DC's

 

‘This trilogy by Hungarian writer Agota Kristof is simply amazing. I read through the three novels quickly, and I’m still reeling from the story she tells about twin brothers who endured violence and privation in WWII, separation during the Cold War, and a troubling reunion afterward. Certainly, these novels can be read as the story of a divided and reunified Europe. They were written in the late 1980s and early 1990s, when Soviet Union was in dissolution and the wall came down in Berlin. How do people talk about a shared experience when they cannot admit out loud or would prefer to forget the details of what happened? How can people who would seem to share so much cross the chasm created by time, physical distance, and isolation? How does one write about and process their own trauma? These are the issues at stake in Kristof’s trilogy.

‘The first novel, The Notebook, is without doubt one of the most disturbing novels I’ve ever read. The narrative point of view is that of young twin brothers who have been sent to their grandmother in a small town near the border during WWII. We do not know the name of the town, nor do we know the brothers’ names. They think and act as one as they process the trauma of separation from their mother, from their home city, from school, and from civilized life. Their grandmother is known locally as “the witch,” and it is assumed that she poisoned her late husband. The woman sounds like a nasty, dirty old crone, and she resents having to take care of her estranged daughter’s sons. Out here near the border, the boys revert to a kind of primal state. They refuse to attend school, with the full support of their grandmother who is wary of authority. They spend their days working on her small farm and vineyard, taking care of her animals, exploring the forest, and spying on the foreign officer who has commandeered a room in grandmother’s house. The boys have their own ethical code, which they enforce without emotion. Kristof’s descriptions of the violence and perversions they witness is extraordinarily uncomfortable to read, but I suspect that at least some of it is based on her own experiences in Hungary during the war. Equally disturbing is her description of how they steel themselves against the pains and injustices of their situation. They practice beating each other so as to withstand pain, they practice going hungry and even sensory deprivation. They also act as a judge, jury and executioner when they witness others behaving in ways that violate their ethical code. Pain and death do not move them when they experience them or witness others experiencing them. By the time the war is over, they are young teens who have seen too much. The foreign army has lost and left, but the next army has arrived (the Russians, although not stated as such) and the border is still dangerous to cross. It is at this point that the boys who have thought and acted as one are separated by their own choice, one headed west, and the other remaining in the small town.

‘The first novel is called The Notebook because among the very few things the brothers brought with them to the small town is a notebook that had belonged to their father. We do not know what it contains, only that it is important to the boys. It is saved and hidden away. The brother who stayed behind is in possession of this notebook, and it is his story that is told in the second novel of the trilogy, The Proof. Here we finally learn the boys’ names — Claus and Lucas. Claus is the brother who crossed the border while Lucas stayed behind.

‘The Proof deals with the years immediately after the end of the war, into the 1950s and 1960s when revolution arose in the unnamed country. Lucas continues to live near the heavily guarded border on his deceased grandmother’s land, but he suffers from depression due the separation from his brother. He strikes up a friendship with the local priest, visiting regularly to bring him food and play chess. Lucas eventually comes to the rescue of a young woman with a baby who is contemplating killing the child due to the horrible circumstances of her life. Lucas cares very much for the baby, and he also develops relationships with several people in the town, including a party official, a librarian whose husband was killed by the new regime as a traitor, and the owner of the local bookshop. The bookshop was important to Lucas and Claus during the war, as it was the place where they could get pencils and paper. They both felt it was important to write as a way to process their experiences, and when Lucas has the chance to take ownership of the bookstore, he does so. At the end of this novel, Lucas’ relationships have mostly come crashing down around him, and it seems as though he has disappeared. Yet the notebook and a manuscript are left behind, proof of his existence.

‘The Third Lie is a brilliant novel, full of surprises and sorrow. It is divided into two parts, each narrated by one brother. Claus, now 50 years old and ill, has returned to the small town on a 30-day renewable visa in the hopes of finding his brother. The political situation is such that travel is now possible, and while much of the small town is still familiar to Claus, the place and people have changed. Claus ends up overstaying his visa and is held by local authorities until the embassy for his home country can repatriate him. In this part of the novel, Kristof, via Claus, does not relate events in a linear fashion, and this keeps the reader guessing about what has happened to the brothers over the past decades. I can’t reveal too much without spoiling the story, but once we get to the second part of the novel, all becomes clear. And it is heartbreaking, but what remains constant through the trilogy is the centrality of writing, the importance of being able to process what one has endured, whether it is through factual reporting, poetry, or fiction. And as painful as separations are, reunions can be tricky things, too. Joy and pain can both be present, as well as anger and misunderstanding — for people, for nations.

