actually, i don't really care to describe my favorite novel or even to expound on the merits thereof. i will resist the urge to suggest that you all read it, for i fear that my words will be as pearls before swine (the swine, in this case, being those of you who will make a note of it and completely forget a couple of hours later). plus, this book is old and infamous enough that it wouldn't be a novel recommendation on my part (how's that for wordplay, Mr. Nabok-...oooh, too soon for the reveal!). ok, so if i don't want to add a title to your summer reading list, and i don't want to give you notes on the plot or argue for a heretofore undiscovered subtext (which i certainly couldn't do, anyhow), what am i here for? well, my goal this evening is to suggest to you, gentle members of the jury, why the precious and delicate Lolita could never survive the onerous journey to the screen. here is my appeal.

i am indeed aware that Nabokov's novel was adapted not once, but twice, to film. the author himself wrote much of 1962's screenplay (along with Kubrick), and James Mason did all he could to bring our Humbert Humbert to life. the brilliant Jeremy Irons proved just as game in Adrian Lyne's 1997 version, which nevertheless falls more flat than its predecessor. so when i say that Lolita could never survive the trip from page to screen, i do mean that it has not and will not ever reach the screen intact, no matter who handles the script or how hard they work on it. so, my answer to the movie poster's famous question is that they never did make a movie of Lolita, and they really never should have tried.
i have known and loved this book for no more than five years, and although i have read it in its entirety at least thrice now, i feel that i have only just begun to scratch its surface. this is a work of art which can be viewed and appreciated from untold angles; one day the sunlight hits it just so but the next day the wind is coming in from the south, and the same phrase is blown off its feet and on its side. this is the only book that does not sit on my shelf but dwells there, making a modest home between her much lesser neighbors, with whom stimulating interaction is rendered impossible by virtue of their inertia.
but then, i promised i would not sing its praises or aim to tempt the uninformed. those of you who have already known her will (hopefully) agree with my assessment of the text. this is an elusive puzzle, a challenge, a provocateur. the subject matter alone was enough to make the public cringe in 1955, and it is no easier to digest several decades later. and even those readers with strong enough stomachs to take the plunge occasionally find themselves shuddering upon the turn of the page. after all, our protagonist is a liar, a criminal, a confined madman. we are left at the mercy of this detestable narcissist, and his account is all we are given. the thoughts, actions, and words of each character are filtered through Humbert's grotesque mind, so we know that our belief is best left un-suspended for the duration of this "curious tale."
when our dear Humbert refers to Charlotte Haze, "she of the...massive thigh," as his "large-as-life wife," we know that it is only in comparison to Lo, her "nymphet" daughter, and the "seaside of her schoolgirl thighs," the "blond down of her brown limbs." we can never know what Mrs. Haze looks like in any objective sense, because she is older than fourteen, and thus is an unappealing, crude, and nagging blob. furthermore, ever the unreliable narrator, Humbert describes himself proudly at one point as possessing a "clean-cut jaw, muscular hand, deep sonorous voice, broad shoulder," only to state a few pages later, "I am lanky, big-boned, wooly-chested Humbert Humbert, with thick black eyebrows and a queer accent, and a cesspool of rotting monsters behind his slow boyish smile." when his own self-perception is forever subject to the childish whims of whatever girl he lays his gaze on, how are we to trust his fickle moods?
Humbert's lengthy and schizophrenic written appeal to the court is not only rife with dubious claims and descriptions but also littered with the crumbs of his fragmented and uncensored compulsions. he leaves almost nothing out and is quite fanciful in his telling. his "fancy prose style" is seductive enough that we quickly begin to welcome the descent into his twisted psyche. his sharp wit and impish nature deceive us into forgetting his moral depravity, if just for a few moments at a time. he conjures images in our minds, and stirs emotions, that we have not prepared for. and how would we have known to? each one of us must quietly work out our unique relationship to his story. how do we feel when Humbert describes the first time he laid eyes on Lo ("...my knees were like reflections of knees in rippling water, and my lips were like sand...")? i was entranced by the first reading, and then repulsed upon the next; Humbert himself seems to understand both reactions equally.
there are countless reasons why there can never truly be a faithful adaptation of Lolita. the author's incredible use of english (his second language), which begs a second, third, and fortieth reading of the book, is high on the list.
but in the end, because each of its characters is a delusion and each line is poetry, we must never substitute a film, gorgeous as it may be, for this timeless piece of literature. when a frustrated Humbert exclaims, "I only have words to play with!," we must concede.
1 comment:
I love your brain.
And the way you shitteth on capitalisation, you bastard child of e.e. cummings.
Post a Comment