{"id":65386,"date":"2014-01-23T11:58:14","date_gmt":"2014-01-23T16:58:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=65386"},"modified":"2014-01-23T14:18:49","modified_gmt":"2014-01-23T19:18:49","slug":"the-past-is-a-mist-pinters-proust","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2014\/01\/23\/the-past-is-a-mist-pinters-proust\/","title":{"rendered":"\u201cThe Past Is a Mist\u201d: Pinter\u2019s Proust"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"IMG_5468<\/a>

Photo \u00a9 2014 Nancy Crampton<\/p><\/div>\n

    \n
  1. Yellow screen. Sound of a garden gate bell.<\/i><\/li>\n
  2. Open countryside, a line of trees, seen from a railway carriage. The train is still. No sound. Quick fade out.<\/i><\/li>\n
  3. Momentary yellow screen.<\/i><\/li>\n
  4. The sea, seen from a high window, a towel hanging on a towel rack in foreground. No sound. Quick fade out.<\/i><\/li>\n
  5. Momentary yellow screen.<\/i><\/li>\n
  6. Venice. A window in a palazzo, seen from a gondola. No sound. Quick fade out.<\/i><\/li>\n
  7. Momentary yellow screen.<\/i><\/li>\n<\/ol>\n

    So begins the wordless sequence of thirty-six shots at the start of The Proust Screenplay<\/i>, Harold Pinter\u2019s adaptation of \u00c0 la recherche du temps perdu<\/i>, written in the seventies and never filmed.<\/p>\n

    To celebrate the hundredth anniversary of the publication of Proust\u2019s Swann\u2019s Way<\/i> a series of public events have been planned in New York. Part of 92Y\u2019s contribution to the centenary was a staged reading of Pinter\u2019s The Proust Screenplay<\/i>, which was produced at the National Theatre in London in 2001 but had never been performed in the States before its 92Y debut. Helmed by the same director from the National\u2019s production, the 92Y\u2019s reading was directed by Di Trevis, who collaborated with Pinter to stage his screenplay. Performed by a cast of fourteen\u2014led by Peter Clements, a dead ringer for Proust\u2014the crowded event felt like a staged reading in name only; fully blocked out with lighting cues, set pieces, and props, the presence of the actors\u2019 scripts was the only sign that this wasn\u2019t a complete production. <\/p>\n

    At first glance, a writer known for menacing silences, clipped phrases, and testosterone-fueled brutality\u2014all of it rife with ambiguity\u2014hardly seems the obvious candidate to adapt Proust. When I think of Proust, I think of long and mellifluous sentences, lush, discursive scenes, and linguistic precision\u2014all of which are at odds with a playwright who is perhaps best known for his use of the pause. In a description of his own work to students in the sixties, Pinter said, \u201cI think that we communicate only too well, in our silence, in what is unsaid, and that what takes place is a continual evasion, desperate rearguard attempts to keep ourselves to ourselves. Communication is too alarming.\u201d<\/p>\n

    But if Pinter and Proust would seem to be at stylistic loggerheads, look at their shared themes and obsessions, particularly their mutual fixation on memory, and suddenly Pinter\u2019s project seems not just sensible but inevitable. In the early seventies, Pinter tackled the \u201cmemory play\u201d with No Man\u2019s Land<\/i> and Old Times<\/i>, dramas where memories become weaponized. In No Man\u2019s Land<\/i>\u2014currently in repertory on Broadway, at the Cort Theatre\u2014two older men spar with their recollections, using them as a way to gain the upper hand. It\u2019s never clear what\u2019s true, whether their stories are false memories or outright lies. A character in Old Times<\/i> remarks, \u201cThere are some things one remembers even though they never happened. There are things I remember which may never have happened but as I recall them they take place.\u201d Little wonder, then, that Pinter was fascinated by Proust and the way he transformed recollection into art. In a very Pinteresque statement, Proust himself said that art was born \u201cnot of conversation and the light of day but of darkness and silence.\u201d<\/p>\n

