The following comparison was originally offered in the original Fine Line movie release web site. 

Novel

From Crash by J. G. Ballard:

Waiting until we could leave, I watched Helen Remington and Vaughan steer Seagrave into the living-room. The stunt driver gazed unclearly at the cheap leatherette furniture, for a moment failing to recognize his own house. He lay back on the sofa as his wife remonstrated with Helen, as if she, the doctor, were responsible for her patient's symptoms. For some reason, Vera Seagrave absolved Vaughan of any responsibility, although -- as I realized later and she must have known already -- Vaughan was clearly using her husband as an experimental subject. A handsome, restless woman of about thirty, she wore her hair in a simulated Afro wig. A small child watched us all from between her legs, its blunt fingers straying to the two long scars on the mother's thighs exposed by her mini-skirt.

Briefly holding Vera Seagraves's waist as she questioned Helen Remington, Vaughan stepped past to the trio sitting on the twin sofa opposite. The man, a television producer who had made Vaughan's first programmes, nodded encouragingly as Vaughan described Seagrave's accident, but was too glazed by the hash he had been smoking -- the body-sweet smoke hung in a diagonal drift across the room -- to focus his mind on the possibilities of a programme. Beside him on the sofa a sharp-faced young woman was preparing another joint; as she rolled a small piece of resin in a twist of silver foil Vaughan brought a brass lighter out of his hip pocket. She cooked the resin, and shook the powder into the open cigarette waiting in the roller machine on her lap. A social worker in the Stanwell child-welfare department, she was a long-standing friend of Vera Seagrave.

On her legs were traces of what seemed to be gas bacillus scars, faint circular depressions on the kneecaps. She noticed me starting at the scars, but made no effort to close her legs. On the sofa beside her was a chromium metal cane. As she moved I saw that the instep of each leg was held in the steel clamp of a surgical support. From the over-rigid posture of her waist I guessed that she was also wearing a back-brace of some kind. She rolled the cigarette out of the machine, glancing at me with evident suspicion. I guessed that this reflex of hostility was prompted by her assumption that I had not been injured in an automobile crash, unlike Vaughan, herself and the Seagraves. Helen Remington touched my arm. 'Seagrave -- ' She pointed to the sprawling figures of the blond-haired driver. He had revived and was now playfully tripping up his infant son. 'Apparently there's some stunt-driving at the studios tomorrow. Can you stop him?'

'Ask his wife. Or Vaughan -- he seems to call the tune.'

'I don't think we should.'

The television producer called out, 'Seagrave is doubling now for all the actresses. It's that beautiful blond hair. What do you do for a brunette, Seagrave?'

Seagrave flicked at his son's minuscule penis. 'Shove it up her arse. Hash first, make a tight little suppository, then ramrod it home. Two trips for the price of one.' He peered reflectively at his grimy hands. 'I'd like to get them all in the cars we have to drive. What do you think of that, Vaughan?'

'We will, one day.' There was a surprising hint of deference in Vaughan's voice as he looked down at the stunt-driver. 'We'll do that.'

'With those cheap bloody harnesses we have to wear.' Seagrave drew on the loosely packed cigarette Vaughan passed to him. He held the smoke in his lungs as he stared at the mountain of derelict cars at the bottom of his garden. 'Can you see them, Vaughan, in one of those high-speed pile-ups? Doing a really groovy roll-over. Or a hard head-on job. I dream about that. It's your whole thing, Vaughan.'

Vaughan smiled reassuringly, a metallic grimace. 'You're right, of course. Who do we start with?'

Seagrave smiled through the smoke. He ignored his wife, who was trying to calm him, and stared with level eyes at Vaughan. 'I know who I'd start with...' 'Maybe.'

'...I can see those big tits cut up on the dash.' Vaughan turned away abruptly, almost as if he were afraid of Seagrave stealing a march on him. The scars on his mouth and forehead carried his face beyond ordinary feeling. He glanced at the other sofa, where his television producer and the crippled young woman, Gabrielle, were passing a cigarette to and fro.

I turned to go, deciding to wait for Helen in my car. Vaughan followed me through the door. He held my arm in a strong grip.

'Don't leave yet, Ballard. I want you to help me.'

As he surveyed the scene I had the sense that Vaughan was controlling us all, giving each of just what we most wanted and feared.

The Script

INT. SEAGRAVE APT. - NIGHT

The Seagrave apartment is dirty and depressing, featuring cheap, cigarette-scarred leatherette furniture.

James watches Helen and Vaughan steer Seagrave into the living-room, where two people sit on a couch watching television with the sound turned off: Gabrielle, a sharp-faced young woman who is rolling a hash joint; and Seagrave's wife, Vera, a handsome, restless woman of about thirty.

Vera stands as they come in and rushes over to shaky Seagrave.

VERA
Oh, God. What Happened? Here, lie down.

Vera and Helen lay the confused Seagrave down on the three-seat sofa, while Vaughan sits next to Gabrielle and helps her prepare another hash joint. James, awkwardly left standing, notices long scars on Vera's thighs and legs.

HELEN
They did the James Dean crash. It seemed to go perfectly. But he started to feel nauseous on the way back. I'm sure it's concussion.

VERA
Ah, well...We're familiar enough with that, then, aren't we?

James watches Gabrielle and Vaughan. As she rolls a small piece of resin in a twist of silver foil, Vaughan brings a brass lighter out of his hip pocket. Gabrielle cooks the resin, and shakes the powder into the open cigarette waiting in the roller machine on her lap.

On Gabrielle's legs are traces of what seem to be gas bacillus scars, faint circular depressions on the kneecaps. She notices James staring at her scars, but makes no effort to close her legs.

On the sofa beside her is a chromium metal cane and, as she shifts her weight, James sees that the instep of each leg is held in the steel clamp of a surgical support. It now becomes obvious from the over-rigid posture of her waist that she is also wearing a back-brace of some kind.

Gabrielle rolls another cigarette out of the machine, but does not offer it to James. Instead, Vaughan gets up and takes it over to Seagrave, who has managed to sit up.

VAUGHAN
I'd really like to work out the details of the Jayne Mansfield crash with you. We could do the decapitation-her head embedded in the windshield-and the little dead dog thing as well. You know, the Chihuahuas in the back seat. I've got it figured out.

Seagrave takes the lit joint and draws heavily on it. He holds the smoke in his lungs for a while, studies the grease on his hands before he answers.

SEAGRAVE
You know I'll be ready Vaughan. But I'll want to wear really big tits - out to here - so the crowd can see them get cut up and crushed on the dashboard.

James turns to go, leaving Helen to her conversation with Vera, but Vaughan follows him through the door, holding his arm in a powerful grip.

VAUGHAN
Don't leave yet, Ballard. I want you to help me.