Friday, 23 December 2016

Ils sont fous ces français, or "Harry Potter and the Mean-Spirited Translator"

So this is something I've been meaning to comment on for a while. It all dates back to my early days as a languages student where, in a valiant effort to raise my French reading skills above that crucial dividing line between "very bad" and merely "bad", I started reading Harry Potter in French. Given that I pretty much knew the books by heart in English, this meant I could more or less follow the French word-for-word without too much difficulty. This did teach me a lot of words I wouldn't have learned otherwise ("The baguette chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter") but aside from that I soon realised there was something much more insidious going on.

Now, I'm fully aware that translators are occasionally allowed to play fast and loose with original material, as certain things can't be translated directly from one language to another. What I hadn't seen before when reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire in French was the translator inserting dialogue and paragraphs that straight out DON'T APPEAR in the English. And I don't mean elaborating on a particular term that French readers might have trouble with - I mean adding in irrelevant sentences that all serve a single sinister purpose - making fun of the English!

The Potterheads among you will know that this particular installment sees the arrival of a bunch of French students. While in the English there is a certain amount of cultural humour in place, in the French edition the Beauxbatons students constantly flat-out mock the Hogwarts students for not being able to understand them properly.

Here are some examples I've picked up, and I am genuinely at a loss as to why the translator has done this.

EXHIBIT #1

Here's an extract from Chapter Nine, "The Dark Mark". Harry, Ron, and Hermione are blundering around with everyone else at the Qudditch World Cup in the wake of the titular Mark's appearance. At one point they run across some French-speaking students:


Fairly straightforward, right? A typical French-English encounter. However in the French the translator goes a bit further. It starts off OK, more or less following the English up to "turned and said quickly":


When the French girl speaks, however, she says a lot more than J.K. Rowling originally had in mind:


Approximate translation:

"This is simply unbelievable!" she exclaimed. "What kind of organisation is this? Where is Madame Maxime? We've lost her! Come on, do something!"
"Er - what?" said Ron.
"He doesn't understand a word, that one," said the curly-haired girl, turning her back on Ron.

Then it goes back to following the English:


Now what the hell was that bit in the middle all about, Mr. Translator? We know he doesn't understand French, no need to rub it in.

Could be a one-off though, right? Sadly not. Once the Beauxbatons students arrive at Hogwarts we're treated to a hilarious exchange between Dumbledore and Madame Maxime.

EXHIBIT #2 

First, the original:


Short and sweet. However, in the French -


It's OK up as far as "Warm up, I think" ("Meu reuchauffeu queulqueu peu" - the words in French are deliberately misspelt to give Maxime an accent), but then it goes completely off-script. This one doesn't really translate into English, but I'll do my best:

"Warm up, I zink, what a goood idea. my dee-ar Dambleudore," agreed Madame Maxime"But 'oo iz going to take care of my 'orses?"
"Your hair is styled to perfection," Dumbledore assured her gallantly.
"Dambleudore, what a joke you make!" exclaimed Madame Maxime, shaking with laughter. "I meant the 'orses on my coach..."
"Ah, your horses! Yes of course, our Care of Magical Creatures teacher will be delighted to take care of them..."

Basically, the humour comes from mishearing two very similar words in French, 'cheveux', meaning hair, and 'chevaux', meaning horses. French Dumbledore clearly doesn't have an ear for accents. Very funny, but again, why is this even in here?

Still, twice is only a coincidence. You need three to make a pattern. Oh, wait -

EXHIBIT #3


Here we meet Fleur Delacour asking for some bouillabaisse. Not much you can do with that, is there? The French version begs to differ. It follows the English up until "very white, even teeth" ("des dents très blanches, parfaitement régulières").


 Then it's back to ripping on the English for their abysmal language skills:


Ron went purple. He looked at her, opened his mouth and babbled:
"The bouba... the boubaliaisse... The bailloubaisse..."
"Bouillabaisse," she corrected.
"Bouba... boubia..." stammered Ron.
"You don't seem to have much of a gift for foreign languages..." the blonde-haired girl said impatiently. So, have you finished with this bouillabaisse, yes or no?"
"Yeah," Ron said breathlessly. "Yeah, it was... it was excellent."

While it's certainly true that the English capacity for learning foreign language is atrocious, do you really need to shoehorn in exchanges like this? Interpreting the original text to deal with certain nuances is one thing - this linguistic piss-taking is a step too far.

Before wrapping up, I just wanted to point out one non-linguistic discrepancy between the two versions, namely the flagging-up of plot holes. Now, who remembers the classic night-time escapade where Harry gets trapped in a trick staircase on his way back from solving the egg clue in Chapter 25? He's hidden under the Invisibility Cloak, but he's dropped the Marauders Map and the egg, attracting the attention of Snape, Filch and Moody. Harry can't reach the Map to wipe it clean, and watches in horror as Snape almost discovers it...


