Giamatti
In an interview on the eve of his film release,
Paul Giamatti described what people’s souls would look like if everyone could see them. For example Willie Nelson’s soul would be an ear of roasted corn. Giamatti liked the idea, personally, of having a country singer’s soul, but not Merle Haggard’s, which would be kind of rusty with lots of buildup. The guitarist Slash’s soul was ‘a blood orange left out on a windowsill, all dried out and leathery’. Freud’s soul was a piece of Babylonian statuary, with the fulsome beard, the half-a-lion, the wings. Jessica Simpson’s soul was hard to pin down, but in the end was maybe a tape measure. Donald Trump’s was a nice set of whitewall tyres. Kim Jong II’s, ‘a crazy box of crabs’, and Henry Kissinger’s, ‘a doorknob’.
Giamatti thought his own soul, truthfully, might be
a hand-painted ceramic toad. Something decorative yet inconspicuous, to go in the yard, something that visitors would refer to (in hushed wonder) as a ‘thing’: ‘You know, I kind of like that thing.’
Giamatti was very good at bestowing souls.
I bet it was a game he liked to play as he walked round Brooklyn, glowering at the homeless, the autograph hunters, the blood-sucking poets the misspellers of his name. His approach was poetic: you could look at his souls in a number of ways; they crossed a number of windows, to and fro.
The problem is, though: if the soul was (for example) a peahen
then what about the peahen’s soul? Where does it reside? We will never know the inner life of the peahen nor that of the ear of roasted corn that the peahen has eaten. My mother’s soul might resemble a moon but that only seems so because I am far away.
In the Giamatti film the soul is burdensome.
His character is weighed down by all the nameless anxieties inside. But as it turns out, Paul Giamatti’s character’s soul is nothing more than a single, heat-treated chickpea. As he peers into the plastic cylinder where his extracted soul rolls about he looks so lonely for himself it breaks my heart.
Is that my soul, I used to wonder
when I woke up sad? It was as if in my sleep my soul had mistakenly risen to the surface, forgetting that its adaptations were meant for the deep. Or was that not my soul at all – just the undertow of a dream? And was my soul like nothing, or nothing more than passing through light and shadow, with eyes closed; or nothing more than a forgotten driftnet, growing things on its ropes?
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