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03/04/2013 / rooswrites

Licking Words: Film Phenomenology & the Novelisation

Licking Words:
Film Phenomenology & the Novelisation

Our fingers, our skin and nose and lips and tongue and stomach and all other parts
of us understand what we see in the film experience.
– Vivian Sobchack 84

Introduction

Adaptations have always been literary studies’ unwanted offspring. An inbred, unoriginal variety of something that had already existed. Even though cultural studies has opened doors and rolled out red carpets for medial products that had for long been regarded as ‘low’ culture, and some theorists (e.g. Linda Hutcheon) have attempted to place adaptations in a more favourable light, the big bad consensus still seems to be that the adaptation is a derivative ‐ and only that. One of the biggest problems of these studies is that schoalrs strive to go beyond the impossible opposition of original and adaptation, but never seem to succeed. Thereby its everlasting curse is to be judged on the basis of the doing justice to ‘the original’. A rather recent publication on adaptation studies (Thomas Leitch’s 2007 Film Adaptation and Its Discontents) even goes as far as to anticipate a hollow and meaningless future for the adaptation within academia. The value of originality and authenticity is literally ancient. It seems incomprehensible why we, in current day society, in which everything is linked and intertwined, we still seem to favour something we regard as ‘original’. Henry Jenkins emphasizes the vital importance of what he calls “collective intelligence” within the context of convergence culture (2006, 35). Because of all the media power within reach to people who actually have no ‘official’ knowledge, everyone is somehow justified to create their own take on something ‐ their own adaptation of a truth. If we keep ignoring the power of the adaptation, things might end up in such a kerfuffle ‐ in which academia is ignoring these really exciting medial expressions.

One of the least valued subgenres of the adaptation, is that of the novelisation. The verb ‘to novelise’ literally means ‘to put into the form of a novel’ or ‘to make fictional; fictionalise’.1 As the deZinition already suggests, other media apart from film can be novelised, such as games and comic books. Today, we novelise everything. Our lives, our jobs and our futures we novelise on our own weblogs ‐ our fandoms we novelise in fanfiction stories. And in the case of the novelisation, our favourite subjects are novelised for us. It seems, that even though (or perhaps: because) we live in a mediated world in which most of our information is brought to us through immersive media, we crave the written narrative.

Nowadays, the novelisation is seen as an insignificant, minor sub genre of literature – if one even ventures as far as to call it literature. About seventy years ago, the existence of the novelisation was similar to today’s video recorder or DVD – it was the way to relive the movie you loved (Grady, par. 3). Baetens traces the novelisation back to so‐called “protonovelisations”, informative leaflets or little books made in the early 20th century to advertise films and to usher people into the cinema by actually already telling them a lot about the Zilm, in a written form (2004, 35). Van Parys even documents the function of similar protonovelisations in the era of the French silent film, where the novelisation was the binding factor between one Zilm and the next one ‐ because it could take a while before the next Zilm was to be showed in the theatre and people might need a refreshing recap (2009, 12). Not to mention that literature was still the upper‐class medium in comparison to cinema. So by linking the visual to the literary, the novelisation attempted to add a gleam of decency to the film.

In contemporary society, however, its old function has been lost. The genre is now regarded as a derivative of a ‘better’ original. The problem with the novelisation is that people regard the film as a mere visual variety of its screenplay and thereby te novelisation becomes nothing more than a rough rewriting of a Zilm’s screenplay (or the writing out of all possible trajectories of a game). And even though I have tried to argue before that a Zilm becomes a whole new entirely sensory experience in itself (Brekelmans 54), it did not work wonders for the academic appreciation of the novelisation. With Daniel Frampton’s Filmosophy, however, it might have found a new chance at real, academic happiness. Frampton designed a completely new phenomenologicallyoriented framework to read, experience and understand film through. Even though it is easy to say that if we follow McLuhan’s hip statement that since the materiality of the medium changes, so does it alter the content of the medium an sich. Without literally quoting McLuhan’s well‐known message that the medium itself is the message, I would like to stress that his claim already points to what Bolter and Grusin will later call remediation. The crux of this concept is the role of the medium itself – which, before 1964 (the year of McLuhan’s publication), had never before been regarded as a possibly inZluential agent. What McLuhan namely argues is that the medium itself is part of the content that this messenger carries:

[…] the personal and social consequences of any medium – that is, of any
extension of ourselves – result from the new scale that is introduced into
our affairs by each extension of ourselves, or by any new technology. (7)

Before the McLuhanian suggestion of the medium as humanity’s extensions, the medium was ‘just’ the messenger. What follows is that the medium defines – in some way or another – its message and thereby our perception of this message. He also argues that the “characteristic of all media means that the ‘content’ of any medium is always another medium” (8). New media are always composed of other/ older media, in the sense that a medium such as television is a combination of radio and film.

