Savage Sensitivity: The Controversy Between Lynne Reid Banks and Hollywood Surrounding The Indian in the Cupboard

The passing of celebrated author Lynne Reid Banks at the impressive age of 94 has prompted the customary flood of accolades for a literary luminary. Among the tributes, particular attention has gravitated towards her seminal work, the 1960 novel "The L-Shaped Room." This groundbreaking narrative, offering a compassionate portrayal of a young unmarried mother, skyrocketed to become a literary sensation, firmly establishing Banks as a titan of her generation.

However, amidst the accolades, one of Banks's most widely read and debated works, "The Indian in the Cupboard" (1980), has often remained a point of contention. Despite spawning four sequels and a high-profile Hollywood adaptation in 1995, the novel has been marred by controversy, primarily due to its depiction of Native Americans. Criticism has arisen, with one librarian decrying its portrayal as reducing indigenous characters to "bloodthirsty, subhuman monsters.

Yet, was this condemnation a fair assessment of Banks's intentions, or did the author—a staunch liberal who fled the perceived religious conservatism of an Israeli kibbutz—fall victim to an era of increasing sensitivity? Moreover, how did a major Hollywood studio deem it prudent to adapt a novel already embroiled in controversy, with even the director acknowledging it as a formidable intellectual challenge?

Following the triumph of "The L-Shaped Room" and her subsequent residency in Israel, Banks continued to produce primarily adult fiction, including a sequel to her magnum opus, "The Backward Shadow." Though her literary output was consistently well-received, it lacked the fervor of her earlier acclaim. Banks herself regarded her non-fiction work "Letters to my Israeli Sons" (1979) as her finest achievement, yet it failed to resonate with audiences, reflecting a shift in literary tastes.

Seeking new avenues, Banks ventured into children's literature, anticipating success with her 1978 autobiography of a hamster, "I, Houdini." However, this foray proved no more fruitful than her recent endeavors, highlighting the complex trajectory of an author whose legacy transcends genres and generations.

Amidst the looming doubts cast by her publishers regarding her commercial viability, a pivotal conversation with her then-eight-year-old son, Omri, sparked the genesis of a remarkable tale. It was an ordinary evening when Omri, unimpressed by the worn appearance of a tin medicine cupboard in their bathroom, provoked his mother's rebuke for his lack of imagination. In response, Banks, ever the imaginative soul, seized upon this mundane exchange to weave a tale of enchantment.

From this mundane beginning emerged a fantastical saga centered around a fictionalized version of Omri himself. On his ninth birthday, disappointed by a plastic figurine portraying an intentionally stereotyped Indian warrior, Omri's world was forever changed. Placing the figurine in his grandmother's jewellery box, he awoke the next morning to a wondrous discovery: the figurine had transformed into a living, breathing three-inch-high Native American Iroquois man, known as Little Bear.

Despite the obvious perils of cultural appropriation and the risk of perpetuating clichés of noble savages, Banks tackled these issues head-on. Omri's ignorance of the Iroquois tribe's history and traditions served as a poignant reminder of cultural sensitivity. Moreover, Little Bear and his people were depicted with dignity and understanding, challenging stereotypes at every turn.

When a cowboy character, Boone, emerged and derided Little Bear with derogatory epithets, he met a fitting end—a reminder that Banks eschewed traditional children's literature tropes in favor of a more nuanced narrative. Her intention was clear: to breathe life into a well-trodden genre while imbuing her characters with depth and authenticity.

To Banks's astonishment, the book soared to unprecedented heights of success, selling approximately 15 million copies and earning accolades, including praise from The New York Times as "the best book of the year." Reflecting on the unexpected triumph, Banks mused, "One night, a long-distance call brought news that the paperback rights had fetched a substantial sum at auction. It made me realize—maybe they know something I don't—and indeed, they did! The book took flight, garnered awards, and changed my fortunes forever.

