MARCEL PROUST : Du côté
de chez Swann (À la recherche du temps perdu I).
“Marcel Proust (*1871-†1922) is
one of the most boring, yet also fascinating and relevant writers in the whole
history of French literature.”
We woke up, shaken by the outrageous remark. How could anyone,
even if it were just in a nightmare, utter such a statement,
related to the opus magnum (and to some extent also opus unicum)
of the French writer, supposed to have been qualified by Graham Greene (*1904-†1991)) as “the greatest novelist of the
20th century”?[1] We
have learned, of course, to be cautious vis-à-vis such slippery and
dubious superlatives, but the English author of The Power and the Glory
was not known to issue eulogies just for the sake of it.
Yet perhaps there is a reasoning, a founded cogitation in it. The issue is the meaning of “boring”, “ennuyant” in French. Let us ask for the help of the German language, which would render “langweilig”, that is, “long-whiled”. It could mean that it takes the writer “too long” to “get to the point”, in the case of Proust many thousands of pages. But it would be unfair to apply such an adjective to a literary work which explicitly states that there is no “point” in reading it, if you happen to be looking for a “point”… It is quite apart from the traditional novel, centred on a story with a beginning, a development and an end. In fact, it is quite apart from almost anything. Volker Schlöndorff (*1939)[2], the German film-director, was also warned by his classmates in France, when at the age of sixteen he expressed his desire to read him: “Proust is boring...”[3]
Let us summarise briefly the well-known vicissitudes of the first volume of “À la recherche...”, rejected by most of the prestigious publishing houses in Paris (including by André Gide (*1869-†1951), for the NRF, Nouvelle Revue Francaise, who later repented and begged for excuses from Proust). The “rapport de lecture” de Jacques Madeleine, having confronted the manuscript of “Du côté de chez Swann” :
“Au bout des sept cent pages de
ce manuscrit (...) on n’a aucune, aucune notion de ce dont il s’agit. Qu’est
que ce tout cela vient faire ? Qu’est que tout cela signifie ? Ou tout cela
veut-il mener ?» (...) La lettre jointe
au manuscrit apporte quelques éclaircissements (...) Elle avoue qu’il ne se passe rien dans ces
sept cent pages, que l’action n’y est pas engagé...»[4]
700 pages were “nothing” really happens… Who is going to read it? The publishing house Fasquelle refuses it. Another prestigious maison d’édition, Ollendorf, does not hesitate to also close the doors to the ambitious author :
“Je suis peut-être bouché
à l’émeri, mais je ne puis comprendre qu’un monsieur puisse employer trente
pages à décrire comment il se tourne et se retourne dans son lit avant de
trouver le sommeil »[5]
«I might not be the smartest of fellows, but I cannot understand why a gentleman should employ thirty pages to describe how he turns and turns on his bed, before falling asleep.”
Yet such an achievement does require talent–and stamina.
Printed in 1913 by Grasset at the “author’s expenses”, the initial reception was not very enthusiastic. Letters discovered not a long time ago confirm that Monsieur Proust did pay at least three journalists, to publish favourable reviews of his work, for Le Figaro and La Revue de Deux Mondes. Today’s equivalent of such” sweeteners” would be around 1,300 Euros each. It is with the Prix Goncourt, 1919, for “À l’ombre des...”, that Proust reputation and readership begins to enter a stable and solid path, within and outside France.
Let us concentrate on the first volume, though having the next two not that far away.
“Cathédrale de Rouen. Le portrait de la Tour Saint-Romain à l‘aube“, Claude Monet. Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Cover of the Gallimard edition, Folio Classique, 2001. We apologise for the derelict state of the book, but we bought it second-hand in 2011, and it then underwent further suffering during numerous voyages. Apart from constant annotations, insertion of markers and supplementary material.
We will begin by using a “film” to, first of all, state what is at
stake, even now, when any attempt to “recreate” Marcel Proust is engaged.
