Translations
I was lost in translation, but now I’m found
selections by William Ham
illustration by Dave Dawson
The Original:
The Edge
with Anthony Hopkins, Alec Baldwin, Elle Macpherson
Directed by Lee Tamahori
Written by David Mamet
Reviewed by Scott Hefflon
Not usually one for outdoor adventure flicks, I’ll admit I don’t have much context in which to place The Edge. The movie works because it combines fantastic scenery, a few well-placed man-against-nature action sequences, and shows that quick wit and ingenuity can transcend corporate life into survival in the wild. Hopkins plays billionaire Charles Morse, Baldwin plays fashion photographer Robert Green, who’s sleeping with Morse’s model wife, Mickey, played by Macpherson. Harold Perrineau again gets cast as the expendable Black assistant, and you get the feeling he’d make a damn good actor if he ever lived ’til the end of a movie. The Edge doesn’t go nuts with action, as it easily could, nor does it plunge into brains-over-brawn, ditto.
After being translated into French, back into English, into Portugese, and back again into English:
The Edge
with Anthony Hopkins, Alec Baldwin, it Macpherson
Directed for Lee Tamahori
Writing for David Mamet
I coat not generally for Scott Hefflon
For effleure external of the adventure, I will admit that I do not have much context where he stops placing the edge. The film functions because it matches the fantastic landscape, some well-placed commands of the action of the one man-of meeting-nature, and test that rapids of the spirit and ingeniousness can exceed the life of the corporation the survival the savage. Hopkins plays billionaire Charles Morse, green of Robert of the photographer of the modality of the games of Baldwin, who sleeps with the wife model of Morse, Mickey, played for Macpherson. Harold Perrineau still gets the mold iron as a black aid dépensable, and you get the feeling that would make rotten to a good actor if never it lived until the extremity of a film. The edge does not go of the nuts with the action, because it could fàcilmente, nor dives in the brain-with-high-pie.
The Original:
Excerpted from In Search of the Point…
Fejod sang a happy song as he skipped into the apartment and slid in the puddle of congealed Craig. “Duiszk!” He spat some globular vocabulary at his roommate. “What the foul-foul-filth-and-further-foul is salad dressing doing on the linoleum?” He ran to the sink and grabbed a sponge. “Cookies go on the side of the plate, and the Thousand Peninsulas goes in the closet. And don’t give me that ‘Yeah, but there’s not enough room’ routine. I’ve heard it all before. Al Capella used that one this morning and I had to deduct two points off his overall score. My feet are dirtier than yours, and you know it. You just keep that in your front pocket and play with it on rare occasions, O.K.?” Fejod skulked into the foyer and stood on his head, which hurt his back but made him more attractive if you discounted the footprints on his scalp.
Translation, same drill:
Excerpted from In Search of the Point…
Fejod sang a happy song when it jumped in the apartment and it slid in the magma of “frozen Duiszk Craig!” it spit some globular vocabulary with its roommate. “What reeking salad of sauce it is making in linoleum?” It was become fullfilled in the gone down one for the east and apprehended a sponge. “The biscuits go in the side of the plate, and the thousand peninsulas enter in the closet. E does not give to this ‘Yeah to me, but it does not have a sub-routine of sufficient has broken.’ I very heard to frontear it. Al Capella was used that if this morning and I had that to deduce beyond colon its total points. My feet are modified of that its, and knows-vocêo it. Right you of subsistence that in its game of pocket and front with it in the rare occasions, APPROVAL?” Fejod skulked in hearth and was arrested in its head, that wounded his more postpones but made to attract if you to it scalp discontasse the copies of the stage in its.
The Original:
Excerpted from The Culture Bunker…
If 1997 was one of the more elliptical years in music history, with no individual artist making much of an impact (other than John Denver) and the record-company-engineered “electronica” hype proving the least successful movement since Elvis’ last grunt over the Graceland growler, then 1998 was the dried semen stain on the rented prom dress of the collective unconscious. Thanks to a patented concatenation of astral projection, psychic reception, and a unique variation on the standard crystal ball known as the “Magic 8-Ball,” I have already experienced the full spectrum of the upcoming year in music and popular entertainment, the highlights of which I present in hopes of furthering my commitment to the world entertainment community and winning a few wagers to help settle the sexual-harassment suit brought by a young employee at my psychic hotline (she claims that, on several occasions, she was touched by an angel).
Translated into German, back into English, and then into French and back
Excerpted from The Culture Bunker…
If 1997 elliptic year in music history, without which individual artist, who to form much an effect (different that John Denver) and memory company “electronica” hype to carry out, which to control little of made a success of movement since the last Grunzen Elvis above pruefspule Graceland, then 1998, to dry Semenfleck on renting PROM wraps together-without knowledge due patent sequence branch ral projection, psychological housing, and only version on D a standard out of crystal swell well-known like D “magic 8-Ball,” I to have already to test D full spectrum D nearest year in music and popular maintenance, the complaint pass from the young people used to the mien psychologically a hot line (it it to declare).
The original:
Excerpted from Prelude to a Lick…
And somewhere, a dog barked. Nicotine-stained and rubber cement-stickied fingers tap tentatively the last words, ironically enough the first words, of the first issue of Lollipop since ’97. 1998 is upon us, as she has been since the ball dropped, and the hopeful (yet suspiciously tired-looking, aged, and over-exuberant) wench squirms and shivers with what may appear to be optimism. Or it could be she knows her time is short (Let him who hath understanding reckon the cell phone and pager number of the Beast), and this’ll be her last fuck-frenzy ’til the millennium. Call me cautious (that’s a polite term for heartless, cynical bastard who’s already mashed the mellows and got the weenies skewed on the proverbial rotisserie, awaiting the bonfire hoedown of ’00)…
Into Spanish and back:
Excerpted from Prelude to a Lick…
And some share, a dog barked the Nicotine-soiled fingers and out of cement-stickied rubber type by way of test the last words, rather ironically the first words, of the first exit of Lollipop since ’97. 1998 is on us, because it was since the ball slackened, and, old, and with-top-exuberant the wench full with hope (however tired-looking suspiciously) twists and trembles with what can seem to be optimism. Or it can be it know that its time be the short (leave it that the comprehension of hath count the number of telephone and of pagineur of concealment of animal), and this’ll be its last ’til of kiss-frenzy the millénium. Call careful (it to say a polish limit for cruel, cynical bastard which already crush mellows and obtain weenies skew on proverbial rotisserie, await fire hoedown ’00)…
