Saturday, January 05, 2008

Sniffing the coffee beans:


If I can't drink my bowl of coffee three times daily,
then in my torment I will shrivel up
like a piece of roast goat.

Mm, how sweet the coffee tastes,
more delicious than a thousand kisses,
mellower than muscatel wine.
Coffee, coffee I must have,
and if someone wishes to give me a treat,
ah, then pour me out some coffee!

(From JS Bach's Coffee Cantata)



Here is something I discovered only recently, while visiting the perfume counter at my local Yves Rocher. I noticed a jar of coffee beans standing there among the pretty bottles. I asked what they were for.

We all know that when we smell intense scents, our sense of smell can become saturated, fatigued, and we are no longer able to discern between fragrances. Apparently, sniffing the aroma of coffee beans clears our nasal passages, so we can actually smell a few scents in succession without one overwhelming the next one. It's like a reset button for the nose.

When I started this blog, I thought it would be a blog mostly about literature and poetry, occasionally interrupted by politics. I tried to maintain this regime for some time and then I just drifted away from it, under pressure of the events and the issues that came up and seemed more important to handle. I can't change it now, nor do I feel like I want to. But I do wish from time to time, to take a break from the intensity of discussing the wretchedness of this world and the wretchedness of some people in it.

I decided I'd take a coffee break every now and then, to smell the coffee beans, so to speak, by turning my thoughts to my most favourite of all subjects: literature, Jane Austen's books, the poetry of Lorca, and anything related in any way. This will hopefully act like the coffee beans act upon the beleaguered sense of smell, it will clear my mind and maybe help me keep a fresh perspective on things.

A cyberfriend has recently told me about a new series of television adaptations to Jane Austen's novels, about to start airing on PBS next month. Since I'm not patient when it comes to waiting for a favourite show and since I have collected most of the available adaptations of Austen's books, I decided to order the new DVD's from Amazon UK. They have been dispatched and I'm awaiting their arrival. I'll discuss each and every one of them as I watch them.

In the meantime, I'll post some of my thoughts about the older versions of Pride and Prejudice. In the following post.

Saturday, April 14, 2007

NogaNote:

Coffee

"I jumped in, explaining that the sort of coffee he’d asked for is indicative of coffee that’s been over-roasted, and though the beans look like what he thinks good coffee should look like, all black and oily, in fact, they’ve had all the subtleties incinerated out of them. Too dark a roast obliterates the soft chocolate tones of a Guatemala Medina, the intense blueberry hit of an Ethiopian Harrar…."


I feel somewhat vindicated in my choice of coffee taste which has always inclined towards “medium-roast”. Real manly men, like Johnny Bravo, seem to attach a certain significance to their liking a coffee that is dark-roast. As though a preference for drinking a coffee dark, bitter, sugarless and milkless is somehow indicative of a certain tough virility as well as continental connaisseurship... Well, I never had any pretensions for European elegance. It's all a myth, anyway. I have always liked my coffee medium roast and I have a preference for the way the Italians roast their coffee beans. But I always welcome new flavours, as long as they are not "dark roast". I am a coffee multiculturalist moderate: curious and respectful.

Tuesday, June 05, 2012


Taking a page out of Bob from Brockley, I am posting here an old old post which I think could suffer to be reread: 

_________________



"Silence is golden", says a friend of mine.

But I say that in our beleaguered everyday life, when we await affirmation and acknowledgement for our concerns and wishes, silence is definitely not golden. It often feels almost like a betrayal. Not the betrayal of so-so friends (which is somewhat always expected, lurking in the wings) but the abandonment by a kindred spirit, a friend who had somehow drilled through the barriers you so laboriously erected around yourself and inveigled itself into your very heart and soul. You are left feeling like you have been slapped.. by silence.

In the art of poetry, silence is usually a fraction of a void, an emptiness, a pause, between words that sound and resound. And for some poets, the silence can only be contrasted by a great scream of emotion or anguish or joy.

Lorca was such a poet.

None understand better the meaning of the cry ("el grito") -- the scream, the howl, that is punctuated by short, stylized silences -- than the Spaniards, with their Flamenco, their duende, and the immensity of feeling they funnel through their poetry and music.

"Not unlike the guitar, in fact, the voice of the cantator is considered an instrument of the cry, the cry that dares to break the silence, just as the hands are an instrument to break the stillness, and the feet. "

The Cry

The ellipse of a cry
echoes from mountain
to mountain.

From the olive trees
a black rainbow
veils the blue night.

Ay!

Like the bow of a viola
the cry vibrates long strings
of wind.