    Adaptation is a form of memoir. Both require the writer to take up fragmentary impressions of a whole to create a sense of order. The inclusions and omissions in Pinter\u2019s screenplay, the construction of his scenes, map his singular experience through the text as a reader; we see what stood out for him in Proust. For the most part he plays the hits\u2014Marcel\u2019s need for a goodnight kiss from his mother; Odette and Swann\u2019s sonata; the patch of yellow wall in Vermeer\u2019s View from Delft<\/em>; the vision of Gilberte\u2019s daughter\u2014and leaves out the deep cuts. For obvious reasons, a lot of material ends up in the bin; the staged reading lasted about two and a half hours with an intermission, condensing nearly four thousand pages into a standard evening at the theater. There aren\u2019t even any madeleines.<\/p>\n

    Pinter\u2019s script\u2014like a memory play that passes over some details and exaggerates others\u2014trains its eye on class conflict and memory. He makes chronology dissolve in an enlightening way here: the entirety of Marcel\u2019s life seems to exist in one simultaneous, present moment. And Pinter is particularly good with the slipperiness of memory in Proust. Toward the end, when Marcel interrogates a friend of Albertine\u2019s as to whether or not she is a lesbian, the scene alternates two mutually exclusive versions: one where the friend declares Albertine has dallied with many women and another where she earnestly denies that Albertine is capable of this \u201cvice.\u201d<\/p>\n

    Like many great, long works, \u00c0 la recherche du temps perdu<\/i> is widely discussed but seldom read in its entirety. Lydia Davis, translator of the finest English-language version of Swann\u2019s Way<\/i>, confesses in her introduction that she had never finished the first book until she translated it; Pinter, too, admits in his introduction to the published edition of The Proust Screenplay<\/i> that he had only read Swann\u2019s Way<\/i> before setting out to tackle the whole series. The Proust Screenplay<\/i> steps in where our efforts to reach the end of Proust\u2019s work have failed\u2014it\u2019s a sort of Cliff\u2019s Notes for the cultured. Without an adaptation, how else could you get an intelligent bird\u2019s eye view of this entire work? Pinter\u2019s script streamlines the themes, further distilling memory into art into the most essential moments.<\/p>\n

    In the end, Pinter\u2019s screenplay, as sophisticated and loyal as it is, encounters obstacles that have little to do with its quality and more to do with the way Proust\u2019s work affects us. At intermission, a woman sitting behind me leapt up and declared, \u201cHorrible,\u201d huffing out of the theater. But I\u2019m not sure the failure, if there was one, belonged to Pinter, to say nothing of the director and cast. Reading is always personal, but it may be that no other work is scored for the individual the way Proust\u2019s is. The uncanny way Proust mirrors thought gives us a feeling of ownership of the work that we rarely experience with other books. We all have our own way of imagining the three steeples, little Marcel\u2019s boyhood crushes, Swann\u2019s walk, and, of course, just what that madeleine tastes like. Proust\u2019s memories mingle with our own and transform them. His prose is so infectious that I start to feel drowsy when Marcel sleeps; my lungs wheeze when his asthma flares up.<\/p>\n

    Books have a hypnotic power to make us feel like we are a part of them, something Proust himself observes in the first paragraph of Swann\u2019s Way<\/i>: \u201cI had not ceased while sleeping to form reflections on what I had just read, but these reflections had taken a rather peculiar turn; it seemed to me that I myself was what the book was about: a church, a quartet, a rivalry between Francois I and Charles V.\u201d So I can\u2019t exactly blame my imperious fellow audience-member for her outburst. Seeing Marcel enter the stage gave me that startling sick feeling\u2014like reaching for your mother as a four-year-old only for her to turn around and to have some other woman\u2019s face attached her head. Can Pinter\u2019s fragmentary reconstruction of Proust ever match our memories of it? On my way home from 92Y, I couldn\u2019t wait to slip under the covers, with my inhaler on the pillow next to me, and climb into bed with my<\/i> Proust.<\/p>\n

    Christopher Richards is on the editorial staff of Farrar, Straus and Giroux. His essays have appeared on <\/i>The Millions, <\/i>Guernica, and FSG\u2019s Work in Progress.<\/i><\/p>\n

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

    Yellow screen. Sound of a garden gate bell. Open countryside, a line of trees, seen from a railway carriage. The train is still. No sound. Quick fade out. Momentary yellow screen. The sea, seen from a high window, a towel hanging on a towel rack in foreground. No sound. Quick fade out. Momentary yellow screen. 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