Daniel Kehlmann's G. W. Pabst novel The Director - Keeping it light. Keeping it carefree.

Daniel Kehlmann’s previous novel, Tyll (2017), was about a magical clown wandering through the hellscape of the Thirty Years’ War.  Apparently that was not grim enough for him so his new novel, The Director (2023), although there is some early hopeful Hollywood sunshine, is about G. W. Pabst’s life and work in Nazi Germany.

If the idea of a novel about a great German director making films under the thumb of the Nazis sounds interesting, well, this novel is highly interesting, although I will warn the kind of reader who is bothered by such things that Kehlmann writes fiction.

Chapters hop around from character to character and from style to style.  Sometimes the style is an imitation of German Expressionist filmmaking or lightly Kafkaesque.  Ross Benjamin does a wonderful job capturing these stylistic shifts, or inventing them out of nothing, or for all I know he suppresses even more dazzling stuff, how would I know, I don’t read German.  Seems good to me!

Pabst and his crew have just been interrupted by “two men in leather coats” while discussing a new film over dinner:

“But seriously,” says Karsunke.  “Enough of the funny business.”

“Yes, seriously,” says Basler.  “Which of the gentleman here is…”

He falls silent and looks at his colleague.  The other pulls a notepad out of his pocket, taps his finger on the tip of his tongue, and squints as he flips through the pages once, twice, three times.

“Just kidding,” says Karsunke.

“Keeping it light,” says Basler.  “Keeping it carefree.”  (209-10)

They are Gestapo agents from The Castle doing a comedy routine.

As the variety of the chapters accumulated, I became more impressed with what Kehlmann was doing with the novel.  Any resistance finally vanished in the amazing “German Literature” chapter, where Frau Pabst is invited to join a highly connected book club.  Yes, Nazi book club satire, a perfect mix of the lowest stakes with the highest.  Is this subtle or blatant?

“Where did you get these beautiful porcelain cups?” asked Gritt Borger.  “If I’m not mistaken, they weren’t here last time.”

“An antique shop on Feldmochinger Strasse,” said Else Buchholz.  “A whole set.  Eighty-five reichsmarks.”

Everyone fell silent.  Outside on the street two men could be heard talking to each other.  The coughing start of a car engine was audible, as well as the splashing of the coffee Maria Lotropf was pouring into her cup.  (163)

I cannot prove that those two men are Karsunke and Basler passing by.  Their car engine starts on p. 212 but does not cough.

The Director is a study of compromised creativity, but Pabst is not a monster.  What choice does he have?  It is always at least a question.

“I have no intention of making any more films.”

“Wrong answer,” said the Minister.  “Wrong answer, wrong answer, wrong answer, wrong answer, wrong answer.”

Both were silent.

Pabst took a breath, but the Minister interrupted before he could speak: “Now it would be good if the right answer came.” (147)

He has some choice.  A chapter narrated by P. G. Wodehouse (which “has been substantially revised for the present English translation,” curious) is about the same issue.

Lousie Brooks, Greta Garbo, P. G. Wodehouse, Leni Riefenstahl – a superb use of Riefenstahl – plus artful technical detail about film editing, lighting, and acting, plus a Nazi book club. Good stuff.

What I Read in June 2025 - A life of agony was all for naught.

My summer plan was to read, short, easy books, and I almost succeeded.  I read short, difficult books in French, and accidentally read several grim, sad, violent books, alongside some playful nonsense.

 

FICTION

The Field of Life and Death (1935), Xiao Hong – For example.  Ninety pages of classic Chinese peasant misery.  Plague, starvation, abuse, and then the Japanese invade, with a Cormac McCarthy-like level of violence in a number of places.  I had planned to breeze through this on the way to Xiao Hong’s more famous Tales of Hulan River (1942) but that will have to wait.  “For Mother Wang, her day of agony was all for naught.  A life of agony was all for naught” (p. 29 of the Howard Greenblatt translation).

The Witch in the Wood (1939), T. H. White – By contrast, a marvelous piece of nonsense, a much sillier book than the preceding The Sword in the Stone.  Monty Python and the Holy Grail now seems somewhat less original.

The Sheltering Sky (1949), Paul Bowles – An American couple tourist around Morocco after the war.  The husband seeks the sublime; the wife does not.  The husband is also a sociopath, and I at one point wondered how long I could stand his company, but after a crisis hits I was fine.  Existentialism can seem awfully adolescent when the only problem is ennui, but in the face of a real problem working through the ideas become interesting.  All this before the last section, the last 40 pages, as bleak a blast of despair as I have encountered in an American novel.  “She felt like saying: ‘Well, you’re crazy,’ but she confined herself to: ‘How strange.’” (Ch. XV, p. 91)  That’s how I felt!

