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toyybox · 1 year ago

Text

Spiderwebs #14: Tape VII (Perception)

Masterlist

content: lab whump, captivity, immortal whumpee, starvation

By now, Heather had a fairly good idea of Jackie’s limits. That was to say, there were none. Unless she found something specific, a kind of kryptonite to crack him. Until then? Fire, extreme temperatures, physical injury, and all manner of poison—all of that was on the table.

She was not interested in pointlessly wounding him, however. Heather had many pet projects, synthetic drugs she'd been developing here and there alongside the cancer treatment. The problem with testing them was that she never knew how much damage they'd do. What seemed like an innocuous compound would rupture the subject's liver or clot all their blood, and it was a hassle to replace them afterwards. One could only buy so many dogs, after all.

But things were different now. The only damage she could do to Jackie was emotional. And what was there to be upset about? It was only a few pills. The effects were temporary, anyway.

Her subject was awake that fine Tuesday morning. Her last experiment took place on Friday, so it had been four days. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, bright-eyed and ready, holding something in his hands. Before she could say anything, he spoke.

"Hi. I have a list of demands." He handed her a sheet of paper torn from the notebook. "Take your time, there's a lot to read."

She didn't accept the paper. "Demands? Excuse me?"

"Requests, if you want. Just read it." He nudged the paper forward. "Please?"

"Fine." She straightened the sheet. On it, there was a list written in a neat and slanted script. It read as follows:

Lamp Mouchette — Georges Bernanos Calendar Tea Fridge Telephone Blender Cake (chocolate preferred) Going outside?

"I can't tell if you're joking." Heather crumpled the paper into a ball. "Are you ready for the experiment, then?"

"Lady. Listen. Was there nothing on that list you could get?"

"No."

"Not a single thing? Come on, please? I'm so bored all the time. You can't imagine."

"Bored?" she repeated, incredulous. "What about the book and the—what was it, the notepad?"

"Do you expect me to entertain myself with a single book and a few pieces of paper?" He began to lightly pace the room, gesturing while he spoke, like a stand-up comic retelling a story. "That’s nothing. I can't even talk to anybody. You’re the most interesting part of my day."

"Why would you need a telephone to entertain yourself?"

"I—well, I need to call my coworkers, don't I?"

"No? Do you think I’m an idiot?"

He stopped walking—then began walking again in the other direction. "Okay, fine. I'll be honest, I just wanted to know if you'd do it. An experiment, I guess. It doesn't matter. What about the fridge and the blender? And the cake?"

"You don’t need those. I'm the one who gives you food."

"Yeah, unless you forget, and you forget all the time. You didn't give me anything yesterday."

"I didn't forget," she hissed. "This experiment requires an empty stomach. I'm not giving you a blender, or tea, or any of these other ridiculous things."

"Not even the book?"

"The book? Mouchette?" She unfolded the crumpled ball of paper. "No."

"Why?"

"You spoiled brat." She let the paper fall to the floor. "Ask me for one more thing. I dare you."

In his eyes passed a conflicted flicker, as he searched her expression. "But—"

"You're talking back." She stepped forward. To her delight, Jackie stepped backwards as well, as if her presence had its own kind of gravity.

"I'm not. I won’t ask for anything else, but—"

"I don't care. I don’t want to hear it."

"Wait. Please. Pretty please with a cherry on top and whatever. This last thing is really important." He paused, then swallowed, continuing when she didn’t make a move to interrupt him. "I want to go outside."

"I don't see how that's my problem."

"I’m being serious. I’m sick of staying in this room. It’s making me go crazy."

"You'll be fine."

"I won't be fine. You don’t get it, I’m—I don’t—" He began to falter under the weight of her stare. "It's—I'm not—come on, lady. Just for a few minutes. One minute. Thirty seconds, even. I can’t—“

"You can. You'll survive. Stop bitching for a moment, okay?" She stepped forward until his back was to the wall. "Why am I keeping you here? Remind me."

"For experiments?"

"Exactly. You're my test subject. Test subjects aren't supposed to complain. Test subjects are supposed to sit there and shut up and do the fucking test."

"And that’s what I have to do for the rest of my life?" His voice trembled with what could be anger or fear, or a nauseating mixture of the two. “Stay here and shut up? I‘m not even allowed to talk now?”

She had never met someone so theatrical. "Oh, calm down. I didn't tell you to go mute. You can talk. Just stop complaining. It won't kill you to be quiet for a second." She paused. "Well, I guess that's a given. My point is, you'll be fine."