Hooray! Moody to the rescue! Let's move on! However, nothing's going to get past the French translator:


Here's the translation - the new bits are highlighted:

Snape reached out to pick it up. A horrible expression appeared on his face: clearly, he was beginning to understand...
"Accio parchment!"
The map flew up, slipped between Snape fingers as he was about to seize it, and floated up into Moody's hand. Harry bit his lip. When his foot had sunk through the step, he had been overcome by panic and had tried in vain to wipe the map clean with his wand, without even thinking of using a Summoning Charm to recover it! What an idiot!
"My mistake," Moody said calmly, "It's mine. Must have dropped it earlier."

While the not-so-subtle jabs at English-speakers show a bit too much experimentation with the text, I think we can agree that Harry could do with a Quel idiot! comment from the narrator every now and again. You're slightly redeemed, Mr. Translator.

So there you have it - the French readers of Harry Potter have been secretly making fun of the English for the past 16 years! Hope they've had a good laugh - we're onto them now though.

So yeah, that was all I wanted to say. Now you can spend Christmas safe in the knowledge that the French and English translations of Harry Potter are, in fact, slightly different. Hope it was worth it!

Oh yeah, all copyright belongs to their respective owners, I suppose.

BONUS JAB

One final piece of snark from Fleur:


Everything is fine in the French up until "Meester Bagman" ("...mon cher monsieur Véerpé").

I'll leave you to figure out her closing remark.








Monday, 4 January 2016

Moscow-Petushki, Part II

Moscow. The Restaurant at Kursky Station.
No, definitely not between the beer and Alba-de-dessert. There was no pause there. But before the koriandrovaya… quite possibly. Or, more likely: I bought the nuts before the koriandrovaya and the sweets afterwards. Or perhaps the other way around: having drunk the koriandrovaya, I…
 - Nothing alcoholic here, the bouncer said, looking at me as if I were a dead bird or dirty buttercup.
“Nothing alcoholic here!!!”
Although I shrivelled with despair, I still managed to mumble that that was not why I had come there. How do you know why I’ve come here? Maybe my express train to Perm decided for some reason that it didn’t want to go to Perm, and so I came here instead: to eat beef Stroganoff and to listen to Ivan Kozlovsky or something from ‘The Barber of Seville’.
I had taken my suitcase with me after all and, as before in the stairwell, I pressed it to my chest in expectation of an order.
Nothing alcoholic! Queen of Heaven! If you believe the angels, the place was abundant in sherry. Now there’s only music, just some music with a kind of mangy modulation to it. It’s really Ivan Kozlovsky singing – I recognised it at once; there isn’t a more nauseating voice out there. Every singer has a nauseating voice unique to them. I can therefore easily distinguish it by ear. So of course it’s Ivan Kozlovsky. “Oh, the cup of my ancesto-o-ors… let me see you in the light of the st-a-a-ars…” Of course it’s Ivan Kozlovsky. “Oh, I am bewi-i-itched by you… Don’t reject meeee…”
- Are you going to order anything?
- What’ve you got – just music?
- What do you mean, just music? We’ve got beef Stroganoff, pastries, udder…
I’m feeling nauseous again.
- Sherry?
- No sherry.
- Interesting… you’ve got udder, but no sherry!
- Veeery interesting. No sherry. But there is udder.
And I was left alone. So as not to feel sick, I began to consider the chandelier above my head...
It’s a nice chandelier. But it’s too heavy. If it slipped and fell onto someone’s head that’d be pretty painful. Actually no, not painful… while it breaks off and falls, you’re sitting there unsuspectingly drinking, say, sherry. And once it reaches you – you’ve snuffed it. It’s a weighty thought – you’re sitting there, and on above you is the chandelier. A very weighty thought…
Well actually, why so weighty? If you are, say, drinking sherry, if you have a hangover, then it’s not such a weighty thought. But if you’re sitting there after drinking yourself stupid and haven’t yet succeeded in reaching a hangover, and they don’t give you sherry – then it’s a weighty thought… A very depressing thought. A thought that not everyone has the strength to bear, especially when incredibly drunk.
And you would agree to this were you proposed this: we’ll bring you, they say, 800 grams of sherry, and in return we’ll unhook the chandelier above your head.
- Well, have you made up your mind? Will you order something?
- Sherry, please. 800 grams.
- Oh, you’re a good one, I can see! You were told in plain Russian: we don’t have any sherry!
- Well then... I'll wait... When will there be...
- Wait, wait... you’ll wait! You’ll get your sherry, all right!
And I was left alone again. I gazed after this woman in disgust. Especially at the seamless white stockings; a seam might have mollified me, perhaps unburdened my soul and conscience…
Why are they so rude? Eh? This sort of rudeness is emphasised in these very moments where you cannot be rude, when a person has a hangover and his nerves all over the place, when he is fainthearted and silent! Why is that? Oh, if only the whole world, if everyone in the world would be like I am now, quiet and fearful, and also not certain about anything; about themselves, or about the seriousness of their place under the heavens – how good it would be! No enthusiasts, no valour, no obsessions! A universal faintheartedness. I would agree to live on Earth for eternity, if I was shown just one corner where there’s no room for valour. “A universal faintheartedness” - where there is truly salvation from all ills, this panacea, this predicate of the greatest perfection! As for the active storage of this nature…
- Who’s ordering the sherry?!
Above me stood two women and one man, all three of them in white. I looked up at them – oh, how much ugliness and obscurity there must have been in my eyes then – and I understood by them, by their eyes, because this ugliness and obscurity was reflected in their eyes… I somehow wilted and lost all my strength.
- Well, I am… Though I’m almost…not asking. But if there’s no sherry, then I’ll wait, I’ll just…
- What do you mean, ‘just’? What exactly will you ‘wait’ for?
- Well, nothing. I'm just going to Petushki, to my beloved girl (ha-ha! To my ‘beloved girl’!) – I’ve bought some goodies...
The executioners waited for me to speak again.
- I’m just… I’m from Siberia, I’m an orphan… I just wanted to avoid feeling sick… I’d like some sherry…
Alas, I shouldn’t have mentioned the sherry again! It set them off again. All three grabbed me by the arm and – oh, the pain of such shame! – pulled me right across the hall and pushed me outside. My suitcase of goodies swiftly followed after me.
Outside again. Oh, empty language! Oh, the fangs of life!

