Katherine Bowers (British Columbia) and Kate Holland (Toronto), together with a team of collaborators including Carol Apollonio (Duke), Brian Armstrong (Augusta), Mel Bach (Cambridge), Connor Doak (Bristol), and Ksenya Kiebuzinski (Toronto), have been awarded a Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada Connection Grant for the conference and outreach program “Crime and Punishment at 150.” The program will celebrate 150 years of Dostoevsky’s novel with a series of events, both on location and online. These will include library exhibits at the Universities of Toronto and Cambridge, and online; a panel discussion at the University of Bristol; a conference at the University of British Columbia; a Twitter project @RodionTweets; and more. Stay tuned for more details coming soon!
If you are interested in attending and presenting at the Vancouver conference, the Call for Papers is online. Abstracts are still being accepted until May 15.
Connor Doak is a lecturer in Russian at the University of Bristol. He is grateful to Ritsuko Kidera of Doshisha University for advice on Japanese culture when preparing this piece. This piece originally appeared on All the Russias, the blog of the NYU Jordan Center for the Advanced Study of Russian, and is reproduced here with their permission.
Many of us who share a love for nineteenth-century Russian literature have found a recent fix of television drama in the BBC’s sumptuous adaptation of War and Peace. My tastes, however, have always leaned toward Dostoevsky rather than Tolstoy, so I put the BBC drama on the back burner while I finished a 2013 Japanese adaptation of Brothers Karamazov, now available on DVD with English subtitles. This award-winning eleven-part miniseries relocates the action from nineteenth-century Skotoprigonevsk to twenty-first century Karasume, a fictional provincial town in Japan. The popular series provides a case study in how Dostoevsky has been indigenized for a contemporary Japanese audience. Moreover, it is fascinating to observe how this miniseries is influenced by recent trends in televised crime drama, a genre that, of course, had its origins in nineteenth-century literature, and to which Dostoevsky’s own novel made an important contribution some 150 years ago.
Even more than Dostoevsky’s novel, the miniseries highlights the family conflict at the heart of the story. The Karamazov family become the Kurosawas. This name offers a nod to the great Japanese director whose 1951 adaptation of The Idiot remains a classic, but its Japanese meaning—“black swamp”—also reflects the family name Karamazov’s connection to blackness. The terrifying presence of Bunzo Kurosawa, the Japanese incarnation of Fyodor Pavlovich, looms over the entire miniseries. Veteran actor Kotaro Yoshida’s wealth of experience as a Shakespearean stage actor shines through in his portrayal of the consummate villain, complete with maniacal laughter. It is difficult to forget him as, even once murdered, his grotesque image lingers through a huge portrait that dominates the interior scenes of the Karamazov house, and, of course, frequent flashbacks provide ample opportunity to add to his screen time.
Yoshida’s hyperbolic performance fits with the overblown aesthetic that characterizes the series as a whole. This mood is enhanced by gothic-inspired cut-scenes featuring sinister crows, as well as an emotionally laden soundtrack that mixes late Romantic composers (Grieg, Ravel, Tchaikovsky) with angry rock (Led Zeppelin, Lou Reed, Nirvana). “Paint It Black” by the Rolling Stones, with its tones of frenetic desperation, provides a fitting anthem for the series. At times, the program overindulges in this dark aesthetic, risking becoming a parody of itself. Perhaps that danger is particularly present for European audiences, whose taste in crime drama is currently more attuned to Scandi crime dramas. Nordic noir, though it deals with equally gruesome themes, tends towards a slower pace, bleaker, sparse settings, and more restrained performances. Yet for the viewer equipped with knowledge of Dostoevsky’s source text, the over-acting and heavily charged atmosphere appear as an asset in the Japanese miniseries, since these features have direct equivalents in the novel.
As in the novel, the miniseries opens with a reunion of the family. The father’s murder soon follows, leaving the audience wondering which of the brothers committed the crime. Even those familiar with the book are drawn in, as we wonder whether the adaptation might yield a different killer than the novel. The miniseries switches between different time periods: the lead-up to the murder, its aftermath, and the boys’ traumatic childhood. This editing technique creates a fragmentary narrative, inviting the audience to piece together the sons’ long-term resentment of their father as well as the events on the day of his murder. Though long familiar to viewers of crime drama, this device proves poignantly effective for an adaptation of Brothers Karamazov, as it allows for an exploration of the power of memory, so important to that novel.
Modern-day analogues are found for each of the three brothers, with varying degrees of success. Dmitry’s equivalent is Mitsuru (Takumi Saito), whose brooding good looks make him attractive to women, but who is struggling with debts and alcohol abuse. Perhaps the best performance comes from Hayato Ichihara as Isao, the counterpart for Ivan. His success not only stems from the fact that Isao has all the best lines—as many would argue Ivan does—but because Isao’s role as a lawyer proves an apposite twenty-first century equivalent to the questioning skeptic found in the novel.
It proves more difficult to find a modern-day analogue for Alyosha, the novice monk. He becomes Ryo (Kento Hayashi), a student of psychiatry, his kind spirit channeled into medicine rather than Christian virtue. As Ritsuko Kidera, a Dostoevsky specialist at Doshisha University, points out, Japanese versions of Dostoevsky have historically tended to play down the writer’s Christian themes because of the difficulty of finding cultural equivalents. Zosima’s role is even more difficult to reproduce. Although the early episodes feature a university tutor whom Ryo much admires, the character and his values are not articulated strongly enough to provide the same presence that the Russian monk offers in the novel.
It is, in fact, the social rather than the religious dimension of the novel that this adaptation foregrounds. The tyrannical patriarch Bunzo, a corrupt and uncompromising entrepreneur has bought up a good portion of the town of Karasume. According to the creator of the series, Misato Sato, Bunzo is “a relic of the bubble economy of the 1980s” . The dark side of economic growth is explored through a recasting of the subplot involving Snegirev, who is reimagined as a petty businessman whom Bunzo destroys financially by enlisting the help of his lawyer son Isao. Here the series points to the collusion of the law with big business, showing how Dostoevsky’s text can be repurposed as a critique of capitalism for our contemporary era of recession.
The police investigation occupies more space in the miniseries than in the novel. The idea of universal responsibility, arguably the novel’s central theme, is not entirely neglected, although it takes a back seat to the exploration of policing and justice in the miniseries. The detective’s assumption of Dmitry’s guilt echoes the social determinism of the prosecutor in the novel. The law is presented as coldly calculating and rational. Although the lead detective is not as wantonly cruel as the patriarch Bunzo, the system that he represents is almost as heartless.
Nabokov derisively called Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov “a typical detective story, a riotous whodunit—in slow motion” . This assessment purposely fails to mention all the ways in which Dostoevsky reworks the tradition of the whodunit: his questioning of human justice, his exploration of free will and determinism, and his Christian ethics, to name but a few. Although the miniseries does not attempt to replicate the full range of Dostoevsky’s philosophical inquiry, it, too, is more than a “riotous whodunit” on the small screen. The series not only uses Dostoevsky’s text to create an entertaining crime drama, but also as the basis for an inquiry into the psychology that accompanies the current socioeconomic moment in contemporary Japan.
 Misato Sato is interviewed in Anna Fediakina and Horie Hiroyuki, “Arigato, Karamazov-san,” Rossiiskaia gazeta, http://rg.ru/2013/04/10/misatosato-site.html, 11 April 2013.
