People Die. That’s All.

The French leftist newspaper “Le Matin” became famous after it expressed concerns about the unfair treatment of Captain Alfred Dreyfus, a man accused of being a German spy. The publication questioned the evidence withheld from the Jewish Soldier. Three years later, in 1899, the paper published the confession of Ferdinand Walsin Esterhazy, the real perpetrator, uncovering corruption and anti-Semitism in the French Army.
It is thus appropriate that young Felix Feneon, in 1906, agreed to write a daily column in the paper “Nouvelles en Trois Lignes”, Novels in Three Lines. Each novella relates a different “fait divers”—the French term for tidbits of news which relate random happenings that have tragic endings. This category places death, bank robberies and new restaurant openings in the same basket.
The brutal and sadistic haikus by Feneon are actually funny—in a sick way. Early 20th century Paris is exposed here—very bluntly—as a den of debauchery, suicide, and general decay, which serves as a dark foreboding for what was to happen. Less than ten years later, war would reach Paris. Feneon relates these facts in the way only an anarchist that worked at the Ministry of Defense could: wryly. His tone insinuates that these events are the just desserts of human nature. With declarations like “On the bowling lawn a stroke leveled M. André, 75, of Levallois. While his ball was still rolling he was no more,” Feneon renders death as more than inevitable. Fate becomes epithet. My personal favorite shines light on the fine line between love and murder, “In Oyonnax, Mlle. Cottet, 18, threw acid in the face of M. Besnard, 25. Love, obviously.” Death is rendered hilarious, a testimony to our enjoyment of others’ mishaps.

“I aspire to silence”, the author told a journalist who wondered why he had never published anything. The tidbits were rediscovered in the 1940s, a time at which, ironically, the newspaper “Le Matin” had become a publication that supported Nazism and collaborationism in Vichy France; the leftist newspaper, now a parlor for war talk and propaganda.
The publication of a work that features over nine hundred deaths is loud—louder than the mysterious author would have ever imagined it could be. The elusive Feneon was well ahead of his time, predicting not only the dire state of Paris at the turn of the century, but also spending most of his time discovering new authors like Marcel Proust, Alfred Jarry, and Arthur Rimbaud, who were not the revered bestsellers of the time, but whose talent was obvious to the sharp-minded Feneon.
The novels (mostly in two lines, driving the irony home) are not only of death. This one, for instance, “A certain madwoman arrested downtown falsely claimed to be nurse Elise Bachmann. The latter is perfectly sane.” provides a good respite and a good laugh from the fatality present in most of the booklet. Feneon’s old-school ADD is evident in the dispassionate account of other mishaps and the emotional rollercoaster he takes us on (one which really leaves no room for teeth-bearing), such as “The photographer Joachim Berthoud could not get over the death of his wife. He killed himself in Fontanay-sous-Bois.” Finally, the novel that should have been the subtitle of the book, exemplifying the irrational nature of human hysteria more so than all the suicides, protests and other governing events of 1910s, “Sand and only that was the content of two suspect packages that yesterday morning alarmed Saint-Germain-en-Laye”. The genius of Feneon is such that the novels, rooted in French cities, regions, and names, still translate beautifully to English, the less loquacious language lending itself well to the expedited stories.
The part-time terrorist (in the trial of the assassination of French President Sadi Carnot, by an Italian anarchist, Feneon was accused and then acquitted of conspiracy) saw the world in three-line delicacies. He was able to capture the pleasure we find in reading obituaries, and the cruel delight that we feel at the sight of others’ pain. It is no coincidence that most tabloids boast today a list of freak accidents that though they may have been sad for one family, are disgustingly enjoyable for a banker standing on the platform of a subway station. It is most remarkable how topics so inherently local and cultural translate well to the emptiness of life today. As he inadvertently puts so well: “The fever, of military origin, that is raging in Rouillac, Charente, is getting worse and spreading. Preventative measures have been taken.” With excellent comedic timing, use of pun and wordplay, and tongue in cheek humor, Feneon gives us the literary equivalent of finger food: satisfying, small, and always leaving you wanting more. -Melissa Bukuru

