EDNote: Subscribers may remember that about three weeks ago Sam Umland
submitted a post announcing Nabokov's letter to Donald Cammell,
concerning the latter's screen adaptation of Pale Fire. Dmitri
Nabokov has kindly granted permission to distribute a scan of the
letter here, and Sam Umland has provided further commentary and lengthy
excerpts from the script itself. NABOKV-L is very grateful to Sam for
sharing this material on the list. I am pasting into this message the
complete text of Sam's introduction and excerpts. I am also
attaching a PDF of the document for those who would like it printed, as
well as the PDF of Nabokov's letter to Cammell. ~SB
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sam Umland
Department of English
University of Nebraska
at Kearney
Kearney, NE 68849 USA
umlands@unk.edu
On Donald Cammell’s Film
Adaptation of PALE
FIRE
Vladimir
Nabokov sent Donald Cammell (1934-1996) a heretofore largely unknown
and
unpublished letter, dated July 30 1971, praising the notes he had read
of
Cammell’s proposed film adaptation of Pale
Fire. In 1970-71, after the release of what is now his most famous
film, Performance (1970), starring James Fox
and Mick Jagger, Cammell worked extensively on a major film project to
be set
in Morocco and North Africa titled Ishtar
(not to be confused with the film starring Warren Beatty and Dustin
Hoffman
released in 1987). He worked on and off on Ishtar
for much of the next decade and a half, but, alas, the film was never
made. As
Cammell’s biographer, I knew that he had attempted an adaptation of Pale Fire in 1974, but the letter
written by Nabokov to Cammell (of which Donald was justly proud) was
never
recovered during the many years my wife Rebecca and I worked on our
book (see
the description of the book below). The letter from Nabokov to Cammell
was
discovered by David Cammell, Donald’s brother, just a couple of months
ago, in
December 2008, among his personal papers. During the writing of the
book, David
assured us of the letter’s existence because he’d read it, but was
unable to
find it. Although the letter was found, its discovery, obviously,
happened too
late to include in our book (published in April 2006), but now that the
letter
has been found, happily it is available to scholars.
I
was mildly surprised by the date of the letter--July 30, 1971--as the
treatment
Donald had written of Pale Fire is
dated May 1974 (in an earlier post on the NABOKV-L I had mistakenly
indicated
the date as March 1974). During the
1970-71 period, prior to moving to Los Angeles in January 1972, most of
Donald’s friends and acquaintances had assured me that he was working
on Ishtar. But it is clear that he had
begun thinking of adapting Pale Fire
during this period, perhaps earlier. In July 1971 Donald and his then
romantic
companion, Myriam Gibril, were living in David Cammell’s flat on Old
Church
Street in Chelsea, literally just around the corner from Mick Jagger.
(David
was in Thailand
making commercials for his company, Cammell, Hudson & Brownjohn,
and gave
them the use of the flat.) On 12 May 1971, Donald and Myriam had
attended Mick
Jagger’s wedding to Bianca in Saint-Tropez,
subsequently taking a trip to Morocco
as part of his research for Ishtar.
Ironically, in late July 1971, or about the time the author’s letter
would have
arrived at the Old Church
Street
address, Donald and Myriam were in Egypt, appearing as Osiris
and
Isis, respectively, in Kenneth Anger’s film Lucifer
Rising. They no doubt returned to London after the completion of
shooting
to discover the letter from Nabokov had arrived; it must have
subsequently
remained in David’s flat, over the years eventually getting mixed in
with
David’s other papers, only to resurface thirty-seven years later, and
almost thirteen
years after Donald’s death in April 1996.
His
treatment--Donald himself does not refer to his work as a “treatment,”
simply a
“version”--of Pale Fire is sixty
pages long, with the cover page and Donald’s “Foreword” adding two more
additional pages. It is a hybrid affair, parts of it written in
screenplay
form, other parts in treatment form, with much of it copied, in
truncated form,
directly from the novel itself. As Donald himself noted, there’s way
too much
material included in his version to make a film (even one on an epic
scale,
which was financially impossible for Cammell to pull off), but his
purpose was
to demonstrate the novel could be filmed if the narrative were made
clear, as
it were, so his “treatment,” or “version,” begins with a tantalizing
“teaser,”
introducing the assassin Jakob Gradus, then jumping back in time a few
months
(a superimposed title is to read “February 1959”), moving fluidly in
time from
New Wye to the country of Zembla, weaving the story of Charles
Kinbote’s past
(as Charles Xavier) with his developing friendship with poet John
Shade. On
page 36, Cammell includes a scene of John Shade reading part of his
poem to his
wife, the verses about his memories of his daughter Hazel, “a child who
inherited not only the writer’s fine mind, but his stunted unattractive
body; a
very ugly, strange little girl, who died in tragic circumstances at the
age of
16. The central theme of Shade’s great poem is this personal tragedy,
and his
own battle to come to terms with it,” Cammell wrote. “The idea, of
course, is
to depict the extreme contrast between what Shade is actually writing
about it
– this moving, but prosaic, very American reminiscence of his life and
family –
and the glamorous, crazy, spectacular melodrama of King Charles’ life –
the
Zemblan Saga – which is what Kinbote believes he is writing about.”
