The Saint

by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

The story seems at first to be very realistic - the narrator refers to himself as a novelist, as if the story is an account of something that happened to the author himself, perhaps recently. It continues completely normally until Duarte's dead daughter is unearthed, not decomposing, after 11 years, and "her body had no weight."

The story is structured within the context of the present, with some summary of past events (e.g. above), some of which the narrator is not present for. I would expect, for this reason, that the film adaptation would be from a third person point of view, likely without narration, less focused on the narrator as the main character. Rather, I expect that it would follow the story as the narrator tells it, but not through the same voice.

I wonder, however, if the filmmaker might have decided to restructure the narrative linearly, so that it begins with Duarte's story straight away, and end up in the cafe. It would not be a necessary choice, but a possible one. Or perhaps it could start in the cafe, have Duarte open the box with his pristine daughter inside, and then go back in flashback to explain why.

To expand the narrative, I would guess that the film would go more into depth with the story of the wife and the daughter dying, and then take it from there. Of course, this is not necessary either - it could easily be filmed with the same level of detail as in the story, perhaps a few shots summarizing the past, before Duarte is in Rome with the girl's body.

The Pope's hiccuping problem is quite funny.

The juxtaposition of a magical, potentially saintly body with the stresses of the bureaucratic processes of the church paints a funny picture of the world:

...he delivered a letter almost sixty pages long to the Secretariat of State but received no reply. He had foreseen this, for the functionary who accepted his handwritten letter with all due formality did not deign to give more than an official glance at the dead girl, and the clerks passing by looked at her with no interest at all.

One of the most interesting things I find about this magical realism is that, at certain times, I am unsure whether the story is real or entirely imagined: would they really eat songbird stew together? It's not as magical as a dead girl who resists decomposition, but it's nonetheless a foreign idea to me (although altogether possible). (I feel the same way about science fiction sometimes - it's interesting because it inhabits the line between reality and fantasy... e.g. Jurassic Park's very dry, "historical" introduction by Michael Crichton.)

I got tingles at the end of the story. It jumped up on me all unexpected.

Captain Pantoja y las visitadoras

A few thoughts on the book:
I love the idea of talking about this book in terms of telescopic and periscopic points of view... telescopic describing the removed narration with only snippets of conversation and select physical details; periscopic describing reports and letters, like reading the story bounced between multiple sources, an indirect retelling of events.

It is interesting to note the similarities between this book and Kiss of the Spiderwoman - although their subjects, stories, and tones differ, both are so form-driven and self-aware of their own styles, both so schematic and patterned in their telling. Both are great examples of heteroglossia; they would be helpful to study in learning how to combine multiple voices into one text - both Puig and Vargas Llosa are clearly adept at different styles of writing.

It seems to me that the juxtaposition of extreme "Church" and ridiculous "State" provides an intriguing social commentary on the primacy of ideology or that of pragmatism, with the conclusion that either extreme is harmful, and that there must be balance between them, an ongoing negotiation of morality and practicality.

I also believe that both Captain Pantoja and Kiss of the Spider Woman are inherently Postmodern texts, because they use multiple points of view to create a sense of objectivity. The dominant subjectivity creates a strange sense of realism, in a way that a traditional linear narrative cannot. We perceive our world subjectively, from a certain point of view, with some periscopic information (gleaned from communication with other people, providing insight to their distinct points of view). These books, while their form seems strange and new, are in fact more realistic in their form than a more simply structured story.

Screening Peru

While I was disappointed that the majority of Kristal's essay consisted of plot summaries of Lombardi's movies, I was interested by his conclusion that the modes of Peruvian storytelling (whether on film or in print) reflect the rapid, haphazard modernization of Peru and contradictions of its reality. That culture is reflected both formally and contextually in art is not a new idea, but Kristal provides a good case study in the works of Vargas Llosa and Lombardi and the relationship between them.

Kristal's negative review of Captain Pantoja is discouraging. Hopefully it turns out to be better than he thought. (Saying that "the portrayal of the hardboiled radio announcer... is one of the few redeeming aspects of the film" (6) does not sound good.)

What did sound interesting was Kristal's description of "the real-time disintegration of relationships... played out across the landscapes of different media" (7) in Lombardi's What the Eye Doesn't See:

A moody television anchorman storms out of the tv studio where is girlfriend is acting in a soap opera; later, he watches her in the programme on the television in his flat; later again, we see her on the small screen of the building's cctv security system, ringing for admittance at his front door. (7)

Now that I'd like to see.

