Thursday, December 10, 2009
easy breezy
Almost every course I'm taking this semester, and a good number of the classes I've taken in recent history, have been based in classical texts; renaissance literature or ancient Greek drama or even just fat, golden 19th century novels. In this way it was somewhat refreshing to read Rosario Tijeras, if only for the fact that it was so outside of what I've gotten used to reading. I wouldn't argue that it's a brilliant book, but I'm also holding myself back from ripping it apart as I'm afraid that may just be a visceral reaction to encountering an unusually 'easy read'. All the same, having it as required reading in all Columbian schools strikes me as too high a praise; the comparison thrown out the other day to it being a South American 'catcher in the rye' isn't totally off mark, considering the role it may play to a relatable audience & the parallel of it being standard, required reading, but the caliber and inherent lasting quality of the two coming-of-age tales is so disparate that its almost a sacreligious comparison. Then again, while I can relate to this text more so than I can, say, Belchamber, I don't relate to it like a kid from the hills Medellin would, so who knows?
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Sex Trade Song & Dance
The film Captain Pantoja & the Special Services was executed with the intention of looking & feeling just like the big-budget American Hollywood films that Director Francisco Lombardi apparently finds worthy of warranting mimicry. If this is considered the sole aim of the film, an adaptation of the Mario Vargas Llosa novel, than it is fair to call the film a success. In almost every other way, however -- & perhaps directly as a result of Lombardi's hollywood-esque ambitions -- the film is a vapid failure as a work of art.
The shortest cut of the film made available still drags on for over two hours worth of slick, slapstick chauvinism. While the premise of the plot -- theoretically rooted in real life events --is an admittedly absurd & fascinating one it is also surely one rife with complicated issues involving the sex trade, the way the military as a machine understands the use of human beings, rape, poverty, et. al. The understanding that this was a real event and not just a fictional fantasy dreamt up by some lonely soldier-turned-novelist only adds weight to the situation.
As with any historical happening & its subsequent translation into art or entertainment there are endless avenues by which the translator can approach & present the story. What we've been given by way of Llosa & Lombardi is a campy goofball comedy/love story, where all prostitutes are beauty queens anxiously lining up to please as many soldiers as possible, where no man is capable of distinguishing love from lust, & where the only voices of criticism against the institutionalized use of young women as sexual day-laborers is a Tartuffian, hypocritical morality-merchant or a jealous wife - who, without explanation, returns happily to her machine-like husband post-infidelity.
Sitting through scene after scene of smiling exploitation & situation after situation where Pantoja is shown to be seemingly crippling himself by his mindlessly subservient nature to the military, one can't shake the feeling that they are waiting for a punchline. The end of the film finally arrives, however, and no clear answers are given.
Was his punishment & relocation by the very people he served supposed to be a criticism of the nature of the state's relationship with those who serve it (& consequentially recognition of the exploitative nature of the 'Special Service'?) or is his continually cheerful obedience to his humble new task, with his dear wife & child at his side, meant to stand as a virtuous model of decency & self-sacrifice, with 'family' & 'love' standing as counterpoints to the sexual depravity of the prostitutes -- the very sexual depravity that the film paraded and glorified for 2+ hours, with silly whore-boats & cheap gags?
For a film so steeped in Hollywood sentimentalism & easily swallowed morals, no clear moral or political stance is made clear. This is not a testament to the subtlety of the filmmaking, but the result of taking a complex, nuanced situation & attempting to Disney-fy it, to no avail.
The shortest cut of the film made available still drags on for over two hours worth of slick, slapstick chauvinism. While the premise of the plot -- theoretically rooted in real life events --is an admittedly absurd & fascinating one it is also surely one rife with complicated issues involving the sex trade, the way the military as a machine understands the use of human beings, rape, poverty, et. al. The understanding that this was a real event and not just a fictional fantasy dreamt up by some lonely soldier-turned-novelist only adds weight to the situation.
As with any historical happening & its subsequent translation into art or entertainment there are endless avenues by which the translator can approach & present the story. What we've been given by way of Llosa & Lombardi is a campy goofball comedy/love story, where all prostitutes are beauty queens anxiously lining up to please as many soldiers as possible, where no man is capable of distinguishing love from lust, & where the only voices of criticism against the institutionalized use of young women as sexual day-laborers is a Tartuffian, hypocritical morality-merchant or a jealous wife - who, without explanation, returns happily to her machine-like husband post-infidelity.
Sitting through scene after scene of smiling exploitation & situation after situation where Pantoja is shown to be seemingly crippling himself by his mindlessly subservient nature to the military, one can't shake the feeling that they are waiting for a punchline. The end of the film finally arrives, however, and no clear answers are given.
