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PALGRAVE STUDIES IN
ADAPTATION AND VISUAL CULTURE
Embodying
Adaptation
Character and the Body
Christina Wilkins
Palgrave Studies in Adaptation and Visual Culture
Series Editors
Julie Grossman
Le Moyne College
Syracuse, NY, USA
R. Barton Palmer
Atlanta, GA, USA
This series addresses how adaptation functions as a principal mode of text
production in visual culture. What makes the series distinctive is its focus
on visual culture as both targets and sources for adaptations, and a vision
to include media forms beyond film and television such as videogames,
mobile applications, interactive fiction and film, print and nonprint media,
and the avant-garde. As such, the series will contribute to an expansive
understanding of adaptation as a central, but only one, form of a larger
phenomenon within visual culture. Adaptations are texts that are not sin-
gular but complexly multiple, connecting them to other pervasive plural
forms: sequels, series, genres, trilogies, authorial oeuvres, appropriations,
remakes, reboots, cycles and franchises. This series especially welcomes
studies that, in some form, treat the connection between adaptation and
these other forms of multiplicity. We also welcome proposals that focus on
aspects of theory that are relevant to the importance of adaptation as con-
nected to various forms of visual culture.
Christina Wilkins
Embodying
Adaptation
Character and the Body
Christina Wilkins
University of Birmingham
Birmingham, UK
ISSN 2634-629X ISSN 2634-6303 (electronic)

Palgrave Studies in Adaptation and Visual Culture
ISBN 978-3-031-08532-1 ISBN 978-3-031-08533-8 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-08533-8
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer
Nature Switzerland AG 2022
This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the
Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of
translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on
microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval,
electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now
known or hereafter developed.
The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this
publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are
exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use.
The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information
in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the
publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to
the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The
publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and
institutional affiliations.
Cover illustration: Tommaso Tuzj
This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature
Switzerland AG.
The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
Acknowledgements
Thanks go to Julie Grossman and Barton Palmer for their brilliant adapta-
tions series of which this adds to. I am indebted to the support of Geoff
Howell, along with my fantastic colleagues and students, for all the insight-
ful discussions that have informed this book.
v
Contents
1 Introduction 1
Works Cited 10
2 The Acting Body 13

Typecasting and Adaptation 17
Body as Medium 25
Body as Adaptation 29
Bodily Fidelity 32
Works Cited 40
3 Bodily Knowledge 43
Reception and Adaptation 44
Stardom, Performance, and the Body 53
Constructing/Receiving a Character 56
Performance and the Character 59
Adapting Character as Audience Practice 65
Works Cited 68
4 Character Infusion 71
Actor Versus Character 73
Creating Character 78
Character as Spectrum 90
Character/Charactor and Adaptations 94
Works Cited 100
vii
viii Contents
5 Embodying Identities103
The Body, Ideology, and Performance 104
Queer Adaptation and the Biopic 111
Race and Adaptation 124
Death Note, Ghost in the Shell, and Advantageous 127
Representation and Spectating Racebending 132
Works Cited 137
6 Shaping the Psyche141

Illness, Identity, and Narrative 143
Constructing Psychological Difference 149
The Body as Symptomatic 154
Repetitions 160
Works Cited 173
Index177
About the Author
Christina Wilkins has written on adaptations, identity, nostalgia, and

popular culture. She currently lectures at the University of
Birmingham, UK.
ix
List of Figures
Fig. 3.1 Star-actor-performance relationship 65

Fig. 5.1 Freddie Mercury onstage as shown in Bohemian Rhapsody115
Fig. 5.2 Emma Stone in Battle of the Sexes caught between partners 117
Fig. 5.3 Signposting of queerness in Bohemian Rhapsody118
Fig. 5.4 Taron Egerton in Rocketman and mirror reflections 118
Fig. 5.5 Rami Malek reflected in sunglasses 119
Fig. 5.6 Rami Malek superimposed as Freddie in media 120
Fig. 6.1 Mads Mikkelsen’s face appearing in blood in Hannibal167
xi
CHAPTER 1
Introduction
When we tell stories, or watch or read them, the characters are our guides
through the narrative journey. We follow their footsteps through the path
of the plot; everything is framed by them, including what is important and
the perspective it is seen from. Characters not only colour the narrative
but shape it around themselves. We may conjure up an idea of the charac-
ter, and the story they are involved in, filling in the gaps as we go. As
Thomas Leitch notes, ‘Every story ever told omits certain details’ (53).
The characters may shape how we fill in these details; equally, we may also
fill in the details about the characters themselves. In literary narratives, we
are given a sense of character through description, dialogue, and their
mode of engagement with particular events of the story. This sense often
takes a form, and the character becomes an imagined body in our minds
running through the pages. An imagined body gives the character signifi-
cance, presenting an ideal of character. This ideal is often what causes fric-
tion with adaptations—the body of the actor portraying that character
often does not live up to the imagined body. This is because the reality of
the actor’s body is seen to overwrite the character in some way, becoming
the dominant thing—bringing with it various inter- and extratextual
meanings and significations, thereby reshaping the character.
The importance of the actor’s body, however, may seem like it is being
undermined with the growing use of CGI. A slew of films that feature
CGI characters have been hugely successful in the last decade (including
© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 1

Switzerland AG 2022
C. Wilkins, Embodying Adaptation, Palgrave Studies in Adaptation
and Visual Culture,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-08533-8_1
2 C. WILKINS
The Avengers, Ex Machina, and Beauty and the Beast). This gives rise to
what Lisa Bode calls the ‘synthespian’, an actor working with the synthet-
ics of CGI (6). Will CGI’s use become more prevalent and the need for
the actor’s body disappear? This is doubtful. With a number of these films
featuring CGI, there is still a reliance on the actor’s body to be used in
promoting the film as Bode notes—particularly in interviews where the
process of becoming the character is discussed, and there is a focus on the
human body underneath the layer of CGI. Audiences still want to see the
body responsible for the character.
This is because like characters shaping the understanding of the story,
bodies shape our understanding of the world. Our experience of the world
around us is filtered through the boundaries of our body, which shapes
and is shaped by our environment. Not only our own bodies, crucially, but
the bodies of others form their own stories through a negotiation of their
boundaries and the resultant meanings they generate. Thus, it is unsur-
prising that when it comes to popular cultural narratives, we are invested
in the bodies telling them. It is important to note, however, that the bod-
ies in narratives are not real in the same sense as our everyday experiences,
despite how they may look. They are still as imagined as the literary char-
acter body. The key difference however is the physical fact of the actor
whose form will shape those imaginations of character through the social
and psychological meanings their body connotes. This is further compli-
cated by the understanding of how these bodies are meant to act. Different
perspectives on acting see the body as being a tool to access reality.
Stanislavski, for example, believed acting should be ‘more natural’ than
real life (qtd. in Aronson, 318). It should open some understanding of the
world that was not previously accessible. This, says Aronson, is the differ-
ence between illuminating and imitating reality. Illuminating reality is
what is strived for, which he argues is a form of ‘generating adaptations’—
a crucial idea for this book. These bodies illuminate, adapt, and therefore
reshape our understanding of selves. The importance of reality is touched
upon in other scholarship about film, from early theorists such as Kracauer,
who argues that ‘films come into their own when they record and reveal
physical reality’ (qtd. in Sternagel 414).
This illumination of reality requires the audience to see the actor’s
emotions as truthful, and to see them as not just communicating the char-
acter, but becoming them. Hetzler, in a survey of actors, discusses how
actors approach a role and whether they ‘feel’ the emotions of the charac-
ter or whether they are mediated through the imagined character self. This
1 INTRODUCTION 3
mediation could manifest as ‘feelings about’ the circumstances in which

the character is in. What he asserted was that there was a clear difference
between feeling and portraying. The illumination of reality wants both
feeling and portraying. It also requires a realist style of acting. The need
for both raises questions over how we separate the body from the perfor-
mance of character. The body becomes multiple: a medium, tool, repre-
sentative, owned, possessed, and mediated. How do we conceive of the
body in these ways, and simultaneously? The notion of multiple bodies has
been discussed by other scholars (including Sobchack and Graver), which
will be touched upon in later chapters. What the multiple bodies here
signify is the many and varied selves a body can contain, which has implica-
tions for understandings of not only the self but the other, too. How do
we portray the other that is not us? Is it a donning, a becoming, a morph-
ing? These questions may allow us to think about the boundaries we have
begun to note. However, when we discuss the performance of the other,
or a character self, what often emerges are questions about whether the
actor is ‘true’ to a character or we discuss the actor themselves in lieu of
the character. Thus, we look for the surface of the performance to critique
it—its external presentation. The performance must merely be believable,
in terms of feeling. Discussions of performance highlight the importance
of the actor (and their body) in understanding the character.
It is important to note the different understandings of the term perfor-
mance here. Within the book, the primary use of performance is that of
the acting performance, which is the movement and manipulation of the
actor’s body in order to represent a character. However, it does also touch
on other, related, notions of performance, including concepts of perfor-
mativity, and borrows at points from performance theory. This is not to
conflate the two, but rather to illuminate further aspects of acting perfor-
mance that intersect with performance more generally. Simon Shepherd
talks about the spectrum of meaning when it comes to the word perfor-
mance. Crucially, Shepherd argues that there are many meanings to the
word performance and the problem that might occur with a universal defi-
nition is the sense of ‘flattening out the landscape in order to produce
something slightly banal’ (x). This can be seen through the way perfor-
mance is defined by film scholars. Lori Landay simply states that perfor-
mance is an ‘action done for someone’ (130). This general definition
moves beyond film and into wider circumstances, edging towards perfor-
mance theory more broadly. It is perhaps then useful to touch upon Peggy
Phelan’s discussion of performance to distinguish between different
4 C. WILKINS
understandings of it here. She argues: ‘[P]erformance in a strict ontologi-

cal sense is nonreproductive’ (148). This refers to performance art, which
becomes singular. Film performance, however, is by its very nature a
reproductive form. Whilst it may be a singular instance of a performance,
it is captured in order to be reproduced multiple times. There may be
actions done for someone (the viewer), but film performance is under-
stood as repeating or repetitive. This is the perspective being taken here—
that of repetition, which again is useful for adaptations given Linda
Hutcheon’s definition of adaptation as ‘repetition without replication’
(7). Performance is both a representation and an adaptation of a character.
The concept of performance is useful for this book because of the way it
clarifies the body: what gestures and movements create a performance of
a character, and how the character in turn shapes that body. It becomes
clear by a reassertion of boundaries—of both the body and the character—
that emerge in performance.
Performance and the body implicate medium through the ways in
which the former is shaped by technology. Many of the discussions of act-
ing, both in this book and more broadly, are indebted or at least coloured
by the legacy of the theatre. Questions, and definitions of acting, are
engaged with in Chap. 2. Here, I want to stress the importance of medium
in shaping both acting and the body. Kaja Silberman argues a similar point
that highlights the importance of the body and medium:
[A]sk whether the art of acting changed in response to the evolution of a

new medium. To anticipate my conclusion: yes, it did; and by extrapolation,
this historical change suggests that a similar shift is now under way. The
recent, but not uncontroversial, focus on the actor’s body and on perfor-
mance theory and practices is in my view part of a more general cultural
response to the increasingly dematerialized body in the electronic age. (559)
This returns us to a point made earlier about CGI—despite fears of the

digital, the actor’s body is still important. The medium the body resides in
also shapes how it is seen and understood. With a shift towards online
platforms for viewing films and other media, there are increasing chances
to situate an actor’s body intertextually (and extratextually). Logging into
Netflix, for example, viewers may be able to search for an actor’s reper-
toire. This overt display of the same body in different roles may shape the
understanding of characters even more forcefully than had been done pre-
viously. Viewers are reminded of roles the actor has played, conjuring a
1 INTRODUCTION 5
reminiscence of character that could feasibly shape their subsequent

understanding of whatever film they choose to watch from the list in front
of them. Similarly, searching for a film online may throw up results about
the actor themselves, thereby shaping the understanding of the character
through extratextual information about the body portraying it. The digital
age has altered the understanding of bodies through its redefining of
boundaries. The inter- and extratextual meanings of the body have become
more apparent. Arguably, these meanings are more readily visible in adap-
tations which provide an understanding of a character body in the material
being adapted. The gaps between the texts more clearly define the bound-
aries of each by virtue of what is absent and what is present in its place.
This may be a literary to a film adaptation, or film to television adaptation,
or a comic book to film. Each offers a body to be adapted; what seems to
be different is the medium it resides in. Cook and Sexton warn against
this, arguing that ‘the very concept of adaptation might also seem in crisis,
dependent as it is upon distinctions between media’ (363). However, I
want to argue not for a distinction between types of media like film, litera-
ture, and television, but instead a focus on the distinction between bodies
and the meanings they communicate in their adaptation.
Whilst the primary focus in this book may be character and the impor-
tance the body has in communicating and shaping it, the heart of it is
adaptation. It is through adaptation that character may become clearer, in
part due to the role the body has in communicating that character. The
body itself becomes adapted by the character, and character adapted to the
body. The visual of the body itself and its importance—notable through
the sheer volume of film and television adaptations of literary texts—has
been remarked upon by Cartmell and Whelehan, who note that ‘adapta-
tion is, perhaps, the result of an increasingly post-literate (not illiterate)
world in which the visual image dominates’ (Adaptations from Text to
Screen 145). What adaptation is, and what it can do, has been discussed
thoroughly; my aim here is not to address and summarise each of the per-
spectives in the field, but simply to assert that the book responds to a
number of concerns in the field. Namely, concerns raised by Katja Krebs
and Glenn Jellenik. Krebs argues that ‘adaptation studies has yet to excise
its, arguably, over-reliance on the case study at the expense of more
detailed consideration of the conceptual framework within which we read
adaptations’ (207). Similarly, Jellenik argues that the task of the adapta-
tion critic is to ‘move away from local studies and toward a consideration
of the larger operations and implications of the act of adaptation’ (256).
6 C. WILKINS
Both see the current need in the field to be a broader approach to adapta-
tion rather than a focus on specific texts. Jellenik continues: ‘S/he can set
to charting the ways a text works through other texts—the ways intertexts
weave and dovetail into one another, the specific ways that they all reflect
and drive the cultures that produce and consume them’ (257). Here, I am
moving on from this idea and adapting it more broadly to the central con-
cerns of the book—character and the body. Jellenik’s idea will be used in
the sense that what is being considered is the way one text (the character)
works through another (the body). Similarly, rather than case studies per
se, the book offers broader theoretical frameworks for understanding
adaptation, notably through the framework of the body and character.
The examples given in later Chaps. 5 and 6 are not singular instances, but
clusters of texts that illuminate something about particular cultural
moments and trends through their production and consumption.
The overall argument of this book is twofold: that the adapted body is
a way to understand our place in the world, and that considering the hier-
archical relationship between the actor and the character, and possibly
reconfiguring that, raises useful parallels with the field of adaptation—
namely what seems to be ‘original’ or ‘true’ is to be viewed as more valu-
able. The book here argues that indeed, the body does matter, and perhaps
more so than ever in our increasingly intangible world. However, despite
this, the character cannot be always rendered as second position to it—it
has a body of its own that exists beyond the sum of its parts (perfor-
mance—actor—character) in the filmic text—that shapes both cultural
understandings of bodies and the actors that portray them. In the literary
text, the character is formed as we see from both the technical aspects
(description, narration) and it requires a construction of character—the
same goes with the filmic text too, which takes these separate parts and
creates something more. This is, I have denoted in Chap. 4, termed char-
actor—a fusion of character and actor, which some may see as having simi-
larities to stardom, but I think here, the image of a character recalled is
often this specific fusion. This highlights the role the audience plays in
understanding the character and the adaptation, which the field has
touched upon in more detail recently, but here the focus is on the way the
audience constructs, shapes, and reads the adapted body.
Chapter 2 sets out the groundwork for thinking about specific concerns
across the book, namely the element of the acting body and its relation-
ship to adaptations. Primarily, it argues that the physicality of the body
itself is crucial to understanding the nature of adaptation and how it is
1 INTRODUCTION 7
received. This is explored in three different areas across the chapter: type-
casting, body as adaptation, and fidelity to the body. The adaptation of
character to a visual media relies on an acting body. We, or audiences, may
assume that the body chosen is the one that is the ‘best fit’ for the charac-
ter. However, this does not take into account the practice of typecasting.
Certain physical traits are relied upon for typecasting which enable a par-
ticular ‘type’ to solidify an understanding of a particular ‘type’ of charac-
ter. Yet, can the same be said for the character we encounter in a literary
text? The element of the physical body complicates our understanding of
character, perhaps threatening its reduction to a type. It therefore begins
to complicate our understanding of what an adaptation can do. The role
of the body as medium further complicates the relationship between per-
formance and adaptation. The body becomes a defined object: ‘[T]he
notion of body as an object … stands in close relationship to the way they
are read by the world’ (Mitchell, 144). This reading by the world encom-
passes both the complex role of typecasting and an awareness of the ‘origi-
nal’ body. Fidelity to the imagined ‘original’ body in literary cases is an
issue raised in audience response to particular adaptations. Physicality thus
becomes central in thinking about adaptation, but also reinforces the
notion of fidelity as subjective given differences between these imagined
physicalities of the ‘original’ character.
Expanding on from Chap. 2, Chap. 3 seeks to explore how the body is
understood by audiences in adaptations. Specifically, it addresses concerns
over star performance and the element of audience knowledge. Reception
has been an ongoing concern in adaptation studies as debates over inten-
tion and understanding have occurred. This is primarily in terms of
whether audiences understand a text is an adaptation and how this impacts
its reception. Scholarship around this has sprung from critics such as Linda
Hutcheon who describes adaptation as our reception of texts as palimp-
sests, thus privileging the subjective experience. Yet, as noted by Cutchins
and Meeks: ‘[U]ntil adaptation studies finds a way to understand adapta-
tions in terms of reception, it will continue to chase its own tail’ (303).
The exploration of the acting body both as form of adaptation (established
in Chap. 2) and impacting audience reception of the adapted text compli-
cates the discussion around reception within the field. Audience under-
standing of the text as adaptation may be in place, but complicated by the
inclusion of a well-known body. Thus star physicality may in some cases
obscure the notion of character or function as a dilution of character. In
this scenario, the performance of the star becomes central to the text,
8 C. WILKINS
rather than the understanding of character. The text operating as adapta-

