Skip to main content

Ivan Turgenev. Fathers and Children, trans Avril Pyman. London: Everyman, 1962

I loved this beautifully paced, insightful and wise Russian tale about the arrogance and disrespect of youth towards the older generation, contrasted with the dignity, good manners, liberalism and respect of the country estate ‘little aristocrats’. Turgenev writes with great sensitivity, evoking the profound social change and conveying characters’ deep emotion without ever stating it; such understated writing and unhurried pace comforts and absorbs. He leaves the reader to infer what goes unsaid and, in this short novel, puts across a gently ironic overview of the social structure of the time; the liberal enlightened landowners are caught between trying, on the one hand, to give ‘their’ peasants autonomy, while on the other hand, they have the peasants mocking them and not seeming to want responsibility for their own living. The blurring of the old boundaries and systems is disquieting to everyone. He does kill off the dangerous young student scientist nihilist, who is a threat to everything and everyone, and happily restores the nice young man to his family farm where he begins to introduce a fresh, but not revolutionary approach to managing the country. Makes me want to read more Russian literature.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

HAPPY-GO-LUCKY. Dir Mike Leigh. 2008

Simple, retarded asthmatic gasps and giggles her way through this nonsensical film from Mike Leigh. 30 year old Poppy’s arrested development is masked by her carer who provides meals and stability. This form of care in the community works well so that Poppy is able to extend her adolescence in this flat-sharing arrangement by climbing into bed with her carer and exhibiting teenage tactile behaviour. Her flatmate is tolerant, even when getting no answers as to where Poppy has been and whether or not she’s ok. To Poppy’s credit she holds down a job. Inconceivably a primary school teacher, she is left in a position of responsibility with young children for long periods without supervision. However, classroom activities are restricted to making masks out of brown paper bags in case anyone thought primary school teaching involved real work. Leigh raises the possibility of serious subject matter when a boy begins to bully others. Without parental involvement, a Socia...

ACCATONE! Dir Piers Paulo Pasolini. 1961

Accatone! (1961) is the first film by director Piers Paulo Pasolini and re-relased as part of a box set of his work. Accatone! features a pitiless, self-serving, manipulative young pimp living in the slums and rubble of Rome, whose lassitude is infectious. Images of his death recur throughout the film and he seems barely living. The exclamation mark in the title may be there to try and wake him up. Pasolini shot the film on the streets, using the people he found there rather than professional actors. The effect is a slow moving realism which casts the viewer as reluctant voyeur; it is impossible to gain any distance from the unrelenting sadism of hollow machismo. Seeing this film fifty years after it was made, the misogyny in this film is deeply disturbing; women are either Madonna, virgin or whore. Accatone says prostitution is ‘a mother’s situation’ which provides the mixed message that it’s selfless and necessary for survival, yet he and his friends view whores as trash; to...

Interior Life of an Estate Agent - part 23

Hot Bodies The heat is intense today. My car is blue with a black interior and the sun on the metal is fierce and punishing. Even with the window open there is no relief. The sunroof has to stay closed because the ferocity of the burning sun is beyond bearing. I’m showing a friendly, chatty elderly couple round a bungalow in suburban bungalow-land where there is no sound but the churning of some piece of workman’s equipment nearby. I stay with the plot all round the house, answering questions, being helpful, making suggestions, until we come to the front bedroom and I turn to admire the view. Across the road are two workmen on the flat roof of a garage. One of them is facing us, wearing a baseball cap and bent slightly forward. All I can see is his perfect flat stomach; so flat that, as he bends, there are neat creases in the brown skin, as neat as pencil lines. He has not an ounce of fat covering his slim, naked upper body and trickles of sweat make tracks through the dirt on th...