When Vladimir Nabokov was approached by Stanley Kubrick in 1959 about making a movie of his masterpiece, Lolita, Nabokov at first refused the temptation to write the screenplay. But then, having &ldquo;experienced a small nocturnal illumination, of diabolical origin&rdquo;, he fell into a cinematic dream and composed his now famously impossible 400-page screenplay.

Kubrick&rsquo;s producer, James B Harris, was typically dismissive: &ldquo;You couldn&rsquo;t make it. You couldn&rsquo;t lift it.&rdquo; His words reflected the standard film industry condescension towards writers. But what neither Harris nor Kubrick realised was that Nabokov was streets ahead of them.

Almost 30 years earlier, when Kubrick was just four years old and cinema was in its infancy, Nabokov wrote a short novel in Russian called Kamera Obskura (soon translated into English as Laughter in the Dark). It told the story of a man, Albinus, slightly drunk with the idea of cinema, who falls for an aspiring actress and whose life ends in disaster. The novel is a movie &ndash; not literally &ndash; but literarily. Here are a few of the words of Albinus&rsquo; disastrous ending:

<blockquote>
Stage directions for last silent scene: door &ndash; wide open. Table &ndash; thrust away from it. Carpet &ndash; bulging up at table foot in a frozen wave. Chair &ndash; lying close by dead body of man in purplish brown suit and felt slippers. Automatic pistol not visible. It is under him. Cabinet where the miniatures had been &ndash; empty. On the other (small) table, on which ages ago a porcelain ballet-dancer stood (later transferred to another room) lies a woman&rsquo;s glove, black outside, white inside. By the striped sofa stands a smart suitcase, with a coloured label still adhering to it: &lsquo;Rouginard, Hotel Britannia&rsquo;.
</blockquote>

This is the most explicitly scripted piece of writing in the novel which provides a distillation of the state of cinema at the time, ending with that cinematic clich&eacute;: the post-murder room in disarray.

<figure class="align-center "><img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/199267/original/file-20171214-27593-1gisql0.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&amp;q=45&amp;auto=format&amp;w=754&amp;fit=clip" />
<figcaption>Vladimir Nabokov in 1973. <a class="source" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vladimir_Nabokov#/media/File:Vladimir_Nabokov_1973.jpg">wikipedia/gettyimages</a></figcaption>
</figure>

&nbsp;

A few of the phrases in the extract remain purely literary &ndash; in a screenplay, one doesn&rsquo;t mention anything that can&rsquo;t be seen, as Nabokov mentions the invisible gun and the porcelain ballet-dancer. Others are pure screenplay. The phrase &ldquo;stage directions for last silent scene&rdquo; is such a postmodern touch that it is amazing to find it in a work from the early 1930s.

Cinema, like butterflies (Nabokov was a respected lepidopterist), and all the things Nabokov worked over obsessively in his novels, had clearly taken hold of him at a young age. The opening paragraph of his 1966 memoir, Speak, Memory, refers to the disturbing childhood experience of seeing home movies taken weeks before he was born &ndash; before he existed &ndash; and feeling that his mother&rsquo;s wave from an upstairs window was some mysterious farewell. This seems to encapsulate Nabokov&rsquo;s ambivalent feeling for cinema and its centrality to his art. The power of the visible surface, the very many possible interpretations of any filmed action.

But Laughter in the Dark is more than just inspired by the movies. It is, in its conception, a fusion of novel and film. Like Joseph Conrad before him, Nabokov dreamt of making the reader &ldquo;see&rdquo; (see the movie in the mind&rsquo;s eye, and feel the power of the images). Proof that he was self-consciously writing a movie occurs when Albinus, having an hour to kill, goes to the cinema.

At the movie theatre, there is a publicity poster which &ldquo;portrayed a man looking up at a window framing a child in a nightshirt&rdquo;. This photographically composed image, with its double framing of the child, is evidence of Nabokov&rsquo;s acute cinematic sense. The framed child reappears later on, in the form of Albinus&rsquo; own daughter in a window, but by this time the reader has forgotten the poster. The &ldquo;viewer&rdquo; on the other hand, would not have.

