MOLESKINE ® LITERARIO

Gabriel García Márquez se pica por estar fuera del canon. Fuente: Ap

A partir de la anglófila, polémica y, finalmente, descartable lista de los 100 mejores libros de todos los tiempos del Newsweek, muchos blogs han cuestionado nuevamente la idea de los canon literario. Gracias al blog "En minúscula" de Ezequiel Martínez, en la revista Ñ, me entero de esta iniciativa : en la revista The Second Pass decidieron echar del canon a algunos cuantos libros. La idea puede ser genial hasta que choca con nuestro canon particular. Y es que, para horror, la lista de rechazados por TSP incluye al único crédito hispanohablante, Cien años de soledad. Dice al respecto:

Magical realism wasn’t much of a trick to begin with – Gabriel García Márquez riding round in circles on a smallish tricycle, cigarillo clamped between teeth, occasionally raising his panama for people to throw coins – and is now thoroughly clapped out. Also, people who like it seem to have little or no sense of humor. No one knows why, but it’s true. Instead it inspires a sort of insufferably pious stupefaction. Perhaps if you were to read Solitude, you too would be borne aloft on its miraculous wings, transported by its spellbinding portrait of a world which is part exotic paradise, part nightmare, etc., etc., etc., but I wouldn’t risk it.

Además de esa atrocidad, la lista es pérfida, tremenda, perversa y desde luego muy discutible. La dejo aquí completa para ver qué opinan uds.:

Historia de dos ciudades de Charles Dickens

Absalom, Absalom de William Faulkner

El arco iris de D. H. Lawrence

Las correcciones de Jonathan Franzen

La carretera de Cormac McCarthy

En la carretera de Jack Kerouac

Trilogía USA de John Dos Passos

Ruido de fondo de Don DeLillo

El cuarto de Jacob de Virginia Woolf

Cien años de soledad de Gabriel García Márquez

Etiquetas: blogs, dickens, don delillo, eeuu, faulkner, garcia marquez, kerouac, mccarthy, NOTICIA, virginia woolf

Escena de Slumdog Millonaire. Fuente: the guardian

What can one say about Slumdog Millionaire, adapted from the novel Q&A by the Indian diplomat Vikas Swarup and directed by Danny Boyle and Loveleen Tandan, which won eight Oscars, including best picture? A feelgood movie about the dreadful Bombay slums, an opulently photographed movie about extreme poverty, a romantic, Bollywoodised look at the harsh, unromantic underbelly of India - well - it feels good, right? And, just to clinch it, there's a nifty Bollywood dance sequence at the end. (Actually, it's an amazingly second-rate dance sequence even by Bollywood's standards, but never mind.) It's probably pointless to go up against such a popular film, but let me try. The problems begin with the work being adapted. Swarup's novel is a corny potboiler, with a plot that defies belief: a boy from the slums somehow manages to get on to the hit Indian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and answers all his questions correctly because the random accidents of his life have, in a series of outrageous coincidences, given him the information he needs, and are conveniently asked in the order that allows his flashbacks to occur in chronological sequence. This is a patently ridiculous conceit, the kind of fantasy writing that gives fantasy writing a bad name. It is a plot device faithfully preserved by the film-makers, and lies at the heart of the weirdly renamed Slumdog Millionaire. As a result the film, too, beggars belief. It used to be the case that western movies about India were about blonde women arriving there to find, almost at once, a maharajah to fall in love with, the supply of such maharajahs being apparently endless and specially provided for English or American blondes; or they were about European women accusing non-maharajah Indians of rape, perhaps because they were so indignant at having being approached by a non-maharajah; or they were about dashing white men galloping about the colonies firing pistols and unsheathing sabres, to varying effect. Now that sort of exoticism has lost its appeal; people want, instead, enough grit and violence to convince themselves that what they are seeing is authentic; but it's still tourism. If the earlier films were raj tourism, maharajah-tourism, then we, today, have slum tourism instead. In an interview conducted at the Telluride film festival last autumn, Boyle, when asked why he had chosen a project so different from his usual material, answered that he had never been to India and knew nothing about it, so he thought this project was a great opportunity. Listening to him, I imagined an Indian film director making a movie about New York low-life and saying that he had done so because he knew nothing about New York and had indeed never been there. He would have been torn limb from limb by critical opinion. But for a first world director to say that about the third world is considered praiseworthy, an indication of his artistic daring. The double standards of post-colonial attitudes have not yet wholly faded away.

