Adapting a novel for film is always a journey fraught with potential pitfalls and unexpected rewards, as I’ve learned over the years with various of my books making the leap from page to screen. My initial foray into this world, with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, was surprisingly smooth. The director and I were in sync, and I found common ground with the screenwriter, a former spy school instructor who possessed a deeper understanding of espionage than myself. The adaptation remained faithful to the essence of the story, and my role was limited to refining the screenplay and enjoying the company of Richard Burton, while gently monitoring his alcohol intake.
It was a classic studio production, staffed largely by studio regulars. Evenings were filled with captivating tales of Hollywood legends like Clark Gable and Dorothy Lamour, recounted by seasoned crew members. Martin Ritt, the director, carried the scars of the Hollywood blacklist, his leftist views still simmering beneath the surface. The palpable tension between Ritt and Burton, casting Burton as the detached protagonist and Ritt as the embittered director, ironically fueled Burton’s performance and added depth to his portrayal.
The transition of The Spy Who Came in from the Cold to film was seamless. The narrative was direct, focused on a hero seeking retribution and heading towards his doom, alongside an innocent female victim awaiting a similar fate. Ritt embraced the book’s narrative integrity, resulting in an exceptional film. It seemed filmmaking was a straightforward process: write the book, film the book, job done. A naive perspective, as I soon discovered.
My second experience served as a sharp reality check. Call for the Dead, my debut novel, was deemed too eerie in title for cinema audiences and was rebranded as The Deadly Affair. While the book’s structure was always questionable, I had hoped for collaborative improvements during adaptation. However, Sidney Lumet, the acclaimed director of Twelve Angry Men, showed no interest in my input. James Mason was cast as George Smiley, albeit renamed Dobbs due to contractual issues. My involvement peaked at cucumber sandwiches with Mason at the Ritz. The film’s premiere remained a mystery to me. Eventually, I watched it alone in a local cinema. The cast was stellar – Mason, Maximilian Schell, Simone Signoret, Harry Andrews, Roy Kinnear – and included a striking Scandinavian actress whose unexpected nudity was, in the spirit of the sixties, almost obligatory. Her scene overshadowed my overall impression of the film, which felt like a collection of well-shot scenes that lacked cohesion. Had Lumet actually read my book? Perhaps he had, and perhaps that was the problem.
Since then, around fifteen of my novels have been adapted for screen, both in film and television formats. Yet, the adaptation process remains unpredictable, a mix of frustration and fulfillment. Characters I’ve meticulously crafted over years have been reduced to caricatures. Minor characters have been unexpectedly amplified and reimagined. Scenes I painstakingly wrote to build tension have fallen flat due to basic filmmaking oversights. Conversely, some of my less inspired writing has been revitalized by brilliant direction and acting. The writer’s realm begins with the word; their success hinges on it. For filmmakers, the starting point is the image. This creative tension has been a constant since the dawn of cinema.
Lessons Learned in Adaptation
What have I gleaned from these experiences? An author entering script conferences as the guardian of their novel is misguided. The reasons are self-evident. A novel demanding hours of focused reading is condensed into a film for impatient viewing in under two hours. The novelist’s best hope is that the story’s core resonates and the audience connects with the characters and emotions experienced by readers of the book. Even this is a significant expectation. Novelists are inherently possessive of their work. They invent, define, and breathe life into their characters, dictating their actions, motivations, and environments. They shift perspectives from omniscient narrator to intimate participant at will.
Budget-wise, a stack of paper costs mere pounds, followed by the escalating expense of pen refills. Film budgets, however, start in the millions and climb. Consider the screenwriter adapting a lengthy novel. Studio executives, often too busy to read, rely on summaries—”coverage”—brief synopses avoiding complexity. Screenwriters, though well-compensated, must dissect the entire book, sifting through details. They then create a “treatment,” a planned narrative outline, often disregarded during screenplay writing. This deviation can stem from forgetting the treatment’s details or realizing its limitations when faced with the novel’s complexities.
Sometimes, a screenwriter might diverge to inject their own superior narrative, a story long nurtured but never written. I’ve witnessed this, and it invariably leads to disappointment.
Memorable Adaptations: Pride and Pleasure
Which film adaptations of my work bring me joy or pride? Fortunately, poor films fade quickly, unlike subpar books, which can resurface to haunt you, often championed unexpectedly by critics. Pride, yes, for The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, but not pleasure. My association with Richard Burton, though creatively fruitful, left a lingering sadness deepened by his premature death. The strained dynamic between him and Ritt, while possibly beneficial to the film, remains a somber memory.
The adaptations I recall most fondly are those made in a spirit of collaboration and shared enthusiasm. Not constant levity, but a shared dedication where director, cast, and crew genuinely appreciated the project, where disagreements yielded to a collective artistic aim.
Leading this list is the BBC’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, starring Alec Guinness, a production that gained momentum throughout its seven-month filming. A preview screening for British Intelligence’s upper echelon was met with resounding approval. I shared their enthusiasm. Even Alec Guinness, notoriously critical of his own performances, was pleased. The later film adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, with Gary Oldman as Smiley, seemed to capture the same collaborative energy.
