On the heels of At Swim, Two Boys, Christopher Isherwood’s Berlin Stories is simultaneously easier to read and unfortunately, less interesting. Mostly dull and boring, I’m sorry to say. So much so that I could not continue past the first story, which is half the book, so my review will cover only “The Last of Mr. Norris.” As with Holleran’s Dancer from the Dance, I find myself utterly unable to comprehend the narrator. Here at least the speaker has a name (William) and presence where ever he goes, but his life appears to be nothing if not connected somehow to the awful character of Arthur Norris. While Norris at least teems with life and emotion, to great excess at times, William is sexless and dispassionate. Perhaps this is because he is a proper Englishman, but he is the narrator for heaven’s sake; even if he doesn’t drool he ought to at least fear that he might.
For the most part, this is a non-gay story. Only in the character of Kuno von Pregnitz do we get a glimpse of flirting and seduction by an upper class gay man in Berlin during the 1930s. His connection to Norris is economical and ultimately tragic. (Similarly, Norris keeps William around solely for his wit, which given the above, was a stretch for me.) Observing Pregnitz get swept away by the forces that ultimately ensure Germany’s place in history, while being remembered as simply a “fairy” is uncomfortable if not honest. Still, there must have been quite an underground network of homosexuality of all sizes, shapes, and classes in Berlin during this period; I would have loved to have seen more.
The story succeeds best in its portrayal of Berlin as a corrupt place where Communism and ultimately Nazism would finally take hold. Given what you know about the rise of Hitler, there’s a sense of foreshadowing going on here; curious for a story written in 1935.
It is also curious that the original name of this story was “Mr. Norris Changes Trains.” Isherwood’s American publisher decided that the title was too obscure, so Isherwood changed it. The two titles are remarkably different; the former suggests a kid’s book while the latter is much more ominous. I wondered why Isherwood chose the former title, and wished that he had explained it further in his introduction.
Although I wouldn’t recommend the first story, I may force myself and read the second story after all. It appears to be the basis of the 1966 musical, Cabaret. One is compelled to investigate the seed for any character deemed perfect for Liza Minelli, wouldn’t you agree?