 Vladimir Nabokov, Lectures on Russian Literature, ed. Fredson Bowers (New York: Harcourt, 1981), 133.
Congratulations to Dr. Deborah Martinsen! Dr. Martinsen (Columbia University), who is the former president of the International Dostoevsky Society and a current member of the North American Dostoevsky Society Executive Board, was recently awarded the Donald Barton Johnson Prize for the best essay published in Nabokov Studies. The prize, which is awarded every two years, was for her article, “Lolita as a St. Petersburg Text.” The article is not yet available, but for those who would like to read some vintage Martinsen, check out “Shame and Punishment” from the fifth volume of Dostoevsky Studies (the new series). It begins with the question, “Why doesn’t Raskolnikov repent?” – perfect reading for the 150th anniversary of Crime and Punishment!
Michael Marsh-Soloway is a PhD Candidate in the Department of Slavic Languages and Literatures at the University of Virginia.
At the end of the fall 2015 semester, Russian language students in the UVa Slavic Department held two performances of F.M. Dostoevsky’s “The Crocodile.” The first was held at the Jefferson-Madison Regional Library in downtown Charlottesville on Saturday, December 5, and the second was staged in the Nau Hall auditorium on Wednesday, December 9. The all-student cast recited dialogue in Russian, but English subtitles were also projected above the stage so that non-Russian speakers could follow the action of the play. The UVa College Council and Department of Slavic Languages and Literatures generously provided support to the production, allowing both performances to be free and open to the public. About 120 people attended the two shows, and the audience included university students, faculty, staff, and members of the local community.
First published in Dostoevsky’s journal Epokha in 1865, the short story was not originally intended for the stage. Sensing that the short farce and its humor would readily translate into theatrical comedy, two PhD students in the UVa Slavic Department, Michael Marsh-Soloway and Abigail Hohn, worked closely throughout the semester to adapt the satirical farce into a 15-page script. After visiting Russian-language classes at the start of the semester, they recruited an enthusiastic cast of 15 students and commenced holding rehearsals on a weekly basis starting in late September. The students in the cast all assisted with making props, costumes, and set décor. Maria Bakatkina, a native speaker of Russian in the 4+1 BA and MA program in Slavic Languages and Literatures, provided special phonetics instruction to members of the cast, while Michael and Abby addressed questions regarding grammar, syntax, and the semantic meaning of lines conveyed in the dialogue and stage direction of the play. In addition to writing the script and fielding Russian language questions about the script, Michael and Abby co-directed the production.
Video recordings of the “The Crocodile” are on YouTube:
Nau Hall performance: https://youtu.be/GkTVgDWqLYc
Saturday, January 9, 1:45–3:00 p.m., 202, JW Marriott
Chair: Katia Bowers (University of British Columbia) (Dr. Bowers will be unable to attend)
Panelist: Brian Armstrong (Augusta University)
Title: Rereading Nietzsche Reading Dostoevsky: Guilt Is Good
Panelist: Alexander Burry (Ohio State University)
Title: Reconstructing Dostoevsky’s Reading of Pushkin: ‘Cold Winds Still Blow’ as Key to Rebellion in The Brothers Karamazov
Panelist: Susan McReynolds (Northwestern University)
Title: Guilt and Punishment: Reading Dostoevsky through Kafka
Cate Reilly (Princeton University) will also be presenting on Dostoevsky as part of the “Fort-Da: Contested Legacies of Psychoanalysis in Russia” panel, which was organized by NADS member Emma Lieber (Rutgers University). Information can be found on the panel website.
AATSEEL Dostoevsky Panels
Panel: Dostoevsky and Addiction
Friday, January 8, 10:30am-12:15pm
Organizer and Chair: Justin Trifiro (University of Southern California)
Panelist: Lonny Harrison (University of Texas at Arlington)
Title: The Suffering Games: De Quincean Prodigality and Self-Production in Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Igrok
Panelist: Victoria Juharyan (Princeton University)
Title: Between Humility and Humiliation: Love as Freedom and Love as Addiction in Dostoevsky
Discussants: Robin Feuer Miller (Brandeis University) and Donna Tussing Orwin (University of Toronto)
Texts and Contexts: Tolstoy and Dostoevsky
Friday, January 8, 4:30-6:30pm
Chair: Jennie Wojtusik (University of Texas-Austin)
The publication ofCrime and Punishmentin 1866 was a watershed moment in the history of nineteenth-century Russian literature. Dostoevsky’s novel perennially hovers near the top of lists of “Best Books of All Time.” Harold Bloom summed up the work’s enduring mastery and appeal, observing that, “Crime and Punishment remains the best of all murder stories, a century and a third after its publication. We have to read it — though it is harrowing — because, like Shakespeare, it alters our consciousness.” In the twenty first century, media and technology advances have transformed the reading experience and the ways readers relate to texts. Most students in literature classrooms are now digital natives, many reading on e-devices, some even on smart phones. In the age of the “spoiler alert” our reading experience seems to have changed beyond all recognition, yet in some ways the possibilities of new reading communities opened up by social media allow us to replicate the kinds of institutional communities which arose around nineteenth-century Russian periodicals. Rethinking the ways in which we contextualize, teach, and interpret Dostoevsky’s novel will help make it more accessible to a new generation of readers.
“Crime and Punishmentat 150” will celebrate the novel’s sesquicentenary by bringing together teachers, scholars, students, translators, artists, and readers to discuss Dostoevsky in the digital age. The conference will include a keynote by Carol Apollonio, a screening of the new filmCrime and Punishment(Apocalypse Films, 2015) with post-film discussion with its director, Andrew O’Keefe, and a video conference with a linkedCrime and Punishmentpanel at the University of Bristol, among other events. Confirmed participants include Brian Armstrong, Elena Baraban, Alexander Burry, Deborah Martinsen, Louise McReynolds, Robin Feuer Miller, Megan Swift, and William Mills Todd, III.
We invite abstracts of 300 words on topics related toCrime and Punishmentin the classroom or digital humanities/new media approaches toCrime and Punishment. Possible topics include:
–reading Dostoevsky with students in 2016
–digital humanities-based research on Dostoevsky and/orCrime and Punishment
–digital or new media approaches to the novel in the classroom
–new approaches to teaching an old book
–public engagement initiatives (book club readings, online readings, Twitter projects)
–teaching the novel in different contexts (a survey course, a Dostoevsky course, across disciplines)
–the challenges and successes of teaching the novel in the context of decreasing enrolments and increasing departmental pressures
We also encourage students to submit abstracts and we plan to feature several panels showcasing undergraduate and graduate student research. We welcome 300 word abstracts for papers onCrime and Punishmentfrom undergraduate and graduate students, particularly those that explore new ways of reading the novel through the lens of new media or against the backdrop of contemporary issues and experiences.
This event is co-organized by Katherine Bowers and Kate Holland, and supported by the Department of Central, Eastern, and Northern European Studies (UBC), Green College (UBC), and the North American Dostoevsky Society.