tion is therefore complicated with the inclusion of star performances,
priming audiences to see a character in a particular way that may not be
present in the text it is adapted from. These ideas will also be explored
through the ways in which the body onscreen channels character, explor-
ing Dyer’s performance signs and Pomerance’s notion of performed per-
formance. This embodying of multiple characters in the latter concept
allows for a consideration of the technicalities of presenting characters
through a particular body known as something else.
Chapter 4 begins by establishing the particular hierarchies in place in
both performance studies and adaptations—particularly the primacy of the
source in adaptations and the technical ability of the actor in performance
studies. This builds on work done by Cartmell and Whelehan in 1999,
which attempted a rethinking of traditional structures in place within the
field of adaptations. From the perspective of this book, the focus is on
character and how the character moulds the acting body and the physical-
ity of that body impacts the text. Discussions and understandings of char-
acter in terms of performance present the actor as inhabiting the character,
wearing it as a mask. It thus becomes something to enter into, to flesh out,
a hollow to be filled. Situating it as such creates an understanding of char-
acter as an adaptation of the actorly body, and therefore in another hierar-
chy. This chapter thinks through a restructuring of such hierarchies,
considering how we could theorise the character inhabiting the actor and
the impact that has on the adaptation. This is aided by a discussion of the
role of medium in presenting character and how character is understood.
This begins to think through a medium-specific approach to character,
positioning it as a textual element. Seeing it as a discrete aspect of an adap-
tation, as we do with recurrent figures such as Sherlock Holmes and
Dracula, gives us a route into an understanding of character as a key to
unlocking avenues of thought within adaptation and performance.
Given the foundations of this approach to adaptations has been estab-
lished, Chaps. 5 and 6 explore clusters of examples that highlight the
inherent tensions in thinking about the actorly body as adaptation. As
noted, rather than singular case studies as is the problem with the field
according to Krebs and Jellenik, these two chapters instead identify key
moments that speak to something in culture, exemplified by distinct
groups of texts. They tell us something about how identity is shaped by
the body, and how those meanings are shifting through their physical rep-
resentation. Krebs thinks about adaptation of identities, positing it as a
1 INTRODUCTION 9
way to understand something of the identity of the spectator, but one that
is imaginary: ‘[A]daptation of an imagined identity represents identity
within the adapting culture rather than offer a glimpse of the identity of
the imagined other’ (212). This functions as a way to establish under-
standings of the adapted body onscreen and is further complicated by the
use of acting approaches which debate the actor as representing himself or
inhabiting a character. Both of these rely on an understanding of the
reception of the text, which leads on from ideas established here in Chap.
3: how does the audience knowledge impact performance of particular
identities? To think through this in more detail, an examination of queer
performance, biopic, and adaptation functions as the focus of the first half
of the chapter. This takes into account scholarship around queer adapta-
tion and queer performance. How does a queer character challenge the
hierarchies of adaptation and performance? What problems are inherent
within acting queer? The reliance on queer expression through physical
signs and behaviours is crucial and brings the element of the physical into
focus. Giving physical form to adaptations of queer identities may change
our understanding of character; again, the tension comes in audience
knowledge and reception. These discussions of particular examples
(Rocketman, Bohemian Rhapsody, and Battle of the Sexes) allow for a closer
reading of character in adaptation, and how the multitude of factors affect-
ing the physical body onscreen work to create a particular form of adapta-
tion, complicated by the aspect of the biopic. The second half of the
chapter considers the importance of the physical in representing and shap-
ing understandings of race and identity through a number of texts that
feature whitewashing of Asian characters. This complicates our under-
standing of the body’s adaptability to character.
Whilst Chap. 5 explores the manifestation of a particular identity, Chap.
6 moves beyond and thinks about giving form to an aspect of the self that
can never be truly seen or understood, the psyche. It begins by establish-
ing key perspectives in disability studies and understandings of adaptations
that construct specific identities (following Chap. 5). This allows for an
understanding of the complexities in portraying characters with psychiat-
ric or psychological differences. Drawing together the approaches here,
this chapter first examines a cluster of texts that adapt characters who are
depressed, to consider how the psyche is mediated through the physical
and, equally, how the physical/external both limits and expands the com-
munication of the internal. The second half uses the exploration of a psy-
chopathic character, Hannibal Lecter, to elaborate further on these ideas.
10 C. WILKINS
The character of the psychopath also draws in Pomerance’s notion of per-

formed performance given the common need for the psychopaths in nar-
ratives to hide their ‘true’ nature with a performance of normality. This
dual approach to performance and identity layering presents an interesting
way to think through the physical manifestation of character and how they
can be contained and expressed in a body. This chapter also argues that
these characters function as particularly striking for audiences and thus
mark the actorly body in some way with their trace.
There is a need for tangibility and identification with character that
comes from physicality to an extent. The importance of physicality comes
from audience knowledge, our imagined understandings of these charac-
ters which are either confirmed or deviated from in the actorly body
onscreen. It also allows for a deeper exploration into thinking about how
we construct character in a non-visual sense, and why the element of the
physical is so important in valuing of an adaptation for audiences. The
examples explored across this book show how the change prompted by
adaptation is crucial; it allows us to see these characters in different situa-
tions not necessarily morally but literally, thereby allowing for a different
understanding of the body and its meanings. The change in physicality is
key: the physical aspect cannot be ignored, shaping and being shaped by
the text that is the character. Character, and the body it inhabits, may per-
haps be the most important aspect of an adaptation given audience identi-
fication with them and their ability to shape understanding of identities.
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Theatre’, Third Text, 17 (4), pp.313–321
Bode, Lisa. 2017. Making Believe: Screen Performance and Special Effects in
Popular Cinema. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press
Cartmell, D., and Whelehan, I. 2010. Screen Adaptation: Impure Cinema.
Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan
Cartmell, D., and Whelehan, I. 1999. Adaptations: From Text to Screen, Screen to
Text. London: Routledge
Cook, M., and Sexton, M. 2018. ‘Adaptation as a Function of Technology and Its
Role in the Definition of Medium Specificity’ in The Routledge Companion to
Adaptation, ed. Cutchins, D., Krebs, K., and Voigts, E. London: Routledge.
pp.361–371
1 INTRODUCTION 11
Cutchins, D., and Meeks, K. 2018. ‘Adaptation, Fidelity, and Reception’ in The
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E. London: Routledge. pp.301–310
Hetzler, Eric. 2012. ‘Actor Self vs Character Self’, Journal for Artistic Research, 2,
[online] http://www.researchcatalogue.net/view/15971/15972. Accessed
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Bielefeld: Transcript
CHAPTER 2
The Acting Body
When we look at the screen, regardless of the size it now comes in, our
bodies stand in opposition to those on the other side. We may use our own
body to understand the one rendered as image only; we may desire the
one we see, or feel a connection with it. It is the anchor in the narrative
that channels our interpretation of the text. As such, our encounters with
these onscreen bodies are important: they tell (each of) us how to under-
stand the story through codes and conventions implicated in film. These
may be generic codes or cultural codes; we look to these bodies for a
physical manifestation of signs to understand the text or, rather, the truth
of the text. What is it about? What does it deal with? How is that being
conveyed? The choice of physical bodies onscreen complicates the idea
that it can be universally understood. For instance, there is a response I
feel towards certain actors, an irritation that others do not feel and vice
versa. Thus, the physical body carries a burden of preconceptions based
around outward looks and expression. This is further complicated by the
star system in film, which enables actors to bring with them traces of the
bodies represented before. The body thereby becomes a layered thing or
a site of intertextuality. But regardless of other roles, the body is already
intertextual to the spectator, through our understanding of what individ-
ual outward appearances connote. Our understandings of character are
built through encounters with others who look a certain way, giving us
frameworks of reference. This is not to say that stardom does not affect
© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 13

Switzerland AG 2022
C. Wilkins, Embodying Adaptation, Palgrave Studies in Adaptation
and Visual Culture,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-08533-8_2
14 C. WILKINS
how we perceive a body onscreen; indeed, our understanding of particular

types of character may come from the aesthetics of a film body.
This tension between what the body is and what it represents becomes
more complex when it comes to adaptations. An adaptation is often seen
as a binary. On the one side is one text, and the other is a different version
of that text in another medium. This, when applied to the body, can raise
tensions. With literary to film texts (or indeed, podcast to television as has
begun to happen recently), there is often an imagined character which is
then transposed onto a real body. For some audiences, this can be an issue
of not ‘matching’. Despite the fact that adaptations are not simply a
matching exercise, the repeated issue of casting being contended in film
adaptations tells us that it is still a problem for audiences. The body still
matters. However, rather than seeing it as a binary, I would like here to
think more about the relationship between the body and the character as
a dialectical one. These texts (body and character) are in conversation with
one another and are informed by a number of intertextual elements that
produce a plethora of meanings. As will be discussed across the whole of
this book, the element of physicality in adaptations allows for a particular
rendering of character that privileges the actor over it. What needs to be
further considered is how the transposition of character happens, and
what this does for the understanding of adapting a text. Primarily, I argue
that the physicality of the body itself is crucial to understanding the nature
of adaptation and how it is received. This chapter specifically will consider
three specific areas in order to illuminate the relationship between adapta-
tion and the body: typecasting, the body as adaptation, and fidelity to
the body.
Firstly, in order to think about the body, we must consider acting and
the element of physicality. When it comes to thinking about acting, there
are multiple routes into it as issue for debate. It is key also to note that the
focus here is on Hollywood acting primarily; whilst this traverses a range
of styles, it most often resorts to naturalism, which says Lovell and Kramer,
‘makes the decisions of the actor invisible’ (5). As such, the foregrounding
of technique is not often understood. Complicating this is also specific
understandings of the actor. From early studies into acting by theorists
such as Walter Benjamin and Siegfried Kracauer, there is a positioning of
the actor as object. Even more recent thinking, from scholars such as
Eduardo Urios-Aparisi, fall in line with this approach: ‘[B]odies are part of
the mise-en-scène, and, as such, they are objects of the camera. Their rep-
resentation is the result of cognitive resources that activate metonymical
2 THE ACTING BODY 15
or metaphorical projections’ (184). Here, he sees the body as simply

another part of what we take in when watching a film, rather than as some-
thing distinct. It is by virtue of its being placed in front of a camera that it
changes, altering the method of interaction the spectator has with a body,
or alternatively, as Urios-Aparisi sees it, changing how the body is con-
structed by the audience. This is supported further by Marc Silberman,
who positions it as an aspect of the medium, particularly in comparison to
theatre. The difference between theatre and cinema ‘trigger[s] a transfor-
mation of acting’, with the result that ‘the body is objectified by the cam-
era in the transference to celluloid’ (560–561). This is where the element
of physicality becomes interesting; the positioning of body as object alters
the way in which we understand the mediation of character, our central
concern for this book. We primarily see an object as something acted upon,
or that it is fixed in its meanings. It can only be encountered, rather than
allowed agency. As such, an understanding of the body as object places
limitations both on what can occur and on the possibilities for character to
be communicated.
By contrast, other approaches to acting see the body as tool, or as Oleg
Aronson argues: ‘The actor is a unique being whose body is his or her own
means of expression’ (315). This is in line with theorists of acting such as
Pisk, Stanislavski, and Zinder. These approaches see it as actor first—actor
as channelling and expressing a character through the physicality of their
body—rather than an actor being an object to be projected upon. The
communication or mediation of character then is approached differently,
depending on the view of acting and the control the actor is seen to have
over their body. As mentioned, this alters between mediums and it is
important to address this. A number of studies and theoretical approaches
to acting consider, or rather blur, a theatrical and filmic understanding.
Further, there is a tendency towards speaking of acting performances and
a focus on the element of performance in film that tiptoes a fine line
between the theoretical areas. The distinction between performance, per-
formativity, and acting will be addressed further in Chap. 5 specifically. For
now, the way in which an actor communicates a role with their body will
be denoted as acting. The body, when acting, is repeatedly seen as an
object to be moulded into something representative of a character. Litz
Pisk argued that ‘[The actor] transforms his body into any body’ (9). The
element of transformation here is focused on the physical and evokes the
morphing of an external appearance through altering the way the body is
moved, held, and thus seen. Therefore, we might say that the character is
16 C. WILKINS
something external, akin to a mask worn by the actor. It lies on the surface
of the actor’s body, ready to be interpreted by the audience. However, this
ignores the complexity of the body, particularly the body onscreen.
How we approach the body onscreen is shaped by a number of factors
which predominantly rely on the element of the physical, the tangible.
What effect is produced is distinct from this; our discussion of a character
may include detailed discussions of who they are and why they are behaving
as they do, but this is arguably gleaned from the understanding we form
from witnessing them as a body onscreen. We take in gestures, expression,
the positioning of the body in different contexts, and the body’s interac-
tion with other bodies. We also must consider what the body produces:
the voice, the impact on the environment around it. How we think about
acting may be simplified as a physical representation by a body of another.
Vivian Sobchack thinks about this in detail within her Being on the Screen.
Here she argues that there are ‘as many as four bodies’ of the actor: the
pre-personal, personal, impersonated, and personified bodies (429). Each
is a separate category of understanding of the same body from a different
perspective. What we often see onscreen is the impersonated body, which
she describes as being ‘for display’ and is ‘oppositional within the body’
(436). This, as with much of the scholarship, showcases a clear divide
between the inner and outer. Oppositions here, however, may be blurred
in terms of how they are seen by audiences, which will be discussed further
in Chap. 3. The acting body is something presented, and the character
something represented. Pisk thinks about this further with his definition of
the body: ‘On the physical level the shape of your body is the outer bound-
ary of inner contents’ (9). In some way, therefore, the boundary of the
body is a clear divide between a self and the world. Yet, as we have started
to discuss, the way in which that body is understood in the world moves
beyond those boundaries. It is understood in contexts and in dialogues. As
Strasberg notes, ‘[T]he only thing that counts is what you see’ (qtd. in
Carnicke 185). When it comes to the actor’s body, we are experiencing a
character through the body of another. The actor functions as an adapta-
tion of a character. We will touch upon the separation between actor and
character further in Chap. 4. For now, these ideas are important to illus-
trate the way in which the body is conceived in acting.
Amanda Ruud thinks about the notion of the physical, the experience
of the body, and adaptations more specifically. She highlights the element
of the senses in her writing, noting that adaptation is an ‘embodied and
sensory reflection on experience’ (247). This in part is due to an element
of medium specificity and the changes in the process of adaptation. Here,

