This Christmas excited young film fans can enter a magical world that is … strangely familiar, tepidly directed and thinly layered with poor CGI. Two adaptations of fantasy series are out in the next fortnight: Twilight, from the vampire romance by Stephenie Meyer; and Inkheart, from the inventive adventure by Cornelia Funke.
They follow underwhelming adaptations of CS Lewis's Prince Caspian, Philip Pullman's The Golden Compass, Susan Cooper's The Dark Is Rising (a shame, as the original series is an unsung classic), Christopher Paolini's Eragon and Katherine Paterson's Bridge To Terabithia.
As with those, both the Twilight and Inkheart adaptations have happened in the wake of immense book sales. Hopefully Inkheart will retain Funke's Angela Carter-ish brio. Hopefully Catherine Hardwicke, director of Twilight, will moderate the original novel's reactionary message. But I'm sceptical.
The film industry has lost its sense in its rabid pursuit of the new and its desire to capitalise on young fans' fantasy addiction after the supernatural success of Harry Potter. But its endless churning-out of poorly made adaptations, skimmed from far superior books, is creating ever-worse films and ever more jaded audiences. Producers haven't realised that Rowling's success is the exception, not the rule. It is not possible to replicate the phenomenon by hastily making a film of every fantasy series going.
It is not necessary, either, to jump on every new author in the hope that they will be the key to the next big Hollywood franchise. Although I'd be very interested if an adaptation of Susanna Clarke's great fantasia Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell was made, producers' fascination with emergent authors has resulted in a blindness towards great writers of the past. Many of these have received striking television treatments – think of Alan Garner's frightening and sexy The Owl Service, Virginia Andrews' Flowers In The Attic and Catherine Storr's Marianne Dreams.
In the hands of the right director, all would make exciting features which neither bore nor patronise their young audiences. If studios wanted long series to get their teeth into, Diana Wynne Jones and Marion Zimmer Bradley are two authors of deep genius, rippingly complex plot, brainy themes and strikingly original characterisation who are crying out for great adaptations. And, for all the wonderful richness of Wolfgang Peterson's 1984 adaptation of The Neverending Story, why not a new version which takes more from Michael Ende's stunning original novel?
If the cinematic powers that be are determined to ignore the gifted writers of the past and pluck up whatever hot new thing happens to be around, I have a few suggestions. I'd like to see some of Trudi Canavan and Karen Walker's young heroines riding around being smart. Or how about Jeanette Winterson's Tanglewreck and Helen Dunmore's Ingo? Just, please, no lions pretending to be Jesus. No po-faced allegorical symbolist religious critique. And no Hobbits.