Unfortunately,
I have not seen the materials Cammell sent to Nabokov in 1971, and
apparently
they have not been located among the author’s papers. I’m therefore
unable to
say precisely what the author reviewed in 1971, but I assume what he
read at
that time was reasonably close in conception to the 1974 version. In
any case,
I believe the version dated May 1974 was (re)written earlier that same
year, as
can be determined by some contemporary allusions in the text. For
instance, on
page 2, Cammell likens Kinbote’s “style of speaking” to “that of John
Houseman’s magnificent lawyer in a recent film.” The film he is
referring to,
of course, is The Paper Chase, in
which Houseman gave a highly memorable performance as a highly
demanding
professor of law; that film was released in October 1973. His
adaptation also,
embarrassingly, contains a glaring anachronism: although the opening
moments
are set in February 1959, there is a reference to “an extraordinary
Blonde
clothed in a pink tee shirt with the Rolling Stones’ tongue hanging out
of it.”
That famous logo of the Rolling Stones was not introduced until 1971 or
so, and
besides, the Rolling Stones as such didn’t exist in 1959. That kind of
slip is
uncharacteristic of Donald’s work, I should add.
I
also should note that Cammell’s adaptation is not “polished” as such.
It
contains handwritten corrections and revisions, and certain portions
are
circled with the accompanying instruction to “move” that particular
section to
a different page, with the proper directions for its insertion.
Cammell’s best
films have a very unusual, fluid time structure, consisting not only of
flashbacks but flash forwards, flash cuts of all sorts, as if the
entire action
were happening all at the same moment, not unfolding in linear or
chronological
time. Past and present collide in dazzling, “kaleidoscopic” fashion,
often in
startling juxtaposition, and certain portions of his adaptation of Pale Fire clearly suggest that, if he
were to have filmed it, it would have employed his characteristic
editing
style.
I
should note that Donald greatly admired Lolita
as well as Stanley Kubrick’s film adaptation of it; James Mason, an
actor
Donald very much liked, would later appear in the first film Donald
wrote, a
caper film titled Duffy (1968). I
know that he also admired Nabokov’s Despair,
but I do not know what he thought of Fassbinder’s 1978 film adaptation
of it,
although I suspect he liked it.
I
should also note that Donald Cammell worked on many, many projects
during the
final twenty-five years of his life, most of them unrealized. His
proposed film
of Pale Fire was one of them.
Notes on the
treatment: I
have laboriously re-typed several
pages of the treatment (the first few and the final few) and indicated
Donald’s
handwritten notes by including them in italic and coding them in blue.
I’ve
struck through those passages that Donald also struck out in pencil,
and
transcribed the text faithfully.
Following is
a brief bio of Cammell taken
directly from the dust jacket of the hardcover edition of my and
Rebecca’s
book, Donald Cammell: A Life on the
Wild Side
(FAB Press, 2006):
The son of poet
and critic Charles Richard Cammell – heir to the Cammell-Laird fortune
and
biographer of Aleister Crowley – Donald Cammell was born in Edinburgh, Scotland
in January 1934. From a young age he demonstrated a prodigious talent
as an
artist, and by the time he was nineteen years old he enjoyed a studio
in Chelsea
where he was a
highly sought-after portrait painter. He soon became restless and
disillusioned
with society portraiture, abandoning this career in the early 1960s to
take up
residence in Paris.
Prompted by his love of the movies, Cammell began writing screenplays.