"Really."

"Yes. Really."

Something sour but colder fell over him, as his shoulders slumped a little. That was all the fight he had, or he'd seen that this wasn't going anywhere. Or he was afraid of being vivisected again.

"I guess you're right," he said. "I wasn’t being serious, anyway."

"In that case, why did you ask?"

"Bored." His previously troubled expression cracked into a grin. "You're just so interesting to talk to."

"I'm sure. Let's continue, then? I’ll need you to take these."

She brought a bottle of pills from her book bag. He studied the white plastic container, barely an inch tall, completely opaque. Unlike regular pharmaceutical bottles, it was devoid of any labels.

"Another sedative?" he asked.

She unscrewed the safety cap, pressing down then twisting up. "No. Maybe. My results so far have been… inconclusive."

"What’s it supposed to do?"

"I'll tell you once the experiment's done. Hold out your hand."

In his open palm, she dispensed two tablets. They were as white as the container, circular, small as buttons. They were solid but surfaced with a powdery texture. He took them and, though he didn’t look thrilled about it, swallowed them with a gulp of water from his bottle. He stood still and waited.

“The effect won’t be immediate, you know.”

“I’m not stupid,” he said, although there was no heat simmering the words. “How long ‘til they work?”

“It depends. I’ll give it an hour.”

He nodded. “And you’ll bring food soon?”

“No.” She placed the bottle back into the bag. “Maybe tomorrow. I don’t want any interference with the experiment.”

“Amazing. Thanks so much.” He pushed past her, away from the wall, and sat in the chair. He crossed his arms on the table and buried his head in them.

He was quiet, at least. He stopped complaining. Yet, Heather felt no less irritated. Jackie was doing this on purpose. Sulking like a sullen child. It was all a ploy to get back at her. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting, then. She’d come back in an hour, she’d finish the experiment, and she’d get on with the rest of her day.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

The minutes passed by. From the basement, she heard occasional, faint thumping sounds. She wrote it off as another of Jackie’s attempts at being as annoying as possible. There was too much work to be done to pay it any mind. The end of the hour arrived soon enough.

When she returned, Jackie was huddled on his bed.

“Tape number seven. Five-fifty milligrams of thermoregulation stimulant administered an hour earlier. Subject appears lethargic. Jackie?”

He didn’t reply. She discovered the source of the sound—he was hitting his head against the wall, repetitively, like he was trying to drown something out.

Heather cleared her throat as she stood over him.

He looked over his shoulder at her. “Hi. Is this supposed to hurt?”

“Hurt?” This wasn’t going as planned. “On a scale of—“

“At least an eight.” He collapsed back into bed with a small groan. “Is this ‘cause I was talking back?”

“No, not at all.” Heather pulled the journal out from the bookbag and uncapped her pen. “What’s the pain like?”

“Bad.”

She frowned. If he was trying to be funny, this was not the time. Or maybe he really was in too much agony to think straight. “Is it a stabbing pain? Burning? Aching?”

“Burning, yeah.”

“How odd.” She wrote her findings down. “The drug was supposed to replicate the sensation of warmth. I don’t think it’s ever hurt before. It’s made a few guinea pigs die of hypothermia, but…” She pressed a hand to his skin. It was cold, even colder than before, nearly the temperature it was in the freezer. He was sweating a little, on his palms and the back of his neck. “I suppose that if the nervous system is targeted, the drug may activate pain receptors rather than thermoregulation. Jackie, you said it felt like burning?"

He nodded weakly.

"Oh, interesting. That points towards the stimulant being too powerful. The desired result is a mild heat, not enough to cause pain. It must have gone wrong somewhere.” She played with the pen between her fingers as she mused on this. “It’s also possible the dosage was too high. A few more trials may be needed.”

“Can you make it stop?” he asked, muffled through the fabric of the bed.

The answer was a resounding maybe, but Heather didn’t let the unknown get her down. This was nothing but another opportunity. For science! The nervous system was especially fascinating to Heather. The sparks and electric impulses that defined life. The body's only window to the world outside. And yet, nerves were so malleable. Delicate, for something so important. All perceptions and sensations could be altered, enhanced, or dulled, puppeted along by only a string of chemicals. Nothing more thrilling than that.

She had developed an opioid recently, one that could be strong enough to drown out the pain of an exposed bone. This was a perfect time to test it out.

