Rob Price
Gutbrain Records
rob + gutbrain.com = email


2022 January 05 • Wednesday

One of the many non-events of the previous years was that I saw the movie The Eiger Sanction. It was, to my surprise, incredibly bad. I was on board with the idea of Clint Eastwood as some kind of assassin who has to climb a mountain with some people without knowing which one of them is the target. That sounded like fun.

But the movie was ridiculous and dull.

It was an adaptation of a book by a writer who goes by the name Trevanian. Reading a book by Trevanian was another thing I did in 2021.

The book in question is the remarkable Shubumi, and Trevanian makes sure that readers of the book know that he also didn't like the movie of The Eiger Sanction.

There are numerous references to Shibumi as a spy novel but this seems wildly inaccurate to me. It's a thriller. There are some intelligence agents in it, especially CIA, but there are lots of people and lots of things in it.

One thing that is not in it is spying.

But the confusion is understandable. Trevanian's book is kind of an unhinged John Le Carré novel, with a crucial difference being that everything is on the surface and nothing underneath; the characters' every word and action screams the one simple type of character they are, devoid of complexity.

You might argue that the protagonist, Nicholai Hel, is complex, considering how unusual his life story is and how many different skills and talents and such that he has.

Not really, though. He's a superman who would make most comic book writers blush.

If Tom Ripley had been fused with Doc Savage, shot up with a dose of The Fountainhead, raised by the Baroness Orczy and Leo Tolstoy before spending his adolescence with Casanova and Mata Hari, summering at a Shaolin temple where he met his half-sister, Modesty Blaise, and then discovers that he h as a couple of mutant powers...

Well, you see the impossibility of it. He's the kind of man who might ask Jason Bourne to mail a letter for him, or Bruce Wayne to wash his car.

What matters, though, is that it's a compelling read, incredulous though it is. And it's something of a high water mark for Men's Adventure fiction, this genre that has permeated so much of western culture, perhaps beginning with the ancient Greek and Roman myths before becoming distilled into pulp fiction, which was then diluted into comic books (and Boys' Own adventure fiction), radio shows, movies and television shows, before becoming straight up "Men's Adventure" fiction again in cheap paperback books in the second half of the twentieth century.

And the principal fantasy elements of Men's Adventure fiction—fantasies of violence and of sex and of being supremely gifted at both, the primary fantasy being one of competence in general—are still the engine that drives many (most?) stories offered as popular entertainment.

(This is not necessarily a bad thing but a lack of awareness of it might be. It's important to recognize fantasy as fantasy.)

Anyway, Nicholai Hel lives in his beautiful chateau in Basque country with his loving concubine, sterotypical drunk gardener and stereotypical life-loving friend who would certainly have been played by Anthony Quinn if they had made a movie out of this book in the 1960s. (Which would not have been possible since it came out in 1979.)

He's retired from being a professional assassin. He's rich and he's got it all. He can go exploring caves, a major passion, and indulge in serious sex with Hana, whom he has hired to be his lover but with whom he has a real loving and mutually adoring relationship. (Superman, remember?)

He is a larger than life aristocrat, genius, mystic, sex god, killing machine. He has actual superpowers, among them one called proximity sensitivity, which allow him to sense people by their auras and know not just where they are but what they're feeling and thinking. More or less he has a chunk of Daredevil's superpower but he didn't have to lose his sense of sight to get it.

Somehow he has mastered something called Naked/Kill, which allows him to use almost anything as a deadly weapon. At one point, it's casually mentioned that the average room contains 200 deadly weapons as far as Hel is concerned.

It was at this point that I would have liked a wee bit more explanation.

We're told that Hel "maintained body tone through the study and practice of an occult branch of martial arts that accented the use of common household articles as lethal weapons" but there's nothing about how he learned of this in the first place or who might have taught him.

Trevanian speaks directly to the reader about this a little later, in an extraordinary footnote that takes a swipe at the Eiger Sanction movie while also praising the author himself.

ln the course of this book, Nicholai Hel will avail himself of the tactics of Naked/Kill, but these will never be described in detail. In an early book, the author portrayed a dangerous ascent of a mountain. In the process of converting this novel into a vapid film, a fine young climber was killed. In a later book, the author detailed a method for stealing paintings from any well-guarded museum. Shortly after the Italian version of this book appeared, three paintings were stolen in Milan by the exact method described, and two of these were irreparably mutilated.

Simple social responsibility now dictates that he avoid exact descriptions of tactics and events which, although they might be of interest to a handful of readers, might contribute to the harm done to (and by) the uninitiated.

In a similar vein, the author shall keep certain advanced sexual techniques in partial shadow, as they might be dangerous, and would certainly be painful, to the neophyte.

Certainly the impression that Trevanian seems to wish to convey, not just here but throughout the book, is that nobody could be farther from being a neophyte than he.

The concern over description did not extend to the practice of spelunking, which is described here in an abundance of detail and seems more dangerous than mountain climbing.

And then there's the "sexual techniques". Hel is a "Stage IV" lover and of such prowess that he has, apparently, punished woman by giving them so much sexual pleasure that they can never be satisfied by another for the rest of their lives.

There is a lot about all of this in the book. Also Hel's mastery of Go, his mystic transcendence, his aforementioned superpower involving auras.

It goes on and on. Hel is also the Forest Gump of Men's Adventure fiction, responsible for the creation of Andy Warhol (I'm not kidding) as well as the downfall of the Baader-Meinhof group. He even learns the whole truth about the JFK assassination, because why not throw that in there too?

His foe is about as opposite as can be, outrageously philistine, soulless, tasteless, lacking in all refinement or appreciation of beauty.

The clash is between old world and new world, East and West, Europe and America, art and commerce, etc.

The plot? CIA operation to kill some terrorists leaves one alive, who goes to Hel. The CIA thinks Hel will come out of retirement to help the survivor's cause so they decide to neutralize him as a threat.

This plot is unspooled rather elegantly, intercutting with Hel's life story, which eventually dovetails with the briefing itself and information being extracted from a massive computer (later opposed by Hel's card catalogue system, another very loud announcement of how directly opposed the hero and villain are).

The book is divided into five parts, each one aptly named for Go positions and moves.

There are occasional points made that I agree with. Trevanian is against the destruction of the planet and the collusion of energy companies with the government. Strip mining for coal becomes an important piece on the chessboard at one point.

And then there was this: "Hel might have told her that, in the long run, the 'minor' virtues are the only ones that matter. Politeness is more reliable than the moist virtues of compassion, charity, and sincerity; just as fair play is more important than the abstraction of justice. The major virtues tend to disintegrate under the pressures of convenient rationalization. But good form is good form, and it stands immutable in the storm of circumstance".

I like that quite a bit, except for the word "moist". There has to be a better word than that for what he's saying here.

While wildly indulgent and requiring way more than an average suspension of disbelief, Shibumi is an impressive work of craftsmanship and most likely would have won the gold medal at the Men's Adventure Olympics if there had been one the year it came out.

The first line is "The screen flashed 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3 … then the projector was switched off, and lights came up in recessed sconces along the walls of the private viewing room".