The novelisation seems to fit these statements like a glove. The content of the novelised text is in some way or another that of its visual inspiration and by writing it, instead of simply copying it, the novelisation inherently changes the content of the medium. Although these statements all do not seem very exciting, the basic medial context of the novelisation needs to be mapped. This of course might obviously not simply ‘solve’ the case of the novelisation. Why and how we can locate this genre in a meaningful way by the help of Zilm phenomenology and Filmosophy, is the goal of the journey we will be currently embarking on.

Text
All novelisations are written adaptations. They all are derivatives of a previously
existing visual counterpart (such as games, Zilms or comic books). The genre of
the novelisation hereby seems to illustrate that it is capable of remediating a
broad scale of visual media, by simply (re)writing it. Most novelisations appear
in a conventional novel‐form. Their relationships towards the ‘orginal’ however
may differ. Belgian literary scholar Jan Baetens distinguishes two general types
of novelisation, namely on the one hand those that novelise the story of the
original and plainly expand it (the commercial novelisation) and other hand
those that rewrite, rework and re‐something with the original (the more high
brow, or literary novelisation) (2005, 8). This latter type somehow reinterprets
the final product of its medial source and attempts to mirror the complete
experience of the viewing in that of the book – which does not happen with a
simple novel version of the screenplay.
However, I would argue that rewriting a screenplay is much more than a mere
translation of the actions into words – a sentence on a page is signiZicantly
different from an action on a screen and subsequently leads to an inherently
different experience. It is this notion of the experience and the medium, that
needs to be addressed more when discussing adaptation from the perspective of
the novelisation.
The first type of novelisation would not want to call too much attention to
the materiality of its medium, since its aim is to evoke the reader’s memories of
the movie ‐ cause somesort of reactivation of the Zilmworld that the Zilm has
previously evoked. The second subspecies of novelisations on the other hand, is
more conscious of its own medium and what it can and cannot do in relation to
its original medium. Some movies have in the past inspired novelisations, long
after they were shown in cinema’s, and subsequently authors have written
novelisations of these movies that were far more creative than a ‘mere’ rewriting
of a screenplay.
This tendency, of writing a literary novelisation long after the movie has
been shown, is a characteristic of this high‐art type of novelisation, accordingly
acknowledged by Baetens (2007, 233). In some of these cases, the screenplay did
not even come into play. An illustrative example is Onno Kosters’ 2001 poetry
series titled Callahan en andere gedaanten (Callahan and other shapes). In these
poems Kosters reworks the main character of the Dirty Harry movies (Harry
Callahan) into his anti‐hero and narrates many of his activities through a poetical
dialogue. He regularly cites the Zilmic protagonist and seems to Zictionalise his
own world through the Dirty Harry Zilms.
The two different kinds of novelisation are not be regarded as a strict
dichotomy. The commercial novelisation’s apparent sameness highlights the
value of adaptation. How else do we justify the desire to purchase a book, after
we have seen the movie? We could just as well buy the DVD. Why do we read
novelisations – or why do we novelise ourselves, are the big questions that
continue to haunt us.
An interesting illustration of a novelisation’s relationship with its source
medium is Francis Ford Coppola’s 1992 Bram Stoker’s Dracula – a Zilm. The Zilm,
as the title already indicates, is based on Bram Stoker’s novel Dracula. Even
though Coppola claimed (not only in his title, but beyond) his Zidelity to Stoker’s
original, the movie itself was then again novelised. This novelisation was clearly
very different from the original novel and the novelisation itself adds that “what
follows here is not Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel […] but Fred Saberhagen’s retelling
of the motion picture called Bram Stoker’s Dracula […] based on the screen
adaptation of that classic story” (in: Montalbano 386). This novelisation of a Zilm
that was based on a novel implies the earlier made distinction between a text
and a visualised (such is the case with a movie) text.
In a way we could regard the novelisation as a recycling medium, such as
the DVD, that captures our past experience with a medium and returns it to us in
a conventional form. This medium allows us to keep it, Zile it and store it ‐ and
enjoy the experience. Probably supplemented with some bonusses ‐ behind the
scenes, deleted scenes, audiocommentary, Zilm stills or biographical remarks.