(Translated by Ralph Angel)

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Coffee beans, again:

As I declared in the past, I like reading what this astrologer says to me. He never forecasts anything. Just metes out some good, solid advice that might, just might, serve a Scorpio well.

This is what he advises this week:

Don't be overly captivated by the new, the flashy, and the perfect.

No danger of that. I subscribe to Jane Austen's wisdom when she said: "pictures of perfection make me sick and wicked".

The rough edges are more interesting and have likely already withstood quite a bit of abuse.
Where do you want to live, after all? In the standard prefab bullshit everyone else is occupying?

Absolutely not. And I followed up on that resolution as soon as I irreversibly realized just how much bullshit was involved.

Is that really your style?

No. I stuck out like a sore thumb.

I can't imagine you'd find it more comfortable, ultimately, than the unconventional, unique, imperfect, scrappy place off the beaten path.

However, I'm not so sure the "unique, imperfect, scrappy place" is all that it is cracked up to be. Because, because, once the "imperfect and scrappy" becomes the place to be, it gets just as boring and ostentatious as that other place.

When it comes to choosing between the two this week, keep that in mind.

I promise to keep that in mind...

Wednesday, May 04, 2011

Sniffing Coffee Beans

A Pride and Prejudice Moment: Darcy's disgrace

Well, I'm reading Jane Austen's novel, again, for a discussion course. Reading with a special attention for ironical twists (irony being very much on my mind recently).

As I came upon this famous moment (6 minutes into the vid):


"Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough for her to overhear a conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes to press his friend to join it.

``Come, Darcy,'' said he, ``I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.''

``I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.''

``I would not be so fastidious as you are,'' cried Bingley, ``for a kingdom! Upon my honour I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life, as I have this evening; and there are several of them, you see, uncommonly pretty.''

``You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,'' said Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.

``Oh! she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.''

``Which do you mean?'' and turning round, he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said, ``She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.

Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth remained with no very cordial feelings towards him. She told the story however with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in any thing ridiculous."

"I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men."

Of course the irony is that Darcy was the only man at that ball to have slighted Elizabeth Bennet, by this very statement and his adamant refusal to engage in the happy activities of the evening.

Mr. Bingley, fully aware that the extent and depth of this slight to the fair maiden is tantamount to a slander, later tries to mend some of the harm inflicted by his haughty and unfeeling friend. How do we know it? Mrs. Bennet informs us, as she reports to her husband when they get back home that night:

``Oh! my dear Mr. Bennet,'' as she entered the room, ``we have had a most delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there. Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Every body said how well she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with her twice. Only think of that my dear; he actually danced with her twice; and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand up with her; but, however, he did not admire her at all: indeed, nobody can, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going down the dance. So, he enquired who she was, and got introduced, and asked her for the two next. Then, the two third he danced with Miss King, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the Boulanger --''
As we can see, after dancing with Jane for the second time, Mr. Bingley rushed to ask Lizzy to dance.

How do we know that? In the conversation between them, Bingley referred to Jane as "my partner" and Darcy, insistently uncivilized, urges him to " return to your partner and enjoy her smiles". This should signal to the attentive reader exactly how the evening proceeded from the moment Darcy snubbed Elizabeth.

Austen, of course, conceals, in her Machiavellian way, this useful nugget of information in Mrs. Bennet's stupid and inconsequential prattle.

Tuesday, January 08, 2008

Sniffing Coffee Beans:

Continued from here:

The Outing of Fitzwilliam Darcy

While Weldon's adaptation can only be described as straying from Jane Austen's spirit and intent, Andrew Davies 's translation to the screen stays true to Jane Austen. Closely working with Sue Birtwisle, the program' s producer, he has opted for a strategy, which is very different from his predecessor's. The 1995 version of P&P is a drama for television.

The action is seen, rather than told via conversations. Important letters are not read in a voice over but dramatized as flashbacks. This gives an impetus to the action and makes good use of the advantages offered by this medium.

The characters are not meddled with but bear remarkable resemblance to the way Austen portrayed them in her novel. Elizabeth, as a character, is perceived through her actions, her behavior and her interaction with the other characters. The viewer does not gain a direct line of communication with her through a voiced soliloquy. The premise being that no one writes Jane Austen as well as Jane Austen, this dramatization is felicitous in its choice to follow Austen's direction in adhering as closely as possible to the plot line and the portrayal of her characters.

The acclaim, which greeted this dramatization, has not been completely unanimous. Some critics have protested that Darcy, a major character in the novel, is given too much prominence.

Indeed, the authentic novelty of this translation lies in the treatment given to Darcy.

