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Monday, April 8, 2013

Something New


We feature each week Nicholas Reid's reviews and comments on new and recent books

“PATCHED – THE HISTORY OF GANGS IN NEW ZEALAND” by Jarrod Gilbert (Auckland University Press, $NZ49:99)

            Some weeks ago, I had the pleasure of hearing Jarrod Gilbert interviewed on Kim Hill’s Saturday morning radio show. He was discussing the fact that research for Patched (which was developed from his PhD thesis in sociology) involved his spending long periods living with, and being accepted by, gangs. As he says in his introduction to this book:

Perhaps the most important part of my research was the eight years I spent in the field hanging around with various gangs doing ethnographic, or participant observation, research. Gaining access to gangs was a long and fraught process, and much of my time in the field was challenging both physically and ethically. During these years, my life and my research merged. Week in, week out, I immersed myself in the scene. The consequences of these undertakings were not always desirable: a knife to the throat; involvement in a large gang brawl; battling the fatigue that comes from partying days at a time; and a couple of fights where I was soundly beaten are among those events I can comfortably repeat here.” (pg. x)

What I found engaging in Gilbert’s interview on the Kim Hill was his ethical ambiguity about much that he witnessed. For example, after first saying “Oh God, my Mum’s listening to this!”, he mentioned witnessing group sexual activity in gangs. This may be part of what he cannot “comfortably repeat” in his introduction.

While enjoying the interview, I did wonder if Gilbert would suffer the fate of so many journalists who have been “embedded” with armed forces during conflicts – that is, I wondered if he would so identify with his hosts that (like those military journalists) he would end up simply reproducing their viewpoint and perspective. Late in his introduction, he does note that he has had to keep confidentiality, which means he has been, as he puts it, ethically “stretched” and has had to suppress, or remove individual names from, material that could be used in criminal prosecutions.

I needn’t have worried. Patched does indeed convey much of the perspective of gang-members; but the author keeps his own perspective as a sociologist, is fully aware of the criminal activities in which gangs are or have been involved, is sensitive to the perspectives of the wider community and does not assume that all negative reactions to gangs are mere alarmism. Also the book is very solidly researched from sources additional to direct interaction with gangs, as the extensive bibliography makes clear. Interviewing and observing gang members were only part of Gilbert’s research, and Patched is in no way a memoir. Indeed, it is only occasionally that Gilbert refers directly to events he personally witnessed.

There are some themes that run through this text, even though it is a varied history of nearly sixty years of New Zealand subcultures. One is the clear impact of socio-economic conditions on the growth or decline of gangs. Most chapters in this book contain a brief account of what was happening to the national economy and to political parties at any given time. Another theme is the constant feeding of gangs off images and models provided to them by (largely American) popular culture, from 1950s bikers aspiring to be Marlon Brando in The Wild One, to South Auckland youth aspiring to be LA Crips or Bloods after seeing movies like Colors, to current “boy racers” ODing on The Fast and the Furious. Not that the media images provide the impetus to form gangs – only the form that that impetus takes.

  As Gilbert tells it (Chapter One), the 1950s in New Zealand were essentially a prelude to later gang culture. The first rock ‘n’ roll era “gangs” were milk-bar cowboy groups of mainly working-class Pakeha kids, mainly from new state-housing areas, who did not last as gangs because the 1950s were an era of high employment and economic security. Hence there was no inducement for young men to stay in gangs when they could easily find a pay-packet. Membership of gangs was transient.

However, gang culture changed (Chapter Two) in the 1960s, although on the whole the economy was still healthy. In what Gilbert sees as the first ‘pivot point’ in gang history, gangs (following the lead of the early Hell’s Angels in Auckland) become patched, and gang activity became a more visible public concern, as in the Hastings Blossom Festival riots of 1960 and 1969. Gangs were beginning to be identifiable and continuous. Clubs transformed into gangs with rules and a hierarchy. Gangs had more time to “defend” territory and mana as the economy declined and members made gang activity their major occupation rather than something that was engaged in only when paid work permitted. Gilbert readily accepts the argument that police harassment was one key factor in reinforcing group solidarity and hence transforming clubs into gangs.

At this point (Chapter Three) Gilbert differentiates between motorcycle gangs and the street gangs that began to emerge in the later 1960s. Also at this point, he has to address more fully the matter of ethnicity. Early cycle gangs were essentially colour-blind, as were the first street gangs. But the street gangs rapidly became largely Maori and Polynesian, especially with the number of kids alienated from both school and home environments during the rapid urbanisation of Maori and the equally rapid growth in immigration from the Pacific.