In 1921, F Scott Fitzgerald wrote an odd little story called "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button", about the birth, to "young Mr and Mrs Roger Button", of a male baby who is born as a 70-year-old man and who then lives backwards, getting younger all the time, until at the end of his life, baby-sized and shrinking slowly in his white crib, he is sucked away into nothingness. In 2008, this little squib of a tale was turned by Brad Pitt and the director David Fincher into a $200m film. However, the difference between the story and the movie is unusually great. In Fitzgerald's story, Benjamin is born as a full-sized septuagenarian male. It is never explained how Mrs Button managed to give birth to such a large baby without being torn in half. Indeed, Mrs Button never gets a look-in. In the story, Benjamin's life is lived largely in the private sphere, apart from an excursion to fight in the Spanish-American war, while in the movie he becomes involved in so many of the public events of his time that the picture might almost have been called Zelig in Reverse, or perhaps Forrest Gump Goes Backwards. (The screenwriter of Forrest Gump, Eric Roth, who adapted that screenplay from the novel by Winston Groom, is also responsible for Benjamin Button Perhaps the biggest difference between the two works is that, other than sharing the idea of a man who lives backwards in time, their stories are entirely different; the film is not really an adaptation of the book, but almost entirely Roth's creation. And while Roth and Fincher's film is essentially a bravura special-effects performance helped by two fine acting performances, by Pitt and Cate Blanchett, it doesn't finally have anything in particular to say. Fitzgerald's story is at least a comedy of snobbery and embarrassment which, while maintaining a deliberately frothy and light tone, enjoyably satirises the social attitudes of late 19th and early 20th-century Baltimore.

The films of García Márquez's masterpieces, in particular, are travesties, replacing the writer's imaginative precision with a lazy exoticism that betrays the originals profoundly without even knowing it is doing so. However, Schlöndorff's Tin Drum stands as a magnificent exception with, at its heart, the electric performance of David Bennent as Oskar Matzerath, the Peter Pan among the million lost boys and murderous pirates of Nazi Germany: little, stunted Oskar, the other boy in classic literature who never grew up. I've tried to find more films that disprove the British producer's dictum, and could add, for example, the Coen brothers' No Country for Old Men, a film that succeeds by keeping very close, scene by scene, line of dialogue by line of dialogue, to Cormac McCarthy's novel, and There Will Be Blood, which succeeds by the opposite method, making a free, loose and largely successful adaptation of Upton Sinclair's novel Oil!; but the failures are so much more frequent than the successes.

Etiquetas: fitzgerald, garcia marquez, gunter grass, india, inglaterra, mccarthy, NOTICIA, rushdie, swarup

