Especially when the lovers aren’t
So — what exactly is Lever attempting here? Taking that switcheroo ending first, was he simply sharing the zeitgeist with, say, Vicky Cristina Barcelona (Woody Allen 2008), which also shows what a silly species we are and no danger of changing our ways either, lord bless us. In Allen’s case it hardly matters if a too mechanical pessimism doesn’t get my own benediction; but when did Americans making idiots of themselves abroad start looking like a fresh idea again? Certainly the laughs were mostly lost on this European, though that might have something to do with my unreciprocated passion for Penelope Cruz. And to show I’m not down on all directors with forty-year careers spent making intelligent and entertaining movies, I have to mention Claude Chabrol, whose Girl Cut in Two (2008) also keeps us in mind of Cheeta’s Hollywood, inhabiting as it does the same materially over-comfortable, emotionally shallow world of Barcelona. Meanwhile, the man who consolidated his early reputation with dark masterpieces like Le Boucher (1970) isn’t suddenly trying his hand at romantic comedy. But, by contrast with the cliché-inverting downward tug of Allen’s finale in which the perfect matches of rom com are not achieved in the last reel, with help from the marvellous Ludivine Sagnier, Chabrol gives us a cliché-defying end in which the female psyche, so recently threatened with being torn apart, regains her sense of wholeness. Gabrielle, then, is not actually coupee en deux by her two contrasting but equally impossible male lovers; and this happy outcome is shown by means of the classic stage illusion with which the film ends. At least one big-name British critic refused to be taken in by such chicanery; but, in response to the latest effort from a director often referred to as the French Hitchcock, I swear I heard an approving chortle or two from one generously rounded, watchful spirit.
These examples of artistic independence help underline the fact that, even as an untried author, James Lever was always expected to do more than follow the blueprint of his sponsors. On the other hand, HarperCollins obviously had some back-of-envelope themes in mind: Me Cheeta is going to be about the golden era of Hollywood, so this might lure a few film fans; it’s about our love — or lack of it — for animals, and that could hook some ecological interest. But these are the memoirs of a seventy-five-year-old male primate, so we’re aiming most of all, it seems, at an aging human demographic — or, at least, at those with a taste for reflection, a sense of history, and a concern about mortality. Come to think of it, that’s actually a huge potential market, going well beyond crude divisions based on age. All the same, for many young readers Tarzan, Jane, and Cheeta will evoke all the romantic nostalgia of a media studies course — always supposing that the axe hasn’t already fallen on a lecturer near you. Meanwhile, there might be a few for whom the Edenic couple and their amusing pet still conjure up memories of innocent escapism. Yet as long as their minds can swing from the vines, even such fine folk know deep down that, originally barred from Eden as we are, our attempts to get back in are frequently more desperate than innocent.
* * *
As part of his research for Me,Cheeta, the author got to know Weissmuller’s son, which could have led, I suppose, to a certain mushiness in the text. And there is a lot of entirely non-satirical sympathy for Weissmuller here; but, for me, this stands near or even at the core of some of Lever’s best writing. I’m thinking now not just about the appeal of Weissmuller’s gentle personality to an orphaned and abducted young ape who has, until now, received less than patient attention from his captors. This is emotionally significant; but its impact is muted by the fact that, despite all the cruelties of captivity, young Cheeta has already seen enough to know that — with or without his beloved Tarzan — he’ll probably survive longer in the Hollywood jungle than in the real one. What’s more, while things are going comparatively well, he suspects that all human beings are somehow involved in The Project, which is — of course — to save all animals from extinction. (From here we do eventually go on something of a learning curve.)
The unlikely saviour of the hour was Charles Chaplin, founder member and leading light of United Artists. This is the same Chaplin who, in Me Cheeta, provides some of the book’s most darkly funny moments — not as genius-clown but as impromptu savant whose glittering house parties were designed to facilitate the serial seduction of “starlets.” So, here’s more evidence of the little big man, or weak strong man who can still be found doing his bit — and more. At any rate, it seems clear that in Vidor’s scenario Chaplin instantly recognized the big-hearted ordinary guy chosen by all those tired, hungry people as their natural-born leader. Possibly he also noted that Tom, the Strong Man of the commune, had an eye for the ladies — a weakness that could threaten marriages and egalitarian social projects. Coming back to our own era and the film’s reception today, all but the most soul-dead will still be moved by the renewed faith and energy with which Vidor’s very human collectivists finally save their harvest. As passionate propaganda, the entire community’s hand-digging of an irrigation channel across bone-dry fields to their dying crops can scarcely be distinguished from the best of Soviet Cinema. And yet — remembering again Obama’s presidency — it will strike more of us today than it did in 1934 that, in the proudly multi-ethnic cast of Our Daily Bread, there’s not one black family.
* * *
Up, up. to the escarpment! Particularly in his less than pampered younger days, this little thought is one that occurs quite a lot to Cheeta. Even in his seventies, as a bored and blasé “great artist” ( just look at those amazing abstracts in the suitably illustrated autobiography! ), he still sometimes yearns for that first and best place of safety. Stronger, then, than the vulnerable Strong Man and, for me, playing the funniest and most gripping role in Lever’s book is the original tree-dweller’s urge to escape upwards, always upwards. Meanwhile, if the (Weak) Strong Man calls up something as old as Gilgamesh and his journey on The Bumpy Road to Wisdom, we know that there must have been a much more ancient oral tradition coming before it. And if that whole tradition could be reduced to the story of our Fight against Fate, just as timeless is the tale of Fugue and Flight.
For more recent contributions to the great art of fugue, from Scandinavian cinema I find myself veering serendipitously towards O’Horten, (Bent Hamer, Norway, 2007). Despite the best efforts of The Fugitive in the mid ’60s, even today the fleeing party can’t quite escape all Goodie/Baddie dichotomies. Yet, mysteriously enough, Odd Horten, the steady, pipe-smoking train driver now entering the tunnel of retirement, is driven by unnamed forces to wander eccentrically through an almost equally eccentric peoplescape. This is, after all, Scandinavia; and despite the fact that 20th-century egalitarian utopias are no longer top of the 21st-century hit parade, bolstered by an aptly weird performance from Baard Owe, the film’s message (yes, under all that meandering it does have one) is that the Universe, at the best of times rather a hit-and-miss affair, nonetheless rolls on.