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When a movie of a book seems pointless and incomprehensible, the cause can invariably be found in the book: either it was pointless to start with, or the point is one not easily conveyed to film, or the movie missed the point, which is the most frequent of these results, and the easiest to happen, especially when the point is one not easily defined. The book "Morvern Callar" has a point; every reader of the book must have felt this, and felt as if he had gotten it; but I suspect most of them could not state it in words. I'm not sure I can, myself, but perhaps it comes to this, or something like it: Things come, things go, such is life, but we carry on; or at any rate some of us--people like Morvern--do. No doubt a more erudite critic could construct a more adequate definition. But the important fact is that there is a point--possibly the sum of the entire story is the point--and that this would have been the main thing to keep in view, and to carry over, in adapting the story to film. The maker of this film evidently missed the point, and doesn't substitute one of her own; and so the film is about nothing.
This is not the usual complaint of a book-lover that his favorite text has been violated. The merit of the book is something I conceded grudgingly: in reading it I found it a bloody nuisance, and an occasion for kicking the author in the pants and getting him in to finish the job properly. The narrative is supposed to be the work of the half-educated Morvern, but that illusion is constantly dispelled by a dozen different types of literary effect, as if the author were poking at her with his pen; there are inconsistencies of style and tone, as if different sections had been composed at different times; and any conclusions I could reach about Morvern had to remain tentative because it was uncertain which implications the author intended and which he did not: for instance, despite Morvern's own self-characterization as a raver, am I wrong that in the end she remains essentially a working-class Scots girl, and beneath her wrapping of music downloads not so different from those of generations past? In any case, despite my irritation at the author, I couldn't deny that his book stuck with me; and what I couldn't get out of my head was his character's attitude, her angle on the world, which was almost as vivid as a Goya portrait. Morvern is the kind of person who's always encountering situations at once rather comic and rather horrible; occasionally she invites them but more often they land on her, like flies, so that much of her life consists of a kind of gauche but graceful slogging-through, unconsciously practical and unconsciously philosophical--and that doesn't begin to describe it idiosyncratically enough. The complex of incidents and of Morvern's responses to them are the substance of the book, and its achievement, in exposing a cross-section of existence it would be difficult to illuminate otherwise; for all my dislike of the book, I can see this.
The Morvern just described is not the Morvern of the movie; or if it is, most of her is kept offscreen. An actress who might have been a good fit for the character, had she been the right age at the right time, is Angharad Rees, from the old TV series "Poldark". Samantha Morton, then, would seem like good casting: she's rather the same sort of actress, and in one of her earlier movies, "Jesus' Son", she played a girl who with a few adjustments could have been turned into this one. Unfortunately, as the film turned out, she doesn't have the character from the book to play. For one thing, the book is one that, if it is to be dramatized, virtually cries out for monologues by the main character to the audience; without her comments, her perspective, her voice, the story loses most of its meaning. It has lost more of it in that the adaptor has expurgated it of its comic and horrible elements: the most memorable incidents from the book are curtailed before they turn grotty, and so Morvern's responses (whether of amusement or distaste, depending on her mood) are missing too, and the incidents no longer have a reason for being in the story. In short, the filmmaker chose for some reason to turn a brisk, edgy serio-comic novel into a genteel art TV film, and chose as her typical image one of Ms. Morton languishing in a artistically shaded melancholy; as if the outing Morvern signs up for were a tour of the Stations of the Cross. This isn't at all what the book, or the Morvern of the book, was about. For another thing, the Morvern of the movie isn't Scottish (the actress said in an interview she hadn't had time to study up the accent), and she ought to be: it's important that she, her family, and her mates are all from a single place. And finally the film is missing the end of the story: Morvern's spending all she has and coming home to icy darkness: it's winter, the dam has frozen, the power has gone out, and the pub is dark. Minus this, and minus all of the rest, what's left is a failed art film, a dead film, about a subject whose strength lay precisely in her refusal, or native inability, ever to give in to being dead.


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