To put aside the obvious, Stardust the movie is not Stardust the book. This is as important as it is tautological aka trivially self-evident, since we the adoring fans of the latter are often prone to forget when sitting down to watch the former. This was immaculately captured in a brief blogging exchange between William Gibson and Cory Doctorow over the subject of the perenially imminent film adapation of Neuromancer. Gibson’s initial consternation, not at the perpetual delay (or in his words, the liminality) but at the presumption that “feature films are the ultimate stage of novelistic creation, thereby relegating the book to the status of dull gray chrysalis,” in turn fueled Doctorow’s observation:

Books, by and large, don’t make very good movies (how many great film adaptations of novels can you think of that were true to the original that were worth seeing? How many total, utter disappointments can you recall?) Yet people who meet novelists inevitably ask, “anything of yours been made into a movie yet?”

First and foremost, film simply lacks the timeframe to cover all that can fit within the covers of a book, and then must often frame details much differently than on the page to meet differing logistic or narrative demands. Gibson points out in a follow-up that the standard Hollywood script is “120 pages. Lots of white space on those pages.” Even Stardust, a comparatively slim volume with illustrations, weighs in as at least twice that. All of this only serves as preface and reiterates past reviews of adaptations of beloved books.

Stardust the movie, then, accounts for itself rather well. Without dwelling overmuch on its unavoidable failing to uphold to the letter of the novel, it succeeds in conveying the essence of its source material. The script by Jane Goldman redrafts the tale to fit the pace of a film, necessarily contracts and streamlines the plot to fit the time available, and introduces some novelties which could be taken as ‘crowd-pleasing’ in intention. Yet none of this detracts overly from the central relationship of Tristran and Yvaine, which had heretofore been curiously absent from most of the promotion of the movie that had given it more the air of a comical swashbuckler. And it is that relationship, from awkward beginning through incessant bickering to its swelling conclusion, that forms the heart of the novel - being as it is billed “a romance within the realm of Faerie.” Without it, the movie would fall into well-executed but ultimately forgettable territory as just another swords and sorcery quest adventure.

Where I still harbor quibbles is, first, over the inclusion of an ultimately frivolous prologue (even with its portentous voiceover by Sir Ian McKellen) set in a Victorian era observatory; and second, with the evident relocation of the entirety of the world beyond the village of Wall from the realm of Faerie to a more generic fantasy demesnes dominated solely by the kingdom of Stormhold. All fey elements of the ‘other side’ are eliminated, doubtless to meet demands of simplicity and budget, but at the cost of robbing the story of its otherworldliness, the inherent menace common particularly to British portrayals of the wickedness of the Fair Folk, and any adjustments our hero must make in facing those more unlike himself even given his mixed heritage. This is particularly jarring in the casting of Una - her features are relatively broad, her physique rather toned (those arms!) as compared to the slight, angular figure from Vess’ illustrations, while her bearing betrays no royal upbringing even after her unveiling as the lost sister of the warring princes. No denizens of Stormhold betray even so much as a pointed ear, let alone fur or tails, and the costuming falls more firmly in the traditional fantasy trope than the delicate gowns or doublet and hose we might have expected from Vess’ plates. Even the architecture follows this eschewal of faerie influence. One might even go so far as to suggest, groaning, that the only ‘fairy’ in the movie is the re-imagined Captain Shakespeare as vamped up by Robert DeNiro.