In the novel, we hardly ever gain access to his thoughts or his life offstage. Jane Austen, though, does give us enough clues and bits of information to construct a complete portrait of the man. Davies follows Austen's clues and gives them substance by projecting them in visual images, and not just textual notes spoken by some character.

Davies’ Darcy has a chance at pleading his case directly to the viewer, allowing us to better understand the seeming transformation that takes place in his behavior.

Davies has brought Darcy out into the open, so to speak, by looking at the underlying text, penetrating its surface and peeling away the layers of irony and second-hand reporting that partially conceal Darcy from the reader. This was a stroke of first-rate creativeness: the reconciliation of the two media, the novel and the film. While the novel uses novelistic techniques to achieve Darcy's allure, the dramatization mimes it by using filmic technique to bring out the same insight. This is in effect what Antoine Berman calls the potentiating movement in a translation, unlike the more aggressive twists of interpretation offered by the Fay Weldon's version.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Sniffing the coffee beans:

Sense and Sensibility

I watched the new BBC production of Sense & Sensibility a few days ago. I'll try to find a video clip to post, so you can get a taste of it.

I have in my possession two earlier dramatizations: One from 1981 BBC, a 4 hour version. The other is the Emma Thompson version of some ten years ago, with Kate Winslet as Marianne. So I could compare the current production with these two earlier ones. And I must say, it was quite a good adaptation. I thought the delineation of the two sisters, the mother, was really very much true to the novel. Mr. Edward Ferrars, Elinor's lover, was also well cast and represented. The only problem I had was with Colonel Brandon, the thirty five year old man who falls for seventeen year old Marianne. Austen makes him out to be an excellent person, decent, caring, knowledgeable, patient, good "husband" material. However, he is not dashing or exciting. This adaptation made him a Byronic hero: moody, brooding, taciturn, slightly condescending (something that would not be acceptable to Austen by any means). In the attempt to romanticize him, the script writer has him challenge Willoughby, Marianne's feckless lover, to a duel. It hardly makes sense. Not in the plot, not in the character of the man that Austen created.

Since the great success of Pride And Prejudice, the people who translate Austen's novels to the screen, have been trying to inject more explicit sexuality and passion into the story. This strategy worked well in P&P. maybe because of Darcy's passion which was very palpable though concealed. All the dramatiser had to do was just to move the curtain a bit so that passion could be more revealed. But Colonel Brandon was no Darcy and it seems odd that this version tried to make him into one.

Another plot intervention that bothered me was Marianne's illness. Marianne, at the end of the novel, has wasted herself so much in her heartbreak over Willoughby's treachery, that she became severely ill and was actually on the verge of dying. For some reason, this adaptation made light of her illness, having her recover in a matter of hours, almost. It was a strange misinterpretation and I couldn't see the merit in it.

But on the whole it was a pretty enjoyable experience. I am also well aware that any adaptation is bound to disappoint, no matter how successful. As a reader, I have formed own understanding and expectations from the novel. The dramatiser has other notions, other imperatives. So there. The eternal gap of desire between the potential, what can be and what is.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Inspector Lewis

(Coffee Beans post)



I watched, the other night, on the new PBS series "Masterpiece Mystery", the first episode of "Inspector Lewis", a spin-off from the British detective drama Inspector Morse, set in Oxford. Kevin Whately resurrects his character, Robbie Lewis, who had been Morse's sidekick in the original series, now promoted and the boss of DS James Hathaway.


I used to love Inspector Morse, and mourned him when he died as Morse and even more when the actor John Thaw, his screen interpreter, died some time later. Morse was the very anti-thesis of the flamboyant detective: highly intelligent and feisty, he is often wrong; inclined to high culture and romantic, he is an avowed beer-drinker and cynical. His lack of sex-appeal is simply heart breaking. At the times when he tries to connect with some reluctant woman, it is always a disaster. An introverted snob whose sense of justice is nonetheless sharp, principled, unforgiving. In the original series, his somewhat bumpy friendship with the easy-going Lewis is one of the attractions in the stories told. Lewis is down-to-earth, fun-loving, smart and observant in ways that Morse, often befuddled by his literary knowledge and classical education, cannot quite appreciate until it is almost too late. Lewis and Morse develop some sort of a difficult camaraderie. Now that Morse is dead, Lewis takes over the senior role. His is a different style of sleuthing, different ethos. I'll explain in a minute.

The episode I watched Sunday night was entitled: Whom the Gods Would Destroy. Lewis and Hathaway investigate a murder involving a group called the Sons of the Twice Born. The name is derived from an epithet for Dionysus relating to his birth. The group's activities are arcanely shrouded in Greek myths, quotes from Nietzsche and a Dionysian fondness for drugs. The title is part of a quotation from Euripides - the full quotation is "Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad."