‘I’m pretty sure I first heard about this trilogy through one of the many book lists I’ve seen over the years, and Kristof’s name was on something like “women writers you should have heard of but haven’t.” The Notebook is the most famous of her works, and it has been turned into a play, but if you read it, please do read the other two books as well. This trilogy is just outstanding.’ — ElCicco

 

____
Further

Agota Kristof @ Wikipedia
Ágota Kristóf: “We can never express precisely what we mean”
The art of Agota Kristof (1935-2011)
Deprivation Exercises
‘The Notebook’ is alternately powerful and perplexing
Ágota Kristóf and the Agony of the “Enemy” Language
The Rebel Vocabulary of Ágota Kristóf
‘Ágota Kristóf’s The Notebook awoke in me a cold and cruel passion’, by Slavoj Žižek
“I did not want to name anything”
Review Of Agota Kristof’s “La Trilogie Des Jumeaux”
Ágota Kristóf and the Uses of Illiteracy
The Double Writing of Agota Kristof and the New Europe
Cruelty and Resilience: The Notebook Trilogy by Ágota Kristóf

 

____
Extras

Agota Kristof – Documentaire – Extrait – Le Continent K

The dark childhood of Agota Kristof

Beitrag über Agota Kristof im Literaturmagazin (12.11.1989)

 

_____
Interview
from Music and Literature

 

Riccardo Benedettini: You have had a lot of success with your novels, and your writing is often compared to Thomas Bernhard, Beckett, and Kafka. Do you think certain aspects of your work have been misunderstood, or neglected?

Ágota Kristóf: It pleases me to talk about Bernhard because I just love him (laughs). I don’t know. I don’t like it when people talk about me and Marguerite Duras. I don’t like Duras. Have certain parts of my work been misunderstood? Oh . . . well. I don’t know. I don’t know what you mean by that.

RB: Your books have been translated into twenty languages—

AK: [Interrupts] No . . . Into more than thirty languages.

RB: Excuse me, thirty. What do you make of such a wide-reaching reputation?

AK: Ah, early on it was amazing. What’s interesting is that the books still sell, after more than ten years in print. That is incredible. The Notebook sells a lot. And I often receive requests for adaptations.

RB: I’ve heard that. Has a film adaption been made?

AK: Not yet, but the rights have been sold. The producer is American and the cinematographer will be Danish. It’s to be set in the center of town, of Kőszeg, facing The Hotel, where the bookshop was located. You would have definitely seen both when you went to Kőszeg. The building they’ll use for Grandmother’s house, her house in The Notebook, has already appeared in several other films. And for my book, Yesterday, some Italians have optioned the film.

RB: Your texts are the subject of much literary criticism. What are the aspects of your work that you would like to see critics pay attention to?

AK: I don’t know. It’s all the same to me.

RB: Do you think there is a message to be taken from your books?

AK: Of course not. I don’t want to have a message. No [laughing], not at all. I don’t write like that. I wanted to say a little about my life. That’s how it all started. In The Notebook, it was my childhood that I wished to describe, what I saw with my brother Jeno. It is purely biographical.

RB: Since you have been writing, in what ways have you evolved?

AK: I have evolved a lot, clearly. I started writing when I was thirteen years old, and everything has changed about my style since then. Everything. The poems were too poetic and too sentimental. I don’t like this kind of writing, I don’t like my poems at all, not any more.

RB: When did you realize you were a writer?

AK: I have really always known. In my childhood, I read a lot, especially the Russians. In my childhood, I loved Dostoevsky. He might well be my favorite. I also read a lot of detective novels.

RB: What is your creative process?

AK: In all honesty, I don’t know. I started to write scripts for plays in French. When I was young, and had just come here, in my twenties, I wrote poems in Hungarian. Then, when I started to learn French, I started to write in French. That was enjoyable for me. Yes, I did it to amuse myself a little bit. After that I started to meet theater lovers and directors. I began to write plays and I also worked a lot with theater students. We performed many of my pieces for the radio, although a lot of them weren’t edited. It was fun.

RB: Can we see a link between the theatrical dialogues and the dialogues in The Notebook?

AK: Yes, absolutely.

RB: What do you make of your novels?

AK: Well . . . They are very serious, too sad. Yes, a little too sad.

RB: Which writers are most important to you?

AK: I love Knut Hamsun and another writer . . . but I don’t know how to say his name. It was my editor who had given me a book by this writer, telling me that it resembled my own work a lot. Yes, that novel, very heavy . . . But I didn’t see any resemblance to my work. Now I don’t read a lot. I like Francis Ponge, and George Bataille as well, but I don’t know many contemporary writers.

