Second-rate books often make the best films and television. Mario Puzo's The Godfather is a cheap potboiler but sensational cinema. George R.R. Martin's A Game of Thrones is lurid fanta-schlock but epic small-screen storytelling. If Isabel Allende's sweeping, 500-page debut novel The House of the Spirits were not such a breathtakingly brilliant masterpiece, it might survive the transition to the screen much better.
The book, published in 1982, has already flopped in one adaptation, despite a superstellar cast. Featuring Meryl Streep, Glenn Close, Winona Ryder, Jeremy Irons, and Antonio Banderas, it bombed at the box office in 1993. British viewers will recognise few of the names in this eight-part, Spanish language adaptation for Amazon, other than Eva Longoria, who was originally slated to play a leading role but eventually settled for an executive producer's credit.
The Magic Is Missing
What makes the novel so extraordinary is its use of magic. The paranormal is normal for the generations of women whose menfolk shape the violent course of politics in Chile, from pre-war feudalism to the socialist reforms and military coup of the 1970s. Other writers in the genre, such as Salman Rushdie and Gabriel Garcia Marquez, use magic like fireworks. Allende treats it as part of the furniture. When ghosts take up residence, objects move of their own accord, and dreams become reality, it is all part of the fabric of everyday life.
This version barely attempts to capture that wonderful, all-absorbing atmosphere. I have to admit I am disappointed, because The House of the Spirits is one of my favourite books, and I would love to see television do it justice. But I cannot say I am surprised, and the remnants of the novel that survive are enjoyable.
A Conventional Family Saga
Directors Francisca Alegria and Andres Wood concentrate on the conventional aspects of the story, treating it as a family saga with all the period trimmings. Oddities such as the green, mermaid-like hair of the doomed Rosa (Chiara Parravicini) are glossed over awkwardly: it is as though an experiment with peroxide went wrong, and everyone is too polite to say anything. Much more emphasis is placed on the Del Valle family's wealth - the sedan automobiles, the servants, the fine clothes - giving it all the look of a run-of-the-mill costume drama with budget to burn, such as HBO's The Gilded Age.
Alfonso Herrera plays Esteban Trueba, the gold prospector who yearns to marry Rosa, before turning his attention to her mute little sister, Clara. As a romantic tragedy, reflecting the bloody emergence of democracy in a South American country, it works well enough. The plot shunts along, thanks to a liberal application of soapiness. But it will not live with you forever. You might forget you ever watched it.
The book is one of those rare novels that will change your ideas of what great literature can do. What it cannot do, sadly, is guarantee great TV.