Moscow. To the train by way of the shop.
What happened then - from the restaurant to the shop and from the shop to the train - the human tongue cannot bring itself to express. I dare not either. And if the angels should try – they’d simply burst into tears and the tears will prevent them from doing it.
It’s better this way – let us observe a minute of silence for these two fatal hours. Remember these hours, Venichka. In the most enthusiastic, the most effervescent days of your life – remember them. In moments of bliss and ecstasy – don’t forget about them. This should not happen again. I appeal to all my family and friends, to all people of good will, I appeal to everyone whose heart is open to poetry and compassion:
Drop what you’re doing. Stop with me, and observe a minute of silence for that which is inexpressible. If you have some kind of horn that nobody wants to hand – toot it.
So. I also stop. For exactly one minute, gazing vaguely at the station clock, I stand like a column in the middle of Kursky Station Square. My hair flutters in the wind, then stands on end, then flutters again. Taxis flow around me on all four sides. People flow around too – and they stare so ferociously – they probably think, has he been sculpted like this for the edification of future generations, or not?
And the silence is only broken by a husky female voice, pouring out of nowhere:
“Attention! At 8:16 a.m. the train to Petushki will leave from the fourth terminal. Calling at: Hammer and Sickle, Chukhlinka, Reutovo, Zheleznodorozhnaya, and then at all stops except Esino.”
And I continue to stand there.
“I repeat: at 8:16 a.m. the train to Petushki will leave from the fourth terminal. Calling at: Hammer and Sickle, Chukhlinka, Reutovo, Zheleznodorozhnaya, and then at all stops except Esino.”
That’s it. A minute had elapsed. Now, of course, you pounce on me with questions: “Hey, are you out of the shop yet, Venichka?”
- Yes, I am, - I say to you. And I continue to move in the direction of the platform, bowing my head to the left.
- Is your suitcase heavy now? Yes? And is a pipe playing in your heart? Is it?
- Well, that’s an iffy question! - I say, bowing my head to the right. - My suitcase is definitely heavy. And it’s too early to tell as far as the pipe is concerned…
- All the same, what did you buy, Venichka? We’re really interested!
- Well, I do understand that you’re interested. Now, now I’ll list them: firstly, two bottles of Kuban at two sixty-two each, for a total of five twenty-four. Next, two Russian quarters for a rouble sixty-four for a total of five twenty-four, plus three twenty-eight. Eight roubles and fifty-two kopecks. And something red. Now I remember. Yes – some strong rosé for a rouble thirty-seven.
- So-so-so, you say, and the grand total? This really is terribly interesting...
Now I’ll tell you the grand total.
- The grand total is nine roubles eighty-nine kopecks, - I say, joining the platform. - But that’s not quite the grand total. I did buy two sandwiches, so I don’t spew everywhere.
- Did you mean, “So I don’t throw up everywhere”, Venichka?
- No. I said what I said. I can’t get past the first dose without snacks, because otherwise I spew. And I can drink the second and third dry, because it’s OK to feel sick, but I definitely won’t spew. And so on until the ninth, where I’ll need another sandwich.
- Why? Will you throw up again?
- No, I won’t throw up for anything. But as for spewing, I’ll spew.
You’re all shaking your heads at this, I know. I can even see, from here on the wet platform, how all of you, scattered across my world, are shaking your heads and getting ready to sneer:
- How complicated that is, Venichka, how subtle!
- You said it!
- Such clarity of thought! And that’s all?! That’s all you need to be happy? Nothing more?
- What do you mean, nothing more? - I say, getting on the train. – If I’d had more money, I’d have got another beer and a couple of bottles of port, but then...
At this point you really get ready to moan.
- Oh-oh-oh-oh, Venichka! Oh-oh, how primitive!
Well, so what? Let me be primitive, I say. And at this point I’ll cease talking to you. Let me be primitive! And I’ll no longer respond to your questions. I'd better sit down, press my suitcase to my chest, and look through the window. Like this. Let me be primitive!
And you’ll keep pestering:
- What’s the matter? You offended?
- Course not, - I answer.
- Don’t be offended, we wish you well. But why do you keep pressing your suitcase to your chest, you fool? Because there’s vodka there, or what?
Now I really am offended. What’s the vodka got to do with it?
“Dear passengers, this train is for Petushki. Calling at: Hammer and Sickle, Chukhlinka, Reutovo, Zheleznodorozhnaya, and then at all stops except Esino.”
Seriously, what’s the vodka got to do with it? I can see you can’t talk about anything but vodka. This vodka was given to you! I was pressing my suitcase to my chest in the restaurant, if you will, but there was no vodka there. And in the stairwell if you remember, I was also pressing it to my chest, and there was nary a whiff of vodka! Since you want to know everything, I’ll tell you – just wait a moment. My hangover will come at Hammer and Sickle, and

