I just finished watching the movie adaptation of The Handmaid’s Tale, and I have to confess that I was pretty disappointed. Obviously, Professor Fitzpatrick had warned us about the screenwriter’s not-so-feminist stance, but I was still pretty shocked. Some of the parts that I loved in the book came off as cheesy and over the top. For example, the Salvaging, one of the most chilling sections of the novel, had very little power in the film version. There was no “energy building…[no] tremor of readiness and anger” (278). As hard as the film tried, it simply could not capture the anger that is so palpable in the book. Much of this failure came from the portrayal of the character of Offred. The film took Offred’s position as a mother and ran with it, forcing her into an overly female role. At the same time, she was much more dominant than the Offred of the novel, even physically striking out at the Commander. This contradiction, for me, made Gilead’s power much less horrifying: Atwood’s Offred finds herself internalizing her protestations, too terrified to strike out. Her power is too obvious in the movie, and it helps make the Republic of Gilead seem less like an oppressive society and more like a game.
Much of this surreal quality comes from the fact that the movie missed many of the subtler parts of Offred’s character. Rather than an essentially human character, the Offred of the film is excruciatingly female. I never felt like Atwood’s Offred was ever overbearingly womanly. At times, she seems intensely judgmental of the women around her: at the birthing ceremony, she describes the other women as “twittering,” a condescending term (126). However, despite her snarky comments about the other women in the society, she also finds herself forced into identifying with them. At the same birthing ceremony, Offred’s breasts leak “fake milk” and she “holds in her lap a phantom, a ghost baby” (127). The protagonist’s side comments and strong character emphasize the overpowering effects that the society’s brainwashing can have upon its members.
The movie seemed to pull Offred’s character in two separate directions: she is both strong and separate from the society and yet almost childlike in her naivete. This contradiction almost completely destroyed the power of the novel. In the Salvaging ceremony, Offred is shown standing apart, her look of horror blatantly obvious. Moments like this ruined the terror of Gilead’s society. I feel like the Offred of the film constantly made motions or looks that would have gotten her executed in the Gilead of the novel. Atwood’s Offred is not a hero: she recognizes her perilous situation in the house and Serena’s longing “to slap [her] face” (16). She acts cautiously, hiding her urge to “laugh, shriek with laughter, fall of [her] chair” at the Commander’s request to play Scrabble (138). Instead, she replies “as if indifferent,” realizing that the Commander holds her completely in his power and that an admission of interest could get her killed (139). The Offred of the film is anything but humble and submissive: she is intensely defiant and taunts the Commander. The film’s representation of their relationship, with its flirtatious teasing and lack of respect, forces its audience to treat them as equal to one another rather than recognizing the Commander’s superior position.
There are obvious differences in pure events between the film and the movie: of course, the stabbing of the Commander is the most blatant. Again, this action serves to portray Offred as heroic character, fighting back against the oppression of Gilead. However, the Offred of the novel is much more realistic: to her, becoming a handmaid is her way to “give in, go along, save her skin” (249). The movie lost the sense of desperation and helplessness that is so obvious throughout Offred’s story, and I feel as though that loss prevented the film from having the power of the novel.