Lived Sense
“Why is it [film] both strange and familiar?” asks Daniel Frampton in the
introduction of his Filmosophy (2). The feeling of eerie familiarity is typical of
the Freudian concept of the uncanny, a notion often connected to cinema. It is
this virtual world’s abilities to make us feel and experience things as if they were
reality, that makes it an uncanny medium. The experience of watching a Zilm is in
itself some sort of paradoxical activity, since it simultaneously objectiZies the
gaze of the subject as object as well as the vision brought about by the image
gives rise to a physical response – excitement, fear or compassion. Hereby the
body becomes not only an extension of the medium, but it also becomes part of
the medial experience itself. The body is “moved despite him‐ or herself”
(Melendez 415). The activity of watching starts with a gaze on the object that we
see on the screen, but this is quickly reverted by the presence of the body – our
body – in front of the screen. We see and experience, through the other, our
quintessential selves.
Within psychoanalysis, there is a constant subverted play between the
other and the self at work, by means of suppression and repression. Since the
other is alien to the conscious part of the self, its dialogue is always somehow
problematic. The implications that accompany the self‐other (same‐difference)
dichotomy is similarly intricate. The other is different from the self in terms of its
alien characteristics. However – and not only in psychoanalysis – the other is in a
way close to the self. These issues are inextricably linked to the experience of
cinema, in which we become alienated from ourselves and at the same time
reminded of our inner otherness. We feel tainted, dirty – as if our hidden desires
have been splayed naked in front of our eyes (which, in fact, is exactly what is
happening in the case of an erotic scene, as long as we are physically responsive
to the images).
What the aesthetic experience revolves around, according to film
phenomenologist Kathleen Lubey, is “an experience of an object as a virtual
entity – not as what it is, does, or contains, but as if affects us as a visual
spectacle” (120). Within this experience, one of the important factors resulting in
our delight is the fact that there exists distance. The affect of distance is a feeling
of safeness, of security. Media theorist Arjen Mulder stresses that “the contact
with media in itself brings forth strange, moving, pleasant and horrible
experiences in the bodies of the users, with or without reference to something
outside” (19). The extramedial, according to Mulder, is that part of the medium
that somehow touches upon the outside of the medium – something suggested
by the medium and without its own reach (21). The extramediality, although it is
not within the medium, can only be experienced through a medial experience.
The experience of cinema, in a nutshell, is a strange and complicated
arena. The way film is being studied, is as an object. We know how Zilm comes
into being, there is no mystery about that. However, Frampton’s Filmosophy
thinks not of Zilm as an entity, but as a world in itself. By doing so, his theory (or:
philosophy) of Zilm, offers the novelisation a more autonomous place. If we
regard a Zilm more as a world and an experience, translating this to paper
becomes an activity and experience a lot like the writing or reading of a literary
novel.
Here I have to emphasize that I want to focus on the novelisation as an
independent entity and the reading of it as an experience ‐ just like the reading of
a ‘normal’ novel. Therefore I will not go in to the actual process of the writing of
a novelisation, since that is as irrelevant to us as the creative process of an
author is to literary studies.
Frampton’s Zilm is a world where “the Zilm and the Zilmgoer join in
thought” and the viewing of a Zilm is an “experience” (149). Being a spectator is
not just a passive process of sitting back and receiving information. A Zitting
analogy we Zind in V.F. Perkins’s interpretation, to whom the watching of Zilm is a
sort of “public privacy”, which we can link back the concept of the strange
familiarity of the uncanny (149).
Film implies that our thinking can transform the world (Frampton 3).
“Film offers us our Zirst experience of an other experience”, Zilm allows us to see,
feel and experience something that is not us or our lives (15). Through a forceful
phenomenological realisation during the experience of Zilm‐watching, we are
reminded of how we live our lives, our reality. Filmosophy’s film is a world in
itself, complete with its own rules, intentions and creations. Film thinks ‐ it is not
just us, the spectators, who make ‘sense’ out of Zilm.
Film‐thinking is a theory of Zilmform, basically stating that form is an act
of thinking of the Zilmind. Allowing the Zilmgoer to experience the Zilm as a drama
issueing from itself. Film is a dramatic utterance that can only be understood in
its context, where we can see its drama Zlowing. Experience of Zilm is a Zluid,
natural thing. Filmosophy is therefore a highly holistic approach to Zilm. And
“the encounter between Zilm and Zilmgoer is so enjoyable and easy and powerful,
because Zilm is also thinking” (162). According to Frampton, film studies should
actually revolve around a doubled phenomenology, as Zilm is about our
perception of the Zilm as well as the Zilms perception of its world (15).
Important to Frampton is that film thinking is not human thinking (151),
it is an autonomous entity that is not comprised just of a human thought (or a
human system of thought). More importantly, film engenders new thinking,
shows us a new reality and thereby we feel the thinking of the Zilm (155).
Frampton stresses the mutual and organic relationship between the Zilm and the
Zilmgoer, together, within this Zluid process of Zilm‐watching, they make (sense
of) the Zilm. To one of phenomenology’s role models, Merleau‐Ponty, meaning is
always experienced, especially when it comes to the experience of watching a
movie: “Zilm is not a thought, it is perceived” (13).
One of the most pivotal notions that are apparent in Frampton’s book ‐
concerning our novelisation interest ‐ revolves around Zilm phenomenology: the
idea that watching a movie is a more an experience than anything else. It is
exactly this line of thinking that salvages the novelisation from the junkyard of
discarded adaptations, by stressing the inherent sensual aspects of the ‘living’ of
a movie. Everything we see, taste or hear, is an experience. We sense it through
our base insticts of our eyes, tongue or ears. The means of perception is the
object of study for phenomenology.
Another inZluential Zilm and literary scholar who has shaped the Zield of
phenomenology is Vivian Sobchack. In her fantastically fascinating article “What
My Fingers Knew”, she tries to close the gap between previous
phenomenological explorations of the Zilm experience and the Zilm experience
itself. Ever since people have studied Zilm, there has been a great interest in the
mysterious relationship between the feeling (“the experience”) of watching a
Zilm and the Zilm product itself. There is no such other medium as Zilm that
(unknowingly and unwittingly) knows how to stimulate our senses. Sobchack
remarks that there is not a lot of academic work on the actual carnal experience
of the Zilm and that