it can be used to think about the sensory impact of the physical body.
Whilst we may not be cognizant of every shift in movement or change in
tone in the acting body, it creates an image which is then transposed onto
the actor, and shapes our experience of the character. Meanings and stories
are embodied by the element of the physical; materiality makes emotion
and experience tangible. How else would we communicate our inner
selves and experiences? Experience needs a vessel to be communicated
through—the body functions as object that both moves through time and
contexts and is able to reflect on those as if standing outside the body
momentarily. When these experiences are adapted to an acting body
onscreen, we look for understandable signs that reflect and communicate
that experience. However, as I began by stating, that is not something
universal. Further, those bodies may only be seen as mimicking an experi-
ence if they are not commensurate with the character’s identity, and thus
the physical expectations attached to it. Different bodies bring with them
different meanings and shape individual interpretations. Although there
are some physical elements that are more widely understood in a particular
way, the uniqueness of other aspects of a body can intervene in the projec-
tion of meaning. For example, the way in which understandings of gender
or race are communicated by bodies that do not conform to a standardised
norm. This may be down to the preconceptions I have brought with me
to the body I am watching. When it comes to understanding gender for
example, Shannon Brownlee asserts that ‘the shape of a body may be of
paramount importance in an audience’s interpretation of gender; there,
that the body’s gestures may carry more weight’ (161). How a body looks
onscreen impacts the way it is perceived and interpreted, and the possibili-
ties it has in representing others, which is crucial for thinking about
adaptation.
Typecasting and Adaptation

Given the importance of the body and its interpretation, we cannot ignore
the element of typecasting and the impact this has on understandings of
texts and, specifically, understandings of adaptations. Typecasting creates
an outline of a character that is repeated, reused, and represented by par-
ticular bodies onscreen. Sometimes these outlines become synonymous
with a specific acting body. This is close to the idea of the stereotype,
which will also be touched upon later (and which incorporates literature
18 C. WILKINS
and film). Rather, the focus here is the filmic moulding of bodies into pre-
conceived types. What they have created is a shorthand for audiences to
understand how to interpret the body onscreen and how it relates to the
story. This is, in part, due to cinema’s reliance on realism. As Siegfried
Kracauer explains: ‘[T]he task of portraying wide areas of actual reality,
social or otherwise … calls for “typage”—the recourse to people who are
part and parcel of that reality and can be considered typical of it’ (99). This
is because, in the ‘real’ world, we resort to using these types in our every-
day lives. Lisa Bode asserts there is a reliance on typecasting beyond the
cinema, arguing that ‘[t]ypecasting—the term for a historically shifting
cluster of interrelated casting practices related to the idea of the individual
as a visual representative of a “type”—precedes the cinema’ (72). Bode’s
awareness of the unfixed nature of typecasting is useful; social conventions
and understandings of identity may dictate what external aspects commu-
nicate a perceived internal ‘self’. Given this relationship between internal
and external, with one representing the other through the visual, the visual
aspect of adaptation cannot be ignored. Typecasting acts as obstacle in the
transposition of one text to another. If a character becomes a typecast one
in the process of adaptation, or is played by a typecast actor, it arguably
brings with it a stricter framework for understanding that character. This
is not to say that there are not types of characters in literature; rather, these
often are bound by stereotype as I will explore later in this chapter. Both
stereotype and typecasting rely on an outline of a character that often
serves a particular function rather than having a fleshed-out backstory or
emotional life. The specifics of these characters—their boundaries and
frameworks—is something worthy of examination, as emerges later in this
discussion and in Chap. 4. However, it is important here to think about
the limitations and background of typecasting in order to assert its link to
the physical. Despite the limitations of it, we have accepted typecasting
and, further, use it to create distinct meanings. As Bode continues in her
discussion, ‘Film, much more than the stage, has a requirement for things
and people to look and sound as we expect them to look and sound,
except where meaning is served by having that expectation subverted’
(72). Typecasting is thus used as a guide for audiences and is seen as some-
thing primarily important to film due to its reliance on realism.
The history of typecasting, however, as Bode references goes beyond
the cinema. Pamela Wojcik presents a good discussion of the shift from
typecasting in other forms towards the cinema and its move to it being
‘inescapable’ (225). This is, she says, because of the way in which the star
system works. The broader history of typecasting is explored by Wojcik,

who uses Stanislavski’s discussion of theatre and type, namely the use of
‘lines of work’. Parts were given based around a number of categories
(age, gender, race) which sometimes had flexibility in them but were
mainly fixed in expectations of what they should look like. Here, we can
start to think about the way in which actors stand in for ideas, rather than
characters. A body onstage, as a type, need only look a certain way—and
when I say look, I mean not just inert but in the movement too, that is,
the experience of watching the body onstage—in order to begin to com-
municate a meaning that engages with the text in a dialogue. It is not fully
fleshed out, but instead is an outline of a type allowing audiences to inter-
pret and adapt it to their own understandings of that type. Bruce Wilshire’s
thoughts echo this: ‘The actor cannot stand on stage without standing in
for a type of humanity. This characterization will occur even though there
is no script and his character is given no name and he says nothing’ (qtd.
in Wojcik 227). Even without a text, a body may be typecast. However,
typecasting can also be built from a text: think of the way we understand
roles with Michael Cera in for example, who always fumbles through a
situation, appears as an underdog, and wins through niceness. We know
what will happen to characters because of events that have taken place with
similar characters before, which then attaches itself to a physicality. When
that physicality is imitated, or seen by audiences as a striking resemblance,
the behaviours and situations from before are marked on the body of the
character in front of us.
But why is typecasting so embedded into the films we watch? Arguably,
there is something comforting about being able to decode a text quickly
through visual signifiers. It also builds into our understanding of the world
around us, giving us a sense that we too can anticipate how someone will
act or respond. When things go against type, we may find it distressing.
People behaving ‘out of character’, for instance, raises questions around
how we see our outward selves and how we impose narratives on others.
The same is true of actors who are typecast. Typecasting is the imposing
of a particular narrative on a particular (well-known) body. When the char-
acter deviates from that, but remains in the typecast body, it produces a
tension in the text. As Wojcik argues: ‘[C]ritics and audiences will fre-
quently view an actor’s efforts to play against type as evidence either of the
actor’s lack of talent—because the actor is unconvincing in the new role—
or as gross commercialism—insofar as the role is assigned to a money-
making star rather than a better suited but less known actor’ (224).
20 C. WILKINS
Conversely, actors who continue throughout their career playing a par-

ticular type are seen often as lacking the ability to move beyond the frame-
work of that type. Type is at once assumed as natural (because of its link
to the physical body) and something constructed. We see certain bodies
that naturally seem to suit a particular role, and character types that are
constructed through the texts they appear in. Yet, both rely on the other
and are bound by social conventions and attitudes, and are thus unfixed.
It is also pertinent to note the aspect of stereotype involved in type
onscreen. Jorge Schweinitz discusses the history of stereotype and argues
that theatrical approaches to it see it as something fixed. Key also is the
way in which stereotype is positioned by him as the opposite end of a spec-
trum to character. As he sees it: ‘Individual characters only become dis-
cernible over the course of the narrated story; they develop in interaction
with plot events and are endowed with an individual and complex
intellectual-psychological profile.’ By contrast, ‘At the other end of the
spectrum are figures that appear as schematic constructs recognizable by a
select few pronounced attributes’ (45). This approach to stereotype
encompasses both film and literature and argues for a temporal dimension
to character—the longer we spend with these characters, the more we
understand. Overall, he sees stereotype as a grouping together of particu-
lar people, whereas type is an individuality that is repeated. This is more
akin to distinctions between social and psychological types respectively.
What the foray into stereotypes does for us here is allow for thinking about
a broader understanding of these limitations and definitions. It also
strengthens the understanding of these definitions of identity as ‘cultural
signs’ attributed to a particular image, namely a physical body.
Who can play a romantic lead, or a villain, has altered from the birth of
the cinema. As we move towards a more diverse approach to casting, it
reflects a broader experience. The use of certain bodies in a ‘typed’ char-
acter allows an examination of our cultural codes. Wojcik further thinks
about the understanding of self, or selves, arguing that typecasting is a
‘touchstone for ideologies of identity’ (226). However, later in her exami-
nation of typecasting, she thinks about the distinctions between Hollywood
and non-realist cinema to illustrate a key element of typecasting in popular
film. Rather than tending towards typage, which relies on a representation
of social types, Hollywood film presents characters in ‘psychological and
not social terms’ (232). This alters the interpretation of the story, looking
at the individual response to a situation, rather than seeing the situation as
causing the issues of the character as in typage. When we encounter a type
in Hollywood film, we can guess their disposition and begin to piece

together their inner self.1 It becomes an amalgamation of types that have
gone before, functioning as intertextual web of a type. This understanding
of type colours the interpretation of a text, linking to what Wojcik calls the
‘commercial, mass production instincts’ that type represents (223). Type
here can be shown in parallel to understandings of adaptations. It is, in the
repeated use of a particular type, akin to Hutcheon’s definition of adapta-
tion of ‘repetition without replication’ (173). It repeats elements and
understandings but cannot replicate due to the body of the actor being
different. Whilst it may resemble the bodies of those that have played that
type before, the star system is strong enough to make vital a distinction
between a known face and an unknown. The tendency towards repetition
suggests that characters who are reproduced in a different medium—one
that allows for ‘mass production instincts’—may still be reduced to a basic
understanding. Repetition, although strengthening for the star image,
simultaneously reduces character to a set perspective of what that body is
able to do. Repetition is important to understand character and the body,
and will be explored throughout the book. If a character in an adaptation
is a type, how does this implicate the body mediating it? If type is seen in
Hollywood as Wojcik asserts, in psychological terms, how does that reflect
social attitudes? We could explore this further through looking at how
actors come to be typecast and different forms of typecasting. These issues
will possibly illuminate the restrictions they generate and how it links to
the body. This is key to explore given the focus of this book is on the rela-
tionship between the body and character. If the body is limited, it is lim-
ited in representing character. This has key implications for adaptations;
namely, the way in which the process of adaptation in turn shifts or limits
characterisation.
Firstly, to address the question around how actors come to be typecast.
There is the impact of the studio itself and the casting directors that are
implicated in this process to consider. They pick actors for specific parts,
thereby creating an associated link between that body and the way it is
shown onscreen. This becomes a cycle whereby bodies are chosen because
they echo something of those filling a similar role before. However, it
should be noted that thinking in this specific way sees both the character
and the actor in very broad terms, indicated primarily by assumptions
around physicality. This is not the whole picture; extratextual elements are
implicated, such as star perception, and whether the character is part of an
adaptation. These move beyond the broader concerns of whether the
22 C. WILKINS
acting body can represent the character well and what that means—this in
itself is a thorny question to be dealt with in Chaps. 3 and 4.
Yet, casting directors make certain choices and thus impose restrictions
upon actors. Helena Bonham-Carter is an actor who has been outspoken
on her thoughts on typecasting in Hollywood. Various interviews point
towards her outlining the limitations of typecasting. In a recent podcast
with Louis Theroux, she defined it as being on multiple levels—firstly,
from the studio, then the media, then fans. This, she noted in another
interview (‘Drama Actress Roundtable’), was due to the element of
physicality:
I was very much an ingénue and appeared in a lot of costume dramas. That
was my typecasting. And I remember I came to L.A. in my early 20s, and I
just felt like such a freak because I knew I didn’t have the legs to survive in
L.A. And the parts that were available for women were just so bad. The only
dimension was about your body, and I was very small and my legs weren’t
thin and I just thought, “Jesus”.
This element of typecasting reinforces which bodies are able to repre-

sent certain characters onscreen. This is something that has been occur-
ring since the beginning of the studio system, as Lisa Bode points out:
‘For actors to find employment, they had to shape themselves in advance
into a recognizable exploitable social category and character archetype.
The star system took over this task, molding raw actors into types, experi-
menting with them in different roles and costuming until the audience
seemed to approve a fit’ (74). This is something that has been illustrated
in earlier years of Hollywood, with actors such as Marilyn Monroe being
one of the most famous examples. What Bode shows is the multiple angles
typecasting is approached from, rather than simply just the studio. Actors
are aware of their typecasting, as, like Bonham-Carter notes, it is some-
thing displayed not within the studios but in the media. This is reinforced
by a further layer, the spectator, as Wojcik argues: ‘[T]ypecasting occurs at
many varied levels, and is equally something spectators and fans enact or
impose on actors’ (224). As noted above, the typecasting by fans is linked
not just to the body and its assumed value in culture through a number of
particular markers (age, gender, size, race), but the familiarity with that
body. This is something to be explored more in Chap. 3 through looking
at the element of reception.
Typecasting does not happen in a vacuum. Various external forces shape

