David Nicholls
David Nicholls was born in 1966 in Eastleigh, Hampshire.
His screen adaptation credits include: Sympatico (1999, play by Sam Shepard); Much Ado About Nothing (2005, after Shakespeare); And When Did You Last See Your Father? (2007, book by Blake Morrison); Tess of the DāUrbervilles (2008, novel by Thomas Hardy); Great Expectations (2012, novel by Charles Dickens); Far from the Madding Crowd (2015, novel by Thomas Hardy); Patrick Melrose (2018, novels by Edward St Aubyn); and dramatisations of his own novels Starter for 10 (2006), One Day (2011) and Us (2020).
He wrote the BBC drama The 7.39 (2013), created and wrote the ITV and BBC series I Saw You and Rescue Me (both 2002) and contributed to the third series of Cold Feet (1999). His most recent novel is Sweet Sorrow (2019).
Patrick Melrose won the 2019 BAFTA Television Craft Award for Best Writer: Drama.
Approaches to Adaptation
Do you prefer to adapt material which chimes with your own work, or material which is completely different and gives you a chance to try out new things?
The latter, I think. Itās changed, because my own work has changed. When I first started writing, my own material was broadly romantic comedy and relationship drama, and I got sent a lot of books in that vein to adapt. It was easy to say no, even when I could see their commercial appeal, because itās less interesting to me if thereās an overlap with material that I want to deal with in my own way. What I like about adaptation is that it coaxes me into writing about things Iām not necessarily confident enough to write about in an original form. To begin with, I was quite scared of original material that was outside my usual style. I would have been scared of the melodrama of Tess of the DāUrbervilles, which was the first thing I adapted, or the darkness of Patrick Melrose, or the emotional rawness of And When Did You Last See Your Father? Material thatās different from mine serves as a sort of scaffolding which has elements of my own work, but gives me some parameters. But it would feel a little pointless to adapt a book that was too similar in style to, say, Starter for Ten or One Day.
Do you think adaptations involve a completely different set of creative gears to original screenplays?
Yes. I can adapt while Iām writing original work, but I canāt write two original works at the same time. I wouldnāt be able to hold two different sets of original voices and situations in my head. I get very emotionally engaged writing original fiction, because Iām drawing on my own concerns and preoccupations. Even though my books arenāt directly autobiographical, theyāve all originated in an experience Iāve had, or a set of emotions Iāve gone through. With adaptation thereās usually an element of that, something in the source material which Iāve responded to, but the story Iām telling isnāt my own so I feel a little more distance. Itās much more of an editing job, a technical, structural process.
Do you always agree a mission statement or direction of travel with whoever has commissioned the adaptation?
I think so. I mean, thereās always a pitching element involved. When I took on Patrick Melrose, I knew there were other writers in the frame, and I had to go and meet the producers and say what I loved about the books, and what I wanted to keep and take out, and how I might augment that. Likewise, I remember my pitch for Far from the Madding Crowd, and how it would differ from the John Schlesinger/Frederic Raphael version. That pitch doesnāt necessarily come through in the finished product, you donāt always quite hit it, but the ones where my vision of the material has matched the final film are the projects that Iām happiest with. I used to work as a script editor before I was a writer, so Iāve been at the other end of it and Iām able to speak that language. Thereās a certain amount of smoke and mirrors in pitching, because you often wonāt find out what the source material is really about until youāve spent some time with it.
Do you usually produce an outline or treatment before you start writing the script?
No, I donāt, but thatās probably to do with having some experience in all fields of writing. When I started out as a novelist and as an original screenwriter, I did do them and got notes on them and went back and did them again. Now, once Iāve made the pitch, Iāll go my own way. I think Iām quite a safe pair of hands, in that I do what I say and wonāt submit something crazy. I wonāt suddenly change the ending without telling anyone, Iāll talk my choices through with the script editors and producers and so on. So apart from verbally stating my intentions, Iām allowed to do what I want. The exception to that was the latter episodes of Patrick Melrose. As the books go on, they become less and less story-driven and more like montages of memories. Thereās nothing youād call a plot in the last book, really. So with those there was a certain amount of planning and cards on the wall and story breakdowns, but thatās the least story-led material Iāve ever worked on. With everything else thereās been a great deal of discussion, but not a lot of pre-planning, except in my head.
If the author of the source material is living, do you find it useful to have their input on the script?
Thatās a really interesting one. No screenwriter thinks, āI wish I was getting more notes.ā So I would expect them to have input, I just wouldnāt crave it coming directly to me. Iād want them to see every draft and feel free to give notes, but Iād also want those notes to be put into a pot and mediated. What youāre doing is an act of vandalism. Youāre chopping things out and conflating characters, and undoubtedly theyāre going to read it and go, āThatās not what I had in mind.ā On Patrick Melrose, I had a meeting with Edward St Aubyn, whoās a writer I massively admired and, as a different kind of novelist to me, was rather intimidated by. But heās a very charming man and we had a lovely lunch; I asked him a certain number of questions and at the end he said, āWell, we can either talk every day, or we need never talk again. Itās up to you.ā He completely understood either approach. If youāre reading the books ā and this applies to Blake Morrisonās book as well ā youāll inevitably think, āWe really need this scene and it isnāt in the book so Iām going to have to invent it,ā and the most useful question to ask the author at that point is, āWhat really happened?ā But in a way thatās also the least useful question, because theyāve already given their experiences a shape which wasnāt necessarily there in real life, so to ask them āWhat really happened?ā is a step backwards. It ruins the shape.
