Contempt - Alberto Moravia [85]
“And what is that result?”
“That I cannot collaborate in this film-script...in fact, that I am throwing up the job.”
Rheingold did not receive this declaration with any surprise: he was evidently expecting it. But he appeared to be thrown into a kind of agitation. He said at once, in a changed voice: “Molteni, you and I must speak plainly.”
“It seems to me I have already spoken extremely plainly: I am not going to do the script of the Odyssey.”
“And why? Please tell me.”
“Because I do not agree with your interpretation of the subject.”
“In that case,” he retorted, quickly and unexpectedly, “you agree with Battista!”
I do not know why I, in my turn, was irritated by this unforeseen accusation. It had not occurred to me that not to be in agreement with Rheingold meant to be in agreement with Battista! I said angrily: “What’s Battista got to do with it? I don’t agree with Battista either. But I tell you frankly, Rheingold, if I had to choose between the two, I should prefer Battista every time. I’m sorry, Rheingold: as far as I’m concerned, either one does the Odyssey of Homer or else one doesn’t do it at all.”
“A masquerade in technicolor with naked women, King Kong, stomach dances, brassières, cardboard monsters, model sets!”
“I didn’t say that: I said the Odyssey of Homer!”
“But the Odyssey of Homer is mine,” he said with profound conviction, bending forwards, “it’s mine, Molteni!”
For some unexplained reason I was conscious, all at once, of a desire to offend Rheingold: his false, ceremonious smile, his real, dictatorial hardness, his psychoanalytical obtuseness, all became at the moment intolerable to me. I said furiously: “No, Homer’s Odyssey is not yours, Rheingold. And I’ll say more, since you force me to it: I find Homer’s Odyssey altogether enchanting and yours altogether repulsive!”
“Molteni!” This time Rheingold appeared really indignant.
“Yes, to me it’s repulsive,” I went on, becoming heated now, “this desire of yours to reduce, to debase the Homeric hero just because we’re incapable of making him as Homer created him, this operation of systematic degradation is repulsive to me, and I’m not going to take part in it at any price.”
“Molteni...one moment, Molteni!”
“Have you read James Joyce’s Ulysses?” I interrupted him angrily; “do you know who Joyce is?”
“I’ve read everything that concerns the Odyssey,” replied Rheingold in a deeply offended tone, “but you—”
“Well,” I continued passionately, “Joyce also interpreted the Odyssey in the modern manner...and he went much farther than you do, my dear Rheingold, in the job of modernization—that is, of debasement, of degradation, of profanation. He made Ulysses a cuckold, an onanist, an idler, a capricious, incompetent creature...and Penelope a retired whore. Aeolus became a newspaper editor, the descent into the infernal regions the funeral of a boon-companion, Circe a visit to a brothel, and the return to Ithaca the return home at dead of night through the streets of Dublin, with a stop or two on the way to piss in a dark corner. But at least Joyce had the discernment not to bring in the Mediterranean, the sea, the sun, the sky, the unexplored lands of antiquity. He placed the whole story in the muddy streets of a northern city, in taverns and brothels, in bedrooms and lavatories. No sunshine, no sea, no sky... everything modern, in other words debased, degraded, reduced to our own miserable stature. But you—you lack Joyce’s discretion...and therefore I, I repeat, between you and Battista, I prefer Battista, in spite of all his papier