Redford

 

Everyone is a little star stuck, I suppose.

That said, there are very few whose passing affects me. Indeed, celebrities’ deaths rarely move me. Some have, however.

My first shock was Stephen King’s near death. He did not die in 1999 when hit by that van while walking, but I understand it was a very real thing that he might have. My reaction surprised me. I had not read King in years; but I’d read his novels in my teens and twenties, perhaps my most formative years, the first author whose works I consumed in any great degree.

The next to affect me was David Bowie’s passing. I actually mourned his loss. It matters not that I had not followed his latter career. Indeed, his music had always been present; and that longevity appeared immortal, even if he proved not to be. It’s largely his early work that moved me: “Space Oddity,” Ziggy Stardust, Aladdin Sane, “Fame,” “Golden Years,” “Young Americans.” "Heroes"! The list goes on. It helps that his duet with Queen (“Under Pressure”) and his album Let’s Dance were monster hits just as I was coming of age. His music moved me. It helped to define my musical taste.

Who might affect me next? Peter Gabriel, assuredly. Phil Collins, too, I imagine. Time will tell. Most celebrities, though, pass with little more than mild regret on my part. It’s a wonder, really, why some deaths floor us and others not. They’re celebrities. Not friends. We don’t know them. We only know their effect on our psyche.

Robert Redford’s passing did. And I understand why: His works, much like King’s and Bowie’s, had a profound effect on my world view. Not his early films. I have little experience of his days in television, aside from that Twilight Zone episode he starred in: “Nothing in the Dark.” Not his earliest silver screen films either: Inside Daisy Clover and Barefoot in the Park, and the like, most notably. They are fun to watch now, watching him evolve as an actor.

My first exposure to Redford might have been The Sting. Or Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. It was then that he rose in public consciousness. It helps that he starred with Paul Newman in these two films. (One might wonder why Newman’s death did not have the same profound effect on me, given how high he stands in my regard: it may be because he was older than Redford, that he first found fame outside my lifespan.)

Woven in with these modern classics stand Downhill Racer, Jeremiah Johnson, The Way We Were, Three Days of the Condor, The Candidate, and (most affectedly) All the President’s Men. Each of these films stood out in my mind from the fray: each meant something, each spoke to a point, and each were unflinching in Redford’s commentary on society as he saw it, we know now. Maybe that’s why they stand the test of time: they were in tune with society’s social conscience. Downhill Racer and The Candidate and All the President’s Men are all about how the adage “it’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game” could not be further from the truth in our Western Society. There are about holding the mirror up to our duplicity, in that regard. The Way We Were may be a love story, but it’s also about integrity in the McCarthy era. It helps that Hubbard’s story mirrors F. Scott Fitzgerald’s.

Redford remain as unflinching throughout his career. Indeed, in his life. He was political, ideological, remarking that he believed in causes, not political parties. He bought up land to protect it, championed native rights, supported fledgling filmmakers.

His middle career was as inspired. When he began directing, he held up the most personal of institutions to scrutiny: Ordinary People, for one; A River Runs Through It, another. He reminded us that what we see on television is not always what it seems: Quiz Show. The roles he chose were as inspired: The Natural; Out of Africa; (the little watched) Havana.

I suppose you can plainly see how large Redford looms in my consciousness. He became the watermark of what it meant to be a man, in my mind. The hallmark of integrity.

It comes to mind that the reason his passing has affected me as much as it has: he was the same age as my parents. My father was born in 1936, my mother in 1937, mere months apart. Redford was born shortly before them. The same age as them, he looked like them when in the prime of their lives, and beyond. And that likely drew me to him, even more so than his as lauded early collaborator and friend, Newman. I suppose that made Redford something of a father figure to me, almost as much as my actual father.

That may be projecting too much. But I have to say that Redford’s idealism inspired my world view, perhaps more than my father did. My father and I had very different interests and opinions. I expect that ours were more in line than I might know or admit. It’s not like my father and I discussed world events. When we did, we were as apt to argue than agree. Then again, that’s unfair. And probably untrue.

I never found myself arguing with what Redford taught me, however.

Doctor Zhivago

Doctor Zhivago is, without a doubt, a masterpiece. That said, Boris Pasternak’s 1957 novel is less known than David Lean’s 1965 film. Indeed, I expect most people who’ve seen the film haven’t read the novel. That’s a pity.

