Philip Roth
– Bound Down
Watching
Alan Yentob’s ‘Philip Roth unleashed’ was tough. We had to watch Roth grimacing as his own
words were read out to him, from decades previously. ‘What do you want me to say’ he asks Yentob,
more than once. ‘I’m a distinguished writer’! It seems as if the ‘fan’ frightens him and I
have to say I don’t blame him. There is
something simultaneously moronic and manic about the fan, only in the sense
that they relish the words of their hero, but have actually little to say back,
apart from repeating the heroes’ words. This must be a hell of mirrors and echoes for
him. Another Jewish nightmare of being
alone at the table; nobody to talk to apart from a parrot with a crush.
Worse
however, than this, are the words that are repeated back. Absolutely Roth is a ‘provocateur’ but its
not about sex alone as Yentob repeatedly goes back to. Roth is quick to dampen this fire down ‘there
was sex but very little’ he says of himself.
What about identity – adolescence, Jewishness, Americanness, culture
shock, paranoia, confrontation and above all, his talent for bringing serious
art into contact with high farce. Let’s imagine Roth reading this now – we can
hear another sigh of resignation-another interpretation. We can’t get at him, us fans, but what does
this say about us? What do we want from
Roth? What do you want from me, we can hear him ask? Its just enough to stay
alive.
We consume
Roth’s books and I think what Yentob shows us is that we want to consume Roth himself. Consume him with admiration but also intense
curiosity. Who is this man who fucked
our brains out? Where did he come from? What does he think about the world,
where is the place of women, why doesn’ t he write about England more, but most
deliciously, what does he think about himself? Will he call us after seducing us so? Can we actually
watch him talk about himself, akin I suppose to watching him masturbate, from
our perspective. But seriously, who likes being watched masturbate – it must be
uncomfortable viewing!
He has
never transferred well to television and here too, for whatever reason, the
1993 version of Roth – strong, of course masculine, was regularly interspersed
with the 2014 version – that of a frail, elderly old man, as if to mitigate the
present version of him. There seemed
something tragic in forcing this grand ruin to confront his 1993 version, to politely ignore the obvious burning of time.
Again, there are two Philip Roths brought to life.
Many is the
time I have dreamed of meeting Philip Roth.
The man who ‘weighs’ the word so perfectly that one calibrates one’s
life to its music. Yes, of course, one
can be critical. And perhaps one could
ask him critical questions – like whether ‘the great American novel’ was a
disappointment for him – try to get him to be candid about which of his novels
he likes now. Does he have any regrets,
even now, about all that passed in those battles? Still, more consumption. There is a journal of Philip Roth studies.
Maybe this is where one should go – or on the baleful bus tour.
The life of
the artist. The frenzy of admiration,
love and longing to have him on the bedside table.
