This past Saturday, the subject was cinema. Nick told me he had gone to see a film at the local theater, and that the film had reminded him very much of me.
“The movie’s bad,” he said, “but I had a hell of a time watching the two little old ladies sittin’ right in front of me. Their reactions? Hilarious. I didn’t ask you to come, though—I figured it wouldn’t really be your thing.”
“You judged rightly, and did well. Do you know how my sources in matters of cinema have been referring to that film?”
“Nope.”
“‘F*cking Heights.’”
Nick burst into laughter.
“Yeah, I mean, that tracks,” he said.
“But you told me that this bomb reminded you of me. Why?”
“I read the book. Thought it was boring as hell, honestly, but I read it back in school. And I can tell you, the book? It’s not in the movie. I also heard online that the director didn’t really base it on the novel, but on her own memories of reading it—maybe in school, like me—and just reinvented the whole thing.”
“I heard as much.”
“That’s what you call intellectual masturbation, right? Or artistic—whatever. I don’t even know anymore.”
“Yes, it is. She pleasured herself with her memories and made a film of them. That is typical of our age.”
“Lemme see if I remember your words,” Nick said, grinning. “Because in our age there’s no predominance of religion.”
“When there is religion,” I corrected him. “Without religion there is no unity in society, only standardization. With religion, we have a body composed of different members; without religion, society becomes a body made entirely of left feet. Can such a thing stand? It cannot.”
Nick was laughing. “Man, the way you put things—it’s priceless! But go on, please.”
“Very well. If the members of the body do not communicate, what remains to them is intellectual masturbation. Some woman takes her memories—memories disturbed by her own demons—and decides to make a film out of them, even if the price is artistic and commercial failure; even if the price is the destruction of a literary monument. A society without religion cannot create culture and thus destroys what already exists. But tell me—what happened to the old ladies?”
Nick laughed again and continued. “I figure they must’ve read the book, or seen some other film version, and that’s why they showed up. Suddenly they’re watching this movie where every single image is about sex, and they’d jump and cluck in shock. After a while, they started treating it like a comedy—kinda like, ‘Well, we paid for it and we’re here, might as well have fun.’ For instance, when Heathcliff walks into Isabella’s room and they end up sleeping together, one of the little old ladies said to the other, ‘Shoot, even silly old me would’ve gone for that!’”
And we laughed heartily.
“And you—have you read the book?”
“A couple times.”
“A couple?"
"Books are reusable, you know., and ‘Saint’ Emily Brontë wrote a literary monument. So perfect in its form that it is not truly filmable. Perhaps a miniseries—but even then it would remain deficient, for film shows only the actions of characters; to descend into the depths of their psychology, cinema would risk slipping into mere filmed theater.”
“Alright, alright,” Nick said, shaking his head. “I’ll reread the damn thing. Let’s see what I missed.”
“Go, and see,” I replied emphatically—so that we might both laugh again.
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