5 Worst Stephen King Movie Changes From Book to Screen

0:00Whenever we talk about adapting a beloved book into a movie, I always picture like a highly delicate, incredibly high stakes organ transplant. Oh, that is a very visceral image. Yeah. But yeah, fits perfectly. Right, because you have this beating heart of a story, the book, and you are basically trying to take it out of its original body and, you know, place it into a completely new one, which is the cinematic screen. And sometimes, I mean, the surgery is a miraculous success. Exactly. The new body accepts the organ, everything functions beautifully, and the patient just thrives. But other times, the DNA just doesn't match at all. Yeah, the new medium violently rejects the transplant. The pacing is wrong. The tone shifts. The internal monologue is just entirely lost. And you, you know, sitting in the dark of the movie theater, you are just left staring at the absolute mess that was left behind on the operating table. It's the worst feeling. So we are going to be exploring that very fragile, often messy art of adaptation today, specifically looking at why certain cinematic translations

1:02of Stephen King's work absolutely infuriate his core readers. It's such a fascinating surgical failure to study, honestly, because the rejection isn't usually about like the surface level cosmetics. Right, right. A lot of people assume readers get angry just because a character's hair color is wrong, or I don't know, a minor subplot was cut. Yeah, the nitpicky stuff. Exactly. But true adaptation failure goes way deeper than that. Yeah. You cannot fit a thousand page novel into a two hour movie without trimming some fat. That is simply the physics of film looking. Yeah, that makes sense. The critical failures happen when you remove the actual skeleton that holds the narrative together. Okay, let's unpack this because you're hitting on the exact distinction that makes today's deep dive so compelling for you listening right now. We aren't here to nitpick the lack of a one to one translation. Right, that would be exhausting. Totally. We are going to dissect the mechanics of how specific types of changes, ranging from shifting a character's internal development to outright cutting integral plot

2:05elements, how they can entirely break a story's spine. And we have some great source material to guide us today. Yes, we are pulling our insights from a really sharp piece on movie web by Rebecca Sargent. It's titled five terrible Stephen King book changes in movies that readers can't stand. It is a brilliant roadmap, honestly, for understanding the invisible scaffolding of a great story. And why is that scaffolding so important for, you know, just an everyday moviegoer to understand? Well, this framework is essential for anyone who consumes media. When you can spot exactly why an adaptation collapses, you stop just passively watching a screen. Right, you start seeing the matrix of storytelling, so to speak. You understand the structural integrity required to actually make an emotional arc land with the audience. So let's jump right into the matrix, then we have to start at the absolute bottom of the barrel. I mean, the most mind-boggling form of adaptation failure possible. Oh, boy. Yes. I am talking about completely utterly ignoring the source material. It's an aggressive phenomenon. I think we can just call the total erasure.

3:09Total erasure is the perfect categorization. Because in this first instance, the concept of adaptation is stretched so far it entirely snaps in half. Yeah. We are looking at the 1992 film, The Longmore Man, which is just a wild ride of a backstory. Right. Now, assuming you are familiar with King's bibliography, you probably know The Longmore Man as a short story from his night shift election. And it is a very specific flavor of King. Yes. And the beating heart of that story is pure unhinged pagan horror. It is rural. It is earthy. And it centers on this bizarre concept of a mythological satyr working for the ancient godpan. Yes. Operating a magically possessed lawnmower that requires literal blood sacrifice. It is deeply weird mythological horror. It relies entirely on primal dread. The fear of ancient unknowable forces operating in the mundane suburban lawns of modern America. Right. That just position is the engine of the narrative. Keep that engine in mind right. Because then the 1992 movie arrives. And what do we get?

4:12Not a satyr, that's for sure. No. We get a sci-fi thriller about a scientist experimenting on a gardener using virtual reality and mind altering drugs to enhance his intelligence. It is basically a cyberspace cautionary tale. Exactly. The mythological satyr gone. The pagan godpan gone. Even the lawnmower itself is essentially a fleeting background prop in the movie. Right. The absolute only similarity between Stephen King's written work and this film is the name of a character, Harold Parkhat. That is it. Just a name. Which really forces us to look at the commercial mechanics driving the film industry. Because decisions like this, they do not happen by artistic action. No, definitely not. They happen in boardrooms. In the early 1990s, the name Stephen King was essentially a license to print money. Oh, absolutely. It guaranteed a built-in audience and immediate cultural relevance. I have to push back a little here though. I mean, Hollywood has always used famous names to sell tickets, right. They loosely adapt things all the time to sit modern trends.

