At this year’s Comic Con, I saw previews from several upcoming films that I’m eager to see. But none moreso than this one, which comes out on Christmas day. This trailer gives only a hint at the wonder and fun I saw in the clips Terry Gilliam screened from “The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus.”

Last night my son Lex and I watched the film version of “The Kite Runner.” When it was over, I asked him what he thought.

“It was okay,” he said.

And he was right:  It was okay.

Except when I read the novel just six months ago, it was a gut-wrenching experience. I even cried. Twice. The tragedy of childhood betrayal and mixed-up identity against the background of poverty and lowered circumstances was breathtaking. As was the palpably new sense of how horrible it would be like to live under the Taliban.

None of that is in the movie.

Well, actually, all of it is in the movie — all of the scenes. In making the adaptation, they didn’t monkey around with the story or the characterizations. There’s only one scene I noticed missing from the book, and I have to agree that it could be cut. (Although given a later scene that’s in the movie, I suspect they shot that earlier one as well.) But what’s left out, somehow, is the impact. Some things just don’t translate to other media.

A notable example:  To get out of Afghanistan when the Russians and then the Taliban movie in, the boy and his father and several others have to be transported across the border in the belly of a fuel tanker. We have that scene in the movie, but there’s no resonance:  The boy gets into the tanker. His father tells him it will be all right. The boy says he can’t breath. To distract him and provide what comfort he can, his father has him turn on the small iridescent light on his wristwatch and recite a poem. Next scene:  They are in India.

This is pretty much the form the scene takes in the novel. Except Khaled Hosseini is able to convey the lingering, choking, searing stench of fuel, and the utter darkness of the tank. Film can’t do smell (although fiction can), and film can’t do darkness (although fiction can). When the boy looks at his watch, we see a closeup of a boy looking at his watch; there’s no context because there’s no way to see deeper in the frame. The novel isn’t limited by frames. The book, a seemingly sightless medium, offers greater vision.

Sadly, I don’t think they’ve done anything wrong in this movie. It just doesn’t make a statement the way the novel does. The impact was lost in translation.

I’ve  thought a lot about translation over the years. I remember reading “Ubu Roi” in French in college and wondering whether it just shouldn’t have been translated into English; no matter how hard one tries, a pun in French doesn’t work in English. (One of Pa Ubu’s recurring outbursts is “Merdre!” which makes a pun of “murder” and “shit.” In English, I’ve seen this translated as “Pschitt!” Which is just “shit” misspelled, and with none of the menace.) I wonder how far off the mark the translations of some of my favorite writers, Kafka and Rilke among them, must be. I remember translating “La Cancatrice Chauve” myself as part of my graduation obligations and wondering just how absurd my translation was. I remember one semester in particular raising the question of translation with several different professors, all of whom gave what amounts to the stock answer:  While a translation is not as good as the original, you usually get a fair amount.

I hope that’s true. And if I had to wait to learn German and Turkish and Spanish and Norwegian, I wouldn’t have read Kafka, Goethe, Kant, Rilke, Orhan Pamuk, Borges, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, or Knut Hamsun, to name just a few. Still, I would think it’s harder to translate from one language to another than from one medium to another, especially from novel to film, because film exists in the universal language of sight. And yet here we have a powerful, wrenching novel, faithfully translated into a film that, finally, is just okay.

A museum in Orange County is exhibiting what it believes is the worst 100 album covers.

Except they think Trout Mask Replica is one of them.

So there goes their credibility.

In which I see a side of my friend Sam Kuglen I’ve never seen before.

Merce Cunningham died a few days ago, and if I hadn’t felt then as though I were dying myself, I would have noted the event here.

I just spent 20 minutes crawling all over the internet for information about the Cunningham show I saw in, I think, 2003, but I can’t find it, so I’m relying on memory. In any event, it was at UCLA Live, with Cunningham and assorted UCLA students performing against music by Eric Satie. I love Satie’s music, and was interested in Cunningham because I was just beginning to grasp the allure of dance, and there was a third great name associated with all this that I now can’t recall. (And can’t find.) Was it John Adams? William S. Burroughs? Robert Wilson? I can’t remember. In any event, I remember that the dance seemed to consist largely of standing or sitting, understandable for the then-84 Cunningham, but perhaps less so for the 20ish collaborators.

Cunningham was the house guest of someone I knew, so a small party of us went back to the house.  The hosts had spared no expense in putting on a suitable event for their honored guest. I remember at one point the host looked over and saw Cunningham sitting alone on the couch and gasped, “Why isn’t anyone talking to Merce?!?!?!” I had already been over talking to Merce, sitting alone beside him for 20 minutes during which I discovered two things: that I had nothing much to say, and neither apparently did he. Perhaps everyone else had had the same experience. Maybe it’s difficult to strike up a conversation with a minimalist.