Gilbert lingers over the formation of the gang that was to last longest, the Mongrel Mob, whose style was to be extreme and perverse rejection of social norms:

 “Without the impediment of adult supervision, the young men were unknowingly forging enduring subcultural elements. The ‘law’ [described by one member] would eventually be termed ‘mongrelism’ by the gang The concept is somewhat difficult to define, but is basically any outrageous behaviour that distinguishes a Mongrel Mob member’s actions from those that are socially acceptable. This creed became embedded in the gang’s collective consciousness. Outlaw motorcycle clubs like the Hell’s Angels were also engaging in defiant anti-social activities, but the Mongrel Mob’s undertakings appear more extreme. Indeed the gang would later commit some of the most notorious crimes of physical and sexual violence in modern New Zealand history, and much of this behaviour is linked to the ideals fostered within the Mongrel Mob during this time.” (Pg.41)

(“Ideals” is a rather odd word in this context.)

After the Mongrel Mob was formed, Black Power arose partly from Maori and Polynesian groups who were intimidated by the Mongrel Mob. At first Black Power had some social conscience, but these two gangs soon became chief rivals for dominance.

            Ironically though (Chapter Four), the first serious “gang war” was in Christchurch in 1974-75, far from the North Island heartlands of Black Power and the Mongrel Mob. It was between the mainly Pakeha Epitaph Riders and the Devil’s Henchmen. It is at this point that Gilbert analyses seriously the mystique of the patch and of territoriality. He also notes that less mature and well-established gangs try to use the press to build up their reputations and profile with boastful stories to journalists. More experienced gangs, better aware of public scrutiny and the perils of self-incriminating material, tend to observe a silence-to-the-press rule.

It was in the 1970s that there occurred what Gilbert sees as the second ‘pivot’ in gang history. With the murder, in Auckland, of a Highway 61 member by a member of the Hell’s Angels, some Hell’s Angels served prison sentences and began associating with hardened drug-dealing criminals. The connection between gangs and crime-for-profit began in earnest.

            As Gilbert sees it (Chapter Five), despite much alarmist talk in the press and in parliament, there were by the late 1970s and early 1980s some real and constructive official attempts to deal with gangs in a positive, rather than a punitive, way. Surprisingly, some of these were initiated by, and had the blessing of, the conservative prime minister Robert Muldoon.

During the 1980s, the government initiated New Zealand’s most significant social policy drive targeting gangs. In an increasingly difficult labour market, the policy aimed to put gangs to work in an effort to alleviate the growing problem of gang violence. Up until August 1986, this social policy agenda was heralded as a success. But then, in the space of a few months, three major events, including the Ambury Park rape, and a radically changing political climate created a ‘perfect storm’ of controversy in which the social policy initiative met with a swift demise.” (Pg.107)

As neo-liberalism (“Rogernomics”) took hold in the political scene, there was a strong backlash against payment for gangs in work schemes. Suddenly both government and opposition were falling over themselves to frame tougher laws against gangs, and to rein in subsidised work. Partly this backlash was driven by media reports of ostentatious displays of wealth by gang leaders including Abe Wharewaka, chief of Black Power in South Auckland. When he gets to the 1986 Ambury Park serial rape of one woman by the Mongrel Mob, Gilbert gives full details after first telling us about the gang practice of ‘blocking’  - that is, gang members having serial sexual intercourse with one woman, which he witnessed when embedded with gangs. This is also the point at which he addresses most fully the tendency of gangs to be male clubs, which regard women mainly as sex-objects or chattels. Only late in this book does he note that women in gangs have gained more respect now that gang leaders have aged and have daughters of their own.