“I can try,” Heather replied, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “Hang in there. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl

@lthrboy

#whump #whump writing #lab whump #Spiderwebs toyybox #my writing

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ivory--raven · 6 months ago

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what does muchettes mean?

"mouchettes" is how I refer to my current litter of foster kittens as a group! It worked better before I got the fourth kitten lol

they're three siameses, 13 weeks old, and on account of being siameses with the dark noses and light bodies, when they were younger and fluffier and rounder they reminded me of maggots. And I couldn't call them maggots in English, because that's a group of people and I also sometimes need to talk about actual maggots. I could've also had asticot (more correct) or ver (less correct) but neither of those words are especially cute...

So I settled on mouchette, which is a made up word. I've taken mouche, meaning fly, and added the diminutive ette to indicate how small and cute they are. If I were translating mouchette to English, I would go with "flylet."

cat tax :)

#mouchettes

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performingonline · 5 years ago

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Performance for Multi-User Online Environments (Before COVID-19)

I’m Angela Washko and I am currently teaching a course called Performance Art (In The Expanded Field) at Carnegie Mellon University and have recently had to switch to teaching remotely - a switch that comes maybe more naturally to me than others because of my experience participating in the net art community and operating as a performance artist specifically within online environments. Before everyone was forced to work remotely because of an international pandemic, many artists were already thinking about the internet as a context for performance art. I wanted to put together a resource focused on artists who have been doing the work of thinking about the specificity of virtual spaces as sites for performance and making work mindful of the unique qualities of the contexts they operate in. I hope that this list of works could be a resource for educators and artists who are interested in looking at artworks by individuals who have been thinking very intentionally about performance in networked contexts.

This list includes artists performing for webcam, artists performing in virtual environments, and artists performing for social media. It specifically focuses on performance, and excludes works of net art that do not contain performance-for-the-internet. The list also primarily focuses on performance works that are made without the use of expensive equipment or access to institutional spaces (although I know there are some exceptions on this list). Also - it is in no way complete or comprehensive!

*This list does not include the many artists who perform for video and upload their performances online - UNLESS the artist is specifically thinking about engaging with the digital audience and not prioritizing the gallery as a context.

**Sexually explicit or violent content that may be uncomfortable for some viewers and situations

Annie Abrahams and Emmanuel Guez, Reading Club (video conferencing)

Annie Abrahams, Daniel Pinheiro and Lisa Parra, DistantFeeling(s) (Zoom)

Annie Abrahams, Ruth Catlow, Paolo Cirio, Ursula Endlicher, Nicolas Frespech and Igor Stromajer, Huis Clos / No Exit (video conferencing)

Larry Achiampong & David Blandy, Finding Fanon 2 (Grand Theft Auto V)

Robert Adrian, The World in 24 Hours (networked happening)

LaTurbo Avedon, Visiting Artist Talk (multi platform)

Jeremy Bailey, various performances by Famous New Media Artist Jeremy Bailey (YouTube)

Jeremy Bailey, The You Museum (online advertising banners)

Man Bartlett, 24hr non-Best Buy (Twitter)

Genevieve Belleveau, Gorgeoustaps and The Reality Show (Facebook)

Wafaa Bilal, Domestic Tension (livestream website)

Wafaa Bilal, Virtual Jihadi (Quest for Saddam game)

Mary Bond, autodissociate me (4chan)**

Marco Cadioli, Remap Berlin (Second Life, Google Maps, Twinity)

micha cárdenas, Becoming Dragon (Second Life)

Ruth Catlow and Helen Kaplinsky, Sociality-machine (video conferencing, custom software)

Ruth Catlow, Marc Garrett and Neil Jenkins, VisitorStudio (custom software for online performance)

Jennifer Chan, factum/mirage (Chat Roulette)**

Jennifer Chan, factum/mirage III (Chat Roulette)**

Channel TWo [CH2], barelyLegal (Google Maps)

Corpos Informaticos, Telepresence 2 (telepresence project)

Petra Cortright, VVEBCAM (YouTube)

Jeff Crouse and Aaron Meyes, World Series of ‘Tubing (Competitive YouTube-ing)

James Coupe, General Intellect (Amazon Mechanical Turk)

Joseph DeLappe, dead-in-iraq (America’s Army)

Joseph DeLappe, The Salt Satyagraha Online: Gandhi's March to Dandi in Second Life (Second Life)

Joseph DeLappe, Howl: Elite Force Voyager Online (Elite Force Voyager Online)

Joseph DeLappe, Quake Friends (Quake III Arena)