Fantastic possibilities

And it may only have been on second writing that these images made their way into the story. Laughter in the Dark is Nabokov&rsquo;s own translation from the Russian original, which means the method too was like that of the screenwriter, who writes many drafts, maybe using index cards as Nabokov did. So Laughter in the Dark became a dramatised analysis of the difference between a novel and a movie.

It is also a demonstration of the lessons a novelist can learn from the art of cinema and of the fantastic possibilities of cinema&rsquo;s visual language. Not until Alfred Hitchcock&rsquo;s greatest films did cinema achieve anything like the fluidity or visual acrobatics of Laughter in the Dark. Here, in Nabokov&rsquo;s wonderful language, we find not just the cinematic staging of &ldquo;scenes&rdquo;, but framing, montage, snappy dialogue, the jump cut, the wide-angle shot, the aerial shot, the extreme close-up, even dramatic lighting effects.

Yet, from the 1950s onwards, under the influence of the Auteur Theory, the movie industry contrived to keep novelists as far away from any power in the industry as they possibly could and to cast screenwriters (and the screenplay) as mere cogs in the production process, even banning writers from the set.

<figure><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="260" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vaO_L0n0zhc?wmode=transparent&amp;start=0" width="440"></iframe></figure>

Which brings me back to the &ldquo;impossible&rdquo; screenplay for Lolita. The only thing impossible about it is its length. Otherwise, it is a screenplay that only a cinematic master could have written. Understandably, Kubrick had to boil its 400 pages down. But with today&rsquo;s digital technology making film so much cheaper to produce and a wider variety of viewing platforms available, Nabokov&rsquo;s dream could be realised, word for word, image for image.

Of the two existing adaptations, Nabokov himself lamented the flaws in the Kubrick version. He was not alive to react to Adrien Lyne&rsquo;s interesting but overly sympathetic 1997 version.

His own screenplay could become the definitive screen Lolita. It could serve to protect the novel&rsquo;s reputation, correct the errors of the two existing adaptations and prove once and for all that the screenplay is a legitimate literary form, as potentially complete in its vision as the novel.

&nbsp;

This article was originally published on <a href="http://theconversation.com" rel="nofollow" target="blank">The Conversation</a>. Read the <a href="https://theconversation.com/its-time-vladimir-nabokovs-impossible-screenplay-for-lolita-was-finally-made-89180">original article</a>.

It could serve to protect the novel’s reputation, correct the errors of the two existing adaptations and prove once and for all that the screenplay is a legitimate literary form, as potentially complete in its vision as the novel.

