Sophinisba Solis (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sophinisba) wrote2005-10-29 06:28 pm
sophinisba) wrote2005-10-29 06:28 pm
Entry tags:
Spreading the Elijah love (Prague vignette)
Many thanks to those who responded to my request for requests yesterday. Your ideas are having just the effect I had hoped, that is, causing me to stretch, and to try things that wouldn't otherwise have occurred to me. I do intend to write at least 100 words for each of you, but isn't it funny how some bunnies bite harder than others? I'd considered putting something in that post about "fictional persons only," and am so glad I didn't because ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aprilkat came along and asked for something I've been wanting to read but hadn't ever thought of writing myself: Elijah in Prague. The ficlet I've come up with has no slash and, well, no plot either, really. It's just an little expression of my affection for a lovely man, a lovely city, a lovely book and movie. (Nevertheless: fiction fiction fiction, not true, no disrespect intended, no money made, etc.) Rated G.
Bohemia
He'd looked forward to spending the summer somewhere vaguely exotic, famously medieval, and, well, Bohemian; a new experience, an anti-L.A. The city was every bit as beautiful as he'd imagined it, his apartment appropriately small, the tiny and antiquated elevator as scary as he could have hoped for. The neighborhood was tourist central, but once he got inside (up the scary elevator or the crumbling, unlit staircase) he could forget that he was only here for a couple months. It wasn't I'm staying here, it was I live here. The balcony where he smoked overlooked an inner courtyard with overgrown bushes, semi-stray cats, laundry hung out on the line. He loved watching the old man who lived on the ground floor put out milk and leftovers, calling softly to the cats.
A writer/English teacher from Ireland lived in the apartment next door. They said hi to each other but avoided conversation after a first meeting.
Elijah liked living here, he just hadn't been prepared to meet so many other foreigners, spending their summer or their twenties in Prague with the same idea, the same Bohemian ideal. Pizza Hut, Benetton, Big Ben Bookshop and Bohemia Bagel. The ex-pats were everywhere -- British and American and everything else, hippies and businessmen, almost all of them drunk most of the time, none of them bothering to learn the language. Prague was crowded with them; it was crawling.
Not that they were bad people or that Elijah felt superior. He drank his share of svetlé pivo, hadn't learned much Czech beyond those two words himself, had gotten into some good conversations with other visitors when he went out with friends. And it was good sometimes, after hearing only Slavic on set all day, to connect with someone from home, or someone from that other home (because Kiwis were everywhere, just like Aussies). It was nice to unwind with a beer or several, and to let communication happen without effort.
And the locals didn't seem to mind, unlike in some other places he'd been, where every English word got him a dirty look, especially if pronounced with an American accent. He noticed that he got more positive reactions when he spoke in English than Eugene did when he spoke in Russian. He felt welcome here.
But there were times, especially when he was on his own, when he did his best to avoid the other foreigners, and even the English-speaking Czechs.
He liked going into record stores, even if the selection was crap, and making a connection with a stranger through nothing more than the names of bands and albums, and faces to communicate approval or disgust. Sometimes he'd bring in a Gogol Bordello CD, and no, the guy running the shop didn't always like it, but it was fun to see the reactions anyway.
He liked hanging out in the bar just below his apartment, which despite its location was dingy enough not to attract a lot of tourists. He liked flirting with the barmaid through exchanged glances and an anonymous (Argentine? Brazilian?) interpreter.
He liked getting slightly lost in the narrow streets of the old city and the Jewish quarter. When he needed directions to get back to his apartment, he would purposely seek out someone who looked like they wouldn't speak English; someone older, or with less fashionable clothes. He liked saying "Staromestské námestí" (which made him think of yoga, and made him think of Dom) and watching their hand gestures, listening for names of other streets and squares he knew. He liked saying "děkuji" and seeing them smile indulgently at his pronunciation. Sometimes he would make out the word hobbit in a long and otherwise incomprehensible exclamation, and he would say "děkuji" again. He liked that they did their best to help him, whether they recognized him or not.
