By PASCAL BRUCKNER (Grove Press; 1981/87)
With its themes of voyeurism, thwarted desire and psychosis, contained in a claustrophobic narrative involving a perverse quadrangle, EVIL ANGELS reads like a Roman Polanski movie in ink. It’s no surprise, then, that Polanski adapted this novel for the screen in 1992.
The film in question, BITTER MOON (a literal translation of the book’s original title LUNES DE FIEL), was a ribald and darkly comedic affair, while this novel, written by a prominent French provocateur, is diametrically opposed tonally. It’s as serious as a heart attack and just as unforgiving, being a pitiless investigation into the farthest reaches of uncontained passion.
The point of view is that of Didier, a supremely naïve schoolteacher who together with his girlfriend Beatrice embarks on a sea trip to India aboard a Turkish ferry. Along for the ride is the alluring Rebecca, with whom Didier is immediately smitten. This doesn’t go unnoticed by Rebecca, who embarrasses Didier when he tries to make small talk (“Not only had she retreated into a distant formality by talking about my wit and my personality, but she pointed out how little I had of either”), or her wheelchair bound husband Franz, who warns Didier away from Rebecca and then, over the following four nights, eagerly fills him in on the details of their courtship.
This leads to a protracted story within the story, in which Franz and Rebecca meet on a bus and fall into a singularly intense relationship that seems idyllic at first, but quickly degenerates into lethargy, sadism and mutual hatred. Amid Franz’s recounting Didier attempts to seduce Rebecca, but a climactic surprise occurs that spells doom for everyone involved (with a final stinger that differs mightily from the more optimistic conclusion of BITTER MOON).
Experiencing the trajectory of these severely damaged individuals marching, unknowingly and otherwise, toward their collective immolation exerts a macabre fascination similar to that of the sight of rats in a meat grinder. It’s a profoundly grim piece of work, albeit rendered in a highly flowery and poetic manner. The prose, ably translated by William R. Beer, occasionally grows a bit too self-conscious for its own good, with much overripe philosophic patter (“True relationships take us out of ourselves, put us in a trance, in a state of permanent innovation”), but still provides an edifying blast of elegant perversity.