it, as we have explored. One of the most enduring ideas about typecasting
is the element of social attitudes impacting it. Interestingly, an area of film
that has begun to showcase this has been superhero films which have
pushed back against the standard ‘hero’ type—a white (American) male—
and shown that social attitudes have sufficiently changed that other bodies
are accepted, and successful, in this role. Yet, that goes against Wojcik’s
ideas of Hollywood typecasting as ‘psychological’ rather than ‘social’
types. As such, it is important to repeatedly return to how an actor is being
typecast. The two—psychological and social types—speak to different
ways of manifesting type. The latter is the immediate external body, the
one shown foremost in extratextual materials, shaping an approach to a
text. We begin to make judgements about what area of society they repre-
sent through physical markers. The former, psychological, relies on wit-
nessing that body in movement—looking for traces of the inner manifest
externally. This may be through gestures, gait, or posture. Arguably, the
case of some of the superhero films pushing against type take the psycho-
logical typing of the hero and merge it with a different social type repre-
sented by an unfamiliar body. What this attempts to do is broaden the
understanding of type, but the fusion of the two elements is still compli-
cated by its reliance on social attitudes.
Perhaps this is why actors that are most often seen playing against type
may be those bodies that are more accepted. By this I mean those bodies
that are understood as the ‘norm’ in Hollywood film—predominantly
white, able-bodied, and of a certain body shape. As such, they are seen in
some ways as being a ‘blank slate’, something commented on by scholars
who explore typecasting and stereotype in roles defined as non-white char-
acters (something returned to in Chap. 5). But is the idea of the accepted
body as able to transcend type always successful? It seems perhaps that
once an actor is sufficiently familiar enough, they can move beyond the
type they have been associated with and bring with them not previous
characters, but a cultural value derived from extratextual elements instead.
Brad Pitt has been one such actor that has played a broader range of roles,
but he is divorced from a particular character and instead stands as a body
ready to fill a role in a recognisable way, which is to say, recognisable in
terms of his aesthetics rather than any psychological connotations. In con-
trast, an actor that is repeatedly typecast is Adam Sandler. An attempt to
break out of this, Paul Thomas Anderson’s Punch Drunk Love (2002), saw
critics and audiences divided over the characterisation. In Anderson’s film,
24 C. WILKINS
Sandler played a man read by many critics as being on the autism spec-
trum. It was a more complex role than his previous characters; perhaps the
move away pushed too far against the type he had been confined by.
Sandler has since returned to type, successfully so—signing a deal with
Netflix2 for multiple films where he repeatedly plays a similar character.
There is a clear desire here from audiences for repetition and an under-
standing of what to expect from an actor. However, there are differences
between certain actors as we see in terms of what audiences will approve
of. This leads us into thinking about the ways in which an actor can be
typecast.
What are the different forms of typecasting? Arguably, there are two,
and they are primarily linked to the psychological element of typing that
Wojcik discusses. The first is a type that is more loosely defined, such as
underdog, nice guy, and tough-but-soft-inside career woman. The second
is character typecasting. By this I mean an actor who has been so strongly
linked to one character in their career that roles turn into reiterations of
that character. This can be regardless of whether the actor themselves
wants to keep playing that type. The first type includes actors such as Jim
Carey and Hugh Grant, who play particular types of people rather than
characters.
The second includes Jennifer Aniston, as she describes in an interview
(‘Drama Actress Roundtable’):
I could not get Rachel Green off of my back for the life of me. I could not
escape ‘Rachel from Friends,’ and it’s on all the time. … The Good Girl was
the first time I got to really shed whatever the Rachel character was, and to
be able to disappear into someone who wasn’t that was such a relief to me.
An audience may link one body to one character, and see subsequent
roles as another version of that character. This can be because of the pro-
lific nature of the text (such as with Friends) or because of the cultural
impact of the text. What this also evidences is the importance of the physi-
cal, as it provides a framework that shapes the character, its understanding,
and communication through a body. Another example may include
Johnny Depp, who, since Pirates of the Caribbean, has been accused of
playing a version of Jack Sparrow. This can result in audiences beginning
to believe that an actor is simply ‘playing themselves’. The understanding
of a body, and a character, thus may come from a limitation to a type. That
type is linked so strongly to physicality thereby sees a body as a medium
defined by particular codes. The body becomes something to interpret, at

the same time as being a site for the production of meanings. The body
therefore could be described as a medium, complicating an understanding
of adaptation, which may allow for a narrower focus on what and how a
text is being adapted. As Roanna Mitchell asserts: the ‘[n]otion of body as
an object … stands in close relationship to the way they are read by the
world’ (144). This reading of the body situates it as another form of text
that can be read, adapted, and adapted to.
Body as Medium
Here it is important to clarify the dual nature of the body as we are cur-
rently discussing—as both medium and text. Text implies a singular
instance, whereas medium the method in which it is being communicated,
with the latter offering specifics of form and coding that govern its inter-
pretation. I would like to approach the body in a dialectic way; the body,
generalised, represents the medium. When we see bodies onscreen, they
are a medium for characters to be communicated. However, when we
watch a particular body for signs in order to interpret, it becomes a text.
Hence, it is at once a dual thing (both medium and text), which will come
up repeatedly in our discussion across this book. The body in its encom-
passing of dichotomous elements operates continually in a dialogue with
itself and the reader.
With the element of the actor, we are asked to consider this relationship
in a more deliberate way. Lisa Akervall helpfully thinks about the relation-
ship between the actor and their medium:
What does it mean for an actor to be a medium, to see and show rather than
to act? What the actor-medium mediates is of course not the interiority of a
character, affects, or emotions. There is no causal nexus between affections
on the inside and a readable expression on the outside—be it the face or the
body or gestures. Affects are no longer part of behaviors, nor are they psy-
chologically motivated; they have even become somewhat independent of
the actor. As spectators we don’t experience any moments of empathy. That
does not mean that we are dealing with Brechtian alienation-effects, how-
ever. The actor-medium doesn’t expose the difference between role and
actor. The actor-medium’s concerns are to see and to show, rather than to
act. What the actor-medium mediates is a certain view, a non-commonsensical
vision of a situation. The actor-medium is thus literally a kind of medium: an
actor with a specific capacity to mediate, to make something visible and
26 C. WILKINS
maybe even graspable. In the transmissions among characters, actors and

spectators we see the emergence of an experience of becoming visionary. (279)
There is a disconnect here from more method approaches to acting

which often ask actors to think of a situation comparable to the charac-
ter’s, or a moment that will produce a similar engagement with the world
around them, in order to psychologically immerse themselves and thus be
able to outwardly manifest those feelings. Akervall instead sees the body as
a kind of surface where technical elements are displayed in order to com-
municate, rather coldly, information for the audience. This view of the
actor’s body as something that interprets and then displays (‘see and
show’), however, positions the character as something more fluid. The
acting body as medium challenges views of the character as something
owned by the actor or something possessed. It sees it as communicable,
graspable, and able to be shared. This challenges the limits of the body as
Pisk sees it, with the acting body defined by its physicality and ability to
transform ‘into any body’. Transformation implies an inhabitation of
someone else, however momentary, in opposition with the body as
medium which communicates someone else in a more fluid manner.
Transformation is closed. It limits the abilities of the body, once trans-
formed, to move beyond the boundaries of the body it has become in its
specific context. The aspect of transformation in acting has interesting
implications for adaptations which see the character as an impact on the
body. The transformation to or by a character sees it as having fixed and
tangible differences from the actor’s self, which ultimately shape and limit
how that character can be played. Medium, however, implies a kind of
openness that situates the body as something to be communicated
through, beyond boundaries. It is this perspective we will further explore.
If the body is to be conceived of as medium, we may consider what ele-
ments are to be examined as aspects of medium specificity. Arguably, one
is that of its movement, which represents something akin to form.
Expression and gesture structure the output of the body’s meaning; it
provides a shape for us to see and interpret. The reading of this output will
be explored in Chap. 3 when we come to focus on reception. This shape
is something we often understand as character. It enables the body to take
a form through its particular movement. Mary Ann Doane’s definition of
medium is helpful here: it is a ‘material or technical means of aesthetic
expression which harbours both constraints and possibilities, the second
emerging as a consequence of the first’ (130). We may consider expression
and gesture for example to offer constraint, primarily in the very limita-
tions of the body’s capabilities.3 This also, as Doane argues, brings with it
possibilities—which combination of gestures and expression can commu-
nicate what emotions? The aforementioned discussion of body as both
medium and text means here that each different body brings with it
slightly different constraints and possibilities. Here, we begin to open up
avenues for understanding and engaging in dialogue with bodies as texts,
rather than imposing a framework of understanding upon it that may not
be one size fits all.
Thinking further about the role of gesture and expression as an aspect
of medium, we can turn to Carrie Noland for an understanding of what
gestures are:
Gestures are a type of inscription, a parsing of the body into signifying or

operational units; they can thereby be seen to reveal the submission of a
shared human anatomy to a set of bodily practices specific to one culture. At
the same time, gestures clearly belong to the domain of movement; they
provide kinaesthetic sensations that remain in excess of what the gestures
themselves might signify or accomplish within that culture. (2)
Again, we see this divide in understanding of the body: the element of

the physical (what the body can be shaped into) and the element of the
cultural (what that shape means). These culturally specific bodily practices,
as Noland defines, can be seen as an aspect of the medium, a medium
specificity if you will. However, to state this would be to focus more on the
element of the cultural rather than the physical in the limitation of mean-
ing, though the former, as we have noted, has a considerable impact on
the latter. So far, we have thought about the way in which the body medi-
ates, thinking about the physical body as an external manifestation of an
interiority. To think of the limitations through cultural specificity
approaches it as shaped not just in interpretation by this but from its cre-
ation of meaning. That is, the body can only operate in certain ways that
have been outlined as possible and will be understood in a particular way.
The body as medium takes on not just a physical dimension, but a cul-
tural one.
Noland’s description above of gesture positions the bodily possibilities
and the cultural restraints as key elements of the body as medium. We get
both a production and a reading of meaning through the same body. This
is in line with thinking of the body as being multiple, as critics like Sobchack
28 C. WILKINS
posit. As noted earlier, she sees a number of bodies the actor contains and
points to how each one of them is understood by both the actor and the
audience. Graver does similar, situating seven different types of bodies.
One of which is character, which he sees as a distinct body, although fall-
ing more in line with Pisk’s notion of a ‘transformed body’. Graver argues
that as character, the actor’s body ‘inhabits a world of signs’ (222)—signs
that signify character and the character as signified are part of the same
body. The body as medium becomes a complex interplay of physical out-
puts (gestures) which are then interpreted culturally as signs to be read,
and the body comes to be read as signifier of character, rendering it singu-
lar text. Adding to this idea of body as medium and as text comes the ele-
ment of body being read in moments as a signifier. The body, frozen in a
particular moment, becomes mediator of an idea, one that aligns with the
character. The idea is communicated in a gesture, or an expression, as a
sign. The signified is the idea, with the body an image arrested momen-
tarily. I want to clarify here that I am not saying that in order to under-
stand the signification of a character we have to break it down into discrete
elements—character is fluid and complex. However, a character may be
understood in a different way by examining a particular moment for its
meaning. The relevance to our probing of the importance of the physical
lies in how meaning is shaped; as text, it becomes individualised, and as
medium, it is limited by the frameworks we impose on its real, tangible
boundaries.
Silberman offers a way to think further about reading the body as
medium and the blurring of that boundary with that of the body as sign/
signifier through the element of the close up: ‘The screen presence of the
actor’s face in close-up becomes here the medium of representation, a
semantic vacuum or empty signifier that functions as spectacle, fore-
grounding the production of the image’ (562). The isolation of a gesture
or expression perhaps returns us to the notion of the body as object,
something to be looked at rather than identified with. If we read the body
in this way, we surely have to see it as an element of mise en scène, as some
critics do. By doing that, we should consider whether we then strip some-
thing away from our valuing of the body in a text. Further, does it damage
its ability to represent and mimic ourselves? Does it not then render us as
objects if we see it as communicating from a limited spectrum of signs that
are taught and understood as a culture? Our physical understanding of the
body onscreen complicates the notion of character; it is at once object,
actor, and a set of signs to be read and interpreted. How does this
compare to the way in which it is positioned in literature? If we begin to

return to thinking about adaptation, this complicated view of the body
impacts how a character can be conveyed. Perhaps it is the notion of body
as medium that has continued to provide tensions in the reading of adap-
tations, given the focus on medium specificity in the field. Equally, the
differences in communication of the body through the literary text pro-
voke these tensions. The body gives form to an imaginary, but it is not the
same as that imagined character body. Rather, it functions as adaptation of
a body. This ties in nicely with the way in which we can view the acting
body itself as adaptable.
Body as Adaptation
What must also be addressed whilst we are thinking about the element of
the physical, and its possibilities, is the notion of body as something that
can be adapted. This is both adapted to and adapted for. The body as
adapted changes the understanding of what limitations and possibilities it
has. To think more explicitly about this, I am going to examine specific
examples of bodies being adapted. The body as pliable—like Pisk’s notion
of the body as something to be transformed into other bodies—adds
another dimension into our thinking about the body as medium. What
other medium is as pliable? The shaping of the acting body is arguably
always tainted by an understanding of the body as it ‘naturally’ is; how-
ever, this relies on a knowledge of that body before it is transformed,
something discussed further in Chap. 3. The notion of the actor’s ‘natural’
self may be seen as the baseline from which the body can be moulded and
changed physically to suit their character.
Taking on different roles, actors change themselves through their body.
They may contort, affect a particular gesture, and assume an expression.
This much has been discussed; the element of the physical body in mediat-
ing an understood set of signs is crucial in shaping a character and, in turn,
the actor. But how much of this is defined by elements of the body that are
seemingly fixed? These include weight, shape, abilities, or immediate phys-
ical appearance, including age. As we saw with typecasting, the external
provides a shorthand for interpreting the actions and gestures, and the
meaning of a character within the text. I want to briefly think about the
importance of the changing body onscreen in order to further understand
the element of the physical.
30 C. WILKINS
There are various ways the body can change onscreen. One of the most
noticeable is weight; this is reinforced by media coverage of actors’ bodies
as they are filming. Christian Bale is a good example of a body that has
shifted through different weights and shapes over the years to take on
roles. The media obsession with Bale’s (sometimes quickly) shifting body
points to one perspective of the physical. Rather than body as object of
desire, Bale’s body is rendered as spectacle4 (see Vanity Fair below for an
example of this). Due to the psychological aspect of weight change like
his, which often requires a serious impact on lifestyle, it becomes an ardu-
ous task endured for art. Often these changes to the physical body are
presented as an aspect of method acting, or a commitment to a role that
goes above and beyond. Female bodies too have shifted onscreen with
regards to weight, but not to the same extent as Bale. Given the way
famous female bodies are seen in media and onscreen, the scrutiny can be
more intense, and the discourse more critical. Examples of these bodies
include Renée Zellweger (which again prompted an approach of her body
as spectacle due to her weight loss and gain between the Bridget Jones
movies), Lily Collins, Viola Davis, and Charlize Theron. Collins dropped
weight to play an anorexic in To The Bone, Davis gained weight for Ma
Rainey’s Black Bottom, and Theron also gained weight to play a serial killer
in Monster. The latter was also discussed as an example of ‘deglamming’
(see Sharrona Pearl for more on this), whereby the celebrity image is shed.
Arguably a big part of this image revolves around the accepted body shape
for a star.
That these examples of shifting body shapes are seen as notable shows
the valuing of the body as something pliable in acting. Much is said of
commitment to a role through the changing of the body in this way.
Through weight change in particular, the impact of a role pervades the life
of the actor, shaping how they go about their lives, how their bodies move,
and their interactions with the world. Again, the aspect of commitment to
a role is foregrounded in discussions around actors that do this. It is per-
haps the singular example of the pliability of the body. With other physical
changes, they can be contained within the set or managed carefully off set.
These could include hairstyle changes, which can be solved with a wig, or
prosthetics for bodies that are differently shaped to the actor. Similarly, ‘fat
suits’ are available to change the appearance of the body onscreen. There
is something about the actual physical alteration of the body that piques
our interest. Perhaps it is because we see it as more authentic, more realis-
tic—we are not looking for evidence of the prosthetics, but rather
understanding that the body we see onscreen in front of us is to be taken