I wish that I had met him a year or two later. Because in 2004, for a variety of reasons, I had what I’ve since called “The Year of Dance.” My background is theatre, and mostly the literary end. By that point in my life I was feeling a little burned out on theatre, but was saved by some students with an interest in dance. Over the course of that year, I worked with a dance choreographer on a play I was directing, wound up going to two hip-hop conventions, got involved with a dance-film festival, joined the advisory board of a fledgling dance company, attended the American Choreography Awards, fell in with a multi-Tony-winning dance legend, went to amazing launch events at places like the Music Box and the Key Club, and cheered up Toni Basil over drinks when she was feeling forgotten and unrecognized because I remembered both her music and all her choreography with Devo and Talking Heads and David Bowie, and so much more. The dance people and the dance shows and the dance parties were great, great fun. I came out of that year with a deep appreciation and gratitude for an artform I’d known little about. And a deep respect for dancers, who are a talented, disciplined, driven breed.

I wish it had been after that year that I’d had 20 minutes alone with Merce Cunningham. Because then I’m sure I would have had something to talk about.

That’s the theory shared by half a dozen people as to why I’ve been shivering and shaking and coughing since early yesterday: that I expended every iota of energy I had at this year’s comic con, and my body is now calling in a rest break.

(Which is a shame, because I have so much I want to put on this blog right now, except I can barely think straight.)

My own theory: My system has realized that it’s going to be a full YEAR ’til the next Con and is going into the pangs of withdrawal.

Inany event, I’ll be back here tomorrow — and preferably not tapping this blog entry via iPhone. (Which especially sucks when you can type 86 wpm on a keyboard.)

My friend Paul just flew out this morning from a week here (for the Comic Con, of course!).

Here’s what’s been going on near his house while he’s been away. It really stinks.

Just like every other man on the Internet, Peter Smith was besieged with ads promising that “Hot Singles are waiting for you!” This particular ad was on his Facebook page.

The difference:  The woman in the ad was his wife — and the image was ripped from his or her account with no permission. She had no intent to offer to procure other women for her husband.

Today as the shuttle bus from our hotel was pulling up to the convention center, our driver suddenly slammed the brakes, cursing out what someone in a seat near me called a fat old man on foot who cut right across the designated roadway, in the process almost getting hit by said shuttle. Under his breath the driver said, “Who’s this guy think he is?”

“He’s Terry Gilliam,” I said. And, from the looks of it, he was utterly oblivious to the chaos in his wake. (Which gave me a new insight into the wreckage of his attempted version of “Don Quixote.”)

Later in the day I got in to see the screening of clips from Gilliam’s forthcoming film, “The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus.” These may be, to use Gilliam’s words, “the boring parts,” but they looked pretty amazing to me. The dream world scenes look like live-action (and, of course, CGI) counterparts to his old Monty Python animations. Someone asked Gilliam what was his inspiration for those Monty Python animations and he was gentlemanly enough to once again pay tribute to his mentor Harvey Kurtzman, the genius who taught him all about going to the library and swiping from the greats of art. (Unfortunately, he learned nothing about jaywalking.) I’m looking forward to seeing “Parnassus” — and given the visual feel of those scenes, I’m going to see it on a big screen somewhere.

Last Friday I went down to the lobby of the hotel near San Francisco airport where I was staying and told the girl at the front desk that the key card to my room wasn’t working. She asked, “What room?” I told her and she reset the card and handed it back to me. I said, “That’s it? You don’t want any ID? Give me a card for room 250, too. I wonder what they’ve got in there.” Someone else in town for the same meeting told me later that when he needed his card reset, the first thing she did was ask to see ID.

Now I’m at the San Diego Comic Con.  (More about that later, plus a photo of me standing next to a gentleman with a large flaming head.) There are six of us sharing a suite (everyone gets at least one night on the floor) and four key cards. This morning my friend who is this galaxy’s foremost Star Trek expert told me that “it’s okay, I got a room key.” “How’d  you do that?” I asked, assuming he’d traded with one of our roommates. “Oh, I went down to the front desk and told them the room I’m staying in and told them I lost the key. They gave me a new one.”

Given these two incidents within the same week, I’m now planning a crime spree of upscale but clueless hotels. If you hear that I’m coming to a hotel near you, you might consider using the front desk safe while I’m in town.