Woolfian Boundaries - Clemson University
Woolfian Boundaries - Clemson University Woolfian Boundaries - Clemson University
54 WOOLFIAN BOUNDARIES literary rights to the wedding. Present were Allen, MacNeice, Auden, Reggie Smith, and the happy couple. Auden played the part of the MC in the “prep school or scoutmaster vein” (56). He bought tickets, produced the ring, and, arriving at the station, in a “voice that had become high-pitched, demanded a taxi of astonished porters” (56). A taxi was found and they were dispatched with all haste to Solihull registry offi ce which turned out to be only a hundred yards away. During the service, Auden answered every question, barely giving bride or groom a chance to speak and plying the clerk with questions throughout: “Would you say this is a popular registry offi ce? What do you fi nd the favourite month for weddings in Solihull?” (57). After the service Auden took them all to the nearest pub, ordered brandies and demanded whether there was a piano: “Yes sir,” the barmaid answered “but you can’t play it.” Th is made Wystan very indignant. “Who is to stop me?” he wanted to know. Th e girl answered: “It’s Mr ... He’s dead. He’s in there.” She pointed to the billiard room. Led by Auden, we rose and went into the billiard room. Th ere was a coffi n on the billiard table. (57-58) Hampson and Th erese had a brief honeymoon at the cinema in Birmingham and did in fact consummate the marriage. Hampson’s sister stated that “John said there should no mistake about her being a British subject” (cited in Croft 23). And thus Hampson achieved his status as a fully paid up member of Bloomsbury, willing to love in triangles and live in squares and fulfi l his true role as an intellectual bugger. It seems appropriate that the honeymoon of the marriage between Birmingham and Bloomsbury should have taken place in a cinema. And that MacNeice and Allen’s trip to the Western should have provided a cinematic end to a decade of peace. Appropriate in more ways than one, because cinema was not only the dominant medium of the thirties; cinematic technique, and particularly montage, was the dominant technique for thirties politically engaged writing, and can be seen as one of the strongest factors linking the literature produced in Birmingham and Bloomsbury. Allen wrote that in Birmingham “it was in the Film Society more than anywhere else that young artists came together” and he himself was an active member, and later became more involved in cinema as a reader for MGM (42). Hampson made documentaries for the BBC during the war and Auden’s involvement with John Grierson’s GPO fi lms is wellknown, as is MacNeice’s work at the BBC. In Birmingham, montage was the order of the day. At this point, I should defi ne montage, which is essentially the cutting and pasting of shots, and say that I am referring principally to Eisensteinian shock montage, which tends to involve the juxtaposition of discordant extremes. Eisenstein saw montage as inextricably linked with radical leftist politics. He defi ned cinema as “fi rst and foremost, montage” and said that through montage, cinema becomes a “tractor ploughing over the audience’s psyche in a particular class context” (Taylor 82, 56). In Hampson’s letter advising Brierley on the novel that would become Means-Test Man he suggests a montage between work and unemployment: “Make capital of each and every diff erence between the state of the man in employment and the man workless. Th e idea of contrast is, I feel, important” (cited in Croft 178). Saturday Night at the
Buggery and Montage Greyhound itself uses cross-class montage to juxtapose the young squire, and his friend Ruth, with the working-class local people who run and patronize the Greyhound Pub. Hampson montages their perspectives on each other, so that Ruth is mocked for idealising the working class: “these people really lived” (95) and, at the same time, the working-class Mrs Tapin is mocked for immediately coming to the wrong conclusion about Ruth and assuming that she is a prostitute: “if Master Roy wanted fancy women he had better seek elsewhere” (121). Walter Allen makes his commitment to cinematic technique explicit in his recollection of writing Blind Man’s Ditch: It was a time when a lot of people were experimenting with novels written from several points of view…the infl uence of cinema was tremendous, I think, on the ‘montage’ novel…what I usually used to do was to try and get on the page the image as a fi lm-director might present it. Th at was what I was after, and what I think everybody was after. (cited in Croft 256) Blind Man’s Ditch is built of a montage of quickly changing scenes, from diff erent points-of-view, which juxtapose the life and thoughts of the upper-class and lower-class characters, and show the (usually false) perspective of each on the other. Allen praised Living, a novel set in Birmingham by another Midlands writer, Henry Green, specifi cally for its fi lmic qualities: “the story is told mainly in very short episodes rather in the manner of a fi lm, the author cutting from character to character, from scene to contrasted scene” (134) and Green himself provides another interesting link between Birmingham and Bloomsbury, although he is beyond the scope of this paper. Meanwhile in London, Auden was pioneering what MacNeice described as a telegrammatic technique, “an up-to-date technique to express an up-to-date