5:12Was this really that uniquely egregious or just standard 90s studio behavior? No, it was uniquely egregious. I mean, to the point of setting a legal precedent, there's a massive difference between a loose adaptation and outright fraudulent marketing. Okay, fair point. The studio, New Line Cinema, they had an entirely separate completely original sci-fi script called Cybergod. Cybergod, okay. Yeah, and it was heavily invested in the anxiety surrounding early cyberspace and human enhancement. But an original sci-fi script about VR was a tough sell at the box office back there. Ah, I see where this is going. So they forcibly slapped the title of King's unrelated short story onto this VR script simply to exploit his brand equity. Wow. It was so egregious that Stephen King actually successfully sued them to have his name removed from the title. I mean, it is the ultimate bait and switch. Imagine, you know, you sit down at a high end restaurant, you order a complex spicy curry and the waiter comes out and hands you a glass of room temperature tap water. Just tap water. Right. But they've taken a sharpie and written the word

6:16curry on the side of the glass. You wouldn't just sit there and drink the water, you would be furious. Exactly. The genres are actively repelling each other here. Yes, you are taking earthy blood-soaked paganism and replacing it with sterile digital futuristic sci-fi. The narrative was entirely a race to serve a technological trend. It's the most cynical form of therm making where the source material is viewed not as a story to be told, but merely as a billboard to be rented out. That's a great way to put it. But, you know, while one more man failed by basically throwing the book in the trash, our next example fails by attempting the exact opposite. Yes, this is a very different kind of failure. We are moving from complete erasure to what we can call the timeline tingle. Now, this one hurts. It does. This is where a studio tries to cram an epic sprawling narrative into a heavily revised suffocating little box. We have a talk about the 2017 film adaptation of the Dark Tower. A text play example of structural collapse. Truly. So, for context, if you aren't

7:21familiar, the Dark Tower isn't just a book. It is a multi-volume magnum opus connecting almost the entirety of Stephen King's fictional universe. There's massive. Yeah, it is this huge fantasy western sci-fi epic and the bedrock of this epic, which is introduced very early on in the second book, is a found family dynamic. Right. You have the stoic protagonist, Roland the Gunslinger. And he is joined by two incredibly vital characters, Eddie and Susanna. Crucial characters. Furthermore, a foundational pillar of the early narrative is the relationship between Eddie and a young boy named Jake. Particularly this sequence where they navigate New York City together. That dynamic is so crucial because it acts as the audience's emotional tether to a very alien complex world. Right. So what does the 2017 movie do? Well, it positions itself as a bizarre sequel or like a continuation of the book series while simultaneously pulling random plot points from book one and book three. Just a blender of plot points. Exactly. But the catastrophic failure

8:22here is that it entirely erases Eddie and Susanna from the narrative. They do not exist in this movie at all. Just gone. And because Eddie is gone, the movie takes that crucial New York sequence with Jake and swaps Eddie out, replacing him with Roland, which completely rewrites the emotional vocabulary of the story. Here's where it gets really interesting and where I just I struggle to understand the filmmakers logic. They claim they were being clever by calling it a continuation. But how can you justify stripping out the main supporting characters? It's mind boggling. It feels like trying to build the intricate roof of a mansion before you've even poured the concrete foundation. You're expecting the audience to live in a house that has no floor. Well, the justification likely stemmed from the sheer terror of managing a cinematic runtime. Ah, studio panic. Exactly. Studio executives look at an eight book epic and they just panic about pacing. They think, well, we have two hours. We must streamline this to a simple hero and villain dynamic. Right. Right. But let's look at the architectural collapse caused by that fear.