In 1965,
after the sale of his first work for the screen, Avec Avec
(filmed as Duffy
in 1968), he met the Rolling Stones, becoming friends with both Brian
Jones and
Mick Jagger. His friendship with Jagger led to the latter’s starring in
Performance (1970) – now considered a
masterpiece of world cinema – which Cammell wrote, and then co-directed
with
Nicolas Roeg. In early 1972 Cammell moved to Hollywood, where his filmmaking
ambitions
were frequently frustrated. Over time, however, he managed to direct
some
stylish and disturbing films, including the science fiction film, Demon Seed (1977) and the horror
thriller about a killer with a dissociated identity, White
of the Eye (1987). In the late 1970s he collaborated with
Marlon Brando on a proposed film project, Fan-Tan,
an epic adventure about female pirates. In 1982, with the film
realization
scuttled, Cammell transformed Fan-Tan
into a novel; despite the enthusiastic reception by its prospective
publisher,
Brando prevented its release. The novelization was eventually published
in
2005, after Brando’s death. Donald Cammell made one further film, the
erotic
thriller, Wild Side (1996, restored
posthumously 1999), before committing suicide in April 1996 at the age
of 62.
P A L E
F I R E
A Version of the Novel
by
Vladimir Nabokov
Prepared by
Donald Cammell
May 1974 Ó Writer’s
Guild of
America West. [business
card]
PAULA
WEINSTEIN
IFA
International
Famous
Agency
9255 Sunset
Boulevard
Los Angeles, California 90069
FOREWORD
This is NOT a
“treatment” for a film. Nor is it a synopsis of a literary masterpiece.
It is, rather, a
sort of re-telling of Nabokov’s novel – a re-arrangement of the book’s
originally rather weird and complex structure – in a more or less
cinematic
form.
I have tried to
retain, at this time, the unique flavour of the original by simply
quoting
chunks of its text – mutilating them a bit, (I apologise with desperate
sincerity to Mr. N. for this liberty-taking) – but not “treating” them
–
breaking them down, movie-treatment fashion.
The scenes are
thus described in Nabokov’s style – mangled, but still his – not mine;
nor in
basic movie-treatment prose. For better or for worse, I think this is
the best
way to present the story at this stage. I have omitted, for reasons of
length
and haste, numerous episodes which I wonder now if I should not have
included;
but all this can be re-examined later.
To those who
find Nabokov’s prose too rich or too baroque (I know he’s not
everyone’s cup of
tea), I can only ask that they try to be patient with it. The story,
the
scenes, the dialogue, and above all the characters, are marvelous,
funny,
suspenseful, intensely human.
As to the main
character – Kinbote, alias Charles Xavier, ex-King of Zembla – he is a
true
hero; a lovable, brave, amusing, eccentric, tragic and totally
believable hero.
To me, anyway.
The result is
rough – very rough – and of course there is about 200% too much
material
here for a film. But these pages present
the story, extracted from Nabokov’s magnificently tangled book, and the
basic
form, of a fabulous film. From them, a proper, well-pruned ‘treatment’
can be
prepared; or, more sensibly, a terrific script.
The blue sky,
touched with fabulous pink trails of sunset. A July sky. Below, the
mountains
of Appalachia, the small college town of New Wye,
home of great Wordsmith
University.
On the highway a
couple of miles outside the town, a local bus stops – moves on again –
to
reveal a short man in a brown suit, with a briefcase. He starts up a
country
road: Dulwich Road,
says the sign.
The campus of
Wordsmith dominates the rural landscape.
“Here
are the great mansions of madness, the impeccably planned dormitories
(bedlams
of jungle music) the magni-
ficent
palace of the Administration, the brick walls,
the
archways, the quadrangles blocked out in velvet green. . . the
prison-like
edifice containing classrooms
and
offices, the famous avenue of all the trees
mentioned
by Shakespeare, a distant droning sound,
the
hint of haze, the turquoise dome of the Observa-
tory,
the Roman-tiered football field, deserted on summer
days
except for a dreary-eyed youngster flying – on a
long
control line in a droning circle – a motor-powered
model
plane.”
The man in the
brown suit trudges in and out of sunlight and shade – indistinct,
shadowy – we
glimpse his profile, maybe: his big nose, his powerful jaw, his short
stubby
hair. His name is Jakob Gradus.
He comes to a
stop, unexpectedly, in the middle of the road; puts down his briefcase,
holds
his stomach with both hands.
A long,
distressing sigh escapes from his – which is swallowed in the rumble of
an old
Chrysler sedan as it rumbles round a bend, heading for the highway –
swerves to
avoid him with
tire-squeals,
etc. The car just misses him.