As the bells begin to toll the midnight hour, Mr. Golyadkin is crossing the Fontanka in a terrible storm. St. Petersburg comes alive: black waters rise up against the embankments and howling winds gust through the streets. This soundscape also includes piercing squeaks from rattling lanterns and a gurgling backdrop from the heavy rain. Even this rain is ominous, “cutting and stinging Mr. Golyadkin in the face like a thousand pins” (138). He is alone; a feeling of “inexplicable uneasiness” (139) comes over him. Trudging through the darkness, Golyadkin experiences a strange new sensation: “melancholy, yet not melancholy, fear, and yet not fear… a feverish trembling [runs] through his veins. The moment [is] unbearably unpleasant!” (140). All of a sudden, in this damp, dark, misty night, Golyadkin comes face to face with his double! A cold shiver runs down his spine, as he stands, senselessly staring after the other. “Have I gone mad or something?” (141) he asks himself, incredulously.
This episode from Chapter 5 of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Double features all the conventions of a derivative gothic scene: the stroke of midnight, a persecuted hero, stormy weather, isolation, and a sense of “inexplicable uneasiness.” Yet, even before Golyadkin, Jr. (that is, the double) appears, Golyadkin, Sr. is filled with anxiety, fear, and dread, almost as though the appearance of his double is expected. Throughout the work, Golyadkin Sr. repeatedly asks himself if he is hallucinating or going mad. By the end, though, he seems resigned to the existence of his double. In addition to this episode and the uncanny double, gothic psychologies such as anxiety, uneasiness, and dread permeate the work. While these could simply provide atmosphere, Dostoevsky exploits them to build up a palpable sense of anxiety for his reader, a reflection of his hero’s anxiety. While the narrator’s voice at times provides humor, the text’s gothic quality contributes to a sense of disquiet that lingers even after the book has been shut.
Dostoevsky was well aware of the power of the gothic. Indeed, gothic themes appear so frequently in his works that Vladimir Nabokov dismissed him as merely “a much overrated, sentimental, and Gothic novelist of the time.” Intriguingly, Nabokov also considered The Double, despite its obvious gothic theme, to be “the very best thing [Dostoevsky] ever wrote.” Dostoevsky’s interest in gothic fiction began when his parents read it to him as a child; he recalls that his hair “[standing] on end” and “raving deliriously in his sleep afterwards.” He was familiar with works by British gothic writers including Clara Reeve, Ann Radcliffe, Matthew Lewis, and Charles Maturin, among others. While these novelists are known for their formulaic writing, they produced enduringly popular fiction providing suspense and psychological thrills. The appeal of gothic fiction is its preoccupation with dark alter egos and passions, transgressive thoughts that lurk behind the seemingly rational mind and emerge in ways that expose hidden fears and truths. If the work’s links to the gothic are so readily apparent, the question remains: what do we gain from reading The Doublegothically?
The figure of the double or doppelgänger is a gothic stock character, one that David Punter classifies alongside Frankenstein’s creature, the Wandering Jew, and the Byronic vampire. Each of these types can be read as the manifestation of anxiety over a transgression. Frankenstein’s creature exists because of his creator’s hubris, a man playing God. The Wandering Jew has been cursed with deathless wandering because of his sin against Christ. Vampires are undead, have forfeited their souls, and carry an illicit sexual connotation, particularly the Byronic variety. Punter uses the examples of Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1886) and Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890) to showcase the double type. In both cases, the double figures—the violent, monstrous Hyde and Dorian’s decaying, aging portrait-self—reveal the horrors apparent when the self is physically divided. Jekyll’s goodness is offset by Hyde’s murderous tendencies just as Dorian’s external beauty contrasts with the internal decay and degeneration represented in his portrait.
The double’s appearance is usually terrifying because it is the manifestation of the social encounter feared most: one in which the authentic self is revealed. Suddenly, faced with your own mirror image, dark secrets are no longer buried, but potentially on display; if you can observe them, so can others. The terror lies in your double revealing your own hidden, true self, perhaps, even worse, a self hidden even to you. Analyzing E. T. A. Hoffmann’s “Der Sandmann” in “Das Unheimliche” (1919), Freud describes the sensation of uncanny, or unheimlich (literally, un-home-ly; a sense of feeling displaced from what’s familiar) as something not foreign, but strangely familiar, creating cognitive dissonance. He specifically uses the example of the doppelgänger in his discussion of the uncanny. Encountering your own double isn’t just a disturbing experience, but generates a peculiar kind of disquiet, one that comes from recognizing yourself but, at the same time, seeing yourself as others see you.
While the double’s appearance in Dostoevsky is horrifying, it isn’t violent, and the only murders that take place are metaphorical. In Wilde and Stevenson, the doubles represent a physical split, creating contradictory, opposing characters linked together. In Dostoevsky, the double plays a different role. At first, Golyadkin Sr. finds his double to be a friendly listener, but perceives that Golyadkin Jr. quickly begins to undermine him. Golyadkin Sr. believes he has righteousness on his side, but is ostracized in society. He observes that his double, on the other hand, is often hypocritical or deceitful, but his ability to perform within society’s expectations endears him to Golyadkin Sr.’s acquaintances. Golyadkin Sr. knows Jr.’s antics are rooted in falsehood, but, at the same time, the petty nastiness of Golyadkin Jr. is a mirror of Golyadkin Sr.’s rude treatment of his servant, Petrushka. Although Golyadkin Sr. considers his relationship with his double to be a dichotomy between authenticity and falseness, the reader realizes that all is falseness, that Golyadkins Jr. and Sr. are the same. Gary Saul Morson asserts that the novel’s humor lies in the fact that Golyadkin concurrently recognizes and refuses to recognize that he is his own double, while the horror of the piece lies in the possibility that “the real me is not mine but his, and I am the one who does not have a me!” Or, rather, that an authentic self may not exist at all, just copies.
Golyadkin’s frequently expressed death wish—for example, “Mr. Golyadkin now not only wished to flee from himself, but also to be completely annihilated” (139)—comes to pass upon encountering the double and, with this, uncertainty about his own genuine existence. Strangely, throughout the text, Golyadkin dies multiple times, always metaphorically and often ironically. He’s described as half-dead, nearly dead, dead, annihilated, murdered, and, in one humorous line, Andrey Filippovich, Golyadkin’s head of office, shoots him a look “that would have destroyed our hero completely, had he not been completely destroyed already” (134). Similarly, the narrator describes Golyadkin after his humiliation at Klara Olsufyevna’s birthday party as though he has died: “Mr. Golyadkin had been murdered – murdered in the full sense of the word” (138). As Malcolm Jones points out, in this moment, Golyadkin “feels the physical abyss of the staircase looming up together with the spiritual abyss of total annihilation.” In this state, he rushes out into the night and encounters his double for the first time.
In Dostoevsky’s text, the double appears after a metaphorical death. This progression is a mirror image of a common nineteenth-century spiritualist belief about doppelgängers, that the double’s appearance is an ill omen that often prefigures death. The reasoning behind this, taken from folklore, is that the spirit world and the living world co-exist, always hidden from each other, but before death, the barrier between them opens. For example, in Prometheus Unbound (1820), Percy Bysshe Shelley describes the priest Zoroaster encountering his own double, an apparition from the shadow world visible only to him. The double is a mirrored reflection of the living individual in the land of the dead; it appears to its other half in life just before death comes. This idea is not limited to literature; intriguingly, after Shelley’s death, his wife, the gothic novelist Mary Shelley, wrote in a letter that her husband had described seeing his own double less than a month before he died. In inverting this formula, Dostoevsky creates more confusion around his text’s narrative structure. The double appears, but Golyadkin’s own state—living, dead, dreaming, mad—can only be guessed, leaving the reader in an uneasy state.
