On Robin Wood’s TRAMMEL UP THE CONSEQUENCE

Now that I’ve finally read Robin Wood’s fascinating posthumous novel, an odd thriller involving amnesia, I’m pleased to report that it’s much better than I expected it to be, both as a page-turner and as what I would describe as a critic’s novel — even though the latter quality only became fully clear to me in the book’s closing pages.

The story as a whole can be described as a shotgun marriage or as a conversation — or perhaps as some of both — between a model of prose fiction that is literary, high- modernist, and intellectual and another model that is nonliterary, populist, and nonintellectual. These models and positions are represented by the novel’s two leading characters, a man and a woman respectively, the latter of whom is the story’s principal narrator and thus represents Wood’s own preferred position. It would be difficult to say much more about this without introducing spoilers — an especially heinous crime according to the nonintellectual model, and one that should clearly be avoided when it comes to the gradual revelations in this plot — but the degree to which the story as a whole represents a running debate between these positions reflects many of Wood’s own positions and tastes as a critic, which ran all the way from modernist art films to exploitation horror films — both of which are reflected, in different ways, in Trammel Up the Consequence.

As John Anderson’s helpful Introduction to the novel notes, anyone reading the novel “will certainly not think of beautiful prose,” and a quotation from an application by Wood for a writer’s grant clarifies that this was a very conscious decision on Wood’s part: “I am trying, as a writer of fiction, to reach a wide audience (rather than a bourgeois elite), using the modes of popular fiction to encompass radical ideas about our culture….I am not trying to write ‘beautiful prose’.” Consequently, although the examples of both Alfred Hitchcock and George Romero lurk behind the plot and its unraveling, and the first of these influences is openly acknowledged at many junctures, Wood ultimately comes down more on the side of Romero in some of his shock tactics.

This is only one of the more striking polarities in this novel (along with England and the U.S., and gay sex and “straight” sex), but it’s one that, in retrospect, is central to Wood’s criticism. Consider, for instance, the fact that his two short books in the BFI Classics series were on Rio Bravo and The Wings of the Dove. Even though I must confess that I detest the film of The Wings of the Dove (which strikes me as a very middle-class betrayal and misunderstanding of the Henry James novel, although Wood obviously didn’t see it that way), it seems to me that Wood’s valuing of that film had a lot to do with his notion of “popularizing” the high modernism of late Henry James in some fashion. And in this novel, it might even be said that Daphne du Maurier triumphs in certain ways over T.S. Eliot.

Although there’s much more to be said about Trammel Up the Consequence, it obviously needs to be read and recognized. Below is a press release from Gary McCallum with information about how to order the book (which can’t currently be found in more mainstream outlets such as Amazon, even in Canada):

If you wish to order a copy please send a cheque or money order payable to Gary McCallum to the address below. The cost of the book is $19 (the value of U.S. and Canadian dollars are so close I am not going to distinguish between them) plus the cost of mailing.

The cost of shipping and packaging is as follows:

CAN       U.S.
Regular      $10        $14
Expedited   $11       $21.

Please include your mailing address.

If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me. Thank you. GM

Gary J. McCallum
Barrister & Solicitor
104 - 4211 Sheppard Ave. E.
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M1S 5H5

Tel: (416) 298-0600
Fax: (416) 297-0800
Email: GMlawfirm@hotmail.ca
[8/17/11]

Published on 17 Aug 2011 in Notes, by jrosenbaum

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Published on 17 Aug 2011 in Notes, by jrosenbaum

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LA SAGA: CINÉASTES, DE NOTRE TEMPS: UNE HISTOIRE DU CINÉMA EN 100 FILMS

Some of the most successful and fruitful ongoing enterprises related to film history have been either ignored or taken for granted (which sometimes amounts to the same thing) due to their omnipresence. In book publishing, the two most outstanding examples that come to mind are, in France, the series of monographs devoted to film directors issued by Seghers(which finally expired many years ago, I believe in the 70s or 80s) and, in the U.K., the BFI Classics and BFI Modern Classics, launched in 1992 and, to be the best of my knowledge, still going strong.