RB: Do you feel like a spokesperson for a Hungarian national literature, French-Swiss, or truly stateless?

AK: Hungarian, even if I write in French. All my books are about Hungary. Even the fourth one, have you read it?

RB: Yesterday?

AK: Yes. Well, it is set here in Switzerland, but in a refugee neighborhood. It is more or less a true story. It is very autobiographical. I had worked in a factory. The factory was in the fourth village. We had to take a bus. We lived in the first village. I am Line, the character from Yesterday, it was me who got on the bus at the first village. My ex-husband had a scholarship. The character Sandor was a tzigane, a gypsy, who also worked in a factory. We worked together. My first daughter recognized all that. The apartment that I describe, for example. Yes, I think it is the most autobiographical of my novels. Everything I describe really happened, the suicides too. I knew four people who killed themselves after emigrating from Hungary, and that was all I wanted to talk about.

RB: I would like to know the exact date that you left Hungary.

AK: It was in 1956, after the revolution.

RB: Yes, but I want to know which day.

AK: I think it was the 27th of October, but I’m not sure. No, no, it was the 27th of November.

RB: The 27th of November?

AK: Yes, I think so. We left late in the night. We were in a group. We arrived in a village, which was already full of refugees. Straightaway, they looked after us. The group was mostly children. We were welcomed into the homes of peasants who were paid to provide us with food and shelter. I don’t know how many days we stayed there. After that, the mayor of the village bought us bus tickets to Vienna. We paid him back later. In Vienna we stayed in a barracks.

RB: You didn’t plan on going to Switzerland? I read that you would have preferred to go to Canada. Is that right?

AK: No, no. Never to Canada. I wanted to go to the United States because I had family there. When we arrived there, they told us we could only stay for six months. After that we returned to Switzerland where there was a scholarship for my husband. He was a history teacher. They really looked after us. They found us the apartment, a job for me, a nursery for the baby. That was why we stayed there. I wanted to go back to the US, but I had to wait. My children are here in Switzerland, and I don’t want to be too far away from them.

RB: When was the first time you returned to Hungary?

AK: Twelve years after I left, in 1968. I still had my parents and my brothers. Now my parents are dead. I only have my brothers and their young children in Hungary. But they don’t live in the little village anymore. My brother Attila, the writer, lives in Budapest. I go back to Hungary often.

RB: Did you have the impression, when you left Hungary, that you were still the victim of those who had stayed under the regime?

AK: I’m not very interested in politics. It was my husband who wanted to leave, because he, on the contrary, is very interested in politics, and if he had stayed he would have been thrown in prison, that is for sure. His friends who stayed did two years in prison. In any case, two years isn’t that long.

RB: But even if we just keep to your novels, Clara, the widow from The Notebook, whose husband is executed, gives us evidence of the injustice of the regime.

AK: Yes, Clara is my mother. She told me about it. Her hair turned white from shock, like Clara’s. It is true, they, the regime, singled people out. All the people who, for example, had had contact with the Yugoslavians were traitors.

RB: Did you have a lot of difficulties when you arrived in Switzerland?

AK: A lot. For five years I couldn’t read. I worked in a factory where we weren’t allowed to speak to each other much. I only knew Russian. My father taught mathematics, but before leaving for the front he taught everything, he was the only teacher in the village. My husband spoke a little bit of French because he was a lot older than me. Not very well, but enough. When he had gone to school, they had still taught French and German, but afterwards it was only Russian. Here I went to university, but I only took courses for foreigners. You had to have a baccalaureate even here.

RB: Did you still write in Hungarian?

AK: No, I spoke Hungarian perfectly, but when I wrote letters or cards I often made mistakes. Very often I put things in the wrong places, like including a silent “e,” for example.

RB: Do you agree with the definition according to which a novel must be based on the incompatibility between the individual and the world around her?

AK: I don’t know. I don’t think about things like that.

RB: The word “trilogy.” What do you think about the choice of this word as the title of the translations of your novels?

AK: It is a word I accept, yes, because it is the same people in all three, and so they go together.

 

___
Book

Agota Kristof The Notebook Trilogy
Grove Atlantic

‘Claus and Lucas are twins. Their new life begins when they are left with their grandmother, the ‘Witch’, in a village in an occupied country. It’s wartime. All their actions are based on the necessity to survive. They create an exercise regime to toughen up, and record the results in a notebook. Their angelic looks are deceiving. They are implacable, dangerously ethical; their code of life demands that they help a deserter, or blackmail a priest, or come to the aid of a prostitute, or assist in a suicide. What motivates them is a deeply embedded morality of absolute need.