In 1848, Catherine Crowe published a two-volume parapsychological study called The Night-Side of Nature: Ghosts and Ghost-Seers, which includes chapters dedicated to diverse spectral phenomena including waking dreams, wraiths, apparitions, and “Doppelgängers, or Doubles,” among others. Crowe’s research documents a number of cases in which individuals encountered doubles, either their own or those of a friend or relative. In some of the cases, the double’s appearance did portend death. In others, apparently taken from doctors’ records, the double’s appearance is the result of illness, either mental or physical. The uncanny appearance of a double is usually upsetting, but some of the stories Crowe recounts strike me as humorous. For example, in one case, a Danish physician became very anxious about being held up on a call and missing a scheduled visit to another patient. However, afterwards, the unvisited patient reported that the physician had paid him a call. According to Crowe, hearing of his own spectral visits “occasioned him such an unpleasant sensation that he requested his patients never to tell him when it happened.” In another instance, more in keeping with the focus of this blog, Crowe alludes to Catherine the Great, who allegedly had a more volatile reaction to her Doppelgänger: upon meeting her double sitting on her throne, she casually ordered her guards to fire upon it!
Crowe’s “Doppelgängers, or Doubles” chapter provides a strangely complementary read alongside Dostoevsky’s The Double. Beyond the fact that nearly all the doctors whose records Crowe cites are German (reminding me of Dr. Rutenshpitz), the two works appeared around the same time, although Crowe, living in England, wouldn’t have had any opportunity to read Dostoevsky’s novella before penning her study. Curiously, Golyadkin and Crowe share an experience: both were carted off to the madhouse at the end of their texts; Crowe was admitted to an asylum in 1854 after she was discovered wandering around Edinburgh naked because, she reported, spirits had told her to do so. Crowe, afterwards, said that her madness was a research-based aberration as she had fallen into a state in which she believed “spirits were directing” her writing.
Crowe was an enthusiast of German ghost stories, and many of the case studies described sound as if they are lifted from gothic novels, or echo Golyadkin’s encounter with his double. This resonance underscores Dostoevsky’s debt in his original formulation of The Double to E. T. A. Hoffmann, the German master of the uncanny Romantic tale. The Double’s direct influence from Hoffmann and his indirect influence filtered through Gogol is difficult to untangle. However, from Dostoevsky’s 1861 piece in Timecomparing Edgar Allan Poe and Hoffmann, we learn that Dostoevsky admired Hoffmann’s ability to delve into the secrets of the psyche using a Romantic blend of fantasy and reality. Crowe’s ghost stories seem reminiscent of this type of writing in that they, too, sit at the intersection between the imagined and the real. In another of Crowe’s cases, a man, “in perfect health, one evening, on turning the corner of a street, met his own form, face to face; the figure seemed as real and life-like as himself; and he was so close as to look into its very eyes. He was seized with terror, and it vanished.” The man tells friends about it, tries to laugh it off, but remains shaken. Similarly, confronted with his own double, Golyadkin seeks reassurances from his colleagues that the similarity is uncanny, but no one else notices that anything is wrong. Crowe, writing a scholarly book, asserts throughout her study that she is seeking only the truth in her explorations. Golyadkin, too, champions authenticity, but Dostoevsky, writing his fantastic realist novella, knows he is crafting a fictional world, and problematizes Golyadkin’s quest for truth.
The Double, Gothically
The Double haunted Dostoevsky. It was critically panned upon publication in Notes of the Fatherland in 1846. He came back to it, again and again, eventually publishing a revised version in 1866 (the one commonly read today). But even after this, the novella continued to obsess him. In 1877, he wrote in the Writer’s Diary, “I failed with this novella, but the idea was fairly luminous, and I have never done anything in literature more serious than this idea. But the form I gave to this novella was a complete failure… and if now I were to come back to this idea to develop it again, I should choose a completely different form: but in 1846 I was not able to find that form.”
Dostoevsky’s conclusion that the novella’s form didn’t work leads us back to the gothic. The Double is a novel that starts naturalistically, detailing Golyadkin’s various thoughts as he goes through his day. At midnight, he encounters his double in a gothic scene, and is terrified. Afterwards, the double torments him, but we don’t know if the double is a hallucination, an apparition, or a physical person. Finally, the novella ends with Golyadkin on the way to some kind of asylum. The gothic scene in Chapter 5 is the key threshold scene between the naturalistic opening and the fantastic potential of the conclusion. This gothic scene could be a continuation of the naturalism, a nod to Golyadkin’s increasing paranoia and anxiety. It could be the beginning of the fantastic portion, a midnight transition into a Petersburg in which reality blurs and cannot be trusted. But the gothic scene is entirely subjective: no one thinks the double’s appearance is fantastic except Golyadkin and potentially the reader.
The section in which the double appears links two transitional gothic moments: Golyadkin’s midnight bridge crossing and the final moment, as Golyadkin finds himself enroute to the asylum. Some critics read The Double as a nightmare, and these linked scenes are key to that reading, especially the specific Petersburg environment that contextualizes the initial appearance of the double. Donald Fanger equates the atmosphere of Petersburg as that of a bad dream, tying this particular scene specifically to the city’s layered mythology, a point that becomes particularly relevant in the context of both Dostoevsky’s subtitle of the novella, “A Petersburg Poem,” and its relationship to Pushkin’s earlier work “The Bronze Horseman” (1833). In that poema, the city literally comes to life in another sequence that’s not clearly identified as waking or dreaming, when the Falconet monument to Peter the Great chases hapless clerk Evgeny through the dark, flooding streets of Petersburg, eventually sending him to madness and death. Konstantin Mochulsky even says that Golyadkin himself is “an outgrowth of the putrid Petersburg fog, a phantom living in a phantom city.” Going a step further, Dina Khapaeva argues that the entire text, not just selected episodes, is an expression of nightmare.
But, for a nightmarish text with a gothic core, The Double is remarkably humorous. Golyadkin’s anxious thoughts seem awkward to us, but are endearing as well. The narrator’s often mocking voice amuses, and even though Golyadkin is filled with horror, annihilated, crushed, it seems excessively melodramatic, to the point of laughter. When the narrator states things like, “The man now sitting across from Mr. Golyadkin was Mr. Golyadkin’s horror, he was Mr. Golyadkin’s shame, he was Mr. Golyadkin’s nightmare from the day before; in short, he was Mr. Golyadkin, himself” (146), horror combines with laughter to create a layered text that leaves the reader with still more questions. Malcolm Jones identifies a chorus of voices in the novella, but states that the voice of “reality” is lacking. There are threshold positions, like the gothic scene in Chapter 5, in which “reality and fantasy are delicately poised,” but “it is impossible … to discern where the threshold lies. The text passes over into a permanently confused state and takes the reader with it.”