While it may have only achieved moderate success in Britain, Lynne Reid Banks's "The Indian in the Cupboard" garnered numerous prestigious accolades across the Atlantic. Known for her fervent self-promotion and imaginative prowess, Banks navigated the literary landscape with a robust attitude toward both deal-making and marketing, as noted by her former editor Vanessa Hamilton. Yet, despite her adeptness in crafting fantastical worlds and captivating young minds, Banks found herself confronting a surprising lull in acclaim at the dawn of the 1990s.

In 1991, the tide turned against Banks when members of the American Library Association, Naomi Caldwell-Wood and Lisa A Mitten, condemned "The Indian in the Cupboard" for perpetuating harmful stereotypes of Native Americans. They argued that Banks had constructed her 'Indian' character from a harmful amalgamation of clichés common among British authors. Instead of viewing Omri as a naive character learning valuable lessons from Little Bear, critics now portrayed him as a miniature white supremacist-in-training, echoing the paternalistic attitudes of 19th-century colonialists.

Doris Seale, a Native American librarian, lamented in 1992 the potential harm inflicted upon Native and white children alike by encountering Banks's portrayal of Native Americans as "bloodthirsty, subhuman monsters." Banks, however, met the burgeoning controversy head-on, defending her work with characteristic vigor. In a 1994 interview, she countered critiques by asserting that if Little Bear had deviated too far from the established image of an Indian, he wouldn't have resonated with children as effectively.

Acknowledging the evolving standards of cultural sensitivity, Banks admitted to unintentional stereotyping in her earlier works, citing instances in "The L-Shaped Room" that now caused her embarrassment. Rejecting the notion of intentional complexity in her storytelling, she asserted that writers operate on intuition rather than deliberate subtlety.

In navigating the tempest of criticism, Lynne Reid Banks exemplified resilience, grappling with the complexities of cultural representation while steadfastly defending her creative instincts.

Nevertheless, confronting the challenges head-on was imperative; failure was not an option. In 1992, Banks found herself in a daunting situation when she attended a meeting with the Blackfoot Indians in Montana—a memory she later labeled as "horrible." The crux of their grievance centered on Banks's use of the term 'grunt' to depict several utterances by Little Bear, a portrayal they vehemently contested, arguing that no white man is ever characterized as grunting.

Although Banks conceded that she might approach the book differently in hindsight, she adamantly refused to permit her publisher to append any expression of remorse for the book's content. She fiercely asserted her creative autonomy, warning that she would pursue legal action through every available avenue if her demands were not met. Unsurprisingly, she emerged triumphant, proudly declaring, "That was the end of that.

Following the publication of three sequels, the film rights to the initial installment were acquired by Paramount Pictures, who enlisted Muppets performer and filmmaker Frank Oz to helm the project. Initially skeptical about the feasibility of adapting her book to the silver screen, Banks was eventually swayed by Paramount and Oz's charm, coupled with a hefty sum, convincing her that they could deliver a film that honored the essence of her original work while addressing the criticisms it had garnered.

The casting of Litefoot, a Native American musician discovered performing in Rome, as Little Bear brought authenticity to the production. Litefoot advocated for the hiring of an Onondaga historical and cultural advisor to ensure his portrayal was culturally sensitive—an initiative readily embraced by Oz. Renowned screenwriter Melissa Mathison, celebrated for her work on "E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial," was tasked with adapting Banks's novel, sparking early excitement that the film could rival the iconic status of its predecessor.

However, as with any ambitious endeavor, obstacles inevitably arose. Oz reflected on the production in 2000, describing it as a "logistical nightmare" due to the complexities of blending live action with special effects. In an era predating the ubiquity of CGI, the challenges were magnified, testing the limits of the cast and crew's resilience. Despite the monumental effort, Oz remained steadfast in his vision for an intimate yet monumental cinematic experience—a testament to the enduring legacy of Banks's captivating tale.

Banks's active involvement in the filmmaking process added a layer of complexity to Paramount's adaptation of "The Indian in the Cupboard." Not content to merely cash her cheque and relinquish creative control, Banks sought to immerse herself in every facet of the production. Her prior disappointment with Bryan Forbes's adaptation of "The L-Shaped Room," which led to a 30-year estrangement, served as a cautionary tale for filmmakers. Consequently, Frank Oz, acclaimed for his directorial successes such as "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels" and "The Little Shop of Horrors," found himself facing a formidable collaborator in Banks.

