Just finished reading Capote's delightful 'Breakfast at Tiffany's.' It was abolutely joyous to read actually, particularly in light of having read Lois Banner's biography of Marilyn Monroe, 'Marilyn: The Passion the Paradox', a few months ago.
I say 'actually' because it is one of those novels one hears a great deal about from friends etc. simply because it will never be able to escape comparison with the iconic movie adaptation....the typical classic/adaptation crisis that seems to affect more and more literary works these days. I went into the novel in a way cynically, expecting to find a more vague, less articulate version of the movie, perhaps with less enchanting characters and a realism that was more drudgery than enlightening. Maybe because I confess to knowing very little about Capote's style. What I have heard is that he pays close attention to the actual structure of his sentences and as a young boy and man dedicated himself to this art with great discipline. I also knew that his dedication to this art enabled him to create the non-fiction (semi-non-fiction?) work 'In Cold Blood.' For some reason in my mind I assumed this may result in something that reads like a newspaper article...and journalistic writing is something I have yet to learn to enjoy.
However my assumptions were proven wrong by the second page, when the characters come to life through the simplicity of his descriptions and his tendency to let his characters talk themselves, at length, even ramble, but in a way that is always constructive or at least poignant.
According to Banner Monroe was Capote's main source of inspiration for the flighty and naive Holly Golightly, and for me, the confused and complex starlet absolutely sprung from the pages as I read the novel (or novella? It is terribly short). I have also read he intended Monroe for the movie part, not Audrey Hepburn. Although I originally could not imagine this, after reading the novella I can and wish it were so! Or at least there were two versions, one Monroe, one Hepburn. Hepburn's portaryal of flightiness is charming, but I guess I always found it somewhat too refined. Even when trying to play a country child-bride become NY socialite I find her admirably poised and sophisticated. Whereas what came through in Capote's novella for me was a woman whose problems and broken hilbilly background have created scars within her psyche that were not all that refined at all and in this sense Monroe, whose background matches Golightly's to a rather alarming degree, could portary this perfectly in my opinion.
At many times in the novel I wondered how far Capote could push the dysfunction of the character before toppling it over into the realm of absolute no return, where the reader would lose hope for her and see her as simply a bum...no magic about that at all. I think I sensed this tension most clearly towards the end of the book when Holly is about to leave NY for Rio, aware that in doing so she would be abusing the friendship of a man who is forking out thousands of dollars to pay for her lawyer. I could not read fast enough to see whether this last straw was something Capote would need to defend, and my suspicions were correct, justify he did:
'I haven't much choice. I talked it over with the lawyer: oh, I didn't tell him anything re Rio - he'd tip the badgers himself, rather than lose his fee, to say nothing of the nickels O.J. put up for bail. Bless O. J.'s heart; but once on the coast I helped him win more than ten thou in a single poker hand: we're square'
Here Capote reassures us that Holly is not wholly without moral integrity, even if she does 'go lightly through life.' If he didn't at some point Holly would start reminding the reader of that friend we all have who never pays us back or leeches off us, I fear. Thus Holly would not be endearing or lovable, just rather annoying and pitiful. The type of character or person we lose hope in and stay away from in our day to day lives.
So Capote succeeds in mainting a fine balance between realistically portraying a wandering broken soul, but not one that is without charm or redemption. The story is in a sense quite gritty, a child-bride, living off charming those around her. As Holly says about herself: 'Even though I kept telling him: but, Doc, I'm not fourteen any more, and I'm not Lulamae. But the terrible part is....I am. I'm still stealing turkey eggs and running through a brier patch. Only now I call it having the mean reds.'
This is exctly the charm about the character: that Holly is keenly aware of her background and her psychological issues, and actively makes others aware of them too no matter how confronting, not to garner pity which is also common, but to invite them into her private world where they can simultaneously see her flaws but also her magnificence. For in doing so they can see for themselves the chaos she has endured making her survival all the more delicate and incredible. Once again I am drawn back to thinking of Marilyn Monroe, one quote of her's in particular (which I refuse to discredit simply because it is glorified quite meaninglessly on facebook):
“I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best.”
That is what this charm is, the charm of paradox. How one can be a mess and wonderful at the same time is an intriguing mystery to most people who discover this embodied in someone they know at some point in their lives (I say some point because these people usually do not remain present for long, always floating and drifting out of lives as quickly as they fly into them).
Another way in which Holly seemed to me the literary replication of Monroe was how both seem to be phoneys but also not to be phoneys. In the sense there is in some degree an awareness to their act, but on another level, a submission to some kind of impulse or way of being they believe is right within them. O.J. Berman at the beginning of the novel tries to understand Holly's at times self-aware socialite charade-sometimes lost little girl personality. 'You're wrong. She is a phony. But on the other hand you're right. She isn't a phony because she's a real phony. She believes all this crap she believes.'
One of Banner's most interesting argument in regards to Monroe was that when playing the dim-witted blonde bombshell, she was both giving in to the impulse to exhibit herself (her body, her sexuality, her desirability to men) and parodying this stereotype. Monroe was no dim-wit, but at the same time was highly aware of how powerful pretending so could be. In a way I feel Holly also uses this talent, switching from naive child to actress capable of parodying the very things expected of her from society and her peers, as long as it gets her somewhere or something in return:
'I suppose you think I am very brazen. Or tres fou. Or something.'
'No not at all.'
She seemed disappointed. 'Yes you do. Everybody does. I don't mind. It's useful.'
That said I am sure my perspective on Holly's character is biased, based primarily on this single biography I have read regarding Monroe. However this is the framework with which I choose to read the novella and I stand by it. The blonde hair though of Capote's Holly, the naive charm, the way in which she could be both genuine and phoney reminded me terribly of Banner's portait of Monroe.
On another note, the passage that moved me most, because in a strange way I could identify with it so strongly myself (maybe we all can or know someone like this) was Holly's advice to Joe Bell. It left me nearly in tears and I read it again and again, stunned by the simplicity and truthfulness of Capote's observation of all free-willed, lost individuals:
'Never love a wild thing, Mr. Bell,’ Holly advised him. ‘That was Doc’s mistake. He was always lugging home wild things. A hawk with a hurt wing. One time it was a full-grown bobcat with a broken leg. But you can’t give your heart to a wild thing; the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they’re strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That’s how you’ll end up Mr. Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing. You’ll end up looking at the sky.'
Beautiful.
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