Tag Archives: Fugitive

Polanski invades late-19th-century Wessex

I have not read a single Thomas Hardy novel. I probably read a few of his poems in my senior year of high school. If so, they left no lasting impression on me. Hardy’s 1892 novel Tess of the d’Urbervilles: A Pure Woman Faithfully Presented was his biggest financial success during his lifetime and is his bestselling title on Amazon (both Kindle and paper), ahead of The Mayor of Casterbridge.

My reading of 19th-century fiction is generally spotty, but it’s a bit surprising to me that I did not see Roman Polanski’s 1979 film adaptation, titled simply “Tess” (having been born in Paris and living there then and now, I’d guess that Polanski balked at the redundancy of “of the d’”). I remember being puzzled but not dismayed by his previous film “The Tenant” (in which he played the title role) and I loved John Schleisinger’s 1967 adaptation of Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd with a luminous Julie Christie and a dashing cad played in scarlet uniform by Terrence Stamp.

Though I try not to watch movies through the lens of the biographies of their makers, this is as difficult in the case of “Tess” as it was in the case of “The Pianist.” If there is anyone who does not know: Polanski survived as a fugitive from Nazi extermination, as his mother did not, and pled guilty to statutory rape in California and fled the country on the eve of a judge (who had been guilty of multiple instances of misconduct in the case—according to the prosecutor, not just the defense lawyer) reneging on the plea bargain. Polanski remains a fugitive from justice (and/or the California judicial system).

The history of being a fugitive is not lacking with echoes in Tess fleeing calumny, but the aspect that was impossible to wall off while I was watching the movie was that the naïve young title character, Tess Durbeyfield, (played by a 17- or 18-year-old Nastassja Kinski, who was sexually involved with Polanski before that) is raped by and impregnated by her “cousin” Alec d’Urberville (Leigh Lawson). This disgrace leads her future husband (Peter Firth) to abandon her when he learns of it (on the wedding night), blocks the love of the lives of both Tess and her husband, and leads to murder and hanging.


Polanski was telling the tragic story of a young woman, The rapist (“statutory” and more, just like Polanski himself) is worldly and more than a little arrogant in taking his pleasure. Can Polanski have failed to see parallels and been attempting to make amends of sorts through his art?

Real-life interference is even stronger in that Polanski’s wife, Sharon Tate, had recommended he consider directing her in the title role of an adaptation of the book shortly before she was murdered (pregnant with Polanski’s child) in the Manson massacre. The movie is dedicated “To Sharon,” and its star (daughter of German mandman actor Klaus Kinski) had taken her place both in the director’s bed and in playing Tess, “a victim of her own provocative beauty,” to borrow from advertising copy, which also included the provocative “She was born into a world where they called it seduction, not rape.” Whew! And there is the class difference (the rich preying on the young if not invariably innocent less well-off) not only in Tess and Alec, Roman and the 13-year-old, and in the movie in which Polanski directed Tate, “The Fearless Vampire Killer”

Swinging back to the very beginning of the movie and explaining the “scare quotes” around “cousin” above, Tess’s drunkard father John Durbeyfield (John Collin) learns in the first scene that he is descended from the Norman lords d’Urberville, some of whom are entombed in the local church. The local historian remarks on how the might have fallen, but his telling John about his research gives John and his wife (Rosemary Martin) delusions of grandeur. (I’m pretty sure that, like Zola, Hardy himself was influenced by widespread ideas of that era about degeneration. Both portrayed inexorable grinding down of the innocent by the rich and the sociocultural system of condemning female sexuality that often involves blaming the victim.)

Having learned that “Durbeyfield” is a corruption (Anglicization?) of “d’Urberville,” the suddenly haughty parents send Tess off to call on the resident d’Urberville. Alec is not, in fact, kin, having bought the coat of arms and name.

Though having intimated a lot about the plot, I will not discuss the romances and degradations that follow the rape/seduction. I think that the leads (Kinski, Firth, Lawson) are all impressive and look their Victorian parts.

Not having read the novel, I don’t know what was pruned, but from my limited experience with novels from that era, I have no doubt that there was much that could have been. From the movie, some of the lingering beautiful countryside shots could have been excised with no loss. The story does not need 172 minutes to tell!

The story is quite clear, and the locations, mostly in Brittany plus some in Normandy, look right. (In a bonus feature someone explains that they could not find locations in Somerset that looked like late-19th-century Somerset, but could in Brittany.) I found the vintage farm machinery (from the dawn of mechanized agriculture) fascinating to watch, too.


The movie won Oscars for costume design, art direction/set decoration, and cinematography (Ghislain Cloquet [Au hasard Balthazar] shot most of the movie after Geoffrey Unsworth [Becket, Cabaret, 2001] died). It was nominated for its music score, direction, and as best picture, as well. It also received Cesars for picture, direction, and cinematography, but lost to the quite superb production design of Ariane Mnouchkine’s “Molière”).

