The new book from JORVIK PRESS
The new book from JORVIK PRESS
Shylock Must Die by Clive Sinclair. 192 pp. Halban, 2018.
Clive Sinclair seems to have taken to heart the hot tip Isaac Bashevis Singer gave him in the seventies: “Never begin a story until you are convinced that you are the only person who can write it.” Here was not just permission but an imperative to write about one’s idiosyncratic obsessions. In Sinclair’s case, a Jewish Londoner born in 1948, those included such things as John Wayne and Israel, Kafka and Tintin, anal sex and football. Sinclair’s seemingly incongruous lifelong enthusiasms proved to be a sustaining source of plots–many of his stories are the fictionalised travelogues of a far-seeking pilgrim–and also of enlightening metaphors. His unmistakable voice delivered all the necessary coherence, the singular vision.
When I interviewed him at his home in Chelsea in early 2011, I was surprised by the contrast between the cosmopolitan elegance of his prose–both in his fiction and in his emails–and unpretentious Clive in the flesh, who seemed already significantly older than his early sixties, evidently worn down by the grief and kidney disease of his middle-age. Yet his “soap opera from hell,” as he had memorably put it, had not ruined him. He remained kind, funny, and generous. He was still eagerly engaged with literature and politics as a reviewer for the Times Literary Supplement. He’d pushed through into a long and fruitful second act despite the decline of the literary fame he’d achieved in the 1980s. The stories, I think, had become richer.
Clive died on March 5 but has left his readers with a final book, Shylock Must Die. As he had used the western genre in True Tales of the Wild West (2008), he latterly turned to Shakespeare’s Shylock as the spark for six occasionally interconnected comic stories that explore his classic themes of Jewishness and antisemitism, fathers and sons, illness and death. He freely ranges across the centuries and the map. There are fewer cowboys and less eroticism than usual. Several stories are populated by members of two twentieth century Anglo-Jewish families whose fishy names–Carp and Salmon–are courtesy of a facetious Prussian bureaucracy in long-abandoned Warsaw. The Salmons closely resemble the Sinclairs of Hendon in London, which means the ridiculously-named son Calman is Clive’s alter-ego.
This collection’s eponymous novella was first published in Death & Texas (2014) and reappears as the anchoring tale of the new book. As Wide Sargasso Sea challenged the Victorian trope of the Mad Woman in the Attic by giving us her point of view, ‘Shylock Must Die’ provides a rather more comic retelling of The Merchant of Venice through another set of Venetian blinds — those of Tubal, Jewish P. I. (“two hundred ducats a day, plus expenses.”) It turns out that Shakespeare’s dramatisation of the unusual legal squabble between Shylock and Antonio was highly selective and misleading. Antonio and Bassanio are, in fact, ruthless murderers of a Jewish boy and Shylock is a mensch, the pound of flesh a clause intended to fulfill “divine justice.” Meanwhile, Shylock’s disloyal daughter Jessica is the silly dupe of Lorenzo, who sells her to white-slavers bound for the Americas. Tubal is given the thankless job of rescuing her from a ship in Genoa. Jessica finally wises up and turns femme fatale.
‘Tears of the Giraffe’ is another tale of the generation gap. Two teenage Swedish Hitler enthusiasts will discover the inconvenient fact they have a Jewish mother during the Nazi era. The story is bookended by stage productions that suggest the mutability of Shakespeare. A German-language Hamlet at Elsinore itself in 1940 presents Claudius as a Shylock-type with “lank greasy hair, and a nose that could cut a path through the north-west passage.” When Claudius virtually confesses his murderous crime during the play-within-the-play, the audience/mob cries spontaneously “Kill the Jew!” Yet four horrible years later, when The Merchant is staged at Stockholm’s Royal Dramatic Theatre, Shylock is a sympathetic Swedish-accented victim.
Clive sometimes mentioned his plans to write a lucrative novel about a detective to whom he would lend his own failed kidneys. It would be preceded by a prequel set in the detective’s dialysis-free childhood and inspired by the Tintin adventure The Castafiore Emerald (1962). He never seems to have found a worthy villain for his detective novel, but the prequel was achieved here as ‘A Wilderness of Monkeys.’ Calman Salmon is the detective-to-be. In 1961 the Salmons holiday in Venice’s Hotel Belmont, which has only recently re-opened its doors to a quota of Jews. Mr. Salmon buys a ruby necklace for his wife, which leads to an accusation of cat-burglary by an antisemitic Contessa, a trial, and a payoff that reaches into the present day.
The other stories take place mostly in our own era and fictionalise several Shylock-inspired peregrinations. One incorporates a 2012 performance of The Merchant in Hebrew by Jerusalem’s Habima Theatre at the Globe amid heavy security and persistent heckles. Clive told me how fascinated he’d been by the strange situation of Jews attacked for attempting to stage and watch an antisemitic play. Although not without sympathy for the plight of Palestinians, Clive resented the self-righteousness of the English protesters, many of whom he identified as antisemites, and “the unspoken assertion that if you were not with the hecklers, then you were a latter-day Shylock yourself, demanding your pound of Palestinian flesh.”