That disappointment aside, much of the rest of the casting and their settings holds more true to the vision of the book. Charlie Cox makes an indulgently naive and winning Tristran, even undergoing a true makeover at the hands of Captain Shakespeare as he begins to take up the role of hero. Most critically, Claire Danes retains Yvaine’s temper and resentment at her predicament until her slow change of feelings towards Tristran, and while she is perhaps not an ethereal beauty or particularly otherworldly in her carriage - one could imagine a more exotic-looking actress like Kristin Kreuk for this purpose, albeit at the expense of craft - her grounded attitude can be taken as wisdom long established from observing the affairs of mortals over centuries. I am at least immensely relieved that, as reports suggest, Sarah Michelle Gellar turned down the role to stay close to husband Freddie Prinze Jr, as I simply cannot imagine the chirpy Buffy in the role. Michelle Pfeiffer masterfully inhabits the cold menace and ruthlessness of Lamia while playing up her vanity, while Mark Strong equally radiates danger as the cutthroat Septimus. Sienna Miller appears refreshingly rough as the peasant beauty Victoria, like the young Robin Wright Penn in Princess Bride. Peter O’Toole is both regal and cruelly cynical as the ailing king whose experience in the battle of succession has overseen a high body count among his siblings and offspring. Rupert Everett carries off a suitably pompous and dim Secundus, while I thrilled at being able to recognize Julian Rhind-Tutt behind the ghostly and mangled features of Quartus. And as a curiosity, I also discovered that the brief appearance via flashback of one of Yvaine’s sister stars - the prior victim of Lamia and her own sisters - is played by the daughter of Sting, Coco Sumner. As for settings, we must regrettably make do without the serewood, which Neil described in an interview on NPR’s Talk of the Nation as one of two scenes he regretted being absent from the film, and which was intended to feature the voice of Tori Amos. However, we do get at least a brief visit to the market, the enchanted inn, time aboard the skyship (including a dramatic water landing akin to a giant log flume), and most elaborately - due to serving as the film’s new climax - the home of Lamia in a deep shadowed crevasse.

Yet again, the story - and its resonance to the devoted readers of the novel - only succeeds if it captures the hesitance and slow development of the romance between Tristran and Yvaine. Their first meeting is accelerated in the story by the convenient use of the babylon candle, which also serves its later purpose to enable their escape from the inn (and a replacement serves yet a new purpose at story’s end). The candle also acts as the initial lure for Yvaine to follow Tristran, despite her been chained, back to Wall to be presented as a gift for Victoria’s birthday. Their joint ill-humor at the pairing while prevailing to cross their way back to the gap in the Wall slowly gives way at least to mutual concern, beginning with Tristan’s rush to protect her at her sisters’ urging - although sadly, her subsequent attentions to his burnt hand are absent, and we have only a brief moment referring to it as they sit bound in the skyship’s brig. The first reveal we have of Yvaine’s feelings are when she betrays her origins by shining from emotion, most notably when awkwardly attempting a waltz with Tristran. From there on, the telltale shine gives us a ready measure of her growing attachment to him, from the soft glow as they lay crouched beside the road to the brilliance as he confesses his own love to her. The speech she gives in Ditchwater Sal’s wagon, lovely if a bit overwrought, is really unnecessary from an emotional standpoint, a bit like Peter Parker confessing his secrets to a payphone after being disconnected from MJ - she says what we have already come to know, but the story seems to insist that it be said aloud nonetheless. To amp things up a bit from the book’s original anticlimactic resolution of the Septimus and Lamia subplots, we also get a panicked multi-party rush to intercept her from crossing the Wall in despair upon misinterpreting the innkeeper’s message left by Tristran, plus the obligatory damsel-in-distress scene in the final battle with Lamia. Contrary to the novel’s more bittersweet ending (itself a particularly brave or foolish choice by Neil to keep going well past the normal end of a fairy tale on through to the end of their time together, leaving Yvaine alone in perpetuity like Arwen after the death of Aragorn), the babylon candle again allows them to endure in that fashion most beloved of fairy tales - together, shining in the night sky, living happily ever after.

Though the movie lacks much of the novel’s subtle charm, due to the absence of what for a lack of a better term I would call its Gaimanisms - all those turns of phrase, diversions of plot, nuances of characters, and references to legend and mythopoetic tradition that allow him to impart a story with fairy tale notions while remaining inviolably in his own style - it does preserve the spirit of the story, reformed in film. Even without the furry visitor, the fellowship of the Castle, the fight between lion and unicorn, and all of the other moments that gave the book its quirky identity, the movie retains the awkward sweetness and purity of feeling between its two romantic leads that I was most concerned would be lost in the translation to an action fantasy. And with that alone, even without all of its other entertainments and delights (music pounding, horses racing, swashes buckling), the movie offers enough for me to leave the theater smiling and with a fresh burst of anticipation at re-reading the book yet again, and falling back into its sidereal enchantment.