Some elements of the scene changed considerably in the 1990s (Chapter Six). There was the brief emergence of skinheads and white supremacists – they were seen off mainly by threats from Black Power and the Mongrel Mob rather than by police action. An increased Asian presence meant the beginnings of triads and their connections with the Mongrel Mob. However 1990s Asian youth gangs did not achieve durability and their membership remained transient. There was also the big question of gangs’ relationship with hard drugs. By now, as Gilbert notes, patched gangs are “institutionalised”:

The fact that New Zealand’s patched gangs became, and remain, so highly regulated is perhaps, at first appearance, counterintuitive. As ‘antisocial’ groups, typically made up of rebellious men, one might expect gangs to be anarchistic. In fact the reverse is true; because of the non-conformist nature of gang members, the ever–present threat of police action, and risks posed by opposition groups, gangs are particularly reliant on stringent rules to function effectively.” (Pg.156)

Among these rules, many gangs reject the use by members of heroin and other hard drugs. (On the gang scene it was well known that heroin use largely destroyed the Auckland gang the Grim Reapers.) Gangs also see loyalty to the gang as fundamental, though the outside world is fair game for crime. Gilbert broaches the question of how much charitable activities by gangs are simply a form of PR. He defines gangs as “grey” organizations, at once both within and outside the law in the sense that they tend to be accepted by their immediate community.

The downturn of the economy in the later 1990s (Chapter Seven) meant there were more full-time and otherwise unemployed members of gangs. And, despite the caveats on drug use by gang members, there was also a major rise in gangs’ involvement in drug trade. The marijuana trade expanded, tinnie houses proliferated, then methamphetamine P became common. We are told of gangs “taxing” people associated with them, of extortion and of the intimidation of witnesses, which led in 1997 to a law allowing witness anonymity.

In Chapter Eight, Gilbert discusses the way the media and MPs from both sides of the house set in motion a series of laws concerning the proceeds of crime and their attempts to deal with the fortification of gang headquarters, which assumed that all gangs were operating sophisticated criminal networks. Gilbert makes up the term “blue vision”, meaning the tendency of police to use only that data that seems to confirm their preconceived notions, in this case the notion that organised gangs were responsible for most crime in New Zealand.

Finally in Chapter Nine, surveying the current scene, Gilbert notes the ironical decline in motorcycle “clubs” in recent years, as rebellious young petrol-heads aspire to be “boy racers” instead. And there is that ongoing problem of hard drugs to be dealt with. Gilbert moves into personal mode:

In one outlaw club with which I had significant dealings throughout my research, the effect of P was dramatic. The substantial financial cost involved in using the drug habitually forced members into debt – both to the club and outsiders. Although certain members were dealing, the trade only supported its use; and before long it failed to do even that. One member could not afford the payments on his motorcycle and it was repossessed; two others sold their bikes to fund their habit. Another member suffered a mental breakdown and was committed to a psychiatric hospital for several months. All four were expelled from the gang, but the drug remained tolerated because key members among the dwindling group were unwilling to give it up…..” (Pg.247)

He goes on to note that similar problems have hit the street gangs. After initially profiting from the P trade, Black Power and the Mongrel Mob now have chapters banning the marketing and use of the drug among members. Gilbert’s account of gangs and drugs is remarkably benign. He does report that whole chapters of some gangs have been busted for drug-dealing, but he insists that drug-dealing tends to be the business of individuals within a gang rather than of the gang as a whole (pp.271-272)

There is now the rise of LA-style street gangs, wearing bandannas and acting out music video imagery (Killer Beez etc.). They are often seen as rivals to the ageing patched gangs. Gilbert fades out his history on the failed efforts of Michael Laws and others to have gang patches banned in Wanganui. He says of such efforts that

 “Uninformed by research, based on unsupported assumptions, and driven by populist politics, public policies around such gangs remain mired in sensationalist claims that fail to address their existence as complex social institutions that will survive and evolve in the face of attack.” (Pg.283)

You will note I have done little more in this notice that summarise the contents of Gilbert’s book, with the minimum of critical comment.

Only a few additional remarks need be made.

Patched began as a thesis, so it has some of the characteristics of a thesis – each chapter ends with a neat paragraph, which serves as a sort of “abstract” of the chapter.  The final chapter is a “Conclusion” which, like the final chapter of a thesis, recapitulates the themes of the book, tying the fortunes of gangs and their flourishing to socio-economic factors and noting matters of class, gender, ethnicity and public perception of gangs, as well as cycles of official and media attention.

Concerning the public perception of gangs, Gilbert does sometimes buy into that modish term “moral panic”, especially (see pg.217) when he is describing Mike Moore’s attempts to drum up tougher laws against gang association and harassment in the mid-1990s. However, when dealing with earlier mainstream reactions to gangs, he does not assume that all mainstream attempts to address gang problems were inept.