Jones’s Bakhtinian reading of The Double resonates with the narration found in one of Dostoevsky’s favorite gothic novels, Maturin’s Melmoth the Wanderer (1820). There, the reader can rely on the narrator, but the manuscript itself is not reliable. The narrated story frames a fractured tale taken from a book that is literally disintegrating: “dissolved, obliterated, and mutilated beyond any that had ever before exercised the patience of a reader.” At times, the text from this manuscript breaks off, allowing the voice of a second narrator to enter. The second narrator, coming in abruptly, does not contextualize, but instead plunges the reader into an often disconnected and mysterious tale. The end result of this is a book filled with twists and turns that are not logically mappable, with voices that don’t respond to each other, and with great confusion as to what’s actually happening on the part of the reader, who becomes a refraction of the reader squinting through the damaged manuscript within the novel.
The reader of The Double feels a similar sense of confusion, as s/he struggles with the novella’s great puzzle: whether or not the double is real. Does Golyadkin’s mental distress cause him to hallucinate the double, or is the double perhaps one manifestation of a split personality, a variation of heautoscopy? Or, is the double’s appearance a fantastic element that, in the gothic tradition of Horace Walpole, Matthew Lewis, and Charles Maturin, has no explanation? Or, is the novella simply Golyadkin’s nightmare? The text offers no definitive answers. It is this intermingling of possible explanations—and the lack of resolution—that gives The Double one facet of its permeating gothic feel. For, in The Double, the reader is as disconnected from the truth of the matter as the hero.
The final scene of The Double sees the hero in a carriage, seated across from Dr. Rutenshpitz… or the doctor’s double… described simply as: “two burning eyes staring at [Golyadkin] in the dark, shining with a sinister, infernal glee” (229). Up to this point, Golyadkin’s monster has been his duplicate, but in this scene, we can’t help but think of Stephen King’s observation that “monsters… may pop up in our own mirrors—at any time.” And this is the value of reading The Double gothically: the irresoluble nature of Dostoevsky’s novella allows the reader to make up his/her own mind about the text’s solution. It may be that this lack of resolution is intended to prompt readers to look at themselves in the mirror and imagine how they would react if they, struggling at midnight through a terrible storm, came across a stranger who looked exactly like them…
 All quotes from The Double are from Fedor Dostoevskii, Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v tridtsati tomakh, Vol. 1 (Leningrad: Nauka, 1972). Hereafter PSS. All translations are my own unless stated otherwise.
 Vladimir Nabokov, Eugene Onegin: A Novel in Verse, Vol. 2 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991), 191.
 Nabokov, Lectures on Russian Literature (New York: Mariner Books, 2002), 90.
 Dostoevsky refers specifically to the novels of Ann Radcliffe in this passage. Dostoevskii, PSS, Vol. 5, 46.
 See Robin Feuer Miller, “Dostoevsky and the Tale of Terror,” in W. J. Leatherbarrow, ed., Dostoevskii and Britain (Oxford: Berg, 1995), 139-158.
 David Punter, The Literature of Terror. A History of Gothic Fictions from 1765 to the Present Day. Vol. 2.The Modern Gothic (Harlow: Pearson Education Limited, 1996), 21.
 Gary Saul Morson, “Me and My Double: Selfhood, Consciousness, and Empathy in The Double,” in Elizabeth Cheresh Allen, ed., Before they were Titans: Essays on the Early Works of Dostoevsky and Tolstoy (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2015), 50.
 Malcolm Jones, Dostoyevsky after Bakhtin: Readings in Dostoyevsky’s Fantastic Realism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 44.
 Betty T. Bennett, ed., The Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Vol. 1 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980), 245.
 Catherine Crowe, The Night-Side of Nature, or, Ghosts and Ghost-seers, Vol. 1 (London: T. C. Newby, 1848), 287.
 Ibid., 280. This story is widespread in popular accounts, but seems largely absent from scholarly ones. In Andrew Lang’s The Book of Dreams and Ghosts (1897), an eyewitness account is actually reproduced, albeit one acquired second hand long after the alleged episode.
 Dickens recounts the story of her madness in a letter to a friend. The Letters of Charles Dickens, Vol. 7 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1974-93), 285-286. Dickens called her case “hopeless,” but Crowe made a full recovery!
 Cited in Dickens, Vol. 7, 286.
 For a more thorough discussion, see Jacques Catteau, Dostoyevsky and the Process of Literary Creation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 53-62.
 Crowe, 281.
 Quoted in Catteau, 61.
 I have written elsewhere on gothic elements in early realist texts set in St. Petersburg, including several by Dostoevsky. See Katherine Bowers, “The City through a Glass, Darkly: Use of the Gothic in Early Russian Realism,” The Modern Language Review 108.4 (2013): 1199-1215.
 Donald Fanger, Dostoevsky and Romantic Realism: A Study of Dostoevsky in Relation to Balzac, Dickens, and Gogol (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1967), 160-161.
 Quoted in Fanger, 161. From Konstantin Mochulsky, Dostoevsky: Zhizn’ i tvorchestvo (Paris, 1947), 42.
 See Dina Khapaeva, Nightmare: From Literary Experiments to Cultural Project (Amsterdam: Brill, 2013), 107-131.
 Jones, 58.
 Charles Maturin, Melmoth the Wanderer (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 28.
 Stephen King, Danse Macabre (New York: Berkley Books, 1983), 252.
Amy D. Ronner is Professor of Law at the St. Thomas University School of Law. The following was redacted and revised by Dr. Ronner from her book, Dostoevsky and the Law (Carolina Academic Press, 2015).
Golyadkin and Andrei Petrovich Versilov, although conceivably split or doubling, are not the crazed or mad others who are so radically different from the rest of the human species and from their author. Dostoevsky understood that, while the double can be a step that could lead to disaster, it does not always do so. In a letter that Dostoevsky penned to his friend Yekaterina Yunge, an artist and memoirist who had confided that she suffered from chronic “duality,” he emphatically expressed his views: “[Duality is] the most ordinary trait of people, who are not entirely ordinary, however.” Dostoevsky felt that, in his own case, the “ordinary trait” – that of duality – is “a great torment, but at the same time a great delight too.” He told Yunge it was a “powerful consciousness, need for self-evaluation, and the presence in your nature of the need for moral obligation toward yourself and toward humanity.” In essence, doubling can be normative, part and parcel of the creative process, a nexus between internal and external realms, and that sacrosanct conduit between the self and the human race.
It is not surprising that psychiatrist Richard Rosenthal, coming to a similar realization, aligns Golyadkin with postlapsarian humanity: “[…] like Golyadkin, we try to clothe ourselves in an omnipotent other self, a self we could have been or secretly believe we someday still will be, a self who is free of the painful awareness of just those limitations which define our boundaries and make us who we are.”
The “all” and “everybody” in Golyadkin becomes apparent in the novel right before Rutenspitz carts our “hero” off to the asylum: Golyadkin scans the attendees at the party and sees “[a] whole procession of identical Golyadkins . . . bursting loudly in at every door.” The implication here is that everyone is or might be a Golyadkin: Dostoevsky thus compels his readers to see not some peculiar anomaly, but rather, just a parade of everyday selves. The novel urges readers to examine doubly both Golyadkin’s struggles and their own, and to endure that all-too familiar “painful awareness” of their human limitations. Like or not, readers tend to meld with Golyadkin as his fate becomes their own. When Golyadkin met his double, he “wanted to scream, but could not.” At his finale, Golyadkin succeeds at emitting that blood-curdling shriek while being whisked away. His shriek is our shriek as well.