I say this because until recently, I was one of those people. For shame. I’ve no excuse. Pasternak’s novel sat on my shelves for years, an old copy, bought at a fundraiser book sale, picked up then with every intention of experiencing Lean’s tale in its original form. Dissatisfied with the old copy, I bought it again, anew (as I often do), in its most recent translation by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, theirs being expectedly modern in its prose, as I found them to be with their Crime and Punishment.

I love the film. It’s epic, both in vision and scope, typically David Lean, and for a long time it was my gateway to understanding the Russian Revolution. It’s also what I expect of Lean, he who gave us The Bridge on the River Kwai and Lawrence of Arabia. I note that all his films I’m familiar with are adaptations: Oliver Twist, Great Expectations, Brief Encounter, Ryan’s Daughter, A Passage to India. All are excellent, in my opinion. So, it comes as no surprise that his version of Doctor Zhivago is, as well. I say “his version” because it is its own self. It is not the book. It hits all the salient plot points of the novel but, regardless how excellently it succeeds as a film, it is lesser than Pasternak’s book.

People who know me would nod sagely at this declaration and say, of course you’d say that, that the book is better than the film. I do, too; most of the time. I recall hearing somewhere that one can make a great film from a mediocre book, but that it is next to impossible to make a great film from a great book. There’s some truth in that. Perhaps there is a great deal of truth in that. But that is not always the case. Zhivago is one such case. So too most of Lean’s filmography. (I’m a Lean fan, obviously.) This does not mean that Lean’s film, however great, is the book’s equal. Lean’s film does an excellent job outlining Russian history concerning the period leading up to the Revolution and its civil war; it does an even better job romanticising Zhivago’s and Lara’s love affair. It fails, however, it charting Zhivago’s ideology, and his journey in becoming an inspired poet.

Lean’s film simplifies Zhivago’s life, insofar as it focuses on the love triangle as the core of its narrative. It glosses over the social commentary riven throughout, the privilege of the rich, the inequality of the poor and working classes, and the prior revolutions that ignited because of it; indeed, it even glosses over the Great War, the Revolution, and the years of civil war that followed. All are mere framework in preference of a story that would move American audiences: true love. Not cultural tidal forces, not muse.

Pasternak’s Zhivago has so much more depth. More formative characters (most largely excised in the film) who weave in and out of the story, each a necessary device to enlighten we readers who did not experience the events lived through, giving us firsthand accounts on how those who did endured the hardships and horrors. Certain characters, Komarovsky and Strelnikov, for instance, are far more nuanced, one more villainous, the other more empathetic. Both entail more in their effect than in page count. Honestly, I was surprised at how limited Lara’s presence is in the book, how much is inferred. Yet, she is his primary muse.

A note on names, just to muse on the novel’s depth, if only a little. Zhivago is not just Yuri’s surname. It is a metaphor for both his profession and his soul. Its Russian root is zhiv, meaning life. Larissa (Lara) is a Greek name meaning “bright, cheerful.” Komarovsky’s Russian root is komar, meaning mosquito. Yuriatin, where much of the story revolves around, is Russian for Yuri’s town. Strelnikov (Pavel Antipov), although a real surname, is shortened from Rasstrelnikov, meaning executioner.

The entire novel, if I may be so bold, is Yuri’s evolution into poet. It is why the novel carries on after his death, until his poems are collected and published. It is why his poems complete the novel, and are not scattered about within it. You don’t have to read them. Not really. Notes at the end of Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky’s translation inform me that they are more lyrical in their original Russian, that we miss out on their rhyming scheme, even their meter, that they focused more on meaning than on adhering as closely as possible to literal translation. Perhaps that’s a good thing. One would have to ask someone who reads Russian, and has an ear for poetry, to find out if artistry was lost in translation. One can only judge what one reads. I read them. I'm a completest.

One thing is true, at least to me, is that Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago is a beautiful book, despite its themes of loneliness and disillusionment, perhaps because of them. It's sad. It's painful. It sometimes reads like a dream. The narrative frequently focusses on environment and emotion, on pathos, and not the epic struggles that herd the characters unto their ultimate fates. It follows observation and reflection and inspiration, not just cause and effect and aftermath. It does that, as well. But events are the lesser of the two, however poignant. All is seen through the eyes of an artist. A Poet.

Will it remain in print as long as Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky? I don’t know. Time will tell. It ought to, I believe. I hope. Pasternak, in my view, is their heir apparent in Russian literature. And that’s saying something.