Other stories arose from his attendance at Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s mock trial of Shylock in the Venetian Ghetto in 2016 and a visit to the Venetian Resort Hotel in Las Vegas. In the Vegas story, a fast-moving political fantasy of the American West, his fictional hotel mogul Shy Lokshen — descending, of course, from Jessica and Lorenzo — creates a golem who becomes a Trump-like President. Incidentally, Clive emailed me in late 2016 to describe how much he had enjoyed taking a swing at a Trump piñata in Santa Cruz. Finally, ‘Shylock’s Ghost’ takes an ageing Calman to the Hendon film set of his son’s “reboot” of Merchant. He slips through a time portal and briefly visits his long-dead parents in the company of the 18th century actor Charles Macklin (in the guise of Shylock). Our narrator returns to the present but on the final page is fading away, appearing to his son “as insubstantial as a kodachrome.”
With a prefatory tribute to the late Israeli painter Yosl Bergner and a epigraph from Hamlet on the death of fathers, this is an unavoidably death-haunted book. And yet Clive did not allow the unappealing coming attraction to strip out the zest, humour, and searing intelligence he brought to all of his inimitable, individual, profoundly human stories.
[Image: Orson Welles as Shylock in The Merchant of Venice (1969)]
My report for Wellesnet on my recent Welles research in Turin.
by Matthew Asprey Gear
“A few weeks ago I visited Italy’s Museo Nazionale Del Cinema in Turin on a research project under the sponsorship of the Ernest Hemingway Society. While there I not only made significant discoveries to aid my project, but also had the chance to survey the highlights of a largely unexplored archive that should excite all Wellesians….”
Ray Kelly of Wellesnet also writes on another discovery of mine:
“A previously unknown English-language novel credited to Orson Welles has been discovered in the archives of the National Museum of Cinema in Turin.
“The bound hardcover typescript of V.I.P. ― mistakenly cataloged at one point by the museum as a treatment for the movie The V.I.P.’s or V.I.P ― is an English version of Welles’ French novel Une Grosse Legume (A Big Shot), translated by Maurice Bessy and published by Gallimard Editions of Paris in 1953, according to Matthew Asprey Gear, author of At The End of the Street in the Shadow: Orson Welles and the City.”
“John Updike was one of the most wide-ranging and conscientious book reviewers in the history of American publishing. For half a century he operated as a “psychotic Santa of volubility” (in the words of Martin Amis), producing hundreds of reviews and occasional essays for the New Yorker and other publications.
“Updike assembled compendiums of this non-fictional prose at regular intervals throughout his career: Assorted Prose (1965), Picked-Up Pieces (1975), Hugging the Shore (1983), Odd Jobs (1991), More Matter (1999), and Due Considerations (2007). Despite the seeming modesty of their titles, and the mock-apologetic tone of their prefaces, these collections are enormously ambitious and comprehensive.
“This paper critically examines Updike’s methods of collating his non-fictional prose, the efforts of a meticulous self-anthologist building a uniform oeuvre. It will discuss critical responses to Updike’s collections, as well as contrasting publication practices by contemporary essayists including Anthony Burgess and Gore Vidal.”
EVAN HUNTER’S JUNGLE KIDS and AN INTERVIEW WITH FLOYD SALAS
I have made two contributions to a beautifully illustrated book edited by Andrew Nette & Iain McIntyre called Girl Gangs, Biker Boys, and Real Cool Cats: Pulp Fiction and Youth Culture, 1950 to 1980 (Oakland: PM Press, 2017).
The first is a long essay on Evan Hunter’s contributions to the juvenile deliquency genre including The Blackboard Jungle (1954), A Matter of Conviction (1959) and The Jungle Kids (1956).
The other is an interview with the fascinating and under-appreciated American writer Floyd Salas, conducted in collaboration with Andrew Nette: ‘Whoever Was In Control Was The One To Watch‘.
ORSON WELLES’S THE TRIAL
A study of Orson Welles’s screen adaptation of The Trial in Jim Craddock (ed.), Books to Film: Cinematic Adaptations of Literary Works, Volume 1 (Boston: Gale Cengage Learning, 2017).
ANTHONY BURGESS AND ORSON WELLES: HACKWORK AND BRICOLAGE
A paper presented at the Anthony Burgess: Life, Work, Reputation conference at the International Anthony Burgess Foundation, Manchester (3-5 July 2017).
ADRIAN MARTIN looks at CONTRAPPASSO: WRITERS AT THE MOVIES
Adrian Martin’s article ‘What is Literary Cinephilia?’, which discusses the special ‘Writers at the Movies’ issue of Contrappasso Magazine (2015) edited by Noel King and Matthew Asprey Gear, appeared in the May 2017 issue of Sight and Sound, pp. 56-57.
If you can imagine the experience of watching an Abbas Kiarostami film in an Iranian mountain village, or Star Wars on a space station, you’ll have some idea how strange it was to see Julie Bertuccelli’s wonderful Since Otar Left (2003) at a Tbilisi film club less than a decade after it had been shot in that city. In fact, some scenes had been shot directly outside that tiny cinema on Rustaveli Avenue. There were chuckles of recognition.
That season Tbilisi revealed to me its double identity. When the clouds were black the city was an atmospheric post-Soviet ruin stinking of cold mud and acrid cigarettes. The sagging balconies of its nineteenth century apartment buildings sometimes hung by a single bolt, while the Soviet concrete monoliths looked, bizarrely enough, centuries older. Rubble piled up on the footpaths. The flaking and mould-blackened yellow paint, the makeshift patches of rust-red tin, the bare-limbed trees — all contributed to an atmosphere of devastation. And yet when the sun sparkled on the River Mtkvari all that decay seemed diminished and Tbilisi was as delightful as an Italian renaissance town.