Another puzzle: Perhaps one of the less “cinematic” writers of modern times
(almost no “action”), yet it seems to have had a sorcerous impact above all on
cinematographers. It is the Proustian
approach which fascinates, rather than the intertwined perambulation of it
dozens and dozens of characters in his novel. Edgar Reitz (*1932), the famous German
film-director of Heimat[6], was asked at the end
of 2013, on the occasion of the first screening of the sequel Die andere
Heimat, which were the film-makers who had the greatest influence upon
him:
“None. My whole approach comes from Marcel Proust.”[7]
The French writer keeps exercising an almost enigmatic enchantment on cinematographers and writers alike. It makes an unexpected appearance in the historic film-version (1946)[8] of the novel of Raymond Chandler (*1888-†1959), The Big Sleep (first edition 1939), whose screenplay was the work of William Faulkner (*1897-†1962), Leigh Brackett, and Jules Furthman. Here is one of the iconic dialogues, perhaps the one to be remembered for ever, between Humphrey Bogart (private eye Marlowe) and Lauren Bacall:
Humphrey Bogart answer is: “Come into my boudoir.” An endearing and pertinent appearance, as Chandler can be considered the classiest and relevant “opposite” of Marcel Proust in terms of narrative, the American being acknowledged as the master of “hard-boiled” thrillers. No doubt the Nobel-Prize winner William Faulkner had a key role in drawing the rainbow between the two very much dissimilar writers.
Decades afterwards, we find again Proust in one of the most remarkable, moving and aesthetically brilliant films of the first twenty years of the 21st century: La Grande Bellezza, (2013), directed by Paolo Sorrentino(*1960)[9]. In the middle a huge, and noisy, probably also decadent, party of the flashy, snobbish society of Rome, a woman and a man seek to find refuge in the French writer:
Translating from Italian into English, the woman “I am devoting myself
to my first novel, a sort of Proustian thing...”, the man: “ah, do you know
that Proust is my favourite writer? “
Some efforts have been made (with mixed results) to reproduce Proust’s
world onto the screen. The most remarkable is the 1984 film directed
by Volker Schlöndorff, “Un amour de Swann/Eine Liebe von Swann”, a French-German
co-production based on the second part of “Du côté… [10] Lead
male and female figures were Jeremy Irons (Charles Swann), and Ornella Mutti
(Odette). Accompanied by Alain Delon (Baron de Charlus), and a ravissante
Fanny Ardant (Comptesse de Guermantes), among others.
The “Making of the Film”[11], which is centred on an interview with Volker Schlöndorff, gives us some delicious insider details of what it means to tackle one of the “monuments” of French culture in the 20th century. It equals throwing yourself into a wasp-nest, where highly sensitive commercial, linguistic and political issues had to be confronted with, plus the ego and the mannerisms of world-known actors and actresses.
It seems that one branch of the Rothschild family was in possession of at least the cinematographic rights of the novel, yet they needed to make a film, in order to avoid the rights falling onto the public domain (1987). A first attempt, with Peter Brook et al conceiving the screenplay, had to be abandoned, and Schlöndorff was hired, as he had been French-educated, having also worked as assistant to Jean-Pierre Melville (*1917-†1973). The German director chose Jeremy Irons for the main male role, “Monsieur Swann”, as he was able to speak fluent French. The Italian Ornella Mutti would not have been the first choice for many (she herself was surprised by the offer…), but Schlöndorff insisted, as she could best incarnate Odette, the still young, innocent-looking courtisane . No less important, she spoke German, her mother having been born near the Baltic sea, hence the communication with the director was smooth and effective. Alain Delon was imposed right from the beginning to incarnate le baron de Charlus, as commercial proprietors of the rights were aware that a big “French name” was needed to assure the critical reception, and the expected profit-maximising revenues.
The complex question to be answered is whether, as Schlöndorf stated, “Kann man den Stil eines Autors verfilmen?”, you can “cinematise” the style of an author. “You cannot really film Proust, we will have a go at it anyway, to see what comes out...”
A first solution to the overwhelming complexity of the whole oeuvre, translated onto the screen: The action is reduced to only one day (plus a short epilogue thirty years later), trying to summarise in twenty-four-hours the relationship between Swann and Odette, in “Un amour de Swann”. There is, of course, an echo of Ulysses (1922) of James Joyce (*1882-†1941), where seven hundred pages are used to describe the wanderings and the inner world, the “stream of consciousness”, of the main protagonist, during twenty-four hours. “A day which contains the whole life”, is the sub-title, or paraphrase, of the version proposed by Schlöndorff.
