domingo, julho 15, 2007

Letter to the editor


Having been bedridden for the best part of a week, due to apparently psychosomatic complications (which, at this juncture, we will refrain from diving into), I could barely summon the strength necessary to raise my pen from its desk-side scabbard, and hurl it into the vacant page. However, I felt it a moral duty to publicly applaud the CRE's brave piece of lobbying [Special Report, June 12th], and its remarkable success in focusing the public's attention on one of Monsieur Hergé's most flagrant pieces of bigoted claptrap, managing in the process to get it moved out of the reach of unsuspecting children, simple-minded adults, and senile old fools.
The way is now paved, I feel, for a rigorous examination of M. Hergé's "creation", which will hopefully result in a complete ban on that continental disgrace that has long been euphemistically dignified with the designation "chidren's literature". How thrilling it is, when the World starts following your lead, even if it drains your vigour to point it out!
That M. Hergé was a fascist is now established beyond question: the evidence just piles up, like dung beetles on dung. His «White Album», a so-called rarity that has been circulating widely among aficionados since the late 70's, presents more than enough evidence to indict the man as a reactionary lunatic. You wouldn't believe how exhausting the mere effort of holding the pen is, and yet so-called "doctors" say it's nothing. Moving on. The work in question collects a substantial part of his secret output: single propagandistic vignettes dating back to the war years; hate-filled, unpublishable strips; alternate endings for existing stories; sketched outlines for future ones; and two first-drafts of mercifully incomplete albums.
One of those, Tintin et Les Protocoles des Sages de Sion (1977), reiterates M. Hergé's anti-semitism with astonishing vehemence. It is now acknowledged by most tintinophiles that Captain Haddock's colourful lexicon is partly lifted from Céline's anti-semitic pamphlet Bagatelles pour un massacre (1937). More contentious, although there for all discerning scholars to see, is the plethora of brain-washing racist mantras that Monsieur Hergé has sneakily spread throughout his oeuvre. (I feel particularly qualified to discuss this, having penned the definitive monographs: «Coons, kikes and gooks: Hergé's disturbed worldview» and «Hergé the reptilian telepathic humanoid: mind-control techniques in Tintin's adventures», both now sadly out of print, a tragedy which I trust will soon be corrected by some enterprising young publisher).
The unfinished adventure's pedestrian plot takes Tintin deep into the hidden neo-nazi under-structures of central Europe; he takes part on a frighteningly credible extremist rally in Vienna, where a shaven-headed goon called Strekhtl goes on a page-long rant about "the great world-wide zionist conspiracy". Then, during a train journey to southern Poland, Tintin is attacked by a cowardly jewish caricature, who tries to steal his notes; Snowy (Milou) bites him on the nose and chases him away. A metaphysical slapstick sub-plot involves the Thomson/Thompson twins (Dupont et Dupond) investigating a possible suspect in the murder of Jesus Christ: a Viennese accountant called Rubenstein.
Monsieur Hergé's views did not, contrary to popular assumptions, become more progressive in his later years; if anything he moved closer to the fringe, and damn these chest pains. His final work, a sordid affair entitled Tintin et le canular du darwinisme (1978), is a thinly-disguised Creationist tract; one of the strips depicts a frantic-looking Tournesol pounding his fists on a pulpit and shouting some nonsense about "la complexité irréductible!"; later, a two-dimensional scientist named von Haeckel is introduced merely to become a figure of fun at the hands of Captain Haddock, who, despite being drunk, systematically demolishes his poorly constructed arguments concerning macroevolution. In the final surviving vignette, Haddock bashes the scientist's head with a stuffed Bird of Paradise, and comes up with a novel insult: "chaînon manquant!". During all this malarkey, Tintin prances around madly, rolling his dead eyes.
These are admittedly extreme examples, but there are bones to pick in every single mainstream album in the collection. I don't think any of us has the right to sleep soundly at night while there remains the slightest possibility of our children and senior citizens being exposed to this moral and intellectual filth. Also, there are too many doctors in this country. My congratulations to the CRE, for taking the first step on what I hope will be an all-out war against drawings that bother me.

Marius Whitehouse
Birmingham, West Midlands

3 comentários:

Anónimo disse...

A pergunta que se impõe é: quem é o misterioso "Marius Whitehouse", hipocondríaco profissional e escritor de cartas ao director nas horas vagas?
(Há relatos que falam de um homem de sessenta anos feliz dono de um cocker spaniel que sofre de calvície precoce e viúvo por opção). Alguém saberá responder?

Lourenço Bray disse...


babsy! disse...