THE CINEMATIC NOVEL: TRACKING A CONCEPT

Author(s): Steven G. Kellman

Source: Modern Fiction Studies , Autumn 1987, Vol. 33, No. 3, SPECIAL ISSUE:
NARRATIVE THEORY (Autumn 1987), pp. 467-477
Published by: The Johns Hopkins University Press

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THE CINEMATIC NOVEL: TRACKING A CONCEPT

rrfr

Steven G. Kellman

Just as in the 1960's, when students and critics

alike were calling just about every important
work "existentialistic, " there now seems to be
a run on the term "cinematic." There is a
danger that, like the term "existentialistic,"
the term "cinematic" will wear out from
overuse and misuse. (Eidsvik 120)

When Virginia Woolf drolly proclaimed that "in or about December,

1910, human character changed" ("Mr. Bennett and Mrs. Brown" 320),
it is doubtful that she was thinking of D. W. Griffith. In late 1910, the
director had just moved his production company to Hollywood and made
His Trust, Griffith's first two-reeler and one of several works in which
he was inventing a syntax for the infant medium. Woolf was not enamored
of the movies, though they would reflect, embody, and shape precisely
that revolution in consciousness that she associated with modernism and
with the novel. The history of cinema is congruent with the history of
the modern novel, as it is with the development of the airplane, the

Modern Fiction Studies, Volume 33, Number 3, Autumn 1987. Copyright © by Purdue Research Foundation.
All rights to reproduction in any form reserved.

467

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automobile, the radio, the skyscraper, and even the zipper. Yet not nearly
as much sense and nonsense have been written about cinematic radios or

novelistic zippers as has been about cinematic novels.

Several generations of critics have taken it for granted that ut cinema
poesis, that literature is instructively analogous to film. Whether in em
pirical studies of works by such authors as Cendrars, Dos Passos, Malraux,
Robbe-Grillet, or Kosinski, in analyses of adaptations and novelizations,
or in comparatist theories of the relationships between literature and the
other arts, the term cinematic novel has become a rhetorical commonplace,
as if there were no question about what is meant by cinema and what
is meant by novel. There is such persistent but conflicting testimony about
this bizarre hybrid born in the twentieth century that, like the blind man
and the elephant, it is possible that we would not be able to recognize
a cinematic novel if we saw one.

In 1907, just four years after the first sustained narrative film, Edwin
S. Porter's The Great Train Robbery, Henri Bergson was articulating the
modernist conception of mind as a function of movement and continuity.
He explicitly drew upon the recent technology of motion pictures to il
lustrate his theory, as if to think is to operate a cerebral movie projector.

Qu'il s'agisse de penser le devenir, ou de l'exprimer, ou même de le percevoir, nous ne

faisons guère autre chose qu'actionner une espèce de cinématographe intérieur. On résumerait
donc tout ce qui précède en disant que le mécanisme de notre connaissance usuelle est de nature
cinématographique. (753)

A decade earlier, it was William James who, in Principles of Psychology

(1890), had coined the term stream of consciousness to describe a new sense
that the mind functions in and on flux. James did not use the metaphor of
movies, but for an increasingly urban population a rapid sequence of still
photographs would soon be more familiar than his image of a stream.
And in describing these innovative novels that incorporated the insights
of the elder James and of Bergson, others have frequently made com
parisons with film. In 1932, for example, Joseph Warren Beach explained:

A more enlightening analogy is perhaps that of the moving picture, especially the sort cultivated
in Germany, France, and Russia, with its generous use of cut-back, of symbolic themes,
of dissolving views, all meant to give the picture a wider and richer significance than that
of a mere story told in chronological sequence. It is probable that the moving picture has
had a very strong influence on the stream-of-consciousness technique. (525)

And in his 1968 book-length study of that technique, Robert Humphrey

evokes specifically cinematic devices:

The ingenious minds of the writers we have been considering, like their contemporaries
in the sister arts, especially in the cinema, found techniques which were devised to project
the duality and the flux of mental life. Montage, with its function of presenting either more
than one object or more than, one time simultaneously, was especially adaptable to fiction.