‘The trilogy — The Notebook (1986), The Proof (1988), and The Third Lie (1991) — follows their stories from the Second World War, through the years of communism and into a fractured Europe. In what could be seen as an allegory of post-war Europe, Claus and Lucas, locked in a tortuous bond, become separated and are isolated in different countries. They yearn to be connected again, but perspectives shift, memories diverge, identity becomes unstable.

‘Written in Kristof ’s spare, direct style, The Notebook Trilogy is an exploration of the aftereffects of trauma and of the nature.’ — Grove Atlantic

Excerpt

OUR TASKS

We have to do certain jobs for Grandmother, otherwise she doesn’t give us anything to eat and leaves us to spend the night out of doors.

But at first we refuse to obey her. We sleep in the garden, and eat fruit and raw vegetables.

In the morning, before daybreak, we see Grandmother leave the house. She says nothing to us. She goes and feeds the animals, milks the goats, then takes them to the edge of the stream, where she ties them to a tree. Then she waters the garden and picks the vegetables and fruit, which she loads into her wheelbarrow. She also puts on to it a basket full of eggs, a small cage with a rabbit, and a chicken or duck with its legs tied together.

She goes off to the market, pushing her wheelbarrow with the strap around her scrawny neck, which forces her head down. She staggers under the weight. The bumps and stones in the road make her lose her balance, but she goes on walking, her feet turned inwards, like a duck. She walks to the town, to the market, without stopping, without putting her wheelbarrow down once.

When she gets back from the market, she makes a soup with the vegetables she hasn’t sold and jams with the fruit. She eats, she goes and has a nap in her vineyard, she sleeps for an hour, then she works in the vineyard or, if there is nothing to do there, she comes back to the house, she cuts wood, she feeds the animals again, she brings back the goats, she milks them, she goes out into the forest, comes back with mushrooms and kindling, she makes cheeses, she dries mushrooms and beans, she bottles other vegetables, waters the garden again, puts things away in the cellar and so on until nightfall.

On the sixth morning, when she leaves the house, we have already watered the garden. We take heavy buckets full of pig-feed from her, we take the goats to the edge of the stream, we help her load the wheelbarrow. When she comes back from the market, we are cutting wood.

At the meal, Grandmother says:

‘Now you know you have to earn your board and lodging.’

We say:

‘It’s not that. The work is hard, but to watch someone working and not do anything is even harder, especially if it’s someone old.’

Grandmother sniggers:

‘Sons of a bitch! You mean you felt sorry for me?’

‘No, Grandmother. We just felt ashamed.’

In the afternoon we go and gather wood in the forest.

From now on we do all the work we can.

 

THE FOREST AND THE STREAM

The forest is very big, the stream is very small. To get to the forest, we have to cross the stream. When there isn’t much water, we can cross it by jumping from one stone to another but, sometimes, when it has rained a lot, the water reaches up to our waist, and this water is cold and muddy. We decide to build a bridge with bricks and planks that we find around bombed houses.

Our bridge is strong. We show it to Grandmother. She tests it and says:

‘Very good. But don’t go too far into the forest. The frontier is nearby and the soldiers will shoot at you. And above all, don’t get lost. I won’t come looking for you.’

When we were building the bridge, we saw fish. They hide under big stones or in the shadow of bushes and trees, whose branches meet in places over the stream. We choose the biggest fish. We catch them and put them in a watering-can filled with water. In the evening, when we take them back to the house, Grandmother says:

‘Sons of a bitch! How did you catch them?’

‘With our hands; it’s easy. You just have to stay still and wait.’

‘Then catch a lot. As many as you can.’

Next day, Grandmother puts the watering-can on her wheelbarrow and she sells our fish at the market.

We often go into the forest, we never get lost, we know where the frontier is. Soon the guards get to know us. They never shoot at us. Grandmother teaches us to know the difference between mushrooms you can eat and the poisonous ones.

From the forest we bring back firewood on our backs, and mushrooms and chestnuts in baskets. We stack the wood neatly against the walls of the house under the leanto and we roast chestnuts on the stove if Grandmother isn’t there.

Once, in the forest, beside a big hole made by a bomb, we find a dead soldier. He is still all of a piece, only his eyes have gone because of the crows. We take his rifle, his cartridges and his grenades: we hide the rifle inside a bundle of firewood, and the cartridges and grenades in our baskets, under the mushrooms.

