There's No Fool Like an Old Fool: Notes on the Case of Ambrose the Masked Dancer

Jean Galland as Ambrose the masked dancer

Le Plaisir (dir. Max Ophüls, 1952) [1]

 

 "The truth of metaphysics is the truth of masks ..."

 

 

I. 

 

Mention The Mask to most people and they probably think of Stanley Ipkiss, as played by Jim Carrey in the 1994 film of that title; or, perhaps, of the original Dark Horse comic book series, created by Doug Mahnke and John Arcudi, that the movie was based upon. 

 

But for the small number of people familiar with 19th-century French literature, then it's the title of a short story by Guy de Maupassant [2]; one which I would like to discuss here, interested as I am at moment with the male response to ageing and what constitutes appropriate (or inappropriate) dress and behaviour in men over a certain age.  

 

II.

 

The story opens at a crowded masquerade ball. People were gathered to have fun and came from every quarter of Paris and every class, united in their desire for amusement and rowdy pleasure tinged with a sense of debauchery. 

 

There were pretty girls of every description; "some wearing common cotton, some the finest batiste; rich girls, old and covered with diamonds, and poor girls of sixteen, full of the desire to revel, to belong to men, to spend money".

The masked dancers were working themselves into a pagan frenzy; young women "whose lower limbs seemed to be attached to their bodies by rubber springs, were making wonderful and surprising motions with their legs", whilst their male partners hopped and skipped and waved their arms about. One could imagine them panting breathlessly beneath their masks. 

 

One man in particular stood out from the crowd due to the fact that he was "making strange fancy steps" which aroused the joy and sarcasm of those watching:

 

"He was thin, dressed like a dandy, with a pretty varnished mask on his face. It had a curly blond moustache and a wavy wig. He looked like a wax figure from the Musée Grévin, like a strange and fantastic caricature of the charming young man of fashion plates, and he danced with visible effort, clumsily, with a comical impetuosity." 

 

The narrator of the tale continues:

 

"He appeared rusty beside the others when he tried to imitate their gambols: he seemed overcome by rheumatism, as heavy as a great Dane playing with greyhounds. Mocking bravos encouraged him. And he, carried away with enthusiasm, jigged about with such frenzy that suddenly, carried away by a wild spurt, he pitched head foremost into the living wall formed by the audience, which opened up before him to allow him to pass, then closed around the inanimate body of the dancer, stretched out on his face." 

 

Oh dear, that's not good; no one wants to pass out on the dance floor and end up flat on their face - even when wearing a mask. 

 

Luckily for him, some kind souls pick him up and carry him off the dance floor. A doctor is called. Upon examining the unconscious figure, he notices that the mask he was wearing was "attached in a complicated manner, with a perfect network of small metal wires which cleverly bound it to his wig and covered the whole head". 

 

Indeed, even the neck was "imprisoned in a false skin which continued the chin and was painted the color of flesh, being attached to the collar of the shirt". All this material has to be cut away with large scissors. When the physician finally removes the elaborate disguise he is surprised to discover the worn out and wrinkled face of an old man:

 

"The surprise among those who had brought in this seemingly young dancer was so great that no one laughed, no one said a word. All were watching this sad face as he lay on the straw chairs, his eyes closed, his face covered with white hair, some long, falling from the forehead over the face, others short, growing around the face and the chin, and beside this poor head, that pretty little, neat varnished, smiling mask." 

 

 

III.

 

This is a creepy and brilliant opening to a tale - one that compels the reader to continue; we must find out who this mysterious figure is and why he wears such a mask. Even the doctor is curious to discover who this man might be. And so, when his patient finally recovers consciousness, he takes him home in a cab.

 

The old man, we are informed, lives on the other side of Montmarte in a somewhat delapidated building. The doctor helps him up four flights of stairs to his apartment, the door to which is opened by "an old woman, neat looking, with a white nightcap enclosing a thin face with sharp features, one of those good, rough faces of a hard-working and faithful woman". 

 

Upon seeing the state that the man - her husband, Ambrose - was in, she cried out in distress. The doctor calms her and explains what has happened. To his surprise, she wasn't at all shocked; for this wasn't the first time that such an incident had occurred. She insisted that the doctor help her put him to bed and allow him to sleep; that he'd be fine in the morning. 