In the 1974-75 Christchurch “gang war”, he does suggest that police surveillance prevented more serious conflict. In Chapter Six, chronicling the police Operations Shovel and Damon (in Timaru and Foxton in 1990s) he notes the effectiveness of short-term police surveillance and crackdown on gangs which had been associated with specific crimes, and sees the operations as good and justified policing. In Chapter Four, he gives an oddly positive account of Robert Muldoon’s much-publicised conference with Black Power and Muldoon’s conversion to social policy and a work-scheme approach to gangs. Also, after giving his account of the Moerewa riot in 1979, Gilbert politely dissents from the view of Jane Kelsey and others that the government response to this event was “moral panic”. In Gilbert’s view, even if police were thenceforth issued with new-type riot equipment, the incident was significant “not because it sparked a moral panic and knee-jerk suppressive laws, but because it led to the concerted development of social policy to combat the problems surrounding gangs.” (pp.100-101)

            The whole topic of gangs is obviously fraught with emotion. What I am saying here is that Gilbert, despite his understanding of the origins and dynamics of gangs, and despite some evasions, is not presenting an apologia or whitewash job on gangs.

Patched is a solid and balanced book.

Something Old


Not everything worth reading is hot off the press. In this section, Nicholas Reid recommends "something old" that is still well worth reading. "Something old" can mean anything from a venerable and antique classic to a good book first published five or more years ago.

“THE LAUGHING MAN” by Victor Hugo (“L’HOMME QUI RIT” first published 1869)

            I am always amused by the cloth-eared way more antique translators used to do their work. On my shelves I have an old Collins Clear-Type Classics edition of one of Alexandre Dumas’s lesser novels Ange Pitou – translated under the title Taking the Bastille. When I read it, I couldn’t help chuckling as characters often said things like “Tranquillize yourself!” It was clear that the inept translator had simply taken very literally the French “Tranquillez-vous!”, which means something like “Calm down!

Tranquillize yourself!” indeed! It sounds like a command to a junkie.

In the same way, I note that even the best restored version of Jean Renoir’s film masterpiece La Grande Illusion still insists on calling it Grand Illusion rather than The Great Illusion, which is what the title clearly means, “grand” and “great” having different connotations in English.

But prize for silly literal translations would have to go to those English-language versions of Victor Hugo’s L’Homme Qui Rit, which call it The Man Who Laughs. This stilted title has been given to some more recent translations, as well as to Hollywood’s one attempt at filming it (a silent version made in 1928). The best English translation for L’Homme Qui Rit would surely be The Laughing Man; and with both surprise and delight I find that this is indeed what the novel is called in the battered Nelson and Sons anonymous translation – apparently dating from the 1920s – which I have on my shelves.

So, as I read my way through its crowded and over-wrought 573 pages some years ago, I was at least assured that the translator knew his (or her) business.

Having got that off my chest, what of the novel itself?

Victor Hugo self-consciously strove to be a titan of literature. He wanted what he wrote to be always on a grand scale, and so it proves here. L’Homme Qui Rit is the tale of one of his grotesques, those deformed outsiders whom he presented as the ultimate, and most sympathetic, critics of society. Dwarfish Triboulet the Jester in his play Le Roi S’Amuse (who became Rigoletto when Verdi and his librettists turned it into an opera). The hunchbacked Quasimodo in Notre Dame de Paris (The Hunchback of Notre Dame). And in The Laughing Man, Gwynplaine, whom cruel child-kidnappers have deformed by cutting his mouth into a permanent grotesque grin, so that he can serve as a fairground attraction or freak.

Allow me to give one of my notorious plot summaries to clarify things.

The story is set in late 17th and early 18th century England (of which more later). Poor Gwynplaine, with his obscenely grinning mouth, is left stranded on the shore as a ten-year-old in 1690, a year or so after King James II has been deposed. The villains who deformed him are beating a hasty retreat from England. In a chilly winter, Gwynplaine happens to discover a blind baby girl, who is still attempting to suck the breast of her dead mother who lies frozen in a ditch. Gwynplaine rescues the baby girl and determines to protect her and bring her up with the love of which he himself has been deprived. The two of them are taken in by Ursus (“Bear”), a fairground manager whose little cart is drawn by a wolf called Homo (“Man”). Ursus understands that he will one day be able to use Gwynplaine as a fairground attraction; but he does have some compassion, he gives the boy and the baby girl a home and food, and he christens the baby Dea (“Goddess”).