Kate Durbin, Unfriend Me Now! (Facebook Live)

Kate Durbin, Cloud Nine (Cam4)**

Electronic Disturbance Theater, FloodNet (Java applet)

Entropy8Zuper! (Auriea Harvey and Michaël Samyn), WIREFIRE (Flash 5)

Entropy8Zuper! (Auriea Harvey and Michaël Samyn), skinonskinonskin (multi platform)

Jason Eppink, Kickback Starter (website, Kickstarter)

Cao Fei, RMB City (Second Life)

Mary Flanagan, [borders] (Second Life)

Foci + Loci, many projects (Little Big Planet 2)

Ed Fornieles, Dorm Daze (Facebook)

Carla Gannis, C.A.R.L.A G.A.N. (virtual environments and social media platforms)

Riley Harmon, Poser (Andy Warhol’s Grave Livecam)

Amber Hawk Swanson, Sidore (Mark) / Heather > LOLITA (livestream)**

Josh Harris, We Live In Public / Quiet (livestream)

Auriea Harvey, Webcam Movies (webcam)

Ann Hirsch, Scandalishious (YouTube)

Ann Hirsch, horny lil feminist (website)**

Faith Holland, Porn Interventions (RedTube)**

Shawné Michaelain Holloway, a personal project (XTube)**

Shawné Michaelain Holloway, b4bedwithurlbae (Periscope)**

Brian House, Joyride (Google Maps)

Brian House, Tanglr (Google Chrome extension)

E. Jane, E. The Avatar (YouTube, online store)

E. Jane, That time I sold my dreads online (ebay)

JODI, SK8MONKEYS ON TWITTER (Twitter)

Miranda July, Learning to Love You More (website)

Devin Kenny, Untitled/Celfa (webcam performance)

Laura Hyunjhee Kim, The Living Lab (social media, website)

Gelare Khoshgozaran and Nooshin Rostami, Just Like A Disco (webcam)

Gelare Khoshgozaran, Misscommunication (webcam)

Gelare Khoshgozaran, Realms of Observation (Chat Roulette)

Lynn Hershman Leeson, The Dollie Clone Series (webcam livestream)

Olia Lialina, Animated GIF Model (multiple webpages)

Olia Lialina, Self-Portrait (browser)

Olia Lialina, Summer (multiple webpages)

Jordan Wayne Long, Box Shipment #2 (Lord of the Rings Online)

Gretta Louw, Controlling Connectivity (Skype and others)

Low Lives, Virtual Performance Series (livestream)

Michael Mandiberg, Shop Mandiberg (ecommerce site)

Eva and Franco Mattes, Freedom (Counter-Strike Source)

Eva and Franco Mattes, Life Sharing (website)

Eva and Franco Mattes, No Fun (Chat Roulette)**

Eva and Franco Mattes, Re-Enactments (Second Life)

Eva and Franco Mattes, Synthetic Performances (Second Life)

Lauren McCarthy, Follower (artist-made app)

Lauren McCarthy, LAUREN (livestream surveillance)

Lauren McCarthy, Social Turkers (Amazon Mechanical Turk)

Lauren McCarthy, SOMEONE (webcam)

MTAA, 1 year performance video (aka SamHsiehUpdate) (livestream)

Jayson Musson / Hennessy Youngman, Art Thoughtz (YouTube)

Martine Neddam, Mouchette (website)

Mendi and Keith Obadike, Blackness for Sale (ebay)

Marisa Olson, Marisa’s American Idol Training Blog (blog)

Randall Packer & Systaime, #NeWWWorlDisorder (Facebook Live and website)

Sunita Prasad, Sunny & Benny Together Forever (My Free Implants website)

Jon Rafman, Kool Aid Man in Second Life (Second Life)

Bunny Rogers, 9 Years (Second Life)

Stephanie Rothenberg, Invisible Threads (Second Life)

Stephanie Rothenberg, Best Practices In Banana Time (Second Life)

Annina Ruest, A Piece of the Pie Chart (Twitter, webcam)

Annina Ruest, Rock N Scroll (Skype)

Nicole Ruggerio, AR Filters (Instagram)

RaFia Santana, #PAYBLACKTiME (Facebook and Paypal)

Anne-Marie Schleiner, Joan Leandre, Brody Condon, Velvet Strike (Counter-Strike)

Leah Schrager, Sarah White - Naked Therapy (video chat)**

Skawennati, TimeTraveller ™ (Second Life)

