Monday 29 April 2013

The Simpsons - Lost in Translation?

UNTER DEM MILCHWALD?

There is no such thing as a translation. Every translation is a new work. - Thomas Bernhard.


I would like to watch, for example, The Simpsons; those endearing blue and yellow folks of American TV fame. Stephen Hawking once described The Simpsons as the best programme on American TV. I respect and value his judgement. And so I switch on. 

The problem is I only receive the German version of The Simpsons on my TV. And that, believe it or not,  is a great problem. 

Briefly, there are too many words bombarding me in too short a space of time. 

My non-native-Deutschsprachigegehirn (non-native-German-speaker's-brain) is, try as it might, unable to absorb the 20-25% increase in verbal information arriving, it seems, at accelerated quantum particle speed. And so I give up. 

Pick up almost any book translated from English into German and you will see that the German version has at least 20% more pages. Why should this be?

The simple answer is that the German language needs 20% more text to say the same thing. It tries to get round this by joining words together and, where it can, by using English words and expressions like TV (Fernseherapparat) or camera (Photoapparat). But, unfortunately the basic problem remains.

You cannot 'fit the words to the action' as Shakespeare said without rushing the longwords of German through those English speaking lips and even then, because of the nature of the beast, the vital and subtle hesitations and pregnant silences are missing . . . destroyed.

I was reminded of this problem yesterday evening when I tried to watch the opening scenes from Jane Austen's Emma. The dubbed voices had to speak so terribly quickly to compensate for the extra wordage that the whole romantic effect created by the excellent camerawork and scene setting was, to my way of thinking, totally ruined. 

Is it invariably so? I was going to say it is possibly so with the exception of war films and David Attenborough documentaries. But, when I think of it, it is a problem with war films too. Laid back Royal Air Force types, for example, sound highly agitated - like Waffen SS hooked on speed. It's a surreal way of viewing TV.

Attenborough on the other hand always speaks slowly and always articulates his words, so that he becomes the exception that proves the rule. He comes across beautifully in German. 

But The Simpsons? In English they already rush their words in American cartoon fashion and then they are accelerated another 20-25% for the German viewer. Listening to Homer and co. takes some doing.

Below is an example of some published English-to-German translation. It is a short piece of text from the beginning of Dylan Thomas's play, Under Milk Wood (Unter dem Milchwald) . I have highlighted the German text. You can instantly see the problem confronting translators working for German TV and film producers. A quart won't fit into a pint pot.

First Drowned: Remember me, Captain?
Erster Ertrunkener: Denkst noch an mich, Kapitän?

Captain Cat: You're Dancing Williams!
Kapitän Kat: Du bist Williams der Tänzer! 

First Drowned: I lost my step in Nantucket.
Erster Ertrunkener: Hab in Nantucket 'nen falschen Schritt getan.

Second Drowned: Do you see me, Captain? the white bone talking? I'm Tom-Fred the donkeyman . . . We shared the same girl once . . . Her name was Mrs Probert
Zweiter Ertrunkener: Siehst du mich, Käpten? Den redenden weißen Knochen? Ich bin Tom-Fred, der Hilfsmaschinist . . . Wir haben mal beide dasselbe Mädel geteilt . . . Sie hieß Mrs Probert 

Woman's voice: Rosie Probert, thirty three Duck Lane. Come on up, boys, I'm dead.
Frauenstimme: Rosie Probert, Entengäschen dreiunddreizig. Kommt nur rauf, Jungens, ich bin tot.

Third Drowned: Hold me Captain, I'm Jonah Jarvis, come to a bad end, very enjoyable . . .
Dritter Ertrunkener: Halt mich, Kapitän! Ich bin Jonah Jarvis, hab ein böses Ende genommen, sehr vergnüglich . . . 

Fourth Drowned: Alfred Pomeroy Jones, sealawyer, born in Mumbles, sung like a linnet, crowned you with a flagon, tatooed with mermaids, thirst like a dredger, died of blisters . . .
Vierter Ertrunkener: Alfred Pomeroy Jones, Zwischendecksadvocat, geboren in Mumbles, gesungen wie 'n Zeisig, gekrönt hab ich dich mit 'ner Kruke; tätowiert mit Seejungfrauen, durstig wie 'n Löffelbagger, gestorben an den Karbunkeln . . .

First Drowned: The skull at your earhole is . . .
Erster Ertrunkener: Dieser Knochenschädel an deinem Ohr ist . . .

Fifth Drowned: Curly Bevan. Tell my auntie it was me that pawned the ormolu clock . . .
Fünfter Ertrunkener: Wuschelkopf Bevan. Sag meiner Tante: der die Kaminuhr mit den Goldarabesken versetzt hat, das war ich . . .

Captain Cat: Aye, aye, Curly.
Kapitän Kat: Aye, aye, Wuschelkopf.


Dylan Thomas's Under Milk Wood is a play for voices, a radio play,  and so there is no requirement for synchronous speeded-up text. Therefore it works.

In the context of TV and The Simpsons, the whole business is I'm sad to say, quite beyond me. You may well ask: Why don't they use subtitles?

I do too. 


Sunday 28 April 2013

Photo Friendly Cops

 



Large photographs (or maybe posters) were on show in the Hof of a Vienna Palais I happened to wander into a year or two ago. I had my camera with me and so I took the opportunity to zoom-in and frame these three policemen.

Since the average city dwelling Bürgersmann can expect to have his visage captured over a million times on camera in his lifetime it's good to know that there are some photo friendly cops about.

