For decades, the relationship between literature and cinema has been one of mutual inspiration. Books have provided the stories, the characters, the worlds—and films, in turn, have given them life, scope, and reach. When done well, the adaptation of a novel into a movie is an artistic conversation between the original writer and the filmmaker. It’s a beautiful, complex dance of vision and interpretation. But lately, this conversation has turned into a monologue. And not a thoughtful one.
Let’s be blunt: adapting literature into movies has gone to the dogs.
Modern filmmakers seem to have developed a severe case of creative amnesia—forgetting the golden rule that once governed this delicate art: respect the source material.
The Golden Age of Adaptations: A Lost Art
There was a time when adapting a novel for film was almost a sacred endeavor. Think of the reverent adaptations of To Kill a Mockingbird, The Godfather, or Gone with the Wind. These films didn’t just copy the plots of their source materials; they absorbed the tone, preserved the core themes, and translated the characters’ emotional depth with care. Francis Ford Coppola didn’t just use Mario Puzo’s The Godfather as a springboard—he studied it like scripture. The result? A cinematic masterpiece that even purists of the novel couldn’t help but revere.
Or consider The Lord of the Rings trilogy. Peter Jackson’s adaptation wasn’t perfect, but it was clearly crafted by someone who had read the books—really read them. He loved the world Tolkien built, and that love came through in every frame. That’s why fans were willing to forgive the omissions and condensements. The soul of the original was intact.
So what changed?
IP Over Integrity: Chasing Trends, Not Truth
Today’s adaptation model is driven by IP farming. Intellectual Property is the new gold, and Hollywood treats books like oil wells—dig them up, suck them dry, and move on to the next one. Studios are no longer asking, “How do we do this story justice?” but instead, “How fast can we spin this into a franchise?”
The clearest example of this is the Netflix machine. Over the last few years, they’ve churned out adaptations of beloved novels (Persuasion, The Witcher, The Midnight Club, Rebecca, The School for Good and Evil), and more often than not, the end products feel like empty shells. The plot points are there. The character names are the same. But the nuance? The tone? The soul of the work? Gone. Replaced by quippy dialogue, algorithm-friendly casting, and overly modernized themes that try to make 19th-century characters feel like TikTok influencers.
It’s not just about “updating” old texts—it’s about hollowing them out. Sanitizing them. Removing the challenging bits, the painful bits, the parts that make literature literature.
The Respect Gap
The real tragedy isn’t just poor execution—it’s the disrespect.
Too many modern filmmakers treat source material as a stepping stone to their own ego trip. Rather than understanding the original story and translating it for the screen, they rewrite it entirely, imposing their own worldview while using the book’s name as a marketing crutch.
This happens often with classic literature. Take the 2022 adaptation of Jane Austen’s Persuasion. Rather than capturing the quiet melancholy and internal emotional struggle of Anne Elliot, the film turned her into a wisecracking, fourth-wall-breaking, wine-guzzling modern woman. They even described her as “a hot mess.” That might fly in a contemporary rom-com, but Persuasion is not a rom-com. It’s a story of regret, second chances, and quiet dignity. To strip it of that is to fundamentally misunderstand what makes it work.
This isn’t about being a literary purist. It’s about artistic integrity. A filmmaker can—and should—reinterpret a text. But when that reinterpretation erases the original’s themes and replaces them with whatever happens to be trending on social media, it stops being an adaptation and becomes an act of cultural vandalism.
The Rise of Fanfic Adaptations
Another issue plaguing modern adaptations is the rise of what can only be described as fanfic cinema. Many screenwriters and directors are fans of the books they adapt—which is great, in theory. But being a fan doesn’t automatically qualify someone to reimagine a complex piece of literature for the screen. Love can turn into obsession, and obsession often warps perspective.
