{"id":49059,"date":"2013-03-22T13:27:41","date_gmt":"2013-03-22T17:27:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=49059"},"modified":"2013-03-22T13:28:19","modified_gmt":"2013-03-22T17:28:19","slug":"what-were-loving-romanian-cinema-african-art","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/03\/22\/what-were-loving-romanian-cinema-african-art\/","title":{"rendered":"What We\u2019re Loving: Romanian Cinema, African Art"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"beyond-the-hills-2012-001\"<\/a>For three years—ever since it came out—people have been recommending\u00a0this unusual family history, by a potter named Edmund de Waal, all about the fate of a collection of Japanese miniatures whose owners migrated from Odessa to Paris to Vienna. And for three years I took their word for it. Because really, a book about somebody’s heirlooms? Then one night last week, all keyed up from three hours of House of Cards<\/em>, I pulled down The Hare with Amber Eyes<\/em><\/a> (a gift copy), hoping it would put me to sleep. Fat chance. I’d expected charm, but here was astringent wit, quiet erudition, just the necessary amount of first person, and an unromantic, sharply observed, very poignant account of a Jewish family’s rise and fall between the Belle Epoque and World War II. From House<\/em> to Hare<\/em>: from the frying pan into the fire. \u2014Lorin Stein<\/strong><\/p>\n

I debated recommending the Romanian film Beyond the Hills<\/i>, not because it isn’t terrific—a fact that will come as no surprise to anyone who saw director Cristian Mungiu’s first feature, 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days<\/i>—but rather because so many critics<\/a> have done it more justice than I ever could, and because I found watching it so harrowing an experience. Loosely based on a real-life 2005 case of an exorcism in a Moldavian monastery, the film is a horror movie, a romance, a character study, and, most of all, the kind of true tragedy we normally don’t see, or feel. It’s long and slow paced, but utterly riveting; I came out of the theater completely shell-shocked. I don’t think I could sit through it again, but you’ll be making a mistake if you don’t see it while you can. \u2014Sadie\u00a0Stein<\/strong><\/p>\n

Chimurenga<\/em> is a difficult magazine to define: a collection of African art, comics, journalism, and photography, every edition looks entirely different (to give you an idea of its inscrutability, the October 2011 edition was set in May 2008). The\u00a0founder is also a DJ who runs a jazz bar, and sometimes hosts twenty-four-hour secret jam sessions. There are no invites and no posters; the Chimurenga<\/em> motto is \u201cwho no know go know.\u201d Their latest venture is Chimurenga Chronic<\/em>,\u00a0a “pan-African quarterly print gazette” that deals in everything from art and faith to dirty deals and cricket stars. (To get a sense of its sweep, try\u00a0\u201cThe Last Words of Fela Anikulapo Kuti<\/a>\u201d and the interactive comic strip<\/a>.) Print availability is another matter: Chronic<\/em> was due out on the streets “now-now,” which in South Africa translates roughly to “it’ll be out when it’s out, which will probably be soon, we can’t\u00a0say exactly when, but we know you want to keep your eyes peeled for it. And it might already be out, so look sharp.”\u00a0\u2014Olivia Walton<\/strong> <\/p>\n

\u201cI might even argue \u2026 that the ideal book is one that we never open, since an unopened book contains our dreams, whereas an open book contains someone else\u2019s.\u201d So says Green Apple Books’s Stephen Sparks, in an essay for Tin House<\/i><\/a> on one of his favorite books—which he has never actually read. The essay prompted me to scan my bookcase for all the lonely titles that have never been opened, all the ones I promised I would get to \u201cnext month\u201d or have brought on vacations and which never left my suitcase.\u00a0Is it sacrilegious to admit I\u2019ve never read David Foster Wallace while owning four of his books? Have I even read War and Peace?<\/i> It feels like I have. As Sparks writes, \u201cI think it\u2019s possible to love the idea of a book or its title.\u201d \u2014Justin Alvarez<\/strong><\/p>\n

I\u2019m in the midst of\u00a0Maiden Voyage<\/em><\/a>,\u00a0by Denton Welch, and can\u2019t get enough.\u00a0In this “seminovelistic” account of youth, Welch writes about running away from boarding school in England and being sent to live with his father in Shanghai. Don\u2019t expect to feel buoyed by adolescent adventures, however; the mood is mostly melancholy, with sentences that loop and play but inevitably descend.\u00a0See Welch\u2019s description of London’s Victoria station, \u201clike a dark, cloudy aquarium where great black eels wriggled swiftly in to swallow up mouthfuls of small, eddying fishes. From the crowd, faces glanced up, pale and floating, like spirit pictures.\u201d \u2014Brenna Scheving<\/strong><\/p>\n

Roland Barthes\u2019s mother died on October 25, 1977, and the very next day, he began making notes on index cards that captured, in a few lines apiece, each day\u2019s feelings of grief. This Mourning Diary<\/em><\/a>\u2014which spans two years\u2014was published in 2010, but I\u2019ve been perusing it over the past week. Some entries are pure and painful expressions of sadness, fumblings for some form of understanding (\u201cDoes being able to live without someone you loved mean you loved her less than you thought\u2026?\u201d); other times, Barthes relies on a philosophic reasoning to pierce the chaos of emotion (\u201ctrue mourning is not susceptible to any narrative dialectic\u201d). My favorite entries, though, are those in which he attains a moment of clarity, and the banality of mourning\u2014its day-to-dayness\u2014transmits a farsighted wisdom: \u201cI am either lacerated or ill at ease and occasionally subject to gusts of life.” \u2014Nicole Rudick<\/strong><\/p>\n

One more thing about House of Cards<\/em>? I love the opening credit sequence. Something about the tired winter shrubbery outside Union Station, together with the empty avenues, conjures up the essential crappiness of federal Washington, D. C., in a way that I have never seen on-screen. \u2014L.S.<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

For three years—ever since it came out—people have been recommending\u00a0this unusual family history, by a potter named Edmund de Waal, all about the fate of a collection of Japanese miniatures whose owners migrated from Odessa to Paris to Vienna. And for three years I took their word for it. Because really, a book about somebody’s […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[438],"tags":[10439,10440,8146,4857,6124,4935,10441],"class_list":["post-49059","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-chimurenga-is","tag-cristian-mungiu","tag-denton-welch","tag-edmund-de-waal","tag-house-of-cards","tag-roland-barthes","tag-stephen-sparks"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nWhat We\u2019re Loving: Romanian Cinema, African Art by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"March 22, 2013 \u2013 For three years—ever since it came out—people have been recommending\u00a0this unusual family history, by a potter named Edmund de Waal, all about\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, 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