Flash forward to 1705. Gwynplaine is now 25, and is indeed a popular fairground attraction. Ursus has prospered (his cart is now drawn by two horses rather than by a wolf) and his troupe plays the provinces to great applause. Dea is 16 and Gwynplaine is hopelessly, chastely, purely and idealistically in love with her. She, being blind, is not repulsed by the sight of his grotesque grin. This love is presented by Victor Hugo as a positive value, in contrast with the crass and immoral world that surrounds them.

But the wicked world intrudes. There is intrigue at court. Queen Anne is now on the throne (presented by Hugo as a frumpish and foolish woman). At her court is (the entirely fictitious) Lady Josiana, bastard daughter of King James II and hence the queen’s half-sister. There is also the devious Lord David Dirry-Moir, who seems destined to marry Josiana and who also loves to slum it among commoners by going around under the assumed name “Tom-Jim-Jack”.

When Ursus brings his fairground troupe to London, their performance is seen by both “Tom-Jim-Jack” and by the Lady Josiana, who conceives a perverted sexual desire for the mutilated Gwynplaine. She writes to Gwynplaine, expressing her desire, and Gwynplaine spends many pages agonizing over the possibility of choosing between the glamorous duchess and the pure Dea.

But at this point, improbable melodramatic coincidence intrudes. A letter in a bottle is washed ashore. It was thrown (fifteen years earlier!) from the ship in which the child-kidnappers were absconding. It proves that Gwynplaine is in fact that son of the British Lord Clancharlie, who had been banished years before for his republican views. Gwynplaine is really a peer of the realm and half-brother to the illegitimate Lord David Dirry-Moir. Suddenly he is transferred to a stately home and the queen virtually orders her hated rival Lady Josiana to marry him. This is very much to the delight of the wicked court official Barkilphedro, who has constantly been scheming against Lady Josiana, and who delights at the thought of her being married to a freak. (Josiana suddenly finds she is no longer sexually aroused by Gwynplaine, when it is a question of marriage.)

So to what, apparently, Victor Hugo intended as the novel’s climax. Gwynplaine has the right to speak in the House of Lords, and he chooses to do so. He gives a lengthy, impassioned oration on the indifference of the rich to the sufferings of the poor. He predicts that one day the whole rotten aristocratic edifice will come tumbling down. It is a magnificent speech but, alas, the House of Lords are merely convulsed with laughter at the sight of Gwynplaine’s obscenely, grotesquely, egregiously grinning face.

Symbolically, they cannot see the truth beneath the superficial appearance.

Humiliated, Gwynplaine flees, just avoiding a duel with his devious half-brother “Tom-Jim-Jack”. He cannot find either Ursus or Dea. He is in despair. He is about to commit suicide by throwing himself off one of London’s bridges when he is found by Homo the wolf and taken to where (for reasons too complex to relate) Ursus and Dea are about to embark into exile. They all set sail. But Dea is so overjoyed to be reunited with Gwynplaine that her heart bursts and she dies. Unable to live without her, and hoping for a mystic reunion with her in some after-life, Gwynplaine hurls himself into the deep dark sea.

And the novel ends.

Devious aristocrats have destroyed the hopes and the loves of the Wretched of the Earth, the grinning-faced jester and the helpless blind virgin. But Victor Hugo holds out the hope that one day the evils of aristocratic rule will be overthrown, and even perfidious Albion might concede to the wisdom of France and become an egalitarian republic.

Now about that English setting, let me dispose of one very obvious criticism of this novel at once. The French author badly misjudges. “Tom-Jim-Jack”? Gwynplaine? Barkilphedro? Since when were these anything like English names that ever were? And what of Hugo’s invention of a “wapentake”, a mysterious official with the power to point his staff and summon people to the royal court? And what of the caricature way he depicts both King James II and Queen Anne? And what of his tendency to depict late 17th and early 18th century England as if it were the received fictional version of early Renaissance Italy? And a thousand other “what ofs?”

The fact is, the English setting of this novel is so unlike any England that ever was, that it is hard for an English-speaking reader to take it seriously. Yet before we get too snooty, perhaps we should take it as a warning against trusting too closely the historical representation in any “historical novel”. I find myself asking whether intelligent French readers don’t convulse with laughter over the way non-French writers depict France in their historical novels – Sir Walter Scott in Quentin Durward, let’s say, or Dickens in A Tale of Two Cities. It’s quite probable that Francophones chortle at things in these novels that Anglophones think are quite credible.