Moscow – Hammer and Sickle
and then I’ll tell you absolutely everything. Be patient. Look how patient I am!
Of course, they all think I'm an evil man. I also think that, in the mornings or when I’m really drunk. But you can’t trust the opinion of someone who hasn’t reached their hangover yet! But in the evening – what an abyss there is in me! – if I’ve managed to get good and loaded during the day – what an abyss there is in me in the evening!
But so be it. If I’m an evil man, so be it. In general I’ve noticed that if that if a person is bad in the morning and in the evening is full of ideas, dreams, and labours – this is a very evil man. Bad in the morning, good at night – this is a sure sign of an evil man. But if you take the opposite – a man who, in the morning, is cheerful and full of hope, but who is overcome by exhaustion in the evening – this sort of person is also lousy, a wheeler-dealer, a centre of mediocrity. This sort of man is loathsome to me. I don’t know about you, but it’s simply loathsome to me.
Of course, there are those who are equally pleasant in the morning and the evening, to whom both sunrise and sunset are equally pleasant – but they’re just bastards. It’s sickening to even speak of them. And, if someone is equally nasty morning and evening, I really don’t know what to say about them. They’re perennial shitstains and loudmouths. Because our shops are open until nine - and the big store at Eliseev until eleven - even if you're not a bastard, by the evening you’ll always manage to conjure up some kind of trifling abyss…
So, what do I have?
I pulled everything out of my suitcase and felt my way through its contents: from the sandwiches to the strong rosé at one rouble thirty-seven. I felt I was suddenly becoming rather tired and faded… Lord, here you see what I possess. But do I need it? Does my soul really long for it? This is what people gave me in exchange for what my soul longs for! But if they had given it to me, would I really need it? Look at this, Lord, this strong rosé for a rouble thirty-seven…
And, all in blue lightning, the Lord said to me:
- And what did Saint Theresa need her stigmata for? She didn’t really need them. But she desired them.
- Exactly! I said in ecstasy. – It’s the same with me; I desire all of this, but I don’t need it!
“Well, if you desire it, Venichka, go ahead and drink,” I thought quietly, but hesitated. Will the Lord say something else to me, or not?
The Lord was silent.
Oh well. I took one of the quarters and went out into the vestibule. So. My soul had been languishing in its prison for four and a half hours; now I’ll let it out to walk. There’s a glass and a sandwich, so as not to be sick. And there is a soul, still slightly ajar from the experience of being. Share my repast, Lord!

Hammer and Sickle – Karacharovo

And I drank it all down…

Saturday, 2 January 2016

Moscow-Petushki, Part I

Or, how to try your hand at translation with a minimum of hubris

This has been a pet project of mine for the last six months or so. One of the texts I'm studying for my Russian degree is the prose poem Москва-Петушки, or "Moscow-Petushki", by Venedikt Erofeev (1938-1990), one of the more eccentric writers of the late Soviet era.  When reading it in translation I noticed quite a few gaps and mistranslations. This was part of the reason why I decided to have a go translating it - the other part being that my knowledge of Russian was, at the time, still at the stage where reading effectively meant translating anyway. It's a fantastic text, darkly funny and borderline horrifying in places, and I've had a lot of fun working on it. I'll be uploading this in segments as I proofread it; hopefully you'll enjoy reading it.


