The book is always better
The viewings leave such to be desired
Nothing is taken down to the letter
And I want the director fired
Why can’t he take the light
That burned so brightly in me
that kept me woke throughout the night
And shine it out for all to see?
He’s pilfered and he’s filtered
To condense into the time
And I am left bewildered
At the audacity of his crime!
The faces wrong, the words atrocious!
A subplot gone, my rage ferocious!
A forced romance, there goes the sequel
(It can’t advance without its equal).
I sit here mad, in my uneasy chair
I’ve been had, and it isn’t fair
For I will watch this film again.
The story botched, but still a win.
….a poem inspired by Netflix’s recent movies on books I have absolutely adored. I ate “The Guernsey Lliterary and Potato Peel Pie Society” like a famished reader. It was so well done and I fell in love with each character, and how the author made all of it so real. And I don’t mean in the way some excellent fantasy authors make you seriously consider magic, but as if I was truly peering into these people’s lives. I felt a different, but equal, kind of joy from reading the series of “The Thursday Murder Club” books. Less real people, but just fun to read in the same way beach books are, but a little more cerebral. Then I watched their Netflix counterparts. Look, I knew going in. I’m one of the “DID YOU PUT YOUR NAME IN THE GOBLET OF FIRE?!” complainers. And on top of that, it was, ya know, Netflix. So when characters got mushed together and subplots traded in for cameos, I only groaned minimally. And really, I shouldn’t groan at all. Because “Guernsey” is now one of my treasured volumes. It’s one I will tell others they HAVE to read, but refuse to lend my own copy out (we all have a few of those, don’t we?). But- and here’s the turn- I wouldn’t have even looked it up if Netflix hadn’t suggested the movie to me. It came up on my “for you” list and I thought “well that sounds more like the title of a book… an interesting book.” So I went on my search, found it, and the rest is me curled up in a ball well into the night in my plant nook. So can I complain? In this time of growing illiteracy (both basic and media and artistic, really all senses) shouldn’t we be celebrating anything that can lead people to story? Or should we be arguing that instead- these things should be done perfectly right? I’m really asking. I’ve argued myself in both directions. I suppose tonight my stance is, this book led me to rhyme for the first time in weeks, and I am grateful for any way it came to me.
What is your top “The Book Was Better”?