When Vladimir Nabokov was approached by Stanley Kubrick in 1959 about making a movie of his masterpiece, Lolita, Nabokov at first refused the temptation to write the screenplay. But then, having “experienced a small nocturnal illumination, of diabolical origin”, he fell into a cinematic dream and composed his now famously impossible 400-page screenplay. Kubrick’s producer, James B Harris, was typically dismissive: “You couldn’t make it. You couldn’t lift it.” His words reflected the standard film industry condescension towards writers. But what neither Harris nor Kubrick realised was that Nabokov was streets ahead of them. Almost 30 years earlier, when Kubrick was just four years old and cinema was in its infancy, Nabokov wrote a short novel in Russian called Kamera Obskura (soon translated into English as Laughter in the Dark). It told the story of a man, Albinus, slightly drunk with the idea of cinema, who falls for an aspiring actress and whose life ends in disaster. The novel is a movie – not literally – but literarily. Here are a few of the words of Albinus’ disastrous ending: Stage directions for last silent scene: door – wide open. Table – thrust away from it. Carpet – bulging up at table foot in a frozen wave. Chair – lying close by dead body of man in purplish brown suit and felt slippers. Automatic pistol not visible. It is under him. Cabinet where the miniatures had been – empty. On the other (small) table, on which ages ago a porcelain ballet-dancer stood (later transferred to another room) lies a woman’s glove, black outside, white inside. By the striped sofa stands a smart suitcase, with a coloured label still adhering to it: ‘Rouginard, Hotel Britannia’. This is the most explicitly scripted piece of writing in the novel which provides a distillation of the state of cinema at the time, ending with that cinematic cliché: the post-murder room in disarray. Vladimir Nabokov in 1973. wikipedia/gettyimages A few of the phrases in the extract remain purely literary – in a screenplay, one doesn’t mention anything that can’t be seen, as Nabokov mentions the invisible gun and the porcelain ballet-dancer. Others are pure screenplay. The phrase “stage directions for last silent scene” is such a postmodern touch that it is amazing to find it in a work from the early 1930s. Cinema, like butterflies (Nabokov was a respected lepidopterist), and all the things Nabokov worked over obsessively in his novels, had clearly taken hold of him at a young age. The opening paragraph of his 1966 memoir, Speak, Memory, refers to the disturbing childhood experience of seeing home movies taken weeks before he was born – before he existed – and feeling that his mother’s wave from an upstairs window was some mysterious farewell. This seems to encapsulate Nabokov’s ambivalent feeling for cinema and its centrality to his art. The power of the visible surface, the very many possible interpretations of any filmed action. But Laughter in the Dark is more than just inspired by the movies. It is, in its conception, a fusion of novel and film. Like Joseph Conrad before him, Nabokov dreamt of making the reader “see” (see the movie in the mind’s eye, and feel the power of the images). Proof that he was self-consciously writing a movie occurs when Albinus, having an hour to kill, goes to the cinema. At the movie theatre, there is a publicity poster which “portrayed a man looking up at a window framing a child in a nightshirt”. This photographically composed image, with its double framing of the child, is evidence of Nabokov’s acute cinematic sense. The framed child reappears later on, in the form of Albinus’ own daughter in a window, but by this time the reader has forgotten the poster. The “viewer” on the other hand, would not have. Fantastic possibilities And it may only have been on second writing that these images made their way into the story. Laughter in the Dark is Nabokov’s own translation from the Russian original, which means the method too was like that of the screenwriter, who writes many drafts, maybe using index cards as Nabokov did. So Laughter in the Dark became a dramatised analysis of the difference between a novel and a movie. It is also a demonstration of the lessons a novelist can learn from the art of cinema and of the fantastic possibilities of cinema’s visual language. Not until Alfred Hitchcock’s greatest films did cinema achieve anything like the fluidity or visual acrobatics of Laughter in the Dark. Here, in Nabokov’s wonderful language, we find not just the cinematic staging of “scenes”, but framing, montage, snappy dialogue, the jump cut, the wide-angle shot, the aerial shot, the extreme close-up, even dramatic lighting effects. Yet, from the 1950s onwards, under the influence of the Auteur Theory, the movie industry contrived to keep novelists as far away from any power in the industry as they possibly could and to cast screenwriters (and the screenplay) as mere cogs in the production process, even banning writers from the set. Which brings me back to the “impossible” screenplay for Lolita. The only thing impossible about it is its length. Otherwise, it is a screenplay that only a cinematic master could have written. Understandably, Kubrick had to boil its 400 pages down. But with today’s digital technology making film so much cheaper to produce and a wider variety of viewing platforms available, Nabokov’s dream could be realised, word for word, image for image. Of the two existing adaptations, Nabokov himself lamented the flaws in the Kubrick version. He was not alive to react to Adrien Lyne’s interesting but overly sympathetic 1997 version. His own screenplay could become the definitive screen Lolita. It could serve to protect the novel’s reputation, correct the errors of the two existing adaptations and prove once and for all that the screenplay is a legitimate literary form, as potentially complete in its vision as the novel. This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.