Moscow-Petushki

By Venedikt Erofeev

Author’s Note
The first edition of “Moscow-Petushki”, thanks to there being only one copy, sold out quickly. From that point I received, quite unnecessarily, a lot of criticism for the chapter “Hammer and Sickle – Karacharovo”. In the introduction to the first edition, I warned all female readers that the chapter “Hammer and Sickle – Karacharovo” should be skipped without reading, because after the phrase “and I drank it all down” comes one and a half pages of pure, unadulterated swearing; there isn’t one printable word in the entire chapter, except for the phrase “and I drank it all down.” With this notification, made in good faith, I ensured that all readers, especially girls, would immediately flip to the chapter “Hammer and Sickle – Karacharovo”, without having even read the previous chapters, without even reading the phrase “and I drank it all down”. For this reason, in the second edition I found it necessary to cut out all the swearing from the chapter. This would be better, because firstly, people would start reading my work in the right order, and secondly, no one would be offended.

To Vadim Tikhonov, my beloved firstborn, the author dedicates these tragic pages.


Moscow. On the way to Kursky Station
Everyone says, the Kremlin, the Kremlin. I've heard about it from everybody, yet I haven’t seen it even once. However many times (thousands), drunk or hungover, have I wandered through Moscow from north to south, from west to east, from end to end, at random – and I still haven’t ever seen it.
I didn’t see it yesterday either - after all, I’d spent the whole evening circling around those places; I wasn’t all that drunk: as soon as I’d left Savelovsky station I drank a glass of zubrovka[1] to start with, because I know from experience that there is nothing better created by man to treat a morning hangover.
So. A glass of zubrovka. Then, on Kalyaevskaya[2] Street, another glass – only this time not zubrovka, but koriandrovaya[3]. A friend of mine once said that koriandrovaya acts inhumanly on the human body – that is, it strengthens the limbs and relaxes the soul. With me, for some reason, the opposite happened, that is, my soul strengthened in the extreme and my limbs weakened, but I agree that it’s inhuman. Consequently, right there on Kalyaevskaya, I added two cups of Zhiguli beer and Alba-de-dessert wine from the bottle.
Of course, you then ask: what then, Venichka, what did you drink then? I don’t even know myself. I remember - I remember clearly – that on Chekhov Street I drank two glasses of okhotnichya vodka. I could hardly cross the Sadovoye Ring without drinking, could I? No. So I drank a little more.
Then I got to the centre, for it’s always like that with me: when I search for the Kremlin, I always find myself at Kursky Station. In fact, I had to go to Kursky Station myself this time, and not to the centre, but I still went to the centre to try and see the Kremlin at least once; anyway, I think, it doesn’t matter if don’t see the Kremlin at all, I’ll just end up right at Kursky Station.
It pains me, almost to tears. It doesn’t pain me, of course, that I didn’t get to Kursky Station yesterday (this is nonsense: I didn’t get there yesterday, but I’ll get there today). And not, of course, because I woke up this morning in some unfamiliar stairwell (it turns out that I sat down yesterday on the steps in the stairwell, the fortieth floor by my count, pressing my little suitcase to my chest - and fell asleep there). No, that doesn’t pain me. This is what pains me: I had just calculated that from Chekhov Street to that stairwell I had drunk away another six roubles – but what and where did I drink? And in what order? Had I drunk for my benefit or my detriment? No one knows, and now no one ever will. Even now we still don’t know whether Tsar Boris killed Tsarevich Dimitri, or vice versa.
What stairwell was this? I still have no idea, and that’s how it should be. It’s like that. All things in this world should happen slowly and incorrectly, so a person doesn’t start feeling too proud, so that they’re sad and confused.
I walked out into the fresh air when it started getting light. Everyone knows – that is, everyone who’s fallen unconscious in a stairwell and left it at dawn – everyone knows what a weight I carried in my heart down the forty staircases of that strange stairwell, and what a weight I carried out into the fresh air.
Nothing, nothing, I said to myself - nothing. There’s a pharmacy, do you see? There’s some shithead in a brown coat scraping the pavement. You can see that as well. Calm down. Everything is going as it should. If you want to go left, Venichka, go left, I’m not forcing you into anything. If you want to go right, go right.
I went right, swaying slightly from the cold and grief, yes, from the cold and from grief. Oh, this morning burden on the heart! Oh, the illusoriness of the disaster! Oh, the irreversibility! What does it contain more of, this burden that no one dares name: paralysis or nausea? The exhaustion of nerves or a deathly melancholy somewhere near the heart? And if it is all equal, which is more prevalent anyway: lockjaw or fever?
“It’s nothing, nothing,” I said to myself, “just hide yourself from the wind and go quietly. And breathe slowly, slowly. Breathe like that, so your legs don’t bump against your knees. Just go somewhere. Doesn’t matter where. Even if you go left you’ll end up at Kursky Station, if you go straight on you’ll end up at Kursky Station, if you go left you’ll end up at Kursky Station. So go right, to be certain of ending up there.”
Oh vanity! Oh, ephemerality! Oh, the most powerless and shameful moment in the life of my people - the time from dawn to when the shops open! How many extra grey hairs it weaves in all of us, the homeless and lounging brown-heads. Go, Venichka, go.

