"},"modified":"2013-09-11T12:48:30","modified_gmt":"2013-09-11T16:48:30","slug":"spoiler-alert","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/10\/spoiler-alert\/","title":{"rendered":"Spoiler Alert"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"brooke_gauzylarge\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Here\u2019s what happens when Hollywood makes a really bad movie out of your novel. You cringe, you pretend you don\u2019t care, you laugh when they play the bad movie\u2019s theme song at weddings you attend, and you wait for the whole thing to pass. And when it finally has, when your book has at last outlived the bad memories and associations of the first movie and it is making its leisurely literary way out in the world, without any connection to the bad movie, someone decides to make an even worse movie out of it.<\/p>\n

I wrote Endless Love<\/em> between the years 1975 and 1979, beginning it as my first marriage unraveled. In that stretch of time, I lived on unemployment, house-sitting for semifamous people in their isolated country houses in New England towns too small to have things like post offices. When my unemployment ran out I moved back to New York and worked for a small publishing company owned by a drug addict. I married again and I became a father and I sold my book for what was a small sum in those days and for what today wouldn\u2019t buy two courtside tickets to a Knicks game. The marriage was good, the baby was great, and the book succeeded to the point where I had to take to my bed with a mysterious crippling illness. Eventually, it was diagnosed as sciatica, which couldn\u2019t even begin to disguise itself as anything other than a nervous system overload. <\/p>\n

The baby and I vied for my wife\u2019s attention, both of us learning to crawl around the same time. By the time the movie deal was becoming a reality, I was more or less back on my feet, but keeping a wary distance from my own success and the people who had their fingers in it.<\/p>\n

Franco Zeffirelli will probably be most enduringly known as a talented, maximalist director of opera, both on stage and on film, but what drew the studio to him was he had directed a version of Romeo and Juliet<\/em> that was successful, and the thinking seemed to go like this: He\u2019s already done one movie about two young people in love and made it a hit, and he even did it in iambic pentameter, so what more logical choice could there be?<\/p>\n

I was invited to dinner in the Fifth Avenue penthouse Franco was using as his East Coast base of operations and as I listened to him denounce the New York Times<\/em> as a communist newspaper, twinges of the old sciatica rippled through me like distant lightning.\u00a0<\/p>\n

I visited the set a couple of times, conversing with Brooke Shields, who was polite and preoccupied. (She came out of her protective shells for a moment, showing proper teenage pique when her mother, after looking at her appraisingly, said, \u201cBrooke, your face is getting boxy.\u201d) Months later, the Shieldses were there for the New York premiere, as was I, watching glumly along with my wife, Elizabeth Taylor, and Diana Ross, as the film went on for what felt like an eternity. I was frankly surprised that something so tepid and conventional could have been fashioned from my slightly unhinged novel about the glorious destructive violence of erotic obsession, but I\u2019d been warned. Riding to the premiere with Zeffirelli, he reached across the expanse of his hired car and, patting my knee, said, \u201cScott, this movie is going to be like a knife in your heart.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n

He was already on his way back to Positano by the time the reviews rolled in.<\/p>\n

*<\/center><\/p>\n
\n

\u201cAnyone unfamiliar with the story of Scott Spencer\u2019s novel is bound to be mystified by Franco Zeffirelli\u2019s latest film, which reduces Endless Love<\/em> to a whimperingly latter-day Romeo and Juliet<\/em> with a little pyromania thrown in.\u201d\u00a0\u2014Janet Maslin, in the New York Times<\/em><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

While the movie was being eviscerated (Maslin\u2019s was one of the more temperate reviews) I was often invited to weigh in on my reaction to the film. It seemed like bad manners to take money from people and share meals with them and ride in their limos and then trash their work in the press, so I remained silent. I wasn’t, however, na\u00efve. I knew from the moment I signed the contract that I might not care for the end product, but I could not resist the money. A deal is a deal.<\/p>\n

Thirty some years later, the deal goes on. I first learned of Universal\u2019s plans for a remake when a reporter from New York<\/em> magazine called me. In the years since the first movie was made from that novel, many directors and producers have contacted me, all of them committed to somehow erasing Franco\u2019s folly. There was nothing I could do to help or hinder them, since I signed away not only the movie rights in 1980, but the remake rights, as well. From that point on I had no more control over my novel\u2019s movie life than I had over the novels of Philip Roth.<\/p>\n

The force spearheading this new version of Endless Love<\/em> was the producer of a long-running teen soap opera. I was familiar enough with the movie business to know the difference between a development deal and an actual motion picture. The movie business is full of false starts, projects begun and abandoned, fanfares trumpeted in front of doors that never open, stars that implode, directors who fall out of favor, executives who are fired, schedules that conflict, budgets that balloon and then burst.<\/p>\n

I know it\u2019s not really the done thing for authors to speak ill of the folks who are turning his or her work into a movie. We love movies, and the reflected glamor of being involved in one is difficult for most people to resist. But since I haven\u2019t met anyone involved in the making of this new Endless Love<\/em> I haven\u2019t been charmed by any of them. Plus this: I have read the script.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s about one hundred pages, and the only ones that were not dreary were sciatica inducing; Chicago is now somewhere in Georgia; my Jewish lovesick arsonist protagonist is now a gentile with flying fists; his communist father is now an aw-shucks guy who works on cars, and, like most working class people in movies, is ashamed of his position in life; the communist mother has vanished\u2014you can\u2019t even hear the empty hangers chiming in her vacated closet. The inaugurating action of the novel\u2014David setting his girlfriend\u2019s house ablaze\u2014is now the climax of the movie, though in the upcoming version David has nothing to do with the fire. However, he does appear<\/i> to die in it. (Don\u2019t worry, he doesn\u2019t.)\u00a0<\/p>\n

The studio\u2019s plan is to open the movie in the winter of 2014. On Valentine\u2019s Day.<\/p>\n

*<\/center><\/p>\n

What none of these folks seem to get is that Endless Love<\/em> was meant to be a knife to the reader\u2019s heart, not the writer\u2019s. As that old elegant Italian filmmaker was giving me fair warning, it turned out the knives were being sharpened for him, and\u2014unfortunately\u2014for several of his principal actors. And now a second generation is blundering into their own Valentine\u2019s Day massacre. As the late Leonard Michaels said, I would have saved them if I could.<\/p>\n

Scott Spencer is the author of ten novels, including <\/em>Endless Love, <\/em>Waking the Dead, <\/em>A Ship Made of Paper, and <\/em>Man in the Woods. His nonfiction has appeared in <\/em>Rolling Stone, <\/em>The New Yorker, <\/em>O, <\/em>Harper\u2019s, and the <\/em>New York Times.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Here\u2019s what happens when Hollywood makes a really bad movie out of your novel. You cringe, you pretend you don\u2019t care, you laugh when they play the bad movie\u2019s theme song at weddings you attend, and you wait for the whole thing to pass. 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