The Constant Gardener also stands out as a project where I, and I believe its creators, felt that same creative spark. Writing the book was a passionate endeavor, from initial research among pharmaceutical industry insiders in London and Basel to witnessing the exploitation of vulnerable communities in Kenya. Producer Simon Channing Williams and director Fernando Meirelles shared a conviction in the film’s message. With Ralph Fiennes and Rachel Weisz in leading roles, they conveyed this message powerfully, leading to the establishment of vital healthcare and education initiatives in Kenya. The script evolved organically, and Weisz rightfully earned an Oscar.
These two films represented the pinnacle of my often-tumultuous relationship with film adaptation – until The Night Manager.
The Modern Adaptation of ‘The Night Manager’
I initially had reservations about The Night Manager being adapted into a six-hour television series, updated for contemporary audiences. Perhaps surprisingly, I was taken aback, particularly as I believed the film rights were dormant after two decades. Sydney Pollack had passionately pursued the novel, securing studio backing and enlisting Robert Towne to write the screenplay, which, mysteriously, never materialized. The rights remained in Hollywood limbo, leaving me in frustrated resignation, given the novel’s perceived film potential.
Then came the television adaptation. The extended format was appealing, often better suited to my narratives than film. And contemporary television, particularly from the US, Scandinavia, and occasionally Britain, was reaching new artistic heights. However, updating a novel written decades prior to the present day raised questions. No Quebec setting for Pine? No Central America? Colombian drug lords replaced by Middle Eastern figures? Richard Roper’s yacht exchanged for something else? A revised ending?
And then the suggestion: transforming the lead investigator into a woman. No longer Mr. Burr, but Mrs. Burr—astute, courageous, pragmatic, and notably pregnant throughout the series, mirroring the actress’s real-life pregnancy. A less amenable author might have questioned the extent of these changes: what would remain of the original novel?
The surprising answer: a significant amount, more than anticipated. Consider Mrs. Burr. In the novel, he was a man—gruff, deliberate, a throwback to my time in the secret service when female field agents were rare, or at least unseen by me. But was this depiction appropriate for 2015? Another narrative centered on white, middle-aged men? In hindsight, Mrs. Burr feels like a missed opportunity in the novel itself. But that was then. I cautiously welcomed the change, hoping the writers, director, and producers could create a compelling and credible character.
They succeeded. Enter Olivia Colman.
Then there was the matter of Roper’s yacht. I cherished that yacht, a central location in the novel, Roper’s mobile headquarters, lending him a phantom-like quality. I had experienced the opulence of a wealthy man’s yacht and witnessed his global operations from it. But yachts, apparently, are prohibitively expensive to film on, and cinematically, they can become confining. A billionaire’s island estate in the sun, with a Gatsby-esque villa and surrounding cottages, became the more practical and visually expansive alternative.
As David Farr developed the script—I admired his Royal Shakespeare Company productions—and as I received updates from the four-month shoot, including film snippets, I began to feel a familiar excitement building. Early footage reveals a crucial element: a trustworthy director. Susanne Bier immediately inspired that confidence, not just due to her reputation and Oscar win, but her meticulous storytelling evident in the initial clips. I felt comfortable relinquishing control and trusting her vision.
The central dramatic interplay began to solidify—or perhaps a quadrilateral? Hugh Laurie as Roper versus Tom Hiddleston as Pine. And Jed, played by Elizabeth Debicki, as the coveted prize. The fourth element? Corcoran, the Iago or perhaps Bosola figure, portrayed by Tom Hollander, delivering the sharpest lines.
At this stage, I became simply an audience member. This was no longer a direct adaptation, but a film interpreting the book, the ideal scenario. It seemed to me that with The Night Manager, this ideal had been achieved: film utilizing its unique strengths to reveal aspects of my novel perhaps unnoticed before—even by myself, as with the BBC’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy and The Constant Gardener.
Upon finally viewing the complete Night Manager, six hours over two days, I most appreciated Susanne Bier’s relentless exploration of the drama, long after other directors might have concluded. This interplay between film and book became a two-way dialogue. I began to discern elements in her film that she herself might not consciously recognize, mirroring her uncovering layers in my novel I may have overlooked.
Did she realize, for example, that Richard Roper, in her interpretation, emerges as almost victorious in defeat? To my eye, he does. Despite his villainy, Laurie’s Roper, with his charm, wit, sophistication, and wickedness, becomes so captivating that we almost regret his downfall. Perhaps we begin to question Pine’s unwavering righteousness, wondering if his actions, in their totality, are morally equivalent to Roper’s.
Did Bier consciously intend this ambiguity? Or is it the subtle interplay of two exceptional British actors lending an aura of invincibility, a connection transcending mere rationality, bordering on homoerotic undertones? Are Pine and Roper subtly aware of their shared purpose from the outset? At times, it seems so, as if Roper welcomes his demise, relishing the intellectual sparring with an equal, almost finding a perverse affection for his executioner.
Did I fully realize these nuances in the novel? I hope so. But if not, I thank the adaptation for illuminating them.