Moscow. Kursky Station Square.
Well, I knew what I was talking about: go right – you’ll be sure to get to Kursky Station. You were getting bored in these alleys, Venichka; you wanted some hustle and bustle – go out and get it.
- Come on, - I said, brushing myself off, - do I really need your hustle and bustle? Do I really need your people? After all, even the Redeemer said to his own mother, ‘What art thou to me?’ And even more so in my case – what are all these scurrying, odious creatures to me?
I’m better off leaning against a column and closing my eyes, so as not to be sick.
- Of course, Venichka, of course, - a voice from above sang so quietly, so softly-softly, - close your eyes, so as not to be sick.
Oh! I recognise them! It’s them again. The Angels of God! Is it you again?
- Of course it is us. - Again, so tender!
- You know what, angels? - I asked, also quietly-quietly.
- What? - replied the angels.
- It’s hard for me…
- We know it’s hard for you, - sang the angels. - But keep going, keep going, and you’ll feel better. In half an hour the shops will open: well, you won’t get vodka until nine, but they’ll give you a little red straight away.
- A little red?
- A little red, intoned the angels of the Lord.
- Chilled?
- Chilled, of course.
Oh, how excited I was!
- You say, keep going, keep going, you’ll feel better. But I don’t want to move anywhere. You know yourselves that I’m in no condition to move!
The angels were silent to that. Then they sang again:
- How about this: drop by the station restaurant. They had sherry there yesterday evening. They can’t have drunk it all.
- Yes, yes, yes. I’ll go. I'll go and find out. Thank you, angels.
And they sang, softly-softly:
- To your health, Venichka...
And then, so gently-gently:
- Don’t mention it.
How sweet they are! Well… let’s go. How good it is that I bought some goodies yesterday. Can’t go to Petushki without goodies. No way can you go to Petushki without goodies. The angels reminded me of the goodies, because the people for whom I bought them resemble angels themselves. Good thing I bought them. And when did you buy them yesterday? Remember… walk, try to remember…
I walked across the square, or rather, I didn’t so much walk as get drawn across it. Two or three times I stopped and froze on the spot to soothe my light-headedness. After all, a man doesn’t only have a physical side; he also has a spiritual side, and - more than that – he also has a mystical side, a super-spiritual side. So, every minute I expected that in the middle of the square I’d start to feel sick on all three sides. Again I stopped and froze.
- So when did you buy the goodies yesterday? After the okhotnichya? No. You weren’t up for getting goodies after the okhotnichya. Between the first and second glasses of okhotnichya? Also no. There was a thirty-second pause between glasses, and I’m not enough of a superhuman to be able to accomplish anything in thirty seconds. A superhuman would have collapsed after the first glass without managing a second. So when? God, how many secrets there are in the world! An impenetrable veil of secrecy! Before the koriandrovaya or between the beer and Alba-de-dessert?



[1] Vodka made from sweet-grass, about 40% alcohol
[2] Now known as Dolgorukovskaya.
[3] Bitter spirit (about 40%) made from coriander, caraway, and aniseed. Sugar is also added.

Thursday, 31 December 2015

Films!

Now I'm an officially published film critic mere moments away from my first invitation to Sundance, it would be remiss of me not to cast an appraising eye over the films I've watched in the year just past. All in all it's been a pretty good year, although that's not saying much: since I'm incredibly busy and important I tend not to watch things I'm fairly certain I'll despise, so that narrows the field quite a bit. But hey, maybe I'm being unfair to Pixels.

Just to make things even easier (and to strengthen my aloof indie credentials) I've decided to exclude all sequels, remakes, reboots, and extensions of existing franchises from this overview. Lord knows there have been enough of those. Let's not even begin to think about how many people have already spooged over The Force Awakens. Given that and the fact that no matter what anyone says it'll still make all the money in the world, throwing in my two cents ("it was all right") might seem even more pointless than the rest of this. 