mood” (Heuser 1). And MacNeice’s own Autumn Journal is fi lled with montage, with the section on Birmingham providing a classic cross-class montage of Birmingham life. He juxtaposes himself and his friends—“We slept in linen, we cooked with wine, / We paid in cash and took no notice” (115)—with the unemployed who surrounded them and whom they were only half aware of: “the queues of men and the hungry chimneys… / Little on the plate and nothing in the post” (116). As an older generation Bloomsbury writer, Virginia Woolf was an outsider both to Birmingham and to the Auden generation. Her remarks on what she variously termed the “Leaning Tower” writers and “the Brainies” were often scathing (“Th e Leaning Tower”). Writers such as Julian Symons have called her an “unpolitical aesthete,” suggesting that she had nothing in common with the cinematically and politically driven thirties writers I have discussed (42). However, in recent years there has been an end to the myth of Virginia Woolf as a high priestess of modernism, oblivious to the material world and its concerns. In her work of the thirties, Woolf evinces both an awareness of and an anger with the political world. “All politics be damned,” she wrote to her nephew, Julian Bell, in 1935 (L5 436). Yet this is not a statement of contempt for politics per se, but a statement of contempt for the political situation in what Woolf perceived as a male dominated sphere. In a letter to Stephen Spender shortly after the publication of Th e Years in 1937, Woolf wrote a stark declaration about her own political engagement in the novel. She stated that she had intended “to give a picture of society as a whole; give characters from 55
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54 WOOLFIAN BOUNDARIES<br />
literary rights to the wedding. Present were Allen, MacNeice, Auden, Reggie Smith, and<br />
the happy couple. Auden played the part of the MC in the “prep school or scoutmaster<br />
vein” (56). He bought tickets, produced the ring, and, arriving at the station, in a “voice<br />
that had become high-pitched, demanded a taxi of astonished porters” (56). A taxi was<br />
found and they were dispatched with all haste to Solihull registry offi ce which turned<br />
out to be only a hundred yards away. During the service, Auden answered every question,<br />
barely giving bride or groom a chance to speak and plying the clerk with questions<br />
throughout: “Would you say this is a popular registry offi ce? What do you fi nd the favourite<br />
month for weddings in Solihull?” (57). After the service Auden took them all to the<br />
nearest pub, ordered brandies and demanded whether there was a piano:<br />
“Yes sir,” the barmaid answered “but you can’t play it.” Th is made Wystan very<br />
indignant. “Who is to stop me?” he wanted to know. Th e girl answered: “It’s Mr ...<br />
He’s dead. He’s in there.” She pointed to the billiard room. Led by Auden, we rose<br />
and went into the billiard room. Th ere was a coffi n on the billiard table. (57-58)<br />
Hampson and Th erese had a brief honeymoon at the cinema in Birmingham and did<br />
in fact consummate the marriage. Hampson’s sister stated that “John said there should<br />
no mistake about her being a British subject” (cited in Croft 23). And thus Hampson<br />
achieved his status as a fully paid up member of Bloomsbury, willing to love in triangles<br />
and live in squares and fulfi l his true role as an intellectual bugger.<br />
It seems appropriate that the honeymoon of the marriage between Birmingham and<br />
Bloomsbury should have taken place in a cinema. And that MacNeice and Allen’s trip to<br />
the Western should have provided a cinematic end to a decade of peace. Appropriate in<br />
more ways than one, because cinema was not only the dominant medium of the thirties;<br />
cinematic technique, and particularly montage, was the dominant technique for thirties<br />
politically engaged writing, and can be seen as one of the strongest factors linking the<br />
literature produced in Birmingham and Bloomsbury.<br />
Allen wrote that in Birmingham “it was in the Film Society more than anywhere else<br />
that young artists came together” and he himself was an active member, and later became<br />
more involved in cinema as a reader for MGM (42). Hampson made documentaries for<br />
the BBC during the war and Auden’s involvement with John Grierson’s GPO fi lms is wellknown,<br />
as is MacNeice’s work at the BBC.<br />
In Birmingham, montage was the order of the day. At this point, I should defi ne<br />
montage, which is essentially the cutting and pasting of shots, and say that I am referring<br />
principally to Eisensteinian shock montage, which tends to involve the juxtaposition of<br />
discordant extremes. Eisenstein saw montage as inextricably linked with radical leftist<br />
politics. He defi ned cinema as “fi rst and foremost, montage” and said that through montage,<br />
cinema becomes a “tractor ploughing over the audience’s psyche in a particular class<br />
context” (Taylor 82, 56).<br />
In Hampson’s letter advising Brierley on the novel that would become Means-Test<br />
Man he suggests a montage between work and unemployment: “Make capital of each<br />
and every diff erence between the state of the man in employment and the man workless.<br />
Th e idea of contrast is, I feel, important” (cited in Croft 178). Saturday Night at the