Since Otar Left captures that urban duality. Co-written by Bertuccelli and Bernard Renucci, the film centres on three generations of a Georgian family. The elderly matriarch’s adored son, a doctor named Otar, is working as an illegal immigrant in Paris. The report comes of his accidental death. To spare the old woman this devastating news, her granddaughter begins to fake new letters from Otar. This plot is nothing new — E. L. Doctorow’s story ‘A Writer in the Family’ (1984) spins from the same basic idea — and yet the subtle screenplay and the tremendous performances of its three central actresses are the foundations of a powerfully moving film.
Each of the three main characters seeks her own vision of dignity and independence. The elderly matriarch Eka (Esther Gorintin) is stubborn, full of life despite her years, and unfairly critical of her supposedly ambitionless daughter Marina (Nino Khomasuridze). Marina’s daughter Ada (Dinara Drukarova), while dutiful and loving, is bored by her university studies, bored by her casual boyfriend, and bored by the squabbles of her mother and grandmother over the legacy of Stalin in the close quarters of their ramshackle apartment.
All this takes place in an era of economic deprivation. The film repeatedly returns to the failure of Tbilisi’s basic utilities a decade after the end of the Soviet Union. Power outages leave the women in the dark. The water supply cuts while Marina is washing her hair in the shower, causing her to cry out in despair, “Life’s impossible in this fucking country!” (By 2011 the situation had improved, although most of the shops in the city centre had a petrol-powered generator on its stoop ready to start puttering.) To survive, Marina must sell items in the open-air antiques market beside the river with her supportive but inessential lover; at one moment she tells him with a laugh, “I wish I was in love with you.” (That week I had browsed in that very market, where ruined cars live on as permanent stalls selling every imaginable item: swords, canes, pick-axes, rusty pistols, button accordions, 8mm camera equipment, pictures of 1970s Soviet film starlets, cigar boxes decorated in Polynesian kitsch, and century-old adding machines.) When Eka falls ill, the hospital facilities are inadequate and the bill must be paid immediately in cash to the bored, chain-smoking doctor.
Despite hard times, life goes on in Georgia. Eka, Marina, and Ada own an idealic country dacha where they collect fruit. They gather with friends in their apartment to sing folk songs. They pause by the roadside to tie strips of cloth to a wish tree — until Ada refuses to perpetuate this superstition.
The women also follow family tradition as devoted Francophiles — although none of the three have ever actually visited France. This is one reason Eka is so supportive of Otar’s life in Paris. At night Ada reads to Eka from a volume of Proust, part of the valuable library of French books that had to be hidden during the darkest Soviet years. France represents the apex of culture and economic opportunity. There is a powerful conclusion as Ada, with Eka’s complicity but Marina’s distress, decides to remain behind in Paris as an illegal immigrant. As an audience we are left in no doubt that Georgia is a provincial dead-end for Ada. The film boldly depicts illegal immigration as a step towards self-fulfilment. France offers a new life. It might have been a colossally chauvinistic move for these French screenwriters to invent Georgian characters who exalt France in this way, but I have to admit I was totally won over by the humanity of the performances and the universality of the film’s theme: the desire for a better life and to transcend the mundane here and now.
Nevertheless, watching this story about Tbilisi in Tbilisi gave me a usefully unsettled perspective. Is Since Otar Left a film made for international audiences rather than for the Georgians it purports to depict? I’m sure many locals do not consider it a Georgian film. Although acted in a mixture of Georgian and French, only one of the three leads, Nino Khomasuridze, is actually a local (the late Esther Gorintin was Polish and Dinara Drukarova is Russian). I’m not suggesting that Bertuccelli was a superficial tourist — after all, she was a protégé of director Otar Iosseliani — but I wondered whether Georgians consider her a cultural interloper, a Western European condescending to tell a story about the citizens of an impoverished country who idolise her own.
Luckily, Bertuccelli has given me a convenient opportunity to evaluate that question because her second fiction feature, The Tree (2010), was made in my home country, Australia. All the characters are Australian with the exception of its nominally French-English protagonist, Dawn, played by Charlotte Gainsbourg. The setting is rural Queensland. Dawn’s husband dies and leaves his family in grief. His young daughter (Morgana Davies) comes to believe that the enormous Moreton Bay Fig on their property has absorbed his spirit and can speak to her. Dawn also toys with the belief. But the tree grows wildly, and its roots and branches invade the house. The neighbours are outraged. The family’s grieving process, the slow acceptance of the man’s death, is mirrored by the eventual abandonment of the tree after an act of God.
How well does Bertuccelli grasp the Australian milieu? An interesting question, because I don’t actually think many unquestionably Australian films demonstrate any particular insight into Australia as it really is. Despite tiny box office and indifferent reception, much of the national cinema doggedly sticks with a default set of elements: depressing subject matter, protagonists of limited intelligence who lack agency, and plenty of lingering shots of the landscape. There’s nothing inherently limiting about that, but so far Australia hasn’t produced filmmakers of the calibre of the Dardenne brothers or Andrey Zvyagintsev or Andrea Arnold who would find universal resonance, let alone poetry, in the dark and mundane surfaces of Australian society. Instead we frequently wind up with badly written, pretentious, and crushingly boring movies that nobody really likes.