Was his punishment & relocation by the very people he served supposed to be a criticism of the nature of the state's relationship with those who serve it (& consequentially recognition of the exploitative nature of the 'Special Service'?) or is his continually cheerful obedience to his humble new task, with his dear wife & child at his side, meant to stand as a virtuous model of decency & self-sacrifice, with 'family' & 'love' standing as counterpoints to the sexual depravity of the prostitutes -- the very sexual depravity that the film paraded and glorified for 2+ hours, with silly whore-boats & cheap gags?
For a film so steeped in Hollywood sentimentalism & easily swallowed morals, no clear moral or political stance is made clear. This is not a testament to the subtlety of the filmmaking, but the result of taking a complex, nuanced situation & attempting to Disney-fy it, to no avail.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
MEMORIES OF EMASCULATION
The repressive climate of Cuban life in the 1960's is represented throughout 'Memories of Underdevelopment' in a number of ways, the most prevalent vehicle throughout the film being an implied feeling of emasculation which the culture imposes on our protagonist.
Beginning almost immediately we feel an undeniable atmospheric pressure of powerlessness and silent anxiety. We are meant to understand that to be an individual, particularly an educated, aspirational individual, in a small, disconnected country, a country thought by some as a climate in which its inhabitants rarely recognize their potential, no less reach it, leaves one feeling utterly small & without power -- why check the oil if the station doesn't even have any?
When this individual happens to be male, it's possible to see this dis-empowering as being played out allegorically - or perhaps literally - as a sort of emasculation. The film nods to this in a number of ways, & with this interpretation in mind even the limp dead canary may charge itself with a particular significance.
To feel incapable of actively shaping & claiming your destiny is a direct affront to the archetypal notion of Manhood. To be made to feel small & insignificant by forces beyond one's control is the antithesis of the classical male aspiration.
We see our protagonist's longing for power of this particular sort when he visits the Cuban home of the American writer Ernest Hemingway. Who else but the man of man's writers, perhaps rivaled by no one for that title but Henry Miller, everyone's favorite American sexual mystic. He moves through Hemingway's house, a vacated structure of pure masculinity, like a temple of ancient ruins, longing for a sort of myth which feels impossibly elusive. When he concludes that Hemingway never even cared about Cuba he sounds not so much resentful but personally ashamed, embarrassed & envious -- like some rookie in the shower comparing lower parts with the oblivious star athlete of his team.
All the while his young fling walks childishly around him, good for very little --- very little save for reminding him relentlessly of his underdeveloped culture & for serving as a sex object.
The multiple women that dot across the narrative serve the important function of directing our attention back to the sexual life of our protagonist, Sergio -- nothing reaffirms one's conception of their masculinity more then the 'taking' of a woman sexually. The quintessential example being the deflowering of a virgin, as we have in the case of Elena. Pursuing & conquering her was his attempt at reclaiming a sort of lost power --- but the irony is that even this prompts a sort of emasculation, as his sexual exploits lead him into passively agreeing to marry a woman he despises and has to sit & defend himself before a court on humiliating charges.
His other approach at staking clam to his rightful role as a man of importance is through his consumption of art & culture, strolling through museums, dressing studiously - but all of this feels forced & transparent, adding a deeper & more complex feeling of pity on the part of the viewer; the sense of a grown man striving for dignity in a hopeless situation.
Sergio attempts to engage in politics as well, attending a revolutionary meeting. At one point an American in the audience stands up and questions why they would all use such an "Impotent" forum such as a round table discussion. Sergio walks back home with his hands in his pockets, a voice over admitting he thought the American was right.
Beginning almost immediately we feel an undeniable atmospheric pressure of powerlessness and silent anxiety. We are meant to understand that to be an individual, particularly an educated, aspirational individual, in a small, disconnected country, a country thought by some as a climate in which its inhabitants rarely recognize their potential, no less reach it, leaves one feeling utterly small & without power -- why check the oil if the station doesn't even have any?
When this individual happens to be male, it's possible to see this dis-empowering as being played out allegorically - or perhaps literally - as a sort of emasculation. The film nods to this in a number of ways, & with this interpretation in mind even the limp dead canary may charge itself with a particular significance.
To feel incapable of actively shaping & claiming your destiny is a direct affront to the archetypal notion of Manhood. To be made to feel small & insignificant by forces beyond one's control is the antithesis of the classical male aspiration.
We see our protagonist's longing for power of this particular sort when he visits the Cuban home of the American writer Ernest Hemingway. Who else but the man of man's writers, perhaps rivaled by no one for that title but Henry Miller, everyone's favorite American sexual mystic. He moves through Hemingway's house, a vacated structure of pure masculinity, like a temple of ancient ruins, longing for a sort of myth which feels impossibly elusive. When he concludes that Hemingway never even cared about Cuba he sounds not so much resentful but personally ashamed, embarrassed & envious -- like some rookie in the shower comparing lower parts with the oblivious star athlete of his team.
All the while his young fling walks childishly around him, good for very little --- very little save for reminding him relentlessly of his underdeveloped culture & for serving as a sex object.
