One night in 1980, I went to see Stanley Kubrick’s film The Shining. I liked it: the creepy music, and that classic scene where the Jack Nicholson character, deranged by writer’s block, busts through a bathroom door to attack his wife with an axe. “Heeeere’s Johnny!” he bellowed. Great fun.
My then-companion didn’t think it was fun. She thought it was profound. ” What a script!” she gushed. She praised the script’s author for turning a trashy Stephen King thriller into a metaphor for the pathological narcissism of art. Or some such twaddle.
For chrissakes, said I, it’s a horror movie. No, it’s a “three- cappuccino oeuvre,” my friend insisted. So before we parted company that evening — and we were soon to part forever — I listened to her speculate about the personal sources of the screenwriter’s inspiration. “Brrrrr,” I remember this woman shuddering. “You wouldn’t want to belong to that family.”
I don’t know about that.
My wife, Darcy, is inhumanly perfect. We are married because — as if to prove the point through inhuman forbearance — she still hasn’t sent me packing after almost 15 years. My wife’s family turns out to be pretty nice, too.
Darcy has three charming siblings. Her charming stepfather is an eminent physician who so resembles the Great White Doctor of imperialist myth that she calls him, simply, “Bwana.” Throw in 15 step-siblings, spouses, and children, and this family is a veritable mob of charm.
In the psychic center of Darcy’s clan sits Mrs. Bwana — my charming mother- in-law, Diane Johnson. She is “Dinny” to friends and relations. I count in both categories. We are solid, Dinny and I, sharing all the bymarriage affection one might reasonably hope for.
Not that we see each other much. She and Bwana, technically retired, lately spend half of each year in Paris. Dinny passes through Washington only on rare trips between hometown San Francisco and the City of Light. We talk about the differences between Americans and the French. She has gone totally froggy on us. And since I am the designated rightwing weirdo in the family, it naturally falls on me to stand up for the Stars and Stripes.
For last year’s visit, Dinny brought along Darcy’s sister Amanda and her two sons. Amanda also lives in Paris, having married an extremely French fellow named Jean-Francois. Amanda’s equally French garcons are absolutely adorable. But even with them, for benefit of Grandma Dinny, I do my jokey love-America-or-leave-it routine.
My boy Oliver plays cowboy with his toddler cousin Noe. “Reach for the skies, French baby,” Ollie orders. I exult in my child’s emerging nationalism. Home from the mall the next day, Noe’s brother Luc sighs about the ride: ” Je trouve la voiture de Darcy tres belle.” The beauty of Darcy’s car is due to the genius of Detroit, I explain.
But the car in question is a Toyota; my Americanismo act is (mostly) just for fun. Even my worst provocations — as when I defend the EuroDisney theme park in suburban Paris — are issued with a smile. And Dinny has always smiled back, and has given as good as she got. None of this familial jousting, Jack Nicholson and the cappuccino lady notwithstanding, has driven either of us to murder anyone. Until now.
Hold on, you say; back up a sentence. Are we doing The Shining again? What’s that got to do with anything? Well, first off, my mother-inlaw was the co-author of that screenplay. She’s written a bunch of other stuff as well: seven novels, a travelogue, a pair of biographies, a collection of essays. It is all enviously distinguished, earning her two finalist nominations for the Pulitzer, another two for the National Book Award, and an armload of subsidiary honors. Dinny is a “real writer,” unlike some other people in the family.
And she has just produced her best work yet. Le Divorce (Dutton, 309 pp. , $ 23.95) is a beautifully observed novel of manners about the cultural disorientations of the American expatriate community in Paris. There have been some rave reviews: a special, boxed notice in Publishers Weekly, for instance, and a big essay by critic Gabriele Annan in the New York Review of Books.
I should be glowing with son-in-lawyerly pride. Except for one thing: The villain of Le Divorce is a repulsive Francophobe. He works at EuroDisney. In the end, he goes berserk and kills someone who reminds me of my French brother-in-law. This villain’s name is — gulp — “Tellman.” (Please take a moment to look at the last two words on this page.)
My wife, perfect as always, sensibly rejects my “paranoia” about this. Yes, her mother’s novel may have a few vague parallels to real-life family circumstance. But the characters are really nothing like us at all, Darcy points out: “It’s just fiction, a story.”
Oh, but it isn’t, honey, I still can’t help thinking. It’s a three- cappuccino oeuvre, a profound metaphor for the pathological narcissism of art. Read it and see for yourself; I highly recommend the book. Or wait for the Stanley Kubrick version. It’ll no doubt star Jack Nicholson. “Heeeere’s David!” Great fun. Sort of.
DAVID TELL