In the Chrysler,
a woman in her fifties, still beautiful in her best hat, brakes and
looks back
with a mixture of concern and irritation. But the short man,
phlegmatically
picking up his briefcase, (his other hand still nursing his little
paunch)
starts trudging on up the road without bothering to look round. Sybil
Shade
accelerates again, continues on her way too.
Gradus rounds
another bend. Two houses stand opposite each other, on either side of
the road.
CLOSE-UP: the
mail box of the bigger of the two houses, in-scribed boldly “H.W.
Goldsworth;”
and underneath, more boldly still but rougher, in gold paint: “Dr.
Charles
Kinbote – in residence.”
Gradus peers at
the mailbox – regards the superb Ferrari GT coupe, 1955 vintage,
standing in
the driveway. As he walks up to the front door, he pauses to rest his
hand on
its hood – still warm. He climbs the steps to the shadowed porch of the
old,
gloomy, half-timbered residence, and rings the bell.
CLOSE-UP: of his
splayed thumb. Door chimes. He waits, rings again. He sighs. Is the
house
empty?
Then, through
the sound of the evening crickets, we hear approaching VOICES...
Dr. Charles
Kinbote is returning to his house, accompanied by his friend John
Shade, the
great American writer and poet. They have come from the latter’s
handsome old
frame house opposite.
They’re a
splendid-looking pair: Dr. Kinbote, six-foot four-inches tall,
powerfully
constructed, golden-bearded, blue-eyed, flamboyantly but elegantly
dressed in
striped silk shirt and white flannel trousers...Shade, sixty-one years
old,
bushy-gray-haired, short and fat, hobbling along with his curious,
crab-like
walk, a little ahead of Kinbote...”One fat shoulder rolling, the other
rising;
his gray mop of hair, his creased nape; the red bandanna handkerchief
limply
hanging out of one hip pocket, the wallet bulge of the other; the grass
stains
on the seat of his old khaki pants.” Under his arm, he is carrying a
huge fat
envelope, open at one end, bulging with what look like index cards.
From the porch,
Gradus turns and stares at them, as they approach through the junipers
and
shrubs at one side of the lawn. Now we hear their voices
distinctly...Kinbote’s
first; a rich mellow voice with a slight accent (sort of British tinged
with
Nordic – a bit like Max von Sydow’s, maybe?) But the fact that he is
not
American is less a matter of accent than the elaborate perfection of
his
syntax, the grandness of his phraseology.)*
KINBOTE: ...”I’m
ready to share my favorite wine with my favorite poet! And if you agree
to show
me, John, to show me your poem -- you will have another treat...”
SHADE: “I’ve
swung it, by God!” He boisterously decapitates a dandelion with his
walking
stick.
KINBOTE: “...Another
treat, John. I promise to divulge to you why I gave you -- or
rather who
gave you -- your theme!”
*A
style of speaking perhaps not unlike that of John Houseman’s
magnificent lawyer
in a recent film. Kinbote’s verbal excesses, like his other
eccentricities, are
as savagely irritating to his enemies as they are amusing and
awe-inspiring to
his admirers.
CLOSE-UP: A Red
Admiral butterfly. Glorious and crimson, it alights on Shade’s sleeve.
He stops
– the butterfly takes off – in his delight, Shade stumbles, nearly
drops the
envelope. Kinbote grasps his arm, rights him, and smoothly relieves him
of his
burden, poising it in his hand playfully but snugly as they cross the
lawn.
Over his shoulder, Shade growls, “What theme?”
(Beyond them a
profile of a thick-set Gradus detaches itself, its briefcase, from the
shadows
of the porch.)
KINBOTE: “Our
blue unforgettable Zembla, and the motorboat in the seacave, and – “
“Ah, says Shade,
“I think I guessed your secret quite some time ago, Charles!” He
chuckles,
pauses, grunts, “Looks like you have another visitor, my friend.”
Kinbote stares
at the figure on the porch...then frowning darkly, he strikes ahead,
growling
something under his breath.
Gradus steps
forward into the evening light.
His big Luger automatic gleams dully as he raises it.
A very brief moving
CLOSE-UP of Gradus’ unforgettable eyes...
Kinbote’s stare
of precognitive horror – his ferocious bellow of indignation – the
crash of
Gradus’ malign old gun...
Kinbote
charges the assassin, oblivious of all danger.
