We like retelling stories. Whether it’s some gossip, a fairytale or one of Homer’s epics, an undeniable part of the pleasure of storytelling lies in taking a tale — which communicates something interesting, something we do or don’t like — and sharing it in a considerably, subtly, or not at all altered form. Stories are vehicles through which each generation can impart to the next ideas of morality and philosophy, or simply provide some no-nonsense entertainment.

This predilection manifests itself in stage adaptations of classic novels — we loved them in one form, and hope to spread our love through a different medium, reaching a new audience, or even the same audience in a newly potent way. Just look at this Michaelmas term, which is positively awash with adaptations: Frankenstein and The Master & Margarita occupied main slots at the ADC, a riotously funny student-written adaptation of Tristram Shandy made quite a splash, and Coram Boy is following, having begun on 17th November.

The number of such shows indicates the public’s appetite for adaptations; yet there is a persistent, vocal contingent of theatregoers who lambast the very notion of staging a novel, dismissing these endeavours as unsatisfactorily unoriginal, at best. But to denounce the repurposing of a novel for the stage as unoriginal is to miss one of the beautiful opportunities which translation affords. Obviously, something is lost. In every act of translation — be it linguistic or, as here, between different media — something is lost: Mary Shelley’s prose, for instance, cannot be reproduced on stage to be appreciated as one would on the page. Adaptations, however, can be powerfully constructive, providing value the original never could. The opportunity to witness Benedict Cumberbatch’s alternate performances as Frankenstein and his Creature is a visceral pleasure of momentous dramatic power only made possible through a willingness to appropriate a classic text.

Or take Shakespeare, for example. There was a man so bursting with originality that he often coined words whenever the established lexicon proved inadequate, yet he nevertheless looked to previously told tales to provide the foundations for his work: the figure of King Lear appears in an 1136 ‘history’ of Britain written by Geoffrey of Monmouth; Troilus and Cressida charts a tale previously told two centuries earlier in a poem by Chaucer, who (of course) had himself adapted the work of an Italian author, Boccaccio; Hamlet, meanwhile, is a clear homage to The Lion King. But the Bard’s plays, crucially, are not dismissed as pale shadows of their sources; indeed, our cultural storehouse has inarguably been enriched by their lyrical beauty, linguistic dexterity and dramatic power — these mere ‘adaptations’ have transcended their sources, relegating their position as adaptations to the status of a footnote. To focus on the superficial unoriginality of making use of a preexisting plot is to neglect the remarkable, laudable creativity required to craft what is inarguably a new artwork.

As new, free-standing works of art, these adaptations ought to be judged accordingly. Complaints about the precise ways in which the original work has been cut or expanded are irrelevant — the new piece must be judged on its own merits, in terms of the extent of its individual artistic worth. Protestations of changes made to the original amount to ‘It’s different’ — of course it’s different, it’s a stage adaptation, not a reprint of the novel, but difference does not intrinsically equate to poor quality. Again, we don’t (nor should we) care that Shakespeare deviated from his sources (or even from history) in his writings, because their artistic merit is of the greatest interest.

This logical method of assessing adaptations undercuts a second common objection to the practice, namely that a bad adaptation thoroughly violates the original, pausing only to ravish childhoods en route. The idea that the adapted novel will be adulterated — somehow made a lesser work of art — is, of course, preposterous. You might not like the new product, but its existence neither precludes the original’s continued existence nor enduring quality. Nick Dear, whilst penning his Frankenstein adaptation, didn’t burn every copy of Shelley’s work. Tim Minchin and Dennis Kelly’s marvellous Matilda the Musical has not replaced the Roald Dahl original, but rather, as a discrete cultural artefact, occupies a separate space, offering an experience which the novel form is simply incapable of producing. Lloyd Webber’s Joseph and Jesus Christ Superstar might not best please some Bible devotees, but the man didn’t rewrite the Old Testament, he composed a musical. Even if an adaptation is terrible (whether subjectively or objectively), it is ultimately harmless — the original is untouched, pristine, existing just as it did before.

The production of human culture is defined by our penchant for remixing the old to craft the new: whether that means channeling the spirit of an older work — its broad outline or general feeling — or reframing the same intellectual property within a new medium to forge a new, often valuable artwork. To disparage and dismiss the practice of page to stage adaptation is to misunderstand this highly creative, productive and valuable process which has for centuries occupied a central position in the creation of human culture. Without a willingness to translate existing works of art into new media, Shakespeare would have been rather less prolific, and we would be without the song ‘Hakuna Matata’. It doesn’t bear thinking about.