The Not That Faithful Adaptation

Off The Rails Adaptation Of Inane Book Is Released To Savage Reviews

Los Angeles (AP) The first few weeks of the year is often a dumping ground for films that the studios deem a waste, of poor quality and poor potential. So too is the case with a new film opening this weekend coming from the creative talents (if one wants to use that word) of two of the worst hacks on the planet. Director Michael Bay, who has given the world so many loud, explosion prone films over the years such as Pearl Harbor and the Transformers franchise, has just released Hopeless Yearning, the adaptation of a novel by Nicholas Sparks, who’s carved out a reputation as a hack himself, churning out pretty much the same plotline in every book. To call the two hacks is an understatement (editor: stop saying that! Michael Bay is a visionary, and my wife loves reading Nicholas Sparks books!)

The movie differs significantly from the book- at least as told to this reporter by the paper’s movie review columnist, who was forced by the very requirements of her occupation to sit down and waste two and a half hours of her life watching a Nicholas Sparks adaptation by Michael Bay. Her zero star review appears in today’s edition. The book featured a standard Sparks plot- the star crossed young lovers, class difference, disapproving parents, heartbreak, and so on, pretty much the same thing in the rest of the author’s works (editor: he does not write the same plotline over and over again!).

Bay made significant changes, turning the mechanic protagonist, Jonah McKay (played by Shia LaBeouf) into an Army bomb disposal expert. His romantic interest Clarissa (played by Megan Fox) was the daughter of a high society family, with a mother who turned out to be a megalomaniac villain, played by Julianna Margulies. The actress was outspoken about her dislike of Bay throughout production and has refused to take any part in publicity for the film. “**** Michael Bay!” Margulies said in a recent tweet.

Nicolas Cage, a perennial player in Bay films, appeared as McKay’s mentor Jeb Gallagher, and the film was plagued with interruptions due to drinking binges. What would usually be a bittersweet film (and an endless bore for anyone who hates Nicholas Sparks adaptations) was turned into an explosion prone, logic ignoring mess of noise, quick cut edits, an Aerosmith theme song, and babes in high cut shorts waxing cars in slow motion.

Bay is, as usual, ignoring the bad reviews. Found at his production offices at Digital Domain, the director was in a good mood. He looked his usual self- the dishevelled hair, the three days of stubble, the casual clothing, the vacant look in the eyes that suggested nothing much was going on inside his head, and the demented smile (editor: stop insulting Michael Bay!). “Who cares about the critics? They rip apart my films, and why? Because they just don’t understand them. My audiences understand them. My audiences love my films. So they come for the explosions and the Aerosmith theme and the action and the explosions and the hot babes and fast cars and the explosions and the… did I mention the explosions?”

Bay grinned even more. This reporter, doomed for the rest of his career to cover things he didn’t like because he had a cranky editor who was subject to a restraining order preventing him from being in the same space as this reporter, and who hated this reporter (editor: for good reason! Shut the hell up!), had to put up with this self absorbed nitwit (editor: what did I just say about not insulting Michael Bay?). “And then there are the Nicholas Sparks fans. I mean, women love this stuff. The star crossed lovers, the bittersweet endings, the sappy sentimental drama, the whole nine yards. Or ten yards. Or maybe there’s not even a yard involved, unless it has a white picket fence. Come to think of it, there’s a lot white about Nicholas Sparks. It’s as if people of colour don’t even exist in a Nicholas Sparks world.”

This reporter was momentarily stunned. Was Michael Bay having a moment of clarity? This, from a director who usually used minorities for comic relief in his over the top explosion prone films? This realization that Sparks has been criticized in the past for presenting a white bread sort of world? Or would it pass as quickly as ripples in the water of a mountain stream? Bay shrugged. “Well, that doesn’t matter. What matters is I’ve got double my audience, and this weekend we’re gonna do big box office numbers, baby, because people are gonna flock to this movie in droves. And we’re gonna prove the critics wrong next year at the Oscars, because if there’s anything I know, and I know a lot….” This reporter highly doubted that (editor: stop insulting Michael Bay!) “….it’s that the Oscars love tear jerkers. Which reminds me, why didn’t anyone ask me to direct The Notebook? I’d have been great at that.”

The last word goes to the author himself. Sparks has been spending years churning out the same plotline with different names and titles. He fashions himself as a unique writer, not willing to label himself a romance novelist (all while failing to keep his marriage together, how’s that for you?). He disregards criticism and shrugs off the irritation of people who dislike his books, such as this reporter, who regards him as a plague on the planet. “I didn’t know who he was,” Sparks admitted while at a café in his North Carolina hometown.