The DVD bonus features raise my 3.5 (of 5) rating of the movie to 4 stars. The tripartite “making of” feature runs a total of 70 minutes and includes insightful discussions from Kinski, Polanski, dialogue-writer John Brownjohn (who lived only a few yards from the pub that John Durbeyfied frequented, though that is not why he was hired), and Claude Berri, who produced “Tess” and directed an even better movie about rural grinding down of an innocent “Jean de Florette” (and its sequel in which “Manon of the Springs” prevails, which is very un-Hardy-like).

©2010, 2018, Stephen O. Murray


Theatrical novel about a Javanese fugitive from a failed rebellion against the Japanese colonizers


Pramoedya Ananta Toer was born Pramoedya Ananta Mastoer in 1925 in Blora, the capital of the Blora kabupaten (regency) in the northeastern part of Central Java province of the Dutch East Indies. Dropping the honorific “mas,” like Sukarno and Suharto he initially believed in the Japanese promise of the East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere would be an improvement over Dutch colonialism, but was disappointed by the new colonial regime’s brutality and racism (the Japanese considering themselves a “race” superior to others). Pramoedya supported the Republic declared by Sukarno following the surrender of Japan and was imprisoned by the re-established Dutch in Bukit Duri (in South Jakarta) from 1947 to 1949 (when Indonesia attained independence and Sukarno came to power).


There, he wrote his first novel Perburuan, which was published in Indonesian 1950. Four decades later, two years after he was selected for the PEN /Barbara Goldsmith Freedom to Write Award, as The Fugitive it became the first Pramoedya novel translated into English — at a time when he was under house arrest and all his writings were banned in Indonesia and possession of any of them was a criminal offense.

The novel is more than a little like a Javanese shadow play, with three lengthy dialogues preceding a dramatic conclusion. I found it harder to get into than This Earth of Mankind (the first of the quartet of novels that Pramoedya told fellow prisoners in Buru Prison when he had been denied access to writing materials), which grabbed me immediately.

Especially the first two scenes in which Hardo, who had been in command of a platoon of Indonesian Volunteer Army soldiers for the Japanese occupiers, and was sought by the Japanese after a failed rebellion, speaks to the father of his fiancée, the current headman of a Blora town of Karangjati, and then with his father, who was village head until Hardo’s “treason” led to the Japanese replacing him.

Both of the first two chapters/scenes include something akin to refrains, that is, repeated formulae (“I’m going to the stars” in the first, “I’m not your son” in the second).

The third chapter includes three scenes. In the first, Hardo meets up with another (less recognizable to the Japanese) Indonesian platoon commander turned rebel and fugitive, Dipo. Both, clad only in loincloths, have mixed into the (large) population of beggars.

Dipo is bent on revenge against a third, the best soldier, Karmin, who was supposed to rise with them against the Japanese, but was distracted by his wife deserting him. Pretty much everyone in Blora except Hardo considers Karmin a traitor.( “Public opinion, regardless of truth, is able to perpetuate itself,” Pramoedya remarks.)

In the following scene, Karmin convinced his Japanese commander to let him search where Hardo’s fiancée, Ningsih, lives with another teacher. He makes sure there is nothing compromising there before the Japanese commander arrives with her arrested father. Karmin entrusts Ningish with a message for Hardo.

The final chapter, the shortest, provides a swift multiple climaxes, as news of Japan’s surrender reaches Blora and there is a final tragedy. As in shadow plays, Good triumphs, but at a high cost and with Evil never eradicated.

Pramoedya told the Buru Quartet before he could write it down. The Fugitive seems even more oral to me. Both were composed in prison. Pramoedya could not publish under the re-established Dutch East Indies government, but could write. After the confusing rising (or hoax of a rising), Pramoedya was imprisoned for fourteen years and under house arrest until the fall of Suharto. Not just a banned writer, he was a prison writer, and a prison story-teller when he could not write anything down.


The short novel (164 pages in English) did not develop rounded characters (shadow puppets are two-dimensional, not rounded) but shows complexity in the characters of Hardo and Karmin. The latter protected the former from within the Japanese colonial establishment, while Ningsih’s father betrays Hardo and is a toady to the Japanese.

Once I got into the rhythm of the speaking (and it is very easy to imagine each chapter being presented onstage), I found the book a very interesting take on complexities of “collaboration” and “resistance,” matters that have particularly interested me in recent years given US military ventures (in other Muslim lands than Indonesia, the most populous Muslim country) though there is nothing in The Fugitive to indicate the Javanese are Muslim or that the author was “leftist”; evidence that his nationalism came with recognition of ambiguities of motives and opportunities.


©2017, Stephen O. Murray