[…] most Zilm theorists still seem either embarrassed or bemused by bodies that often act

wantonly and crudely at the movies, involuntarily countering the Zine‐grained sensibilties,

intellectual discrimination, and vocabulary of critical reflection (57).

It is of course exactly this part of the bodily experience that is highly interesting,
even if bewildering. In this case we are not even talking about pornography just
yet, but more about the typology of the cinematic experience. Phenomenological
research has covered the bases of genres that arouse extreme emotions in our
bodies, such as research into horrors (see e.g. Julian Hanich’s forthcoming book
on horror and thriller pleasures) and pornography (see e.g. Linda Williams). And
as all forms of cinema can be regarded as a cinema of the senses, the exploration
should not stop here.
The difference between between Sobchack and Frampton lies therein that
Sobchack’s Zilm‐subject experiences a world from a subjective viewpoint,
whereas Zilmosophy’s Zilmind is the Zilmworld, though from a transsubjective noplace.
Where Sobchack’s most exciting activities take place within the bodies of
the Zilmgoers, Frampton places all the focus and power within the Zilm itself.
Bodies watching Zilms is one of Sobchack’s major starting points. It is me, a
human with a body, watching Zilm ‐ Zilm’s existance lived as the Zilmgoer’s body.
On the other side we have Daniel Frampton, who argues for a mix of minds,
argues we leave our bodies behind. I would argue we take our bodies with us, on
a journey into the Zilm.