When we get back to Grandmother’s, we carefully wrap these objects in straw and potato sacks, and bury them under the seat, in front of the officer’s window.

 

DIRT

At home, in the Big Town, Mother often used to wash us. In the shower or in the bath. She put clean clothes on us and cut our nails. She used to go with us to the barber’s to have our hair cut. We used to brush our teeth after every meal.

At Grandmother’s it is impossible to wash. There is no bathroom, there isn’t even any running water. We have to go and pump water from the well in the yard, and carry it back in a bucket. There is no soap in the house, no toothpaste, no washing powder.

Everything in the kitchen is dirty. The red, irregular tiles stick to our feet, the big table sticks to our hands and elbows. The stove is completely black with grease and the walls all around are black with soot. Although Grandmother washes the dishes, the plates, spoons and knives are never quite clean and the saucepans are covered with a thick layer of grime. The dishcloths are discoloured and have a nasty smell.

At first we didn’t even want to eat, especially when we saw how Grandmother cooked the meals, wiping her nose on her sleeve and never washing her hands. Now we take no notice.

When it’s warm we go and bathe in the stream, we wash our faces and clean our teeth in the well. When it’s cold, it’s impossible to wash properly. There is no receptacle big enough in the house. Our sheets, our blankets and our towels have disappeared. We never see again the big cardboard box in which Mother brought them.

Grandmother has sold everything.

We’re getting dirtier and dirtier, our clothes too. We take clean clothes out of our suitcases under the seat, but soon there are no clean clothes left. Those we are wearing are getting torn and our shoes are wearing through. When possible, we walk barefoot and wear only underpants or trousers. The soles of our feet are getting hard, we no longer feel thorns or stones. Our skin is getting brown, our legs and arms are covered with scratches, cuts, scabs and insect bites. Our nails, which are never cut, break, and our hair, which is almost white because of the sun, reaches down to our shoulders.

The privy is at the bottom of the garden. There’s never any paper. We wipe ourselves with the biggest leaves from certain plants.

We smell of a mixture of manure, fish, grass, mushrooms, smoke, milk, cheese, mud, clay, earth, sweat, urine and mould.

We smell bad, like Grandmother.

 

EXERCISE TO TOUGHEN THE BODY

Grandmother often hits us, with her bony hands, a broom or a damp cloth. She pulls our ears and catches us by the hair.

Other people also hit and kick us, we don’t even know why.

The blows hurt and make us cry.

Falls, scratches, cuts, work, cold and heat can also cause pain.

We decide to toughen our bodies in order to be able to bear pain without crying.

We start by hitting and then punching one another. Seeing our swollen faces, Grandmother asks:

‘Who did that to you?’

‘We did, Grandmother.’

‘You had a fight? Why?’

‘For nothing, Grandmother. Don’t worry, it’s only an exercise.’

‘An exercise? You’re crazy! Oh well, if that’s your idea of fun . . .’

We are naked. We hit one another with a belt. At each blow we say:

‘It doesn’t hurt.’

We hit harder, harder and harder.

We put our hands over a flame, we cut our thighs, our arms and chests with a knife and pour alcohol on to our wounds. Each time we say:

‘It doesn’t hurt.’

After a while, in fact, we no longer feel anything. It’s someone else who is hurt, someone else who gets burnt, cut and feels pain.

We don’t cry any more.

When Grandmother is angry and shouts at us, we say:

‘Stop shouting, Grandmother, hit us instead.’

When she hits us, we say:

‘More, Grandmother! Look, we are turning the other cheek, as it is written in the Bible. Strike the other cheek, Grandmother.’

She answers:

‘May the devil take you with your Bible and your cheeks!’

 

 