9:24Why are Eddie and Susanna so vital? Roland by design is an incredibly stoic, ancient and emotionally impenetrable protagonist. He's like a statue. He is. Eddie and Susanna are the ones who humanize them. They challenge his cold utilitarianism. They force him to evolve from a solitary killer into a leader who actually cares. When you erase them, you strand Roland on an emotional island. He is completely devoid of stakes. And the ripple effect of that erasure. I mean, it ruins the individual scenes too. Let's look at that New York sequence again. Okay. In the books, Eddie is from New York. He is street smart. He is battling modern demons like addiction. And when he is with Jake in the city, there is a very grounded, gritty, mentor, mentee dynamic. They share a modern context. Precisely. Now look at the mechanical failure of the film. You replace Eddie with Roland, who is an otherworldly gunslinger from a decaying parallel universe who has literally no concept of modern earth. Right. Suddenly, a nuanced character building moment turns into a cheap

10:28fish out of water comedy routine. Yes. He's bewildered by hot dogs and traffic lights. It becomes a slapstick routine. It entirely deflates the tone. The filmmakers took a narrative that requires immense patience, deliberate world building and profound character work. And they try to shortcut it with plot mechanics. What it shows. It really does. But in storytelling, you cannot shortcut a foundation. The failure of the 2017 film is ultimately the failure of the chosen medium. Which is why the movie web article actually points out a glimmer of hope on this front. Mike Flanagan is currently working on his own adaptation of the dark tower. Well, that's exciting. Right. And he is known for meticulous long form character driven horror. It really highlights why sprawling novelistic narratives are infinitely better suited for long form television. Absolutely. Two hours is simply not enough oxygen for a story of that magnitude to breathe. A multi-season format allows characters like Eddie and Susanna, the hours of screen time necessary to actually develop. It

11:29proves that sometimes forcing a story into the wrong format is the primary catalyst for its destruction. Okay, so we've dissected movies that just erased the plot and movies that crush the structure under the weight of a runtime constraint. But now we are venturing into territory that I think sparks the fiercest debates in all of film history. Oh, I know where this is going. We are talking about instances where the film is technically masterful, critically acclaimed, visually stunning, but it fundamentally alters the soul of the main character. This brings us to the philosophical divide between authorial intent and directorial vision. Most famously realized, of course, in Stanley Kubrick's 1980 adaptation of the shining. I know this one is a very touchy subject. You might be listening to this right now thinking, wait, Kubrick's the shining is a masterpiece. It's one of the greatest horror films ever made. And they wouldn't be wrong. It is a cinematic triumph. It is, but a great film can still be a deeply flawed adaptation. Let's dive into the core mechanics of why Stephen King so vehemently hated this version of the story. Let's do it.

12:31In the novel, Jack Torrance is a profoundly flawed man. He is battling severe alcoholism, explosive anger, and a history of domestic abuse. But the narrative engine of the book is his agonizing struggle against the overlook hotel's possession. Right, it's an internal battle. Exactly. He is trying to be a good man and he is just failing. The tragedy of the novel relies entirely on the audience believing that Jack genuinely loves his family. Even as the addiction, which is basically manifested by the hotel, slowly overtakes his mind. Right. And the climax of the book hinges on that tiny sliver of remaining humanity. In his final moments in the novel, Jack actually finds a tragic redemption. He does. He fights back against the hotel's grip just long enough to scream at his son, Danny, to run away. He sacrifices himself, allowing his family to escape before the hotel's boiler explodes. A boiler that Jack was obsessed with maintaining throughout the entire winter, by the way. It's heavily referenced. The boiler is such a masterful literary device in the book.

13:34It is a ticking clock, a symbol of mounting pressure, and ultimately a mechanism of fiery pergation. Now compare that to Kubrick's cinematic vision. There is no boiler explosion. Instead, we get the iconic snowy garden maze. Visually incredible, but very different. So different. Jack chases Danny through the freezing labyrinth with an axe, fails to catch him, gets lost, and freezes to death. He succumbs entirely to the hotel's evil. Yeah. He dies without ever regaining a single ounce of his humanity. And here we find the friction. Is it better that Kubrick changed it to fit his cold cynical vision? That's the million dollar question. Cinematically, one could argue yes, it created an unforgettable visual. But adaptively, it is a fundamental betrayal of the story's premise. But let me play double's advocate for a second here. If the resulting movie is iconic and widely considered superior art by film critics, does it really matter that he changed Jack's arc? Isn't the freezing maze just a more, I don't know, visually a resting way to end a horror movie

14:36than a standard explosion? It is visually arresting short, but it changes the genre of the emotional arc entirely. Let's use an analogy. I love analogies. Imagine a master painter is commissioned to paint a navigational map for a perilous journey. The painter delivers a gorgeous, impeccably crafted abstract canvas. The brushstrokes are masterful, the use of colors revolutionary. It belongs in a museum. Sounds beautiful. But if you actually try to use it to navigate your ship, you will crash into the rocks and drown. Oh wow. It completely fails at its original intended purpose. Yeah. King's novel was a map detailing a man's fight for his soul. Kubrick's film is a beautiful painting of a man who had no soul to begin with. That is a phenomenal way to look at it. Because when you analyze the symbolism of the two depths side by side, the divergence in their worldviews is just staggering. It really is night and day. Think about the boiler in the book, heat, pressure, and explosive climax. It represents a final violent burst of warm humanity. Yes, exactly.

