November 2018

by Helen Elliott

‘Killing Commendatore’ by Haruki Murakami
Art, music and mystery abound in the Japanese author’s latest novel

The 700 pages of Killing Commendatore (Harvill Secker; $45) ripple into being like an unfolding Japanese screen, each panel another miniature stage set. Murakami’s universe is embedded with obsessions, patterned with music and art, and it slants in every surprising and exhilarating way.

The Commendatore of the title is a character in Mozart’s opera Don Giovanni. Murdered by Don Juan in Act 1, Scene 1, he reappears in different form late in the opera. Don Giovanni, skittering about between comedy, tragedy and the supernatural, is annoying to follow but not necessary to know when reading Murakami’s new novel. As always, music inflects every particle of his universe. The central character and narrator, significantly unnamed, talks and plays Richard Strauss but is equally fond of jazz and contemporary American song. A portrait painter, he tells his story with a bizarre tranquillity, brushing in drama with firm black strokes, and foregrounding details in vibrant colour. He inserts tiny lectures on traditional Japanese painting.

The narrator is successful in his art and happily married until, at 36, his wife of six years tells him she can no longer live with him. She confesses that she has a lover but her need to end their marriage is for a reason she refuses to explain. In shock, he leaves their house that evening. After some weeks of aimless driving and sleeping in cheap places, he takes up a suggestion that he caretake the mountaintop house of a friend’s father, a revered traditional artist who is now in aged care. The narrator finds a violent Western-style painting, unlike anything the famous old artist has ever done, hidden in the roof of the house. Written across the packing is the title, Killing Commendatore.

The mountain is another world. In the house’s garden there is a shrine with a cellar once used to wall in volunteer monks determined to starve themselves into the next plane of being. Across the valley, directly opposite the narrator’s modest house, there is a magnificent, showy contemporary house. When the owner of this house, Mr Menshiki, arrives in his exquisite car and even more exquisite clothes, the narrator is intrigued. But Menshiki’s external perfection deflects any attempt at intimacy. He is a portrait without a face.

Menshiki, whose name means “avoiding colours”, drives the central plot. He could be the most dangerous charmer the narrator will ever meet. Or the most enabling.

I, too, disliked fantastical characters elbowing themselves into adult novels until I read David Mitchell’s The Bone Clocks. Mitchell redefines time, and Murakami’s novel is reminiscent of Mitchell’s in the best sense. Inspiration, not imitation. Murakami facilitates adults to read again as if they were children. An enchantment to the soul and a lure to the mind.

Helen Elliott
Helen Elliott is a literary journalist and writer.


November 2018

In This Issue


Free speech has never been ‘free’

The idea that all opinions should be ventilated is misguided

Still from The Old Man and the Gun

‘The Old Man and the Gun’ and the outlaw Robert Redford

David Lowery’s new film pays too much tribute to the Sundance Kid


APEC comes to PNG

Shipped-in Maseratis and single-use venues are a world away from real life in Port Moresby


Life in a coroners court

Meet those who speak for the dead to protect the living

Read on

Image from ‘House of Cards’

The magnificently messy ‘House of Cards’

The show that made Netflix a major player comes to a satisfying and ludicrous end

Image of Scott Morrison and the ScoMo Express

The ScoMo Express backfires

The PM’s farcical bus tour cements spin over substance as his brand

Image from ‘Suspiria’

Twisted sisters: Luca Guadagnino’s ‘Suspiria’

Sentimentality ruins the magic of this otherwise unsettling and actively cruel film

Image from ‘The Other Side of the Wind’

Orson Welles’s ‘The Other Side of the Wind’ and Morgan Neville’s ‘They’ll Love Me When I’m Dead’

The auteur’s messy mockumentary and the documentary that seeks to explain it are imperfect but better together