The Centre de Georges Pompidou recently concluded its conference series with Alberto Manguel. There were four conferences in all, on various topics relatd to myth, storytelling and history. Because I am a huge fan of Alberto Manguel, I took advantage of the conference to listen to him speak and lecture. The session was on myth and it was with Marina Warner and Abdelfattah Kilito. I have to confess to being a little disappointed with the conference itself. The speakers were undoubtedly learned on their various topics but the conference itself seemed to lack a coherent direction. It seemed pretty much like three different speakers on three different topics, all vaguely related to myth. Still and all, it was worth the visit if only to listen to Manguel. And since I had Manguel in mind, I grabbed a slim volume of his, to read in between various tomes. And I chose the right one since this slim volume is all about Jorge Luis Borges, another favorite author of mine. If you haven't had the pleasure of reading Borges, I heartily recommend it. He has an almost quicksilver imagination and a most felicitious turn of phrase. Its not necessarily the lightest material to read but its well worth it.

Anyway, back to Manguel, when he was 16 years old, while working at Buenos Aires’ Pygmalion bookstore, Manguel was asked by Borges if he would like to be his reader. Borges had already gone blind by the time he asked, and in fact had gotten into the habit of asking any and everyone. And so for four years, Manguel would visit three or four times a week to read to him. His book, With Borges, distills those years.

While his sessions with Borges were reading sessions, it was enough for an astute observer like Manguel to capture Borges’ essence as a writer. For fans of Borges, myself included, this is an invaluable addition to his writings. There is no doubt that Borges was a prolific and more importantly, a beautiful writer but short of having access to academic works or his biography, it is rare to find a volume that discusses his philosophy of writing in such a succinct yet elegant manner. We can never underestimate Borges influence on writing or other writers and even on his country. As Manguel points out, “Borges renewed the Spanish language…that his generous reading methods, allowed him to bring into Spanish felicities from other tongues: English turns of phrase or the German ability to hold until the end of a sentence its subject.” But more than refreshing the Spanish language, Borges’ writings have fixed Argentina permanently into the collective consciousness. “When Borges began writing, Buenos Aires (so far from Europe, the perceived center of culture), felt vague and indistinct, and seemed to require a literary imagination to impose it upon reality. Now Buenos Aires feels more real because it exists in Borges’ pages.” That’s quite a feat if you think about it.

My favorite passage, is that which talks about books. “For Borges, the core of reality lay in books, reading books, writing books, talking about books. In a visceral way, he was conscious of continuing a dialogue begun thousands of years before and which he believed would never end. Books restored the past.” As someone who lives and breathes books on a daily basis, this is one credo to live by.

The Duchess

Fans of period pieces, Kiera Kneightly or Ralph Fiennes, or all three would be extremely happy with The Duchess. Based on the book written by Amanda Foreman, The Duchess tells the story of Georgiana Spenser (three guess who her famous descendant is), the Duchess of Devonshire. She is married off at the tender age of 16 to the significantly older Duke of Devonshire, one of the most powerful men in the England whose singular desire from their marriage is to have a male heir. Unfortunately she is unable to provide one. Desperately unhappy, she uses her increasing popularity to dabble in politics and is a leading light in fashion. Their marriage becomes even more strained and unhappy, when the Georgiana unwittingly installs the woman who would become the Duke’s mistress in their home. And if that weren’t complicated enough, she herself soon embarks on a torrid affair with Charles Grey, who later becomes Prime Minister (and some say, the Grey in Earl Grey Tea). Whew.