It may be clear that the actual sense‐making and coming‐into‐being of the
phenomenological experience resides exactly there inbetween the spectator and
the Zilm. It is within his body, which acts as somesort of mediator, that the Zilms
emotions/ world are projected into and onto the spectator who subsequently
has this experience ‐ these emotions.
The almost impossible combination of the presenting and representing
inherent in cinema, is remarked upon by Lesley Stern, who describes the
tensions (the gaps where the body and the non‐body overlap within cinematic
knowledge) as the uncanny.
Before going in to the uncanny within cinema, we need to link it to the
original German: “heimlich” consists of “referring to the house, friendly, familiar,
intimate, secure”, its second meaning being “concealed, hidden, private” (Freud
130). However, at the same time it is possible for something which is familiar
(heimlich) to one (an ‘insider’, someone who is ‘at home’) at the same time to be
highly unfamiliar (unheimlich) and secretive to the ‘outsider’ – the stranger. The
meaning of the word unheimlich is initially deZined as a negation of heimlich:
“unhomey, unfamiliar, uncomfortable”, but also as “no longer concealed,
revealed” – that which was meant to remain hidden, but inadvertently became to
be unhidden, public (Freud 131).
Strangely enough, the antithetical adjective heimlich means something
related to what is unheimlich. Heimlich belong to two types of ideas of which
“one relating to what is familiar and comfortable, the other to what is concealed
and kept hidden” (132). Something what is hidden can be associated with unhomey
and the same goes with something familiar and the revelation of
something. The great difference is that the heimlich is private and the unheimlich
is not private (anymore). Freud mentions Schelling who explains this duality by
arguing that the term “unheimlich [is applicable] to everything that was intended
to remain secret, hidden away, and has come into the open” (132). What follows
is that das Unheimliche (the uncanny) is the revelation of that what is private
and concealed (hidden); hidden not only from others, but also from the self. This
notion of hidden ‘parts’ of the self is important to Freud, his theorising focusses
on this aspect of the uncanny – that the feeling of unheimlichkeit arises because
of an inner memory that was long forgotten. Feeling uncanny is therefore the
mark of the return of the repressed.
That what makes a cinematic experience uncanny is therefore the
familiarity with the feeling a Zilm can make us have, and the lack of actual
familiarity with the displayed world on the screen ‐ or the actual reason why we
are having these emotions. And this crossover situation can lead to an uncanny
experience. A return of something familiar, that was repressed.
The coming‐into‐being of these emotions, of these experiences, takes
place inbetween our bodies and the Zilmworld. We make somesort of sense out of
the sense made for us by the Zilm. Our bodies are our means of transport in the
journey to the Zilm(world).
A very important point to both Sobchack’s work and Frampton’s that can
attribute to the autonomy of Zilm, is how they sees the watching and
experiencing of Zilm as an actual physical experience or a world of being in itself.
Thereby a Zilm becomes a completely different entity than a novel. And by
stressing these aspects of Zilm, Zilm‐watching and the Zilmworld, we can offer the
novelisation an interesting position within the framework of media theory.
A novelisation is in a way a form of ekphrastic experience ‐ we reexperience
while and what we read with a retrospective creativity. There were
we have to let go of our own fantasy in cinema, we get it returned to us when we
read. The visual, the experience, has inspired us and leads us to want to continue
this journey, but through our own mind. And it is here that we can closely tie the
novelisation to the participartory genre of fanZiction. As Frampton suggests in his
introduction: “my perceptions become images: my eyes become cameras,
unafraid to look onto faces, scenes or moments” (3).
Film is a reality in itself and that is why we should regard and interpret these
elements from within, an sich, as an organic whole.
“Filmmakers do create Zilms with their own human intentions and
emotions, but the Zilmgoer’s experience is of another kind of thinking”, Frampton
tells us (45 ‐ italics mine). By allowing this autonomous standpoint to the Zilm,
13
Frampton liberates us from the origin‐authenticity question. It does not matter
where the Zilm came from and who came up with it ‐ it has morphed into a
Zilmworld with its own thoughts. Translating thoughts from another world,
always entails an exciting remediation.
14
Tasting Text
Since a motion picture is so much an audiovisual
experience, there’s no way a book
can duplicate its style, atmosphere or drama.
Randall
D. Larson, Films into Books xi
A more phenomenological and holistic approach to Zilm may be the way to go for
the novelisation and all its other inbred adaptation brothers and sisters. If we
regard the Zilm as an organic entity, the novelisation is more than a conventional
translation from one medium to another. (And even this ‘conventional’ process is
interesting in itself.) The novelised visual medium offers us space, creativity and