*

p.s. Hey. ** jay, Hi. You’re already through it, wow. I’m eyeballing it and my finger is trembling near the purchase trigger. Thanks, pal. xo. ** _Black_Acrylic, Hi, Ben. ** ⋆˚꩜｡darbbzz⋆˚꩜｡, Tomorrow is now today. Have an awesome blowout with Machine Girl. I only barely know MG. I’ll dig in deeper. Never been to Morocco either, and it’s not all far away from here. If only they had a film festival that wanted strange films. Wow, that’s killer stuff: your book excerpt. That’s pretty exciting. Don’t lose trust in it. Thank you for the peek. ** Thom, Hi. Coffee is my only recipe for excessive tiredness, and it doesn’t work miraculously. I hope you got some zz’s at least. Zine name … you have semi-inviting options? You can probably imagine what Richard is like when he reads. I quite liked the recent video game-esque Korine movies, or at least that he’s back to using his films to fuck with people. I hope that when you woke up today your eyes had a Disney sparkle that persists. ** Carsten, Right, we’re way inland here in the big P, and our global warming effect so far is just an unusual and unpredictable wavering of what we were used to. I think people who aren’t sluts think their assholes are windows into their souls, and maybe they’re right? ** tomk, No big, man, and I’m glad your kids are better. I wonder why when kids get sick they really get sick. Yeah, it’s strange, we’ve just been banging our heads against a wall when it comes to London and an RT screening. The ICA won’t show it because our ex- but still credited producer fucked them over just like he’s fucked everyone over. Barbican said no. We’re at a loss. It seems like we need contacts or in’s with programers at venues or theaters there, and we don’t have that. I’m starting to think we just might not be able to screen the film in London, which would be weird and depressing. ‘La Medusa’ doesn’t ring a bell. I’ll look it up. Way hopes you get back to the writing soon, man. It’s important! Love, me. ** Steve, Hey. Oh, I really want to read the Akerman memoir. Zac’s reading it, and he said he’ll pass it along. Wow. ** Alice, Hi, Alice. The week hasn’t been too rocky so far. Starting local makes utter sense. Yes, if you find a place to plant your mix, of course I would love to hear it. What in the world re: your university’s back-pedalling of your module. Sorting that stuff out is their job, That sucks, I’m sorry. Voice acting … so your friend’s project is animation, or is it a voice over thing? Fun. ** Steeqhen, Good, upswinging, I can feel that vibrating from your language use. Maybe it’s a book that’ll spiritually intervene in your life impactfully. Have you read the Kristof trilogy up above? It changed me. ** HaRpEr //, I’m so sorry about the mess with your friend. I guess try not to get too regretful. Regret is mostly a dampener, and dwelling on the unsolvable is good for art but not so productive for life. Or so thinks I. When Maddin is on form, he’s such a master. ** Hugo, Cool, notebook back in the fold. I don’t remember what the lost novel was. It was an early attempt to start to the Cycle novels. I’m pretty sure it was crappy. I don’t know what your friend in London is referring to. I’m not friends with anyone who’s a practicing pedophile that I’m aware of. If that’s from an interview I did or something, it was probably in context and I was trying to make some kind of point. If people object to my imagination, there’s nothing I can do about that. Morning of goodness to you. ** Bill, Thank you, thank you, Bill. It really holds up, clearly. ** Laura, Bill did good, yes. That poem excerpt doesn’t ring a bell, sorry. Maybe it’s a deja vu or something? That award they give out at the Baftas looks sort of like a fleshlight. I don’t know, I never use the term rationalist. Something to think about. I just say I’m practical. I tried reading Hegel but it was too thick and tonally uninteresting to me. I only remember my dreams for a split second when I wake up sometimes, and then they disappear. So it depends on what you mean by remembering. Either this morning or never? ** voskat, I guess I’m more of an autocorrect is ultimately more useful than not kind of person. That said, Dutch autocorrect sounds pretty enviable. All bets are off. I read your spoiler because I’m also one of those people who doesn’t really give a shit about plot. So thank you. ** Okay. I’m honestly astonished by myself that I’ve never before trained a spotlight on Agota Kristof’s novel trilogy since it is easily one of my very, very literary works to have been published in my lifetime. I’ve recommended it to so many people over the years. It had a strong impact on my own writing. And, thus, I passionately recommend that you read it if you haven’t. See you tomorrow.

* (restored)

I watch a lot of dark films, some of which cross into the horror genre. Here’s a selection of lesser-known favorites from the last ten years. Most are quiet, abstract, and tense, and low on gore, jump scares, and explanations.

(A longer list is here.)

 

Berberian Sound Studio (2012, dir. Peter Strickland)

A British sound designer (played by the wonderful Toby Jones) is flown to Italy to work on an Italian horror movie soundtrack. As expected (?), the merely awkward situations become mystifying and threatening. Strickland is somehow able to sustain a sense of unease with mostly the gorgeous sound design, and not very much happening. But you don’t have to be a sound geek to enjoy the slow-burn, with all its visual references to Italian horror movies. (“Berberian” is a reference to the divine Cathy Berberian, avant-garde vocalist active mostly in the 60s/70s.)

 

The Duke of Burgundy (2014, dir. Peter Strickland)

“Starting with a surprising, sensual and semi-retro opening credits sequence, Strickland had created a voluptuous exploration of power dynamics in what may be a relationship’s waning days.