Kiss of the Spider Woman (book)

I feel compelled to say: this book is amazing! I mean, to start, it's an interesting concept, to tell an entire story (many stories, actually, but one 'real' one) only through dialogue (and a few footnotes, but that's a different story; the tone is completely different from the rest of the book, which is impressive by itself). But it's more than a good concept - it's done so well. The movie descriptions flow so easily, just as if they were being spoken, the character voices are differentiated from one another, and action is strongly implied, without a word of explicit description! The scene where Valentin becomes sick with diarrhea, in particular, is expertly written. (120) Not only is the action clear (through only dialogue - what a feat!), but the scene becomes a touching moment between the characters. We have become close to them, introduced slowly to their idiosyncrasies while other stories have been told, until we find ourselves comfortable in their presence, and now we can easily imagine them interacting in their cell. By the time this scene appears, we know who they are and their relationship to one another, and we feel for them. It is a very sweet moment, Molina helping Valentin with such a gruesome task, and heightened by the fact that just before, he was committed to being angry with him, and now so selflessly offers his help.

So very well done.

Cinematic Qualities...

I am generally turned off by the use of the word 'cinematic' to describe literature. Literature has always strove to create an experience, and "appeal[ing] directly to the reader's visual perception" (Karetnikova 164) need not have anything to do with film. Lack of authorial digressions, abstract concepts, or narrative thoughts, and a descriptive preference for physicality do not necessarily make text cinematic - I have never heard Hemingway's stories described as such, but they have many of those qualities.
That being said, I think that Karetnikova makes a good argument for The Kiss of the Spider Woman's Cinematic Qualities. When an author uses phrases like, "and then you see them later" and "with a good close-up of the two faces," there is an undeniable filmic aspect to the writing, almost as if it were a screenplay treatment.

I do take issue with her assertion that "a film could be fully visualized without any shooting or editing." I agree that a story could be so clearly described visually that the reader could 'watch' it play out in his head, but would it be a film? No; obviously, unless you can truly SEE it, the story would remain a written narrative. (Which is not to say that makes it any less.) Karetnikova's statement is so ridiculous that I feel stupid arguing about it.

I also disagree on the point that interwoven narratives are "a purely cinematic device; in fact... the very nature of film." Take Dracula, published in 1897, which includes journal entries from multiple characters in different locales, "combining and shuffling" through different "footage" - without the relation to film that Puig's book has. Clearly "intercutting" is not a "purely cinematic device" - although the term itself references film editing, the effect that Karetnikova describes is present in cinematic and non-'cinematic' texts alike.

This tendency to cast shadows of cinema over literature, applying Hollywood concepts to the words of novels, is a common exercise in anachronistic thinking. Literature has surely influenced film, as the previously prevailing storytelling medium; one must also consider that the aim of both media - storytelling - also creates commonalities between these methods of communication. Though I must concede that many books are highly influenced by film (e.g. the American publication ofMemories of Underdevelopment, which was altered to more closely match its film adaptation), I believe that critiques of literature too often create this relationship from thin air, without considering their own movie-minded projections onto the written work.

EDIT --
I also think there is evidence of non-visual description/inner thoughts:
"He's happy, because he sees how to please him she got her complex under control, just the way he planned, to go there in the first place, to please her..." (Puig 7)
Though he is describing a scene from a movie, the speaker is actively interpreting the inner thoughts of the characters he describes, which cannot be explicitly shown.

Memories of Inconsolable Non-development

First, I must brag: Michael Chanan, who is obviously smart enough to have been published in a book, if nothing else, has agreed with me that "the change in the name [of the film]... changes the emphasis from the personal to the public, and shifts the sense from the subjective to the historical." (3) That was my best guess for the implications of the name change in class last Friday! (Hooray.)

Chanan also brings up an interesting question: what is are the implications of naming a character after the actor who portrays him/her? How does that choice effect the reality of the fiction, and what does it say about reality itself? This may be stretching a bit, but it seems to me that this convergence of fact and fiction challenges the 'truth' of reality itself - what is the difference between the character we play every day and the characters actors portray? I realize this may sound a bit silly or overly existential, but it's worth considering. Chanan says that this naming technique is a "familiar kind of play upon the identity of the author that is a typical trait of modernist narrative." (4) If this is a modernist tendency, it must reflect a certain fascination with or anxiety about the (lack of) stability of identity within modern culture. Borges plays on names "to set up metaphysical conundrums about the human condition," while Desnoes' purpose is "to capture, in the labyrinths of language, certain elusive aspects of the identity crisis of the artist within the revolutionary process... the ideological rupture with the past."

Here, we are brought back to the original question of what the title change implies: If part of Desnoes' aim was to weigh in on the effects of revolution on individual identities, "Memories of Underdevelopment" is an apt title, implicating both national and personal histories at once.

Quick thoughts on adaptation

1. "Is it good, in and of itself?" should be the first and most important question.
2. Terms like fidelity and true (to its source) are over-privileged (in Derrida's sense)... better to speak in terms of the relationship to the text.