Far and away the best film I saw this year was The Lobster, the English-language debut from Greek director Yorgos Lanthimos, perhaps best known for his surreal, hauntingly visceral satire Dogtooth (you'll never look at a dumbbell the same way again, I'm telling you). Boasting probably the most impressive cast I've seen since The Grand Budapest Hotel (at least until Hail Caesar! comes along), The Lobster is an equally deadpan pitch-black comedy in which single citizens of a dystopian future are shipped off to a hotel resort and given 45 days to find a partner, failing which they are turned into an animal of their choice. It really is refreshing to see a satire on society's obsession with relationships, but maybe that's just because I'm bitter and lonely. Despite, or perhaps because of, all the characters speaking in quasi-autistic monotone, the humour is spot-on, yet the romance that develops between Colin Farrell and Rachael Weisz's characters is still convincing, leading to an incredibly hard to watch final act. Best viewed with a large group of people - ideally a cinema-ful of people collectively squirming in discomfort and nauseating tension during the last ten minutes. An absolute gem.

Noah Baumbach has had a busy year - he's had two films out to meet the year's intellectual-New-Yorkers-exchanging-witty-dialogue quota. After 2013's Frances Ha we can now add While We're Young and Mistress America to that list. The former is perhaps slightly more accessible to those not familiar with Baumbach's style (although I would still suggest The Squid and the Whale as a starting point) - it's a pretty straightforward comedy-drama in which a modern-minded couple (Ben Stiller and Naomi Watts) meets a younger, hipstery couple (Adam Driver and Amanda Seyfried). Generational hilarity ensues, with a lot of commentary on what constitutes a documentary in a world where everything is filmed. Mistress America is a more contemplative screwball comedy about idolism, the pitfalls of university and post-university life, and how to make apple bongs. Quirky! Mind you, Greta Gerwig is fantastic in this, and her relationship with her sister-to-be Tracy (Lola Kirke) leads to some of Baumbach's best quick-fire riffing.

A couple of thrillers worth checking out - Ex-Machina, from Alex Garland (of 28 Days Later fame) explores the nature of AI by way of the Turing test - but things are not all they seem. Its Star Wars credentials are pretty strong, with Domhnall Gleeson and Oscar Isaac filling the main roles and Alicia Vikander (who's had a very good year) as the alluring, enigmatic android under scrutiny. It relies more on ideas than traditional sci-fi thriller tropes, though there's still plenty of suspense to go round. Elsewhere, It Follows sees the triumphant screen debut (as far as I know) of the STD - Sexually Transmitted Demon. I'm not the first to make that joke, nor will I be the last, but stay with me, there's more to this. The film follows a group of teenagers being pursued by a murderous, shape-shifting demon that can only be escaped by sleeping with a new victim and passing the demon on to them. It's very rare to see film classed as a horror be as effective as It Follows, but it really is. It's not particularly scary by most standards, but it certainly has its moments and builds its tension extremely well, certainly better than the bajillion Paranormal Activities and Insidiouses out there. Aside from that it's a very clever story with a fantastic retro-style Carpenter-esque soundtrack that gives the film a sense of timelessness and a slightly off, unnerving tone. 

Now if I were doing some kind of mock-award ceremony for this year I would create an entirely new category based on this next film, to go alongside "The Gummo Award for Most Eclectic Soundtrack" and "The Whiplash Award for Least Necessary Romantic Subplot". I'd call it "The Meadowland Award for Most Unremittingly Grim Drama". Seriously, there is not an ounce of levity to be found in this one. It should be prescribed to curb excess serotonin levels. That said, Luke Wilson and Olivia Wilde are both fantastic in this as two grieving parents coping with their son's disappearance, and it will certainly deliver an emotional high of sorts.

Next, as dictated by the unwritten code of the burgeoning film critic, the obligatory section on foreign language films. The Dance of Reality introduced me Alejandro Jodorowsky, one of the most surrealist filmmakers of all time. Didn't have a bloody clue what was going on (one of the characters opera-singing every one of her lines didn't help) but visually it's very impressive, which I understand is a signature of Jodorowsky's. Certainly an interesting experience, although overall it was too impenetrable for my philistinian mind. Maybe I'll have more luck with El Topo. Probably not, though. I had more luck with The Tribe, despite the fact that it's all in unsubtitled Ukranian sign language. The story, set at a school for the deaf, has to be interpreted entirely visually, although some of the more explicit scenes need little explanation. Worth seeing just for its uniqueness (at least silent films had intertitles).

Right, just to wrap up a few others: 

The Falling - Arya Stark faints a lot.
Slow West - Michael Fassbender kicks ass and takes names in the Wild West.
Turbo Kid - Mad Max on bikes.
What We Do In The Shadows - Flight of the Conchords make a vampire mockumentary.

Phew. Well done if you've got all the way through. Traffic figures mean a lot to me.

