104
“true to
its theatrical origins,” recalling even within the new form his own precursory
version and control over the tale (“Snow White (1916)”).
Losing
Snow White
: The Adaptive Challenges of a New Platform
By means of ownership and control over the commodity, Ames’ vision persisted
and was, in some ways, amplified by virtue of the new context
of film and its medium of
production, the cinematic screen. Although Merritt argues that through this adaptation,
“the 1916 filmmakers completely transformed the Ames play,” she likewise points out
how “‘magic’ transformations could be embellished” and images that could easily be
described on stage, could instead be
shown
on screen (“Marguerite Clark” 11). Thus, the
vision
is not necessarily transformed, only the means to produce that defined vision.
Using visual images, or what could be shown on screen, indeed had the propensity to
make a lasting imprint. For example, Smoodin examines how “[this] film made a deep
impression on Disney when he saw it at a special matinée showing for newsboys in
Kansas City” (
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
21). Merritt, further examining this
same production, likewise gestures toward the audience appeal. The Kansas City
Convention Hall, where Disney viewed the film “seated 12,000. However, about 16,000
newsboys actually crowded into the hall, many sitting two to a seat. As J. Searle Dawley
commented in his diary, this was the largest audience in history for a single film
showing” (“Marguerite Clark” 17). It was later “estimated
that altogether, 75,000 people
saw
Snow White
screenings in the Convention Hall” (“Marguerite Clark” 17). Where
Ames tale had lost its songs and many of its dances, it had gained wider audience
engagement via the cinematic form (“Marguerite Clark 11).
105
This new technological mode of “storytelling” offered opportunities to confine the
audience’s vision toward a singular view of the narrative’s presentation (scene by scene);
however, there were also drawbacks to filmic representations
in the early twentieth
century, namely the lack of a human voice or spoken language. With only titles,
projecting the most essential bits of narrative language to guide the viewer, the
opportunity for a catch and release of the language, vision, and storytelling essence of a
particular author are, in some sense, lost. Although Grajeda finds
that orchestral music
which served to supplement the scenes, images, and titles that appeared before a viewer’s
eyes making the “silent cinema […] anything but silent” the loss of spoken language and
vocal inflection meant that Ames’ storytelling or writerly voice was also absent or only
vaguely resonant (142). Losing not only songs and dances, but further,
language itself,
gestured toward Ames’ gradual loss of
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