In 1963 The Servant brought together the combined talents of Harold Pinter, Joseph Losey and Dirk Bogarde. Although he would subsequently write a mountain of screenplays, Pinter was at this time still new to cinema; his only other major piece for the big screen being the adaptation of his classic play The Caretaker. So whilst it’s difficult to imagine what the film’s original reception was like, it was likely to be one of surprise.
Pinter and Losey were to embark on a fruitful partnership over the next decade which would also produce Accident and The Go Between, but The Servant was new ground for both of them. Previously, Losey had directed a diverse range of films including The Boy With Green Hair, The Criminal and the bizarre Hammer masterpeice The Damned. Coincidentally, Losey’s oddest film to date The Sleeping Tiger also starred the well known actor called Dirk Bogarde, the matinee idol desperate to shake off his lightweight shackles. After slowly edging towards greatness, The Servant would finally be the film that earned Bogarde the respect he demanded.
Everything about Dirk Bogarde’s performance in The Servant is perfect. There’s the sense that he put everything into it; he’d finally found a film that would shape his career exactly to his fancy. Sure, two years earlier his role in Victim was admirably daring, but Victim stands as a film with a clear agenda. In contrast, The Servant is darker, ambiguous, menacing and very unclear in its stance on sexuality. And although Bogarde appears to be boldly saying here I am, I’ve finally arrived he is oh so careful to get it right; subtle in his portrayal of Barrett, effortlessly creating this brooding and seething man. Every look is right; every rolled eye, every insouciant stare, every flick of the hair. Even the way he smokes is spot on.
It’s easy to summarise The Servant as a film about a master/servant relationship that appears to reverse itself over time. Seeing it again, I now think the true meaning of the film is far more complex. Tony (James Fox) and Barrett (Bogarde) first appear as a rather odd embodiment of the rich young man and his manservant, Bogarde drawing out the mismatch in their relationship. Rather than requiring a manservant for reasons of class and wealth, Fox is physically needy, weak and vulnerable (throughout the film we see Bogarde tending to him, nursing either colds or hangovers). Bogarde draws on this rather well, making Barrett the stronger of the two. If Pinter and Losey are showing you that the traditional master/servant relationship doesn’t really work in the conventional sense, they present us with the master/servant relationship according to their version of the world. And LoseyPinterworld is far more interesting; Barrett I believe is still the servant when the film ends, but in a world where the edges are peeled back to reveal corruption and insanity.
The Servant isn’t purely a vehicle for Bogarde, even though he is the best thing in it. James Fox is very well cast as Tony; I can’t think of anyone else who could have suited the role so snugly. Similarly, Wendy Craig and Sarah Miles complete the quartet of genius casting. Craig is perfect as the plain Susan, the young woman with whom Tony begins a chaste liaison. In a rare straight role before comedy stole her, Craig maintains the careful equilibrium of the film. Similarly, Miles is sensational as Vera, Hugo Barrett’s “sister”, who turns up out of the blue to give Tony his sexual awakening. In Pinter’s hands, the seduction scene is painfully stark and a voyeuristic pleasure. At least it was for me.
Losey’s direction is also worth a mention. The black and white photography, mostly in the claustrophobic interior of Tony’s house, is excellent. He makes subtle use of mirrors and cast shadows that lesser directors would only stumble over. If I have any criticism of this film then it is possibly the weird interlude where Fox and Craig visit a restaurant and we are allowed to eavesdrop on the other diners (who include Patrick Magee and Pinter himself). It’s an entertaining scene, although ultimately pointless in the scheme of the film.
The Servant is a difficult experience. It’s at times painful viewing, but it’s also an incredibly rich and powerful piece. Sometimes it’s worth being taken just the little bit further. And unlike many of its contemporaries, it hasn’t dated at all. And although Bogarde – especially in his own eyes – went on to even greater achievements, I think this is his finest role. Worth comparing with the other Pinter/Losey/Bogarde collaboration Accident and with Nicolas Roeg and Donald Cammell’s Performance, which showed another side to London depravity and just how far you could push James Fox before he went over the edge.
Roberto Bolano died in 2004. As I sink further and further into his intriguing last novel 2666 I realise more and more what a loss this is. Bolano’s dying wish was for this huge and sprawling work to be published in five seperate instalments in as many years. His decision was never honoured and the novel is now available in full as the 900 page masterpiece it is shaping up to be. Whilst I can understand Bolano’s intention, I am glad I have the whole work in my grasp. And I say shaping up because I am only halfway through the book.