 

The doctor, however, is not convinced and remains concerned for his patient. But the woman, Madeleine, insists that he'll be alright - that Ambrose has merely drunk too much on an empty stomach: 

 

"'He has eaten no dinner, in order to be nimble, and then he took a few absinthes in order to work himself up to the proper pitch. You see, drink gives strength to his legs, but it stops his thoughts and words. He is too old to dance as he does. Really, his lack of common sense is enough to drive one mad!'" 

 

The doctor, his curiosity piqued, enquired: "'But why does he dance like that at his age?'"

 

And that's really the key question here: Why does an elderly man still want to act and look young, at the risk of behaving in an inappropriate manner and making a fool of himself?  

 

It's a question that we might ask today, for example, of rock stars in their sixties and seventies who still take to the stage and attempt to summon up the passions and strike the poses of youth. 

 

As a middle-aged man myself, I think I have a pretty good idea of the answer. And so, whilst I'm irritated and embarrassed by those who, as it were, don masks and attempt to disguise their age with wigs, make-up, fashionable clothes, and much younger partners, I do sympathise.

 

However, as the masked dancer's wife spells out the answer to this question with such cruel precision, I'll let readers hear her reply:   

 

"'Ah! yes, why? So that the people will think him young under his mask; so that the women will still take him for a young dandy and whisper nasty things into his ears; so that he can rub up against all their dirty skins, with their perfumes and powders and cosmetics. Ah! it's a fine business!'" 

 

That's certainly part of it. But not all: the male desire for youthfulness isn't simply about retaining sex appeal and potency, although, obviously, Madeleine's main concern is with her husband's serial infidelity and how this has hurt her: 

 

"'What a life I have had for the last forty years! [...] I have been his wife and servant, everything, everything that he wished [ ...] But how he has made me cry [...]'" 

 

Now, whilst I don't wish to make light of Madeleine's pain, or deny the fact that her husband behaved cruelly in boasting of his affairs and insisting she hear every sordid detail, I would like to know why it is (certain) women always bring things back to themselves - and why they never stop to consider that perhaps - just perhaps - male passion and male suffering is greater than their own? [3] 

 

And without wanting to generalise in a manner that will bring accusations of sexism or misogyny my way, it does sometimes seem that whilst taking their own worries and their own bodies and health issues extremely seriously, women often sneer at men and dismiss their feelings and fears. Thus, they deride the notion of a male menopause, for example, and laugh at the idea of a mid-life crisis; or joke about erectile dysfunction, baldness, and even prostate cancer.

   

But let us return to Maupassant's tale ... 

 

 

IV.

 

Madeleine explains her husband's behaviour to the doctor in terms of regret - that feeling of sadness and disappointment which she understands only too well:

 

"'You see, it's regret that leads him on and that makes him put a pasteboard face over his own. Yes, the regret of no longer being what he was and of no longer making any conquests!'" 

 

I don't think that's right, however. I think it's angst and his sense of becoming invisible in the world that makes Ambrose put on a mask and demand the right to still participate in the game of life. 

Still, perhaps we're simply splitting hairs and forming a false dichotomy between regret and philosophical anxiety ... But talking of hairs:

 

"'Oh, monsieur, when I saw his first white hair I felt a terrible shock and then a great joy - a wicked joy - but so great, so great! I said to myself: 'It's the end - it's the end.' It seemed as if I were about to be released from prison. At last I could have him to myself, all to myself, when the others would no longer want him.'" 

 

At least Madeleine is honest - but that's a rather terrible confession. Remembering her joy at his rapid ageing over the next couple of years and the fact that he would lose his freshness so that women would no longer find him sexually attractive, she continues:

 

"'White hair! He was going to have white hair! My heart began to thump and perspiration stood out all over me, but away down at the bottom I was happy. It was mean to feel thus, but I did my housework with a light heart [...]'" 

 

That's good for her, but I do rather feel sorry for poor Ambrose for failing to live up to his name [3]. In desperation, he tried to start a new career in the hat business. When that failed, he tried to become an actor. Finally, he simply decided to frequent bars and cabaret venues, dancing the night away wearing his home-made mask:

 

"'This habit holds him like a frenzy. He has to be young; he has to dance with women who smell of perfume and cosmetics.'"

