This is a bit of a "duty post", to be honest: when I'd read Doctor Zhivago and blogged about it, I mentioned an interest in watching adaptations of the book, partly to see how they'd manage to tell a compelling story with such non-plot-driven source material. I have now watched both the classic film and the TV series, penned by Andrew Davies when the millenium was young and he was at the peak of his adaptation career. So I guess I should write about them.
I had a better time than this grudging introduction makes it sound. As I expected, the film turned out to be the more enjoyable viewing experience, while the TV series was more faithful to the book. But, somewhat unexpectedly, the TV version wasn't as faithful as all that, and it's really easy to be closer to the source material than the film.
Because the film takes great liberties indeed. What was most remarkable wasn't what it cut out – of course, a whole array of side characters who didn't contribute much to the story had to go – but what it added. There are grand set-piece scenes that aren't in the novel at all, such as when a group of deserters confront a new batch of soldiers on their way to the front. The whole framing device, with Zhivago's half-brother telling the story to the newly-found daughter of Zhivago and Lara many years later, is invented. Yes, there is a half-brother in the novel, and a love child, and in the epilogue it's hinted that the former will take care of the latter, but we never actually see them meet.
So the narrative monologues of Alec Guinness were all the script-writer, not Pasternak. Which brings me to a feature which really stood out to me: how good the script was, not least the unheard-of-in-the-novel material. All of Komorovsky's enjoyable cynical zingers, for instance? Not in the book. Add to this the sterling acting from the star-studded cast, and it must be said I hugely preferred watching the film to reading the book. The balalaika may possibly have been a step too far on the soupiness scale, though.
The first hour or so of the TV version, I seriously wondered why Andrew Davies had bothered. I had expected it to be closer to the book from the get-go than the film was, but no, not really. The same narrative short-cuts are taken as in the film: young Yuri is taken in immediately by the Gromekos after his parents' death, thus cutting out boring uncle Nikolai completely; Pasha is caught up in a demonstration where soldiers mow down civilians as a young man, not as a boy; and Lara gets hold of his gun in the process (in the novel, the gun belongs to Lara's brother, not present in either adaptation and no great loss).
What's more, the TV series takes liberties of its own: it starts with Yuri's father's funeral, not his mother's, and Yuri is supposed to have been present on the train when his father kills himself (in the novel, it was his friend Misha). While Zhivago in the novel was clearly very fond of his mother and didn't really have any relationship with his father, in the TV series, the roles are somewhat inexplicably reversed.
So to start with, the TV series tells roughly the same story as the film less enjoyably. The scenes between Lara and Komarovsky are so drawn out that even I, who will mostly find excuses for all manner of "problematic" erotic power play in fiction, felt uncomfortable. It didn't help that Keira Knightley, undeniably pretty and good in more lively roles, is the wrong type for Lara, especially compared with the smouldering Julie Christie. As the lout in Notting Hill would say: "she's too 'olesome".
The series did pick up after a while, though, and tackled some of the bleaker aspects of the novel, which was gutsy. Lara's husband Pasha was much closer to Pasha in the novel, which I liked; instead of the priggish revolutionary of the film, we see the naïve and good-natured young man who only later becomes implacable, by way of his experiences and disappointments. I appreciated, too, that his final scene with Zhivago was included. Tonya was lovely in both adaptations, and in the Davies version she is allowed to voice some resentment in a conversation with Lara.
You can see how Pasternak's habit of letting his characters drift in and out of the narrative has proved challenging for both adaptations. That Zhivago's half-brother should play such a large part in the film and not be included in the TV series, and that both creative decisions make sense, is an example. Just to make them a little more important to the plot, existing characters are often partly reworked and repurposed: in the TV series, Misha (not included in the film) nourishes an unrequited love for Tonya; in the film, the prison labourer Kostoed (not included the TV series) becomes a colourful figure played by Klaus Kinski. As I mentioned, both adaptations cut out Zhivago's uncle, of whom Zhivago is very fond. But he doesn't really do anything, so out he goes.
To sum up, if you haven't read the novel, I'd say watching the film is quite enough; it does keep the most interesting part of the story (the romance) and is a good watch in its own right. If you have read the novel and are curious to see what a more faithful adaptation looks like, then the TV series could be worth a try. Be prepared for sudden departures from the original story even in the TV version, though. For instance, Davies provides Zhivago and Lara with a son (who for dramatic purposes looks just like his dad). Here, the film was closer to the novel: it was a daughter.
