Critic's Grade: B

I remember reading Ray Bradbury's "Fahrenheit 451" in my ninth grade English class, and from the very moment I opened the book I could not put it back down. The author's creation of a futuristic society in which the very concept of reading strikes fear into the hearts of the populace was at once gripping, fascinating, and chilling, a crying out against the oppressive nature of organized government, and a warning of things that could potentially be. In many ways Bradbury's novel reminded me very much of selected Philip K. Dick stories, such as "Impostor" and "Minority Report," in which a main protagonist finds himself on the lam from both pursuers as well as from his own inclination to something that has been outlawed or deemed illegal. The novel captured me in ways that still hold fast for me as a not-so-avid reader; for me, it was an experience that I simply won't forget.

And now, having revisited Bradbury's world in the form of Fran?ois Truffaut's 1966 film version of the same name, I'm left with mixed feelings for the adaptation. There are many things that work in favor of the movie, none moreso than the director's acute visual sense, as he establishes a simplistic setting that evokes a cold, stony, harsh tone that comes close to capturing the even darker aspirations of the source novel's many vivid descriptions. It's a world in which television has become interactive and vital to one's survival; where evening get-togethers are spent in front of the TV screen; where firemen are the ones who start the fires instead of putting them out, as they charge their way through the streets to the homes of those who are found to be in possession of literature of any kind. Look closely at the funny papers, and you'll see they have no words, only pictures.

At the center of all of this is Guy Montag (Oskar Werner), himself a fireman, and a firm believer in the common belief that books inspire ideas, which leads to unhappiness and discontent, which in turn brings chaos to society and by extension the world. He leads a contented existence: his wife Linda (Julie Christie) shares his views, and his place in society is secure. That is, until he meets Clarisse (also played by Christie, who tackles a dual role), a free-spirited former teacher who values books as if they were her life's blood. At first unaffected by her enthusiasm, Montag soon finds himself more inquisitive, drawn to the sheer fascination of something he has never seen nor touched, nor read. It is only after he witnesses the death of an old woman, who would rather die with her books than live, that he truly begins to call into question his opinion.

For the most part, the screenplay by Truffaut and Jean-Louis Richard holds true to the manner in which the events play out in the novel. Those familiar with the text will recognize specific passages of dialogue, and situations such as the death of the old lady retain their importance and impact from page to screen. The characters have been constructed nicely, and filled out with performances that are for the most part engrossing. As Montag, Oskar Werner injects a silent sense of disbelief into the character that enforces his confusion in the later moments of the film, while Julie Christie deals splendidly with the difficulty of portraying both the conformist wife, who goes so far as to turn in her own husband, and the rebellious acquaintance, whose love for books is unshakable.

All of this is very good and nicely staged, but for me, despite the fact that the movie is a very good rendering of a brilliant piece of literature, it stills remains just that: a rendering. Reading Bradbury's words brought a sense of unease to my mind, filling me with images of a world that is dark, uninviting, and afraid of itself; Truffaut, on the other hand, merely touches upon these issues, but doesn't truly sink his teeth into the very heart and soul of what the novel was able to accomplish. Perhaps my own imagination is at fault here, or maybe it's just the sheer adrenaline rush I got when reading the book that is missing in the midst of Truffaut's many drawn-out sequences that simply lack dramatic tension. All I know is this: when it comes down to it, the movie is good, but the book is phenomenal.

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