Described by her editor Vanessa Hamilton as someone who appreciated spirited debate, Banks's assertive presence was felt throughout the filmmaking process. Renowned for her impromptu demands and late-night calls to literary publicists, she was unapologetically determined to make her mark. Embracing her role on set, Banks relished the opportunity to engage in the creative process, asserting, "They gave me a lovely director's chair... I was determined to enjoy that side of it, and I did.

However, Paramount found themselves in a state of panic upon the film's completion. With a hefty $45 million investment in an adaptation of a bestselling yet controversial children's book, featuring no major stars and helmed by a director uncomfortable with the genre, doubts loomed large. Despite Oz's candid admission of his uncertainty in catering to children's tastes, Paramount was apprehensive about the film's commercial prospects.

Rumors swirled—vehemently denied by Oz—of the film being forcibly recut by Paramount's president, Sherry Lansing, following disastrous test screenings. Amidst the turmoil, Oz was compelled to replace his chosen composer. Yet, his connections proved beneficial, particularly his rapport with George Lucas, facilitated by his portrayal of Yoda in the "Star Wars" films. When Paramount sought to include Darth Vader as one of the toys in the film, Oz's direct line to Lucas facilitated a swift resolution.

Despite the tumultuous journey, the collaborative efforts between Banks, Oz, and Paramount underscored the intricate dynamics inherent in adapting beloved literature for the silver screen.

Despite boasting groundbreaking special effects that continue to captivate audiences today, the film adaptation of "The Indian in the Cupboard" failed to achieve commercial success and received lukewarm reviews from critics. Many critics lamented that it lacked the enchantment and wonder of the original book, with Roger Ebert deeming it lacking in exhilaration and excitement compared to "E.T.

Banks herself remained reserved in her support for the film, offering tepid praise to journalists while refraining from criticism. For her, the film served as a means to keep her book in the public eye, ensuring continued healthy sales over the years.

Adding an unexpected twist to the narrative was a postscript revealing a different side to the typically mild-mannered Frank Oz, who found himself exhausted by the demands of both the studio and Banks. In an amusing turn of events, film critic Andy Spletzer speculated in his review that the relationship between Omri and Little Foot was a metaphor for a gay awakening. Incensed by the interpretation, Oz unleashed a tirade of expletives in a phone call to Spletzer, demonstrating a level of aggression that surprised many. He berated Spletzer for his audacity in critiquing cinema, threatening a confrontation upon his upcoming visit to Seattle.

While Banks might have found amusement in Oz's outburst or perhaps even approved of his fiery demeanor, it highlighted her own penchant for confrontation. Known to relish a good fight, Banks likely would have found the episode either entertaining or an affirmation of her own spirited nature.

In conclusion, the journey of "The Indian in the Cupboard" from beloved novel to silver screen spectacle is a testament to the complexities inherent in adapting literature for cinema. Despite its groundbreaking special effects and the tireless efforts of its creators, the film struggled to replicate the magic of its source material, facing commercial disappointment and lukewarm critical reception.

However, amidst the challenges and controversies, the enduring legacy of Lynne Reid Banks's timeless tale persists. Despite her reservations, Banks recognized the film's role in keeping her book in the public eye, ensuring its continued relevance and healthy sales over the years.

The amusing postscript involving Frank Oz's fiery response to a film critic's interpretation adds an unexpected twist to the narrative, shedding light on the tensions and frustrations simmering beneath the surface of the production.

Ultimately, "The Indian in the Cupboard" serves as a poignant reminder of the delicate balance between artistic vision, commercial interests, and audience expectations in the realm of cinematic adaptation. While the film may not have achieved the heights of its literary counterpart, its journey remains a fascinating chapter in the annals of cinematic history, showcasing the enduring allure and challenges of bringing beloved stories to life on the silver screen.