Lolita

"Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to the tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta." It was fifty years ago that these words were first published in the United States (three years earlier in Europe). For the occasion I reread the book, and viewed both films that are based on it.

The novel is by Vladimir Nabokov, a native-born Russian who nonetheless wrote the book in English (turns out English was his first language). It is the deceptively simple story of a confession, written by a man in prison awaiting a murder trial, of how he came to be there. He calls himself Humbert Humbert, a sophisticated European who wound up in a New England town where, in a boarding house, he met the twelve-year-old Dolores Haze, who he would name Lolita, and how she became the love of his life.

It isn't a surprise that a novel about a hebephile (not a pedophile--a hebephile is someone who is sexually aroused by pubescent children, pedophilia by pre-pubescents) and his love affair with a twelve-year-old would raise eyebrows, if not earn outright bans. But the book is much greater than the tawdry storyline. Nabokov, in an afterword written in 1956, dispels the common literary theory: "Although everybody should know that I detest symbols and allegories...an otherwise intelligent reader who flipped through the first part described Lolita as 'Old Europe debauching young America,' while another flipper saw in it 'Young America debauching old Europe.'" Despite Nabokov's objections, it's hard to resist that interpretation, as Humbert's refined yet decadent European thrust into the vulgarities of post-war America create situations that leap off the page. It is established that the long car-trips that Humbert takes with his Lolita were inspired by Nabokov's travels with his wife in the pursuit of butterfly collecting. The life of travelers in the era before the Interstate system is palpable in Nabokov's prose.

And his prose is just so brilliant. Every paragraph is a polished jewel, and there are so many moments when anyone who thinks of themselves as a writer could be forgiven for throwing up one's hands and giving up, as there is no topping the sentences strung together by this master. I can open up the book at random and find portions that take the breath away. Consider this description of a typical Western film: "Finally there was the mahogany landscape, the florid-faced, blue-eyed roughriders, the prim pretty schoolteacher arriving in Roaring Gulch, the rearing horse, the spectacular stampede, the pistol thrust through the shivered windowpane, the stupendous fist fight, the crashing mountain of dusty old-fashioned furniture, the table used as a weapon, the timely somersault, the pinned hand still groping for the dropped bowie knife, the grunt, the sweet crash of fist against chin, the kick in the belly, the flying tackle; and immediately after a plethora of pain that would have hospitalized a Hercules (I should know by now), nothing to show but the rather becoming bruise on the bronzed cheek of the warmed-up hero embracing his frontier bride."

Then there are the games Nabokov plays. Humbert explains his attraction to "nymphets" as stemming from his childhood love of Annabel Leigh, which of course is an homage to Poe. There is also numerous wordplay, such as the reuse of the numeral 342, and a minor character, Vivian Darkbloom, is an anagram of Vladimir Nabokov.

While the sexual nature of Humbert and Lolita's relationship is plainly stated, there is nothing pornographic about the book, as there is no Penthouse-letter blow by blow stuff. Lolita is the initial aggressor, and Humbert is startled to learn that he is not her first lover. The first film version, directed by Stanley Kubrick in 1962, couldn't be so frank. Any sexual contact is implied by whispering and fading to black, and there is no numerical reference to Lolita's age at any time. Perhaps this is why the film is so pallid and a poor representation of the story (Nabokov is credited at writing the script, but one wonders how much got changed from his draft).

The novel is both a dark comedy and a romance. Kubrick emphasizes the dark comedy. Though he had many gifts, the sentimental romance is not one of them. There are many long, pointless scenes that are not in the book that really make me scratch my head, such as slapstick involving a hotel porter and a folding cot. The mysterious character of Clare Quilty is played by Peter Sellers, and greatly expanded, which doesn't help the story along. The casting of Shelley Winters as Charlotte Haze is brilliant, though. Poor Charlotte Haze--has there ever been a character in fiction who is so pathetic? Vulgar and bovine, Humbert is disgusted by her, but marries her in order to get close to Lolita. Winters is a performer who milks the aspects of the wounded woman so well that it's almost uncomfortable.

I think the best illustration of how Kubrick misses Nabokov's genius is how he handles Humbert and Lolita's last meeting. This is how Nabokov wrote it: "I covered my face with my hand and broke into the hottest tears I have ever shed. I felt them winding through my fingers and down my chin, and burning me, and my nose got clogged, and I could not stop, and then she touched my wrist.

'I'll die if you touch me,' I said, 'You are sure you are not coming with me? Is there no hope of your coming? Tell me only this.'

'No,' she said, 'No, honey, no.'

She had never called me honey before."

In Kubrick's film, Sue Lyon plays the scene (as well as the entire role) without any visible sense of her understanding the nature of the romance, and James Mason, as Humbert, appears to be handling a business transaction. It is for this reason that I voice what sounds like sacrilege--the Adrian Lyne film version of 1997 is a better film. His film is almost completely faithful to the book. Jeremy Irons is Humbert, and his motivation for falling in love with Lolita (Dominique Swain) is much clearer. This film has less of the comedy and more of the romance.

Swain makes a much more believable Dolores. In the book, Nabokov describes her as being a typical teenager, despite Humbert's attentions. She's rude and petulant, and given to chewing gum, comic books, and movie star worship. In this version, Charlotte is played by Melanie Griffith, who is fine though no match for Winters' performance. In this version, she is gone after about twenty minutes, with most of the film encompassing the second half of the novel, with Humbert and Lolita criss-crossing the country. And Frank Langella closer adheres to the Nabokov Clare Quilty, rather than the comical hijinks of Sellers.

There are certain similarities between the two films. Both begin with the end, in which Humbert shoots Quilty, and then flashes back (in Kubrick's film, we see the entire murder, as well a strange game of ping-pong, while in Lyne we see Humbert driving away, blood on his hands). There is also, with both filmmakers, the fetishizing of Lolita's feet. In Kubrick, the opening credits are over a dainty teen foot having it's toenails painted, the male hands handling it as if it were a Faberge egg. With Lyne, he takes every opportunity to focus on Swain's bare feet. Perhaps this is because, since neither film would dare show Lolita in any kind of nudity, they could use the foot instead, which is sexy but not in any way obscene. To quote Nabokov: "She was barefooted; her toenails showed remnants of cherry-red polish and there was a bit of adhesive tape across her big toe; and, God, what would I not have given to kiss then and there those delicate-boned, long-toed, monkeyish feet!"