The first bullet rips a sleeve
button from
his shirt as
he Kinbote
waves raises his great arms
to ward off
the bullets. A second, a third shot – who is Gradus aiming at? Is Shade
hiding
behind Kinbote, or is Kinbote trying to protect him? Then the old man
stumbles,
Kinbote trips over him. As they fall together, the envelope containing
the Poem
on its 92 index cards slips from K’s upraised hand.
At this moment,
the film slips progressively into SLOW MOTION... and yet SLOWER, as the
CAMERA
closes in inexorably on the falling envelope. Its flap has come open,
the cards
gently fan out sideways as we hear a SOUND, long and echoey, a
slow-sound-motion...of a final shot...
A CLOSE-UP of
Gradus’ gun-barrel, its smoke-wisp.
An ULTRA SLOW
MOTION shot of the Bullet itself traversing the dusk-gray screen.
Now in extreme
CLOSE-UP, the top card of the poem slides out of the envelope.
In
Shade’s neat penmanship, the Title,
“PALE FIRE”
on the pink top
line – followed by the first two lines of the poem itself, on
the index card, frozen in
space and time...
The image
freezes; the card frozen in space...
“I was the shadow of the
waxwing slain
By the false heaven of the windowpane”
>THE
BULLET pierces the word
“shadow.”
The bullet
enters the screen from foreground left; spiraling slowly like a
lethargic space-ship,
it approaches the dead center of the card. Then, for a moment, the
Bullet is
motionless, too, in silence.
We do not know,
who, if anyone, it will pierce. Only the poem appears to be a certain
target.
The SCREEN goes
BLACK.
The CREDITS
begin, as we FADE IN:
SHOT of Waxwing,
taking off from a juniper bush in Shade’s garden...it soars against the
blue
sky...small gray bird with reddish wings...
CLOSE-UP:
Reflected sky and clouds in a windowpane. A CRASH – the pane cracks, as
the
bird flies into it...
CLOSE-UP: of the
dead waxwing, lying in snow stained by its blood.
During the Title
Sequence – over, or emerging from, the music cue – we hear Shade’s
voice
off-screen – a resonent [sic] mid-American voice – reading the first
verse of
the poem.
“I
was the smudge of ashen fluff, and I
Flew on, lived on, in the reflected sky”
CLOSE-UP: The
cracked windowpane...a gray feather sticking to it where the bird hit
it. The
reflection of Shade’s face appears in the glass.
REVERSE ANGLE:
from INSIDE the SITTING ROOM; but now it is NIGHT, and we see the
reflection of
the room, including Shade himself, sitting at his desk on which stands
a stack
of the large white index cards on which he usually writes – as his
VOICE OFF
continues, describing what we see:
“And from the inside,
too, I’d duplicate
Myself, my lamp, an
apple on a plate:
Uncurtaining the night,
I’d let dark glass
Hang all the furniture
above the grass,
And how delightful when
a fall of snow
Covered my glimpse of
lawn and reached up so
As to make chair and bed
exactly stand
Upon that snow, out in
that crystal land!”
As the CAMERA
slowly pulls back, Sybil Shade, the writer’s wife enters the room,
regards her
husband, smiles, then briskly goes to the window and closes the
curtains.
Freeze frame. The screen goes dark.
(End of CREDITS)
A white winter
sky – on which is supered the title:
NEW WYE, APPALACHIA,
FEBRUARY 1959
CAMERA angles
down to John Shade in his garden, snow-covered as in the scene before.
He looks
down, bends, picks up the body of the dead waxwing. Regards it
carefully.
CAMERA pulls
back to a long shot of old Shade looking at bird; to a MATTE SHOT – as
if
through binoculars...
CLOSE-UP: Dr.
Charles Kinbote, spying on Shade from the upstairs window of his house
on the
opposite side of the road. He lowers binoculars, raises a cassette
recorder
microphone, presses button, dictates...
KINBOTE:
“Incidentally, it is curious to note, that
a crested
bird
called, in Zemblan, a ‘Silk-tail’ – closely resembling a waxwing in
shape and
shade – is one of the three heraldic creatures in the Royal Arms of the
King of
Zembla, Charles the Beloved, born 1915,
reigned
1936-1958 (the other two being a Reindeer and a Mermaid.)”
As Kinbote
dictates these words, his eyes go to a large, blue Morrocan-bound book
lying on
a table nearby, on which the royal arms of Zembla are embossed. Then
there
comes from across the road the sound of a car starting; and Kinbote
runs with
his field glasses and recorder to another window of the bedroom – can’t
see
much – tree in the way – he exits the bedroom with his equipment...