I had high hopes for The Tree after the triumph of Since Otar Left. Bertuccelli was also a assistant director on Krzysztof Kieślowski’s Three Colours Blue (1993), a truly great film about a grieving widow. What could go wrong? But I’m afraid The Tree, to borrow a phrase from Jean-Luc Godard, is a film like any other. Although beautifully photographed, its Australian characters have none of the complexity of Bertuccelli’s Georgians. True to the conventions of our national cinema, no character in The Tree is allowed to have any sort of intellectual life — not even a corny worship of Le France. The dead husband and his replacement, a plumber, are almost interchangeable tanned men in flannel shirts, amiably laconic, of whom almost nothing is discovered. Charlotte Gainsbourg and Morgana Davies give strong performances with what they have but the dialogue often sounds unrealistic. The narrative meanders, and many scenes could have been removed with little consequence to its coherence.
To date these are Bertuccelli’s only two fiction features, although she has been a prolific documentarian of French society. I’m happy to see that a third starring Catherine Deneuve and Chiara Mastroianni is in post-production — a feature film, finally, set in France.
Edinburgh, February 2018
Here are two older pieces about Ernest Hemingway’s intriguing unfinished novel The Garden of Eden (published posthumously in 1986). They originally appeared at my now-defunct blog Honey for the Bears. Part ii has been updated.
i. AN INTERVIEW WITH JAMES SCOTT LINVILLE
In late 2010, hiding from the chill of the Manhattan winter in the lobby of the Algonquin Hotel, I had tea with screenwriter James Scott Linville. An American who lives in London, Linville is a former managing editor of the Paris Review. His adaptation of Ernest Hemingway’s Garden of Eden—Linville’s first produced screenplay—is now available on DVD in the US through Lions Gate.
The film recreates the sun-blanched milieu of the Lost Generation at play between the wars. On an extended honeymoon on the Côte d’Azur, Catherine (Mena Suvari) draws her writer husband David (Jack Huston) into androgynous sexual role play. They soon have identical bleached blonde haircuts and are the scandal of the season. David, a less macho Hemingway hero than we’re used to, doesn’t put up much resistance. Catherine then seduces the smitten Marita (Caterina Murino), a beautiful Italian heiress, and offers her to David as a part-time mistress. This time-share arrangement soon dissolves as Catherine drifts into madness and David and Marita grow close. Interpolated into this narrative is a dramatization of David’s work-in-progress, a short story based on a childhood elephant hunt in Africa with his father (Matthew Modine).
Colonel Boyle, a World War I pilot and David’s former comrade, is played by Richard E. Grant. “He’s astonishingly good,” said Linville. Boyle appears only in passing in the novel, but Linville expanded the role to three scenes. “I liked Colonel Boyle because he was a bit of an outsider, stepping in and quickly getting the lay of the land.” The Boyle role turned out to be useful in raising money for the project. “The producer told me, ‘Inadvertently you created a cameo for a star. We will pay him to come in for four days, but his name will be up there.’” Linville smiled. “I had no idea. It was luck. But it was also a great education.”
Linville’s literary background helped in unexpected ways. He had worked on many Paris Review author interviews in the 1980s and 1990s with George Plimpton (Plimpton had famously interviewed Hemingway for the journal in 1958). Linville learned firsthand Plimpton’s techniques of “fiddling” with transcribed speech for print. The reverse was necessary when transforming Hemingway’s laconic dialogue for the screen. “Even if a line reads well on the page,” Linville said, “it’s not necessarily going to sound right in the actor’s mouth.”
Hemingway’s novel was controversial not just for its preoccupation with androgyny when published posthumously by Scribner’s in 1986. The 247 page book had been created by editor Tom Jenks from a much longer, more ambitious unfinished manuscript Hemingway worked on during his last fifteen years. A long manuscript analysis in Rose Marie Burwell’s Hemingway: The Post-war Years and the Posthumous Novels (1996) indicates how much of Hemingway’s original conception was excised, including a mirror plot about a painter named Nick Sheldon and his wife Barbara.
I asked Linville if he made a trip to the Hemingway Archive at the JFK Presidential Library in Boston to read the purported 1500 pages of raw manuscript. He said no. Firstly, Jenks had told him the published book was very close to one version of the manuscript. “The other thing is I was given the commission and had to start three days later on Monday. The clock was ticking on some equity that could be put into the production, and I had to finish and lock a script to go out to actors by a certain date,” said Linville. “I approached this as somebody who loves the writer’s work, loves this book, not as an academic.”
The film was not well-received by critics when released theatrically in December 2010. Linville said, “In some ways people have been arguing with Hemingway. They’re arguing with the movie because it’s Hemingway taking his themes and turning them upside down, examining them, taking them apart.” The novel, like several other posthumously published works, suggests that late in life Hemingway was reconsidering his core beliefs. “There are scenes of hunting but the lead character of the subplot is making an anti-hunting argument.”
“When the book came out it got wonderful reviews from James Salter, E. L. Doctorow, and John Updike. At the same time it sold millions of copies. Why is there slightly less respect for the book now? I don’t quite understand. In some ways Hemingway is somewhat out of fashion. He was even more so at the time the book came out and that was why there was such a startling reassessment.” Linville added: “I think The Garden of Eden is one of his most interesting books. It might be his best about a writer writing.”
John Irvin (Hamburger Hill and the 1979 TV series Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy) directed the picture. Linville joined the cast and crew on location in Spain’s Alicante province. The small city of Alcoy doubled for 1920s Madrid. Hemingway’s immeasurable gift for evoking the physical qualities of a landscape is beautifully translated to film by cinematographer Ashley Rowe.
