Content warning: This story has mentions of suicide, rape and sexual assault, and mental illness.
Moved by the idea of goodness and evil — how they can exist within a person, and how that person can either pass it on or prevent their kin from inheriting it in the same way — John Steinbeck published his magnum opus, East of Eden, in 1951. Retelling the biblical stories of Adam and Eve, and Cain and Abel, Steinbeck explores the importance of family through the Trasks and their journey to Salinas Valley, California, attempting to live “good” lives.
On Oct. 1, director Zoe Kazan’s limited series adaptation of East of Eden was released on Netflix. Starring Florence Pugh and Christopher Abbott, Kazan’s story aims to highlight Cathy Ames — one of Steinbeck’s most notorious villains — and it hardly omits any original detail from his classic novel.
Just a heads up: This article will feature heavy spoilers for both the novel and the adaptation, so if you have any interest in either, I highly recommend reading or watching one (or both!) prior to reading this article.
Before I delve into the storyline, I think a quick “who’s who” is helpful. This story has a lot of characters — a few of whom were reduced for the purpose of the series — but I’ll stick to who is most important. The story begins with war veteran Cyrus Trask and his two sons, Adam and Charles. Adam feels as though he is tortured by his father for his softer disposition, and admires his younger brother Charles’ brute strength and fearlessness. So, when Cyrus enlists timid Adam in the military as opposed to belligerent Charles, the brothers grow to envy and scorn one another.
Adam returns many years after being sent away, having left the military and becoming a vagrant, hopping from train to train. Back at home, Adam and Charles meet Catherine “Cathy” Ames, who quite literally crawled onto their doorstep, beaten and half-dead. Cathy, as you may have guessed, is Adam’s “Eve” of the story, and is the main focus of the Netflix adaptation. After Adam falls in love with and marries Cathy, the two of them move to Salinas Valley — against Cathy’s will — and leave Charles behind.
In Salinas Valley, Cathy gives birth to twin boys Caleb “Cal” and Aron; the brothers are meant to reflect Cain and Abel. Samuel Hamilton, a well-driller from outside of the valley, becomes a much-needed advisor to Adam after Cathy leaves him behind with their children. Lee, the Chinese-American maid, cook, and substitute parent to the twins, is also incredibly formative in Adam’s journey to recovery.
If you have already read the book or watched the series — or both (props to you) — you know that it’s difficult to form a consistent opinion on any character in this story. None of them are always likable and it’s also not impossible to sympathize with those most deeply characterized by their wickedness. That dynamism was Steinbeck’s intention, replicating how we ourselves often experience change in relation to those who surround us. It’s not a test of our own moral character, but rather an insight into how our perceptions of people are shaped by our limited knowledge of them.
The least likeable character in this story is, arguably, Cathy Ames, who is stunningly portrayed by Pugh. Steinbeck introduces Cathy with an analysis of monsters, the physical and mental kind, as he deems them.
“Monsters are variations from the accepted norm to a greater or lesser degree … No, to a monster the norm must seem monstrous, since everyone is normal to himself. To the inner monster it must be even more obscure, since he has no visible thing to compare with others.”
One of Cathy’s most notable traits is her refusal of pity, both rejecting it from others who rarely see a reason to give it, and by refusing to give it herself. Cathy acts with malice because she intends to, and Pugh’s performance is equally as cold and revolting.
When asked about the choices she made while playing Cathy in an interview with Waterstones, Pugh highlights Cathy’s moral ugliness: “I wanted to feel the ramifications of the decisions that she makes … Yes, we want to understand her, but we’re still showing her do all of the awful things that she does. We’re not removing that from her. She still does bad, but there’s reasons as to why she made those decisions.”
Acting alongside Pugh as Charles Trask, Mike Faist is challenged to portray a similar evil. Charles, as previously stated, was limited to the life of a farmhand during what could have been an incredibly formative period of his life from a moral standpoint. Brutish and divisive, Charles could have easily crossed the line into the same unhinged kind of evil that Cathy possesses had he been given the opportunity to — that opportunity being living the life of a soldier that Adam lived instead. Charles did not have access to the experiences that would have ruined his morality, but that evil still exists within him.