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THE SAVAGE DETECTIVES

There’s a certain category of literary fiction that, for better or for worse, plays a huge role in shaping modern thought. It is idea-driven, thematically adventurous and structurally complex. It is also somewhat overrated. Just a few reviews can turn well-deserved praise into hype, and many of the standout authors of this generation—Jonathan Safran Foer and Zadie Smith, among others—have been unduly hailed as messiahs before they’ve had a chance to prove themselves. The Savage Detectives has the near-impossible task of distinguishing itself in a genre that is already the subject of hyperbole and excess.
Roberto Bolaño, who died in 2003 at the age of 50, wrote scores of short stories and poems but barely finished two novels in his lifetime. The Savage Detectives, his first novel, follows the founders of the “visceral realist” school of poetry on their journey to find the mysterious poet Cesárea Tinajero. The concept sounds like a soft echo of Don Quixote and On the Road. Arturo Belano and Ulíses Lima, the title characters, are based on Bolaño and a friend, poet Mario Santiago Papasquiaro; their quest, which spans several years and continents, is heroic, futile, and ultimately epic.
Bolaño diverges from his predecessors by crafting his own version of the novel format. His story consists of three sections. Juan García Madero, the newest addition to the visceral realist circle, narrates the first and third, relating a linear plotline that places Belano, Lima and a runaway prostitute in the middle of the Sonora Desert, searching for Tinajero. The second section is told disjointedly by other members of the movement, each of whom adds a new layer to a story that grows richer and more complex as time passes.
What’s exciting about reading this novel is watching Bolaño meld form and function on each page. Visceral realism takes shape right in front of us; it’s in Bolaño’s gritty yet unabashedly human prose. Likewise, the interplay of the past, present and future surfaces often, both in García Madero’s assertion that “what I write today I’m really writing tomorrow, which for me will be today and yesterday” and in the structure of the novel itself. Bolaño manages to write a story that both floats in space and occupies the very real space made by constant references to time and place. His vision isn’t always clear, but he pushes through his ideas with such ferocity and skill that it becomes impossible to break away.
Bolaño’s expression of lofty ideas works because he, unlike many of his peers, is so grounded. A thinly veiled memoir about young, rebellious poets could easily become too self-aware or precious, but Bolaño never falls into the trap of acknowledging his own wit and insight, instead focusing on the fantastic (sometimes outrageous) events that drive his plot forward. The Savage Detectives is really just a story, and an eminently readable one at that. It’s a pleasant coincidence that it happens to be a showcase for the type of thought that should be influencing a generation of writers.—Aku Ammah-Tagoe


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Año Uña

The photos and the people in them are real, only the story is fiction. So begins Año Uña, a film featured in Montreal’s annual Spanish film festival that marks the directorial debut for Jonas Cuarón. The young filmmaker, son of Alfonso Cuarón (director of Vanilla Sky, Harry Potter and Children of Men) informs his audience early on that his movie is composed entirely of photographs that he took of his family and friends throughout the year of 2004. To translate for those not fluent in the language of cinematic euphemism: this is essentially a 90 minute slide show with running dialogue. Sufficiently artsy for a film festival? Yes. A twenty-something’s obvious attempt to escape his father’s shadow and do something defiantly un-Hollywood? Maybe so. But don’t be turned off by what looks like a contrived style and all too familiar storyline, Año Uña may surprise even the cynics among us.

Molly, an NYU student bored and frustrated with her parochial college life, travels to Mexico in a study abroad program where she stays with the family of Diego. Diego is a 14-year-old whose defining feature is his impressive horniness, which, until the arrival of Molly, is channeled into numerous sexual fantasies involving his cousin. Needless to say, the boy develops a borderline obsessive crush on Molly and we spend most of the movie watching as he does just about everything to win her heart.

The trials and tribulations of poor Diego are amusing, but what really makes the film enjoyable is the depth with which Cuarón develops the personality of his protagonists. Of course, given the relative simplicity of Diego’s character, the portrayal of his typically hormonal, halfheartedly predatory persona was less impressive. I’ll grant Cuarón credit for orchestrating various perfectly timed interruptions of the boy’s masturbation sessions, and even for the juxtaposition of Diego’s sweet facial expressions with the narration of his explicit thoughts; but teenage sexual frustration can only be so enlightening. Our affection for Diego is essentially based on a superficial appreciation of the humor he adds to the story.