Opinion: Vladimir Nabokov's 'impossible' screenplay for Lolita needs to be made

Nikolai Gogol was a weird, complex writer. Early on, he wrote short&nbsp;stories about the&nbsp;countryside that Russians still&nbsp;read in school today. I haven&#39;t bothered reading these because Vladimir Nabokov, who dearly loved Gogol&#39;s writing, said they&#39;re terrible. The Russian-reading seller&nbsp;at one of the&nbsp;Toronto book stores I cherish&nbsp;agrees&nbsp;with Nabokov, so I stuck&nbsp;to his later short stories, many of them major masterpieces, and the first part of his immortal novel, Dead Souls.

Dead Souls&nbsp;is filled with comedy, but the laughs have&nbsp;the unfortunate side effect of distracting readers from the novel&#39;s&nbsp;hidden depths. It is a scathing review of human kind. Gogol&#39;s writing contains some of the Antisemitism typical of his time and place, and he had misanthropic tendencies to blast as stupid, crude and unevolved basically the&nbsp;entire world.&nbsp;But his gift is the rare ability to capture in his writing a concept that is only identified by the Russian word,&nbsp;poshlost.&nbsp;Understanding this term is essential to understanding Gogol.

Nabokov&nbsp;describes&nbsp;poshlost&nbsp;thusly: &quot;Corny trash, vulgar cliches, Philistinism in all its phases, imitations of imitations, bogus profundities, crude moronic and dishonest pseudo-literature--these are obvious examples.&quot;

This&nbsp;poshlost excerpt is from an essay Nabokov wrote, which itself overlaps with the&nbsp;book he wrote on&nbsp;Gogol called, fittingly,&nbsp;Nikolai Gogol. The chapter on&nbsp;Dead Souls&nbsp;unpacks the&nbsp;shimmering and radiant&nbsp;poshlost of the protagonist, Mr Chichikov.

What is Dead Souls&nbsp;actually about?&nbsp;

Chichikov arrives in a minor Russian village to run a scam, but nobody knows that&#39;s what he&#39;s there to do. He goes around&nbsp;saying whatever is needed to charm whoever he&#39;s currently speaking to, meanwhile learning about them, what they possess, and how he can obtain&nbsp;from them&nbsp;what he wants.

Chichikov&#39;s goal is to buy people&#39;s&nbsp;dead serfs, also known then as &quot;souls&quot;. Bureaucratically speaking, a serf who had died in real life but wasn&#39;t yet registered in the census&nbsp;as dead was still alive as far as the state was concerned. Chichikov goes around town acquiring such dead-but-alive&nbsp;people. The sellers are confused! Why does this man want to pay real money for people&nbsp;no longer alive? The owners of the&nbsp;dead serfs pay taxes until they officially&nbsp;register the dead&nbsp;as dead, but still, their various vices makes them reluctant to pay. Ultimately each negotiation is a dance between the devil, Chichikov, and a lesser and petty provincial devil. Through Chichikov&#39;s interactions, which are really negotiations,&nbsp;Gogol&nbsp;lambaste&#39;s humanity with more richness, variety, and vigour than any writer I&#39;ve come across. It&#39;s hilarious, not without a moral foundation, but the main thing is feeling the esoteric strangeness of the author that can&#39;t quite be put into words except&nbsp;by him.

The plot is brilliant, yet&nbsp;is not the main feature of the novel. The story itself is a framework through which poshlost is to be exposed and expanded. Revelling in the discrepancy between the character&#39;s surface actions and their real motivations, and the interplay between various types of clashing vulgarity posing as if they&#39;re dignified,&nbsp;is somehow life-affirming, hilarious, and no other writer I have encountered lays human kind&#39;s&nbsp;follies so bare.

The question still remains, why does Chichikov want to buy the rights to dead people? Because he&#39;s&nbsp;running a get-rich-quick scam! His plan is to&nbsp;take out an enormous loan against the dead&nbsp;people, who the bank will think are still alive. Except a rumour breaks out among the bumbling country people that, somehow, Chichikov&nbsp;is either Napoleon or a local one-legged bandit (Chichikov has two legs!)&nbsp;and, for good measure, intends to elope with the mayor&#39;s daughter. The various follies of the townspeople somehow accumulate,&nbsp;expand, and take&nbsp;on a life of their&nbsp;own,&nbsp;becoming&nbsp;this nonsensical rumour. So the book ends with Chichikov fleeing&nbsp;town, just like his creator: Gogol had a habit of fleeing to Rome after publishing in Russia.

