How many times must one let fall on deaf ears the truth that no great work of literature can be turned into a comparable movie? We should all know by now, that form is part of the content: a sonnet can't be turned into an epic, a mural can't be translated into a miniature, the most artistic photograph of a statue is nowhere near (sic) the statue. In a piece of great fiction, it is the descriptions, reflections, paragraphs, sentences, words, and cadences that make the art, not just the plot and dialogue. And what writing leaves to the inner eye and ear is inevitably distorted or oversimplified by transposition for the outer senses. James Joyce's last and greatest story, "The Dead," is no exception. -- John Simon

The critic John Simon seems to believe, as do many people, that an original work of art is necessarily superior to a work which is based on that original. But all works of art are at least loosely based on the ultimate original - life. The sonnets, murals, and statues of which Mr. Simon writes do not miraculously spring into being. Diverse experiences from an artist's life combine and recombine, form new connections and take on new meanings, and eventually influence their art. "The Dead" did not arise from James Joyce's literary invention operating in a vacuum - he used impressions of actual people he met to inspire his characters, elements of places he had been to create settings, conversations he had heard to help construct his dialogue.

But although life always informs art, it can never simply become art. Imagine Joyce sitting in a cafe, eavesdropping on an intriguing conversation between a man and woman sitting a few tables away. He finds this conversation so moving that he would like to include a portion of it in a short story, to allow the reader to experience what he did sitting in the cafe. But no matter how well Joyce sets the scene, the reader will never smell the aroma of coffee brewing as Joyce did. No matter how exactly he transcribes the man's words, the reader will never hear the inflection of the man's voice. No matter how adept Joyce is at describing the woman, the reader will never picture the exact gestures she uses. The images Joyce evokes in the reader's mind will never match his experience.

But Joyce will not likely attempt to evoke the exact same experience anyway. He has the option of cutting out certain parts of the dialogue which he found less interesting and elaborating on those which he found more interesting. He can invent explanations for references in the conversation which puzzled him. He can even take the reader inside the minds and hearts of the characters if he so chooses, something which he may have wanted very badly to do in real life but was unable to do. He can give the characters context - memories of the past, dreams for the future, even someone waiting at home for them. Or he may alter some aspect of the original experience substantially, deciding perhaps that this conversation would be more poignant taking place at a train station, in a taxicab, or between two men.

In addition to all this, when Joyce is done writing the story, the reader may read as slowly or as quickly as she wishes, repeating some passages several times, skipping others, returning to and reinterpreting earlier passages in relation to subsequent ones. Imagine what would have happened if Joyce had approached the couple in the cafe and asked them to repeat something they'd just said because he didn't quite catch it!

The loose relationship that exists between life and art parallels the relationship that must exist between a work of art and its interpretation or adaptation in another medium. Although Mr. Simon is correct in his assertion that we must inevitably lose some things in the translation from story to film, he fails to consider the possibility that what we receive may be worth what we give up. Huston's film works best when he exploits the expressive possibilities and accepts the expressive limitations inherent in film. And the viewer best appreciates the film when she not only asks, as Mr. Simon does, how well the film works as an adaptation, but also, simply, how well the film works.

In the scene in which Aunt Julia sings "Arrayed for the Bridal," Huston conveys much of the spirit of the passage in Joyce's short story, and at the same time creates a scene which stands on its own merits. In the short story, Aunt Julia's song is preceded by Gabriel obsessing over his speech. He devises a way to snub Miss Ivors by praising his aunts, whom he dismisses, however, as "only two ignorant old women." Joyce purposefully juxtaposes Gabriel's shallow view of these women with the subsequent passage where Freddy Malins is deeply moved by Julia's singing, and obviously views her as much more than just an ignorant old woman. In the film, the audience is not aware of Gabriel's negative thoughts about his aunts. We see Gabriel periodically withdraw from the party and become very involved with rehearsing his speech, but we do not know the particulars of what he's thinking. Huston understands that it is too early in the film to include a voice- over of Gabriel's thoughts - this would let the audience know prematurely that Gabriel is actually the central character. And although the actor who plays Gabriel** is skilled, he cannot explicitly convey Gabriel's attitude towards his aunts at that moment.

So instead of juxtaposing Gabriel's and Freddy's differing views of Julia as Joyce does in the story, Huston creates two different concepts of Julia within the viewer herself. To do this effectively, he must change several elements of the story. Joyce describes Julia's voice as "strong and clear in tone," and says that "though she sang very rapidly she did not miss even the smallest of grace notes. To follow the voice, without looking at the singer's face, was to feel and share the excitement of swift and secure flight." She may have looked frail and spent, in other words, but she still sang well. In the film, however, her voice is as decrepit as her body. For several moments, Huston shows us Julia's performance as the characters gathered in the room see it. If we are generous, we imagine she must have had a nice voice at one time, and, like much of the household audience, we humor her by listening, waiting for the piece to be over so we may clap politely and then forget it. We may feel embarrassed for her, struck by the inappropriateness of an eighty year old woman singing about being a bride on her wedding day. If we are less generous, we are annoyed that we are forced to listen to such inferior singing. Huston has led the viewer to take up the position which Gabriel does in the story, to look at Julia as a sad little old woman.

Then, just as we may be wondering how long the song can go on, the camera abruptly cuts to a staircase. As we continue to listen to Julia's singing, we are lead up the staircase and into what we come to realize is Julia's room. The camera pans around the room, showing us the simple objects of her life - a piece of embroidery, a picture of a man, a rosary. We begin to see that Julia has not always been an old lady with a faulty voice. We can imagine her as a child sewing a sampler, a young woman who was once in love, a middle-aged woman who turned to religion for comfort. We are sorry that her voice is so inadequate in expressing her inner life, or that we have been so inept at hearing it. When the song ends and the camera cuts back to the music room once again, we have in effect been chastised. We share Freddy's generous view of Julia more readily in the film than in the story. We have seen what he apparently heard, we don't only have to take his word for it. When Mr. Browne patronizes Julia by sarcastically pretending she's his "latest discovery," we are likely to be as indignant as Freddy is.

Huston recognized that this passage, unlike some others in the story, held great opportunity for an expressive treatment in film. From Joyce's original one page treatment, Huston created a rich scene of several minutes. He lets us hear Julia's song, and what is more, he takes advantage of film as a visual medium to show us, rather than tell us, that there was more to Julia that we thought. What is lost in the translation in this case is more than made up for by what is gained.