Dear bibliophiles, good day.
By an adept, in the manner of Lucas Corso, surveyor of the bibliophilic margins.
Some years ago I was told about a man in Toulon who owned Latin leaves of the seventeenth century whose provenance was murky. Not murky in the way ordinary bibliophiles mean it: no dubious trimming of the margins, no ill-judged restoration. Murky because these leaves, he said, came from a book that had been taken apart on purpose to make another book, one that had never existed. I noted the name, filed the information under things to check, and then forgot it. Until the other evening, when I watched Roman Polanski’s The Ninth Gate again.
The film, released in 1999, adapts Arturo Pérez-Reverte’s El Club Dumas. It tells of the quest of a rare-book broker, a trade I know well, commissioned to authenticate one of the three known copies of a book called De Umbrarum Regni Novem Portis, On the Nine Gates of the Kingdom of Shadows, supposedly printed in Venice in 1666 by one Aristide Torchia, and said to have been co-signed by the Devil himself. Torchia, burned by the Inquisition, was supposed to have left three copies identical except for nine engravings which, compared with one another, would yield the keys to invoking Lucifer. The book does not exist, of course. Pérez-Reverte invented it for his novel. Polanski had it manufactured for his film. And this is where the bibliophilic story starts to get interesting.
Three false books, two real ones sacrificed. The production designer of The Ninth Gate is Dean Tavoularis, the man behind The Godfather, Apocalypse Now and Bonnie & Clyde. Oscar, 1975. A man of that stature has a team of prop makers, and the film’s head prop master is called Gilbert Pieri. Pieri had to make three hero copies of the Ninth Gate: the Balkan, the Fargas and the Kessler. Three distinct bindings, nine engravings per volume and, a decisive detail, a Latin text inside that had to look real under the camera, in close-up, open on Johnny Depp’s knees.
Pieri did not print that text. He did what any bibliophile will recognise as heresy: he bought two authentic old Latin books, one of more than five hundred pages, the other of more than eight hundred, and he took them apart. Some twenty leaves from the two volumes were combined, reinserted into the custom-made bindings, and duplicated to serve the three copies needed for the film. The detail is known to specialist collectors, who tell it to one another on forums devoted to film props. Some claim to own original pages from these two books, torn out during production and given to members of the crew. One of them eventually identified the source book by typing a Latin phrase from the film into Google: it was a Latin theological and Catholic work of 1588, from which the production had merely removed a few words to give the illusion of a coded text.
Some twenty leaves of a book of 1588, dismembered to appear in a Polanski film: this should make any lover of old paper tremble. Two real books were immolated on the pretext of making a third, rarer still, since it does not exist.
Then there are the nine engravings. They are, in Pérez-Reverte’s novel as in the film, the central element: each copy contains nine, but three of them differ from one volume to the next, and comparing the eighteen images reveals the secret. These engravings, too, have a bibliophilic history worth attention.
Here is a rare particularity: the engravings already existed in Pérez-Reverte’s novel, where they bear the initials AT and LCF; those in the film take up their formal language. The formal language of these engravings, as everyone knows, draws ostensibly on the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, the allegorical romance printed by Aldus Manutius in Venice in 1499 and attributed to Francesco Colonna. It is, as everyone knows, one of the most prestigious incunabula ever printed, famous for its one hundred and seventy-two anonymous woodcuts, themselves the object of five centuries of speculation about their author. A copy can be consulted online on Gallica, the digital library of the Bibliothèque nationale de France (bpt6k587910); those who want to see what a perfect copy costs today will remember that a Poliphilo in a fine binding has passed four hundred thousand euros at public sale, and that Jean Grolier alone owned five copies.
To make his cursed book, then, Pérez-Reverte had the formal language of the rarest and most mysterious book of Western printing adapted. It is a choice of great elegance: a seventeenth-century fake imitating a real book of the late fifteenth. The film’s engravings were drawn, engraved and printed like real copperplate prints, nine for each copy, twenty-seven prints in all, not counting the variants that Polanski had redrawn. Those prints exist somewhere, framed at Polanski’s or at Pieri’s, or scattered among the members of the crew.
As for official sales, the record is poorer than for The Name of the Rose. Neither Christie’s, nor Sotheby’s, nor Bonhams, nor Heritage, nor Propstore has seen a hero copy of the Ninth Gate go through. The three bindings made by Pieri are, to my knowledge, still in private collections; one belongs to the collection of a certain “balkan.press”, a discreet figure who runs a specialist website devoted to the object.
But the parallel market is teeming. More than forty official replicas of the book are listed online, sold for between five hundred and twelve hundred dollars depending on quality. A whole tinkerer’s literature circulates, with manufacturing tutorials, reconstructed typefaces, tracings of the nine engravings and of the tenth (the one called the “true ninth gate”, inscribed LCF). The Ninth Gate is probably the most copied prop book in the history of cinema.
And then there are the leaves. Those from the two sacrificed books. They circulate quietly, sometimes on eBay, more often in private transactions between collectors. The bibliophilic status of these objects is staggering: they are at once fragments of real old books (the Latin theological work of 1588), film props deposited by the production, and relics of the shoot co-signed Polanski. Three provenances for a single leaf: for the collector, an object to the third degree.
I do not know whether the man from Toulon really has Latin leaves that passed through the shooting of The Ninth Gate. I did not bother to go and see. But the idea that real old books were destroyed (consumed is the right word) to make a fictional book whose market value reaches several hundred euros today in replica, and incalculably more as a hero copy, should give us pause.
Polanski and his team inverted the bibliophilic equation. Where the usual market pays for the old manuscript and despises the modern copy, their film does the opposite: it buys and destroys a theological book of 1588 to make a modern fake that resells for more than the pages it is woven from. The cursed book has done its work. The real work has dissolved into the matter of the fake. And the leaves now in circulation are, as in the film, fragments that must be compared with one another to guess where they come from.
Burned books vanish, but those that are shut away always end up coming back.
Guild shelfmark: GBO-C/2 — Le Livre Démembré [The Dismembered Book]
Document classified: restricted circulation — Bureau of Litigious Props.
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