Linville praised Mena Suvari’s “brave performance” and called the Italian actress Caterina Murino, who previously appeared in Casino Royale (2006), “a revelation. She’s considered a Bond girl but she’s a wonderful actor, extremely refined, very beautiful. You’re seeing a young Sophia Loren. She’s been in a lot of French movies but none have come out in the United States. I think this movie should probably be remembered for introducing her.”
With a new Raymond Chandler adaptation recently completed, Linville faces the possibility of another Hemingway project. The Garden of Eden and its unusual history still fascinates him. “Mena Suvari was very curious and did a great deal of research for the part. She wants to go to JFK and read the original.” He laughed. “Maybe we’ll all go on a field trip.”
Madrid, March 2011
ii. CALL FOR A CRITICAL EDITION
I enjoy the edition of The Garden of Eden published in 1986, although Tom Jenks’ drastic reduction of the unfinished manuscript makes Mary Hemingway’s posthumous tampering with A Moveable Feast look like mere spell-checking. Nevertheless, I like the published novel’s rich evocation of the 1920s Riviera setting, the dark portrait of a ménage à trois, and its embedded African hunting story.
According to Rose Marie Burwell, Hemingway wrote The Garden of Eden between 1948 and 1959. It evolved from an ur-text he began after the war – from which also grew Islands in the Stream, Across the River and Into the Trees, and The Old Man and the Sea. Thematically, The Garden of Eden evolved at least partially from the discarded “Miami” section of Islands in the Stream (much of “Miami” was published as a short story, “The Strange Country”, in 1987’s not-exactly-complete Finca Vigia story collection). Burwell makes the case that Garden, Islands, A Moveable Feast and Under Kilimanjaro (initially published in edited form as True At First Light):
“form a serial sequence that was at times consciously modeled on Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. The works form a tetralogy that is Hemingway’s portrait of the artist as writer and painter, and as son, husband and father; but their serial nature, and their place in the body of his fiction, has been unrecognized, misconstrued, and undervalued because of the manuscript deletions made for publication, the order in which the […] works appeared, and the restrictions of archival material that clarifies much about their composition and intentions.”
Of course, some kind of drastic editing was necessary to create a readable and marketable Garden of Eden. The Garden manuscript material, according to Burwell, is immensely repetitious. But Jenks went to an extreme by deleting half of the plot, and as such distorted the very conception of the novel.
The publication of the ‘restored’ Moveable Feast in 2009 initiated a series of ‘Hemingway Library Editions’ overseen by the Hemingway heirs including grandson Seán Hemingway. Each volume — not exactly a critical edition — contains the text of an original book with appendices of deleted sequences, alternate drafts, and relevant historical documents. To date we’ve seen The Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms, Green Hills of Africa, and a volume of selected stories. Meanwhile Cambridge University Press has pressed on with their mammoth, multi-volume complete letters project, executed with scholarly rigor.
In other words, Hemingway continues to be republished and the ouevre goes on expanding. The Garden of Eden‘s moment of reconsideration has not yet arrived. The manuscript poses an editorial challenge that may require several parallel volumes. I don’t believe the Jenks version should go out of print, but a judiciously edited, essentially comprehensive reading edition of the full manuscript — similiar to Under Kilimanjaro — would give us a much better indication of Hemingway’s ultimately unrealised ambitions.
There should also be a simultaneous publication of a facsimile edition of Hemingway’s very long typescript with his annotations intact. Similar editions exist of other Hemingway manuscripts. The mass market has had their version of the book for more than thirty years, and it is time to release the full manuscript to those who want to slog through it.
Sydney, July 2009
Edinburgh, February 2018
Major Dundee (1965)
Sam Peckinpah’s third film is usually considered a failed draft of what would be more fully realised as The Wild Bunch (1969). Peckinpah’s behaviour was too erratic, and his producers and budget too inflexible, for the earlier film to be finished to anybody’s satisfaction. But what survives, particularly in the 2005 extended version, is compelling. Major Dundee is the first film set in Peckinpah’s Mexico. His dark vision of the country is a land of escape, lawlessness, corruption, sexual decadence, alcoholism, and some measure of purity.
Peckinpah was engaging with the tradition of John Huston, who first went to Mexico in 1925, a few years after the end of the revolution. Vera Cruz, Huston remembered in his autobiography An Open Book, “had a blasted, pitted look. Buzzards fed in the streets, which were the same unrelieved color as the tin-roofed adobe houses.” Beggars cruised the cafe tables, just one aspect of “the bleak, dire kind” of poverty “that revolution leaves in its wake.” Irrepressible and lusty, Huston took the train to Mexico City and befriended a colonel who gave him an honorary commission in the Mexican army. That way he could train as a horseman with the calvalry. During poker games with high ranking military officers, “someone usually drew and cocked a pistol, turned the lights out and threw the pistol up so that it hit the ceiling. It would go off upon striking either the ceiling or the floor, and then the lights were turned on to see who, if anyone, had been unlucky.” Huston escaped a duel and discovered a passion for pre-Colombian Mexican artefacts; in later years he would smuggle out antiquities of dubious authenticity. On another trip he rode a mule train from Acapulco to Mexico City. He witnessed bandits rounded up to be executed by rurales.