at face value. That is to say, we are to read its codes plainly, rather than
hunting for a ‘real’ underneath. At that moment in time, Bale’s body play-
ing Dick Cheney is that body. Gwyneth Paltrow’s use of a fat suit in
Shallow Hal played this in reverse: we were familiarised with her body (as
understood in celebrity culture) through the eyes of the protagonist, Hal
(Jack Black). When her ‘real’ body is revealed, there is a moment of ten-
sion for the audience, who ‘know’ that this is not her real body and instead
marvel at the spectacle of the change in appearance. This example plays on
audience knowledge of the ‘real’, whilst reinforcing the values of specific
body types.
To return to the point about authenticity then—the valorising of bod-
ies that have shifted and changed to ‘fit’ a role indicates that we still strive
for the element of realism in acting. We are looking for a mediation of
character through a body that is able to communicate it in an accurate way.
This accuracy is seemingly determined by the cultural implications of the
body’s aesthetics. It is also a view espoused by acting theorists such as Pisk,
who consider the impact of physical change: ‘Change of physical condi-
tion and shape of body “grow” different voices’ (10). By physically (rather
than artificially) changing the body to align with different cultural implica-
tions and different ‘voices’, the body is then able to fulfil that role. Or is
it? In part, our acceptance of the changing body relies on our awareness
that the body that has been changed is one we are familiar with and one
we understand too. It is notably mostly certain stars that are praised for
their bodily changes, usually ones that are more familiar than others. The
more we know that body and the more drastic the change, the bigger the
commitment we assume to a role. Any physical changes, however, are
covered in media as ‘getting into character’. A minor example would be
Brad Pitt having his teeth chipped for Fight Club. Again, this is seen as
commitment to a role. When bodies are changed momentarily, through
prosthetics, the praise is not the same. Think about the infamous response
to Nicole Kidman in The Hours having apparently won the Oscar ‘by a
nose’—a reference to the prosthetic nose she wore as Virginia Woolf—and
this is despite the discomfort actors have spoken of in wearing prosthetics
and the hours spent in make-up. Audiences seek out physical, tangible
changes.
What we must also keep in mind is that it is certain bodies that are
lauded for changing, and positioned as being committed because of this
physical change. Other aspects of physical changes will be dealt with in
32 C. WILKINS
Chap. 5, in considering particular identities and the representation of

them through the body. Lisa Bode thinks about the way in which bodies
place limits on roles. She cites Andre the Giant and Verne Troyer as exam-
ples of limitations (77). Extremes of height also shape expectations.
Transforming height to this extent is difficult onscreen. If we use this to
think about body as medium, we could think that the body is only seen as
pliable if it is of a type that is the ‘norm’ and can be moved beyond.
Otherwise, it is a ‘hiding’ of difference, rather than an ‘adding’ or ‘show-
ing’ of difference. The actors that change their bodies in these examples
are those that conform to a ‘norm’ onscreen, or rather, an accepted body
onscreen. The understanding of the shift in the body to the physicality of
the new character, as we have begun to note, relies on the audience’s
knowledge of the body ‘before’. This will be considered further in the
next chapter.
For now, it is useful to think about the impact of these physical changes
and the limitations of who and what can be altered. There are limitations
to the body, borne out of cultural codes. Equally, should we not say that
the boundaries of the body are limited to the text it resides in? Arguably,
yes. However, these examples above are present in extratextual material
around the films and colour the reception of the physical onscreen through
audience awareness. Further, the notion of the body’s natural state is fixed
through repeated viewings of it in these texts, which conform to a combi-
nation of two of the bodies identified by Graver—the flesh and character.
The two are merged. The body in its pliability shows a use of the body as
adaptation—it is both adapted to and adapted for. It shapes the text
through its physicality, and it is adapted in order to fit the text.
With the concern of authenticity highlighted in some of these bodily
changes, and the way we can conceive of the body as adaptation comes
traces of fidelity debates. Here is where we see the keenest link between
the body and adaptation. If we return to the notion of body as text, and
think about it being adapted to another body, we may use this concern
with authenticity as an indication of the drive towards fidelity in the adap-
tation of the body.
Bodily Fidelity
In order to think through this approach to the body, it is necessary to
establish a few assumptions. Firstly, that the body matters. We have
explored so far the way in which the visual codes of the body communicate
different ideas that are culturally dependent. The fact that bodies that are
changed to adapt to other ones are lauded tells us about our valuation of
the body as an expressive, pliable, medium. In representing a character
onscreen, a body communicates through the physical. As we have estab-
lished, different bodies function as texts to be interpreted through the
signs of the physical. This interpretation is dependent on the aesthetics.
Secondly, in order for a character to be read as intended, surely, the body
needs to be similar to the one outlined in literature or in the text it is
adapting. If it is not, the meanings will be lost. However, thinking along
these lines may lead simply to replication, rather than repetition.
Complicating matters further is the fact that meanings are dependent on
the moment; a body may communicate one meaning in a particular era
that has changed in another. Yet, arguably, there are ideas about what bod-
ies are able to play what roles, and as such, this changes the parameters of
how to adapt a text to a body onscreen. This has been more easily com-
municated by fans in the last decade in particular with the advent of social
media. When an actor is perceived as a ‘bad fit’ for a role, there is backlash.
Scarlett Johansson is one such case; in one example, she was cast to play a
trans character and was heavily criticised for the choice, causing her to
back out of the role.5 When actors are perceived as being a ‘bad fit’ for a
role, what is primarily being said is that their body is not right. It is not
defined by the same cultural codes as the character they wish to portray;
there is an element of fidelity to the criticisms there. How the body of the
character is constructed in literature is key: it is a slippery thing, but one
bound by certain narrative conventions that result in a shared understand-
ing of how it is physically represented. For example, hair/eye colour, race,
body shape, and age may be described. These are aspects we attach shared
social meanings to. With other descriptions, however, these are not as
fixed and may alter dependent on the reader themselves. What this results
in is an understanding of the ‘essence’ of character that must be faithfully
represented. Arguably rather than fidelity to the text, as is often discussed
in adaptation studies—the problem here revolves around a notion of fidel-
ity to a/the body. The body of the character may be imagined or con-
structed culturally through an understanding provided in a text, but often,
a deviation from those frameworks of understanding is seen as tantamount
to crossing the line of culturally accepted practices.
I do not intend here to go into the depths of fidelity criticism nor make
an argument for it. Instead, I am rather brazenly reappropriating it to
consider how we understand character and the body. How that body
34 C. WILKINS
adapts to, or is adapted by, a character (a hierarchy we will consider in

Chap. 4) is of concern here. That fidelity criticism evokes strong disavow-
als is evident from a survey of the field. Glenn Jellenik argues that fidelity
is still dependent on ‘subjective, evaluative, and critically problematic
terms such as “essence” and “spirit”’ (183)—this vague terminology is
difficult to apply to the body’s adaptation of character. Further, David
T. Johnson in discussing it argues that fidelity is rejected for two reasons:
(a) it reflects a comparative model (which is not helpful) and (b) evaluates
aesthetic worth based on adherence to the source (89). If we use these
ideas to think about the body as text being adapted, then we must agree
that the comparative model and the aesthetics are two things heavily relied
on in the evaluations of the adapted body. In order for it to be seemed a
‘fit’, the body needs to communicate something of the character through
the medium it is working with—that is, the particular make up of the flesh
and its appearance. It necessarily drives a comparison with the character’s
body that has been adapted. The understanding of character here is com-
plicated by several factors.
The primary adaptations discussed in scholarship are those from litera-
ture to film, as has been recognised in the field. However, there are other
places the character can emerge from. Film to television adaptations is
something I have written on previously, which brings with it a physical
body as guide for the character. Further, there is an argument to be made
for the biopics that have pervaded Hollywood in recent years (Rocketman,
Battle of the Sexes, Bohemian Rhapsody). These adapt a real-life body to an
actor’s and strive for complete fidelity to the body in order to immerse
people within the story (as we discuss in Chap. 5). Part of the appeal of
these films is seeing actors momentarily transform into a familiar body.
Thus what a character ‘is’ or what it should be is not as clear cut. Every
script, novel, videogame, comic book, television show, and film presents
an interpretation of what the character should be through the body cho-
sen and how it is displayed onscreen.
Thus, arguing for a complete fidelity to a body is flawed. Recent adher-
ents for fidelity criticism, such as David T. Johnson noted above, could
provide a way to think about the body usefully (see ‘Adaptation and
Fidelity’). David Kranz and Colin MacCabe both argue for it as a model
for adaptation studies—Kranz argues we should be comparative and
MacCabe that we should be evaluative. If this were the case, we could use
a comparative model to understand differences in the bodies in order to
see what Leitch calls the ‘gaps’ (see ‘Mind the Gaps’). An interrogation of
this helps illuminate anxieties and positionings of the body in the respec-
tive texts. An evaluative approach could see a merging of the two texts in
order to further expand the understanding of character. What should also
be pointed out here is that this is looking at the physicality of the body,
rather than the way in which it is being mediated. I am aware there are
acting approaches that require or desire a fidelity to the experience of the
character by living and experiencing similar situations. However, firstly,
this will only be a version of their experience rather than the same thing
which is impossible, and secondly the focus here is on how these physicali-
ties are interacted with, which necessarily focuses on the external. The
aspect of psychological states will be addressed in Chap. 6.
With fidelity criticism comes the notion of the original, something dis-
cussed by scholars including Rainer Emig. He points out a number of
inconsistencies in the thinking around the idea of originality, some of
which are useful here (‘Adaptation and the Concept of the Original’). The
idea of an ‘original’ character from which to adapt sees the character as
something fixed and unchanging. Yet, this is not how bodies are—bodies
themselves are constantly shifting and changing. The supposition of an
original body freezes it within a text, not allowing for thinking beyond the
text. This runs counter to what the actor’s body does, says Kracauer:
‘[H]is presence in a film points beyond the film. He affects the audience
not just because of his fitness for this or that role but for being, or seeming
to be, a particular kind of person. … The Hollywood star imposes the
screen image of his physique, the real or stylized one, and all that this
physique implies and connotes on every role he creates’ (qtd. in Wojcik
231). Can an acting body therefore represent a character if we see it as
something fixed?6 Is character fixed through words or through the physi-
cality outlined? Sharon Carnicke and Cynthia Baron think through this
relationship between the imagined character and the physical, but propose
a clear view of how it is shaped. They note: ‘[S]creen performances …
represent the material embodiment of scores or scripts that serve as exact
blueprints or open points of reference’ (7). Seeing a script as an ‘exact
blueprint’ or rather understanding performance in this way positions the
body onscreen as a fixed translation shaped by the words on a page. If it is
fixed through words, it is arguably prey to interpretation. Unless the phys-
ical description is extremely cold and calculated, often literary characters
are sketched rather than clearly outlined. Their interpretation from the
reader is what fleshes them out, as will be discussed in detail in Chap. 4.
36 C. WILKINS
When these imagined bodies are pointed to as the ‘original’, there is a

disconnect. It is too subjective.
Emig cites Linda Hutcheon to think about some of the conflicts of the
original. Says Hutcheon: adaptation is ‘always a double process of inter-
preting and then creating something new’ (qtd. in Emig 31). We could
argue here that this process of adaptation is precisely what happens in the
actor’s body. Because the idea of the original character can never be fully
grasped,7 each performance of a character is an interpretation, a channel-
ling, which results in a new creation, a new character. However, with an
adaptation, this is not what is seen—the character in the adaptation is
often positioned as one version of it. It bears traces, and similarities, and is
compared to the character in the text being adapted. Emig continues on
from Hutcheon’s point, arguing that adaptation ‘reminds the work of art
of its object status—since adaptation relies on a source that it adapts’ (32).
Ultimately he says, fidelity criticism escapes this by denying the adaptation
and reasserting the importance of the ‘original’. If we are to use fidelity
criticism for thinking about how the character is transposed from one
body to another (both imagined and real body), then we must conclude
that it will always be a flawed operation. The very process of adaptation
requires, as Hutcheon notes, an interpretation; particularly in the aspect of
the acting body, which channels and interprets a character through the
physical. By doing so, adaptation necessarily alters the character and the
idea of the original becomes an aspiration only. Thus, the notion of origi-
nality with the body cannot be the key approach for thinking about char-
acter here. However, the question of fidelity can be explored further
through thinking about the body as text.
We have already discussed the idea of body as medium and as text. In
the mode of fidelity, the body as text to be adapted is useful. This is because
of the complications of medium specificity in both fidelity and adaptation.
When it comes to thinking about adaptation, there is an allowance given
for the ways different mediums present texts. This often reduces it to, as
Jellenik notes, the reliance on an interpretation of an ‘essence’ or ‘spirit’ of
a text. If we expand this to thinking about the body, is there an implicit
sense of the ‘essence’ of a body that we look for in an adapted body?
Further, how can this ‘essence’ be outlined in different forms? In the liter-
ary form, an essence would be specifically conjured by words—the lan-
guage and style used to describe and frame the character. As Brownlee
notes, ‘[W]ord is precise but visual culture is chaotic and multifarious’
(163). Brownlee’s approach is one of many perspectives on the properties
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station, a porter roused himself from his afternoon nap and strolled
slowly down the platform calling "Whitsea! Change here for
Whitsea," in a melancholy sing-song. Guy picked up his stick and
alighted. Would Meriel come herself to meet him? He had asked the
question of himself a hundred times on the journey, and a hundred
times had told himself that he expected far too much.
But Meriel was there, and the delight in his heart showed in his
eyes as he went forward with outstretched hand to welcome her. Her
eyes dropped under his ardent glance, and the colour flushed her
cheek. Guy had seen no one but Meriel. Another voice recalled his
wandering faculties.
"I am just as delighted to welcome you to Whitsea, Mr. Hora, as
Meriel can be."
It was Guy's turn to flush, as he half turned to meet Mrs.
Marven's kindly glance.
"I only saw Miss Challys," he remarked simply.
"That was quite obvious," replied Mrs. Marven, as she took
Guy's hand, "and I am inclined to think that if I had been in your
place I shouldn't have seen anyone else, either. She is a pretty
picture, isn't she?" There was a tender inflection in her voice which
put Guy at his ease.
"There can be no two opinions about that," he answered
heartily.
"Auntie would make me vain, if I were not so already," said the
girl demurely, as she thrust her arm in Mrs. Marven's. "If you'll just
tell the porter which is your luggage, he will see that it is sent on. We
are not more than half a mile from the station, and we thought you
would like to walk to the Hall."
"Nothing could suit me better," declared Guy.
They strolled along the platform talking. Guy's kit bag and
dressing case were tossed out on the platform, and Jessel was
already mounting guard over them. Guy did not recognise his
servant until he was close to him. His surprise was apparent in the
tone of his voice.
"Hullo, Jessel!" he said. "What on earth are you doing here?"
The man touched his hat. "Beg your pardon, sir," he said. "Didn't
you intend me to come? You said nothing, so of course——"
Guy interrupted him. "I thought I had told you! But it doesn't
matter. Just see that the porter has my luggage all right. You can get
the next train back."
He turned away. Cornelius touched his hat. His face expressed
disappointment. Mrs. Marven observed his fallen countenance and
came to the rescue.
"I ought to have told you to bring your man with you," she
remarked to Guy, "and unless you have something you want him to
do for you, you had better let him come to the Hall. I know that the
Captain's man will be delighted that you have brought him, for I don't
mind telling you now, that he detests valeting anyone but his own
master."
With a word of thanks Guy dismissed the subject from his
thoughts. He was supremely indifferent to Jessel's presence. Meriel
was beside him. Nothing else mattered.
CHAPTER XVII
STAR-DUST
Whitsea lies on the estuary of one of those Essex rivers which