“I always saw it as my job to make Cathy feel like she is not welcome here in any sort of way,” said Faist in an interview with Still Watching Netflix. From the moment Cathy drags herself onto the Trask’s front porch, Charles detests her. Whether that is because he hates that he can see his own wickedness reflected in her or because he is jealous that she had the opportunity to unleash it is not entirely known to the reader nor the audience. To quote Charles, “maybe kind just recognizes kind.” Either way, the tension in their dynamic poses an interesting exploration of “what could have been.” Is there a way in which Cathy could be good? Is there a world where Charles wasn’t complacent?
I have seen multiple reviews online claiming Kazan attempts to make the audience like Cathy by centering her story, dulling her character. Cathy — in both the novel and the series — is seen by those around her as “purely” evil. They do not know her entire story and she refuses to give it. She feeds off of the power any act of ill-intent gives her because she has had many other means of control stripped from her again and again. The entirety of both the novel and the series attempt to answer whether anyone can purely be one thing or another. It’s another take on nature versus nurture: are we born evil, or do we become so through the damages done to us by our environment?
Being a woman in the late 19th and early 20th centuries meant being controlled: by men, by society, and by the government. Their value as people was often measured by how well they could control themselves, by how “ladylike” they could act (and as much as I’m thankful classics like this book are still relevant, it’s scary how accurate these pieces still are today).
Cathy had been raped, had used sex as a way to survive and support herself, was beaten, and almost killed by a man who wanted control of her sexuality for using her sexuality to her own advantage. One of the few notable changes from the novel to the screen adaptation was the confirmation that Cathy had experienced sexual assault as a child. In the novel, she is questioned on the truth of her experience because of the string of lies she had told about her life. By confirming that horrible experience, Pugh argues that it challenges the audience to empathize with a character that is so immoral. It gives her a frame of reference — as an explanation, not an excuse — for the start of her hateful life.
In an interview with Collider, Pugh stated, “I think, as a woman, being able to give her another go is a huge responsibility. But it’s one that I really appreciated doing.” Steinbeck gave the men who were ridden with evil an explanation as to why they were, so why now should an audience reject that same demonstration with Cathy?
I think it’s worth noting that Steinbeck was not trying to demonize women by writing Cathy in such a way. In many ways Cathy broke the literary and social standards for women. She is depraved and unashamed, and she is terrible. Kazan remembers being roped in by Cathy’s malicious disposition when she first read the novel at 15: “Cathy Ames sort of grabbed me by the throat and wouldn’t let go. I found her just completely arresting and fascinating. I was attracted to her. I was repelled by her. I was endlessly curious about her…”
Kazan attempts to get her audience to see Cathy’s evil in a slightly different light by depicting Cathy in the way she has always seen her character. In making this series, Kazan found relatability the most raw and influential aspect of Steinbeck’s original writing. Cathy refuses comfort and thrives in chaos, and Kazan tells watchers that, “I think the thing we share in common is that, like, we run towards the fear. I think the fear of adapting this was incredibly scary to me and I did not know how I was going to do it, and that made me desperately want to do it.” Maybe Kazan has a powerful, innate sense of self-assurance in the same way Cathy finds power in her calculated insanity.
In the end, Cathy dies as Kate Albey, the madam of a brothel in Salinas Valley. She surrounded herself in darkness — painting her rooms black, wearing only black and dark sunglasses, keeping the curtains permanently shut to prevent any and all light from entering. This physical gloom had allowed her inner darkness to permeate. Driven insane by imagined voices of her past and drowned by an uncharacteristic remorse for her actions after finally meeting her two sons, Cathy meets death on her own terms.
Kazan’s visual interpretation depicts Cathy’s atmosphere and presence in a way that cannot be conveyed through a textual story. It makes Steinbeck’s original symbolism all the more blatant, and somehow I still worry that the nuances imagined by both creators will be lost on an audience. For those that will watch the series first, I hope they are inspired to tackle the novel. For those who have read and loved the novel, I hope they won’t avoid this adaptation in fear of yet another botched retelling.