 

And - I would suggest - he has to get away from a woman who, whilst claiming to love him, pities him, mocks him and desires nothing more than for the two of them to sit side-by-side in their rocking chairs for all eternity. 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Le Plaisir (dir. Max Ophüls, 1952) is a film based on three short stories by Guy de Maupassant; 'Le Masque' (1889), 'La Maison Tellier' (1881), and 'Le Modèle (1883). It was released in the English-speaking world under the title House of Pleasure. Stanley Kubrick once named it as his favourite film. To watch a French trailer (une bande-annonce) for the film, click here.

 

[2] Le masque was published in a periodical in 1889. It first appeared in book form in Maupassant's fifteenth collection of stories (the last published during his lifetime), L’inutile beauté (1890). 

      For this post, I have relied upon the English translation published as an e-book by online-literature.com: click here. The same translation can also be found in Vol. XI of Maupassant's short stories published by Project Gutenberg: click here.   

[3] This might explain, for example, why men produce superior works of art, commit suicide far more often, and experience that most philosophical of all moods, angst, with greater intensity than women. Could it be that the mutated Y-chromosome determines far more difference than we imagine or like to believe between the sexes ...?

 

[4] Ambrose is a boy's name of Greek origin, meaning immortal.

 

 

Readers interested in knowing more about the truth of masks might like to see an earlier post from February 2018: click here.

I am grateful to Thomas Bonneville - yet again - for suggesting this post as a follow up to the study of Gustav von Aschenbach, which can be found by clicking here. 

 

 

There's No Fool Like an Old Fool: Notes on the Case of Gustav von Aschenbach

Dirk Bogarde as Gustav von Aschenbach

in Death in Venice (1971)

 

 

I. 

 

For gentlemen of a certain age - let's say over 50 - be they gay or straight, poets, pederasts, or punk rockers still dreaming of the Summer of Hate, the sorry tale of Gustav von Aschenbach [1] remains a crucial warning against vainly attempting to summon up the passions of youth, or cling on to one's looks at the risk of losing one's dignity in the process ...

 

 

II. 

 

Gustav von Aschenbach is a small, dark, clean-shaven writer in his fifties: 

 

"His head seemed a bit too large in comparison with his almost dapper figure. His hair was brushed straight back, thinning out towards the crown, but very full about the temples, and strongly marked with grey; it framed a high, ridged forehead. Gold spectacles with rimless lenses cut into the bridge of his bold, heavy nose. The mouth was big, sometimes drooping, sometimes suddenly pinched and firm. His cheeks were thin and wrinkled, his well-formed chin had a slight cleft." 

 

If he doesn't sound a particularly handsome chap, there's no reason to think him an ugly blighter; he's simply a middle-aged intellectual, conscious of the fact that he's in a terminal state of physical decline. 

 

One day, however, Aschenbach is gripped by a new feeling; "a peculiar inner expansion, a kind of roving unrest, a youthful longing after far-off places". This feeling is "so vivid, so new, or so long dormant and neglected", that it literally stops him in his tracks: "It was the desire for travel, nothing more; although, to be sure, it had attacked him violently, and was heightened to a passion ..."

 

And so he decides to take himself off on holiday and books a room at the Grand Hotel des Bains [2] on that tiny island in the Venetian lagoon known as the Lido.    

 

Whilst aboard ship en route to the island, Aschenbach encounters a group of high-spirited young people:

"They made a considerable fuss about themselves and their enterprise, chattered, laughed, enjoyed their own antics self-contentedly [...]  One, in a bright yellow summer suit of ultra-fashionable cut, with a red necktie, and a rakishly tilted panama, surpassed all the others in his crowing good humour." 

 

However, as soon as Aschenbach observed the latter a bit more carefully, he realised with a kind of horror that he was, in fact, an atrocious old man attempting to pass for a youth by disguising himself with cosmetics, prosthetics, and dandyish attire: 

 

"There were wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. The faint crimson of the cheeks was paint, the hair under his brilliantly decorated straw hat was a wig; his neck was hollow and stringy, his turned-up moustache and the imperial on his chin were dyed; the full set of yellow teeth which he displayed when he laughed, a cheap artificial plate; and his hands, with signet rings on both index fingers, were those of an old man. Fascinated with loathing, Aschenbach watched him in his intercourse with his friends. Did they not know, did they not observe that he was old, that he was not entitled to wear their bright, foppish clothing, that he was not entitled to play at being one of them?"