Having diplomatically said that, though, my own reaction to L’Homme Qui Rit was to see it as being set in a non-specific fantasyland, which happens to have a few passing references to England, although Hugo clearly knows quite a lot about English political history. It is hard to imagine the characters of Thackeray’s Henry Esmond meeting the inhabitants of this version of Queen Anne’s England.

My next reaction was the one I have to all Hugo’s novels. They are not really novels at all. Each is a sketch towards the libretto of an opera, which nobody has yet got around to writing. Often absurd as prose fiction, this novel is really a series of tableaux which would make elaborate settings for arias and duets, and in which the music would justify all. For example, Hugo takes a full sixty pages (!!!) to describe the storm-battered voyage of the ship which, at the novel’s opening, takes Gwynplaine’s kidnappers way from England. There is no narrative reason for this, except that one passenger on the ship throws overboard the message-in-a-bottle, which is found years later. But a storm at sea would have made a wonderful orchestral overture. If there was the music of Verdi to back it, we might accept the grin of Gwynplaine as an anarchic challenge to society. But Hugo goes for obvious pathos – the lurid contrast of Dea (purity) and Lady Josiana (immoral aristocratic debauchery); Gwynplaine’s spiritual marriage; Gwynplaine’s death for love. His speech to the Lords is intended to be magnificent but, like so much in Hugo, is largely bombast and flatulence. For all its action, the novel is oddly static. Hugo has the habit of presenting a scene and then orating over it, often with bogus scholarship. You sense a desperate desire to be titanic and philosophic in every utterance as the wheels of the plot clank heavily around.

Oh dear, and there is the sentiment. Here is Hugo’s clearest characterization of Dea’s and Gwynplaine’s love:

They belonged to each other. They knew themselves to be united forever in the same joy and the same ecstasy; and nothing could be stronger than this construction of an Eden by two of the damned.” (Part 2, Book Two, Chapter Five)

Yet there is one element in the novel that I find very endearing. This is Hugo’s republicanism.

Take, for example, his sarcastic description of England’s Restoration era:

Everything was falling into its proper place. Dryden above, Shakespeare below; Charles II on the throne, Cromwell on the gibbet. England was raising herself out of the shame and excesses of the past. It is a great happiness for a nation to be led back by monarchy to good order in the state and good taste in letters!” (Part 2, Book One, Chapter One)

            Doubtless this crack at imperious monarchs and their taste was motivated in part by Hugo’s justifiable spleen at Napoleon III, during whose dictatorial reign he wrote this novel while exiled in the Channel Islands.

            Even more pointed is his view that it was stupid of the English to lapse back into monarchy after they had had a republic. Thus:

            “One idiotic habit of the people is to attribute to the king what they do themselves. They fight. Whose the glory? The king’s. They pay. Whose the generosity? The king’s. Then the people love him for being so rich. The king receives a crown from the poor, and returns them a farthing. How generous he is! The colossus, which is the pedestal, contemplates the pygmy, which is the statue. How great is this myrmidon! He is on my back. A dwarf has an excellent way of being taller than a giant: it is to perch himself on his shoulders. But that the giant should allow it – there is the wonder; and that he should admire the height of the dwarf, there is the folly. Simplicity of mankind! The equestrian statue, reserved for kings alone, is an excellent figure of royalty: the horse is the people. Only that the horse becomes transfigured by degrees. It begins in an ass; it ends in a lion. Then it throws the rider and you have 1642 in England and 1789 in France; and sometimes it devours him, and you have in England 1649 and in France 1793. That the lion should relapse into the donkey is astonishing; but it is so. This was occurring in England. It had resumed the pack-saddle, idolatry of the crown. Queen Anne, as we have observed, was popular. What was she doing to be so? Nothing!” (Part 2, Book One, Chapter Five)

            And so on, for many pages.

Especially enjoyable is Hugo’s belief that England had attained at best rule by an aristocratic oligarchy, which was a poor prelude to the greater glory of France’s real democratic revolution. Ingeniously, he describes the English Bill of Rights as “a sketch of the French Droits de l’Homme, a vague shadow flung back from the depth of futurity by the revolution in France on the revolution in England.” (Part 2, Book Seven, Chapter Two).