Molly Soda, various projects (multi platform)

Georgie Roxby Smith, Fair Game (Grand Theft Auto V)

Georgie Roxby Smith, 99 Problems [Wasted] (Grand Theft Auto V)**

Eddo Stern, Fort Paladin (America’s Army)

Eddo Stern, Runners (Everquest)

Tale of Tales, ABIOGENESIS (Endless Forest)

Third Faction, Demand Player Sovereignty (World of Warcraft)

Toca Loca, Halo Ballet (Halo)

Amalia Ulman, Excellences and Perfections (Instagram, Facebook)

VNS Matrix, Corpusfantastica MOO (MOO - multi-object oriented multi user dungeon)

Addie Wagenknecht & Pablo Garcia, Webcam Venus (sexcam sites)**

Angela Washko, BANGED: A Feminist Artist Interviews the Web’s Most Infamous Misogynist (Skype)

Angela Washko, The Council on Gender Sensitivity and Behavioral Awareness in World of Warcraft (World of Warcraft)

Angela Washko, The World of Warcraft Psychogeographical Association (World of Warcraft)

Brett Watanabe, San Andreas Deer Cam (Twitch, Grand Theft Auto San Andreas)

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theothersideofthecinema · 4 years ago

Photo

The Captive Lover – An Interview with Jacques Rivette, Frédéric Bonnaud

(September 2001)

Translation by Kent Jones

This interview was originally published in Les Inrockuptibles (25 March 1998) and has been republished here with the kind permission of the author.

* * *

I guess I like a lot of directors. Or at least I try to. I try to stay attentive to all the greats and also the less-than-greats. Which I do, more or less. I see a lot of movies, and I don’t stay away from anything. Jean-Luc sees a lot too, but he doesn’t always stay till the end. For me, the film has to be incredibly bad to make me want to pack up and leave. And the fact that I see so many films really seems to amaze certain people. Many filmmakers pretend that they never see anything, which has always seemed odd to me. Everyone accepts the fact that novelists read novels, that painters go to exhibitions and inevitably draw on the work of the great artists who came before them, that musicians listen to old music in addition to new music… so why do people think it’s strange that filmmakers – or people who have the ambition to become filmmakers – should see movies? When you see the films of certain young directors, you get the impression that film history begins for them around 1980. Their films would probably be better if they’d seen a few more films, which runs counter to this idiotic theory that you run the risk of being influenced if you see too much. Actually, it’s when you see too little that you run the risk of being influenced. If you see a lot, you can choose the films you want to be influenced by. Sometimes the choice isn’t conscious, but there are some things in life that are far more powerful than we are, and that affect us profoundly. If I’m influenced by Hitchcock, Rossellini or Renoir without realizing it, so much the better. If I do something sub-Hitchcock, I’m already very happy. Cocteau used to say: “Imitate, and what is personal will eventually come despite yourself.” You can always try.

Europa 51 (Roberto Rossellini, 1952)

Every time I make a film, from Paris nous appartient (1961) through Jeanne la pucelle (1994), I keep coming back to the shock we all experienced when we first saw Europa 51. And I think that Sandrine Bonnaire is really in the tradition of Ingrid Bergman as an actress. She can go very deep into Hitchcock territory, and she can go just as deep into Rossellini territory, as she already has with Pialat and Varda.

Le Samourai (Jean-Pierre Melville, 1967)

I’ve never had any affinity for the overhyped mythology of the bad boy, which I think is basically phony. But just by chance, I saw a little of L’Armée des ombres (1969) on TV recently, and I was stunned. Now I have to see all of Melville all over again: he’s definitely someone I underrated. What we have in common is that we both love the same period of American cinema – but not in the same way. I hung out with him a little in the late ’50s; he and I drove around Paris in his car one night. And he delivered a two-hour long monologue, which was fascinating. He really wanted to have disciples and become our “Godfather”: a misunderstanding that never amounted to anything.

The Secret Beyond the Door (Fritz Lang, 1948)

The poster for Secret Défense (1997) reminded us of Lang. Every once in a while during the shoot, I told myself that our film had a slim chance of resembling Lang. But I never set up a shot thinking of him or looking to imitate him. During the editing (which is when I really start to see the film), I saw that it was Hitchcock who had guided us through the writing (which I already knew) and Lang who guided us through the shooting: especially his last films, the ones where he leads the spectator in one direction before he pushes them in another completely different direction, in a very brutal, abrupt way. And then this Langian side of the film (if in fact there is one) is also due to Sandrine’s gravity.