 Richard Rosenthal, “Dostoevsky’s Experiment with Projective Mechanisms and the Theft of Identity in The Double,” in Russian Literature and Psychoanalysis, ed. Daniel Rancour-Laferriere (Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 1989), 83.
Those reading Dostoevsky’s The Double this week might be interested in the piece that Dr. Julian Connolly published in Dostoevsky Studies 17 (2013). The issue is now available online at archive.com. (In fact, the first 17 issues of the new series of Dostoevsky Studies are now at archive.com!) Dr. Connolly is Professor of Russian Literature at the University of Virginia. His piece is “The Ethical Implications of Narrative Point of View in Dostoevsky’s The Double.” Enjoy!
Connor Doak is a lecturer in Russian at the University of Bristol, UK. This post first appeared on the All the Russia’s Blog. It is the first in a series of posts organized by our society in connection with a screening of Richard Ayoade’s film adaptation of The Double on November 6.
Often, it takes an adaptation or spin-off of a classic literary work to reveal the hidden dynamics of gender and sexuality that bubble just beneath the surface of the canonical text. Thus Wide Sargasso Sea famously picks up the untold story of Bertha Mason, the madwoman that Charlotte Brontë kept locked in the attic. Frank O’Hara’s poem “Mayakovsky” locates a camp aesthetic behind the great Soviet poet’s overblown, declamatory style. And, I would argue, Richard Ayoade’s 2013 transposition of The Double to a retro-futuristic dystopian world uncovers a polemic against masculinity in Dostoevsky’s 1846 novella.[i]
By masculinity, I do not simply mean a set of traits such as suave self-confidence, a manly swagger, or the ability to seduce women. To be sure, in today’s society such characteristics carry important social and cultural currency for the men who possess them, a fact that Ayoade’s film highlights. However, gender theorists have moved away from defining masculinity based on a normative checklist of features. Rather, following the lead of Raewyn Connell, they concentrate on masculinity as a system of power relations both between men and women and among men themselves.[ii] On the one hand, a hegemonic masculinity serves to keep women subordinate socially, politically, and culturally. On the other hand, the system of masculinity also creates division among men, generating hierarchies with privileged and subordinate groups. Yet the recent poststructuralist turn in masculinity studies emphasizes the inherent instability of these seemingly fixed masculine hierarchies. Building on Judith Butler’s work, scholars believe certain types of gender performance are capable of exposing the constructed nature of masculinity and subverting the existing system.[iii] I believe that The Double—both book and film—reveals both the existence of these masculine hierarchies and their constructed, unstable nature.
Right from the outset, Ayoade’s film establishes the presence of a masculine hierarchy. Simon, an awkward, mousey junior office worker—Ayoade’s version of Golyadkin—is first seen sitting on the train making his morning commute. An intimidating, suited man intones “You’re in my place,” demanding that Simon get up. Simon quickly accedes. Yet the carriage is empty and the stranger’s order appears to be a mere exercise in the demonstration of power. This encounter sets the tone for the first part of the film, in which Simon faces a number of humiliating encounters at the expense of his superiors. However, he remains in awe of his boss, the powerful and mysterious figure known only as the Colonel. After arriving for work in the morning, Simon’s gaze lingers longingly on a statuesque portrait of the Colonel. The mise-en-scène encourages the viewer to contrast the masculinity of the two men. The Colonel stands smiling, upright in full military attire, whereas we see part of Simon only through his reflection: pale, uncertain, almost ghostly in appearance.
The film’s treatment of masculinity builds on elements already present in Dostoevsky’s novella. Hyperconscious of his status in the masculine hierarchy, Golyadkin often feels humiliated by other men who are above him in terms of wealth, social status, or simply good looks. Thus when Golyadkin finds himself standing beside “some officer, a tall and handsome fellow” at a party, he feels “like a real little insect” (36) next to this exemplar of virility. Indeed, in every simple social interaction that Golyadkin performs, he reveals his inability to conform to the script of masculinity despite his best efforts to do so. Thus his attempt at a friendly slap on the shoulder turns into “something completely different,” (22) as he exceeds the boundaries of behavior permitted between men. However, Golyadkin is more complex than Ayoade’s timid Simon. He generally responds to his humiliation with a characteristically Dostoevskyan masochism, but, as Joseph Frank points out, he also likes to imagine himself as an “all-conquering hero.”[iv] This inner conflict has often been interpreted as Oedipal in nature, but Russell Scott Valentino gets closer to the truth when he writes that Golyadkin’s illness is not a psychological disorder but a social one connected with the emergence of masculine ambition in the increasingly commercialised environment of Dostoevsky’s Petersburg.[v]
Gender is a relational concept, and masculinity is defined in relation to its other, femininity. In Ayoade’s film, the character of Hannah embodies a rather conventional, caring femininity that acts as a foil for—and refreshing alternative to—the systems of hierarchy and domination that characterize masculinity in the dystopian world. In the film’s opening sequence, Simon catches sight of Hannah’s ethereal presence: her smooth skin, her eyes closed and smooth, pale skin evoke a dreamlike quality. Throughout the film, she alone has a smile and a kind word for Simon.
Hannah represents Ayoade’s expansion of Dostoevsky’s hint at the promise of a caring, feminine ethic that might oppose the hierarchy and domination associated with masculinity in the text. Golyadkin believes that Klara Olsufyevna embodies a spirit of beauty and truth that the men around her have rejected, and even imagines that he receives a letter from her offering to elope together from a society that is inherently false. Dostoevsky’s later writings show that the author came to believe that women could redeem the nation: in 1873 he praised Russian women for possessing “sincerity, perseverance, earnestness, and honour, the quest for truth and sacrifice,” adding that “these qualities have always been stronger in Russian women than in men.”[vi] Yet whatever the author’s own position on women might have been, the text of The Double makes Golyadkin’s romantic assumptions about Klara Olsufyevna appear like the delirious fantasies of a madman, and the reader is inclined to see his idea of a redemptive femininity as a false construct.
The key passage that reveals Dostoevsky’s critique of the constructed nature of gender is the description of the glitterati at Klara Olsufyevna’s party. The narrator admits his inability to capture the beauty of the high society ladies and the brilliance of the young men:
How can I depict this extraordinary and dignified mixture of beauty, brilliance, decorum, merriment, kind respectability and respectable kindness, playfulness, joyfulness, all these games and jests of all these civil servants’ ladies, more like fairies than ladies—speaking in a respect advantageous to them—with their lilac-pink shoulders and faces, with their ethereal figures, with their playfully, lively, homeopathic, to use the elevated style, feet? (31)
While the narrator purports to admire this scene, his language lapses into a set of clichés (“kind respectability” and “respectable kindness”), and it becomes obvious he is parodying the fashionable discourse of his day (“homeopathic” for “tiny”). The description of femininity is so exaggerated that it reveals its own absurdity (“more like fairies than ladies”). Similarly ironic is the description of idealized masculinity that follows: “brilliant civil service cavaliers… profoundly imbued with a sense of beauty and of their personal dignity” (31). Mikhail Bakhtin discussed the power of parodic language in The Double, but does not consider its relationship to gender.[vii] To borrow a phrase from Butler, the parodic language here allows us to read the behaviour of the ladies and gentlemen as a “gender performance that will enact and reveal the performativity of gender itself” (177). We might even say that Dostoevsky reveals this dazzling world of heterosexuality to be “both a compulsory system and an intrinsic comedy, a constant parody of itself” (Butler, 155).