Murders most foul follow in succession as Lewis tries to sort out past sins from present crimes. The mastermind of the group, now a wheelchair-bound, middle aged, aristocratic grouch, hooked on drugs, is married to a young and beautiful woman, who seems to take his unrestrained abuse with great equanimity.

(Spoiler alert)

By the end of the episode we realize, along with Lewis, that this person is responsible for the cold and calculated murder of a young woman many years ago. His wife is that woman's daughter. She unleashed a bunch of brutal dogs upon him, as soon as she gets him to confess to his crime. The only other member of the group is then tried for premeditated murder.

And here is my problem: At the very last scene, Lewis and Hathaway have a conversation. Hathaway asks him why he did not arrest the wife. Wasn't she guilty of pre-meditated murder, just like her husband, just like his co-conspirators?

Lewis answers: No. Not in my book. And walks away.

This is an extraordinary judgment, from a law enforcement agent. He decided that the daughter's motive - revenge for her innocent mother's murder - was a just one, which exonerated her from any accusation of murder. Revenge, in law and order societies, is never acceptable as a motive for murder. It is not alibi. And certainly Morse, Lewis's mentor, would never have let her go free, with such an easy conscience.

Now this might be a great leap in my reasoning here, but I do wonder if Lewis's decision does not reflect the new British ethos, the one we have seen oozing out of the tight seams of British iron control over their emotions (in itself something of a myth, but still..) ever since Princess Diana's death. Away with the stiff-upper-lip tradition, the "fair play" principle. Emotions take over the phenomenal coldness and restraint of the British people. And emotions are expressed in raw justice, that is, revenge as an acceptable and legitimate response to injustice inflicted upon you.

It is very different from P.D. James's "Original Sin", in which an inspector allows a murderer to get away, to commit suicide, because he understood that his revenge motive "an eye for an eye", made a certain sense to him. Adam Dalglish, the poet-prince of all detectives, releases the inspector responsible for this from all duties right away.

There can be no mixing of pity and judgment of a wrong doing. A killing, thought out carefully, set up in advance and executed, is still a first-degree murder. There is no question of self-defence, either pre-emptive and reactive, in these stories.

I shall follow up on the subsequent episodes on "Inspector Lewis". I wonder if this deeply troubling moral question will be kept up and scrutinized as he faces other challenges. And whether Morse's stalwart ethics will be seen to prevail.

Saturday, January 05, 2008

Sniffing the coffee beans :-)

Between the Written Word and Visual Drama:
Pride & Prejudice on Television

Why is it useful to look at translation in the context of a television dramatization, and what is the primary difference between the two processes? By comparing and contrasting the act of translation and the act of dramatization, it is easier to highlight the difficulties and solutions inherent in both, but much more discernible in the latter. People watching a dramatized version of a novel are generally familiar with the novel or will become familiar with it afterwards, when they proceed to read the novel as a result of the movie. In this sense, both the original work and the dramatized version are equally known and knowable. Not so in textual translation. Very few people who read a book or a document in translation will try to revert to its original form. For most readers, the language barrier is insurmountable. As a direct consequence of this difference, a dramatized interpretation of a novel is always only one version among others, just as likely, interpretations. Every novel reader has already formed an imaginary adaptation. Therefore, the relationship between the underlying text and the post-translative product – the visual dramatization – is much more explicit and visible than the one existing between the source-target texts. The latter relationship is probably best known by the translator who performed the work and a handful of reviewers who may be familiar with the original.

Dramatizations of Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice (P&P) have been attempted many times, on the stage, in the movies and for television. The two versions I have chosen to analyze were both made by the BBC, and are probably the best known adaptations for the novel. The earlier version was done in 1982. Fay Weldon, an Australian-born British writer who, besides writing scripts, is also a novelist in her own right, did the dramatization. The second version was done in 1995. Andrew Davies, an English Literature professor as well as a dramatiser, wrote the six-hour script. By his own account, P&P has always been his favorite novel. These two equally capable dramatisers had set out to translate a Jane Austen novel for television and bring her into the living rooms of millions of people. Both working from the exact the same material, in English, managed to produce two vastly different dramatizations.

The Betrayal of Elizabeth Bennet (1982 BBC TV dramatization)

In her adaptation, Weldon used the text of the novel as source material to build up the dialogues in the series. As the text was divided among the various characters to be used as conversation fodder, it became possible to retain in discourse some of the wit, charm and information of the underlying text. The major drawback of this strategy is that at times it becomes self-defeating: the wordiness of the production emulates the literary source, but does not do justice to the new medium into which it has been translated.