468 MODERN FICTION STUDIES

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The corollary devices of "flashback," "fade-out," and "slow-up" proved useful adjuncts
to montage and free association. (121)

By 1987, cinema has been accepted into the sorority of the sister arts,
has in fact come to dominate discussions of its kin. When Arnold Hauser
came to the twentieth century in his ambitious 1952 study The Social History
of Art, he dubbed it "The Film Age" and argued that, because of its
treatment of time, cinema is an apt synecdoche for all the modern arts:

one has the feeling that the time categories of modern art altogether must have arisen from
the spirit of cinematic form, and one is inclined to consider the film itself as the stylistically
most representative, though qualitatively perhaps not the most fertile genre of contemporary
art. (939-940)

In his 1960 book Rococo to Cubism in Art and Literature, Wylie Sypher similar
ly claimed that cinema represents "the primary technique of the twen
tieth century" (184). Gertrude Stein saw the early part of the century
as "undoubtedly the period of the cinema and series production." In 1935,
she said of The Making of Americans, a book she completed in 1908, before
ever seeing a film: "I was doing what the cinema was doing, I was making
a continuous succession of the statement of what that person was until
I had not many things but one thing" (177). Because of the influence
of Dos Passos, Faulkner, Hemingway, and Steinbeck, Claude-Edmonde
Magny designated the post-World War Two era L'Age du roman américain.
Yet what she found so compelling about these American novelists was
precisely their fascimile of cinematic construction. Film may or may not
have dominated Western culture, but its vocabulary has certainly pervaded
discussions of the other arts, particularly prose fiction. It has not always
been in the interests of lucidity.
In 1924, an American critic, Gilbert Seldes, was already both extol
ling and deploring the influence of film on the novel. Claiming that cinema
has had a salutary effect on French literature but a pernicious one on
American, he declared: "the cinema influence in literature in French is
almost exactly opposite to what it is here. There it seems to make for
brevity, hardness, clarity, brilliance"; in contrast are "those characteristic
sloppinesses, which American authors are beginning to blame on the
movies" (383). Surely the clarity and brilliance of Seldes's observation
are dependent on precisely what he means not only by "influence," but
by "cinema" as well.
In 1918, Virginia Woolf attacked Compton Mackenzie's new novel
The Early Life and Adventures of Sylvia Scarlett as "a book of cinema." She
explains that "as in a cinema, one picture must follow another without
stopping, for if it stopped and we had to look at it we should be bored"
(Woolf, "Movie Novel" 84). Woolf s animosity toward books of cinema
seems based on a mistrust of eidetic literature, as she noted graphically
a few years later:

CINEMATIC NOVEL 469

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We can say for certain that a writer whose writing appeals mainly to the eye is a bad writer;
that if in describing, say, a meeting in a garden he describes roses, lilies, carnations, and
shadows on the grass, so that we can see them, but allows to be inferred from them ideas,
motives, impulses, and emotions, it is that he is incapable of using his medium for the
purposes for which it was created, and is as a writer a man without legs. (Woolf, "Pictures"
174).

Yet Woolf s distaste for the new century's putatively representative medium
and for novels that ape it has not prevented critics from describing her
own novels as "cinematic." Robert Humphrey, for one, makes a lengthy
case for analyzing the exposition of Mrs. Dalloway as if it were a "roving
camera" (58).
James Joyce, in 1909, attempted unsuccessfully to open the first movie
theater in Dublin, and Wylie Sypher contends that "Ulysses illustrates
the montage principle in its widest application" (285). But Marcel Proust,
like Woolf, was unsympathetic to analogies between fiction and film.
Toward the end of A la recherche du temps perdu, its narrator realizes that
a mere linear continuity is not the triumphal synoptic vision toward which
he, as a latent novelist, has been aspiring:
Quelques-un voulaient que le roman fût une sorte de défile cinématographique des choses.
Cette conception était absurde. Rien ne s'éloigne plus de ce que nous avons perçu en réalité
qu'une telle vue cinématographique. (882-883)

Nevertheless, Proust, too, has been described as "cinematic," as in Arnold

Hauser's enthusiastic survey of the modernist masters as cinéastes by other
means:

The discontinuity of the plot and the scenic development, the sudden emer
and moods, the relativity and the inconsistency of the time-standards,
in the works of Proust and Joyce, Dos Passos, and Virginia Woolf of th
and interpolations of the film, and it is simply film magic when Proust br
which may lie thirty years apart, as closely together as if there were only
them. (944)

John Updike subtitled Rabbit, Run "A Movie" and t

viewer of his attempt at "an equivalent of the cinemati
tion" (Plimpton 447-448). The belief that "each clipped
prepositional phrase, is like a new frame in a strip of f
Levin to characterize Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms as a
"cinematographic presentation" (Contexts 159). Another critic says
of Thomas Pynchon in Gravity's Rainbow. "He incorporates cinematic
techniques into the texture itself so that the novel is like a movie" (Clerc
104). With producer Samuel Goldwyn, the simile seems founded more
on mood than on specific techniques: "Some novels read like scenarios.
Look at Rebecca\ Rebecca reads like a scenario. But not Wuthering Heights"
(Bluestone 91). The anonymous reviewer for the Times Literary Supplement
who described a scholarly book on the Civil War as "couched in the most
highly coloured cinematic prose" apparently liked neither cinema nor the