Ayoade uses a similar technique of parody to reveal the constructed nature of masculinity. His parody proves more immediately accessible to a twenty-first century audience, as it draws on familiar markers of masculinity. Simon’s favourite television programme is The Replicator, an action serial that evokes the “hard-bodied” masculinities of the 1980s.[viii] The show’s gun-wielding hero bears more than a passing resemblance to Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Terminator with his shades and leather jacket, and its flamboyant costumes and highly theatricalized violence ensure the audience view it as parody. The hero disposes of his enemies with appropriately virile one-liners that recall the best—or the worst—of Hollywood action movies: “Get up! Or do you want to die on your knees, like a snake?” The effectiveness of this parody of masculinity stems from the fact that these images of the eighties still resonate with the cultural memory of his audience, but already seem overblown and passé as they are one or two generations removed from current trends. Ayoade thus ensures his audience takes a critical view not only of the construction of masculinity in his dystopian society, but also positions his own film as a critique of the hypermasculinity that Hollywood blockbusters have often championed.
While Simon’s fascination with the Colonel demonstrates his need for a father figure and his desire to remain subservient to the existing hierarchy, his identification with the Replicator reveals a longing to become the usurper who overthrows the establishment. To put it another way, as a subject he is required to negotiate between two different myths of masculinity: one that stresses the importance of respecting the existing hierarchy, and another that glamorizes the rebel. Simon, then, is caught between two incompatible poles of masculinity. I believe it is Simon’s inability to resolve this conundrum that leads to his splitting and the appearance of his double, called James in the film. It is no coincidence that James first appears after Simon has finished viewing an episode of The Replicator, or that James possesses the idealized masculinity that (part of) Simon has always longed for. James exudes self-confidence, easily scores success with women, and quickly gains promotion to senior executive at work.
The difference between Golyadkin Sr. and Golyadkin Jr. in Dostoevsky’s text also plays out in terms of masculinity. Golyadkin Jr. is able to quickly adopt just the right professional demeanor with his colleagues: at work he has an “official… businesslike air” that makes him look as though he has just been “dispatched on an special mission…” (71). His work proves exemplary and, His Excellency, “extremely pleased,” even thanks him in person (76). The fact that the two Golyadkins are identical in appearance, but yet come to sit on different ends of the masculine hierarchy reveals the arbitrary and even absurd nature of how masculinity operates. Ayoade, using the medium of film, can capitalize on this idea even more than Dostoevsky. In his movie, Jesse Eisenberg plays the roles of both the bashful Simon and the brash James, and much comedy derives from the sharply differing attitudes that the two identical men elicit.
James’s cockiness initially proves appealing for Simon, and he becomes a masculinity coach for Simon, teaching him how to pick up women and taking him out on the town. The audience may feel drawn to James during these scenes, adopting what Laura Mulvey called a narcissistic “male gaze” as we view James as a “screen surrogate” who realizes our fantasies (and Simon’s fantasies!) of masculine omnipotence.[ix] However, the parody becomes obvious again in a stylized montage sequence of the two men frolicking through the streets and even getting into a pillow fight. Here Ayoade targets the 1970s “buddy film” or the more recent “bromance” in which homosocial bonding and intimacy is central to the development of two central male characters, but where homosexuality is precluded as a possibility. As Michael DeAngelis notes, the two men in a Hollywood bromance must explicitly deny any romantic or sexual interest in one another.[x] As if on cue, James asks Simon “You a flamer?” to which he gives a resigned but definitive “No.” Yet there is another hint of gay romance soon afterwards, as Simon puts James to bed and lets his gaze rest on him, before caressing James’s face.
This bedtime scene builds on a passage in Dostoevsky’s novella with its own homosexual subtext. When Golyadkin Jr. returns to Golyadkin Sr.’s home, the two men drink together, exchange confidences, and express affection for one another. Golyadkin Jr. even composes a quatrain of verse for his host, leaving him “completely and deeply moved” (66) and teary-eyed. Yet just as Ayoade is parodying the cinema’s treatment of masculinity in the buddy and bromance films, so Dostoevsky is poking fun here at the contrived nature of the sentimental masculinities of his day. While Dostoevsky’s text says nothing explicitly about desire between the two men, critics such as Lawrence Kohlberg have identified elements of homosexual desire in the text.[xi] Significantly, this moment of nocturnal intimacy promises a temporary respite from the usual regulated forms of masculinity that govern relations between men. Yet all too soon, Golyadkin Sr.’s vague fear surfaces that his familiarity has somehow overstepped the mark (“haven’t I gone too far?”, 68). This comment, along with his order to his servant Petrushka (“don’t think anything…”, 68), may suggest he fears his homosocial desire for Golyadkin Jr. is becoming homosexual in nature. [xii]
Film scholar Catherine Wheatley has suggested that “the great love story of book and film” is between the hero and his double, and the tragedy derives from its failure.[xiii] The intimacy that unites the two Golyadkins on that November evening cannot last, and the next morning they return to jostling for position in the masculine hierarchy. Golyadkin Jr. eventually besmirches the honor of Golyadkin’s Sr.’s by spreading rumours about a liaison with Karolina Ivanovna. This final insult to his masculinity determines Golyadkin’s Sr.’s fall from grace, as he loses both his position at work and his sanity. Ayoade’s film reproduces the idea of sullying one’s reputation, but with a twist suitable for the twenty-first century. James blackmails Simon by taking pictures of himself having sexual intercourse with Melanie, his line manager’s teenage daughter and reveals them in the office as pictures of Simon inappropriately behaving with Melanie.
In the novella, Golyadkin Sr.’s attempts to protect his honor against the machinations of his double by writing a series of letters. First he writes to his double, a letter that falls into the hands of Provincial Secretary Vakhrameyev, who sends his own frosty reply. Golyadkin Sr. then pens a missive defending himself to Vakhrameyev. This epistolary section of the novella makes amusing reading, as the men insult each other’s masculinity while attempting to maintain their own dignity by sticking as closely as possible to the language of polite society. Thus Golyadkin Sr, protests to his double: “I cannot help but manifest all my indignation at the memory of your blatant infringement, dear sir, to the detriment of my honour” (89).
The theme of sincerity, and its connection to masculinity, comes to the fore in the letters. Vakhrameyev’s vicious reply to Golyadkin Sr. does not merely focus on his alleged transgression with Karolina Ivanovna, but on the fact that he can longer be counted among “men honest and sincere in heart” (97). This insult stings Golyadkin, for throughout the novella he prides himself on his own sincerity. During his consultation with Dr. Rutenspitz, he insists that he operates “directly” and “openly”, and that he “put[s] on a mask only for a masquerade” (13), a line that he repeats later to Anton Antonovich (74). Indeed, it appears that Golyadkin’s notion of his own masculinity is underpinned by a belief in his own frankness, honesty and authenticity, which he sees as superior to the superficiality of high society men, who merely know how to “put together a sweetly scented compliment” (12) or “polish parquet with their boots” (23).