flow into the North Sea through a wilderness of shallows. The visitor
who goes to it expecting to find any one of the ordinary attractions of
the average seaside watering-place may make up his mind to be
wofully disappointed. But the visitor with a delight in the
unconventional and the unhackneyed need not fear boredom. The
salt marshes which border the river for miles have a wild beauty
entirely their own. Flowers grow there as if the sea were no enemy to
them. Then the six miles of sheltered water which lie between
Whitsea and the sea give protection from wild weather, which the
yachtsman is not slow to appreciate. So when the days begin to
lengthen the Whitsea River begins to be alive with sailing craft, and
when the summer days really come, it has a population which lives
entirely upon the water.
At Whitsea the Hall was the most prominent residence, even as
Captain Marven was the most distinguished inhabitant. It was just a
simple, kindly English house, at one with its simple, kindly English
inhabitants. The life there was a revelation to Guy. Never before had
he known what it was to be an inmate of a pure unpretentious
English country home.
"You will find us dull, I am afraid," had been Mrs. Marven's
warning when she had invited him, "for excepting some sailing and
later in the year a little rough shooting Whitsea has no attractions."
Dull! Guy had never found a life so full. Every moment of the
day provided a new item of interest.
The house itself was a haven of peace. The long, low white
stone structure stood on a little knoll looking with all its many eyes in
the face of the southing sun. It was girt about with an old garden
where the scent of roses disputed with the perfume of carnations for
supremacy, a garden where tall white lilies stood sentinel over
serried ranks of sweet peas, and gazed down unmoved upon the riot
of colours that filled the borders. Beyond the garden a meadow
dropped down into the saltings, and beyond the saltings the sea wall
kept the tides at bay, and ever the sweet fresh breezes dinted the
surface of the water and lifted the petals of the roses and whispered
stories of the ocean in the ears of those who walked in the garden,
tempting them to venture forth in search of the places where they
were born.
Daily two of the inmates of the Hall responded to the temptation.
Meriel loved the sea. Guy was equally fervent in his adoration, and
there, ever before them, was the means of gratifying their desires in
the shape of the graceful ten-ton cutter Witch lying at her moorings
opposite the house, or the rightly christened little eighteen-footer
Dainty, which ever seemed to chafe at the chain which saved her
from going adrift. Oftentimes Captain Marven made one of the party,
more occasionally Mrs. Marven accompanied them, but there were
occasions when Meriel and Guy found themselves alone. Then when
the breeze sang in Guy's ears, and the spray tasted salt on his lips,
he felt a mad impulse to sail on and on with his precious cargo right
away out of the old life into a totally new one.
The two young people were drawn very close together in those
days. Meriel took no pains to conceal the pleasure she found in
Guy's companionship. Guy made no effort to disguise the fact that
life held only one hope for him. If there was a doubt at the back of his
mind that the hope was foredoomed to be disappointed, he put it
away. He would be happy while he might. Sorrow was for the sad
days of autumn. There was only one jarring note in the symphony. It
was a trifling one and did not affect Meriel. On the first day they went
for a sail they passed an excellently appointed steam yacht lying at
anchor in the fairway of the river. A figure immaculately clad in blue
jacket and white flannels raised a bridge-cap as they passed.
"Hildebrand Flurscheim, by all that's holy," remarked Guy.
"Still searching for his missing pictures," said Meriel laughing.
The thought was an unpleasant one. But Guy was not allowed
to forget it. Flurscheim found out that the Marvens were at their
house and he called, and, undeterred by a cool reception, called
again. Guy could not help but realise that if his host and hostess had
been aware that he was the burglar who had raided the
connoisseur's treasure-house, the coolness accorded Flurscheim
would be nothing to the reception he might expect.
But Captain and Mrs. Marven would have both been horrified at
the mere suggestion that Guy could be guilty of such a deed. They
were fully cognisant of the love-story developing under their eyes,
acquiescing smilingly. They anticipated an idyll. They had watched
Guy carefully, and they had seen no fault in him. He had an
unblemished university career and was apparently sufficiently
endowed with this world's goods. He seemed chivalrous,
honourable, and, above all, deeply in love. Thinking of the days of
their own wooing, they anticipated a happy union.
A week passed, the second week was near its end, when a
shadow was cast on the sunlight of Guy's happiness, and again the
gloom was produced by a letter from Hora, forwarded to him from his
chambers.
"We shall be home on the Monday," wrote the Commandatore.
"Please come and see me on the Tuesday at latest, for I have now
completed my plans, and nothing remains but to put them into
execution. Again let me remind you to do your best to cultivate the
Marven people, if the opportunity arises. Any knowledge you may
acquire concerning them is likely to prove useful."
Guy took the letter with him into the open, where he tore it into
tiny fragments and scattered them to the breeze. Cornelius Jessel
from Guy's bedroom window watched the flying fragments longingly.
So also did another man who, seated on the sea wall some hundred
yards away, was just near enough to realise what Guy was doing.
But neither Cornelius nor the stranger made any efforts to recover
the fragments. Detective Inspector Kenly had no desire to call
attention in so pointed a fashion to the fact that he was visiting
Whitsea.
Guy was unaware of the dual observation, even as Jessel was
unaware that his late landlord was so near to him. His action was
merely prompted by an outbreak of anger at the despicable part he
was expected to play. He did not at first remember that he had not
told the Commandatore of his projected visit. His anger passed, for
he thought that the expectation was founded on a misapprehension.
But the reiteration of Hora's intention, his renewal of the belief that
he, Guy, would be as ready as heretofore to participate in the
carrying out of his plans warned Guy that he must no longer delay
coming to an explanation with the Commandatore. Hora had named
a date. That date would suit Guy as well as another. It would not be
fair to his father to delay any longer.
Guy was unusually silent that morning, and when Meriel joined
him she was surprised that he should be so preoccupied. She feared
to rally him on the subject, for she suspected a reason for his
preoccupation which she would not name to herself.
They went aboard the Witch about nine o'clock. There was a fair
wind from the north, the tide had just begun to ebb and there was
every promise of an ideal day. Gradually Guy's preoccupation melted
away. It was impossible to remain preoccupied on a brilliant summer
morning in Meriel's presence. By the time they had cast off their
moorings he was chattering away freely as ever. Hora was forgotten
for a while. He was remembered later.
"I must be going back to town on Tuesday," Guy said in reply to
a suggestion of some proposed trip for the ensuing week.
"Going back to town," remarked Meriel. There was more than
surprise, there was regret in her tone.
"I shall hate to do so," said Guy, "but I had a letter from my
father this morning and he particularly wishes to see me."
Guy's voice had unconsciously hardened as he spoke. His brow
was knitted and his lips were compressed. He looked up and he
caught sight of a something in her eyes which chased away the
frown.
"Of course, you must go then," said Meriel.
Guy responded to the regretful note in the girl's voice.
"You will be sorry to lose me?" he asked eagerly.
The ghost of a blush fluttered for a moment on her cheeks.
"We shall all be very sorry," she answered equivocally. Guy was
about to press the personal question home, but the sails shivered.
Meriel glanced upward. "Give me the tiller," she said. "You are
steering awfully badly this morning. Why, you've let the Witch run
right up into the wind."
Guy laughed as he vacated his post at the helm. For the
moment he was satisfied. He had seen an answer in Meriel's eyes to
his unspoken question which set his mind at rest. Before the day
was out that question should be answered, but the time was not yet.
The Witch flew along, bending over to the breeze. The river
widened and the banks fell away. The cutter begun to curtsey to the
waves, and now and again a spatter of spray was tossed high in the
air. Guy took the tiller again and Meriel unpacked the luncheon
basket. With appetites sharpened by the breeze they picnicked on
deck. They still pressed onward until the houses on the white cliff
before them begun to be plainly visible. Meriel looked at her watch.
"We are very near Clacton, and it is two o'clock," she remarked.
"Isn't it time we thought about returning?" she added regretfully.
The summer breeze began to show a disposition to change,
veering to the east. Guy put the helm down and went about. The
wind veered still more, though it still held. Guy gave the mainsail
more sheet, and the Witch ran merrily before the breeze over the
slackening tide. An hour passed and the wind became perceptibly
lighter. The afternoon sun shone down from a cloudless sky, while a
purple heat haze gathered on the horizon.
"Luckily we turned back when we did," said Meriel. "We shall
hardly get home on the tide even now. Hadn't we better set the
spinnaker?"
Guy acceded to the request. The breeze freshened again, and
for another hour the water rippled musically under their bows. Then
the breeze died away completely.
Guy shrugged his shoulders. "There's nothing for it but a policy
of masterly inaction," he said. "Don't you think it is time for a cup of
tea?"
He relinquished the tiller to his companion and dived below to
light the stove, and place the kettle upon it. By the time the kettle
boiled an absolute calm had fallen, the sea might have served as a
mirror, the sails hung straight and still, the heat had become almost
oppressive.
Neither Meriel nor Guy were troubled. They were together, and
although the boat seemed motionless they were drifting homewards.
Guy especially was in no anxiety to return. Tea drunk and the cups
washed and put away, Guy brought cushions from the cabin and
made a comfortable couch on deck for Meriel, while he sat by the
helm looking down upon her.
Their talk became personal. Meriel's confidences were those of
a pure-hearted girl, and Guy, listening, longed to repay confidence
with confidence. If he only dared! But his risks were too great. How
could this pure girl be brought to comprehend his point of view? Yet
he knew that some day he must make the effort. Perhaps if she
cared enough for him she might strive to understand. If she cared
enough! Yes, that was the whole question. Her views were so totally
opposed to those which he had imbibed from his earliest youth,
those which he knew now to be hopelessly wrong—not through any
intellectual conviction, but merely by his intuition of what would be
his companion's attitude towards them. He would make her
understand how he came to have held such views and where they
had led him. But not if she did not care. He could not win her under
false pretences. She must know all about him, exactly what he was,
the hidden life which none save Lynton Hora and Myra knew. Yet first
he must know if she did care for him, otherwise such confidence
would be treachery to Hora. His thoughts constrained him to silence.
When his replies became monosyllabic Meriel looking up saw that
his countenance had become overcast. She, too, became silent.
The boat drifted.
Meriel lay back on the cushions. Her eyes half-closed. She
wondered what thought could be troubling her companion. She
glanced up again and met his eyes.
"Something is troubling you," she demanded suddenly.
"Yes, something is troubling me," answered Guy moodily. With
an impulsive gesture the girl held out her hand. Guy grasped it. The
little sunbrowned hand was not withdrawn.
"Can I help?" she asked quietly.
"I cannot tell," he replied. "Until——" The moment had arrived
when he felt that he must give utterance to his thoughts or remain
forever silent. He braced himself to the effort. His voice was almost
harsh.
"Meriel," he said. She started at the sound of her name on his
lips. "Meriel——" He paused.
There was no coquetry in her nature. She understood the
unspoken thought as clearly as if it had been vocalised in a flood of
eloquence.
"Guy," she answered shyly.
The one musical syllable was sufficient. Their glances met.
Each read in the other's eyes the words they longed to hear. Lips
closed on lips.
The sun shone down fiercely. The boat drifted.
"Then you do care for me?" Guy asked presently.
"Do I care?" Meriel looked happily into his face. "If anyone were
to tell you that the sea had become dry you might sooner believe the
tale than that I should have ceased to care for you."
"That is love," said Guy. "I know, for my love for you is also
greater than the ocean."
She was seated beside him. One hand was on the tiller, the
other encircled her waist and she leaned her head on his shoulder
with a sigh of content. The westering sun was dropping to the
horizon, and on the path of gold it painted on the waters the boat still
drifted. Was this to be the omen of their future lot? In his rapture Guy
thrust away all disturbing memories. He loved and he was beloved.
Nothing could alter that one fact. The whole world was transformed
for him. The sun dropped lower still. A rosy flush crept into the sky.
The sea, unflecked by a single ripple, glowed with opal fires. Nothing
broke the stillness. Meriel, too, lived her brief hour in love's fairyland.
The boat still drifted. The mouth of the Whitsea River was
narrowing in upon them. The sea wall stood up blackly against the
pellucid sky. The sun went down behind the purple bank of mist. The
colours faded. The sweet grey calm of summer twilight spread its
mantle over the water. From somewhere on the shore a sandpiper
called to his mate.
Meriel awoke to reality with a start.
"We shall never make our moorings to-night, Guy," she cried. "It
must be eight o'clock, and we are quite four miles from home."
"I should be quite content, dear," he answered, "to drift along
forever."
"You would tell another tale when you came to examine our
store of provisions," she answered merrily.
Guy looked at his watch. "The tide will run for another half hour,"
he said. "No, unless a breeze should spring up the Witch will never
make Whitsea to-night."
"We shall have to leave her," answered Meriel promptly.
"Why not wait for the next tide?" urged Guy.
"No, Auntie will be so anxious," the girl replied. "If we drop
anchor here and stow away comfortably we can easily row home in
the dingey."
Guy stood up and glanced around the horizon. The air was
perfectly still. There was not a movement in the sails.
"We'll let her drift so long as the tide makes, and meanwhile I'll
make things snug," said Guy. The blocks creaked musically as he
gathered in foresail and jib. The topsail fluttered to the deck. It was
warmer work getting in the mainsail and darkness was gathering
rapidly. But the canvas was stowed away at last, the halliards made
fast, every rope coiled away in its place.
"The tide is on the turn," said Meriel. "If we can edge in a little
nearer the south shore the Witch will lie as safely as she would on
her moorings."
Guy hauled up the chain and cast the anchor loose. "When you
are ready, dear," he said.
"You may let go," she cried a minute later. The anchor dropped
with a heavy splash and the rattle of the chain as Guy paid it out
seemed almost a desecration of the silence. When the anchor held,
Guy once more went below to trim and light the riding lamp. By the
time his job was finished and the lamp was swung, the sky had
gained a deeper tint of blue and the stars had begun to sparkle. He
drew the dingey alongside and held out his hand to Meriel.
"You must let me take one oar," she said as she stepped into the
boat. "It will be a stiff pull against the tide."
"When I am tired I'll tell you," he answered. He looked regretfully
at the cutter as he dipped his oars.
"It seems ungracious to leave her," he said, "since the happiest
moments of my life have been passed aboard her."
"Good old Witch," replied Meriel softly.
Night's mantle of darkness and silence enwrapped them. The
stars studded the moonless sky, the plunk of the oars in the rowlocks
and the drip of the water from the blades alone disturbed the perfect
stillness. The boat drove onwards, leaving a trail of light in its wake.
The darkness had made yet another of nature's marvels manifest.
The water was full of phosphorescent light. Guy rested on his oars.
Meriel lifted a handful of water and poured it back into the sea. It was
as if she had poured out a handful of gems. She threw a handful of
the diamonds in the air, and every gem as it fell again into the water
struck gleams of light from the surface. They leaned over the side of
the boat, and here and there in the blackness the lights sparkled for
a moment and were hidden again.
"The water is full of star-dust," said Meriel. "See!" she added
eagerly. Guy followed the direction of her outstretched finger.
A phantom form lighting its way beneath the surface sailed by, a
myriad of the sparkling points accompanying it.
"Even the sea has its spirits," she remarked.
"On a night like this it is possible to idealise even a jelly fish," he
answered whimsically.
He took again to the oars. Few words were spoken between
them.
They came at last to their landing place. Guy made the boat fast
and joined Meriel on the bank. He clasped her lightly in his arms.
"Tell me you love me, Meriel," he demanded almost fiercely.
Her assurance was whispered only, but Guy recognised an
intensity as great as his own. He held her closely to him.
"I have something to—say," he told her. "I cannot ask you to
marry me,"—the words were wrung from him—"until I have told you
something about myself which you do not suspect."
She did not move in his embrace. He could see her eyes shining
in the darkness.
"Nothing you could tell me would make any difference, Guy,"
she answered.
A sharp pain stabbed his heart. "I am not worthy, Meriel," he
said. "And I fear that to-morrow you will tell me so."
"As if it were possible," she answered.
"I have been very happy to-day," he continued. "Such happiness
cannot last. When you know what I am in reality you will be glad to
forget me."
This was more than the detraction of the ardent lover. Meriel
realised that there was the note of real suffering in his voice. She
waited almost with dread for him to continue. And Guy was upon the
point of pouring out his whole story. But the chance passed. A voice
hailed them from the lawn of the Hall.
"Is that you, Meriel?"
"Auntie is watching for our return," she said shyly. "Come."
Guy followed her along the path to the house.
"To-morrow," he said and she understood.
CHAPTER XVIII
CORNELIUS JESSEL DREAMS OF A FORTUNE
The morning was heavy with an almost unnatural calm. By nine