The Night of the Hunter (Charles Laughton, 1955)

The most seductive one-shot in the history of movies. What can you say? It’s the greatest amateur film ever made.

Dragonwyck (Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1946)

I knew his name would come up sooner or later. So, I’m going to speak my peace at the risk of shocking a lot of people I respect, and maybe even pissing a lot of them off for good. His great films, like All About Eve (1950) or The Barefoot Contessa (1954), were very striking within the parameters of contemporary American cinema at the time they were made, but now I have no desire whatsoever to see them again. I was astonished when Juliet Berto and I saw All About Eve again 25 years ago at the Cinémathèque. I wanted her to see it for a project we were going to do together before Céline and Julie Go Boating (1974). Except for Marilyn Monroe, she hated every minute of it, and I had to admit that she was right: every intention was underlined in red, and it struck me as a film without a director! Mankiewicz was a great producer, a good scenarist and a masterful writer of dialogue, but for me he was never a director. His films are cut together any which way, the actors are always pushed towards caricature and they resist with only varying degrees of success. Here’s a good definition of mise en scène – it’s what’s lacking in the films of Joseph L. Mankiewicz. Whereas Preminger is a pure director. In his work, everything but the direction often disappears. It’s a shame that Dragonwyck wasn’t directed by Jacques Tourneur.

The Big Sleep (Howard Hawks, 1946)

It’s Chandler’s greatest novel, his strongest. I find the first version of the film – the one that’s about to be shown here – more coherent and “Hawksian” than the version that was fiddled with and came out in ’46. If you want to call Secret Défense a policier, it doesn’t bother me. It’s just that it’s a policier without any cops. I’m incapable of filming French cops, since I find them 100% un-photogenic. The only one who’s found a solution to this problem is Tavernier, in L.627 (1992) and the last quarter of L’Appât (1995). In those films, French cops actually exist, they have a reality distinct from the Duvivier/Clouzot “tradition” or all the American clichés. In that sense, Tavernier has really advanced beyond the rest of French cinema.

Vertigo (Alfred Hitchcock, 1958)

Of course we thought about it when we made Secret Défense, even if dramatically, our film is Vertigo in reverse. Splitting the character of Laure Marsac into Véronique/Ludivine solved all our scenario problems, and above all it allowed us to avoid a police interrogation scene. During the editing, I was struck by the “family resemblance” between the character of Walser and the ones played by Laurence Olivier in Rebecca (1940) and Cary Grant in Suspicion (1941). The source for each of these characters is Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights, which brings us back to Tourneur, since I Walked with a Zombie (1943) is a remake of Jane Eyre.

I could never choose one film by Hitchcock; I’d have to take the whole oeuvre (Secret Défense could actually have been called Family Plot [1976]). But if I had to choose just one film, it would be Notorious (1946), because of Ingrid Bergman. You can see this imaginary love affair between Bergman and Hitchcock, with Cary Grant there to put things in relief. The final sequence might be the most perfect in film history, in the way that it resolves everything in three minutes – the love story, the family story and the espionage story, in a few magnificent, unforgettable shots.

Mouchette (Robert Bresson, 1966)

When Sandrine and I first started talking – and, as usual, I didn’t know a thing about the film I wanted to make – Bernanos and Dostoyevsky came up. Dostoyevsky was a dead end because he was too Russian. But since there’s something very Bernanos-like about her as an actress in the first place, I started telling her my more or less precise memories of two of his novels: A Crime, which is completely unfilmable, and A Bad Dream, a novel that he kept tucked away in his drawer, in which someone commits a crime for someone else. In A Bad Dream, the journey of the murderess was described in even greater length and detail than Sandrine’s journey in Secret Défense.

It’s because of Bernanos that Mouchette is the Bresson film I like the least. Diary of a Country Priest (1950), on the other hand, is magnificent, even if Bresson left out the book’s sense of generosity and charity and made a film about pride and solitude. But in Mouchette, which is Bernanos’ most perfect book, Bresson keeps betraying him: everything is so relentlessly paltry, studied. Which doesn’t mean that Bresson isn’t an immense artist. I would place Trial of Joan of Arc (1962) right up there with Dreyer’s film. It burns just as brightly.