470 MODERN FICTION STUDIES

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volume {The Alabama Incident 754).
Such remarks could be multiplied at great length, but remarks are
not analysis. A thorough attempt to disentangle the two terms of the
analogy would end up cross-cutting the history of the novel with the history
of the cinema. Obviously, "cinematic" does not mean the same thing
in 1987 as it did in 1950, before wide-screen technology, as it did in 1940,
before color became commonplace, as it did in 1925, before movies could
talk, or as it did in 1900, before cameras became mobile. It is undeniable
that novels are being written differently now than they were before
Lumière—and, successively, Griffith, Welles, Bergman, or Godard. Ac
cording to whether the paradigm for film is documentary, fictional, or
animated, Expressionist, Surrealist, or Neorealist, avant-garde, or populist,
the meaning of cinematic novel will be quite different. As we have seen,
the term can be applied pejoratively, honorifically, or neutrally. It can
be used to describe a book's style, structure, or content.
When an anonymous reviewer for the Times Literary Supplement wrote
of Edna Ferber's American Beauty (1931): "The book will naturally lend
itself particularly well to the screen: it has plenty of drama and is steeped
in romance" (862), cinema was being conceived as simply the repository
of gaudy plots. But there is also a sizable class of novels, most notably
Nathanael West's The Day of the Locust and F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Last
Tycoon, that are centrally and explicitly about moviemaking. To call these
cinematic novels, however, is to compound the confusion. Merely because
they depict film production without themselves necessarily taking on the
characteristics of a film (whatever those are) makes them as much
"cinematic" as a biography of a dietitian is "nutritional."
Nor are novelizations, the transposition of a work from screen to page,
usually to capitalize on a movie's current popularity, necessarily cinematic.
The early movie industry turned to the nineteenth-century novel for a
ready supply of unprotected raw material, adapting many canonized texts
several times each. As cinema gained influence, respectability, and aesthetic
sophistication, as it came to seem the dominant cultural medium, the
process was reversed, and the movie began to precede the book. Love Story
(1970), whose author Erich Segal was creating the screenplay and the
novel simultaneously, perhaps marks a turning point, at least in
Hollywood. Thenceforth, with blockbusters like E. T., Gremlins, and Raiders
of the Lost Ark, there is no doubt about which medium is primary. Noveliza
tions were not invented in the 1960s, but The Shooting of Dan McGrew
(1924), The Great Divide (1925), and Wings (1927) are singular cases and
as novelizations did not exist in the same cultural economy as Rocky, Satur
day Night Fever, and Star Trek do today. In any case, simply because they
drew their plots and characters from a film does not make these books
"cinematic" any more than the multiple screen versions of Anna Karenina
or David Copperfield are perforce "novelistic."
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 Stendhal's famous recipe for realistic fiction as a mobile mirror, "un
miroir qu'on promène le long d'un chemin," seems to anticipate a track
ing camera. And, at least since Sergei Eisenstein's discussion of Dickens
as his technical mentor (195-255), critics have seized on numerous pre
Edisonian authors as cinéastes avant la lettre. Frank O'Connor, for example,
analyzes how, in order to describe the town in The Mayor of Casterbridge,
Thomas Hardy devised high angle shots, fades, tracking, and close-ups
(245-246). Harry Levin says of the author's task in paring Madame Bovary
down from 3,600 manuscript pages: "The demiurgic function of reducing
that mass to its present form might be compared to the cutting of a film,
and rather than speak of Flaubert's 'composition' in the pictorial sense,
we might refer, in kinetic terms, to montage" (Gates 261). One critic,
Paul Léglise, has even devoted an entire volume to The Aeneid as a
proto-movie.
But it is preeminently as an emblem of modernity that authors first
hailed the cinema. The Futurists, in particular, celebrated motion pic
tures as " the expressive medium most adapted to the complex sensibility of a Futurist
artist." For them, the only way that the book, "static companion of the
sedentary, the nostalgic, the neutralist," can survive is by assimilating
the vibrant qualities of the new art—"antigraceful, deforming, impres
sionistic, synthetic, dynamic, free-wording" (Marinetti 207-208). Blaise
Cendrars, an enigmatic Swiss poet, filmmaker, and novelist who flirted
with several avant-garde groups, was intoxicated with the possibilities of
cinema. In Les Confessions de Dan Yack (1929), a novel he dedicated to
Abel Gance, Cendrars has his title character tell a movie actress:
"L'équilibre est dans le mouvement ... si tu ne bouges pas, tu poses.
Tout est là. C'est tout le secret du ciné" (5: 266). And Cendrars attempted
to translate this secret of perpetual motion into the form of his writing.
One result was the 1925 novel L'Or, about which the critic for Les Nouvelles
Littéraires wrote:

C'est écrit avec une économie voulue, tout comme un scénario de cinéma, scène par scène,
au présent d'un indicatif rapide, à l'usage du metteur en scène. L'histoire est menée droit
au but, par un homme qui connaît à merveille tous les effets des projections sur l'écran
cérébral et sait rendre l'anecdote uniquement visuelle. C'est le plus beau des films, à la
meilleure manière de William Hart, avec un grand souffle d'épopée sur de grands paysages.
(Serstevens 1)

Reviewing the English translation, Sutter's Gold, The New York Times critic
also found Cendrars' novel "cinematic," but excessively so; assailing "the
movie style of the text," he claimed the book "has most of the worst
faults of the movie caption" (Broch 4).
Apart from the intrinsic qualities of the medium, what especially ex
cited the European avant-garde was the social context of movie consump
tion. For them, it was the consummate populist art. In his 1926 essay
"L'ABC du cinéma," Cendrars provides an apocalyptic vision of global
472 MODERN FICTION STUDIES

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cataclysm through the universal appeal of film:

A la même heure, dans toutes les villes du monde, la foule qui sort des cinémas, qui se
répand dans les rues comme un Seing noir, qui comme une bête puissante allonge ses mille
tentacules et d'un tout petit effort écrase les palais, les prisons. (6: 24)

Just as modernist art was becoming more rarefied, addressed to the happy
few, and most adept at rendering private moments of awareness, com
mercial film was demotic, public, and unrefined. Perhaps it is a nostalgie
de la boue that accounts in part for the power that this vulgar entertain
ment exerted over the cultural renegades of high modernism. In any case,
it suggests that one meaning of cinematic novel would be a rejection of
hermetically perfect prose in favor of a contribution to the newly emerg
ing mass culture.
Eisenstein and other Russian theorists like Pudovkin, Kuleshov, and
Vertov infectiously argued that the essence of cinematic art is montage:
the arrangement of discrete frames to create a visual rhythm. A cinematic
novel, then, would be one that is organized as if separate chapters,
paragraphs, or sentences were written and then edited into nonlinear
patterns. However, montage theory was vigorously challenged following
World War Two—in France by the Cahiers du cinéma group under André
Bazin and in Italy by the Neorealists. Excessive cutting was attacked as
being factitious and manipulative. In place of montage, the basis of a
free, imaginative cinema was proclaimed to be mise-en-scène—design within
each individual frame, long takes, and deep focus. However, it is a curious
fact that, though the early Russians' exclusive preoccupation with mon
tage as the foundation of film art has long since been abandoned, discus
sions of the cinematic novel persist in taking montage as the model for what
novels constructed like movies should be like. Edward Murray, for
example, argues that In Cold Blood was an unsuccessful movie, ironically,
because it attempted to adapt a novel that was already consummately
"cinematic." And what he means by that is that Truman Capote has
found a perfect literary equivalent to montage: "It seems doubtful whether
any serious writer before Capote ever applied the method of parallel editing
so consistendy throughout the length of an entire novel" (132).
Jerzy Kosinski discusses his own 1968 novel Steps, organized as a se
quence of narrative fragments, as cinematic because it is overtly edited
and as modern because it is cinematic: "Montage reflects the modern
thought process" (15). Long after Eisenstein, montage continues to be
the paradigm for film in analogies between it and prose fiction, perhaps
because it is simply much easier to find a verbal equivalent for it than
for mise-en-scène. It is also true that, technically and stylistically, literary
movements are not exactly synchronized with cinematic ones.
The most elementary observations on film and literature begin with
the realization that the medium of the first is images, whereas the medium

CINEMATIC NOVEL 473

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of the second is words. Some of the ambition to create cinematic novels

must surely be a legacy of Symbolist impatience with mere words, each

worth but .001 percent of a picture. The same impulse responsible for
Imagist poetry and invisible authors urged novelists to aspire to the visual
presence of film, to attempt to abandon concepts for percepts, telling for
showing. When one critic praises Kosinski's books as "cinematic," he
means that they provide an experience that is neither mediated nor
meditated:

