Maybe we should be used to it by now: A beautiful book is written; we all fall in love with it; Hollywood gets hold of it; we await the movie’s release date, buy our tickets, and a few hours later leave the theater agreeing that despite the film version’s various good points, “it's just not the same.” I guess we book lovers have, to some extent, come to accept this cycle of low-grade torment and despair as normal occupational hazards of the bibliophiliac lifestyles we have chosen.
Still, I admit I was shocked into bookworm’s rage—that pitifully impotent tantrum pitched by someone who sees herself as a champion of books but who makes no impression except to cause everyone around her to wonder what the big deal is—when I walked past the artsy little independent cinema in my town a few months ago and spotted a movie poster for The Boy in the Striped Pajamas (novel: Random House 2006, copyright John Boyne).
No one ever accused Hollywood of subtlety. I know that. And the movie industry, like every other industry, is driven by what sells. I get that. But why, why, oh why did they have to take that book—that wonderful, brilliant book, the kind that makes an actual case for the inclusion of YA literature on lofty universities’ English syllabi—and destroy, in one stroke, everything that makes it wonderful and brilliant?
Now, you may ask, as I am flipping out over this, have I even seen the movie? No, I have not. But I promise you: The existence of the movie ruins the book. The existence of the movie poster ruins the book. In fact, far be it from me to begrudge a successful author his movie deal, but I have to wonder just what John Boyne was thinking when he decided to go along with this.
Everything, and I mean everything, about the story must be a surprise in order for it to work the way it's meant to. Even the blurb on the original book jacket is very careful not to give away the premise or plot; merely knowing the setting before you start to read seriously undermines the effect. I used to recommend this novel eagerly to my seventh grade students by telling them, “I can’t tell you what this book is about or when or where it’s set, but you have to read it. Trust me. You won’t be sorry.”
And now Hollywood has gone and burst a truly rare and stunning literary bubble for millions of would-be readers. It’s sad, but I’m hoping (perhaps vainly, but you can imagine that if I still love children’s books at the age of 29, I can also hold on to hope like nobody’s business) there are still some of you YA-book lovers out there who have not seen or heard anything about the movie. If so, run to your local library or bookstore—carefully averting your gaze if you pass a Blockbuster—and ask the librarian or salesperson to bring you a copy of the book, but only if it features the original cover art (i.e., not a single human being or landscape in sight). If it doesn’t, have him or her wrap the outside of it in a newspaper or bag. Then go home and read it fast, before you can succumb to the temptation to sneak a peek at the cover or you forget to shield your eyes when passing that Blockbuster.
Even if these precautions fail, however, and you are unfortunate enough to have fallen victim to Hollywood’s book-spoiling marketing scheme, read The Boy in The Striped Pajamas anyway. No, it won’t be the same, but read it. Trust me. You won’t be sorry.
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