Under the Sun of Satan (Maurice Pialat, 1987)

Pialat is a great filmmaker – imperfect, but then who isn’t? I don’t mean it as a reproach. And he had the genius to invent Sandrine – archeologically speaking – for A nos amours (1983). But I would put Van Gogh (1991) and The House in the Woods (1971) above all his other films. Because there he succeeded in filming the happiness, no doubt imaginary, of the pre-WWI world. Although the tone is very different, it’s as beautiful as Renoir.

But I really believe that Bernanos is unfilmable. Diary of a Country Priest remains an exception. In Under the Sun of Satan, I like everything concerning Mouchette [Sandrine Bonnaire’s character], and Pialat acquits himself honorably. But it was insane to adapt the book in the first place since the core of the narrative, the encounter with Satan, happens at night – black night, absolute night. Only Duras could have filmed that.

Home from the Hill (Vincente Minnelli, 1959)

I’m going to make more enemies…actually the same enemies, since the people who like Minnelli usually like Mankiewicz, too. Minnelli is regarded as a great director thanks to the slackening of the “politique des auteurs.” For François, Jean-Luc and me, the politique consisted of saying that there were only a few filmmakers who merited consideration as auteurs, in the same sense as Balzac or Molière. One play by Molière might be less good than another, but it is vital and exciting in relation to the entire oeuvre. This is true of Renoir, Hitchcock, Lang, Ford, Dreyer, Mizoguchi, Sirk, Ozu… But it’s not true of all filmmakers. Is it true of Minnelli, Walsh or Cukor? I don’t think so. They shot the scripts that the studio assigned them to, with varying levels of interest. Now, in the case of Preminger, where the direction is everything, the politique works. As for Walsh, whenever he was intensely interested in the story or the actors, he became an auteur – and in many other cases, he didn’t. In Minnelli’s case, he was meticulous with the sets, the spaces, the light…but how much did he work with the actors? I loved Some Came Running (1958) when it came out, just like everybody else, but when I saw it again ten years ago I was taken aback: three great actors and they’re working in a void, with no one watching them or listening to them from behind the camera.

Whereas with Sirk, everything is always filmed. No matter what the script, he’s always a real director. In Written On the Wind (1956), there’s that famous Universal staircase, and it’s a real character, just like the one in Secret Défense. I chose the house where we filmed because of the staircase. I think that’s where all dramatic loose ends come together, and also where they must resolve themselves.

That Obscure Object of Desire (Luis Buñuel, 1977)

More than those of any other filmmaker, Buñuel’s films gain the most on re-viewing. Not only do they not wear thin, they become increasingly mysterious, stronger and more precise. I remember being completely astonished by one Buñuel film: if he hadn’t already stolen it, I would have loved to be able to call my new film The Exterminating Angel! François and I saw El when it came out and we loved it. We were really struck by its Hitchcockian side, although Buñuel’s obsessions and Hitchcock’s obsessions were definitely not the same. But they both had the balls to make films out of the obsessions that they carried around with them every day of their lives. Which is also what Pasolini, Mizoguchi and Fassbinder did.

The Marquise of O… (Eric Rohmer, 1976)

It’s very beautiful. Although I prefer the Rohmer films where he goes deep into emotional destitution, where it becomes the crux of the mise en scène, as in Summer, The Tree, the Mayor and the Mediathèque and in a film that I’d rank even higher, Rendez-vous in Paris (1995). The second episode is even more beautiful than the first, and I consider the third to be a kind of summit of French cinema. It had an added personal meaning for me because I saw it in relation to La Belle noiseuse (1991) – it’s an entirely different way of showing painting, in this case the way a painter looks at canvases. If I had to choose a key Rohmer film that summarized everything in his oeuvre, it would be The Aviator’s Wife (1980). In that film, you get all the science and the eminently ethical perversity of the Moral Tales and the rest of the Comedies and Proverbs, only with moments of infinite grace. It’s a film of absolute grace.

Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me (David Lynch, 1992)

I don’t own a television, which is why I couldn’t share Serge Daney’s passion for TV series. And I took a long time to appreciate Lynch. In fact, I didn’t really start until Blue Velvet (1986). With Isabella Rossellini’s apartment, Lynch succeeded in creating the creepiest set in the history of cinema. And Twin Peaks, the Film is the craziest film in the history of cinema. I have no idea what happened, I have no idea what I saw, all I know is that I left the theater floating six feet above the ground. Only the first part of Lost Highway (1996) is as great. After which you get the idea, and by the last section I was one step ahead of the film, although it remained a powerful experience right up to the end.

