
Despite the fact that Salinger's corpse is still warm, one can already pick up on the creepy-ass sensations—currently emanating from both Hollywood and Sundance—of studios champing at the bit to turn the guy's books into movies. That idea is—how should I put this?—really fucking depressing.
I don't know who now holds the rights to Salinger's work—his son, maybe?—but Hollywood has wanted to make Salinger's books into films for, you know, decades. (Reminder: There's a reason Salinger didn't want any of his stuff made into movies.) Regardless of legal rights, there's no getting around the fact that a pretty big obstacle to Hollywood adaptations of Salinger's works—Salinger himself—is no longer part of the equation.
I like movies as much as anyone—shit, I like them more than most people—and while I don't write in the Mercury about Franny and Zooey as often as I write about film, I feel the same way about Salinger's work. If you'll allow me to get self-righteous and grumpy for a moment, as if that's not how I spend the majority of my time anyway:
If anyone honestly thinks we're ever going to get a single Salinger-esque movie that's even half as good as The Royal Tenenbaums, they're either (A) delusional, or (B) so opposed to reading that they'd rather just see Seymour blow out his brains at the end of "A Perfect Day for Bananafish" rather than, you know, read it. The last thing I want to see onscreen is are the Glasses or Holden Caulfield, for the simple fact that this shit would be impossible to get right: Salinger's works are some of the few utterly perfect pieces of writing out there. They are stories that—no matter how skilled a filmmaker, nor how good their intentions—will inevitably suffer if adapted to a different medium. (And the odds for a worthwhile Salinger film drop even further as soon as you remember that oh, yeah, this is Hollywood, which means Zac Efron's agent has probably already gotten a phone call regarding a fast-tracked drama about a charming, rebellious kid who's bound and determined to have a crazy weekend in New York City.)
That said, if it turns out that McG wants to adapt some of Salinger's Terminator fan fiction, I will obviously be the first person in line.
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Salinger is dead, so he can't be offended. If I were his kids, who put up with his crazy ass shit all his life, I'd milk this for all I could.
I think you're right about the odds of finding critical success by adapting any of Salinger's fiction to film. But you, of all people really, ought to know that any adaptation of Salinger to the Sliver Screen would probably see a sizable financial return, which is the only reason any movie studio ever does anything.
That said, as a Salinger fan, I AM FUCKING STOKED to get my hands on all of the unpublished stuff that the old bastard's been hiding in his attic for forty years, Terminator fan fiction and all.
I'm all in favor of his estate releasing his unpublished work, especially if it's true that it went unpublished primarily because he himself simply didn't want to deal with the bullshit that comes with publishing.
But if petitions ever did any good, I'd sign one in opposition to selling the film or television rights, in a heartbeat.
But you know his estate will yield to the temptation to make shitty movies off of his carcass, ala Philip K. Dick's daughters.
I can just see Catcher in 3D, with tie-ins with 7-11!
SLURP!!!
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