Socially-minded critics were apt to attribute to Chichikov and the characters he meets&nbsp;all the vices of&nbsp;Russian. These critics&nbsp;are all wrong. Gogol&#39;s unique absurdity is intrinsically his, it&#39;s not a reflection of the outer world.&nbsp;Plyushkin, Sobochka, Nozydryov, Manilov and the rest all come from Gogol&#39;s imagination, and are more incarnations of a certain kind&nbsp;of universal poshlost than the embodiment of some&nbsp;contemporary country bumpkin.&nbsp;

My&nbsp;understanding is admittedly limited since, tragically, I cannot read the original Russian text. But Nabokov and Henri Troyat and many others reach this conclusion, and it&#39;s the interpretation&nbsp;I favour. If people enjoy Gogol despite interpreting his literature&nbsp;in a&nbsp;way I consider wrong, well, there are worse sins in the world.

Dead Souls&nbsp;was originally meant to be a three-part epic poem.&nbsp;The first part echoes&nbsp;Homer, and&nbsp;the&nbsp;novel&#39;s roundness and its voyage through&nbsp;hellscapes has some Dante, too.&nbsp;&nbsp;But Gogol died in the middle of writing the second part, and the text ends abruptly.

Typical of Gogol, he wrote the novel,&nbsp;then decided what it was about--the first part was meant to be devilish, and would be redeemed by&nbsp;the next books. Except Gogol, who was a Christian, believed way more strongly in the Devil than in God. His writing is really only alive when inspired by Satan. God stifled and infected his writing because it wasn&#39;t natural to him.&nbsp;

Decades later,&nbsp;there wasn&#39;t room in Russia for both God and Tolstoy, so the Russian Orthodox Church&nbsp;excommunicated Tolstoy, who&nbsp;took many&nbsp;followers along, but&nbsp;died alone in a train station. If this is poetically fitting for the literary giant&nbsp;who by the end became world famous as an&nbsp;ascetic saint to people who hadn&#39;t read his tomes, Gogol, that&nbsp;strange strange devil who wrote &quot;The Nose&quot;,&nbsp;died in Moscow while some monstrous doctor&nbsp;drained&nbsp;Gogol&#39;s enormous&nbsp;nose of blood with leeches&nbsp;while the great author,&nbsp;hands tied to the bedposts, screamed in protest.&nbsp;

RIP, Nikolai.

(WION)

&nbsp;

Famous for weird short stories featuring ghosts and a man who wakes up one day without a nose, it's 'Dead Souls' that will live forever