Huston’s colourful memories of Mexico in the 1920s gave him firsthand details to draw upon when he made a film of B. Traven’s The Treasure of the Sierra Madre in 1948. Huston sought an unusual level of authenticity for a Hollywood film: he shot on location in Tampico, hired real Mexican actors for supporting roles, even used unsubtitled Spanish dialogue in some sequences. Set just after the Mexican Civil War, Sierra Madre became the foundational movie of the desperate-gringo-south-of-the-border genre and an influential expression of a mythical Hollywood landscape. In this ‘Mexico’, the West could still be found long after the US frontier had been conquered. We visit it again in Vera Cruz (1954), The Magnificent Seven (1960), and The Professionals (1966). (Read Richard Slotkin’s Gunfighter Nation: The Myth of the Frontier in Twentieth-Century America (1992) for the best elaboration of the evolution and political significance of this cinematic landscape.) Huston himself revisited the landscape in The Night of the Iguana (1964) and Under the Volcano (1984) — and all of this without ever bothering to learn Spanish.
Sam Peckinpah’s ‘Mexico’ does not reject the Hollywood myth but makes it grittier, more violent, and so static that almost nothing changes from the 1860s to the 1970s. Bring Me The Head of Alfredo Garcia (1974), a brilliant, bizarre, and extremely violent reworking of Huston’s Sierra Madre, intentionally blurs the place and the time at the film’s outset. The script begins at a hacienda: “IS IT SPAIN — Maybe ITALY — or possibly MEXICO — or BRAZIL — or ARGENTINA — or…? It is not Mexico.” But it is! At the conclusion of a brutal scene in which a pregnant teenage girl is stripped and tortured by her father into revealing the name of her lover, his henchmen leave to seek the man’s head. “BUT NOT BY HORSE,” says the script. “MERCEDES, FERRARIES [sic.], CORVETTES and even a Limo or two provide transportation. Because it’s today, baby, not 1880, and like it or not, exactly this kind of bullshit still exists.”
A decade earlier, in early 1964, Peckinpah had shot Major Dundee on location in Mexico. The screenplay, originally by Harry Fink, was greenlit by Columbia Pictures before it was finished. On the strength of Ride the High Country (1962), Peckinpah was invited to take over the script and direct the film. He took the company south of the border. Lead actor Charlton Heston, in his autobiography In The Arena, recalled that their script conferences often wound up in grimy brothels. Heston sat out these sordid evenings drinking beer. He didn’t share Peckinpah’s taste for very young prostitutes.
Plot-wise Major Dundee is a pastiche of classic westerns. Like John Ford’s Fort Apache (1948), it follows the US Cavalry hunting Apaches in border territory. After unspecified actions at the Battle of Gettysburg, Major Dundee has been unofficially demoted to a jailer at a fort in New Mexico in the middle of the American Civil War. But then a family of ranchers and a group of soldiers are slaughtered by Sierra Chariba’s band of Apaches. Borrowing a page or two from Ford’s The Searchers (1956), Chariba also kidnaps white children. Dundee eagerly raises an army — Union soldiers, black soldiers, and a group of Confederate prisoners led by Lt Tyrene (Richard Harris), Dundee’s former friend. His quest for Chariba and the children quickly reaches Mexican territory, as hatred and mistrust grow between the soldiers. He essential starts a war with the occupying French — all to promote his own military glory.
“Columbia, Sam and I all really had different pictures in mind. Columbia, reasonably enough, wanted a Calvary/Indians film as much like Jack Ford’s best as possible. I wanted to be the first to make a film that really explored the Civil War. Sam, though he never said anything like this, really wanted to make The Wild Bunch.”
Peckinpah lost the right to final cut on Major Dundee, which wasn’t really finished at all; it splutters towards an only minimally coherent ending. The story loses focus after Dundee is wounded in the leg by an arrow during a tryst with a beautiful Austrian widow played by Senta Berger. Still, I’ve always been fascinated by Dundee’s subsequent self-destructive lost weekend in French-occupied Durango (much restored for the 2005 version). Here is Peckinpah’s attempt to personalise the generic story material and the landscape, the plot be damned.
“You make an unlikely-looking Mexican,” Sgt. Gomez tells Dundee as he lies wounded in Durango and considers fleeing in disguise. (That might have been a joke about Heston’s earlier role as the narcotics agent Vargas in Orson Welles’s Touch of Evil (1958); written as a cosmopolitan Carlos Fuentes-type, Heston played him without an accent, albeit with dark makeup.) So Dundee stays in Durango, gets drunker, wallows in self-pity. He takes his nurse to bed. It would be overstating things to say Dundee has been drawn away from his quest for Chariba like Odysseus to the island of Calypso — his dignified and largely passive Mexican lover, played by Aurora Clavel, is far from a seductress. Nevertheless, there is something of that mythical quality to Dundee’s fall. In Peckinpah’s Mexico things quickly go to seed. Dundee winds up a bum in a dive bar. Identity begins to dissolve in whisky.
Heston, a conscientious but stiff and limited actor, is well cast as a soldier who leads through intimidation rather than inspiration. Senta Berger is a far better actress than her character really deserves. With her discovery of Dundee’s affair during his Durango convalescence, Berger forever vanishes from the film. The script’s well-developed tensions then fall apart. Tyrene dies bravely in a fight with the French at the Rio Grande, evading what should have been an inevitable showdown with Dundee. Major Dundee is a small man who seeks greatness — an ego-driven monster — but there is no reckoning for his colossal irresponsibility.