A stand just this side of Charles Bridge sold Communist-era medals and pins and other trinkets, not even Czech ones but Soviet, more easily recognizable for westerners, more marketable. Eugene said there was nothing offensive or exploitative or wrong about this, but it made Elijah uncomfortable. It gave him a good feeling to know that the movie they were making wasn't like that. It wasn't set up to confirm what American audiences already thought they knew about the Eastern Bloc -- Nazis, Communists, cold winters, cold people.
A lot of the other foreigners he'd met here had read the book. It made the rounds among the ex-pats, along with Café Europa and Prague, Klíma and Kundera, Kafka and even Solzhenitsyn. It was a favorite.
"Everything Is Illuminated gets it right," said Emily, an ex-Peace Corps Volunteer from Connecticut who'd stayed on, for eleven years now, working with micro-lending and small businesses run by women. "I know Alex, I know how he feels about Jonathan, and I know how he feels about me. That book is true. Your movie has to be true." This movie, Elijah assured her, would get it right.
Very few of the Czechs he'd met had read the book. Neither, for that matter, had Elijah. Still, he felt confident telling them, this movie would get it right.
Okay, so it was a different country. Okay, so they weren't even done filming yet and already some people (especially back in the States) were complaining it was a betrayal of Foer's work. How dare they film it in the Czech Republic? Did they think one Eastern European country was the same as any other? How dare they leave out the scenes from the shtetl (the chapters most people skimmed anyway, they'd admitted as much)?
Elijah didn't let it worry him. Some people wouldn't be satisfied unless they saw every single scene from the book, shot exactly as it was written, filmed in fields and along back roads outside and around Lutsk.
And some people would complain every time they heard Elijah Wood had been cast for anything whatsoever.
All of that was familiar enough, and all of that would go away, just like last time, Elijah felt sure, once people saw the film. If they got a chance to see it.
Elijah enjoyed his time in Prague.
aprilkat came along and asked for something I've been wanting to read but hadn't ever thought of writing myself: Elijah in Prague. The ficlet I've come up with has no slash and, well, no plot either, really. It's just an little expression of my affection for a lovely man, a lovely city, a lovely book and movie. (Nevertheless: fiction fiction fiction, not true, no disrespect intended, no money made, etc.) Rated G.Bohemia
He'd looked forward to spending the summer somewhere vaguely exotic, famously medieval, and, well, Bohemian; a new experience, an anti-L.A. The city was every bit as beautiful as he'd imagined it, his apartment appropriately small, the tiny and antiquated elevator as scary as he could have hoped for. The neighborhood was tourist central, but once he got inside (up the scary elevator or the crumbling, unlit staircase) he could forget that he was only here for a couple months. It wasn't I'm staying here, it was I live here. The balcony where he smoked overlooked an inner courtyard with overgrown bushes, semi-stray cats, laundry hung out on the line. He loved watching the old man who lived on the ground floor put out milk and leftovers, calling softly to the cats.
A writer/English teacher from Ireland lived in the apartment next door. They said hi to each other but avoided conversation after a first meeting.
Elijah liked living here, he just hadn't been prepared to meet so many other foreigners, spending their summer or their twenties in Prague with the same idea, the same Bohemian ideal. Pizza Hut, Benetton, Big Ben Bookshop and Bohemia Bagel. The ex-pats were everywhere -- British and American and everything else, hippies and businessmen, almost all of them drunk most of the time, none of them bothering to learn the language. Prague was crowded with them; it was crawling.
Not that they were bad people or that Elijah felt superior. He drank his share of svetlé pivo, hadn't learned much Czech beyond those two words himself, had gotten into some good conversations with other visitors when he went out with friends. And it was good sometimes, after hearing only Slavic on set all day, to connect with someone from home, or someone from that other home (because Kiwis were everywhere, just like Aussies). It was nice to unwind with a beer or several, and to let communication happen without effort.
And the locals didn't seem to mind, unlike in some other places he'd been, where every English word got him a dirty look, especially if pronounced with an American accent. He noticed that he got more positive reactions when he spoke in English than Eugene did when he spoke in Russian. He felt welcome here.
But there were times, especially when he was on his own, when he did his best to avoid the other foreigners, and even the English-speaking Czechs.