The Painted Bird and Steps are remembered for their visual impact, the fully dramatized land
scapes within which the reader sees everything and is told nothing. The fantastic visual
sweep involves the reader almost as immediately as when he is viewing a film: we are stunned
by the savage brutality while at the same time admiring the perceptual beauty of control that
the writer has brought to his subject. (Coale 370)

The illusion of immediacy is also a central concern of the French

New Novelists, and of Alain Robbe-Grillet in particular. Much of le nouveau
roman must be understood in terms of its champions' veneration, emula
tion, and adaptation of cinematic techniques. Robbe-Grillet and
Marguérite Duras have even become filmmakers. Robbe-Grillet's is an
art of appearances, of surfaces, and a vision of cinema as the most deictic
of media guides his writing. Where literature is an abstraction, images
assert a presence; and where words establish a temporal continuum, film
creates an eternal present. In his Preface to L'Année dernière à Marienbad,
Robbe-Grillet contends that narrative approaches the condition of film
to the extent that it is able to collapse preterite and future into a con
tinuous hie et nunc.

La caractéristique essentielle de l'image est sa présence. Alors que la littérature dispose de

toute une gamme de temps grammaticaux, qui permet de situer les événements les uns
par rapport aux autres, on peut dire que, sur l'image, les verbes sont toujours au présent
(ce qui rend si étranges, si faux, ces films "racontés" des publications spécialisées, où l'on
a rétabli le passé simple cher au roman classique!): de toute évidence, ce que l'on voit sur
l'écran est en train de se passer, c'est le geste même qu'on nous donne, et non pas un rapport
sur lui. (L'Année 15)

In annihilating history and eluding signification, Robbe-Grillet's doctrine

is reminiscent of the mute behaviorism Claude-Edmonde Magny had at
tributed to the cinematic American novels of the 1920s and 1930s. And
if the primary dimension of film is space and that of prose fiction is time,
then perhaps insistence by twentieth-century authors on an analogy be
tween novel and cinema is yet another formulation of Joseph Frank's thesis
on "Spatial Form in Modern Literature."
The existence of a cinematic novel demands delicate equilibrium. If too
much weight is placed on the first term, the adjective becomes a substan
tive, and the pen is supplanted by a camera. Such was the case with
Robbe-Grillet in L'Immortelle, Trans-Europ express, and L'Homme qui ment.
He published a text for L'Immortelle, as a "ciné-roman," and in its Preface

474 MODERN FICTION STUDIES

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he makes that genre, congenitally subordinate to screen images, seem like
an elegant version of novelization: "L'oeuvre, c'est le film, tel qu'on peut
le voir et l'entendre dans un cinéma" (7). The converse of "ciné-roman,"
an attempt at novelistic cinema, would be Alexandre Astruc's notion of
"caméra-stylo." The tendency to regard filmmakers—usually directors—as
"authors," the triumph of François Truffaut's "politique des auteurs,"
is yet a further correlation of cinema and novel, this time not to em
phasize matter, technique, or social context, but rather creative
responsibility.
Perhaps the most fundamental issue in likening novel to film is an
ontological one. Is cinema the child of Lumière or of Méliès, a recording
device or a vehicle of fantasy? To begin with Siegfried Kracauer's premise
that film is most instinctively a "redemption of physical reality" is to
raise very different expectations of a cinematic novel than to begin with
Suzanne Langer's notion that film is "the mode of dream" (412). Of
course, there are also oneiric and naturalistic schools of novel-writing.
Numerous theorists have stepped forward as the new Lessing, offer
ing us lessons in sorting out the distinctive features of cinema and novel.1
Yet as long as these remain the two dominant arts of our culture, it is
unlikely that the cinematic novel, a creature both mythical and protean,
will become extinct. Critics will continue to confound the two terms of
the analogy and their readers.

1See: Morris Bcja, Film and Literature: An Introduction. New York: Longman, 1979; Keith Cohen,
Film and Fiction. New Haven: Yale UP, 1979; John Harrington, Film And/As Literature. Englewood Cliffs:
Prentice, 1977; Christian Metz, Essais sur la signification du cinéma. Paris: Klincksieck, 1968; Edward
Murray, The Cinematic Imagination: Writers and the Motion Pictures. New York: Ungar, 1972; Robert Richard
son, Literature and Film. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1969; Alan Spiegel, Fiction and the Camera Eye: Visual
Consciousness in Film and the Modern Novel. Charlottesville: U of Virginia P, 1976; Geoffrey Wagner, The
Novel and the Cinema. Rutherford, NY: Fairleigh Dickinson UP, 1975; and Marie-Claire Ropars
Wuilleumier, De la littérature au cinéma: génèse d'une écriture. Paris: Colin, 1970.

CINEMATIC NOVEL 475

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