A second solution, having in mind how to compensate “the lack of “action”. Great emphasis is given to the re-creation, up to the tiniest details, of the époque. Architecture, furniture, wardrobe, members of the French aristocracy participating as “extras” in many scenes, accents, postures (women of the upper class, when seated, never touched the backrest, so as to force themselves to keep their back a straight as possible) and mannerisms were all studied before, counting on the advice of experts. The jewellery for the ladies, created between the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th centuries, was obtained on loan from Cartier, as the famous Parisian house keeps a register of all jewels sold ever since, and re-buy those originals which re-appeared at auctions. Schlöndorff: “A woman notices the difference between a true diamond, and an artificial copy. And she acts, walks, speaks differently...” It meant that for most of the shooting of the film body-guards of Cartier were present, as well as the personal one of Alain Delon, plus a shepherd dog, “which obeyed only instructions from Delon, and kept terrifying all of us” (so Schlöndorff).
Yet the great “power game” did not take long to erupt. Delon could not accept that he was a “secondary male figure”. Returning to the shooting-location one evening (he had forgotten something) Schlöndorff finds, to his greatest astonishment, Delon and Mutti in costumes, posing embraced together, with photographers working under headlights. “What is this? You are not the couple in love of the film?”. Delon: “It is just for the family album...” On the following Monday all newspapers and magazines in France headlined the photos, portraying Delon as the “partner” of Odette, and the main male character of the film. Jeremy Irons was understandably devastated. Schlöndorff also, as he feared the French would think he was an “ignorant, a barbarian German”, who knew nothing about Proust. The shooting lasted two weeks more. Schlöndorff never spoke again to Alain Delon, giving him only written instructions, transmitted by an attendant.
We should not be surprised if we were to learn, in the near future, that the Culture Minister of France then, perhaps even the President, urged Alain Delon to “do something”, in order to avoid one of the cathedrals of French literature being “kidnapped” by an English actor, an Italian actress, and a German film-director.
We will come back soon with a more detailed analysis of the first volume of “À la recherche...“.
On the 18th of May of 1922, six months before his death, Proust went to a dinner at the “Ritz” in Paris. Among his fellow diners were James Joyce, Igor Stravinsky, Pablo Picasso. What could have been the main subjects of conversation?
[1]Quoted as such in White, Edmund (1999), Marcel Proust, a life,
Penguin, p. 2.
[2]Became a well-known director worldwide thanks to the film
version of “Die Blechtrommel” (The tin drum), the novel by Gunther
Grass, which received the Oscar for the best film in a foreign language in
1980. Golden Palm in Venice,
1979.
[3]“Un amour de Swann/Liebe von Swann”, Presseheft,
[4]Marcel Proust, Du côté de chez Swann,
Gallimard, Collection Folio Classique,
2001. Pp
446-450. Pseudonym of Jacques Normand, who had some old scores to settle with
Proust.
[5]Proust (2001), Préface d’Antoine
Compagnon, p. XXII.
[6]Heimat I (first part of a trilogy) came
in 1984, causing a sensation, as the audiences were asked to sit through all 15
hours 40 minutes, in four consecutive nights. “BBC 2 later screened this
colossus over 11 consecutive nights, and on the channel’s 40th
birthday last year (2004), Heimat was voted one of its 40 highlights –
the only foreign name on a list that ranged from “Civilisation” to “Faulty
Towers”. The Independent, 04.05.2006.
[7]He has, many times, been labelled as “the
Marcel Proust in the history of cinema”. An article in The Independent,
on 04.05.2005, states: “The epic films of Edgar Reitz have been compared by
some to the works of Tolstoy, by others to soap operas. Reitz himself says that
his inspiration was Marcel Proust, and the connection seems suddenly so obvious
that I’m surprised nobody has made it before.”
[8]Director, Howard Hawks. There is a 1945 version,
unreleased, which was restored and released in 1997.
[9]Screenplay by Sorrentino and Umberto Contarello, Toni
Servillo in the main male role. Awarded the Oscar in 2013 for the best film in
a foreign language, idem by the Golden Globe Awards (2014) and
the British Academy Film Awards (2014).
The epigraph at
the beginning of the film is a quote from the novel Voyage au bout de la
nuit, de Louis-Ferdinand Céline (*1894-†1961).
[10]Original screenplay by Peter Brook,
Jean-Claude Carriere, Marie-Helene Estienne. Retained by Schlöndorff.
[11] #Making of the film, 2008
