It seemed like a small detail: in Janet Finch's novel, Ingrid is a poet, but in the movie adaptation she is an artist. I thought little of it at first; after all, the movie is never exactly true to the book. But I soon came to realize that this small change represented the difference between the two versions of White Oleander. The book is poetry, multi-faceted and richly textured, full of language and rich, complex characters. In comparison, the movie is like a still Polaroid from Ingrid's movie exhibit - a pose captured forever in two dimensions, without depth or soul.
Alison Lohman plays Astrid, a young girl thrown into the system when her mother is imprisoned for murder. It should have been a juicy role, but Lohman can't quite rise to the occasion; most of the time, she comes off sounding like she's reading her lines aloud for a teacher. The novel traces Astrid's evolution from a needy young girl to a strong, independent woman. In the film version, Lohman fails miserably at getting that evolution across.
Hers is not the only performance that is lacking in this film. Michelle Pfeiffer rarely botches a part, but this was just embarrassing. In the book, Ingrid is a static character who is seen as dynamic through Astrid's eyes. Pfeiffer only understood the static part; she portrays Ingrid as selfish and manipulative but weak - far from the dangerous yet hauntingly seducing woman she is in the book. Watching Pfeiffer on screen, I wasn't awed by her, or mystified, or scared, or even curious. Ingrid should be played as larger than life, gradually being squashed back down to size as Astrid matures. Instead, she is played as small and petty.
Robin Wright Penn's portrayal of Starr is also about as bad as it gets. Again, all prose, no poetry. Fitch's Starr is a woman struggling with her faith, alcoholism, and feelings of insecurity and guilt. Penn's Starr is a caricature, full of exaggerated clichés. Her performance is comical, but Starr is supposed to be tragic.
Moderately better is Renee Zellweiger as Claire; still, she is too much herself to really make it work. This is a common problem in a film plagued with too much star power. The worst of it is Noah Wyle as Ron - excuse me, Mark - who makes me wonder if the only reason for changing the name of his character in the first place is that everyone knew Wyle could never be Ron. His bit part is no different from the Dr. Carter we see on ER every Thursday night.
Indeed, the only solid performance was given by Patrick Fugit (of Almost Famous fame, though it took me a few minutes to realize that). The only fault I can find with him is that he's too perfect. There doesn't seem to be a single acting performance in this film that lends a part the complexity and third dimension of the original character.
Plot omissions are inevitable in a movie adaptation of a book, especially such a long book. In this case, though, it just doesn't work. Astrid's two most difficult foster homes are conveniently eliminated, and with them, the ingredients to her character development. Her difficult life is sanitized; in the book, she experiments with turning tricks for drugs, and is forced to panhandle and scrounge in garbage cans for food. Maybe the producers thought that would be too harsh; the movie Astrid's biggest rebellion is a bit of hair dye.
More importantly, Astrid doesn't learn the lessons that make up the whole point of White Oleander. By the end of the book, she is ready to let go of her mother and forge her own path in life. In the movie, she's still holding on to the past even by the end. She doesn't forge the deep friendships like in the book, nor does she experience the pains of loss. The people who come into her life in the book - whether they hurt or help her - all teach her something. In the movie, they seem to pass by her, lives barely touching her. Even Claire doesn't seem to affect Astrid as much as she claims. If Astrid begins both the book and the movie as a block of clay waiting to be molded, she ends the book fired in the kiln and sturdy enough to shake off her past. The film version of Astrid is still putty.
Despite all of this, the movie had too much great raw material from Janet Fitch's novel for it to be a total flop. White Oleander is a hauntingly beautiful, yet disturbing story. There's a certain quality and grace to it. But while the book made me laugh, cry, and ache, all the movie did was cause me to shrug - and to struggle to stay awake.
Bottom line: White Oleander is terrific. The book, that is. Skip the movie and pick yourself up a paperback instead.
Alison Lohman plays Astrid, a young girl thrown into the system when her mother is imprisoned for murder. It should have been a juicy role, but Lohman can't quite rise to the occasion; most of the time, she comes off sounding like she's reading her lines aloud for a teacher. The novel traces Astrid's evolution from a needy young girl to a strong, independent woman. In the film version, Lohman fails miserably at getting that evolution across.
Hers is not the only performance that is lacking in this film. Michelle Pfeiffer rarely botches a part, but this was just embarrassing. In the book, Ingrid is a static character who is seen as dynamic through Astrid's eyes. Pfeiffer only understood the static part; she portrays Ingrid as selfish and manipulative but weak - far from the dangerous yet hauntingly seducing woman she is in the book. Watching Pfeiffer on screen, I wasn't awed by her, or mystified, or scared, or even curious. Ingrid should be played as larger than life, gradually being squashed back down to size as Astrid matures. Instead, she is played as small and petty.
Robin Wright Penn's portrayal of Starr is also about as bad as it gets. Again, all prose, no poetry. Fitch's Starr is a woman struggling with her faith, alcoholism, and feelings of insecurity and guilt. Penn's Starr is a caricature, full of exaggerated clichés. Her performance is comical, but Starr is supposed to be tragic.
Moderately better is Renee Zellweiger as Claire; still, she is too much herself to really make it work. This is a common problem in a film plagued with too much star power. The worst of it is Noah Wyle as Ron - excuse me, Mark - who makes me wonder if the only reason for changing the name of his character in the first place is that everyone knew Wyle could never be Ron. His bit part is no different from the Dr. Carter we see on ER every Thursday night.
Indeed, the only solid performance was given by Patrick Fugit (of Almost Famous fame, though it took me a few minutes to realize that). The only fault I can find with him is that he's too perfect. There doesn't seem to be a single acting performance in this film that lends a part the complexity and third dimension of the original character.
Plot omissions are inevitable in a movie adaptation of a book, especially such a long book. In this case, though, it just doesn't work. Astrid's two most difficult foster homes are conveniently eliminated, and with them, the ingredients to her character development. Her difficult life is sanitized; in the book, she experiments with turning tricks for drugs, and is forced to panhandle and scrounge in garbage cans for food. Maybe the producers thought that would be too harsh; the movie Astrid's biggest rebellion is a bit of hair dye.
More importantly, Astrid doesn't learn the lessons that make up the whole point of White Oleander. By the end of the book, she is ready to let go of her mother and forge her own path in life. In the movie, she's still holding on to the past even by the end. She doesn't forge the deep friendships like in the book, nor does she experience the pains of loss. The people who come into her life in the book - whether they hurt or help her - all teach her something. In the movie, they seem to pass by her, lives barely touching her. Even Claire doesn't seem to affect Astrid as much as she claims. If Astrid begins both the book and the movie as a block of clay waiting to be molded, she ends the book fired in the kiln and sturdy enough to shake off her past. The film version of Astrid is still putty.
Despite all of this, the movie had too much great raw material from Janet Fitch's novel for it to be a total flop. White Oleander is a hauntingly beautiful, yet disturbing story. There's a certain quality and grace to it. But while the book made me laugh, cry, and ache, all the movie did was cause me to shrug - and to struggle to stay awake.
Bottom line: White Oleander is terrific. The book, that is. Skip the movie and pick yourself up a paperback instead.