He liked going into record stores, even if the selection was crap, and making a connection with a stranger through nothing more than the names of bands and albums, and faces to communicate approval or disgust. Sometimes he'd bring in a Gogol Bordello CD, and no, the guy running the shop didn't always like it, but it was fun to see the reactions anyway.
He liked hanging out in the bar just below his apartment, which despite its location was dingy enough not to attract a lot of tourists. He liked flirting with the barmaid through exchanged glances and an anonymous (Argentine? Brazilian?) interpreter.
He liked getting slightly lost in the narrow streets of the old city and the Jewish quarter. When he needed directions to get back to his apartment, he would purposely seek out someone who looked like they wouldn't speak English; someone older, or with less fashionable clothes. He liked saying "Staromestské námestí" (which made him think of yoga, and made him think of Dom) and watching their hand gestures, listening for names of other streets and squares he knew. He liked saying "děkuji" and seeing them smile indulgently at his pronunciation. Sometimes he would make out the word hobbit in a long and otherwise incomprehensible exclamation, and he would say "děkuji" again. He liked that they did their best to help him, whether they recognized him or not.
A stand just this side of Charles Bridge sold Communist-era medals and pins and other trinkets, not even Czech ones but Soviet, more easily recognizable for westerners, more marketable. Eugene said there was nothing offensive or exploitative or wrong about this, but it made Elijah uncomfortable. It gave him a good feeling to know that the movie they were making wasn't like that. It wasn't set up to confirm what American audiences already thought they knew about the Eastern Bloc -- Nazis, Communists, cold winters, cold people.
A lot of the other foreigners he'd met here had read the book. It made the rounds among the ex-pats, along with Café Europa and Prague, Klíma and Kundera, Kafka and even Solzhenitsyn. It was a favorite.
"Everything Is Illuminated gets it right," said Emily, an ex-Peace Corps Volunteer from Connecticut who'd stayed on, for eleven years now, working with micro-lending and small businesses run by women. "I know Alex, I know how he feels about Jonathan, and I know how he feels about me. That book is true. Your movie has to be true." This movie, Elijah assured her, would get it right.
Very few of the Czechs he'd met had read the book. Neither, for that matter, had Elijah. Still, he felt confident telling them, this movie would get it right.
Okay, so it was a different country. Okay, so they weren't even done filming yet and already some people (especially back in the States) were complaining it was a betrayal of Foer's work. How dare they film it in the Czech Republic? Did they think one Eastern European country was the same as any other? How dare they leave out the scenes from the shtetl (the chapters most people skimmed anyway, they'd admitted as much)?
Elijah didn't let it worry him. Some people wouldn't be satisfied unless they saw every single scene from the book, shot exactly as it was written, filmed in fields and along back roads outside and around Lutsk.
And some people would complain every time they heard Elijah Wood had been cast for anything whatsoever.
All of that was familiar enough, and all of that would go away, just like last time, Elijah felt sure, once people saw the film. If they got a chance to see it.
Elijah enjoyed his time in Prague.
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Very few of the Czechs he'd met had read the book. Neither, for that matter, had Elijah. Still, he felt confident telling them, this movie would get it right.
Great touch :-)
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And of course,
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The details of the environment are so compelling and sound so right, and also get the feeling of a young person trying out a foreign country. I really like the whole thing.
My daughter was in Prague last January, and she saw Elijah's picture hanging in a coffee shop there. She tried to take a photo of it, but it didn't come out. (She explained to the two students with her that it wasn't for her, it was for her mother, which seemed even geekier to them. What kids won't do for their parents sometimes...)
Thanks again. See, you CAN write RPF!
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You know, this article came out while I was in Poland this summer and, even though not everything he said went along with my own and friends' impressions of Prague, it was really pretty thrilling to think about him being there. Then I got all nostalgic (for Poland, mostly) while I was writing this.
And I love the story about your daugher. How sweet of her to at least try to take that picture for you, even with people around. :)
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Great writing!
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You have great talent with your writings.
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I know! I totally did that in college when I'd be studying somewhere for a few months, I wouldn't let anybody say I was "visiting", I'd act insulted! Hee, so nice to have you read one of my fics. Thank you, other Soph!
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And it is a very nice piece of writing, besides that.
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