Truman on My Mind
Saw the film "
Capote" the other night, and it filled me with thoughts about the nature of journalism and the responsibility journalists owe to their subjects.
The film portrays Truman Capote, played marvelously by Phillip Seymour Hoffman, as he struggles to tell the story of two men who committed four brutal murders—and elevate his career to a level of immense fame and prestige in the process. It's a very rich film for a writer to see, because it explores the way that writers transform experience into art and the emotional complications and betrayals that can result. At some point in their careers, every writer must confront exactly these issues, and probably more than once. In this context, I haven't—I've interviewed three men convicted of murder, two of whom I thought were guilty as hell and one of whom clearly was not—but I never empathized with either of the murderers, as Capote did. For me, these issues loomed during the writing of
American Son. (Which, lest you misunderstand me, I would never equate with
In Cold Blood, a classic book.) But that is a tale for another time.
As I said, the movie gives one lots of food for thought, but there was one thing that I thought got lost in the translation, and that was the brilliance of Capote's writing. I re-read "In Cold Blood" a couple months ago—I hadn't read it since college—and though the novelty of the technique has diminished with time and imitation, the skill manifest in the prose remains, perhaps even elevated by the mediocrity of some of its descendants.
Here's one of my favorite passages, which tells of a cop on the hunt of the killers who interviews the proprietress of a cheap hotel where they stayed. It's hot stuff.
The detective clapped his hands. Eventually, a voice, female, but not very feminine, shouted, "I'm coming, " but it was five minutes before the woman appeared. She wore a soiled housecoat and high-heeled gold leather sandals. Curlers pinioned her thinning yellowish hair. Her face was broad, muscular, rouged, powdered. She was carrying a can of Miller High Life beer; she smelled of beer and tobacco and recently applied nail varnish. She was seventy-four years old, but in [the detective's] opinion, "looked younger—maybe ten minutes younger." She stared at him, his trim brown suit, his brown snapbrim hat. When he displayed his badge, she was amused; her lips parted, and Nye glimpsed two rows of fake teeth. "Uh-huh. That's what I figured," she said. "O.K. Let's hear it."Capote makes this sound so easy, but his choices are subtle and original—her "yellowish" hair; the comma in "female, but not very feminine," and the semi-colon after "she was amused"; the primal implication of "her lips parted." And the wonderful, sparing use of the detective's quote: "younger—maybe ten minutes younger."
It's fabulous writing, now as then.
