Fall films - The Bookshop

Do you know what the goat said after eating a can of film?

"I liked the book better."

I read Penelope Fitzgerald's short novel The Bookshop quite a few years ago. She's one of my favorite writers, in fact, but I had difficulty imagining how her peculiar form of bemused and worldly-wise omniscience would translate to the screen. Spanish director Isabel Coixet didn't try, and perhaps it's just as well. Fitzgerald's novel was about casual cruelty; Coixet's film is about the oppressive atmosphere of small towns and the power of literature to expand people's lives. There are quite a few silly, stagy, and downright unbelievable moments in it, but also some very nice things. I began to like it better the moment I put aside any thought of what the book had been like and said to myself: "This is a fable."

The plot turns on the decision of Florence Green (Emily Mortimer) to open a bookshop in a historic but dilapidated building in a small East Anglia town. As it happens, a local bigwig, one Violet Gamart, has singled out that specific building to house a regional art gallery—though she never got around to buying it, considering it uninhabitable and hence valueless to the general public. The local banker, lawyer, and media "celebrity" all dance to Violet's tune, and many townspeople simply aren't interested in books. Then again, there are several scenes in which the shop appears to be crawling with prospective customers. Suspension of disbelief takes hold early on, and we must refrain from telling ourselves, "She'll be out of business in no time, with or without Violet Gamart's interference."

That Florence is a trusting soul, and perhaps naive, is clear almost from the first. But her awareness extends far beyond the dumbed-down voice-over remarks that intrude occasionally, for example: "Florence had managed to live life thus far by pretending that human beings were not divided into exterminators and exterminating, with the former at any moment predominating." Florence isn't "pretending," of course—she doesn't live in that stark world. She reads. And in the course of the film she also develops a few friendships with people who share her sensibilities—one with the perspicacious little girl who comes to work in her shop, another with a misanthropic gentleman (Bill Nighy) who reads voraciously but rarely ventures beyond his front door.

Among the simple pleasures of this film are watching Florence open big wooden crates and lift stacks of hardbound books out of them, scenes that call to mind choice passages in Walter Benjamin's famous essay, "Unpacking My Library." (I don't remember any scenes during which she actually sells a book.)

Even more fun is watching the mercurial changes in expression that pass across Florence's face as she struggles to deal politely with people who are far more uncomprehending and complacent than she is, though also more self-assured. 

In one scene early in the film a dressmaker is fitting Florence for a dress which we can all see is red. Florence questions the wisdom of wearing a red dress to the afternoon gathering at Violet Gamart's mansion. The woman assures her repeatedly that the dress isn't red, but deep maroon. Florence could have said, "Call it what you will, it isn't right for me. Show me something else." But in the end she prefers not to make waves and gives in to the purchase.

As the local high society dame, Catherine Clarkson, though she appears less often than Mortimer, is no less engaging, with a chilly twinkle in her eye and a facade of graciousness that delicately masks her ruthlessness and cruelty. Bill Nighy is his old crotchety self in a role that's underdeveloped but perhaps couldn't have been otherwise, considering the character's reclusive habits. And the young Honor Kneafsey also adds a lot to the mix as Florence's young assistant--a breath of fresh air every time she appears on screen.

I would like to have seen a longer conversation develop during the scene between Florence and a woman she meets on the beach, the erstwhile girlfriend of a local BBC producer. It might have added a more mature and realistic element to the proceedings. Too often Florence is dealing with children, old men, and moronic, if not malicious, townspeople, and you begin to wonder where she gets the emotional strength—not to mention the cash flow—to continue on.  

I would not be giving anything much away if I reported that the novel on which this film is based ends with the simple lines: "As the train drew out of the station she sat with her head bowed in shame, because the town in which she had lived for nearly ten years had not wanted a bookshop."

That's because in the film version, the story ends differently, and the point it makes is also entirely different.

Don't Knock the Equinox!

Plato celebrated the Golden Mean, and gained lasting renown for coining the slogan: Everything in moderation ... including moderation.

Saturday was neither the longest nor the shortest day of the year, but the most equanimitous, with daylight and dark bowing and curtsying like humble dancers in a line.  

The equinox isn't something you notice; you  merely read about it in the EarthSky News that appears in your email box every day, complete with incomprehensible diagrams that remind you of the spatial relations test you took in eighth grade.

What I did notice was that after several days of unrelenting rain, the day dawned cool and bright. It was a spectacular morning, in fact, and Hilary and I decided to head out to the pottery "tour" taking place in the St. Croix River Valley.

Our route took us east on I-694, then north on I-35E to the Hugo exit. Hugo has never been much of a town, and the region next to the freeway is now a suburb, but we ought to commend the developers who created that exurban zone for naming one of the prominent streets Victor Hugo Boulevard. The town itself is named after the eminent  Trevanion William Hugo, chief engineer of the Consolidated Elevator Company and mayor of Duluth from 1901 to 1904 (never heard of him).

As we drove past a spanking new Quick-Stop gas station on our way into town, it occurred to me that I ought to read The Hunchback of Notre Dame ... someday.

We continued east on County 4 past marshes, farms, and rolling hills to Marine on the St. Croix. The sunlight was still striking and the air was crystal clear. Some sort of cycling event was taking place--we passed a peloton on the way into town and came upon more bikers milling around on Judd Street.

At the miniscule public library I asked if they happened to have a de-acquisition shop. No. But they did have a cardboard box of CDs in the lobby that were free for the taking. A few Mozart piano concertos. A historic recording (remastered) of Aida with Renata Tebaldi, Teresa Berganza, and Carlo Bergonzi. Why not?