Is it easier to navigate notes from directors, producers and script editors when you have a piece of source material to measure the screenplay against?
I have a rule that no one is allowed to say, āBut in the bookā¦ā, because adaptation means change. And of course itās a rule thatās constantly broken and so not really a rule at all, but if you just go through and highlight the dialogue and copy the story, itās probably not going to work. You all have to be in agreement about what you think is important in the book, but the success of an adaptation is not necessarily how much of the book you manage to cram in, so there are limits to the extent you can use the book as evidence for your point of view. Iāve been on productions where we were not allowed to talk about the book, and Iāve been on productions where the book has been on set and people pick it up and flick through it and refer to it. Iām not crazy about them doing that, but itās okay if the adaptation is broadly faithful and weāre not trying to do something different with it. I do get a little prickly if an actor says they preferred something in the book, because theyāre usually, quite naturally, looking at their own scene, theyāre not taking into account, say, the directorās view or the style of the production. You might adapt Dickens or Hardy and want the dialogue to feel very up-to-date and real, and if an individual actor goes back to the book and likes the more verbose, old-fashioned version of a line, that might be more fun for them to say, but it might not fit in with the overall tone. So I am wary of the book being used as a weapon.
Have you ever started work on an adaptation and found it harder to adapt than you anticipated?
The hardest was Patrick Melrose, but I knew that was going to be a tough one. Iāve had the opposite experience, which is not that itās easier, but that it falls naturally into a certain structure. On Tess, for instance, we were doing four episodes and the book fell neatly into four narrative chunks with strong cliffhangers. Hardy actually originated the term ācliffhangerā, and books written for serialisation adapt particularly well to serial television. Weirdly, I found my own book, Starter for Ten, much harder than expected. It was inspired by a lot of films, and it had a three-act structure and a protagonist with wants and needs and various obstacles along the way, so I thought it would just be a case of picking the best scenes ā but it was extremely hard to do that because of the loss of the narratorās voice. Things that were absolute highlights on the page didnāt work without the irony of the narratorās point of view, so it was difficult to find the comedy in it. Actually, I think the hardest things Iāve had to adapt have been written in first-person voices ā or what we call an indirect third person, like the Melrose books, where itās technically in the third person, but very much from a particular characterās point of view ā because youāre constantly looking for ways to put thoughts into dialogue without slathering it in voiceover.
Have you ever been offered material to adapt which you felt couldnāt, or shouldnāt, be adapted?
Yes, I have, and Iāve often read books that Iāve loved and thought, āThis is unadaptable.ā Iāve adapted several of my top-ten favourite books, but there are some in there that I wouldnāt touch. I wouldnāt touch anything by J.D. Salinger. Iād have been very wary of The Great Gatsby. Iāve been approached more than once about Ford Madox Fordās The Good Soldier, and I think thatās unadaptable unless you throw away the point of the book, which is that youāre not sure who the narrator is and what really happened. Books with unreliable narrators, books which rely on ambiguity, books where thereās no objective truth, books where thereās very little narrative ā so a lot of modernist fiction ā are all very hard to adapt. But Iāve been proved wrong many times. You think something can never be done, then someone does it really well.
Are there any screen adaptations which you think are especially good or you particularly admire?
There are lots. All the Presidentās Men, by William Goldman, is a wonderful adaptation, probably one of the best, because it approaches Watergate in an entirely unexpected way. The Wings of the Dove, by Hossein Amini, is also a fantastic adaptation, of a novel Iād be very scared to adapt. I thought it was amazing that someone could deal with that material in that tone of voice. There are also celebrated adaptations that Iām not crazy about. Iām not crazy about the David Lean versions of Dickens, even though Iām absolutely sure his version of Great Expectations is better than ours. I love David Lean, but I donāt love those.
Adapting Fiction
Some writers try to include as much of the novel as possible by boiling scenes down to their essence. Others are more ruthless in editing it down to a sort of greatest hits, but being true to the spirit of it. Do you favour either of those approaches?
It depends on the project. With Patrick Melrose, because we were doing 800 pages of fiction in five hours, it clearly wasnāt going to be a distillation of everything that happens. If you want to put things in because theyāre great incidents or great observations or great lines of dialogue, itās very unlikely theyāll be essential to telling the story. So it was about selecting material and discarding upwards of 50 per cent of the action. The first three episodes are pretty faithful to the books, but in the last two there are great chunks missing and a story is teased out that wasnāt necessarily so prominent on the page. Other ti...