At another
window, Dr. Kinbote now has a proper view of the Shade’s front driveway
as Mrs.
Shade backs their old Chrysler out of the garage, while he dictates
into his
recorder:
“Never
shall I forget how elated I was on learning that the suburban house
rented for
my use from Judge Goldsworth who had gone on vacation to England,
into
which I moved on February 5, 1959, stood next to that of the celebrated
American poet whose verses I had tried to translate into Zemblan twenty
years
earlier!”
Kinbote’s
observations are interrupted by a tortured scream of spinning wheels on
the ice
of the Shade’s driveway. Dr. Kinbote lowers his field glasses with a
smile of
satisfaction...
In the driveway,
old John Shade is clumsily distributing hand-fuls of sand over the ice
from a
bucket. He wears snowboots, wrapped in scarves, his gray locks blowing
in the
icy breeze.
Dr. Kinbote
lumbers down the stairs of the Goldsworth house still dictating into
his
recorder...
“On
one of my first mornings there, as I was preparing to leave for College
in the
powerful car I had just acquired – Ferrari four-and-a-half litre GT,
1955, one
of my favorite vintages – I noticed that Mr. and Mrs. Shade, neither of
whom I
had yet met socially, were having trouble with their old sedan in the
slippery
driveway...
Kinbote strides
out of the front door of his house, buttons himself into his
magnificent fur
coat – past his Ferrari in his own driveway, stuffing his recorder into
his
overcoat pocket – crosses the road – slips, skids, and sits down hard
on the
snow and ice at the roadside. He remains there, stunned, as the Shades’
Chrysler emerges from their driveway, nearly runs him over, and
proceeds down
the road; they don’t see him at all.
Kinbote rises,
dusts the snow off his coat, regards the car disappear. He extracts his
microphone, presses his button...
“I had not, as
yet, as I say, met them socially.” He turns regards his house.
Gloomily...”The
Goldsworth mansion had little to recommend it. The heating system was a
farce”
(he stumps back up his driveway). “February and March in Zembla used to
be
pretty rough, too, of course.”
Follows a series
of SHOTS, hair-raising, (in the manner of a cops-and-robbers car chase)
of Charles
Kinbote at the wheel of his Ferrari roaring up the Wordsmith College,
broadsiding round the icy curves. As he downshifts, racing style, from
fifth to
second on entering the avenue of Shakespeare’s trees, his progress is
watched
with amazement by a group of students.
We rediscover
Dr. Kinbote in his classroom at Wordsmith College;
in the middle of
addressing his class in his grandiose but rather endearing fashion for
the
first time.
He reminds his
students (numbering a dozen at most) that the course he is going to
teach, is
the only one available in America
for the study of the Zemblan language. As he speaks he draws a rough –
a very
rough – map of Northern Europe on the blackboard, indicating Norway,
Sweden,
Denmark, etc., and next door to them the half-forgotten Baltic states
of
Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia. “Now all annexed by Russia
as Soviet
Republics.” Right
in there, nestling
among these obscure old countries on the shores of the Baltic Sea,
Kinbote
inscribes, with a dramatic flourish, the tiny irregular shape of The
People’s Republic
of Zembla.
Half of his
class we can categorize as intensely earnest super-high-IQ CIA
recruits,
(educated at Federal expense); the remaining half-dozen include several
owl-eyed future professors of languages (among whom young, crew-cut,
blonde,
dreamy-eyed Bob, of whom more later), a middle-aged lady, (infatuated
by
Kinbote’s beard) and an extraordinary Blonde clothed in a pink tee
shirt with
the Rolling Stones’ tongue hanging out of it. Dr. Kinbote turns to face
them.
His voice
betrays deep emotion as he reminds his class that until the Revolution
of 1958,
Zembla was a Kingdom. In fact, the last king of Zembla, Charles Xavier
the II,
called by his people the Beloved, was himself one of the greatest
scholars and
linguists every born to that far off northern land. “As a Zemblan
refugee,” Dr.
Kinbote observes, “I hope you will join me in a silent prayer for his
well-being, in exile – in hiding – in South America, they say...he
reigns,
however, forever in the hearts of his countrymen – a symbol of Zembla’s
glorious past and a living reproach to the wretched grip of
Totalitarian
Dictatorship that has swallowed up his country...” (etc., etc.) He
looks at his
watch, “Tomorrow we will commence our study of the language itself...”