The multiple women that dot across the narrative serve the important function of directing our attention back to the sexual life of our protagonist, Sergio -- nothing reaffirms one's conception of their masculinity more then the 'taking' of a woman sexually. The quintessential example being the deflowering of a virgin, as we have in the case of Elena. Pursuing & conquering her was his attempt at reclaiming a sort of lost power --- but the irony is that even this prompts a sort of emasculation, as his sexual exploits lead him into passively agreeing to marry a woman he despises and has to sit & defend himself before a court on humiliating charges.
His other approach at staking clam to his rightful role as a man of importance is through his consumption of art & culture, strolling through museums, dressing studiously - but all of this feels forced & transparent, adding a deeper & more complex feeling of pity on the part of the viewer; the sense of a grown man striving for dignity in a hopeless situation.
Sergio attempts to engage in politics as well, attending a revolutionary meeting. At one point an American in the audience stands up and questions why they would all use such an "Impotent" forum such as a round table discussion. Sergio walks back home with his hands in his pockets, a voice over admitting he thought the American was right.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
THE BLOWING UP OF THE DEVIL'S DROOL
The short story 'Blow up' that we read didn't sit all that well with me nor leave me particularly impressed, and the problems I had with it can conveniently be illustrated antecdotally by the very fact we were reading a story called 'Blow Up' and not 'The Devil's Drool' -- Cortazar's work strikes me as one profoundly effected by Spanish-English translation.
The short story is littered with simple grammatical errors which seem to allude to the laziest of translators. When this was pointed out in class there was a response from some students that this was intentional and apparent in the original as well. I'm willing to accept that, but can't necessarily understand the merit of laying out a sentence like this:
"If one might say: I will see the moon rose, or: we hurt me at the back of my eyes, and especially: you the blond woman was the clouds.."
nor what intention it could serve stylistically or conceptually to the story when written the same way in the Spanish language.
One could, perhaps, chalk that section up to an attempt at loose stylistic poetic writing, however, so let me offer a simpler, less poetic sentence as an example, one which seems to make no claim at experimental poetry but rather a simple idea tripped up & over by awkward translation:
"Seated ready to tell it, if one might go to drink a bock over there, and the typewriter continue [sic] by itself (because I use the machine), that would be perfection."
There is no doubt what he is saying in this sentence - that the ideal situation would be that one would leave his typewriter behind & have a drink or something with the machine continuing on to write, divinely, without the bridge of the man - the translator throughout the story never fails completely to get the gist of what Cortazar is saying out, but it is rather the degree to how unappealingly it is written which bothers me. The job of a translator is not just tugging along the
vague idea of a previous text but actually crafting something as readable as we are led to believe the original must have been.
The English clunks awkwardly along through what feels like is meant to be a sort of streaming prose. The result is what comes off as amateur stream-of-consciousness writing. The meta-textual writing-about-writing aspect of the piece is so inelegantly handled so as to make it feel like a young writer's first attempt at the genre.
There are elements to the story that seem interesting to me, and when this type of writing is done well it is of my favorite sort -- I'll assume that the source text is profoundly better, and if indeed it is, it surely deserves an updated translation.
Matthew Winn
The short story is littered with simple grammatical errors which seem to allude to the laziest of translators. When this was pointed out in class there was a response from some students that this was intentional and apparent in the original as well. I'm willing to accept that, but can't necessarily understand the merit of laying out a sentence like this:
"If one might say: I will see the moon rose, or: we hurt me at the back of my eyes, and especially: you the blond woman was the clouds.."
nor what intention it could serve stylistically or conceptually to the story when written the same way in the Spanish language.
One could, perhaps, chalk that section up to an attempt at loose stylistic poetic writing, however, so let me offer a simpler, less poetic sentence as an example, one which seems to make no claim at experimental poetry but rather a simple idea tripped up & over by awkward translation:
"Seated ready to tell it, if one might go to drink a bock over there, and the typewriter continue [sic] by itself (because I use the machine), that would be perfection."
There is no doubt what he is saying in this sentence - that the ideal situation would be that one would leave his typewriter behind & have a drink or something with the machine continuing on to write, divinely, without the bridge of the man - the translator throughout the story never fails completely to get the gist of what Cortazar is saying out, but it is rather the degree to how unappealingly it is written which bothers me. The job of a translator is not just tugging along the
vague idea of a previous text but actually crafting something as readable as we are led to believe the original must have been.
The English clunks awkwardly along through what feels like is meant to be a sort of streaming prose. The result is what comes off as amateur stream-of-consciousness writing. The meta-textual writing-about-writing aspect of the piece is so inelegantly handled so as to make it feel like a young writer's first attempt at the genre.
There are elements to the story that seem interesting to me, and when this type of writing is done well it is of my favorite sort -- I'll assume that the source text is profoundly better, and if indeed it is, it surely deserves an updated translation.
Matthew Winn
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