Upstairs from the library we discovered an art gallery I'd never seen before operated by Mary Jo Van Dell, who does very large oil paintings with exquisite lighting and high horizon lines. Alongside the oils she's stocked her gallery with a variety of other artworks—especially hand-thrown local pottery and pine furniture. I was especially taken by the long, untreated pine table and the skiff on the far wall that seemed too narrow to be seaworthy. An immense objet 'd 'art, perhaps?  Mary Jo offered us a cup of coffee and invited us into the back room to see her studio.

A second shop, HWY North, has recently opened up right across the street, owned and operated (I think) by Emily Anderson. The shop has some stunning art by Tom Maakestad (I especially like the oil pastels) But it also has plenty of locally made (and affordable)  jewelry, note cards, candles, kitchen tools, and other such stuff.

Emily had just opened the shop when we arrived. The sun was steaming in the windows. "Let's put on something sunny," she said. "The Beatles!"

"Ah, yes," I replied. "But what about that classic "I'm So Down."

If Emily caught my gaff, she never let on. I was actually conflating two famous Beatles tunes: "I'm So Tired" and "I'm Down."  Rather than embarrass me—the Beatles are "my" generation, after all—she graciously replied, "I actually like depressing music." Somehow, I doubt it.

Her husband, Eric, arrived a few minutes later. Eric is an editor at U of MN Press, and he and I chat for a few minutes once every two years about the North Woods at the Heartland Fall Forum. But Eric, like his wife, is a very friendly spirit, and once we'd renewed that acquaintance the four of us were soon discussing the current pottery tour. Then bona fide customers started to arrive.

I'm especially interested in The Marine Mills Folk School that Emily and some friends are trying to get going at her shop.  They've offered classes in pickling, soap-making, boat-building, and other rustic crafts. I'd offer to teach one myself, but I can't imagine what the subject would be. "How to Make Acorn Bread"? It isn't worth the effort. "InDesign for Fun and Profit"? Too techie.

I might also mention Mary Jo's efforts to open her gallery space to local painters, and her vision to host readings and books club discussions. How many artists, craft specialists, and serious readers ARE there in the vicinity of Marine? I'm guessing quite a few.

Now, Marine is everyone's idea of a cute Minnesota town, and it's the "gateway" to nearby O'Brien State Park. But it needed a few galleries and gift shops to bolster its core and give people something to DO there. Now it's got them. Hitherto its most distinctive riverside café was almost impossible to find (and perhaps not worth seek out?) and its foremost business was the general store, which I have always associated with salty snacks. Hilary and I go cross-country skiing at the state park every winter, and after an arduous ski nothing tastes better than a big bag of Ruffles cheddar cheese potato chips.

We spent the next few hours visiting the studios of Jadoonath Pottery, Guillermo Cuellar, and Nick Earl. I love looking at pots, but feel no need to buy one, and in any case, seldom see one that's as interesting as the ones Hilary is making these days. It's also pleasant to soak in the ambiance of aging hippies chatting with one another about kilns, electrical wiring, how many times you ought to rinse uncooked rice, and other important issues. Most of those attending the sales seemed to be "insiders." Hilary and I are "outsiders," though we did have the perspicacity to notice "living master" Warren MacKenzie chatting on a bench at the Cuellar studio.

One of the potters was wearing go-go boots and a quasi-Dakota dress. The only thing missing was a Buffalo Springfield album blaring from a boom-box.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not poking fun at anyone. I'm the kind of guy who loves an open fire, sleeping in a tent on the ground, listening for the whippoorwills, reading Li Po or Machado by starlight. The Revolution has hardly begun. And I get a little upset when I read, in The New York Review of Books for example, dismissive comments about how the energy of the radical 60s fizzled.

In the longer run, much of the countercultural ferment was absorbed into the therapeutic culture of self-realization or frittered away in the fragmentation bred by identity poli­tics. A countercultural sensibility sur­vives behind the ecologically informed awareness that humans must accom­modate themselves to the natural world rather than simply master it, but that sensibility remains untethered to any capacious critique of technocratic ra­tionality—one that would include, for example, the ever-increasing defense budget or the nuclear arms race. The creators of our public discourse need to recover the countercultural critique of the technocratic ethos, which still legitimates the national security state. Without that critique, debate over foreign policy—though conducted in moralistic rhetoric—remains devoid of moral seriousness. Revisiting the reli­gious dimensions of 1960s protest al­lows for the recovery of a forgotten and necessary part of our past.

Blah, Blah, Blah. We don't need to recover the past. We need to refashion the future. And people have been doing that for a good long time now. And just you wait and see!

I wonder if the fellow who wrote that passage has ever seen a modern wind turbine. I can tell you one thing: it's not made of untreated pine slabs.

Our final stop was to the Arcola Bluffs Day Use Area, an obscure site on the Arcola Trail—a gravel road that cuts east from the highway toward the river and rejoins it a few miles downstream.

One thing about the St. Croix River is that the countryside thereabouts is pretty, but you never see the river itself. This little park gives you the opportunity to walk down to it through the woods. Which we did. And we saw a black-and-white warbler along the way.

You finally reach the river just downstream from the Arcola railroad bridge. It's an engineering masterpiece and also a work of art. It was designed by famous bridge engineer C.A.P. Turner, who also designed the Duluth Lift Bridge and the Mendota Bridge. This is America's Eiffel Tower, tucked away amid the water and woods of flyover land.

In my youth I walked out on the Arcola Bridge, high above the river, once or twice.

Kids still go out there, I think. It's not for the faint of heart.