Rather than distilling the essence of a story, they inject wish-fulfillment, ship-centric storytelling, or over-explained backstories that weren’t necessary in the original text. This approach leads to adaptations that look like the source material, but feel like something cooked up on a fan forum. (Shadow and Bone, we’re looking at you.)
Even worse, some adaptations now rely on adding completely made-up plotlines or characters to “spice things up.” It’s as if the filmmakers are embarrassed by the quiet power of the original story. They assume audiences won’t care unless there’s a love triangle, an explosion, or a snarky one-liner every 3 minutes.
Books Aren’t Blueprints—They’re Bibles
One of the core misunderstandings modern filmmakers seem to have is treating books like blueprints instead of bibles.
A blueprint is utilitarian—it tells you where the walls go, where the wires connect. You can change a blueprint. You can tear it up and start again. But a bible? That’s sacred text. You interpret it with humility, not hubris.
This is how the best directors have treated their source material. Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining may have deviated wildly from Stephen King’s original novel, but Kubrick had a strong vision—he wasn’t dumbing the story down for wider appeal, or changing characters to be more “likable.” He made an artistic statement. It was controversial, yes—but it was thoughtful, masterful, and haunting. That’s the difference between vision and vanity.
The Commercialization of Literary “Vibes”
There’s also the aestheticization of books, where stories are no longer adapted for narrative but for “vibe.”
Social media has created a cottage industry of “booktok” aesthetics—dark academia, cozy fantasy, cottagecore horror—and studios are now making movies that try to sell the aesthetic of a book rather than the substance of it.
You end up with beautifully lit, well-costumed productions that look great in a trailer but fall apart upon closer inspection. The story is lost beneath set design, color grading, and a moody indie soundtrack.
It’s cinematic cosplay masquerading as adaptation.
The Characters Are the First to Die
Of all the crimes committed in modern adaptations, character assassination might be the worst. Beloved characters are either flattened into tropes or completely rewritten.
They become sassy, edgy, woke, broody, buff, or badass—not because the story demands it, but because the marketing team does.
When Jo March becomes a girlboss stereotype rather than a conflicted writer torn between independence and societal pressure, you’ve missed the point. When Sherlock Holmes is turned into a supporting character in his sister’s YA adventure, you’ve missed the point. When Heathcliff becomes an Instagram heartthrob rather than a deeply broken, violent man, you’ve really missed the point.
Characters are the soul of a story. To butcher them for broader appeal is unforgivable.
Is There Any Hope?
Thankfully, not all is lost. Some filmmakers still get it.
Greta Gerwig’s Little Women (2019) took a bold, non-linear approach to a classic but did so with love, research, and respect. The changes it made were in service of deepening the emotional resonance, not distorting the author’s message. It felt like a conversation between Louisa May Alcott and Gerwig—a respectful dialogue across time.
Denis Villeneuve’s Dune is another bright spot. It’s ambitious, meticulous, and confident in the world it’s adapting. You can tell Villeneuve trusts the source material. He doesn’t dumb it down or modernize it with unnecessary flair. He invites audiences to rise to its level.
This is the kind of adaptation we need more of—not copy-paste retellings, not ego-driven rewrites, and certainly not algorithmic storytelling made to fill content libraries.
Final Thoughts: Read the Damn Book
Here’s a radical idea: maybe—just maybe—filmmakers should actually read the books they’re adapting. Not skim them. Not scan Wikipedia. Not read a summary. Really, read them. Absorb their rhythm, their emotional core, their contradictions. Respect them.
Audiences aren’t stupid. We can tell when an adaptation is phoning it in, when it’s patchworked for social media approval, or when the characters are written with more concern for clickbait than coherence.
Books are not just “content.” They are carefully built worlds with internal logic, history, and heart. They deserve better than what they’re getting now.
So the next time Hollywood decides to pluck a novel from the shelves and throw it onto a green screen soundstage—pause. Reread the original. Ask: “What is this story really about?”
And if the answer isn’t clear, maybe don’t adapt it at all.
