Wherein I discuss how Nathaniel Hawthorne rolls over in his grave every time someone watches The Scarlett Letter with Demi Moore and Gary Oldman.
The first movie I ever saw that was adapted from a book was the 1995 adaptation of The Scarlet Letter starring Demi Moore and Gary Oldman. I left the movie theatre completely disgusted—and not just because Gary Oldman is the ugliest man alive.
I adored that book. ADORED IT. How could anyone dare rewrite such a perfect story? If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Especially if, by “fix”, you mean “completely ruin”. It was so ridiculously horrible that it won a Golden Raspberry Award for Worst Remake or Sequel and was nominated for Worst Actress, Worst Director, Worst Picture, Worst Screen Couple (Which one? They were both TERRIBLE.), Worst Screenplay and Worst Supporting Actor.
I have spent my entire life scoffing at movies adapted from novels and Demi Moore, Robert Duvall, and Gary Oldham are to blame. The only silver lining in my “Books Made into Movies are Shite” cloud is that no book adaptation will ever be that bad. EVER.