Getting beyond the novel’s melodrama and bombast, then, my chief pleasure in reading The Laughing Man was the pleasure of finding such political commentary, chauvinistic and naïve though it sometimes is.

I would hate to give the impression here that I am “cutting Victor Hugo down to size”. One of my most cherished teenage memories is of discovering his Toilers of the Sea (Les Travailleurs de la Mer) in the school library, and swallowing its self-pitying melodramatic story whole, fight with “devil-fish” (octopus) and all. But I do think that L’Homme Qui Rit is not a novel that can be judged by the standards we usually apply to novels. You have to accept that it is melodrama, that it is wildly improbable, that it is operatic, that it has little relationship with anything resembling history. And that if you were literate, and capable of reading long novels when you were eleven, twelve, thirteen or fourteen years old, you would have missed all Hugo’s republican polemic but you may well have loved it.

Cinematic footnote: Thanks to the modern miracle of Youtube, I have recently been able to watch all of the 1928 Hollywood film version of The Man Who Laughs – a silent film, although made at the time when movies were converting to sound. It was directed by the German director Paul Leni and stars as Gwynplaine the great German actor Conrad Veidt. All pop-culture histories will immediately point out that the grotesque grinning make-up devised for Veidt in the film was later copied by the creators Batman, and became the face of The Joker in that comic strip. I really enjoyed this film, in part because silent pantomime, and the dark shadows and high contrasts of Paul Leni’s expressionism, so suit Hugo’s fantastical style. I was also surprised that the film follows Hugo’s plot very faithfully – complete with a (for its day) surprisingly rampant seduction scene where Lady Josiana gets her claws into Gwynplaine. But there are two deviations from Hugo’s plot. Gwynplaine is laughed at in the House of Lords simply because he has dared to be seen among aristocrats – there is no hint of his republican speech and all Hugo’s political subtext is drained from the story. Secondly, in the very last second, a happy ending is imposed. Gwynplaine and Dea meet joyfully after their trials and sail off into a sunset. If you are inclined to mutter that this is typical Hollywood moonshine, I would agree; but then Hugo’s original pathos-driven double death at the end is no more probable.

Interesting final point: this intriguing silent film is called The Man Who Laughs, but the fairground handbills announcing Gwynplaine’s performances in the film clearly call him “The Laughing Man”. At least the film-makers knew what idiomatic English was.

Something Thoughtful


Nicholas Reid reflects in essay form on general matters and ideas related to literature, history, popular culture and the arts. You are free to agree or disagree with him.

THE FABLE OF THE OAF AND THE ECHO

The oaf had been wandering unconcerned through a verdant and peaceful countryside.

He was an oaf, so he was happy.

He had fed well, so his soul was at peace.

He had slept well, so he was as alert as an oaf can be.

The sky was blue, the wind was fresh, the sun was not too aggressive.

The oaf wished to express his happiness, his peacefulness, his sense of awe and joy at this good world.

He let out a chuckle and a gurgle. Then, encouraged by himself, he let out a bellow of uproarious laughter.

He had discovered self-expression.

He had discovered comedy.

Birds sang. Sheep bleated. Cows lowed.

The oaf listened carefully. Then he clucked, he whistled, he baaed, he mooed.

He had discovered mimetic art.

He liked the noises he was making.

He alternated clucks and whistles and moos and bleats. He set them in simple series and patterns. He slowed them down. He sped them up. Simply for the joy of hearing them.

He had discovered music and poetry.

The oaf was happy.

The oaf did not look where he was going.

The oaf tripped over a large stone on the unsurfaced track, stumbled and scraped his nose against a tree trunk.

It hurt.

The oaf let out a bellow of pain, then settled for a gasping sob.

He thought how unfair it was that there was a stone in the middle of the road. He thought how happy he would still be if he hadn’t stumbled.

He had discovered tragedy, the ode and the modern novel.

The tree was on the edge of a deep, dark forest.

The oaf decided to enter the forest, to see what it was like.

He had discovered the travel book.

The trees were set closer together the further the oaf moved into the forest.

It was dark.

The oaf decided to cheer himself up by baaing, mooing and clucking in sequence.

He baaed.

The trees answered with an echo.

He mooed.

The trees answered with an echo.

Before he whistled and clucked he thought, “That is me, answering me back.”

He had discovered self-consciousness.

He had discovered self-referencing.

He had discovered postmodern literature and he had no further noises to make.