[Английский] Fowles John / Фаулз Джон - The French Lieutenant's Woman / Женщина французского лейтенанта [The French Lieutenant's Woman, 2021, MP3, 64 kbps]
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The French Lieutenant's Woman / Женщина французского лейтенанта
Фамилия автора на языке аудиокниги: Fowles Имя автора на языке аудиокниги: John Фамилия автора на русском языке: Фаулз Имя автора на русском языке: Джон Исполнитель на языке аудиокниги:John Hopkins Год выпуска: 2021 Язык: Английский Жанр: Роман Издательство: Penguin Audio ISBN или ASIN: НЕТ Время звучания: 16:26:46 Аудио кодек: MP3 Битрейт аудио: 64 kbps Описание: Английский романист и эссеист, мастер полифоничного повествования, намеренно двойственной концовки. Среди самых известных романов Фаулза - "Женщина французского лейтенанта" (1969), экранизированный в 1981 году, и "Волхв" (1965), который стал уже культовым. Герои Фаулза встречаются со своим прошлым, с иллюзиями и стереотипами, разрушив их, они обретают свободу и покой мысли. Джон Фаулз — один из наиболее выдающихся и заслуженно популярных британских писателей ХХ века, современный классик главного калибра, автор всемирных бестселлеров «Коллекционер» и «Волхв», «Дэниел Мартин» и «Куколка». «Женщина французского лейтенанта» — один из главных романов Фаулза. Завлекая читателя пикантной любовной фабулой, сочетая реалистическую традицию с элементами детектива и мистики, Фаулз играет не с выдуманными персонажами, а с реальными читателями. Charles Smithson is awe-struck when he meets Sarah Woodruff, known to the locals as Poor Tragedy, since she was deserted by a French sailor. Although Charles is engaged, he becomes infatuated with Sarah. In the ensuing tumult, his values are challenged by her weight of scandal and melancholy. Доп. информация: Новое исполнение романа чуть чуть не дотянуло до 20- летнего " юбилея" со времени первой аудиоверсии. На мой взгляд начитано лучше чем весия Шелли Порезал на главы ФИЛЬМ И РОМАН John Fowles’s novel The French Lieutenant’s Woman has presented a unique challenge to film-makers since it came out in 1969. There’s the authorial figure who frequently interrupts his own text to rewrite key scenes. There’s the authorial figure of Fowles himself, who has a scene where he sits in a train carriage with a lead character. And, as Fowles put it in an essay from 1981, the book describes “all those aspects of life and modes of feeling that can never be represented visually”. The novel journeyed deep into “inner space” where cameras couldn’t follow. In spite of such obstacles – or perhaps because of them – plenty of famous film-makers have attempted to get it on screen. Fred Zinnemann tried, with a Dennis Potter script. Mike Nichols briefly took the helm. Franklin Schaffner was also approached to direct. (Fowles once said: “A Hollywood screenwriter came over to do that one, I’m told he had a nervous breakdown after six weeks.”) John Frankenheimer was also offered the director’s chair, but concluded: “There is no way you can film the book. You can tell the same story in a movie, of course, but not in the same way. And how Fowles tells his story is what makes the book so good.” Fowles was inclined to agree that his book was unfilmable until “whatever fickle gods rule the cinema decided to smile on us”. That time came 10 years after the book was published, when Karel Reisz was lined up as director, renowned playwright Harold Pinter took on the script, and actors including Meryl Streep and Jeremy Irons were attached. Pinter’s involvement was especially pleasing to Fowles. “I do not need to dwell on his universally acknowledged qualities as a playwright,” he purred. He was a fan of Pinter’s solution to the metafictional problems the book posed: instead of having the author step into the narrative, Pinter had the action move outside the period frame. The film starts with a shot of a clapper board and the action frequently moves from the Victorian love story of the novel’s heroes Charles and Sarah to portray an affair that is happening between the two actors playing them in 1981. For Fowles, this was a brilliant metaphor for the novel. Plenty of critics shared his pleasure. The venerable cinema critic Roger Ebert called it “a beautiful film to look at, and remarkably well-acted … it entertains admirers of Fowles’s novel, but does not reveal the book’s secrets.” If I were finishing this article here, I might be describing it as a success. Unfortunately, I can’t do that because I’ve just seen it and: oh dear … It hasn’t aged well. I won’t argue with Fowles about Pinter’s ability as a playwright – but it’s worth remembering that Pinter was also responsible for this poetry about the disastrous 2003 invasion of Iraq: Here they go again The Yanks in their armoured parade Chanting their ballads of joy As they gallop across the big world Praising America’s God. There’s nothing quite that bad in his adaptation of The French Lieutenant’s Woman, but it gives an impression of the heavy stomp Pinter takes through the story, the resolute humourlessness of his script and the overripeness of his dialogue. Some of the latter I could just about forgive as faithful reproductions of Fowles’s Victorian pastiche. Sadly, the “I want you” histrionics also spill into the present day narrative, aided and abetted by some surprisingly poor performances from Irons and Streep. It got to the point that whenever the camera panned out to the modern-day film set, I was half-expecting to see shots of Irons chewing on the scenery. Some won’t be surprised about how hammy he is, but even Streep tucks into the proverbial pig, spending most of her screen time