2666 is a difficult book. Its length, its voice and its intention. At times I am unclear, at others there’s a breakthrough and I begin to understand. Bolano’s view of the world is so unique that it’s often very difficult to keep in step with him. Reading 2666 is often like examining the world, as we all do, up close. Like Bolano, we need to take a step or two back in order to take in the whole view. And sometimes it’s hard to remove the blinkers.
The first section of the novel is called The Part About the Critics. Three academics from different corners of Europe become obsessed with an obscure writer called Archimboldi. Think of a German J.D. Salinger, but slightly more reclusive. During their travels between conferences they become friends and meet a third, female, Archimboldi enthusiast. Two of them embark on affairs with her, which strangely intersect, whilst her relationship with the third, who is disabled, also begins to deepen. Along the way they decamp to a fictional Mexican city called Santa Teresa, where a series of brutal and unsolved murders are taking place. So far the murders are merely on the periphery of the plot, and Bolano is keener to focus on dreams and the dark corners of the world.
The Part About Amalfitano is the second and more difficult section, which concerns a poet, his daughter and his estranged wife. It is mostly set in Santa Teresa, and Amalfitano has previously made an appearance with the academics in the first section. Again, the murder story has a brief mention. The Amalfitano section is confusing and obscure – this is a character who decides, in a moment of inspired obscurity, to hang a geometry book on his washing line. I can only presume it is setting the scene for later chapters, and Amalfitano’s daughter, Rosa, eventually does makes an appearance in the third section. The Part About Fate begins as a much more accessible chapter. Oscar Fate is a journalist sent along to cover a boxing match, who is drawn into the edges of the murder story and the seedy streets and lives of Santa Teresa. Each of Bolano’s characters, like the reader, is drawn into the black hole of his chosen setting.
2666 is a book that’s taken the wind out of me lately. I’ve been overworked and run down, so it’s possibly a foolish choice in my reading matter. Then again, Bolano is a writer who steps right in front of you and prods you in the chest with a demanding look in his eye. Never one to just let the mediocre wash over me, I accept the challenge.
What am I on about? More importantly, what is he on about? Stay tuned until I read some more…
God of Carnage
Friday February 6, 2009
in theatre |
Since the continuing closures and/or deliberate oddness of the Bristol Old Vic, my favourite nearby theatre has become the Theatre Royal at Bath. Last night I braved the elements to see God of Carnage by Yasmina Reza. The play first opened in 2006 and the original West End production starred Ralph Fiennes and Ken Stott. There was a hidden agenda for seeing the new Bath version as I knew one of the cast. Or I thought I did; my friend has mysteriously left the production so no luvvy visits to dressing rooms for me.
No matter. Yasmina Reza is best known for Art, which ran for years in London. God of Carnage, like Art, received the Christopher Hampton treatment in translating it from the original French. A play about the middle classes, the retained French names and references add a certain oddness, or something, to the play. But I won’t say jena se qua. There’s also a stark and nakedly intimate setting, all the more so if, like us, you have almost front row seats.
Richard E Grant and Serena Evans play one middle class couple who visit the house of another middle class couple, Roger Allam and Lia Williams. The Allam’s eleven year old son is recovering from an assault from the Grant’s eleven year old son; he’s has two teeth knocked out in a fight and the four gather in an attempt to make amends. It’s a frosty meeting; Allam and Grant both unlkeable in different ways. Both pompous and annoying, Grant especially so as he takes endless calls on his mobile phone. The women aren’t much better either, and the four hander reveals both couples to be depressed with their bleak and narrow lives.
In Harold Pinter’s hands, God of Carnage would have turned a simple idea into a work of genius. David Hare too would probably have a great deal of fun with this idea. At the opposite end of the spectrum, Mike Leigh achieved far greater results from four adults awkwardly thrown together in Abigail’s Party. Reza’s play, or perhaps Hampton’s handling of it, appears too stagey, and where Pinter always deliberately played with the artificiality of the stage I think this is beyond Reza’s/Hampton’s talent. There are a lot of good moments in God of Carnage, and many laughs, but not of the outstanding kind and I came away thinking the subject matter was all too lightly handled.
As I suspected from the opening, the adults in the play descend to far lower depths of hurt and loss of civility than either of their children. When a desperate bottle of rum is produced the subsequent drunkenness reveals their hidden despair even more. But, cynic that I am, I was hoping for them to have sunk much further than they did, and the play ends with some very slim chance of redemption. Nevertheless, I did find the closing scene the most effective. Worth a look, even if it does mean missing the luvvy stuff.
Footnote: can anyone answer this. Does Richard E.Grant really mean to break his chair when he sits down? He certainly handled the mishap very well, but I didn’t see how it added to proceedings.
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