 

Later during the journey at sea, Aschenbach again encounters the group of revellers on deck, all happily drinking bottles of Italian sparkling wine:

 

"But it was repulsive to see what a state the primped-up old man had been brought to by his comradeship with youth. His old head was not able to resist its wine like the young and robust: he was painfully drunk. With glazed eyes, a cigarette between his trembling fingers, he stood in one place, swaying backwards and forwards from giddiness, and balancing himself laboriously. Since he would have fallen at the first step, he did not trust himself from the spot - yet he showed a deplorable insolence, buttonholed everyone who came near him, stammered, winked, and tittered, lifted his wrinkled, ornamented index finger in a stupid attempt at bantering, while he licked the corners of his mouth with his tongue in the most abominably suggestive manner."

 

That's not a good look or appropriate behaviour even for a young man - but for a man of mature years it really is deplorable and depressing. The irony, of course, is that after becoming besotted with a beautiful teenage boy dressed in a sailor suit, Aschenbach increasingly starts to resemble the above. 

 

For when not perving on Tadzio and secretly following him around Venice, Aschenbach spends hours in front of the mirror, staring at his grey hair and the signs of fatigue which plunge him into shame and despair. In an attempt to reverse the signs of ageing, he visits the hotel's barber shop, where he is persuaded to have his hair dyed and to use moisturiser and make-up, so as to freshen up the skin a little.

 

In addition, Aschenbach "added bright youthful details to his dress, put on jewels, and used perfumes" and - hey presto! - before long he has transformed himself into a flamboyant old queen; his eyes sparkling, his wrinkles smoothed away with lotions and creams, his lips full once more and as red as raspberries ... 

 

Now, at last, he was ready to fall in love without hesitation; for  he had been rejuvinated and looked young once more (in his own mind at least). 

 

Sadly, however, Aschenbach never does get to hold Tadzio; for shortly after this he falls victim to the cholera outbreak then sweeping Venice and dies.

 

III. 

 

Just to be clear: I don't want to perpetuate myths of passivity and sexlessness when it comes to older people and I don't wish to appear ageist. 

 

However, I do think that one should age with style and good grace and that means - as Deleuze and Guattari say [3] - extracting the molecular elements, the forces and flows, that constitute the youth of whatever age one happens to be, rather than attempting to look and act like an adolescent. 

But then, what do I know? It's Gustav von Aschenbach and not me who now has a successful fashion label named after him [4] and maybe even an old fool dressed like a clown is ultimately preferable to some young member of the fashion police dictating what is and is not appropriate attire for every age group. 

 

As Adam Ant beseeched fans young and old in his Prince Charming phase: Don't you ever stop being dandy ... ridicule is nothing to be scared of [5].

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Gustav von Aschenbach is the main character in Thomas Mann's 1912 novella Der Tod in Venedig and, arguably, one of the most iconic figures within modern European literature - particularly after he was played by Dirk Bogarde in Luchino Visconti's 1971 film adaptation of the story (Morte a Venezia). 

      An English translation of Mann's novella, by Kenneth Burke, was published in periodical form in The Dial in 1924 and then in book form by Alfred A. Knopf the following year, as Death in Venice and Other Stories. There have been numerous editions and several translations since, but Burke's remains an excellent translation and can be read online thanks to Project Gutenberg: click here. All quotations in this post are taken from this e-book (which is why there are no page numbers supplied).

 

[2] The Grand Hotel des Bains was a former luxury hotel built in 1900 to attract wealthy tourists. Thomas Mann stayed there in 1911 and Luchino Visconti also shot scenes for his film at the hotel. It closed in 2010 and awaits conversion into an exclusive apartment complex.    

 

[3] See Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, trans. Brian Massumi, (University of Minnesota Press, 1987), p. 277. 

      Deleuze and Guattari also offer the following remark that those concerned about getting older might like to consider: "There are times when old age produces not eternal youth but a sovereign freedom, a pure necessity in which one enjoys a moment of grace between life and death ..." See What is Philosophy?, trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Graham Burchell, (Columbia University Press, 1994), p. 1.

 

[4] German-born fashion designer Robert Geller established a new line in 2017, named after the protagonist of Death in Venice. Made with Japanese fabrics, the pieces have a pretreated broken-in look and a slightly more commercial price point. Geller chose to name the range after Gustav von Aschenbach because, like the character, he suddenly become aware of his own age, having turned 40 in 2016. 