This is clearly a lavish production. It is one gorgeous scenery after another, from the opening scene we first see Georgiana as a carefree teenager to the imposing grounds of Devonshire where she comes to live during her marriage. The costumes are all lavish and the hairpieces even more so. It could so easily have been a movie where its production values overwhelm the movie itself. Happily in this case, the actors are all able to overcome such lavishness and turn in genuinely fine performances. Kiera is in fine form here (and I dare say, appears less bony and angled than in her other films) and her performance is spirited yet shows the desperate sadness that shadowed much of the Duchess life. Ralph Fiennes turns in an even more masterful performance as the chilly and boorish Duke. What is incredible about his performance is the smidgen of sympathy he elicits from the audience, when we normally shouldn’t feel an iota of it for a rather loathsome character. I don't know how he does it, but you see from the cracks in Fienne’s features and from his nuanced performance, a person who is the way he is because of the way he has been brought up. And he is unable to be otherwise. It is really heartbreaking to watch as two such dissimilar people wreak such havoc on the other. Watch out for that scene where the Duke marvels at how free the children are. Special mention should be made of Hayley Atwell, whose abundant charms at least provide a credible reason for the Duke’s inability to sacrifice her for the gorgeous creature that is Georgiana.
One thing that this movie tries to highlight is the absence of power on the part of women during these times. And how truly restricted they were by the duties imposed on them by society. Scoff now as we do at the idea of women having the duty to bear children, especially male ones if one had a title or two to safeguard, back in those days, it was very much the be all and end all for women. How sad then to think that special and spirited women like Georgiana had to resort to using their fashion based clout to bring about events. And isn’t it ironic that Georgiana’s almost uncanny ability to use publicity foreshadowed so fittingly the Lady Di’s own incredible mastery over both the press and public? While Georgiana may have been forced to accede to her more noble husband’s wishes, her descendant certainly outmaneuvered hers when the time came.

Secret Scripture was one of those books, I wanted to read because it was shortlisted for a literary prize. While these prizes may seem to be a dime a dozen these days, there is still something to be said about an official body (or at least a big enough group) getting together and deciding that a particular book is worthy of attention, both theirs and ours. In this case, it was the Booker List that brought this book into general attention. And just to explain a bit, the Booker Prize is awarded to the best fiction of the year published in the British Commonwealth. It has the power to change a writer's life as it boosts sales and draws critical attention. Fortunately for the writers the Booker committee generally comes up with a longlist, the initial 12 books, narrowed down to the short list which are the 6 books among which the prize will finally be awarded. Secret Scripture made it to the short list which is no mean feat.

The story is told in alternating chapters between Roseanne McNutly, née Clear and Dr. Grene. When the book opens, we learn that Roseanne has been confined for the past 60 or so years in the Roscommon Regional hospital. Due to the building’s age, it has been slated for demolition and it falls upon Dr. Grene to determine who among the old patients can be transferred to the new hospital. He tries to elicit from Roseanne the story of how she came to be confined, all the while suffering from his own personal crisis. Unbeknownst to him, she has started to write down her story, secreting the pages of her life under a loose board in her room.

It is a bit slow going in the beginning and you need to be patient in order to reap the fruits of Barry’s writing. But, as the story progresses, the reader is rewarded by the mastery he has over language. Barry is able to turn in the most fetching of phrases even for the most mundane details. To wit, the town of Sligo is described as “a cold dark town, assaulted by rain so brutal, it makes the houses shiver and huddle like people at a football match.” What finally engages the reader however is the character of Roseanne who is very much a modern heroine but has the misfortune of being born during the wrong era. It’s a tale of woe as she suffers deprivation and marginalization at the hands of the cruel and the prejudiced. At this point you might be wondering why bother with such a story, and the answer is that we come to care for this character whose will to survive and to believe in inherent goodness remains intact.

What is interesting as well in this novel is the way Barry captures the vagaries and shifting nature of truth. There is no one objective truth in this novel (as in life), just the different facets of it, as viewed from different points of view and by different individuals. And if truth is a slippery ever shifting thing, memory and history which is supposed to rely on it, can never be fully reconciled. As Roseanne points out, “No one has the monopoly on the truth, and that is vexing and worrying thought.”

So much of the character’s personal history must as well be evaluated against the canvass of history. I am unfortunately not as well versed as I probably should be in Irish history and this made it difficult to wade through all the subtext that presumably Irish readers would be more familiar with. I could never keep track of who was fighting. In this novel, this is an Ireland ravaged by war with deep and lasting enmities. Against such a backdrop, the characters can never escape and are condemned to struggle perpetually against the weight of their own history. It makes it all the more remarkable that Roseanne is able to reach for her own happiness, fleeting though it may be.

A quick go away!

A seulement trois heures de Paris en TGV, Nimes permet une petite échappée dans le Sud. Qui dit Gard, dit beau temps, et c'est appréciable, après deux semaines de pluies parisiennes.

De taille humaine, Nimes est parfaite pour un petit week-end de tourisme, surtout pour les afficiados des vestiges romains. Les trois principaux sont les arènes:

la Maison Carrée (qui est en fait un temple), et la Tour Magne,

dont on a un superbe point de vue sur toute la ville. Mais tout effort mérite salaire, et vice-versa, ce qui veut dire qu'il faut grimper pour cela en haut des Jardins de la Fontaine. Mais comme c'est une magnifique promenade, il n'y a rien à regretter:

Et comme un autre temple (temple de Diane) se cache dans ces jardins, c'est doublement gratifiant:


Les canaux donnent un charme particulier à la vieille, et la nonchalance du Sud est particulièrement bienvenue pour les Parisiens!