the tools to use our own mental eyes as cameras. The creative activity of bookreading
supplements the sensory immersive experience of the cinema.
Sobchack attempts to close the gap between Zilm phenomenology and the
Zilm experience itself. Frampton closes gaps and opens gaping holes, but
nevertheless thereby offers the novelisation a little nest in which it could settle
down.
We simply need to acknowledge the value of the novelisation, if we ever want to
make sense out of our contemporary convergence culture. Film has and always
will be converging in and with written forms of adaptations. That does not make
any of them less valuable, but even moreso interesting.
Not only is every book related to every movie and vice versa, we write our
own novelisations. Our own weblogs, fanZiction stories and other semi‐literary
ventures. And these writings are not just empty, meaningless shells anymore.
They matter. So if little Jane’s weblog stories about her cat matter, why would a
written elaboration of a movie not matter?
The pregnant point is that we can look up, write and Zind everything we
want, just as look as we know what we are looking for. (And not even that.
Youtube and Amazon already show us ‘Other customers that bought/ watched
15
this, also bought/ watched…) The entire textual world has become a hypertext.
Every medial product has become part of what Jenkins calls Convergence Culture.
Frampton also asks us in his introduction: “perhaps we all secretly want
to live a Zilm‐life” (2). Thereby he links the Zilmworld and its experience to our
own desire to (re)live our own lives the the retrospective gaze of the camera.
Which, in a way, is exactly what the whole concept of ‘to novelise’ does. It takes
Zilm or our own lives and rewrites it. Or we can rewrite it, if we want to.
The nature of the action that the Zilmgoers engage in, namely thinking, is
passive and silent, whereas in the act of reading passivity is joined by (mental)
creativity (Frampton 166). We own our own Zilmthinking in the act of reading
books.
We try desperately to grasp Zleeting moments of emotions with our hands
that only carry words. We can not think like the Zilmworld does, we can only try
to describe, to relive the experience that this delightful being has brought about
in us.
To novelise is to matter.
16
Works Cited
Baetens, Jan. “Novelization, a Contaminated Genre?”. In: Critical Enquiry. Vol. 32,
Issue 1, 2005. pp. 43‐60.
‐ La Novellisation: Du Film au Roman / Novelization: From Film to Novel.
Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2004.
‐ “From Screen to Text: Novelization, the Hidden Continent”. In: The
Cambridge Companion to Literature on Screen. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2007. pp. 226‐239.
Brekelmans, Roos. “Who Ever Said We Stopped Reading? Exploring the
Novelisation and Its (Dis)Placement”. In: Vooys/ Blik Woord
en Beeld,
2008. Volume 26, Number 2. pp. 50‐58.
Grady, Hendrix. “Hacked to Death: Will the Novelization Survive the DVD era?”
In: Slate, 16th of May 2009. <http://www.slate.com/id/2144703&gt; 9th of
November 2007.
Hutcheon, Linda. A Theory of Adaptation. New York: Routledge, 2006.
Jenkins, Henry. “The Cultural Logic of Media Convergence”. In: International
Journal of Cultural Studies. Volume 7, Issue 1, 2004. pp. 33‐43.
‐ Convergence Culture. New York: New York University Press, 2006.
Frampton, Daniel. Filmosophy. London: WallZlower, 2006.
Freud, Sigmund. “The Uncanny”. In: The Uncanny. London: Penguin Classics,
2003. pp. 121–162.
Kosters, Onno. Callahan en andere gedaanten. Amsterdam: Contact, 2004.
Larson, Randall D. Films Into Books. Metuchen: Scarecrow Press, 1995.
Leadbeater, Charles. WeThink:
Mass Innovation, not Mass Production. London:
ProZile Books, 2008.
Leitch, Thomas. Film Adaptation and Its Discontents: From Gone with the Wind
to The Passion of the Christ. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University
Press, 2007.
Lubey, Kathleen. “Spectacular Sex: Thought and Pleasure in the Encounter with
Pornography”. In: A Journal of Feminist Cultural Studies. Vol. 17 (2006),
Issue 2. pp. 113‐131.
Merleau‐Ponty, Maurice. Phenomenology of Perception. Routledge Chapman &
Hall, 2002.
17
Melendez, Franklin. “Video Pornography, Visual Pleasure, and the Return of the
Sublime”. In: Porn Studies. Williams, Linda (Ed). Durham: Duke University
Press, 2004. pp. 401‐427.Montelbano.
Mulder, Arjen. Understanding Media Theory. Rotterdam: NAi Publishers, 2004.
Parys, Thomas van. “Film Adaptation and Its Discontents: From Gone with the
Wind to The Passion of the Christ”. In: Image and Narrative. December
2007.
‐ “The Commercial Novelisation: Research, History, Differentiation”.
In: Literature/ Film Quarterly. Forthcoming.
Sobchack, Vivian. “What My Fingers Knew: The Cinesthetic Subject, or Vision in
the Flesh.” In: Carnal Thoughts: Embodiment And Moving Image Culture.
Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004. pp. 53‐84.
Stam, Robert. Introduction. Literature and Film. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing,
2005. pp. 1‐52.
Williams, Linda. Introduction. Porn Studies. Williams, Linda (Ed). Durham: Duke
University Press, 2004.

1 novelization.” Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1). Random House, Inc. 10 Nov. 2007.
<http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/novelization&gt;.

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