Television and Serial Adaptation

Shannon Wells-Lassagne

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781315524511
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Médias et arts de la scène
• Subtopic: Télévision

As American television continues to garner considerable esteem, rivalling the seventh art in its "cinematic" aesthetics and the complexity of its narratives, one aspect of its development has been relatively unexamined. While film has long acknowledged its tendency to adapt, an ability that contributed to its status as narrative art (capable of translating canonical texts onto the screen), television adaptations have seemingly been relegated to the miniseries or classic serial. From remakes and reboots to transmedia storytelling, loose adaptations or adaptations which last but a single episode, the recycling of pre-existing narrative is a practice that is just as common in television as in film, and this text seeks to rectify that oversight, examining series from M*A*S*H to Game of Thrones, Pride and Prejudice to Castle.

Part I
Building Blocks

Television and Adaptation

Defining Terms

Given the current popularity of adaptation studies, and the public acclaim for a new “golden age” in television, it seems odd that there should not be a more extended analysis of where the two might meet. Indeed, both adaptation and television are taxed with similar grievous faults, being more commercial than their “purer” brethren¹—the cinema in general for television, and the art film in particular for film adaptations—or being too tightly tethered to their texts (whether it be the adaptation’s source text or the reign of the writer/producer in television) to take full advantage of their visual media. The hybrid nature of adaptation, the difficulty adaptation scholars have had in defining what constitutes an adaptation, an allusion, or a simple use of intertextuality, is similar to the heterogeneous nature of television, which was always the repository for film, news, variety shows, or talk shows in addition to the panorama of different types of television fiction we’ll be discussing here. The intersection of these two areas of study, then, center around some of the same issues, which may be either compounded or transformed when television broadcasts adaptations, providing new challenges and surprising innovations for those whose interests lie in either of these disciplines.

The relative lack of academic focus on the topic is perhaps all the more surprising given that television’s early dependence on previous forms of narrative is well-known. Like the birth of film, which poached stories, writers, and directors from literature and theater, early television was characterized by its adaptation of radio dramas in particular. In this, television followed in the footsteps of all young media, which tend to smooth the transition of the new technology by using previous narrative forms to showcase their innovations without ruffling the feathers of novice users:

The introduction of a mass communication medium normally occurs when an economically viable commercial application is found for a new technology. A third element necessary to the launch, content (i.e., something to communicate), is often treated as something of an afterthought in the process. As a result, adaptations of popular works and of entire genres from previous media tend to dominate the introductory period of a new medium, even as they mutate under the developing conditions. Such was the case in the rise of the television sitcom from the ashes of network radio.²

It seems clear, then, that adaptation has always been an issue in the television landscape, but perhaps never more so than now. The new golden age of television³ has an unprecedented voracity for content, given the multiplication of sources for television fiction, be it broadcast networks, cable channels, satellite television, or non-broadcast sources like Netflix, Amazon, or web series on YouTube or elsewhere. As a result, the number of adaptations from various media onto the small screen has multiplied, with TV studios seeking tried and true formulas from other media, be it film, literature, graphic novels, websites, etc. In her 2003 work Storytelling in Film and Television, Kristin Thompson lists adaptations from film to TV between the years 1980 and 1998, and names 71 series overall,⁴ which sounds impressive in and of itself. However, at the time of writing, the Internet Movie Data Base lists 81 television series based on a play,⁵ 177 series based on a film,⁶ 347 based on a comic,⁷ and a whopping 1044 series based on a novel;⁸ of these 439 have appeared since 2000, when Thompson’s statistics end.⁹ Clearly, a phenomenon that was already significant when Thompson wrote has now reached epic proportions.

Though we’ve argued that this is nothing new to television, what is novel about recent adaptations is not just their omnipresence, but also their reception. There has arguably never been such an emphasis placed on the process of adaptation in television. The improved availability of foreign television in the United States has increased familiarity with the original inspiration for American adaptations like The Office (NBC, 2005–2013), The Killing (AMC, 2011–2013, Netflix, 2014), or The Bridge (FX, 2013–2014), making the relationship between source text and adaptation more visible (and more easily subject to criticism). Indeed, one could argue that this is but one aspect of a more general phenomenon, the “forensic fandom” that Jason Mittell studied in relation to the series Lost¹⁰ (ABC, 2004–2010), which delights in digging into the hidden meanings of text.¹¹ Finding similarities and differences between source text and television adaptation and teasing out underlying meanings in the choices showrunners make to keep or discard elements of the original narrative thus becomes another way to interact with the fiction. Indeed, the lure of this adaptation-based “forensic fandom” is so strong that the website The AV Club has two different types of episode reviews for Game of Thrones (HBO, 2011–), one for fans who have read the novels on which the series is based, and one for those who prefer to watch only the series: the show has contributed largely to the debate on the prevalence of spoilers, as book readers argue about sharing their knowledge of plot points from long-published novels.¹² Likewise, the new emphasis on “quality television” inaugurated by Robert J. Thompson,¹³ and the creation of the showrunner as the auteur of new quality shows, has heightened the attention paid to the complexity of narrative as never before. Adaptations, therefore, become the locus of all kinds of debates on new television: the question of the author/auteur, the complexity of serial storytelling and narrative, the specificity of the serial form as compared to its source material, for example. Each of the following chapters will explore one of these issues raised by small-screen adaptation, taking its cue from adaptation critics like Thomas Leitch,¹⁴ Christine Geraghty,¹⁵ or Deborah Cartmell and Imelda Whelehan,¹⁶ all of whom use case studies judiciously to illustrate the multifaceted nature of adaptation.