McCarthy y Ophra, un paso al top ten del EW. Fuente: msnbc

Etiquetas: eeuu, mccarthy, NOTICIA, the road

La última foto conocida de JD Salinger. Fuente: caretas

"A pesar de este mercado de vanidades, este escaparate de notoriedad, hay quien decide convertirse en eremita de las letras. El escritor alemán Patrick Süskind, por ejemplo, raramente concede entrevistas, ni aparece fotografiado, y ha rechazado varios premios. Tampoco Philip Roth resulta especialmente accesible. Vive en su casa de Conecticut, apenas da entrevistas -un síntoma recurrente- y se precia de no haber aparecido jamás sonriendo en una foto. Y hay quien, como Thomas Pynchon, ha hecho de su defensa de la intimidad una seña de identidad. De él se cuenta que ni siquiera sus editores lo conocen, y que destruyó documentación sobre su servicio militar y su paso por el instituto para borrar las huellas de su pasado. Aunque sin duda el personaje esquivo por definición sea Salinger, cuya última foto conocida, increpando al fotógrafo que se la hacía, dio la vuelta al mundo. Últimamente, Cormac McCarthy, autor de La carretera y No es país para viejos, también se ha pasado al bando de los huidizos. McCarthy, según su agente, no existe para los periodistas, ni existe para sus editores. Y aunque en junio de 2007, a los setenta y tres años, concedió su primera entrevista en televisión a Oprah Winfrey (tampoco es una mala elección), entiende que su escritura y su obra hablan perfectamente por sí mismas.
Pimpampum de feria. «Es cierto que todavía el escritor mantiene una aureola sacra -opina el editor Constantino Bértolo-. Provoca una curiosidad saber cómo es, qué piensa, cómo se expresa. Creo que en este sentido aún hay cierta necesidad de tocar al santo. Pero hay quienes tienen claros los límites. Hace tiempo conocí a Naipaul y, aunque tiene fama de maleducado, no se niega a participar en un diálogo sobre su obra, siempre desde el respeto. No entiende que alguien pueda ir a hablar de sus libros sin haberlos leído, o que le saque a colación otros temas que nada tienen que ver con la literatura, o que lo traten no como a un escritor sino como a un pimpampum de feria. Es perfectamente capaz de distinguir entre el autor y la obra.» En España, entre otros muchos silenciosos ilustres, Javier Marías, que es relativamente reacio a aparecer en los medios de comunicación fuera de los estrictos periodos de promoción, y Rafael Sánchez Ferlosio: no suele conceder entrevistas, ni hacer apariciones públicas, ni declaraciones. Parece que cuando el entonces director del Instituto Cervantes y hoy ministro de Cultura, César Antonio Molina, le comunicó en un acto público que pensaban poner su nombre a una biblioteca, el escurridizo Ferlosio le miró, tomó la palabra, y allí mismo le dijo que de ninguna manera.

Etiquetas: eeuu, españa, julien gracq, mccarthy, NOTICIA, pynchon, salinger, suskind

Carátula del libro con sello de Ophra. Fuente: frontier cincinatti

Dice: " este universo postapocalíptico, quien se presente con discursos y arengas es rápidamente eliminado. Lo único que importa es sobrevivir en una tierra donde el tenue brillo del Sol se proyecta sobre la tierra como "una lámpara en manos de una madre desolada". Las únicas señales que quedan del mundo anterior son una lata de Coca-Cola que milagrosamente conserva sus burbujas y un letrero que indica "See Rock City". En el camino, el padre y el hijo se encuentran con bandas de caníbales, basura, granjas abandonadas. Todas son sombras apenas entrevistas. Es un paisaje en el que se mezclan Samuel Beckett, T.S. Eliot y la serie de Mad Max. McCarthy ha declarado que tuvo la idea de escribir este libro en un viaje a Texas con su hijo (a quien está dedicado). El personaje del padre recuerda cómo era el mundo antes del día de la catástrofe (cuando sobrevino "un largo halo de luz."), unos años antes. Con un argumento mínimo, y un lenguaje prodigiosamente rico, McCarthy ha colocado en esta novela el tema central de nuestra civilización: si seremos capaces de sobrevivir a la destrucción total de la vida. El final muestra cierta esperanza a su maravillosa y desolada historia.

Etiquetas: alonso cueto, eeuu, mccarthy, mondadori, peru, RESEÑA, the road

Carátula del libro. Fuente: Tusquets.

El título Birds of América (Pájaros de América) para algunos los remite directamente a un estupendo libro de cuentos de Lorrie Moore. Sin embargo, antes de ella la escritora norteamericana Mary McCarthy (1912-1989) había colocado ese mismo título a una novela suya que a principios de este mes apareció en librerías españolas gracias a Tusquets. Yo recuerdo mucho a Mary McCarthy, una escritora satírica y muy crítica sobre la sociedad norteamericana de su tiempo, por la mítica entrevista que le hicieron en The Paris Review. No conseguí El grupo, otra de sus obras traducida por Tusquets. A ver si traen ésta.

Para ver la contratapa del libro, pulse aquí.

Etiquetas: eeuu, españa, mccarthy, NOTICIA, pajaros de américa, tusquets