In film, the engine of the action should be: show, don't tell. Another downside result of too much reliance on dialogue to move the action forward is the unwieldiness of many of the conversations. Moreover, some of these conversations not only have never taken place in the novel but they could not have taken place in the world Jane Austen created and wrote about. Some characters are chatty, irresponsible and always revealing confidential information. But when this sort of mindless chatter is applied to the responsible characters, which are usually in control of their emotions and speech, it creates a distortion in the way we relate to them.

A good example is the scene in which Elizabeth is playing croquet with a relatively new acquaintance, George Wickham (who turns out to be a cad!). It transpires just after Elizabeth's sister has been dumped (or so it seemed) by her erstwhile beau, Bingley, and is pining and trying to come to terms with her disappointment. In this scene, Elizabeth tells Wickham about Jane's sorrow and disappointment. By placing Elizabeth in that fabricated scene, Weldon betrays Elizabeth's complete and unquestionable loyalty to her sister and her social savvy, thus presenting her in unflattering colors.

This betrayal of Elizabeth's quintessence cannot have been done randomly. Weldon seems to detect in her a certain recklessness of behavior, a flouting of decorum, which indicates a heroine who is at odds with society. According to the Weldon script, Elizabeth Bennet is a provocative girl, who maintains a mocking self-composure throughout the production. A smile of superior intelligence and understanding never leaves her face. She is not only irresponsible but also defiant. In Fay Weldon’s adaptation she seems to disregard the basic moral underpinnings of the novel: she is seen exchanging confidences with her friend Charlotte about her family's failures, even after Charlotte has proved herself to be a manipulative, self-seeking female. Jane Austen makes a point of telling us in the novel that Elizabeth never again trusted her friend as she had done before, but the Weldon script ignores this qualification. It seems that Charlotte was to be reinstated as Elizabeth's intimate friend in spite of the author's explicit intent.

Elizabeth seems to defy the basic rules of moral behavior of her times: she is seen visiting on her own a bachelor in his home, she receives a letter from a man and responds to it, in a way that no genteel woman of the time should have done. Jane Austen’s Elizabeth is very much a woman planted within her society, with its values and rules of decorum. We could easily find out what Jane Austen thought of such behavior as Weldon gives her heroine if we look for it in her other novels.

In "Sense and Sensibility", the author makes it quite clear what she thinks of a young lady indulging in such self-ruinous conduct. There is no true liberation for a young lady at the mercy of her raging hormones, as far as Jane Austen is concerned. Elizabeth is the opposite of that. Her independent freethinking happens when she deems the circumstances justify breaking the rules. She does deviate from social norm, when she takes a three-mile walk across muddy, rain-soaked fields to visit her sick sister who is confined to a stranger's house. Her love and anxiety for her sister endorse what seems to be an unusual action. This action does not generate from defiance of society but from common sense. That is why it stands out in the novel as a moral achievement. The Weldon script diminishes Elizabeth's ability to discern and judge. This in turn diminishes the stature of the narrative and its achievement.

Fay Weldon is a feminist writer. In her novels, such as "Splitting" and "Darcy's Utopia" she likes to portray misleadingly demure women who do and say outrageous things, as a way of upsetting the smug power of patriarchy. Her heroines are subversively soft spoken and tractable. They show themselves prone to brazen behavior and shocking expressions. They are very obviously not in control of their lives. In "Splitting", this leads to a splintering of the heroine's psyche. Eventually, she ends up regaining her faculties, acquiring a direction in her life and opting for sensual fulfillment with a red-blooded, working-class male, definitely not English.

The despondency that besets Weldon's central female characters reverberates throughout her adaptation of Pride & Prejudice. For her, Elizabeth is not a strong female personality, nor is she very wise; but rather a young woman who lives on the brink of perpetual fear facing a bleak future. There is a modernist, helpless, angry feel to Weldon's Elizabeth, which is in remarkable contrast with Austen's own reflection on the novel as "light and bright and sparkling”. This adaptation is a violent translation of the novel, in so far as the writer/translator has distorted the characters, adding to some, detracting from others, made up scenes that are nonexistent in the original novel. Weldon’s script clashes with Austen's narrative and beefs up its feminist undertones. This kind of translation engages the text of a well-known beloved novelist in a cause of feminist ire. The process by which this was done can only be described as violent. Weldon’s rendition of Pride & Prejudice abrades and reduces the novel.

Next coffee break: 1995 BBC Pride and Prejudice: The Outing of Fitzwilliam Darcy.