The original 1965 score by Daniele Amfitheatrof is terrible. The longer preview version of the film, rediscovered and released in 2005, was specially rescored by Christopher Caliendo. This version of the film is the best one in existence but is still not Peckinpah’s version. He never was able to finish the movie.
Peckinpah would return to Mexico many times, lastly in Alfredo Garcia, which imagines a more pathetic version of Sierra Madre’s gold-lusting Fred C. Dobbs. The great Warren Oates puts Heston to shame as a lowlife gringo in Mexico still seeking the prize.
Seville, January 2018
A View of the World by Norman Lewis. 310pp. Eland, 2004 .
Norman Lewis’s thirty-odd books testify to a long and admirable life of travel and activism. Born in 1908, he spent his childhood in the drab London borough of Enfield — “nothing, with chips,” in his words. Forever after he sought experience. He travelled through pre-Civil War Spain and went to Arabia as a spy for the Foreign Office. In the Second World War he was posted to North Africa and Naples with the Intelligence Corps. But Lewis wasn’t really cut out to be an English patriot. He was entirely lacking in imperial chauvinism. His loyalty was to human dignity wherever he found it.
After the war he made several South East Asian and Central American expeditions. He spent summers in Spain before the irrevocable transformations wrought by commercial tourism. In late middle age his efforts were directed towards exposing the ongoing genocide of indigenous peoples, particularly in South America. I only wish he had written about Australia.
Lewis died in 2003 at the age of 95. So far his posthumous legacy has been well-served by his champions. Julian Evans’ outstanding and ambitious biography Semi-Invisible Man appeared in 2008. All thirteen of Lewis’s novels remain out of print — I haven’t read any — but most of the travel books have been republished by Eland as high quality paperbacks.
Disregarding Lewis’s juvenilia — accounts of his early journeys through Spain and Arabia that were eventually rewritten from scratch — the non-fiction can be divided into five basic categories. Four books recount his travels in Asia: to Indochina (A Dragon Apparent, 1951), Burma (Golden Earth, 1952), India (Goddess in the Stones, 1991), and Indonesia (An Empire of the East, 1993). His extensive experiences in Italy and Spain inspired two retrospective memoirs each: Naples ’44 (1978), Voices of the Old Sea (about the Costa Brava, 1984), In Sicily (2000), and The Tomb in Seville (2003). He wrote book-length pieces of investigative reportage on the Sicilian mafia (The Honoured Society, 1964) and on genocide perpetrated by evangelical Christians (The Missionaries, 1988). His two-volume autobiography begins with Jackdaw Cake (1985; expanded as I Came, I Saw, 1994) and concludes with The World, The World (1996).
There are also five collections of shorter travel pieces. They were never simultaneously in print, so it isn’t surprising that their contents occasionally overlap. The Changing Sky (1959) contains nineteen pieces and is illustrated by Lewis’s exceptionally good photographs (for much of his life he operated a chain of camera shops). Ten of those early pieces were republished in the next collection, A View of the World (1986), accompanied by another ten written since 1959 including his most widely-known article, ‘Genocide’ (1969), about the destruction and enslavement of Brazilian tribes. Lewis’s dispatches from the eighties and nineties are respectively anthologised in To Run Across the Sea (1989) and The Happy Ant Heap (1999). A Voyage by Dhow (2001) gathered pieces from across thirty years. A final tally of seventy-four unique short articles across five books. They range nearly everywhere across the globe.
Few writers can make the imaginative recreation of a place truly palpable and memorable for the reader. How does Norman Lewis do it? Game for adventure and discovery, his voice is wry, gently amused, free of cynicism. The narrator, the man himself, retreats into near-invisibility; the prose also does its work without drawing much attention to itself. He writes in the tradition of Orwell — elegant but unpretentious clarity. Some writers are casual in the division of their prose into blocks of text, but Lewis is a crafter of paragraphs. They have robust internal structures and almost always contain at least one attention-grabbing element to ignite the imagination of the reader. It could be a concrete detail, a metaphor, a line of dialogue, or a piece of information. These moments register in the reading mind like splashes of colour, bring the setting to life, and with their accumulated weight, compel the reader onwards.
Consider the most vivid specifics in ‘A Quiet Evening in Huehuetenango’, which was first published (as fiction) by The New Yorker in 1956. Lewis escapes an English winter and winds up in the Guatemalan highlands. He is adept at metaphorical descriptions — in the town he sees soldiers “fishing in space with their rifles over the blood-red balustrade of the town hall” and vultures that fly over “waving their scarves of shadow” — but the details he chooses to note without such overt literary flair register even more vividly. His hotel features a garden turned into a “floral jungle” bordered by “Pepsi-Cola bottles stuck neck down in the earth.” Each table-top has a goldfish bowl “containing roses hideously pickled in preserving fluid.” A craze for American-style processed food means Lewis must eat “hygienic but emasculated fare… The whole loaf of bread and a half-pound of butter of a generation ago had wasted away to two slices of toast and a pat of margarine.” The scene is set and the adventure begins. When Lewis goes out to investigate a commotion in the street, he encounters a boy “throwing a bayonet at an anatomical chart given away with a Mexican journal devoted to home medicine.” Lewis and his driver wind up in a bar as the semi-captives of exceedingly polite bandits with “machetes as big as naval cutlasses.” Lewis is pressed to operate the jukebox for the bandits, who only want to hear one record over and over again. A deus ex machina arrives in the form of an earthquake, which Lewis cleverly defamiliarises: “It seemed unreasonable that an electric train should be rumbling through a subway immediately beneath us in Huehuetenango.”