“Visually, it recalls a Greenaway, but less smothering and with heat and warmth. Triple exposures, layered reflections, some manic sequences of just moths –  it’s almost a bombardment.” Frank Danay, https://letterboxd.com/bebravemorvern/film/the-duke-of-burgundy/

 

The Endless (2017, dir. Aaron Moorhead and Justin Benson)

I’m a big fan of the Moorhead/Benson team; this is not unflawed, but maintains an uncanny tension. It predates Midsommar, and the story has similarities (I’m not a big Ari Aster fan, sorry). Two brothers, who escaped from a doomsday cult years ago, receive a VHS tape inviting them to visit. The awkward social situations quickly take a darker turn.

 

Resolution (2012, dir. Aaron Moorhead and Justin Benson)

The Moorhead/Benson team’s first feature opens like a claustrophobic but possibly conventional thriller: the protagonist travels to his friend’s isolated cabin to help with drug rehab, taking a pretty extreme approach. Then the weird surveillance videos and space/time anomalies kick in.

The same team’s Spring (2014) is very engaging and charming (and dark), but quite different from this and The Endless. Their newest, Synchronic (2019), hasn’t seen much US distribution, AFAIK.

 

Beyond the Black Rainbow (2010, dir. Panos Cosmatos)

If you loved Videodrome, but hanker for a more abstract approach with minimal narrative machinery, this is for you. Beyond… does wear its influences on its sleeve, with the cold wave synthesizer soundtrack, static-y analog TV, and “Benway” pills. The main character (played by Michael Rodgers) even looks kind of like James Woods in Videodrome! But there’s a lot of gorgeous visual design (see trailer), with some beautiful set pieces (reminiscent of Jodorowsky?), and lovingly detailed sound design.

 

The Blue Hour/Onthakan (2015, dir. Anucha Boonyawatana)

Two Thai boys hang out in an abandoned swimming pool, and encounter a possibly supernatural presence. It’s dark, elegiac, abstract, and sexy: my kind of horror movie. For some reason this has not enjoyed wider distribution.

 

A Dark Song (2016, dir. Liam Gavin)

A smarmy occultist and a woman dealing with loss are trapped together for a few days to perform a magic ritual. This is claustrophobic, intense, draining and messy, the way I think real magic might be.

 

The Man with the Magic Box (2017, dir. Bodo Kox)

A bleak time travel tale without the hardware, reminding me of a less abstract Primer. The wealth of visual details is noteworthy: the uncomfortable, washed-out blue and green tinted scenes, some truly sinister characters, the main female character’s Bridget Riley dress, the recycling center that’s too close to today’s ugly truths. The main actors turn in nice performances as they wander through the cryptic, sometimes discontinuous little scenes in their ultimately charming and sympathetic fashion.

 

The Strange Color of your Body’s Tears (2013, dir. Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani)

I believe this is familiar to some DLs. The “plot” is really not important, kind of like a Robbe-Grillet novel. But it’s a visual feast with its saturated colors, and nods to Argento and Italian horror movies.

 

Depraved (2019, dir. Larry Fessenden)

The latest from the indie horror mainstay is a smart updating of Frankenstein, set in modern day Brooklyn. It’s thoughtful and beautifully executed, with some sly bromance moments.

Fessenden’s earlier movies, such as Habit, are well worth checking out.

 

The Deeper You Dig (2019, dir. Toby Poser and John Adams)

My favorite from Another Hole in the Head 2019. It’s a standard death and revenge story arc, but there are clever, surprising ideas, and some vicious black humor (see annoying radio, and the hilarious toilet sequence, for instance). It’s largely a family production; the directors’ daughter plays the teenage daughter, and does an excellent job both living and dead. Some beautiful cinematography of snow scenes, and a lovely crazed seance sequence.

 

The Invitation (2015, dir. Karyn Kusama)

The protagonist and his girlfriend are invited to a party thrown by old friends and ex’s. The opening section does a beautiful job of evoking being trapped in an excruciatingly uncomfortable social situation. Things of course go downhill from there. Excellent menacing performance from John Carroll Lynch; check out also Nick Antosca’s Syfy series Channel Zero. (I almost excluded this movie because of the bloodbath ending, but everything before that is well worth seeing.)

 

Coherence (2013, dir. James Ward Byrkit)

Another dark science fiction-ish movie without the hardware, this is centered on space/time anomalies, one of my favorite tropes. A nice sense of unease and the uncanny throughout.

 

The Incident (2014, dir. Isaac Ezban)

Yes, more space/time anomalies, without hardware. This is gritty and obsessive and painful, like they should be.