Nikolai Gogol was a weird, complex writer. Early on, he wrote short stories about the countryside that Russians still read in school today. I haven't bothered reading these because Vladimir Nabokov, who dearly loved Gogol's writing, said they're terrible. The Russian-reading seller at one of the Toronto book stores I cherish agrees with Nabokov, so I stuck to his later short stories, many of them major masterpieces, and the first part of his immortal novel, Dead Souls. Dead Souls is filled with comedy, but the laughs have the unfortunate side effect of distracting readers from the novel's hidden depths. It is a scathing review of human kind. Gogol's writing contains some of the Antisemitism typical of his time and place, and he had misanthropic tendencies to blast as stupid, crude and unevolved basically the entire world. But his gift is the rare ability to capture in his writing a concept that is only identified by the Russian word, poshlost. Understanding this term is essential to understanding Gogol. Nabokov describes poshlost thusly: "Corny trash, vulgar cliches, Philistinism in all its phases, imitations of imitations, bogus profundities, crude moronic and dishonest pseudo-literature--these are obvious examples." This poshlost excerpt is from an essay Nabokov wrote, which itself overlaps with the book he wrote on Gogol called, fittingly, Nikolai Gogol. The chapter on Dead Souls unpacks the shimmering and radiant poshlost of the protagonist, Mr Chichikov. What is Dead Souls actually about? Chichikov arrives in a minor Russian village to run a scam, but nobody knows that's what he's there to do. He goes around saying whatever is needed to charm whoever he's currently speaking to, meanwhile learning about them, what they possess, and how he can obtain from them what he wants. Chichikov's goal is to buy people's dead serfs, also known then as "souls". Bureaucratically speaking, a serf who had died in real life but wasn't yet registered in the census as dead was still alive as far as the state was concerned. Chichikov goes around town acquiring such dead-but-alive people. The sellers are confused! Why does this man want to pay real money for people no longer alive? The owners of the dead serfs pay taxes until they officially register the dead as dead, but still, their various vices makes them reluctant to pay. Ultimately each negotiation is a dance between the devil, Chichikov, and a lesser and petty provincial devil. Through Chichikov's interactions, which are really negotiations, Gogol lambaste's humanity with more richness, variety, and vigour than any writer I've come across. It's hilarious, not without a moral foundation, but the main thing is feeling the esoteric strangeness of the author that can't quite be put into words except by him. The plot is brilliant, yet is not the main feature of the novel. The story itself is a framework through which poshlost is to be exposed and expanded. Revelling in the discrepancy between the character's surface actions and their real motivations, and the interplay between various types of clashing vulgarity posing as if they're dignified, is somehow life-affirming, hilarious, and no other writer I have encountered lays human kind's follies so bare. The question still remains, why does Chichikov want to buy the rights to dead people? Because he's running a get-rich-quick scam! His plan is to take out an enormous loan against the dead people, who the bank will think are still alive. Except a rumour breaks out among the bumbling country people that, somehow, Chichikov is either Napoleon or a local one-legged bandit (Chichikov has two legs!) and, for good measure, intends to elope with the mayor's daughter. The various follies of the townspeople somehow accumulate, expand, and take on a life of their own, becoming this nonsensical rumour. So the book ends with Chichikov fleeing town, just like his creator: Gogol had a habit of fleeing to Rome after publishing in Russia. Socially-minded critics were apt to attribute to Chichikov and the characters he meets all the vices of Russian. These critics are all wrong. Gogol's unique absurdity is intrinsically his, it's not a reflection of the outer world. Plyushkin, Sobochka, Nozydryov, Manilov and the rest all come from Gogol's imagination, and are more incarnations of a certain kind of universal poshlost than the embodiment of some contemporary country bumpkin. My understanding is admittedly limited since, tragically, I cannot read the original Russian text. But Nabokov and Henri Troyat and many others reach this conclusion, and it's the interpretation I favour. If people enjoy Gogol despite interpreting his literature in a way I consider wrong, well, there are worse sins in the world. Dead Souls was originally meant to be a three-part epic poem. The first part echoes Homer, and the novel's roundness and its voyage through hellscapes has some Dante, too. But Gogol died in the middle of writing the second part, and the text ends abruptly. Typical of Gogol, he wrote the novel, then decided what it was about--the first part was meant to be devilish, and would be redeemed by the next books. Except Gogol, who was a Christian, believed way more strongly in the Devil than in God. His writing is really only alive when inspired by Satan. God stifled and infected his writing because it wasn't natural to him. Decades later, there wasn't room in Russia for both God and Tolstoy, so the Russian Orthodox Church excommunicated Tolstoy, who took many followers along, but died alone in a train station. If this is poetically fitting for the literary giant who by the end became world famous as an ascetic saint to people who hadn't read his tomes, Gogol, that strange strange devil who wrote "The Nose", died in Moscow while some monstrous doctor drained Gogol's enormous nose of blood with leeches while the great author, hands tied to the bedposts, screamed in protest. RIP, Nikolai. (WION)

Ode to Russian Nikolai Gogol, the bizarre and beautiful literary master who died on this day in 1852

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Opinion: Vladimir Nabokov's 'impossible' screenplay for Lolita needs to be made

Ode to Russian Nikolai Gogol, the bizarre and beautiful literary master who died on this day in 1852