15:37Jack's love for his son literally overrides the supernatural evil, resulting in a fiery destruction of that evil place. It is an active redeeming choice. Contracts that with the freezing cold of the maze. The maze is a symbol of psychological confusion. Yeah. Endlessly trapped within one's own neurotic mind. That's true. And the freezing to death, well, ice preserves. It is silent. It represents a complete emotional death and a chilling passive submission to the environment. Wow. The hotel doesn't burn down in the film. It stands victorious, having simply claimed another frozen soul for its photograph collection. It is the difference between a tragedy laced with hope and just pure cynical nihilism. Kubrick strips Jack of his agency entirely. He essentially makes him a puppet of the hotel from the very first frame. He really does. You can absolutely understand why Stephen King felt like someone took his intensely personal, painful story about his own real world struggles with addiction and just turned it into an ant farm where the ants are just freezing to death for a director's colonism. It is a profound loss of emotional redemption.

16:41But, you know, while we can debate the higher merits of Kubrick's thematic changes, the next adaptation we need to discuss, change its ending for reasons that are entirely indefensible. Oh, absolutely. Kubrick aimed for high art. This next film aimed for cheap, unearned shock value. This brings us to what we can call the lazy trope. And the 2016 film adaptation of the novel, Cell. Now, Cell isn't as culturally ubiquitous as the Shining. No, definitely not. But the 2016 movie adaptation holds a very special place in infamy as one of the most frustrating King adaptations ever produced. Because it fundamentally undermines the audience's psychological investment. Exactly. For a baseline, if you haven't read it, the premise of Cell revolves around a mysterious signal broadcast over cell phone networks called the pulse that basically turns anyone who hues it into violent, flocking, hive-mind creatures. A very modern zombie story. Right. And the protagonist, Clay, spends the entire story traversing this post-apocalyptic landscape, desperately searching for his son, Johnny. That's the emotional drive of the whole thing.

17:46Yeah. And in the novel's climax, Clay finally finds Johnny. But he is too late. Johnny has been infected by the pulse. It's devastating. The book ends with Clay making an excruciating and big US choice. He decides to subject his son to another blast of the signal, hoping it might act like a reset button or a defibrillator for his brain. We don't know if it works, right? No. We have no idea. It is a gritty unsettling resolution that forces the reader to just sit with the horror of the unknown. King is a master of the uncomfortable atmospheric dread. He respects the intelligence of his audience enough to leave them in the dark, pondering the terrible weight of Clay's decision. But the 2016 movie throws that atmospheric dread completely out the nearest window. It really does. In the final moments of the film, we get this explosive action sequence. We see an explosion at a major communications tower. We think our hero has achieved a massive world-saving victory. Typical Hollywood climax. Exactly. But then the camera pulls back and the movie reveals

18:47that the explosion was just an illusion. Clay is actually infected. Oh, it's so bad. He is surrounded by a massive horde of other infected people, all aimlessly walking in a massive circle around the tower. The movie relies on the absolutely dreaded, universally hated, it's all a hallucination trope. Structurally speaking, this is one of the most damaging choices a storyteller can make, regardless of the medium. But why do filmmakers keep relying on it? Like, is there an argument that an ambiguous ending, like the books, is frustrating for a cinematic audience so the director felt they needed a definitive twist to give closure, even if it was bleak closure? The desire for a definitive twist stems from a fundamental misunderstanding of audience psychology, particularly in, well, a post-M night shammel on Hollywood, where executives equate surprise with narrative depth. Oh, yeah, that makes sense. But let's break down the psychological contract between an audience and a storyteller. When you sit down to watch a film, you are entering into an unwritten agreement.

