Seeing Lord of the Flies on film, I am struck by how unfaithful these screen counterparts are compared to the imaginary characters built up in my head from reading Golding's novel. They are tiny little things, barely even pubescent, and thoughts of savagery and bloodlust seem so far away. The novel's message is even more piercing when considered in this way; how easy it is to forget that these are the same little boys that descend into animalistic urge and desire later. Golding's words might have lulled some into complacency over the course of the chapters, but here there is a constant reminder through their pudgy limbs and wide eyes (and, to some extent, their English accents, which they recognise themselves as being the hallmark of civility and order).
This low-budget feature version was shot by Peter Brook entirely on location, utilising all the harsh wilderness of the beach territories of Puerto Rico. The cast were all amateur actors, boys freed from authority and let loose to play on a deserted island. The style, a jagged combination of harsh natural lighting, sudden cuts and black and white images, saps the beauty from what should look like a holiday destination. The most frightening scene of the movie signifies the complete and utter abandonment of reason for savagery - when the boys gut Simon by the fireplace during nighttime. The cinematography continually throws the shots in and out of focus, one moment the white flames in sharp contrast, the next dancing chaotically in the background. And the hand-held camera bobs in motion as if it was one of the frenzied boys itself, chanting and getting right up into the painted faces of these savages. There are no light sources other than the fire and the bright spots of their torches, and in the darkness they become a trembling, murderous mass, more inhuman than human.
Brook's rudimentary approach comes alive in some instances, and yet in others grounds the story. Most of Golding's figurative language is marred here; the painting of the island as firstly a wondrous paradise and then a nightmarish backdrop for ghouls and beasts, the forest as a teeming, dense thicket hiding the horrors of their imagination, even the palpable heat and scent of the island that the boys begin to be imbued with. The images wield darkness and shadow well, but the tribe become decidedly less menacing when they have to chant in open daylight.
Golding's central allegory, of the beast and innate evil inside us all, also somewhat fades. Yes, there are grisly closeups of the rotting pig's head anointed with flies, but Brook ditches Simon's stumbling into surreal realisation, the horror of discovering something more terrible than any corporeal beast could ever be (unusual considering Brook's prior work in experimental theatre and Dali). The overall result is something like a strained documentary, trading periodical rawness and cynicism with stilted action, delivery and accents. It doesn't grip you like it should because there is still an undercurrent of rehearsal and civility under it, like a performance of a primary school play. Now, the 8mm murder mystery film that the boys shot themselves as they were acting out actual savagery? That I would like to see, because it would come from their own unplanned urges. And I wonder, of course, what quarrels might have occurred on that set, and who wrested directorial control from whom.
This low-budget feature version was shot by Peter Brook entirely on location, utilising all the harsh wilderness of the beach territories of Puerto Rico. The cast were all amateur actors, boys freed from authority and let loose to play on a deserted island. The style, a jagged combination of harsh natural lighting, sudden cuts and black and white images, saps the beauty from what should look like a holiday destination. The most frightening scene of the movie signifies the complete and utter abandonment of reason for savagery - when the boys gut Simon by the fireplace during nighttime. The cinematography continually throws the shots in and out of focus, one moment the white flames in sharp contrast, the next dancing chaotically in the background. And the hand-held camera bobs in motion as if it was one of the frenzied boys itself, chanting and getting right up into the painted faces of these savages. There are no light sources other than the fire and the bright spots of their torches, and in the darkness they become a trembling, murderous mass, more inhuman than human.
Brook's rudimentary approach comes alive in some instances, and yet in others grounds the story. Most of Golding's figurative language is marred here; the painting of the island as firstly a wondrous paradise and then a nightmarish backdrop for ghouls and beasts, the forest as a teeming, dense thicket hiding the horrors of their imagination, even the palpable heat and scent of the island that the boys begin to be imbued with. The images wield darkness and shadow well, but the tribe become decidedly less menacing when they have to chant in open daylight.
Golding's central allegory, of the beast and innate evil inside us all, also somewhat fades. Yes, there are grisly closeups of the rotting pig's head anointed with flies, but Brook ditches Simon's stumbling into surreal realisation, the horror of discovering something more terrible than any corporeal beast could ever be (unusual considering Brook's prior work in experimental theatre and Dali). The overall result is something like a strained documentary, trading periodical rawness and cynicism with stilted action, delivery and accents. It doesn't grip you like it should because there is still an undercurrent of rehearsal and civility under it, like a performance of a primary school play. Now, the 8mm murder mystery film that the boys shot themselves as they were acting out actual savagery? That I would like to see, because it would come from their own unplanned urges. And I wonder, of course, what quarrels might have occurred on that set, and who wrested directorial control from whom.