We are not all being pressed into ordentlich Orwellian obedience as 'breaking news' reports might appear to suggest. Not yet anyway. At least I think not. The folks in Greece, Portugal, Spain, Cyprus etc. might have reason to think otherwise.

We are shortly to be issued with a new €5 note. It'll be more slippery they say. 


Saturday 27 April 2013

Ralph Waldo Emerson's Brahma

"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds"

Today is an appropriate day to recall the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson who died on 27th April 1882 at the age of 79.

A transcendentalist and a believer in non-conformity, he drew on Hinduism and a sense of the mystical oneness of the individual, nature and God. He swam naked in Walden Pond daily at the age of 77.

Emerson was laid to rest in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, Concord, Mass.,  close to the writers Thoreau and Hawthorne.

Brahma 

If the red slayer thinks he slays,
Or if the slain thinks he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanquished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven,
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.


Ralph Waldo Emerson 
1803-1882


"Life is a journey, not a destination"

The Long View




On my long walk
I take time to reflect
And reflecting
I take the long view
All will be alright in the end
Others rush by at 4mph


Thursday 25 April 2013

watching village cricket with granddad


granddad had five
and all
at one time
said mother
scrubbing the soil off the spuds
and then I remembered
the time
when I went to the one
on the slope
near the pavilion
with its view
of the scoreboard
and the square metal numbers
for hanging on hooks
- he'd shown
me the forks
rakes
and spades
and everything else
haunting the cobwebby depths
of the shed
- then at rest
on the bench
with our backs to the shed
we'd gazed out
over a barrow of compost and nettles
- but vaguely
like men deep in thoughts
of long summer evenings
- and below the allotments
my uncle
(his son)
was long at the crease
and the sum of the square metal numbers
was growing . . .



They are Dead by Charles Hamilton Sorley


HELL'S TEETH:
NEAT LAWNS
& LONG SHADOWS

One of my very favourite poems is The Song of the Ungirt Runners by Charles Hamilton Sorley and you can quickly find it via the blog searchbox.

As a counterweight to this delightful and spirited poem I publish here another poem by the same poet.

This one is,  most sadly, yet another war poem and it is brutally honest. So that I can find it again I have endowed it with the title: They are Dead;  one of the key phrases in the poem.

I experimented with another key phrase: It is a Spook. There was really nothing to choose between them.

I suppose I could, like some anthologists, have used When you see millions of the mouthless dead, the poem's first line, or left it as Untitled. In the event Mr Sorley, who was killed by the sniper's bullet, will not be troubled by my decision.


When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Across your dreams in pale battalions go,
Say not soft things as other men have said,
That you'll remember. For you need not so.
Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know
It is not curses heaped on each gashed head?
Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.
Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.
Say only this, 'They are dead.' Then add thereto,
'Yet many a better one has died before.'
Then scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you
Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,
It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.
Great death has made all his for evermore.

Charles Hamilton Sorley
1895 - 1915

Friday 19 April 2013

The Spirit of a bygone Age


The picture below shows a group of Canadian runners competing in the 1908 London Olympics Marathon.

First man to cross the finish line was the Italian runner Pietri Dorando. He was was followed home by Johnny Hayes (USA) and Charles Hefferon (South Africa). On entering the stadium the Italian took a wrong turning, stumbled, corrected himself and continued. He then fell. After medical attention he resumed the race.

Almost completely delirious he was helped over the finish line by well-meaning stewards. Suffering from exhaustion and dehydration he was finally taken to hospital.

It was with some reluctance that the Italian had to be disqualified due to his having received outside assistance.

In the spirit of the age he was presented with a cup by Queen Alexandra in recognition of his great courage and sportsmanship.  


RUNNERS IN THE LONDON OLYMPICS MARATHON (1908)

Wednesday 17 April 2013


Here is the front page of the Austrian daily paper Heute. One subject dominates. It is the latest terrorist bombing outrage. This time at the Boston Marathon.

The question being asked, once again, is: Why?

The young boy in the picture is Martin Richard. He was standing with other spectators near the finish of the Boston Marathon route. He was looking out for his hero. And then he spotted him. He ran out to his daddy. They hugged. "Let me run to the end," laughed Bill Richard and went on his way. Martin returned to his mother, brother, sister. Seconds later a bomb went off . . .

Martin (8) was killed.

Martin's sister Jane (6) has had to have her right leg amputated. His brother Henry (12) has received injuries to an arm. Their mother was struck on the head by flying shrapnel; possibly nails and ball bearings. She is now fighting for her life.

"Boston," writes Christian Nusser in his editorial, "is a liberal city, almost European, and has some of the best universities in the land. So why this attack which targets so many children? The answer is as plain and simple as it is bitter. It is because the assassin is a dastardly and poisonous spider; a species which will never die out and against which there is no antidote . . ." 



Tuesday 16 April 2013

Waiting for Red




The Earth 


Our Amber 


Blue Planet 



Of Curious Alarms


In Permanent 


Temporary Status



Of waiting 


For Red. 





Green Signal



Now


Broken?




Wednesday 3 April 2013

the catch


all shining
the weight of fish
in the bright blue box

all cleaned
with the big red knife
and the guts

thrown down
to the flags for the gulls
who arrive

as he wipes
the blade
on the dirty towel

from the gulls
there is nothing
to hide



Monday 1 April 2013

haiku

Wasdale - courtesy Jon S

  blue mountains folding
 into the dawn
an early bird's silence