o'clock the sun's rays glowed with the intensity of noon. The flowers
drooped their heads and the leaves hung listlessly. Cornelius Jessel,
passing out of the back way from the Hall, on his way to the
postoffice, had not covered a dozen yards before he paused to mop
his brow with his handkerchief. He bore with him the letter in which
Guy announced to Hora his intention of returning to town. It was the
briefest of notes, disclosing nothing of the intention of the writer. But
it was not the only letter which Jessel carried. In the other envelope
was the report which the shadow man had penned to the Master.
The envelope was stamped and sealed, but Cornelius took it from
his pocket and looked at it and frowned. He replaced it in his pocket
and proceeded on his way. He did not know whether to post it or not.
For the first time since he had undertaken the part of spy upon Guy's
actions he had wilfully suppressed an item of information which had
come into his possession concerning Guy. It was such an important
item of information, too. So important that he had gasped for breath
when he realised what the discovery he had made really meant.
On the previous afternoon and evening he had taken advantage
of Guy's absence to make a careful examination of his master's
property. He had frequently done so before, but without discovering
anything of any interest. But on this occasion he was more fortunate.
He had long been curious concerning the contents of a little silver-
bound box which reposed in a corner of Guy's dressing case. He
had oftentimes made discreet attempts to pick the lock but without
success, and he dared not venture on forcing it lest by damaging the
box he should excite suspicion. He guessed that sooner or later he
would get the opportunity he desired for examining the contents of
the little casket, and the occasion had arrived at last. Guy had left his
keys on the dressing table and one of the bunch fitted the lock.
When the lid was opened, Cornelius, at first sight of its contents,
gave a sniff indicative of disgust. He saw a little lace handkerchief, a
glove, an opera programme, a few withered rose leaves, and an
infinite contempt for the young man he served swept over him. There
was no trace of sentiment hidden away in the heart of Cornelius. But
when he tossed the trumpery aside he drew a long breath of
surprise. Beneath the valueless trifles was concealed an article of
price—a little golden frame enclosing an exquisite miniature on ivory
of a girl with a wealth of fair hair, the painting surrounded with a
circlet of brilliants. At first he did not grasp the significance of the
discovery. The likeness of the miniature to Meriel Challys seemed to
him a full explanation as to why it should be in his employer's
possession. But as he turned the frame over in his hand, counting
the stones in the setting, weighing the trinket delicately on two
fingers to estimate the weight of the gold, he remembered that
somewhere he had seen a description of some such article. Where?
He had not to rack his brain very long before he was able to recall
where he had seen the miniature described. Like many another
person who longs for the prize without incurring the attendant risks,
Cornelius had assimilated every detail which had been made public
concerning the Flurscheim robbery. His mouth had watered at the
published descriptions of the stolen articles and now here—if he was
not greatly mistaken—was one of them in his own hand.
At the heels of this thought came another which almost made
his heart cease beating. Five thousand pounds reward! Five
thousand pounds had been offered for such information as would
lead to the conviction of the thief and to the recovery of the stolen
property. Five—thousand—pounds! Five thousand pounds was lying
waiting for him, Cornelius Jessel. Yet, dazzled as he was by the
prospect of the acquisition of such wealth, he hesitated a long while
before he could persuade himself to make use of the information
which had come into his possession. It was the thought of the Master
which gave him pause. In view of the discovery which he had made
he began to be timorous. He could no longer believe that the
Master's interest in Guy Hora was the interest of the hawk in the
pigeon. Dimly he began to comprehend that unknowingly he was
being used as pawn in a game which he did not comprehend.
Supposing then that any effort of his own to secure that five
thousand pounds should run counter to any plan of the Master's? He
shivered at the thought, for he had a very real fear of the Master's
capacity for mischief. He had locked the miniature and the glove and
the rose leaves away again and set his wits to work to discover a
plan by which he might obtain the five thousand pounds without the
fact that he was the informer being disclosed to anybody. The more
he pondered upon the subject the more convinced he became that
fortune was within his grasp. He could not have made the discovery
at a more opportune moment. He was in the country surrounded by
a lot of simple country folk, and within reach was the victim of the
burglary, who had offered the reward. What better plan could be
conceived than that of taking his information straight to the fountain
head? He would then be able to make his own terms. But he saw
that it would be necessary to have some proof of the correctness of
his statements. He paid another visit to Guy's dressing case after
providing himself with a pencil and oiled paper. With these he made
a series of tracings of the miniature, and, clumsy as they were, yet
he trusted that they might be clear enough for identification. Thus
provided, he determined to take the first opportunity afforded him of
communicating with Mr. Hildebrand Flurscheim.
The determination carried with it as a necessary corollary the
decision to keep his discovery concealed from everybody,
particularly from the Master. He would have felt quite easy in his
mind if he could have assured himself that the Master was not
already acquainted with the fact that Guy possessed the miniature.
On the other hand, Cornelius argued that it was quite possible that
the man who was paying him to keep a watch upon Guy might be
actuated by dread of a confederate playing him false. That was a
strong reason why he should not postpone communicating with
Flurscheim. The reward would go to the first in the field with the
information. Then if the Master were implicated, and if he should be
captured, Cornelius saw safety for himself. Therefore when he wrote
his daily report to the Master of Guy's movements he entirely omitted
to mention the momentous discovery he had made, and yet so
terrified was he that he should bring his employer's vengeance upon
himself by his failure to report it, that a dozen times on the way to the
postoffice he drew the letter from his pocket and looked at it and
considered whether he should not reopen the envelope and add the
information which he had suppressed.
Even when he had dropped the letter into the box he nearly
entered the postoffice to ask for it back again, and only prevented
himself from doing so by declaring to himself that it would be easy to
give the information thereafter if circumstances pointed to the
desirability of his doing so. But once the letter was posted Cornelius
became bolder. The posting of the letter was in the nature of a
definite act committing him to a definite policy. It was no use looking
back, especially with the prospect of five thousand pounds to be
earned by merely speaking a few words. He forgot the heat. He
walked briskly away from the postoffice towards the little
embankment which Whitsea village proudly designated "The Front."
It seemed hotter than ever there. The tide was low and the air
shimmered in the heat reflected from the silvery banks of mud. He
placed his hand on the stone parapet of the low wall and drew it
back hastily. The stone was nearly hot enough to have blistered his
hand. He looked out on the river. Almost opposite him was Mr.
Hildebrand Flurscheim's yacht, and if Cornelius's eyes were to be
trusted Mr. Hildebrand Flurscheim himself was reclining beneath an
awning on the deck. The opportunity was too good to be missed.
Cornelius looked around for a boatman to put him aboard. There
was none visible, and he could not muster up courage to hail the
yacht. The Whitsea hotel showed an inviting open door just handy.
Cornelius felt suddenly thirsty. He accepted the invitation of the open
door, and while he quenched his thirst with a bottle of iced ginger
beer with something in it, he made known his desire to be put aboard
Mr. Flurscheim's yacht to the barmaid.
Before the words were well out of his mouth a man who had
followed Cornelius into the hotel remarked, "I'll put you aboard the
boat with pleasure, Mr. Jessel."
Jessel's first impulse was to fly. To be suddenly accosted by
name when so far as he knew there was no one in Whitsea except
the servants at the Hall who could be aware of his identity, was
disconcerting to say the least. He stifled the impulse as best he
could, and, turning on his heel, faced the speaker. He saw a
pleasant, open-faced man of fifty or thereabouts holding out his
hand.
"Didn't expect to see me here, eh, any more than I expected to
have the pleasure of meeting you? But the world's a little place, and
this sort of weather, if one is likely to knock up against old
acquaintances, there's no spot more likely than where you find a
pretty girl mixing long drinks with a lot of ice in 'em. That's right, isn't
it, miss?"
The barmaid giggled.
"A slice of lemon, a bottle of Schweppe, a lump of ice, and a
suspicion of white satin, if you please," he said before turning again
to Jessel and continuing volubly. "You don't recognise me, eh? Well,
I'm not surprised, for now I come to think of it we haven't exchanged
more than a dozen words in our lives. My name's Kenly."
"Oh!" Cornelius remembered and immediately felt easy in his
mind. He had no reason for dreading his late landlord. He took the
proffered hand.
"This is a surprise," he said. "Who would ever have expected to
meet you here?"
"The same to you," said Kenly. He pointed to Jessel's glass.
"Drink up and have another and tell how you are getting on," he said.
"The missis will be pleased to hear, for she's always telling me that
she's never likely to have such a nice gent in the house to do for,
and she's always cracking on about your being obliged to leave, and
how certain she is never to get another like you."
Cornelius smiled and emptied his glass. "Well, as you insist
——" he said.
"Another of the same," said Kenly affably.
"And what brings you down here?" asked Cornelius.
"Taking my holiday," remarked Kenly expansively. "This is just
the sort of a place that suits me. No sand, no niggers. Plenty of fresh
air and sunshine, a boat to potter about in, and some of the real sort
to drink when you're thirsty, that's the place that suits me down to the
ground, so I'm here. I suppose you're down for a change, too?"
"Not exactly," replied Cornelius. "I have to combine business
and pleasure, too." He took a long draught of the fresh brew which
the barmaid handed to him, and, assuming his most important air, he
changed the topic.
"I suppose Mrs. Kenly is with you?"
"Not much," answered the detective with a broad wink. "I know a
bit too much to bring the missis on a holiday, and, if you are married,
you'd understand."
Cornelius laughed and glanced at the barmaid. "You can't tell
me anything," he said.
"No," answered Kenly. "Half the bachelors to-day know more
than the married people, and that's a fact, ain't it, miss?"
The barmaid giggled again. "You're a caution," she said. The
conversation progressed swimmingly, and ten minutes later
Cornelius embarked on a dingey, having graciously allowed Kenly to
put him aboard Mr. Flurscheim's yacht. He lounged in the stern,
assuming his most important air, while Kenly pulled away at the oars.
He was fully alive to the fact that he would create a much better
impression going aboard thus than if he had been compelled to
borrow a boat and pull himself out to the yacht.
Kenly ran him up alongside, steadied the boat by the side of the
ladder, and then let his dingey drop astern to a sufficient distance to
allow him to observe Cornelius introduce himself to Flurscheim. He
saw that the two men were strangers, and he gathered that the
connoisseur was annoyed at Jessel's invasion of his privacy. He saw
the connoisseur jump up suddenly at something which was said and
begin to pace the deck in manifest agitation. He saw Jessel standing
unmoved, and then after a brief conference both men went down the
companion into the saloon.
The detective immediately realised that there was a chance of
his learning what errand had taken Jessel to the yacht. Half a dozen
strokes took him alongside again, and, making his painter fast to the
yacht's anchor chain, he stood up in the dingey as it drifted level with
an open port. As he had suspected the porthole gave upon the
saloon, and as the dingey came opposite he could hear two voices in
excited colloquy. One was easily recognised as Jessel's, and the
other Kenly had just as little difficulty in recognising as Flurscheim's.
"Is that anything like the face on one of your miniatures?" said
Jessel.
"I could swear to it," said Flurscheim.
"And the portrait—is it like anyone you know?" asked the valet.
"You've seen it," cried the Jew eagerly. "You must have done, for
the miniature is so like Miss Challys that she might have sat for the
portrait."
"I have seen it and I can tell you where it is at the present
moment," answered the valet.
"Where? Where?" cried the Jew eagerly.
"You don't expect me to tell you straight away, do you?" asked
Jessel in an injured tone.
The Jew took no notice. "And the other boxes and the pictures
—can you tell me where my Greuze is?"
"No, I can't, at least not at present," said the valet coolly, "but I
reckon that if once I put you on the track of one of the things that has
been stolen it won't be my fault if you don't find out where the rest of
'em are."
"Well, well," said Flurscheim, impatiently, "tell me where the
miniature is?"
There was silence and the detective listened impatiently.
"Have you lost your tongue?" demanded Flurscheim angrily.
"What about the reward you offered?" said Jessel. "Five
thousand pounds, wasn't it, for such information as shall lead to the
conviction of the thieves or the recovery of the stolen property?"
"You shall have the reward, all right," said Flurscheim
impatiently.
"I'm not misdoubting your word," said Jessel, "but in cases like
this it's better to 'ave everything in black and white. 'Ave it in black
and white, that's my motto."
Kenly heard the connoisseur give a grunt of disgust, and he
smiled. He could even hear the scratching of a pen on paper. Then
Flurscheim's voice remarked sharply:
"Mind, I'll give nothing to any confederate in the robbery. If you
have had anything to do with it and will make a clean breast of the
matter, I'll do my best for you, but I'm not going to be blackmailed by
any d——d thief."
The detective smiled again at the injured tone of Jessel's reply.
"I'm a respectable man, Mr. Flurscheim, though I am a poor one, an'
the hinformation 'as come to me quite unexpected like. If I was rich
I'd be 'appy to tell you all I know for the cause of justice, but being
only poor, I've my old age to think of."
"Well, I only warned you, that's all," grumbled Flurscheim.
"Which there was no need," answered Cornelius with dignity.
"And there's another matter," he added, and now the detective could
detect a note of anxiety in his voice. "There's them as is connected
with this job that won't stick at nothing to get even with them as gives
'em away, if they has so much as a hint as to who done it. You'll have
to give me your word of honour as a gentleman as you'll not so much
as mention my name, or my life'll not be worth two pennorth of gin."
This time Flurscheim was silent a while before he replied.
"If I don't know your name it is not possible for me to mention it."
"You can easy find out," answered Jessel, "when I tell you what I
have to tell you."
"I promise," replied Flurscheim shortly.
Jessel dropped his voice, but, low as it was, the detective's keen
ears overheard every word of the information which was imparted.
He was thunderstruck at the intelligence that a part of the stolen
property was in the possession of Guy Hora. He could not conceive
the motive which had prompted Jessel to disclose the fact, even if it
were true. He wanted time to arrange his ideas on the subject. But
he listened eagerly to every word that passed. He missed not a word
of the long conversation that ensued when Jessel had imparted the
information he possessed. He drank in all Flurscheim's questions
and all the valet's answers, and was so anxious to lose nothing of
what passed that he had barely time to cast the boat loose and drift
astern when he heard them rise to leave the saloon. Still he
presented a picture of perspiring innocence when he pulled up
alongside to take his late lodger back to the quay.
Cornelius was obviously elated. "Sorry to 'ave kept you so long,
Kenly," he remarked. "But I 'ad to wait for an answer to something.
We must have another drink."
They had it and the detective learned that Cornelius was
expecting to return to town the following day.
CHAPTER XIX
INSPECTOR KENLY REPORTS
Although Cornelius had been entirely unaware of the fact, his

