Dramatic writing is not universally applicable, regardless of medium. Screenwriting is necessarily divorced from playwriting, because their forms, structures, and applications are entirely different. Still, many emerging filmmakers have turned to the theatre for their inspiration, adapting dramatic works for the silver screen. These visionaries take a myriad of pathways in adaptation, each providing its own challenges. Some may attempt to expand the world beyond the confines of a single space, such as Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom or The Father. These projects, though valiant in effort, can often use arbitrary plot variants or unneeded context to make the source material seem bigger. Others, like The Boys in the Band or Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar and Grill, adhere strictly to the original dramatic work. These films may necessarily feel inconsequential in their minutiae, as that so-loved source material was meant for the confines of a proscenium. Finding the middle ground between these strategies, which feels both grand in scale but never overdrawn, may be the ultimate challenge for a dramatic adaptation. None, it seems, have tackled that challenge as well as the team behind The Humans.
Based on the 2015 play by Stephen Karam, The Humans follows the somewhat fragmented but ever-loving Blake family. This includes daughters Brigid (Beanie Feldstein) and Aimee (Amy Schumer), who have each left their hometown of Scranton for their burgeoning, or in some cases stagnant, professional lives. Moving up the family tree are husband and wife Erik (Richard Jenkins) and Deidre (Jayne Houdyshell), who stayed in Scranton to continue their careers and care for Erik’s mother, Momo (June Squibb). Rounding out the small ensemble cast is Richard (Steven Yeun), Brigid’s long-term boyfriend who works hard to make the Blakes like him. As the Blake family descends upon Brigid’s battered Chinatown apartment for thanksgiving dinner, the family’s fraught connections are tested. Still, the value of the film lies not in the challenges that it poses to the Blake family bond, but in the moments of glorious love and empathy. The film presents a true, problematized family, straying from the nuclear love or universal strife of modern familial media. With that, the film incites a striking sense of reality and truth.
Within the lens of adaptation, playwright and now director Stephen Karam makes several important choices in dramatic structure and cinematography. To start, Karam chose to physicalize much of the action of the play, which often happened off-stage or in secluded spaces. The set design of the play is clearly laid out within the script itself, being a two-floored apartment. Still, any areas outside the apartment or behind closed doors, including the bathroom, are not visible to an audience member. Film presents a new opportunity for the playwright, allowing him to actualize those off-stage cues. This adds plot depth, especially within the character of Aimee, who spends much of the play (and film) locked up in the bathroom. Being able to see her pain, to visualize it without drawing away from the ongoing dialogue on other floors, adds a new layer of character development for Aimee that may only be found in the film.
This expansion of view is similar in the ending of the play, in which the apartment loses all light and Erik descends into panic. As Erik’s discomfort grows, he moves to do the unthinkable: open the apartment door to the outside world. This provides even more fright, bringing sounds and images that were previously withheld from the quiet, stable apartment space. In the film, however, this outside hallway can be visualised. A viewer may see outside the apartment, simply because the apartment isn’t bound to the confines of a stage. This is a small choice, not expanding beyond the outside hallway, but adds immense value to Erik’s ultimate hysteria. It is in this way, with small expansions that a dramatic medium wouldn’t allow for, that Karam is able to take advantage of the filmic medium.
In that same vein, Karam introduces the element of cinematography and camera-work to his new telling of the story. As clichéd as it may sound, the apartment itself is a character in the story. The film includes extended shots of doorways and furniture, giving the space an eerie, insular feel. While the dramatic moves into other rooms, the camera lingers on wall stains, misshapen pipes, and packed boxes. The apartment similarly obscures the dialogue itself, often using walls and light fixtures to physically block part of a dramatic interchange. Even though the play is necessarily more stuck within the bounds of the apartment, the film somehow feels more claustrophobic. This is yet another example of Karam’s deep understanding of the medium; he knows the value that film may add and capitalizes on it.
Still, Karam never strays too far from the original source material. Part of the allure of the original play is how small it is, providing significant insight into the lives of these deeply specific, intentional beings. No characters are added, no flashbacks are fabricated, and no time jumps are assembled. The film allows the source material to keep its simplicity, the exact thing that gave the story its emotional resonance. The film also retains one of the original cast members, Jayne Houdyshell, who won the 2016 featured actress Tony for the role. Houdyshell’s performance as Deidre Blake provides the emotional backbone to the show, affording a character that the audience may empathize with, and viscerally see their pain. Bringing Houdyshell back for the film is a recognition of just what made the play such a success, and reflects Karam’s desire to stay true to that remarkable spirit and feel.
When directors fail to balance these adaptive problems well, the results may be disastrous. Consider two other recent films, each attempting the same model of adapting a dramatic work for a filmic medium. In The Boys In The Band, director Joe Mantello makes little attempt to expand the film beyond the apartment in which the movie-long party takes place. With a living space that holds much less thematic value than that of the Blake apartment, and with characters who are not as deeply interconnected as the Blake family members, the film cannot help but feel small. On the other hand, Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom includes an extended opening scene, musical number, and prologue that were not part of August Wilson’s original writing. These additional shots surely add entertainment value but feel deeply inconsequential when the true dramatic action starts, all taking place within a recording studio. Ultimately these play-adaptations fail to meet the mark for cinematic excellence, creating viewing experiences that either feels small and inconsequential or artificially overlarge.
Through these directorial choices, Karam balances the two paths in dramatic adaptation brilliantly. He allows the original play to stand in its glory but also uses the new form to bring greater nuance and depth. This work should serve as an example to future play-adaptors. It will be interesting to see if any can treat their source material as well as Stephen Karam, or if they will continue to fall into the pitfalls of excess and limit.