I, Robot (1950), Isaac Asimov – I have picked up the idea that people working or theorizing on computer programs that are for some reason called “artificial intelligence” take this collection of stories form the 1940s seriously.  See for example Cal Newport, a Georgetown University professor of computer science (do not look at his list of publications!) who writes in or on the New Yorker that he was “struck by its [the book’s] new relevance.”  I was struck by how irrelevant the book was, or I guess how it was exactly as relevant as it has always been.  The first story is a little chemistry problem written by a 21-year-old working on an MA in chemistry, but Asimov soon switches to philosophy.  What I think is the most famous story, “Liar!” (1941) is a simple puzzle in Kantian ethics.  In the next story, “Little Lost Robot” (1947), the characters solve problems by pushing fat robots in front of trains.  I had not realized how young Asimov was when he wrote the first Robot and Foundation stories.  If they sometimes seem a little undergraduate, well.

The Talented Mr. Ripley (1955), Patricia Highsmith – A regular old murderous psychopath story, good fun compared to some of these other books.

Casanova's Chinese Restaurant (1960), Anthony Powell – Another installment of the higher gossip. The narrator has gotten married and spends the book writing around his new wife, so that by the end I know as little about her as at the beginning, although I learn a lot about everyone else.

’I suppose she lives now on what her first husband, Lord Warrington, left in trust.  I don’t think Charles’s father – “Boffles”, as he used to be called – had a halfpenny to bless himself with.  He used to be very handsome, and so amusing.  He looked wonderful on a horse.  He is married now to a Frenchwoman he met at a tennis tournament in Cannes, and he farms in Kenya.  Poor Amy, she has some rather odd friends.’ (Ch. 2, 89)

Neither Boffles, Amy, the Frenchwoman, or the horse are ever mentioned again in the novel.

The Pagan Rabbi and Other Stories (1971), Cynthia Ozick

Suzanne and Gertrude (2019), Jeb Loy Nichols – A short, sad novel about an introverted English woman who adopts a stray donkey.  Expect more donkey content here over the next few months.

When These Mountains Burn (2020), David Joy – A final miserable novel, compassionate this time, but unflinching in its look at the ongoing American narcotics epidemic, this time in the North Carolina Smoky Mountains, so painful in places.  Joy has recently discovered that where he is lucky to get seven people to attend a free reading in North Carolina he can get seventy people to buy tickets to one in France.  He is joining a sadly well established American literary tradition.

 

HISTORY

1177 B.C.: The Year Civilization Collapsed (2014), Eric H. Cline – In a sense more misery, but at some distance. 

 

POETRY

The Far Field (1964) &

Straw for the Fire (1943-63), Theodore Roethke

Sunbelly (1973), Kenneth Fields

Collected Poems, 1930-1986 (1954-60), Richard Eberhart – the poems of the 1950s, really, not the whole thing.

Foxglovewise (2025), Ange Mlinko – Possibly a major work.  I think I will revisit it next year when the paperback is published.  Recommended to fans of Marly Youmans.

 

IN FRENCH & PORTUGUESE

Só (Alone, 1892), António Nobre – Since Portuguese literature is often imitative, I could call Nobre a Symbolist, and he sometimes sounds like the missing link between Romanticism and Pessoa, but I thought his voice was individual.  A long poem about a stay in a sanitarium (Nobre died young of tuberculosis) should be translated; it all should be translated.  I read a school edition that says the book is recommended to 8th graders.  I have no idea how, or how often, this book is actually taught, but I would be shocked if one percent of American 8th graders are assigned such a complex book of poems.

Pierrot mon ami (My Pal Pierrot, 1942), Raymond Queneau – Pure jolly fun, but between the slang and wordplay and sudden shifts in register, hard as the devil.  Sometimes it felt like I was reading a Godard film.

Roberte ce soir (1954) &

La Révocation de l'Édict de Nantes (1959), Pierre Klossowski – Two odd novellas.  The wife sleeps with the houseguests and the husband theorizes about why this is a good idea.  Each novella has one long scene that might be pornographic if not written in such a comically formal register.  The second book turns the first inside out, which is interesting.  Perhaps those ridiculous sex scenes, for example, are just the art-loving husband’s painting-inspired fantasies.  One curious scene describes a painting that could easily be by Pierre’s older brother Balthus.  Utterly different style than Queneau but just as difficult.  I need to find an easy French book, a Simenon novel, something like that.

Contos Exemplares (1962), Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen – Not as intricate, but often a bit like Isak Dinesen.