Dostoevsky’s text certainly endorses this critique of the false, constructed nature of high society masculinity with its pretentious rhetoric and rituals. However, the text also interrogates Golyadkin’s own brand of masculinity, supposedly based on authenticity, revealing it to be another sham. Golyadkin’s behavior is perhaps more heavily stage-managed than that of any other character, even (or especially) when he wants to appear authentic. As Gary Saul Morson points out, Golyadkin is wearing a mask even he claims he does not.[xiv] His decision to go to the party “sans façon” (24) is all too contrived, and he is sure to powder and perfume his face. Butler’s Gender Trouble again proves illuminating to understand Dostoevsky’s critique of “authentic” masculinity here. For Butler, there is no authenticity and it is impossible to doff one’s mask: the gendered body “has no ontological status apart from the various acts which constitute its reality” (173). It is thus inevitable that Golyadkin’s attempt at crafting his own brand of masculine authenticity will end up simply creating another performance, and, eventually, in his eventual madness and his removal from society. However, Dostoevsky’s text, in exposing that quest for authenticity and its inevitable failure, reveals the inauthenticity at the heart of masculinity and the instability within the gender system.
Ayoade is less daring than Dostoevsky in this regard: the director refuses to dispense with the idea of authenticity. He rewrites the sinister ending of Dostoevsky’s novella, removing the section where Golyadkin wakes up in a dark carriage with Doctor Rutenspitz’s eyes gleaming with “sinister, diabolical joy” (160). The film does close with Simon being carried off in an ambulance, but he is accompanied by both Hannah and the Colonel, who offer words of comfort. Simon’s final line, “I like to think I’m pretty unique,” represents a recovery of agency that jibes well with our own culture of liberal individualism, a message that lacks the force of Dostoevsky’s more radical questioning of our own notions of identity and agency. As Morson (47) notes, the implication that an individual might not be unique is what makes Dostoevsky’s text so terrifying. By contrast, Ayoade relies on a simpler, binary notion of authenticity, pitting the meek, awkward, but authentic Simon against the villainous, inauthentic James. It is unsurprising that the film ultimately favors the “nice guy” masculinity of Simon, who is rewarded when Hannah returns to him at the end. Nevertheless, Ayoade’s film does manage to tackle the violence and misogyny associated with the system of masculinity, as we see in his depiction of the cult surrounding The Replicator and his portrayal of James’s sexual conquests.
Ayoade’s mock-autobiography imagines how a fictional American agent might respond after learning of his plans to direct a film adaptation of The Double. The imaginary agent, Danny Deville, has the following to say about Dostoevsky’s Hollywood potential:
[I]f I’ve learned anything in Hollywood it’s Avoid Dostoevsky Like Dairy (ADLD). No-one wants to wade through the ravings of some commie epileptic who, by the way, was only five-foot-two. […] Look it’s up to you, but I’m betting there isn’t even one scene in that book where the hero power-slides under a mechanically closing door. [xv]
Deville’s opposition to Dostoevsky stems from his perception that the Russian’s writings lack masculinity: there are no power-sliding heroes to be found in The Double. Of course, the fact that Ayoade invents this fictional interlocutor, and has him voice a commercialistic challenge to his own film, reveals Ayoade’s own self-fashioning. By depicting himself as a director willing to forego the glamor of the virile hero and instead tackle the difficult Russian classics, Ayoade stages himself as an authentic filmmaker, and, perhaps, a new man who is no longer in thrall to the bombastic tradition of Hollywood masculinity. Dostoevsky, however, a master of the pseudo-autobiography, would recognize this act of mythmaking for what it is.
[i] Quotations from Dostoevsky’s text come from Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Double, trans. Hugh Aplin (London: Hesperus Classics, 2004). This edition is based on Dostoevsky’s revised text from 1866. Film stills and quotations are from The Double, directed by Richard Ayoade (2013; Studiocanal, 2014), DVD.
[ii] R.W. Connell, Masculinities, 2nd ed. (Cambridge, UK: Polity Press, 2005) treats masculinity with a focus on power that is indebted to Gramsci’s analysis of hegemony.
[iii] Judith Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (London and New York: Routledge, 1999). See especially ch. 3 and the conclusion on the possibility of parodic performances that can “lead to the denaturalization of gender as such” (190). Butler’s work proved instrumental in the “third wave” of masculinity studies with its emphasis on performativity as well as the recognition of the instability of the gender system. See Tim Edwards, Cultures of Masculinity (London and New York: Routledge, 2006), 1–6.
[iv] Joseph Frank, Dostoevsky: The Seeds of Revolt. 1821-1849 (Princeton: Princeton U P, 1976), 301
[v] For an Oedipal reading, see Richard Rosenthal, “Dostoevsky’s experiment with projective mechanisms and the theft of identity in The Double,” in Russian Literature and Psychoanalysis, ed. Daniel Rancour-Laferrière (Amsterdam: John Benjamins B.V., 1989), 59–88. Russell Scott Valentino’s reading appears in The Woman in the Window: Commerce, Consensual Fantasy and the Quest for Masculine Virtue in the Russian Novel (Columbus, OH: Ohio State U P, 2014), 25–27.
[vi] The quotation is from a piece titled “On Lying” in Diary of a Writer; it can be found in Polnoe sobranie sochinenii, vol. 21 (Leningrad: Nauka, 1980), 125. Translation mine. Elsewhere, I have discussed how Dostoevsky’s view of women in the 1870s shapes his representation of masculinity in his novel Demons. See my “Masculine degeneration in Dostoevsky’s Demons,” in Russian Writers and the Fin de Siècle, ed. Katherine Bowers and Ani Kokobobo (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge U P, 2015), 107–125.
[vii] Mikhail Bakhtin, Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics, ed. and trans. Caryl Emerson (Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1984), 226-227.
[viii] On Hollywood the masculinity in the 1980s, see Susan Jeffords, Hollywood Masculinities in the Reagan Era (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers U P, 1994).
[ix] Laura Mulvey, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” in Movies and Methods: An Anthology, vol. 2., ed. Bill Nichols (Berkeley and Los Angeles: U of California P, 1989), 310.
[x] Michael DeAngelis, Introduction to Reading the Bromance: Homosocial Relationships in Film and Television, (Detroit: Wayne State U P, 2014), 12.
[xi] Lawrence Kohlberg, “Psychological Analysis and Literary Form: A Study of the Doubles in Dostoevsky,” Daedalus 92:2 (Spring 1963), 345–362.
[xii] Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s Between Men literature identifies an anxiety in nineteenth-century literature around men transgressing the boundary between homosocial and homosexual desire. See her Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire (New York: Columbia U P, 1985).
[xiii] Catherine Wheatley, speaking at “Double Vision: Dostoevsky on Film,” a panel discussion held at King’s College London on October 20, 2014. Available online at www.youtube.com/watch?v=kx-jATOxR7U. Last accessed October 28, 2015.
[xiv] Gary Saul Morson, “Me and My Double: Selfhood, Consciousness, and Empathy in The Double,” in Before they were Titans: Essays on the Early Works of Dostoevsky and Tolstoy (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2015), 49.
[xv] Richard Ayoade, Ayoade on Ayoade: A Cinematic Odyssey (London: Faber and Faber, 2014), 248–249.
Thank you to everyone who has contributed to our blog! Here is the full list of Bloggers Karamazov contributors. If you would have an idea for a post, please contact us! We welcome new voices to our polyphonic digital platform.