The Vengeance of Rome
- Автор: Муркок Майкл
- Серия: Between The Wars #4
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The Vengeance of Rome». Краткое содержание книги:
“Uggy really wanted someone local. A German. It’s talkin’ English, see. They asked Jack Trevor,’ she said, ‘but ‘e’s booked with everyone at the mo’, like I said. ‘Ugg’s not sure about a real Yank. John Bentley’d do it, but after that bloody last fiasco in Egypt I wouldn’t trust ‘im, frankly. ‘Uggy likes ther look o’ Cary Cooper but ‘e’s under contract and anyway I ‘eard wot Clara Bow said about ‘im — biggest cock in Hollywood an’ no arse ter push it wiv!’ My earth-spirit exploded with mirth. ‘There’s some English feller in ther runnin’, too, does ‘tec films in Blighty. ‘Ugg’s goin’ over ter see ‘im. They got Lonny’s son ‘cause ‘e wos over ‘ere anyway. They’re finking o’ some Austrian bloke, Anton Wallbanger or somefink, who can talk English. You gotta at least be able to fake it in a lot o’ diff’rent languages. That’s why ‘e wants an English or American actor. That’s ther idea, see? Sell ‘em back to America and England and the rest o’ ther empire. Dollars an’ pahnds, Ive. Wot they all want ter get their ‘ands on. ‘Ard money. Biggest single market, English. Then German. Then French. Then Spanish. So it’ll be plain sailin’ fer us, eh?’
She explained how modern pictures shot each scene over again in a number of languages. Only later would studios discover the less expensive method of dubbing. I had just seen Rex Ingram’s most recent film, which was made in Morocco with an international cast, none of whom could be understood in any of the languages they spoke! I had known Ingram in Hollywood. The Irishman had studios in Nice and refused to return to the United States. He said sound had been the death knell of artistic pictures. He had announced that henceforth he would paint or write but would never make pictures again.
The Germans led the world in the production of multiple-language films. The Blue Angel had just been made at UfA’s Neubabelsberg studios, each scene shot first in English, then in German, then in French. Hollywood, of course, could not make such films, because it did not have the wealth of actors able casually to speak several languages. It was almost impossible for the modern European cosmopolitan not to be familiar at least with English and French if he was German. Italians were often fluent in all three languages, as well as their own. The only problem German producers faced was the American and British public’s failures to appreciate the boulevard comedies and military farces, the staple of the Berlin and Munich cinemas, produced in their dozens. Even the operettas, though widely imitated, did not pull in the natives of Bradford and Boston. Horror films and science fiction did reasonably well, largely because they depended on visual effects, and Germans were recognised as the masters of modern illusion. Metropolis had been a minor success in the UK. Die Drei von der Tankstelle, with its wonderful contemporary settings and many of the top UfA stars, had done no serious business overseas. Even Der Kongress tanzt, immediately imitated by the Americans, did not hit the million-dollar jackpot.
“Uggy’s not that ‘appy with foreigners comin ‘ere an’ makin’ their pictures,’ Mrs Cornelius confided. ‘They bring a few dollars in, but that’s it. Orl ther real profit goes back ter “Jew York” as ‘Uggy calls it. ‘E says Germans should be makin’ ther movies and exportin’ them ter America, not the ower way abart. So that’s wot we’re gonna do. Quotas on Yank pictures. Cowboy pictures fer cowboys ter watch in Wyomin’ an’ Texas.’ She threw back her head and roared, startling a waiter behind her. ‘An’ ‘is big enfusiasm’s Karl wotsit’s books. It’s like a bloody religion wiv ‘im. ‘E finks ‘e’ll convert ther Yanks ter bring back ther poor ol’ Kaiser. Yer really reckon ‘em, do yer? Them books?’
I told her how May’s tales of Turk and Texan were totally engrossing, instilling the love of nature, freedom and individuality which mark the best type of modern man. May compared the Apache to the Turk and said they both represented great races who had fallen on hard times, unable to resist more aggressive enemies. He pointed to Indian architecture to show how the Red Man could attain any level of civilisation he wished.
I began to speak of this. ‘Yeah,’ she said, yawning. “Uggy’s explained orl that more’n once.’
‘Exemplifying the finest German virtues while showing due respect for the Red Man’s innate nobility and purity of soul.’
‘Dead right, Ive. So?’
‘This is extraordinary.’ I could think of no finer part to play. Yet I had become so used to movies presenting the lowest common denominator. ‘You are certain, Mrs Cornelius, that your Baron wants to make a film series based on Karl May’s famous philosophical adventure tales? The “Winnetou” books?’
‘On the money, Ive.’
‘I am honoured.’
I added that I heard the May company was wary of vulgarising the Master’s work on film. She assured me Hugenberg had secured rights by demonstrating to the family his sincere reverence, patriotism and belief in promoting Karl May’s serious ideas concerning brotherly love and the right of all races to live on their own traditional land, unthreatened by invaders of any kind, whether with guns or with an alien culture. This matched what I had already heard of Alfred Hugenberg. He was a Cabinet minister, leader of a major German political party and German through and through. I had read one of his election addresses while waiting for Kitty to come out of the toilet at the Kino. Mutual respect was the secret of civil discourse between nations. While he understood the benefits of democracy, he still supported a monarch on the German throne. A monarch represented the state in a way a president could not. He admired Hindenburg, felt that the old Field Marshal really wished to see a Kaiser restored, and was also obsessed with der alte Fritz, Frederick the Great. Germany would only hold her head up in the world once more when she had an emperor. Mrs Cornelius said it was well known in film circles that if you wanted to get a start with UfA, you should suggest an ‘Old Fritz’ theme to Huggy Bear.
Doctor Hugenberg had been granted the May rights because he was leader of the Nationalist Monarchists and an influential director of Krupp. Since the War he had built up a publishing empire to spread his ideas and had saved the German film industry from extinction or absorption by the Americans. During the hard, hungry years he had turned a bankrupt concern into one of the most powerful and profitable in the world. He could offer the public conscientious and respectable versions of the May books and thus introduce him to Britain and America.
Nowadays, as with everything else, such great men find their names dragged in the mud, and every detail of their past dug up and dissected by the Daily Mail, so it is no surprise Der Spiegel and its kind, forever attacking their own country and its leaders, published scurrilous tales of Karl May’s early life which they claimed had been led as a con man! They also said he had spent some seven years in prison as punishment for his crimes. His ‘crime’ in fact seemed to be possession of a rich and wide imagination! Sufficient crime in a Prussian Germany to have him jailed.
How hard it is for the unimaginative man to imagine the imaginative man. How hard for the intelligent man to enjoy the simple terrors of the dullard. Does the stationmaster waving his green flag to signal that the train is safe to leave the station ever anticipate the twisted rail, the broken signal up ahead? No, he is satisfied that he has accomplished everything possible. The train arrives safely. The train leaves safely. Whatever takes place on the train or outside the limits of his responsibility is nothing to do with him. He never connects. He never understands the nature of collective responsibility. But I see the whole rail system. I am part of the problem. I take some of the responsibility. I know that it is always my fault when something goes wrong, but it is not very much my fault. Any man’s death, says the poet, makes me smaller, because I am everyman. I am everyman. My dreams are what made me exemplary. My experience is what makes me extraordinary. But I am otherwise no different to you. Believe me, Karl May was not the only one to suffer because he was different and above the herd. Today I would be living in luxury on an island in Scotland, tranquil and unassailable, were it not for several bitter twists of fate, any one of which might have sent another mad. But I have my creed . . .