“I mean, sure, I’d heard his name before, but he didn’t present himself with his real name. So I signed off on an adaptation. I mean, I’ve had lots of my books made into movies that people have really been touched by and moved over and all that, so I assumed it would be more of the same. When you adapt one of my novels, you’re talking about true love and heart wrenching plot developments and cancer diagnosis moments and… why are you rolling your eyes?” Sparks asked, looking offended.

This reporter inquired, “are you aware that not everyone in this world likes your books? Because I don’t.”

Sparks seemed shocked. “That’s impossible.”

“No, it’s true,” this reporter assured him.

Sparks shook his head. “Then there can be only one explanation.”

This reporter wondered about the answer. “And that would be?”

“It means you have no soul,” Sparks stated with confidence.

This reporter sighed, shrugged, and walked away rather than spend another minute in the company of a buffoon of a writer, wondering what inane assignment his cranky editor would send him on next time (editor: if he’s right and you have no soul, that must make you a vampire. And thus no one will blame me for putting a wooden stake in your heart and ending you.)

This reporter would like to remind the authorities that his cranky editor keeps making death threats upon this reporter’s life, and should be dealt with accordingly (editor: shut up! I hate you! Oh, do I hate you! I hate you infinity plus one!)

Michael Bay And The Abominable Writer

Explosion Prone Director Announces New Project; Reporters Annoyed

Los Angeles (CP) Reporters were summoned this week to the offices of Digital Domain for a press conference by the film world’s biggest egomaniac director. Michael Bay, the man who brought Pearl Harbor, Armageddon, and the Transformers franchise to the big screen, and who seems to have an endless list of up and coming projects on the plate for him, has yet another film in mind for his next production.

The auditorium on the premises were filled when this reporter turned up, noticing a few actual reporters and a whole lot of vile entertainment reporters: the lowest of the low, the dimmest of the dimwits, the most foolish of the... (editor: hey! Some of us like watching entertainment news!) This reporter took his place, damned for all time by a cranky excuse for an editor who... (editor: I wish I could fire you, but damn you for having an iron clad contract!)

The auditorium was set up for its resident narcissistic idiot (editor: stop making fun of Michael Bay! He’s a great director and totally unappreciated by Hollywood!). The stage had its podium in place, with a full length mirror right beside it. A spokeswoman came out on stage, calling for the attention of the reporters. This reporter took a seat, dreading what was to come- Michael Bay stroking his own ego, the inevitable cast pulled out on the stage, the inevitable nonsense of all that is Bay... (editor: keep it up and I’ll have Michael Bay tie you up to some explosives for one of his films). “Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for the greatest director of all time, Michael Bay!”

The man himself came out on stage, waving to the crowd. The entertainment reporters were gushing with pride and hero worship. The real reporters were rolling their eyes. Bay was, as usual, wearing his typical garb- jeans and a denim shirt with a casual blazer. He had his hair in the usual dishevelled manner, and a few days of stubble on his face. As was always the case, his eyes had that deer in the headlights glaze of sheer Michael Bay stupidity.

Bay strode up to the podium, where he looked at the mirror. He gave himself a full up and down look, smiled, winked at himself, and blew his reflection a kiss. This reporter sighed again, wishing he could be anywhere else but in the presence of an egomaniacal moron who... (editor: keep it up and I’m going to take you skydiving. And throw you out of the plane without a parachute)

“Hello!” Bay called out as he took to the podium. “It’s wonderful to see you all here today! But of course you had to come to see me... after all, am I the greatest director of all time or am I the greatest director of all time?” This reporter noticed that Bay hadn’t put the word not into that sentence- granted, Bay had no idea how horrible a director he really was (editor: or I can throw you off the roof at the office when you get back).

Bay was continuing to speak. “You know, when I look back at my many films, I find myself thinking of what I haven’t quite managed to pull off. I haven’t really done a romance. Well, I’ve put romance into my films, such as the epic love between AJ and Grace in Armageddon, or that whole big love triangle in Pearl Harbor, or how much I love explosions. The way they go off all big and bright and noisy and... wait, where was I? Oh, yes! In the middle of an announcement.” Bay smiled like the Cheshire Cat- aside from the fact that the Cheshire Cat was smart, and Bay most clearly is not (editor: keep it up, wiseguy, and I’ll run you down in the parking garage)

“I’ve recently acquired the film rights to a novel that hasn’t been published yet. I had to be a bit sneaky about it. I mean, the writer didn’t know it was me. It’s a book by one of the great writers of the genre. A guy who writes heart wrenching tales of love triangles, meant to be couples torn apart for a time, misunderstandings of class and societal nuances, and of course lots of sex. A lot of his books have been adapted for the big screen before. Now his next novel, Hopeless Yearning, is going to be the basis of a Michael Bay epic film. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m adapting a Nicholas Sparks book.”