In the Faculty
Club of the college, John Shade is lunching with three or four other
eminent
Professors at his usual table. Dr. Kinbote makes an impressive
entrance, and is
formally introduced to the famous writer by the head of the Languages
Department,
Dr. Nattochdag. Shade gruffly offers him a seat, recommends the pork.
Kinbote
seats himself and explaining that he’s a vegetarian produces from his
briefcase
a large and varied selection of raw vegetables, fruit and a bottle of
Danish
ale.
“And
I like to cook my own meals. Consuming something that had been handled
by a
fellow creature was, I explained to the rubicund convives, as repulsive
to me
as eating any creature, and that would include – lowering my voice –
the
pulpous pony-tailed girl student who served us and licked her pencil.”
As he sits there
crunching carrots, Kinbote is really conscious only of John Shade.
Maybe we
listen in on his own account of this first meeting...
[end page 7]
[Top
p. 57, scene after Shade
has been killed by Jakob Gradus]
Kinbote stands
on the porch, as Shade’s body is born in state to an ambulance. Three
or four
cops surround Gradus’ corpse. Pictures are taken of it. A grizzled
senior
policeman peers at the battered head.
1st Policeman:
“Know who this is?”
2nd Policeman:
“Nope.”
1st Policeman:
“This is Jack Grey. Goddamn maniac killer the Judge sent to the
nut-house four,
five years back, remember? Never forget those eyes...”
The other cops
remember, in head-shaking unison, the famous case, the killer’s escape
last
year.
CLOSE-UP:
Kinbote.
He opens his
mouth...closes it. Sits down on the porch step. There comes the
SOUND of an
old car. Sybil’s Chrysler pulls into the driveway...
The Captain
extracts from the corpse’s coat pocket an airline ticket from New York to New
Wye – exhibits it
triumphantly...
1st Policeman:
“See? ‘Jack Grey.’ (sympathetically) Poor Fuckin’
crazy sonuvabitch. He swore in court he’d get the Judge. (He relishes
this...)
Well, he got the wrong guy, hunh?” Must
have bad eyes. (They look strange, it’s true, as we know.)
4th
Policeman: “The lights none too good. Looked a bit like him, too.”
1st
Policeman: “Case of mistaken identity!” (To Kinbote – with a clap on
his back)
“To bad, Doc. You got guts. (a last word for Grey/Gradus’ body). “They
should’ve given the poor mother the hot seat in the first place.”
Kinbote is at
a loss for words. No doubt he is in a state of shock, as Sybil suddenly
comes
running up the lawn, flings herself onto his broad breast. She weeps,
of
course, as she thanks him for trying to save her husband’s life. There
are
murmurs of respect from the cops, who appreciate heroism in the face of
gunfire. (...”Threw himself between the gunman and his target,” murmurs
one of
them.”)
“There are
things for which no recompense in this world or the next is great
enough, Charles,” Sybil whispers. to the
hero.
Kinbote’s
faculties return. He pats her hand. “Sybil... there is a
recompense...It
may seem a modest request, but – give me permission, Sybil, to edit and
publish
John’s last poem. I
wish to write a little commentary to it, that I believe will
illuminate it in a most remarkable light, my dear...”
Sybil gazes up
at Kinbote...
DISSOLVE TO: On
a bleak mountainside in Montana,
a Motel room. A desolate little holiday resort; a little lake, an
amusement
park, etc. not far off. We hear the SOUND of Kinbote’s voice as we
admire the
view, before revealing him, sitting at the plastic table, listening to
his own
VOICE coming from the tape his
tape recorder; beside
which stands, now very dog-eared, the familiar stack of 92
index cards:
John Shade’s last, lost masterpiece.
“Of
course, she did not give me permission. That moment of grateful grief
you soon
forgot, dear girl. However, permission or not, I kept possession of my
Poem.”
A
LONGSHOT OF KINBOTE: standing on the front doorstep of Judge
Goldsworth’s house.
As K. speaks,
we DISSOLVE into a sequence of dramatically presented SHOTS of the
events he
describes; some of which are indicated here, starting with, for
example, the
image of K. surrounded He
is surrounded
by reporters and
photographers.
He
is a Kinbote
grown monstrously fat...
