Prater Violet

This novella is only the second book of Isherwood’s that I’ve read, and I enjoyed it even more than the first, Goodbye to Berlin. It’s an interesting feature of his work that he blurs the line between memoir and fiction.
As in Goodbye to Berlin, in Prater Violet Isherwood writes in the first person as a character named Christopher Isherwood and bases the tale on his own experience, in this case, his first foray into film. Nevertheless, it is a novel that reads like a novel. It has the freedom and snappy dialogue of the best fiction.
Friedrich Bergmann, Viennese intellectual director, is a memorably-depicted figure. The character of Isherwood is only slightly less successful, perhaps because one has seen the type of the effete show more university-educated product of a middle-class home unable to act on his sympathy for the down-trodden before (most recently, in my case, in the author's Berlin collection). Still, this portrait is an interesting variation on the theme.
While some of the supporting characters are sketchy, others are vivid; I think of Lawrence the technician, Chatsworth, the producer, and Ashmeade, Cambridge poet-turned-studio intriguer.
The juxtaposition of the self-important, insular, crisis-ridden studio and the percolating instability of central Europe under the shadow of Fascism works for me. I was glad that the one was not clumsily portrayed as the counterpart to the other. The points of contact Isherwood evokes are sufficient, and deftly handled. A very good read. show less

Prater Violet is a short, sharp read. I think I may have read it a bit too fast, actually. Isherwood's prose is charming and economical, and he does a good job keeping the story's smaller players distinguishable. I loved how, in addition to the central interactions between Bergmann and the fictionalized Isherwood, a whole world behind this brief story is hinted at, is fed to the reader sideways-- the further vast workings of the film industry, the interior lives of each technician and secretary, the hint of the past with Ashmeade, and most hugely, the hulking terror of Hitler and World War II. In general, it's quick and light and contemplative, but the story really opens up and swallows you at the end.

Well, gotta go read more Isherwood now.

A truly delightful read, with enticing insight into Art and the process of creation in relation to Man, the roles he plays under cold, artificial lights, the paths he moves along, and the chill mathematics of show-business and of the falling dominoes of history that tamper with the artistic temperament.
Gripping questions related to the human condition such as love and friendship are explored in more depth on a few pages than they usually are in thick volumes.
Bittersweet truths about who we might be and what we are doing with ourselves often come in deliciously manageable bite-sized chunks.

This is quite a succinct book, really being a mini Biography of the larger than life, Viennese film director Friedrich Bergmann during the pre-WWII period that Isherwood worked with him on the film Prater Violet. But he is an extremely entertaining, unrelenting and observant writer, who writes with great affection about a man who, for a while, seemed like a father to him.

This was a very amusing read, but the larger, darker background story of the prelude to war and of day to day loneliness isn't lost. He is not afraid to laugh at himself, and the images that he creates are wonderful - here's a bit that had me laughing out loud at the beginning:

"He was off the line. I jiggled the phone for a moment, stupidly, with vague indignation. Then show more I picked up the directory, found Imperial Bulldog's number, dialled the first letter, stopped. I walked across to the dining-room door. My mother and my younger brother Richard were still sitting at breakfast. I stood just inside the doorway and lit a cigarette, not looking at them, very casual.
'Was that Stephen?' my mother asked. She generally knew when I needed a cue-line.
'No.' I blew out a lot of smoke, frowning at the mantelpiece clock. 'Only some movie-people.'
'Movie-people!' Richard put down his cup with a clatter. 'Oh, Christopher! How exciting!'
This made me frown harder.
After a suitable pause my mother asked with extreme tact: 'Did they want you to write something?'
'Apparently,' I drawled, almost too bored to speak."

...I'm smirking as I read it right now! show less

A lovely but light fictional recreation of "Christopher Isherwood"'s experiences in the movie business in England before the outbreak of WW2.

Friedrich Bergmann is the real character of the book, the Viennese director of the eponymous film, and though his reactions to the news of the events of 1938 in Austria, we learn of the general indifference of Britain to Nazi-ism immediately before the outbreak of WW2, such as the comment that people were joking about holidays in Europe next summer, if there is a Europe!

Overall this was a light and remarkably quick read.

It is a marvelous moment when Isherwood, as narrator, casts off his "camera" disguise and lays bare his up-until-then unsuspected personal feelings. The character of the expatriate film director is a comic gem.

Simply written, and rather easily understood novel that explores Isherwood's thoughts regarding the German refugees he came into contact with while WWII was raging. One of his more successful efforts.