Gaslight (1944)

Gaslight (1944), directed by George Cukor and starring Ingrid Bergman, Charles Boyer, Joseph Cotten, and a teenage Angela Lansbury, is the second film version of Patrick Hamilton's 1938 play Gas Light. This American version followed the British film Gaslight, which was directed by Thorold Dickinson and out in 1940.

I first watched Cukor's Gaslight as a university student in a film class about 25 years ago, and I remembered parts clearly but wanted to fill in what I'd forgotten. I really enjoyed the film as a student, and again the other day. The term "gaslighting" (defined as: To psychologically manipulate (someone) so that they question their memories, perception, or sanity) comes from the play and film adaptations. In this case the manipulator is a greedy, sociopathic husband who is slowly driving his wife mad with the ultimate aim of taking her fortune and aunt's missing jewels.

Apparently, this was one of many 40s thrillers in which a woman is manipulated and abused by a man, often the husband, and the house serves as a prison. In Gaslight the house is jam-packed with furniture and paintings and ornaments, adding to Paula's (played by Bergman) claustrophobia and growing terror as her mind too becomes cluttered, but with despair and twisting thoughts. Gregory Anton (Boyer), the husband, has to be among the most evil villains of 1940s film. And Bergman was perfect for the role because she has a strength that always seems about to burst out of the naive character she plays, no matter how many times Gregory maltreats and bullies her. The film is still excellent after 75 years and, in a world of "fake news" and accusations of falsity and deception, is in some respects relevant to the times.

Norwegian Wood

Norwegian Wood (1987) is a novel by Haruki Murakami. The first-person narrator, Toru Watanabe, takes a long and very detailed look back on his college years when he was between the ages of 18 and 20 or so. At first I thought the novel was boring, but then the characters started to grow on me, and Murakami's prose becomes hypnotic in a sense, and I often felt like a fly on the wall for the pages of seemingly endless but incredibly natural dialogue. Parts of the story take place in Yotsuya, Shinjuku, Shibuya, Myogadani, Kichijoji, Otsuka and Ebisu, all places I've lived or worked or both, and reading fiction set in real places that I'm familiar with always makes things more interesting.

There is lots of banal dialogue with sudden erotic turns as well. Sex, or talk of sex, just kind of pops up now and then, like in the following exchange between Watanabe and his friend Midori:

“I wonder what ants do on rainy days?” Midori asked.

“No idea,” I said. “They’re hard workers, so they probably spend the day cleaning house or taking inventory.”

“If they work so hard, how come they don’t evolve? They’ve been the same forever.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe their body structure isn’t suited to evolving—compared with monkeys, say.”

“Hey, Watanabe, there’s a lot of stuff you don’t know. I thought you knew everything.”

“It’s a big world out there,” I said.

“High mountains, deep oceans,” Midori said. She put her hand inside my bathrobe and took hold of my...

Suicide, or giving up on this world, is a big theme too, and three characters off themselves, changing the lives of those (three) who remain to push forward. We're also given the philosophy: “Death is not the opposite of life but an innate part of life.” And, “By living our lives, we nurture death.” The book also reflects the Japanese concept of wabi-sabi, and for all these elements it's a little sad in places.

What's also interesting is we're given a sense that Watanabe is recounting his college years perhaps a decade or two later. We don't know what his life is like in the present, but at least we know he made it, through the cynicism, depression, meaninglessness, and mental problems of friends, and by the end of the novel, his making it is in some ways good enough.

Exit West

Exit West (2017) is a slim novel by Mohsin Hamid. The book was selected for the 2017 Booker Prize longlist and, for reasons I can't put my finger on exactly, praised by a lot of critics. The story follows Saeed and Nadia, who live in a city in the grips of civil war. We’re not told what city this is, but Homs easily comes to mind. The two fall in love and decide they must flee. Lucky for them, or so they believe, magical portals are opening up around the world. Through them they can transport themselves elsewhere, if they’re able to slip by the guards or find one unattended.

Interestingly, the first such door is in Shinjuku (Kabukicho, judging by the description). Some gangster-type fellow (drinking whisky he didn’t pay for but is entitled to, for whatever reason) with tattoos and a knife in his pocket, spots two young Filipinas dressed in “tropical” clothing and standing by the portal. I’m not sure if Hamid has been to Shinjuku, but young Filipinas in skimpy summer clothes at night, even in winter, is a not unusual sight in the bar hostess district (or perhaps that’s where he got the idea). Anyway, Saeed and Nadia migrate (by means of a magic door) to Mykonos, then to “Dark London” (or “Halo London”), and then later to California, where their relationship soon turns sour. The end.

No, the novel isn’t as straightforward or bereft of complexity, but it doesn’t go so deep or wide either. To be perfectly honest, I can’t understand where all the hype over the book came from. The premise is intriguing: migrants use magic doors to transport themselves to safety and seemingly greener pastures, only to be marginalized and attacked by mobs when they arrive. But Saeed and Nadia are woefully underdeveloped. Saeed in particular. And I don’t get why Hamid felt it necessary to remind us often that Nadia smokes pot and doesn’t follow the traditions and norms of her people.

The writing is good apart from the excessive comma use, which I thought made the prose unnecessarily stilted, most of all in the first couple chapters. That said, I don’t regret reading the book. It has its moments, and Hamid had the balls to write about refugee crises, which is something, but if only he’d fleshed things out more (characters, themes, plot, etc.) Also, why not name the unnamed city? Since the destinations are actual places, it's not clear why he chose not to call Homs (or another city) by its actual name.