      Readers who wish to know more (and see some of the designs) can click here for an article by Nick Remsen in Vogue (10 July 2017), entitled 'Who is Gustav von Aschenbach and What Does Robert Geller Have to Do With Him?' 

 

[5] Adam and the Ants, 'Prince Charming', the number one hit single released from the album of the same title (CBS, 1981): click here for the official video directed by Mike Mansfield and Adam Ant. Whilst I agree with Adam that it's important to display a certain dandyism and rise above ridicule, I really don't think it was advisable for Marco to attempt the look he goes for in this video.    

 

Bonus: click here to watch the original 1971 trailer for Visconti's Death in Venice (now in HD). 

 

This post is for Thomas Bonneville who suggested the idea to me. Thanks also to Maria Thanassa and Catherine Brown for sharing their insights into Visconti's film version of Death in Venice (1971).  

 

 

Dr Bayard's Cough Drops

Some of the things that make happiest in life are small and inexpensive pleasures carried forward from and reminiscent of childhood. Such as a bag of sweets. 

The very names are often enough to trigger delight: black jacks, sherbet pips, kola cubes, love hearts, lemon bonbons, strawberry bonbons, pear drops, glacier mints, jelly tots, wine gums, humbugs ... the list is a long and delirious one of lip-smacking, gob-stopping wonder. 

Heaven, it seems, is sugar-rich and full of artificial colours.  

But these days, having succumbed to middle-age, I must almost shamefully confess that my confectionery of choice happens to be a very smooth aniseed-flavoured cough drop invented by a French physician in 1949 and still made to his original secret recipe at a factory in Portugal. 

Recommended by pharmacists the world over, Dr Bayard's cough drops are more than just medicinal wonders; they are also - like Ferrero Rocher - a welcome addition to any social occasion. Or so we are told by the manufacturers in their rather charming attempt at English: "Even in a friends gathering they're always a success!" 

If they lack the anarchic and childlike character of the best of British sweets and trade instead on grown-up bourgeois credentials, they remain eccentric enough in a European manner to make one smile and delicious enough to ensure I keep sucking them. I do worry though that I'm on a slippery slope towards Werther's Originals.

A Birthday Post on Becoming-Child

Inner Child Doll, by Beth Costello

Deleuze and Guattari are right: knowing how to age well does not mean attempting to remain young; it means extracting the molecular elements, the forces and flows, that constitute the youth of whatever age one happens to be.

In other words, it's not about diets, skin care, exercise regimes, or cosmetic surgery, but producing within oneself that child of innocence and forgetfulness, whom Zarathustra spoke of.  

Such a metamorphosis of the spirit is not easy and it has nothing to do with regression, imitation or identification. As Picasso once confessed, it took him four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child. 

All this on the occasion of yet another birthday ...

Too Old to Live, Too Slow to Die

Adam Ant has a new album out. It's his first in a very long time and it has a very long title. I wish him all the best with it, as I retain a lot of fraternal affection for Adam.

However, he's being slightly disingenuous when he pretends that rock 'n' roll is all about sex, style, and subversion, with a dash of humour for good measure. Because it is also about youth, speed, and untimely death. 

I'm not saying that's a good thing. But that's what rock 'n' roll is: a romantic and rebellious suicide cult in which spectacular failure is valued above benign success and dangerous excess is the rule, rather than a code of health and safety. An aged rock star - to paraphrase Nick Land writing about philosophers - is either a monster of stamina, or a charlatan.  

As it's you Adam, in all your punk-pirate splendour and your madness, I'm prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt ... You don't embarrass yourself and those who loved you in the manner that Rotten does.

  

Senescence

People - especially women over 35 who hold degrees in psychology - like to talk about spiritual growth and personal development, but are much less keen to talk about biological ageing.

Partly, this is because the violent changes to molecular and cellular structure over time invariably result in deterioration and death and no matter how priests, poets, and philosophers might like to dress it up, there's nothing fun about growing old and no one dies with dignity. In fact, death is the ultimate loss of dignity: a shipwreck into the nauseous, as Bataille so charmingly puts it.

The precise etiology of senescence is still largely undetermined and the process seems to be complex. Nevertheless, you can see it every time you look in the mirror, or, as here, by simply placing a series of photographs side by side showing the full ravages of time and decade after decade of fading youth and the failure of homeodynamics.