gazing wistfully into the middle distance while mangling an English accent. On the plus side, there are some fine shots of Lyme Regis town and Dorset country. There’s also plenty to enjoy if you like lingering shots of period clothing. But the pacing feels so slow that I often found myself wondering how the make-up department managed to attach the mutton-chop sideburns on to Victorian Charles as much as anything he was thinking or saying. In the 1980s narrative, I was reduced to looking out for Ford Cortinas. There were some nice old Rovers, too. But such fleeting pleasures don’t detract from the central truth that the film is now interesting only as a period piece, while the book remains fresh and vital. It turns out that the cameras couldn’t follow far enough. The New York Times , CHRISTOPHER LEHMANN-HAUPT November 10, 1969 A warning: Before you begin John Fowles's new novel, be certain there's only one log on the fire. If, unhappily, you lack the fireplace by which this book should be read, set an alarm clock. "The French Lieutenant's Woman" is 467 pages long. No matter how fast a reader you may be, it's not good for the circulation to sit in one position for the length of time required to read it. You'll need something to remind you to stretch your legs every so often. It's that kind of book. It's filled with enchanting mysteries that demand solutions, and the solutions are withheld until the last page. And even beyond the end. When I finished it, I started over, searching for missed clues, testing the beginning in light of the end. If I'd had time, I'd have read it straight through again. The language is elegant enough, the solutions elusive enough. First of all, there is Mr. Fowles's story--a story so irresistibly novelistic that he has disguised it as a Victorian romance, one thinks at first. The year is 1867. Our leading man, Mr. Charles Smithson, is looking forward to an excellent marriage to Miss Ernestina Freeman, the fair daughter of a wealthy tradesman. Charles is in the prime of life  , well-born (with prospects of a baronetcy), a gentleman of honor, a scientist of sorts, quite modern, an adherent of Mr. Darwin's writings.A Destined Convergence One day, while walking by the sea with his betrothed, and exchanging hyperbolical pleasantries, Charles comes upon a strange young woman standing forlornly, "her stare aimed like a rifle at the farthest horizon." Upon asking Ernestina about the woman's identity, he learns that she is Sarah Woodruff, known to the residents of Lyme Regis, Dorset, as the abandoned lover of a French naval officer, and a "hoer." Sarah is not precisely beautiful. But to Charles there is something in her eyes and in her manner that sets her far apart, that makes her the secret possessor of possibilities that marriage to Ernestina threatens to blot out forever. It is deliciously obvious from page 1 on that Charles's and Sarah's paths are destined to converge. But Mr. Fowles withholds the encounter deftly enough to charge it with magically erotic possibilities. What, after all, is more seductive than a possibility? (And though his prose is chaste in thought and deed, Mr. Fowles clearly knows his Victorian pornographers.) Very Victorian, in short. If you have the smallest residual weakness for Dickens, you are lost. But why, for Heaven's sake, a Victorian novel in this day and age of RobbÈ-Grillet? What is this practitioner of flawed Gothica ("The Collector" and "The Magus") up to now? Here quickly arises another element of suspense. For it is also clear from page 1 on that Mr. Fowles is not going to be satisfied merely with witty (and often brilliantly erudite) anachronistic comments on the manners, morals, literature, art and science of a century before. Not only will something surprising happen to the story of "The French Lieutenant's Woman;" something will happen to the form of the book as well. And the prospect adds immeasurably to the suspense. Choice of Two Endings Let me recapitulate. One likes Charles. One admires him even. As an enlightened inhabitant of the 1960's one can share his Darwinian view of Sarah Woodruff, with her cool contempt for Victorian morals, as an evolutionary advance. One can identify with his considerable heroism in throwing in his lot with her, even at the cost of his good standing (and Fowles makes his act more poignant than your would imagine possible). One cares a great deal how the story will turn out. And one feels, secure in Mr. Fowles's hands, that it will turn out well. But it develops that Mr. Fowles has a problem, which he graciously explains in chapter 55, while riding with Charles on a train to London. (Yes, literally.) Mr. Fowles doesn't know what to do with his story. He can't manipulate the plot (or, as he says, "fix the fight") "to show one's readers what one thinks of the world around one" because this story happened a hundred years ago and "we know what has happened since." The only solution, he decides, is to write two endings. So he proceeds. The first is heart-warming, gratifying, a very "Great Expectations" of an ending, a thorough domestication of eroticism, wholly consistent with Fowles's charming tale. The tale we thought we had been reading, at any rate. Then comes the second ending. It explodes all the assumptions our Victorian sensibilities had so willingly embraced. In a giant step it covers the distance between the Victorian novel and the roman nouveau. It leaves one wondering which century was more sexually liberated. It is a shock. It is comic. It signals the sudden but predictable arrival of a remarkable novelist.
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