late landlord had arrived at Whitsea by the same train as himself,
and had been keeping a sharp eye on him, and if it were possible, a
still sharper eye on Guy Hora. But Kenly's observation had been
unproductive until the time when he obeyed the impulse to make
himself known to Jessel. He had been impelled to do so by sheer
desperation at having passed, from a professional point of view, one
of the most unprofitable fortnights of his life. He had not anticipated
any remarkable revelations when he had followed Cornelius into the
hotel bar, and when he finally bade his old tenant good-bye, he had
no need to force a spice of heartiness into the greeting.
Directly after Jessel left him he felt the necessity for rearranging
all his theories, but at the same time he was equally alive to the
desirability of getting to work upon the new clue which was in his
possession. There was now nothing to keep him in Whitsea. He had
learned of Guy's intention to return to London the following day, and
he determined to be in town before him. There would be plenty of
time to decide upon the best course to pursue during the journey.
He went into the hotel, packed his bag, and paid his bill in a
desperate hurry, for the hotel omnibus was at the door.
He caught his train and was thankful to find so few people
travelling that he could get a compartment to himself. He could
marshal his ideas better in solitude. Still, arrange them and
rearrange them as he might, he could get no nearer a reasonable
explanation of the relationship of the various parties who had
become objects of his suspicion. The only theory which seemed at
all tenable was that the Horas, father and son, Cornelius Jessel and
Captain Marven were all members of a gang of criminals who
operated in perfect safety by reason of the social position of the
principals. But in such case Kenly could not understand the motive of
the elaborate plot by means of which Cornelius had secured for
himself his place in Guy's service. Nor could he comprehend why
Captain Marven's name should have been used in regard to the
stock exchange operations which had followed upon the acquisition
of the knowledge contained in the despatches. To Kenly, that
seemed such a gratuitous piece of folly, as to be entirely unworthy of
the audacious person who had planned and carried out the
Flurscheim coup.
Like a wise man, he ceased after a while to trouble himself with
inventing explanations to fit theories. He knew very well that once all
the facts were in his hands an explanation would be easy to find, and
he was anxious to get some additional facts. Was not that the motive
which had made him decide to leave Whitsea in such a hurry? He
knew very well that Guy was not carrying the stolen picture about
with him, and he had learned quite enough about Whitsea Hall to be
quite assured in his own mind that the picture was not likely to be
reposing there. He had, however, become sufficiently acquainted
with Lynton Hora's mode of life from his friend the hall porter of
Westminster Mansions, to warrant the assumption that the Greuze
was hidden somewhere in Lynton Hora's flat. If he could only get an
opportunity to verify his suspicion before any of the persons he
suspected were alarmed, he saw an opportunity of bringing off a
coup which would provide a startling denouement to the sensational
Flurscheim burglary. The thought ran away with him to such an
extent that he allowed himself to taste the sweets of success. He
imagined himself reading the references in the newspapers to "the
smart work of that able officer, Detective Inspector Kenly." He
imagined himself listening to the commendations of the Judge when
the prisoners at the bar had been sentenced to various terms of
penal servitude, and—— He awoke to the bustle of Liverpool Street
railway station, limp with perspiration, still undecided as to the best
manner of setting about getting the evidence he needed, and
perforce compelled to leave circumstances to guide his course of
action.
He permitted himself the luxury of a cab to Scotland Yard, where
he proposed to deposit his bag and report himself. He had another
reason for calling at headquarters. He foresaw that very shortly the
moment might arrive when he would not be able to deal with the
situation single-handed. If all the parties whom he expected to be
implicated in the two affairs were to be kept under surveillance, he
would need assistance, and he was not quite certain whether that
moment had not already arrived when some such steps were
necessary. Then Mr. Hildebrand Flurscheim might at any moment
communicate with the Yard, and Inspector Kenly did not want
anyone else to be put on the job without his knowledge. He knew
that as he had previously had the investigation in hand, if he
reported himself back in town he would be communicated with in the
event of any fresh information coming to hand, even though he was
detailed for special service on the Foreign Office affair, and thereby
relieved of the obligation to render daily reports of his work to his
own department.
He was glad that he had determined to report himself, for he
found awaiting him a pressing message from the Permanent
Secretary, asking him to call at the Foreign Office, as the Great Man
was anxious to know the result of his investigations.
Inspector Kenly looked at his watch. The afternoon was young.
The Permanent Secretary could be kept waiting for an hour or two
longer. The detective, leaving his bag behind him, strolled out into
the sun-scorched streets. He had even forgotten that he had eaten
no lunch, so eager was he on his quest. He walked briskly towards
Westminster Mansions, and could have shouted with delight when
he observed his old comrade standing at the open door. "Hello,
looking for a breeze," he remarked.
The porter chuckled.
"If you've been locking any up lately, the sooner you let 'em
loose again the better I shall be pleased," he remarked.
"It looks cooler inside than out here," said Kenly, with meaning.
The porter winked and led the way inside. Two lift attendants
were seated languidly interesting themselves in the cricket
intelligence of the latest evening papers.
Kenly glanced at them while he asked in a low tone: "Is there
any chance of a private chat?"
His old comrade nodded, and after talking for a few moments on
the burning topic of the weather, managed to send both the youths
on an errand. Kenly grunted his relief. Directly he was alone with the
porter he went straight to the point.
"I want to go over Mr. Lynton Hora's flat," he announced
abruptly.
The porter gazed at him in silent astonishment.
"Yes, I mean exactly what I say," he continued, "and the sooner I
can do so the better I shall be pleased. I suppose some of your
people have a key?"
The hall porter regained his power of speech. "It can't possibly
be managed, Kenly," he spluttered. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for
you in reason, but——"
Kenly cut him short. "It's got to be done," he remarked
decisively. "I've come to you, because I know I can trust you to say
nothing, and the fewer people who know what I am doing the better I
shall be pleased."
"It can't be done," remarked the hall porter. "It would be as much
as my place is worth."
"Pooh!" said the detective. "It is easy enough to make some
excuse. You can say I'm the electric light man or that I have orders to
clean out the cisterns."
"There ain't no cisterns that want cleaning," objected the hall
porter. "Now if you had come and asked me two days ago there
wouldn't have been any difficulty, but to-day——"
"Why is it impossible to-day?" demanded the detective.
"Well, Mr. Hora and Miss Myra have been away at Scarborough
for the past fortnight, and I could have let you in to their place, but
I'm expecting them to return at any minute now."
"Then we mustn't lose any time talking about it," said Kenly
briskly. "I suppose you have some means of communicating with the
flat from here."
"There's the telephone," said the porter.
"Take me straight up," said Kenly, "and if Mr. Hora should arrive
before I come down again just give two rings at the telephone bell. I
shall have plenty of time to let myself out before Mr. Hora returns."
He caught hold of the porter's arm and hurried him away in the
direction of the lift. Protesting all the while that it would be impossible
and entreating Kenly to postpone his visit to a more convenient
occasion, he yet allowed himself to be carried away by the
detective's impetuosity. He protested while the lift went steadily
upward, he protested even while he inserted a key in the lock, and
Kenly left him outside the door still protesting.
Fortune seemed to be favouring the detective. From previous
conversations he had gained a fairly accurate knowledge of the
geography of the interior of Hora's residence, and he wasted no time
in searching the residential portion of the flat. He went directly to the
door where Hora kept his pictures and his books. But here he
experienced a rebuff. The door was locked, and the lock was a
patent one. Kenly had with him a bunch of skeleton keys, but a very
slight trial proved that the lock was unpickable.
He began to cast around for some other means of gaining
access, but he saw none within the flat. He passed through all the
rooms, glancing round each. He was impressed by the luxury of the
furnishing, but there was nothing which could cause anyone to
suspect the occupant of anything but highly refined tastes. Kenly had
just completed his hasty survey when the telephone bell rang twice.
"D——n!" said the Inspector. He opened the outer door and
walked out into the passage outside. He knew that he must not be
seen, and he hastily descended the flight of stairs to the floor below,
and as he did so the lift passed him ascending upwards. He caught a
glimpse of Hora's face.
Kenly waited until the lift descended. The hall porter himself was
in charge. He stopped the lift. Kenly entered in silence.
"Find what you wanted?" asked the porter curiously.
"No time," grunted the detective. "I must have a look round
another time. If I had only known yesterday what I learned to-day
——" He groaned at the thought of what might be hidden beyond
that locked door. Still he was not disheartened. He had noted the
number of the lock and the name of the maker, and he knew that the
next time he called the locked door would prove no barrier to his
investigations. Still, days might pass before the opportunity he
desired would recur, and it was annoying to feel that opportunity had
been lost by so narrow a margin. He bade his friend good-bye and
went away at once to the Foreign Office.
The sky had become overcast and the atmosphere was hotter
than ever. Visions of a long drink, with cool translucent lumps of ice
tinkling against the steamy glass, sorely tempted the detective, but
he banished them, and, perspiring himself, he was at last ushered by
a perspiring attendant into the presence of a perspiring Permanent
Secretary who had wheeled his chair on to a line between the open
door and the open window, and sat there in his shirt sleeves in the
pathetic belief that a draught of cool air might be tempted to pass
that way.
"What is it? What is it?" he snapped at the attendant who
entered to announce Inspector Kenly. Then looking up he recognised
his visitor standing at the open door.
"Oh, it's you, Kenly. Come in." The attendant withdrew. "And,
yes, you had better shut the door." He sighed as if he had thereby
ordered the door to be shut on his own salvation.
"Sit down, Inspector, and tell me what you have found out," he
added.
He looked round for his cigar case, and not finding it
immediately made confusion of the pile of papers which covered his
table.
"I think, Sir Everard, you will find your cigar case in your coat
pocket," observed the detective blandly.
The Permanent Secretary smiled as he thrust his hand into the
breast pocket of his discarded coat.
"The heat always makes me irritable," he apologised. "No man
ought to work when the thermometer reaches the eighties." He
selected a cigar. "By the way," he remarked, "by what process of
reasoning did you arrive at the deduction that my cigar case was in
my pocket?"
"I saw the corner of it sticking out," remarked the detective
equably.
"H—m," said the Permanent Secretary, laughing, "the proper
use of the eyes may on occasion be more valuable than any amount
of deduction."
He lit his cigar and stretched himself lazily in his chair.
"Now fire away, Kenly. I can see that you have something to tell
me about those stolen despatches."
Without unnecessary beating about the bush Kenly began the
result of his investigations. The narration did not take long, for,
though he had already spent a month on the investigation, the facts
he had discovered could be described in a very few words. But few
as those facts were they were sufficiently startling to make the
Permanent Secretary forget the heat.
"By Jove!" he remarked, when Kenly had finished. "And I would
have pledged my life on Captain Marven's absolute honour. Yet, from
what you have told me, he appears to be hand-in-glove with a gang
of thieves, one of them living in his own house and likely at any
moment to become engaged to his daughter."
"Certainly appearances are very much against him," remarked
Kenly cautiously, "but I never trust to appearances myself. I have
seen too many cases, where perfectly innocent persons have been
on the most intimate terms with scoundrels, to allow that one fact to
weigh with me. If it was only a question of the burglary, I should
expect Captain Marven to be the next victim of the gang, and it is
only the fact that it seems impossible for the contents of the
despatches to have become known to the Horas without Marven's
assistance which leads me to suspect him with the rest of the
crowd."
The Permanent Secretary puffed meditatively at his cigar.
"Things look very black against Marven," he said. "Very black
indeed," he repeated, after a lengthy pause; then he asked, "Who
are these Horas?" Kenly shook his head.
"I should like to know their history myself," he answered. "All I
have heard hitherto is that the elder man has occupied a first-class
flat in Westminster for the past ten years at a rent of three hundred
and fifty pounds a year, and passes as a very retired gentleman
indeed. He spends only about six months of the year in London, and
they say he has estates in Italy. That may or may not be the case,
but, anyhow, he calls himself the Commandatore, which I'm told is
an Italian title given him by the King of Italy for something or other
he's done over there. The young one was at Oxbridge and made
quite a name amongst his set, and lived at home till a few weeks
ago, when he took some chambers in the Albany. Then there's a girl
named Myra, who passes as the old man's daughter, though there's
reason to think that she's only an adopted child."
"What are you proposing to do?" asked the Permanent
Secretary, after another pause.
Inspector Kenly coughed. "That depends——" he remarked, and
paused. "That depends on circumstances. You see, Sir Everard, my
hand may be forced before I shall have obtained all the evidence I
want. That communication which has been made to Mr. Flurscheim
may lead at any moment to the younger Hora's arrest, and then
good-bye to the hope of obtaining any more evidence. What I was
going to suggest was that you should allow me to continue to
investigate your affair. It will leave me more free to look after things
than if I have to turn in a report to headquarters. I'm so afraid," he
added in a burst of confidence, "that they might put some man on to

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Embodying Adaptation: Character and

the Body Christina Wilkins

The Body Productive Rethinking Capitalism, Work and the

The Chinese Economy: Adaptation and Growth (The MIT

Modern Character: 1888-1905 Murphet

Business Communication and Character 11th Edition Amy

Mesh Adaptation for Computational Fluid Dynamics 1:

The Acts of Early Church Councils Acts: Production and

Embodying Difference: Critical Phenomenology and

Sanders' Structural Fetal Abnormalities 3rd Edition

ISSN 2634-629X ISSN 2634-6303 (electronic)

Cover illustration: Tommaso Tuzj

2 The Acting Body 13

6 Shaping the Psyche141

Christina Wilkins has written on adaptations, identity, nostalgia, and

Fig. 3.1 Star-actor-performance relationship 65

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 1

mediation could manifest as ‘feelings about’ the circumstances in which

understandings of it here. She argues: ‘[P]erformance in a strict ontologi-

[A]sk whether the art of acting changed in response to the evolution of a

This returns us to a point made earlier about CGI—despite fears of the

reminiscence of character that could feasibly shape their subsequent

rather than the understanding of character. The text operating as adapta-

The character of the psychopath also draws in Pomerance’s notion of per-

The Acting Body

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 13

how we perceive a body onscreen; indeed, our understanding of particular

or metaphorical projections’ (184). Here, he sees the body as simply

of medium specificity and the changes in the process of adaptation. Here,

Typecasting and Adaptation

system works. The broader history of typecasting is explored by Wojcik,

Conversely, actors who continue throughout their career playing a par-

in Hollywood film, we can guess their disposition and begin to piece

This element of typecasting reinforces which bodies are able to repre-

Typecasting does not happen in a vacuum. Various external forces shape

defined by particular codes. The body becomes something to interpret, at

maybe even graspable. In the transmissions among characters, actors and

There is a disconnect here from more method approaches to acting

Gestures are a type of inscription, a parsing of the body into signifying or

Again, we see this divide in understanding of the body: the element of

compare to the way in which it is positioned in literature? If we begin to

understanding that the body we see onscreen in front of us is to be taken

Chap. 5, in considering particular identities and the representation of

adapts to, or is adapted by, a character (a hierarchy we will consider in

When these imagined bodies are pointed to as the ‘original’, there is a

Whitsea lies on the estuary of one of those Essex rivers which

The morning was heavy with an almost unnatural calm. By nine

Although Cornelius had been entirely unaware of the fact, his

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2 The Acting Body 13

6 Shaping the Psyche141

Fig. 3.1 Star-actor-performance relationship 65