The real reporters collectively sighed with dismay and rolled their eyes again. The entertainment reporters were buzzing. Bay was grinning like an idiot. This reporter wondered for a moment which was the more obnoxious: Nicholas Sparks books, Nicholas Sparks movie adaptations, or a Nicholas Sparks book adapted as a film by Michael Bay. Perhaps all three were equally painful, a form of cruel and unusual punishment that should have been outlawed as a war crime decades ago.

“Since the book hasn’t been released yet, I can tell you the bare bones of the plot. It’s about a young blue collar background mechanic, Jonah, who falls for the girl from the other side of the tracks, by the name of Clarissa. Only her parents don’t much approve of this fellow, especially the mother, who’s very strongly against it. Actually, a lot of these books kind of have the same plotline, don’t they? Okay, putting that aside, that’s the book. That’s one thing. Adapting it into a film requires certain changes, after all, particularly to keep me interested, because I need a little action. Some hot cars, even hotter babes waxing those cars, fast racing, a few explosions, that sort of thing.”

Bay was continuing to smile like a lunatic. This reporter wondered if he had ever been diagnosed by a psychologist or other mental health professional. He carried on talking. “So my version of the story has Jonah, instead of being a mechanic, being a bomb squad disposal expert in the Army. Clarissa will, of course, continue to be the daughter of a wealthy magnate and his society wife. There’ll be some other big changes as we go along, but I don’t want to give anything away. First, let’s introduce the cast. Give a warm welcome to the guy playing Jonah McKay, Mr. Shia LaBeouf!”

Real reporters found themselves wishing they could be anywhere else. By contrast, the entertainment reporters applauded. LaBeouf walked out on stage, waving. “Hello! Shia is pleased to be here! Shia basks in your adulation!” He took his place with Bay, the two of them grinning like idiots.

Bay spoke again. “And playing the love of his life as Clarissa Wentworth, give a hand to Megan Fox!”

Fox came out on stage, smiling with glee, in a low cut little black dress. “Hi there!” she greeted the crowd, pausing to let photographers make extensive records of her cleavage before moving on.

She stood with Bay and LaBeouf, and Bay carried on. “I can’t cast a film without this guy, can I? Ladies and gentlemen, playing Jonah’s sage advisor, Jeb Gallagher, say hello to Nicolas Cage!”

Cage came out on stage, waving to the crowd, stumbling a bit, lighting a cigar with a hundred dollar bill. “Great to see you!” he called. “Anyone else want a cigar? They’re always best smoked when they’ve been lit up by one of these Benjamin Franklins.” Real reporters sighed with dismay, wondering just how quickly Cage was blowing through his money, and then wondering if there was ever a time when he was an acclaimed actor.

The actor took his place with the rest, and Bay continued. “The last member of the cast as it now stands is an actress I haven’t worked with before, but I’m happy to include her this time. She’s going to be playing Justine Wentworth, mother to Clarissa, as well as the villain of the piece. We’re talking about a mad bomber ultra-antagonist lunatic out to rule the world. Did I mention we’re straying a bit from the source material? Ladies and gentlemen, Julianna Margulies!”

The actress, who has spent the last few years on The Good Wife, came out on stage, looking sheepish. She sighed and apologized in advance. “I had no idea I was signing a contract to work for this dolt,” she said, glaring at Bay in a disdainful way. “And I really had no idea I was getting involved in a Nicholas Sparks adaptation. I mean, really... I hate Nicholas Sparks books.” This reporter could relate to Ms. Margulies. This reporter hated Nicholas Sparks books too. And Nicholas Sparks movies. And Nicholas Sparks. In fact, if Nicholas Sparks were on fire, this reporter would be inclined to roast marshmallows... (editor: hey! Shut up! My wife loves Nicholas Sparks novels!)

Bay laughed, oblivious to the contempt coming from one of his stars. “Isn’t she funny?”

“Who’s joking?” Margulies countered, rolling her eyes as she joined the rest.

Bay didn’t seem to hear that- he was, at this point, taking another look at himself in the mirror. “Ladies and gentlemen, the cast of Hopeless Yearning. It’s going to be big. It’s going to be romantic. It’s going to be erotic. It’s going to have lots of explosions and fast cars and babes waxing cars and explosions and nefarious villains and explosions! Did I mention that explosions are kind of integral to my version of pornography? Or is that too much information?” He shrugged. “Thanks for coming out!”

Bay left the stage with his cast, still oblivious to the dagger eyes being cast at him by Margulies, who in this reporter’s opinion deserved better than to get trapped in a Michael Bay film. For Michael Bay, though he believed himself to be the greatest of all directors, could never accept his pure obnoxious status as a wretchedly bad director and all around waste of oxygen... (editor: what have I told you about insulting Michael Bay? He’s a visionary)

This reporter sighed as he left, all too aware that his cranky editor would be already planning to see the movie when it came out, because, after all, his cranky editor has absolutely no taste in entertainment as it is (editor: I’m going to feed you to army ants.)