A quiet man with expansive compassion, appalled by exploitation of the weak, Lewis celebrated societies that had not been transformed (or destroyed) by modernity. This could easily have become mere romantic nostalgia, but Lewis did not shy from exploring the violence, superstitions, and destructive codes of honour within the traditional societies he encountered. He evokes those societies in their complexity. A View of the World may have a lacklustre title, but it is a perfect introduction to Norman Lewis’s imaginative prose.
Edinburgh, December 2017
[Image CC Wikimedia Commons, Attribution agracier]
As a writer of fiction, the act of filling the blank page gives me an exhilarating sense of imaginative freedom. The horizons seem endless. The same must be true for composers and painters.
Yet sometimes I envy the interpretive artist.
Maybe these thoughts have been prompted by listening to András Schiff’s humane and amusing lectures on each of Beethoven’s thirty-two piano sonatas, an open invitation into a great musician’s workshop. They reveal the mad ambition necessary to record the whole cycle. Beyond mere technical virtuosity and interpretive artistry, the task requires total immersion in the works, years of study and research. But what could be a higher calling than anchoring your creativity to a master?
I think that’s why writers are frequently drawn to the supposedly subservient roles of translator, adaptor, or critic. The impulse to interpret an existing text — in another language, in another medium, or in an essay — represents the desire to be the best kind of reader, to grasp the intimacies of a book’s structure, to know the contours of its sentences. Ray Bradbury showed that impulse at a fantastical extreme in Fahrenheit 451 — the reader who memorises and in essence becomes a book in order to preserve it.
Of course, the Fahrenheit 451 approach is too selfless and too much like religious worship for any kind of creative, critical reader. It is not enough merely to absorb a work of art. The ultimate homage is to re-express the work by filtering it through the self — personalised, recontextualised, embellished, contested. See, for example, Picasso’s obsessive studies of Velázquez’s Las Meninas. This week I visited the Museu Picasso in Barcelona to look again at his forty-five canvases from 1957 that comprehensively analyse, break apart, and remake the forms, motifs, and characters of the original in his own style. Picasso wound up with what he acknowledged would be “a detestable Meninas for a traditional painter.” Nevertheless, it had become Picasso’s Meninas.
Fortunately Velázquez was by then safely in the public domain and available to Picasso’s appropriation and sacrilege. Pablo Katchadjian, a contemporary Argentinean author, has not been so lucky. He has been weighed down with outrageous legal problems since he self-published a chapbook called El Aleph engordado in 2009. He had taken Borges’ classic 1945 story ‘El Aleph’ and, as an experiment, “fattened” it to twice its original length. Borges’s widow, exercising her powers as heir to the copyright, has unrelentingly pursued Katchadjian for his supposed criminal “plagiarism.” Apart from the basic wrongness of the charge and staggering disproportion — the chapbook was published in a mere 200 copies — the legal action ironically demonstrates an indifference to Borges’s influence on successive generations of authors. In effect it advocates banning certain types of critical and creative reading.
It is as absurd to prohibit writers from creatively wrestling with great books as to silence pianists exploring Beethoven. Most writers discover a few crucial books early on that help them understand aspects of worldly experience, furnish them with powerful myths and metaphors, introduce them to characters they come to know as intimately as friends. Consider Orson Welles as a reader. Throughout his career, he returned repeatedly to the same books and, perhaps more importantly, to the same characters as source material for his films, theatre, and radio dramas. He never seemed to want to give up reinterpreting Don Quixote and Falstaff, Moby Dick and The Merchant of Venice, Joseph Conrad and Isak Dinesen.
As a film critic and historian, I’ve come to specialise in adaptation studies. I’ve spent a lot of time analysing the hand-annotated manuscripts of Welles’s screenplays, many of which were never produced. It has been intimately illuminating hanging out with Welles at the point of his pen, being able to relive his thought processes as a writer. Comparing an original novel or play to its adapted screenplay, I attempt to fathom the reasons behind Welles’s choices. Why this specific change? Why this cut? Why this new and original scene?
Most of Welles’s interpretative choices were designed to re-tell a story cinematically rather than with words. On this point, Welles was a formidable translator. Sometimes Welles argued against the original author’s worldview, as in his 1962 version of Kafka’s Trial. He refused to allow Josef K. to submit meekly to execution “like a dog” because he found it unbearable after the Holocaust. Welles also personalised his source material, incorporated autobiographical elements, and even synthesised different literary touchstones. Welles’s and Oja Kodar’s late 1970s screenplay The Dreamers, for example, adapts two stories by Isak Dinesen about an opera singer named Pellegrina Leoni. Several settings are relocated to places of autobiographical significance to Welles. This includes the Triana neighbourhood of Seville, where Welles had lived as a teenager amid the brothels and the bars. In Triana, Pellegrina briefly becomes an unacknowledged incarnation of Prosper Mérimée’s Carmen, another of Welles’s favourite books which he had attempted to adapt directly for screen and which fed into The Lady From Shanghai (1947).
Radically reinventing his beloved books, Welles’s adaptations wound up more personally expressive than his own original stories. Certain books become part of a writer’s inner life. Heirs may own the copyright, but these books belong to us. In turn, we belong to these books. They call for our interpretation.
Edinburgh, December 2017