Adaptation studies have come into their own since Bluestone’s first book-length study on the subject.¹⁷ Though early studies largely focused on film’s inability to be faithful to its source, given the innate limitations of the medium that many dated back to Lessing’s distinctions between poetry and painting, more recent works have sought to define and study adaptations as such, trying to pinpoint what constitutes the nature and the value of an adaptation without placing it in a hierarchical (and necessarily subordinate) relationship with its source material. This desire to question the established cultural value of the source text smacks of postmodernism, of course, with its tendency to eschew the strict distinctions between high and low culture, though Kamilla Elliot notes in her seminal work The Novel/Film Debate, adaptation is fundamentally a delicate balance of theoretical stances:

Adaptation lies between the rock of a post-Saussurian insistence that form does not and cannot separate from content and the hard place of poststructuralism’s debunking of content, of original and local signifieds alike. If words and images do not and cannot translate, and if form does not and cannot separate from content (whether because of their mandated insoluble bond or because content is simply an illusion), then what remains to pass between a novel and film in adaptation?¹⁸

With some rare exceptions, where scholars have returned to the fidelity argument,¹⁹ adaptation studies have recently tended toward definition (and redefinition) of its ambiguous central term, and reconsideration of adaptations in relation to not only its source material, but the various elements influencing its creation, as per Philippe Marion and André Gaudreault’s theory of transécriture.²⁰

Though many of these studies offer valuable insight, the application of adaptation studies to television has been fairly rare, an oversight that this work hopes to help correct. To do so, however, it seems crucial to note the specificity of the television adaptation, especially as compared to its more widely studied cinematic kin. To do so, I’d like to examine two somewhat problematic adaptations to television, 12 Monkeys (SyFy, 2015–) and Caprica (Syfy, 2010). These two series have much in common; not only did they air on the same channel and come from the same science-fiction genre, they adapted well-known and beloved source texts²¹ (Terry Gilliam’s film 12 Monkeys (1995), and Ron Moore and David Eick’s television series Battlestar Galactica (Syfy, 2003–2009), respectively) making them among the most anticipated new series upon their débuts. They are both in fact re-adaptations, as those source texts were in fact adaptations of earlier works—Chris Marker’s La Jetée (1962)²² and Glen A. Larson’s Battlestar Galactica series (ABC, 1978–1979), respectively. But ultimately, I chose these two series to begin this study of television adaptation because they challenge the very definition of what adaptation is, and thus force us to redefine the term for the television. Indeed, what interests me most about these two series is that they became associated with their well-known sources only after the fact—thus calling into question their status as adaptations at all. Series creators Terry Matalas and Travis Fickett wrote a script called Splinter about time travel that came to the attention of producer Richard Suckle, who was eager to remake the Terry Gilliam film;²³ Remi Aubuchon intended to make a television series about artificial intelligence before being put into contact with Ron Moore and David Eick, who were interested in expanding the Battlestar universe. Because these shows were retooled to become adaptations—and this reinvention was made public knowledge—it seems that they are a particularly apt example to illustrate some of the particularities of adaptation applied to the art form of television. Unlike most adaptations, where adaptors almost systematically accentuate their desire to reinvent a beloved text, and their respect for the author and source text, here equal weight has been given to both the original idea and its relation to an older text; these became adaptations not because they were originally inspired by their source texts, but because they shared similar themes, similar concerns. Though of course upon broadcast their status as adaptations was predominant, given that the audience does not have access to the original screenplays, but can study the source texts at will, nonetheless the fact that their showrunners were open about this almost coincidental adaptation seems revealing; the admission thus precludes the hierarchisation of the original as the source text, at least in theory. In his article “Adaptation, the genre”, Thomas Leitch suggests that some films are perceived as adaptations even without knowledge of the source text, that markers are signaling its adaptation status independent of its origins.²⁴ By examining these two series, we will see how this idea can apply to television: what constitutes a television adaptation? How does it identify itself as such, with or without knowledge of its source?

Beyond their unusual genesis, of course, readers might also question the choice of these series as adaptations rather than as remakes, reboots, or spin-offs. Addressing this issue demands that we take into account the specificity of the ongoing storytelling of television fiction; the implications of serial storytelling cannot be overstated in understanding the unique nature of the television adaptation. Long-running series in particular tend to fairly quickly outstrip their source material, leading them to almost systematically add in plotlines and characters; the division of story into seasons and episodes (and in shows on non-premium cable channels, into fairly stringently determined acts to leave room for commercial breaks) demands different structures, different beats than those commonly practiced in other media. The model for television adaptation is without a doubt an expansive one, incorporating new ideas, new models alongside the old. In keeping with this, there are forms of adaptation that have been popularized by the small screen, notably the spin-off (as is the case for Caprica), which maintains certain elements (most often characters) from a previous television fiction and places them in a new context (but with a few notable exceptions,²⁵ in the same genre). The reboot, which begins a well-known story anew (often bringing it into a more contemporary setting) and the prequel, which precedes the original story, have also become very popular in the contemporary television landscape.²⁶ Caprica is all three of these and was one of the first television prequels to hit the air,²⁷ while 12 Monkeys is a reboot, transposing the action that in Gilliam’s film took place in the mid-1990s into the year 2015 (and 2043 post-apocalypse). The proliferation of terms intended to categorize these different forms of adaptation seem in keeping with contemporary adaptation theory and what Imelda Whelehan and D...