19:47You agree to suspend your disbelief and invest your finite emotional energy into the character struggles. In return, the storyteller agrees that those struggles have meaning and consequence within the established rules of that fictional world. There are stakes. If the character gets hurt, they bleed. If they achieve a victory, it actually moves the plot forward. Precisely. When a film employs the, it was all an illusion trope, it violently breaches that contract. It retroactively renders the entire journey meaningless. So frustrated. It did completely rob the characters of their agency because their choices didn't actually affect the tangible reality of the world. And it entirely robs the narrative of its stakes. It is incredibly insulting. Imagine you decide to run a marathon. You train for months, you sweat, you push through agonizing muscle cramps, and you finally cross the finish line. Okay, how I'm with you. You feel this immense wave of accomplishment. And then the judges walk up to you, hand you bottle of water and say, well, actually, you were just running on a treadmill in a basement the whole time. None of

20:49that forward progress was real. It completely destroys your investment. It breeds profound resentment. For the viewer who has spent two hours worrying about clay, rooting for his survival, and navigating this harrowing landscape alongside him, to be told in the final frame that their empathy was essentially a parlor trick. Right. It doesn't leave them pondering the philosophical nature of reality. It just makes them feel foolish for caring in the first place. King's original ending was dark because of the terrible grounded choice a father had to make. The movie's ending is dark purely for the sake of a cheap twist. Exactly. And that lazy choice proves that you can have all the right actors and all the right sets. But if you insult the audience's emotional investment at the finish line, the entire structural integrity of the film just collapses. It is a total theft of narrative stakes. But as frustrating as that is, it is perhaps even more troubling when a film alters the underlying reality of a character's profound trauma simply to make the plot function more neatly. Yeah. And that brings us to our final and honestly heaviest

21:54topic of this deep dive. We are looking at the trivialization of trauma in the 2019 blockbuster It Chapter 2. This is a critical study in how the external mechanics of Hollywood blockbusters often actively war against the internal emotional truth of literature. We need to focus specifically on the character of Stan Ures. In both the original novel and the film adaptation, Stan commits suicide when he receives a phone call informing him that Pennywise the Clown has returned to the town of Dairy. Right. The inciting incident for the adults. But it is the reasoning behind his tragic death that undergoes a drastic, highly controversial change between the page and the screen. And it's a very troubling change. And King's original text Stan's suicide is framed as a heartbreaking utterly somber reality of PTSD. When he gets that call, he is flooded with such an overwhelming, inescapable way of terror that he feels he has absolutely no other option to escape the creature's torment. The dread is insurmountable for him. Exactly. The book uses his death to brilliantly

22:55terrifyingly demonstrate the true horrific extent of the trauma inflicted by Pennywise. It establishes early on that the monster's power isn't merely physical. Right. It's deeper. It is a psychological poison that has festered quietly and stands mine for decades. Basically just waiting to be reactivated. It is a profoundly sad moment. But let's look at what the screen writers for it chapter two decided to do with that moment. Yeah. Prepare yourself. They fundamentally changed the reason for his suicide. They turned it into a plot device. The film frames his death as an honorable calculated sacrifice. Stan essentially leaves behind a letter that acts as a suicide note. And this letter is used as a tool to motivate the rest of the losers club to fight back and defeat Pennywise for good. It's just wild. The movie implies he killed himself because he knew he would be a weak link in the upcoming battle and they needed him out of the way to win, which completely catastrophically alters the thematic weight of the entire narrative. Now I want to try and see this from the perspective of Hollywood screenwriter. I can imagine

23:58being in a writer's room and someone saying, Hey, Stan's death in the book is too depressing. It makes him look like a victim. Right. They want to action. Let's give him some agency. Let's make his death mean something positive. Let's make him a hero who helps save his friends. On the surface, I can kind of see how someone might think that is an empowering change for the character. Well, it sounds empowering in a boardroom pitch, maybe. But in execution, it is deeply dangerous thematic territory. Why is that? To understand why we have to look at the function of the horror genre itself at its absolute best horror is a mirror reflecting real world trauma, societal anxieties, and deep-seated psychological fears. Absolutely. Stephen King's. It is at its core a scrolling master class in examining severe childhood trauma and the devastating ways it carries over into adulthood. Right. Pennywise is really just the physical manifestation of that trauma. Precisely. In the book, Stan's death is an uncompromising bleak statement on the inescapable nature of severe trauma. It acknowledges the uncomfortable reality that sometimes the wounds