My New Year's Resolution is to spend my time a lot more productively. Maybe I'll get a job and everything. Who knows?

Wednesday, 11 March 2015

The Unexpected Virtue of Machiavellian Theatre

So this evening I went to see an adaptation of Niccolo Machiavelli's famous political essay, 'The Prince. A milestone, in many regards. First, I'd never watched a French play before, not least a comedy, so this would be an interesting test of my French, which at time of writing still comes with an accent that is 'too' English. In the words of a Ukrainian, no less. Second, this impromptu soirée took place mere hours after my SECOND EVER gym session of 2015. *Insert sound of party poppers and tooters here*. I won't say how long it's been beforehand, but suffice to say the life I lead does not lean kindly towards my waistline and general sense of worth as a human being. Did you know I got through both series of An Idiot Abroad in just one week? Anyway, the Prince is also the first play I've seen since watching Birdman (my current view count of that stands at 3), the inarticulately awesome Best-Picture-Oscar Winner (for what it's worth), which will certainly linger longer in my mind than the over-inflated, plotless, admittedly well-soundtracked Boyhood will. I mention this because several moments in the Prince (which, for the most part, I understood. Guess the last few years haven't been a complete waste of time.) reminded me very much of Birdman, from a studio light falling on a character's head (I think this time it was intentional), to a cast member who was a dead ringer for Zach Galifianakis, to a character standing around in a pair of white briefs. I'm not ashamed to say I chuckled a fair few times during the show. Actually, I'm not ashamed at all, since each laugh signified that I'd understood something (unless it was visual humour, of which there was a lot). Now, I haven't actually read the Prince and couldn't even find it in me to speed-read the Wikipedia page, so my knowledge of the content before going in was somewhat limited. I was however intrigued to see how a political treatise could be transposed onto a stage, especially one that just seemed to be a list of bullet points for how to be a good prince. Quite well, as it turned out. So here's the rundown: the play is set up like a series of X-Factor auditions for aspiring princes (and one princess, though the term was never used). Niccolo Machiavelli himself presided, with the host/NM's PA rolling things along. The humourous outcomes of the various tests (including laser guns, a galette, and half a Peugeot - a 'coupé', if you will) was well interspersed with what I assumed to be actually quotes from the text on how to control the people and be a good prince in general. Still don't quite understand where the King stands in all of this. I'd do a more detailed summary but I'm nothing if not incredibly concise so to those left hanging I suggest reading the book or flying out to Tours to catch it before its runtime ends in a few days. So overall, solid acting, accessible humour even to an ignorant rosbif such as myself, minor (thank God) audience participation, a few bizarrely off-key moments and a pretty intelligent twist ending added up to a PRETTY DAMN GOOD evening out. Even though the people I was with were too tired to go for drinks afterwards so I missed jazz night at Strapontin. AH WELL.

Conclusion: great stuff, would be even better with Edward Norton in it.

Saturday, 28 February 2015

So yeah.

By far one of the hardest things about starting this blog (besides thinking of what to actually write for the damn thing) is coming up with a suitably punny title to convey my shatteringly acerbic wit to those who don't know me. So far the best I've thought of is 'Singin' in the Touraine' (because the weather here has been doing its best to rival that of England in deepest summer) but sadly my capacity for singing leaves a lot to be desired, and I'm a stickler for accuracy in humour. Not to mention that I've never actually seen the original film. I'll think about it.

So yeah. At time of writing you find me midway through my year abroad, having survived/endured/actually more or less enjoyed  three months in St Petersburg, elevating my spoken Russian above that crucial divide between very bad and merely bad. I wish I was joking. As with most things in life, though, it was certainly a formative experience and a heck of a learning curve in many respects. I'll be going back there in a few months, so I guess I haven't been entirely put off. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating the negatives a bit too much. There were some pretty good times out there, and I'm sure the problems I faced out there were far from unique when it comes to years abroad. Or indeed to any visit to Russia.

But enough about that. I'm all about the here and now, which at this moment happens to be late February in Tours, France. I've been here since early January and will be until April and can safely say (without any designs on comic hyperbole) that it's been much more like what I expected a year abroad to be. Maybe it's because I speak French a hell of a lot better than I do Russian, albeit with an accent that has been known to make other English people laugh. In that regard, I've been working on my r's for some time now and can only be improving. I'm on a course at the Institut de Touraine, which has been great so far, linguistically, grammatically, culturally and socially. Unlike the place I was at in St Petersburg there are a fair number of other English speakers around which makes downtime a lot more fun. My host person is very friendly and has helped my day to day conversation no end (something which is tricky enough for me in English, let alone in a language where I burble about half the time trying not to get the Russian neurons in my brain involved).

So, here's hoping my experience here will provide enough fodder to keep this blog alive for a while. A bientôt.