The audience’s relationship to Molly, however, is distinct. In the coexistence of her quintessentially American qualities and her anxieties over appearing too “gringa,” Molly represents the challenge many students in the U.S. face when they go abroad: how to temper one’s embarrassingly American tendencies in order to bridge cultural boundaries. This is no easy feat, especially for Molly who is actually inclined to engage in very touristy behavior and would rather not experience Mexican culture passively, as a native would. Instead of lounging in Diego’s grandmother’s house she would prefer to visit the famous basilica, Our Lady of Guadalupe, explore Mayan temples, and take copious amounts of “pictures of people.” At the same time though, she seems dead set on concealing any telltale signs of her Americanness, insisting on speaking Spanish with her blonde-haired, blue-eyed, barely bilingual friend whenever they’re in public. Molly’s endearing way of dealing with her inner conflict draws the viewers very close to her character, despite the fact that she is only depicted in still frames and voice over dialogue. It this aspect of the film that allows it to transcend the limitations of its unique style and that conveys the true potential of Mexico’s youngest Cuarón.—Natalie Kitroeff


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THE MAGIC LAMP RUBS US, THE WRONG WAY

I have lost all faith in Super Bowl commercials. There are still some gems, but there was once a time when I would kneel before the television with mystified expectation; given the millions of dollars poured into each frame, the screen before me would have to yield an equivalent output of millions of dollars' worth of subtle wit and shininess. Ah, nope.
During Super Bowl XLII last month, Salesgenie.com, a division of InfoUSA (a provider of business and consumer information, as well as marketing solutions, based in Omaha, Nebraska), picked “offensive” as its brand of particular mediocrity. Negative responses to Salesgenie’s ads were both immediate and widespread.
Some highlights: one ad features Ling Ling and Ching Ching, an animated, enterprising panda bear couple with “Chinese” accents who eat their own bamboo furniture and are having trouble finding “sares reads” (read: sales leads). With the help of Salesgenie.com, they have enough money to take their kids to go see the “grizz-ree bay-ahs” (read: grizzly bears) “at da zoo.” In another ad, a reed-like salesman named Ramesh is threatened by downsizing, and pleads with his boss -- in an Indian or other-commonly-identifiable-but-poorly-voiced-over South Asian accent -- “but I have seven kids!”

I am reminded of “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” Every time I watch it, I am struck dumb by the way in which Blake Edwards begged for laughs based solely on the ignorantly skewed portrayal of an Asian stereotype, “Mr. Yunioshi.” But I am also comforted by the sheer backwardness of it all: this type of insulting tomfoolery would never be permitted today. And then the pandas come along to prove me wrong.
And yet, some people do not see a problem. Vinod Gupta, the Chairman and CEO of InfoUSA and the parent of Salesgenie.com, designed the commercials himself. He was surprised by the offense taken. A Myspace viewer of the “Ramesh” commercial also wrote, “Hahah this is funny I can say so cause I am Indian too and yeah its just so stereotypical that I get a good chuckle out of it, 7 kids huh? It’s just nice to have an Indian character in a commercial. If these guys are okay with it, why all of this backlash?
I suppose one could argue that animation attempting to capture and satirize an entire race is hardly rare. Take, for example, Apu Nahasapeemapetilon, Indian owner of the Kwik-E Mart on the Simpsons. What is the difference between Apu and Ramesh? As Apu’s voice, Hank Azaria employs the same broadly recognized, one-size-fits-all South Asian accent. So why did the Simpsons get away with it, while the poor Sales Genie fell flat on his face? Are we all taking hyper-sensitive-PC crazy pills?
Doubtful. To posit a few differences: in the case of the Simpsons, no one character is safe from the dark shadow of stereotyping; the program pigeonholes in a way that is multilayered, self-aware, and consistent. The “Salesgenie” ads, in contrast, single out one race, Yunioshi-style. The only humor upon which they rely is the stereotype itself, and the writing is nowhere near clever or nuanced enough to distract from this. Secondly, the Simpsons is a television show with a specific, voluntary fan-base, whereas the commercial audience of the Superbowl – most basically, our entire nation – lends itself to an arena in which producers must either walk on egg shells, or be egged.—Katy Pinke



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