“For
several days – while I underwent the ordeal of minor formalities with
the
police (who were most courteous, even deferential), newspaper
interviews, a
visit from the Mayor, Sybil’s lawyers, and so forth – until I was
securely
installed, with a modified name and appearance, in quieter surroundings
– I
actually wore it. the
poem. Having
distributed the ninety-two index cards about my person, I sewed up all
four
pockets. Thus, plated with poetry, stiff with cardboard, bullet-proof
at last,
an hour after John Shade was laid to rest, (a nationally televised
event) I
left New Wye forever. I was obliged to leave, obviously – and in the
utmost
secrecy, since my incognito and current disguise were obviously now
known to
the Extremists.
(SHOT of K.
Kinbote in his Ferrari, zooming
northward, in
the night, through mountains and deserts...)
“But
oh, Oh imagine the agony of silence that was forced upon me by fate!
The
torture of having to conceal the truth of the tragedy – forcing myself
to agree
with all that piffle about Jack Grey, madman and escapee from a prison
asylum,
mistaking Shade for the Judge who sent him there! Oh, it was I, I,
Charles
Xavier the Beloved, that Gradus was aiming at – I who bear, upon on my great royal
shoulders the
burden of my friend’s mistaken murder!
SHOT: K.
reading poem in a previous motel room, beside a roaring highway...
BIG
CLOSE-UP: Kinbote, in his MOTEL ROOM
Seated
at the plastic table. He DEALS the INDEX CARDS of the Poem,
one by one, as if playing a strange game of patience...
“I
shall never forget my agony when I read his last masterpiece. Where was
Zembla
the Fair? The battlements of my sunset castle? The whole wild, glorious
romance
that I had pressed upon my poet with a hypnotist’s patience? Simply not
there!
What did I have instead? A rather old-fashioned autobiographical
narrative –
beautifully done, of course – but deliberately drained of every trace
of the
marvelous stuff I had contributed, by that tyrannical anti-Royalist,
his wife,
Sybil...”
(SHOT: (A
little flashback to John
Shade,
reading to Sybil in their kitchen. He gesticulates...)
“That poor, misguided woman, who, as
I had
witnessed
myself, had forced my poor friend to read her the rough drafts of his
work, in
order to censor it personally – to purge it of my magic, my Zembla!
(CLOSE-UP: the stack
of cards, as K.’s hand replaces, religiously, their thick rubber
band)
“Now, I will perhaps send the manuscript
back to her, and the University Authorities who are hunting me as
fanatically
as any Extremist assassin.”
(He poises the
bundle in his big hand.)
“Or, then again, I may not.
“Gentlemen,
I have suffered. Like my legend itself, I am petering out. My migraine
is
severe today. But I will continue to exist...”
(Shimmering
IMAGES of the King – Fleur de Fyler – Queen Disa... dissolving into the
seashores of Zembla)
“...I
may assume other disguises, other forms. I may huddle and groan in a
madhouse;
or, history permitting, I may one day sail back to my Kingdom, and
greet with a
sob that luminous grey coastline, those blue mountains in the mists of
time...
“But
whatever fate his in store for me, someone, somewhere, has already set
out –
has boarded a plane, a ship, a bus – will one day ring at my door...”
(LONG
SHOT...through the window of K.’s motel room; as he lies there in
bed...a tall,
gaunt FIGURE in a brown raincoat gets off a bus, on the road outside,
carrying
a briefcase...)
“...A bigger, keener-eyed, more
competent Gradus.”
“I, too, have completed my work...”
(The rotating
spools of the recorder; K. pats it reverently.)
“My
Commentary to the ghost of a poem – a mutilated masterpiece. One day,
when I
too am a ghost (any day now, my doorbell will ring again), it will be
given to
the world. The true story will be told.”
(K. puts on his
silk dressing-gown – in his night-cap...)
“Despite
your efforts, Sybil, this poem, too, is haunted – by the shimmering
specter of
Zembla and her unfortunate King...”
(He gets into
bed)
“The echoes of my mind, the spangles
of my glory...”
(DISSOLVE TO a
shimmering image of the
young epic
shots of
Prince Charles in his Hispano-Suiza in Onhava Cathedral, praying...)
“...A pale fire, a pale fire
indeed!”
CLOSE...CLOSER,
CLOSING...on Kinbote, closing his eyes.
“I
pray for the good Lord’s benediction to rest upon me, and on my
country.”
DISSOLVE TO: the
mountains of Zembla...the grey mists enfold them.
______________________