Considerably more formidable is the series of 80-odd French television documentaries about filmmakers produced by Janine Bazin (the widow of André Bazin) and André S. Labarthe, initially called Cinéastes de notre temps when it was produced by the ORTF between 1964 and 1972, and revived as Cinéma, de notre temps when it was produced by Arte between 1990 and 2003, the year that Janine Bazin died, and then taken up again by Cinécinéma in 2006. Some of the more interesting of the earlier documentaries were remarkable in the various ways that they stylistically imitated their subjects, as in the programs on Cassavetes, Samuel Fuller, and Josef von Sternberg. One specialty item was an eight-part conversation between Fritz Lang and Jean-Luc Godard (The Dinosaur and the Baby, 1967). Many important figures worked on these shows, including Noël Burch and Jean Eustache (mainly as editors, although Burch also codirected a few programs), Jean-André Fieschi (mainly on Italian filmmakers), Jean-Louis Comolli and Jean Douchet (on diverse topics), Alexandre Astruc (on F.W. Murnau), Jacques Baratier (on René Clair), Jacques Rivette (a three-part series about Jean Renoir), Claire Denis (a two-part program about Rivette, with Serge Daney as interviewer), Jacques Rozier (on Jean Vigo), Eric Rohmer (on Carl Dreyer), Olivier Assayas (on Hou Hsiao-hsien), Rafi Pitts (on Abel Ferrara), Chris Marker (on Andrei Tarkovsky), and Pedro Costa (on Jean-Marie Straub and Danièle Huillet)—to provide a less than exhaustive list. Excerpts from many of these shows are available as extras on Criterion DVDs, but as Labarthe once justifiably complained in Cahiers du Cinéma, treating the interview material from these shows as raw footage often does a disservice to the interest and importance of many of these documentaries as films.

The enterprising French publisher Capricci has brought out a very handsome illustrated 256-page volume about this series for 25 Euros, which comes with a DVD containing rushes from three of the interviews done by Labarthe for documentaries that were never completed — the longest of which is with Elia Kazan, interviewed in his Connecticut office in English in 1972 by Annette Michelson. (Michelson also interviewed Otto Preminger in 1972 for Labarthe, and one hopes that these rushes will also emerge at some point in some form.) The other two interviews are from 1965 and filmed in southern California — with Rouben Mamolian in French and with Frank Capra, mainly in English, the latter shot with the assistance of John Cassavetes.

The book proper features an interview with Labarthe by Thierry Lounas, working notes on almost all of the completed and released programs (for some strange reason, Labarthe’s program on Sternberg from 1967 is omitted), and numerous photographs and contextual documents of various kinds. It’s a priceless guide to a major chapter in the history of French film criticism. [8/13/11]

Published on 13 Aug 2011 in Notes, by jrosenbaum

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SCARFACE

A capsule review requested by and written for MUBI’s Notebook in conjunction with an ongoing series at New York”s Film Forum. — J.R.

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Scarface (Howard Hawks, 1932): A surprising amount of Howard Hawks’ unstable, weirdly graceful universe is informed by the imminence of death and the proximity of offscreen space, tied to the risks of tangling with sudden impulses. Few of his films are more aware of this encroaching void than Scarface, where X is made to mark the offscreen spot around every narrative corner. This frighteningly brutal black comedy, the least romantic of his crowd-pleasers — a much better gangster film than any of the Godfathers, especially when it comes to confronting reality — was made when people were far less deluded than they are today about the fact that their lives and destinies were being controlled by crooks. What makes it bleaker than Only Angels Have Wings and Rio Bravo is the small and indecisive role friendship is allowed to play in holding back the darkness; perhaps only Land of the Pharaohs betrays a comparable nihilistic bleakness. — Jonathan Rosenbaum

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Published on 05 Aug 2011 in Notes, by jrosenbaum

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