 

The Untamed (2017, dir. Amat Escalante)

Dysfunctional interpersonal relationships, some beautiful visuals, and that thing in the cabin in the woods.

 

Jamie Marks is Dead (2014, dir. Carter Smith)

Finally, a relatively straightforward atmospheric ghost story, but there are some beautiful visuals, the interactions between the living and dead boys are nicely done, and most questions are left unanswered. Adapted from Christopher Barzak’s novel One for Sorrow, which is more queer than the movie.

 

 

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p.s. Hey. ** jay, Hey. Thanks for your always trustworthy gaming insight and expertise. Very cool about your new abode, and enjoy being teenagery and secretive — godlike characteristics, at least from afar. Those squares around you are so lucky. ** ⋆˚꩜｡darbbzz⋆˚꩜｡, They were founded in ’62, but they only started advertising and franchising wildly in the 80s. But, yes, they knew nothing about my thang. Nah, you radiate dignity, pal. I’d like to know how to make Tibetan Butter tea, thank you. There’s a Tibetan restaurant here, but the food is weirdly bland (to my taste buds). Never been to Egypt. Would like to, yes. We had a regular Egyptian commenter here for a while, but I think his life got too interesting for him to visit. We’re not going to the Philly screening, but we are going to the Iowa City screening a few days later because they’re paying the bucks to bring us. ** _Black_Acrylic, Is there not a ‘Chucky’ video game? Wow. That would be fun for all and guaranteed money in the bank for some company. ** l@rst, Thanks, buddy! ** Carsten, Hi. Yeah, apples and oranges on the Jarmusch vs. Jarmusch, right? You and your storms. We’re just breezing along over here, the spring arriving a little more obviously every day. ** Steeqhen, Very glad the post hit home. And I’m more happy that your things are getting easier. It’s a very tough world to be trying to survive and get ahead in for anyone, even optimistic, problem solver me. Writing is definitely a good and healthy start. Great! ** Antonia, Hi! Oh, yes, of course that’s what it is. I wasn’t thinking. Yeah, there’s a famous, controversial one in Paris by Gare du Nord where the Eurostar comes in, and when I lived in Amsterdam in the 80s, there were tons of them. That’s really great work you’re doing. I have some late great friends in the US whose lives would have been saved if it wasn’t such a mindlessly conservative, Christianity-lionising place. I’ll look up that Matteo B. Bianchi book, thank you. And thank you for attending to the stuff around Zac’s and my films. It’s been such a boon to find filmmaking. I feel really refreshed artistically. Spring is arriving here. And there? How is the rest of your week looking and lining up? Oh, and where are you in Germany. Zac and I are going to be in Berlin showing our new film in middish-May if that’s in your vicinity? ** HaRpEr //, It’s always so sad when fucked up, fascinating people think far right politics is their dream religion. Auto correct is Satan. Well, except when it’s a saving grace, I guess. ** Hugo, so sorry about the lost notebook. I lost a whole hand written novel-in-progress once years ago, and I just told myself it was probably shit, which it probably was. If I’m in Paris when you come to Paris, sure, of course. Try to feel better, and highest hopes that some saintly stranger or whoever will return that which is yours to you. ** Laura, Tingly, nice. Best when the trickery and the flaws are both showing. I think I’m rationalist. Huh, am I? Thinking. Yeah, that actresses’s prosthetic asshole was a popular meme in my social media yesterday. Not it, but its existence. Give me a prosthetic asshole over a fleshlight any day. Although I do like the fleshlight = flashlight aspect. I would be a really cool rich guy, I swear to god. I really wouldn’t wait too hard to hear anything about the script because it’s going to be while, I think. My inbox can be your receptacle, its honor and mine, but just to say/remind that I am really, really slow at getting to stuff. ** voskat, Autocorrect really, really wants to change your name to ‘vodka’, as you might well know. Wow, thanks for the memes/gifs and the video. I’ve only glanced at them so far, but I’m already excited. Everyone, voskat has three gifts, two Silent Hill memes/gifs here and here (sound on), and a video called 1 Year in The Backrooms, and they’re all fun central. ** kenley, Ah, French black metal being Nazi, that actually rings a bell. France would certainly ban Nazi bands playing here if they knew. Interesting. ‘Castle Faggot’ will outlive all of us and everything. I would say just wait and see if I’m right, but we’ll all be dead by then. Iow, hooray! Funnest Thursday in recorded human history to you. ** Right. Today I’m bringing back a wonderful guest-post from the mighty visual/sound artist and DC’s regular Bill Hsu from years ago for your delectation. Snuffle around in it, won’t you? See you tomorrow.