A literary treat

There's no doubt that Paris is a literary town. Ernest Hemingway and Henry Miller are but two examples of famous authors who lived in Paris and who really contributed to the literary scene. The tradition continues today with the number of authors passing through to give readings like
Amy Bloom, Louis Erdrich, Cara Black and David Sedaris to name a few. I heard recently that Diane Johnson is coming to promote her new book Lulu in Marrakech.

Such is the appeal of Paris as a literary city that there is as well no shortage of local authors. And I'm happy to say that Red Wheelbarrow Bookstore is hosting two of them for a reading on the 14th of November at 7PM. Red Wheelbarrow invited Anne Marsella to read from her novel Remedy as well as to present her latest novel Patsy Boone. And the other author is Agnes Desarthe, who will be reading from her book Chez Moi. Both are lovely authors whose wonderful books are set in Paris. I'm sure its going to be a great evening and everyone is welcome to join us!

It seems to be a weekend for classic movies. While Red Addict was under the charms of Eliza and Prof. Higgins, we were under the spell of the Condor. Three Days of the Condor that is. It stars Robert Redford and Faye Dunaway and was directed by the late Sydney Pollack.
Redford stars as Joe Turner, an affably bookish researcher for the CIA. His job consists of studying published spy novels and thrillers in an effort to filter out theories and ideas that could threaten the US. In other words, a sanctioned conspiracy theorist and it’s all very obtuse really, but one day he comes back from picking up the office lunch to find that everyone in his office has been killed. He is forced to go on the run as the killers zero in on him. Along the way he kidnaps Dunaway, who later helps him carry out his plan to get to the bottom of the killings.
This is an absorbing spy thriller that is a credit to the genre. Released after the Watergate scandal, the underlying message of the film is that the government cannot be trusted. The film’s atmosphere is suffused with paranoia and there are enough twists and turns so that the audience never really knows till the end who is the bad guy is. And even then, the reason behind the killings remains obscure. It helps the film a great deal that Redford is such a sympathetic character (due largely to his incredible good looks) and you find yourself rooting for him. This in turn, makes it more plausible that Dunaway’s character, despite being initially kidnapped by Redford, throws here lot in with him, going so far as to tumble into bed with him. A bit of a Stockholm syndrome I suppose. What is remarkable about the film is how well it has held up against the test of time. Its message remains chillingly relevant given the increased surveillance on people everywhere and a stringent policy of keeping tabs on the populace’s habits and goings on. It almost feels like anyone can be the Enemy. Who’s to say that we are any safer now than in the good old days of the Cold War, when we had the enemies clearly marked out?

Fil conducteur

My Fair Lady était dans mon esprit inextricablemet lié aux cours d'anglais de mes années collège et lycée. On nous le faisait regarder chaque année, mais organisation foireuse oblige, chaque année, je ne voyais que le début (cela dit, le film durant 2h40mn, cela fait un bon moment).

Etant particulièrement jusqu'au-boutiste, je voulais voir (enfin) la fin, donc quand Warner propose ses promotions anniversaires, le pigeon marketing que je suis ne peut pas résister.

Le film est charmant, et pas tellement désuet. Audrey Hepburn est parfaite pour son rôle, même si je l'ai trouvé davantage irrésistible dans son rôle de flower girl commune qu'en duchesse accomplie (mais j'aurais préféré lui ressembler en duchesse accomplie qu'en flower girl). Son accent populaire a dû representé une somme de travail, mais ses intonations sont brillantes.

Cela devient une habitude, mais le film est peut-être plus intéressant par le fil conducteur qu'il représente dans l'histoire du cinéma.
Le lien avec une autre comédie musicale Une Etoile est née (cf critique) est fait par le réalisateur George Cukor, et on ne peut que constater la similarité des thèmes (l'amour entre la muse et son pygmalion).
De façon beaucoup moins intellectuelle (on a les références quon peut), la scène des courses à Ascot ne peut que faire penser à Pretty Woman,

J'ai probablement raté quantités de références cinématogaphiques, mais il bon parfois savoir que la pelote de laine peut être dévidée.