25:03are simply too deep and the victim is entirely consumed. It demands that the reader look at the ugly, unvarnished reality of what deep-seated fear can do to a human mind without offering a silver lining. It is honest. It doesn't try to wrap the neat little bow around a tragedy. It just says, this is the horrific reality of what this monster did to this boy. But the movie's reframing attempts to sanitize that trauma. By turning a despairing, fear-driven suicide into a heroic sacrifice that was like mathematically necessary for the team's victory. The film trivializes Stan's actual pain. It really does. It implies that his death was a utility, a necessity for the plot to resolve happily. It takes a complex, devastating exploration of PTSD and distills it into a cheap, easily digestible motivational poster to hype up the remaining characters of the third act CGI battle. It essentially says, well, it's a good thing he got out of the way so the strong kids could win the fight. Yes. It is incredibly cynical, all while masquerading as being empowering. It is the ultimate betrayal of the reader's

26:05emotional connection to that character. You spend hours reading about this kid's intricate fears, his fragile state of mind and his quiet suffering, and the movie turns his lowest moment into a tactical chess move. It perfectly illustrates the friction we mentioned earlier. Hollywood blockbusters are so often driven by these external plot mechanics. Getting from point A to point B, ensuring the pacing doesn't drag, defeating the bad guy with a need emotionally satisfying resolution. They need those gears to turn. Exactly. And they will actively crush the emotional truth of a story to make the gears of the plot turn faster. They attempt to make the audience feel inspired by an act that should, by all rights, only evoke profound sorrow and horror. Yeah. And when the external mechanics crush the internal truth, the adaptation fails. Which brings us full circle. We have covered a massive amount of ground today, analyzing the very DNA of storytelling. If we look at the core through line of everything we have discussed, the overarching lesson is clear. Adaptations do not fail simply because they

27:07change things. Right. Change is inevitable in translation across medium. Exactly. They fail when they lose the soul of the source material. We have observed a full spectrum of this failure today. We really have. We saw literal plot erasure in the lawnmower man, where brand equity was valued over narrative integrity. The glass of water instead of curry. Right. We witnessed structural collapse in the dark tower, where crucial foundational characters were removed, leaving the protagonist without an emotional anchor. Building a roof with no floor. Yes. We examined the loss of character redemption in the shining, where an author's message of agency and hope was replaced by a director's vision of cynical freezing isolation. The map versus the beautiful painting. We discussed the theft of narrative stakes in cell, where a cheap trope breached the psychological contract with the audience. The treadmill marathon. And finally, we analyzed the trivialization of emotional truth in it, chapter two, where a profound trauma was sanitized into a convenient plot device. It is a gauntlet of

28:07bad narrative decisions. And I really hope holding onto these specific insights changes the way you watch movies going forward. The next time you sit down in a theater or on your couch to watch an adaptation of a book you love, I encourage you to look past the surface level. Yes, definitely. Don't just get mad because the actor's hair doesn't match the book cover. Look deeper into the matrix of the story. Ask yourself. Did they just keep the character names or did they actually keep the character's soul? That's the real test. Did they preserve the emotional truth of the journey? When you start asking those questions, you start seeing the invisible scaffolding of how stories are truly built. And as you ponder that scaffolding, I want to leave you with one final lingering thought to explore on your own. Oh, I love these. We have seen throughout this deep dive how Steven King's literature is deeply rooted in internal character struggles in the messy realities of addiction and in the sprawling, untidy, often unresolved nature of emotional trauma. Very true. Conversely,

29:09we have seen how the Hollywood blockbuster machine is almost entirely driven by external plot mechanics, visual spectacle, neat resolutions, and the strict constraints of a two-hour run time. They are very different beasts. So the question remains, if a story is fundamentally built on internal sprawling emotional truth, and the cinematic medium heavily favors external condensed mechanical action is a perfect cinematic adaptation of his most complex work inherently impossible without fundamentally changing the medium itself. Can a two-hour film ever truly hold the weight of a thousand-page exploration of the human soul? That is a heavy, fantastic question to chew on, and it perfectly encapsulates why this process will always be like that delicate organ transplant. Sometimes you just can't force a sprawling complex heart into a tightly-constructed chest cavity without something breaking. Thank you so much for joining us on this deep dive. We hope you walk away with a sharper scalpel for your own media consumption. We will see you next time.