Such are the accelerated times we live in that I wondered, in a moment of panic, if this essay might be too late. It was spurred by the demise of Gabriel García Márquez on the afternoon of 17 April, a Thursday. But that was fifteen days ago. On Friday, as the news reached these shores, my Facebook timeline was filled with sad reminiscences about yellow butterflies and perfumed crows. A day later, however, the week’s big Bollywood release, 2 States , had begun “trending” – even Márquez had to give way to Bhagat.
Imagine the irony. The author who kept reminding us of the vastness of time – those one hundred years of solitude; the bachelor who, after nine decades, decided to gift himself an adolescent virgin; the lifetime that Florentino Ariza spent waiting for Fermina Daza – was, post mortem , resuscitated in the social media for a mere twenty-four hours.
Authors die, but they leave behind work that lives forever. There can, therefore, never be a too-late tribute to Márquez, who, with Nabokov, went to war against the distressing modern-day tendency to view language as a loincloth, a functional invention that went about its job in the least ostentatious manner. Language, to these writers, was a queen’s wardrobe of silks, and they celebrated its riches lavishly.
ADVERTISEMENT
We are advised, for instance, that alliteration is bad. Nabokov gave us, in successive sentences in
Márquez didn’t think so. He said, in an interview, “I can’t think of any one film that improved on a good novel, but I can think of many good films that came from very bad novels.” Still, if we replace the question “Is this film a good adaptation of the book?” with “How does this director go about adapting this book?” – in other words, if we replace judgement with inquiry – the movie may end up worthwhile after all, if not an exact reproduction of the book, then perhaps a version of the book, one that exists honourably in a parallel dimension.
ADVERTISEMENT
ADVERTISEMENT
Márquez, I think, would have approved of this film. At least, he would have been happier with Kubrick’s struggle with Nabokov than with Mike Newell’s attempt to put Love in the Time of Cholera on screen. Márquez’s first chapter is ostensibly about the death of Dr. Juvenal Urbino, but it is also about so much else: the scent of bitter almonds, a corpse under investigation, the old slave quarter, the parrot that learned to speak French like an academician, Fermina Daza’s loss of the doe’s gait of her younger years, the couple’s “trivial everyday miseries,” and a few dozen other things, including Schubert’s Death and the Maiden .
A film that stayed faithful to all these details would never end, and yet, it’s in what the filmmaker chooses to keep and what he leaves out that we get a glimpse of the film’s eventual success or failure. Newell opens with the parrot on a tree. Dr. Urbino climbs a ladder. He falls. He dies. Where Kubrick gave us mood, Newell gives us plot. A queen’s wardrobe is reduced to a loincloth.