Nouvelle Vague (Jean-Luc Godard, 1990)

Definitely Jean-Luc’s most beautiful film of the last 15 years, and that raises the bar pretty high, because the other films aren’t anything to scoff at. But I don’t want to talk about it…it would get too personal.

Beauty and the Beast (Jean Cocteau, 1946)

Along with Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne (1945), it was the key French film for our generation – François, Jean-Luc, Jacques Demy, myself. For me, it’s fundamental. I saw Beauty and the Beast in ’46 and then I read Cocteau’s shooting diary – a hair-raising shoot, which hit more snags than you can imagine. And eventually, I knew the diary by heart because I re-read it so many times. That’s how I discovered what I wanted to do with my life. Cocteau was responsible for my vocation as a filmmaker. I love all his films, even the less successful ones. He’s just so important, and he was really an auteur in every sense of the word.

Les Enfants terribles (Jean Cocteau, 1950)

A magnificent film. One night, right after I’d arrived in Paris, I was on my way home. And as I was going up rue Amsterdam around Place Clichy, I walked right into the filming of the snowball fight. I stepped onto the court of the Théâtre de l’Oeuvre and there was Cocteau directing the shoot. Melville wasn’t even there. Cocteau is someone who has made such a profound impression on me that there’s no doubt he’s influenced every one of my films. He’s a great poet, a great novelist, maybe not a great playwright – although I really love one of his plays, The Knights of the Round Table, which is not too well known. An astonishing piece, very autobiographical, about homosexuality and opium. Chéreau should stage it. You see Merlin as he puts Arthur’s castle under a bad charm, assisted by an invisible demon named Ginifer who appears in the guise of three different characters: it’s a metaphor for all forms of human dependence. In Secret Défense, the character of Laure Mersac probably has a little of Ginifer in her.

Cocteau is the one who, at the end of the ’40s, demonstrated in his writing exactly what you could do with faux raccords, that working in a 180-degree space could be great and that photographic unity was a joke: he gave these things a form and each of us took what he could from them.

Titanic (James Cameron, 1997)

I agree completely with what Jean-Luc said in this week’s Elle: it’s garbage. Cameron isn’t evil, he’s not an asshole like Spielberg. He wants to be the new De Mille. Unfortunately, he can’t direct his way out of a paper bag. On top of which the actress is awful, unwatchable, the most slovenly girl to appear on the screen in a long, long time. That’s why it’s been such a success with young girls, especially inhibited, slightly plump American girls who see the film over and over as if they were on a pilgrimage: they recognize themselves in her, and dream of falling into the arms of the gorgeous Leonardo.

Deconstructing Harry (Woody Allen, 1997)

Wild Man Blues (1997) by Barbara Kopple helped me to overcome my problem with him, and to like him as a person. In Wild Man Blues, you really see that he’s completely honest, sincere and very open, like a 12-year old. He’s not always as ambitious as he could be, and he’s better on dishonesty than he is with feelings of warmth. But Deconstructing Harry is a breath of fresh air, a politically incorrect American film at long last. Whereas the last one was incredibly bad. He’s a good guy, and he’s definitely an auteur. Which is not to say that every film is an artistic success.

Happy Together (Wong Kar-wai, 1997)

I like it very much. But I still think that the great Asian directors are Japanese, despite the critical inflation of Asia in general and of Chinese directors in particular. I think they’re able and clever, maybe a little too able and a little too clever. For example, Hou Hsiao-hsien really irritates me, even though I liked the first two of his films that appeared in Paris. I find his work completely manufactured and sort of disagreeable, but very politically correct. The last one [Goodbye South, Goodbye, 1996] is so systematic that it somehow becomes interesting again but even so, I think it’s kind of a trick. Hou Hsiao-hsien and James Cameron, same problem. Whereas with Wong Kar-wai, I’ve had my ups and downs, but I found Happy Together incredibly touching. In that film, he’s a great director, and he’s taking risks. Chungking Express (1994) was his biggest success, but that was a film made on a break during shooting [of Ashes of Time, 1994], and pretty minor. But it’s always like that. Take Jane Campion: The Piano (1993) is the least of her four films, whereas The Portrait of a Lady (1996) is magnificent, and everybody spat on it. Same with Kitano: Fireworks (1997) is the least good of the three of his films to get a French release. But those are the rules of the game. After all, Renoir had his biggest success with Grand Illusion (1937).

Face/Off (John Woo, 1997)

I loathe it. But I thought A Better Tomorrow (1986) was awful, too. It’s stupid, shoddy and unpleasant. I saw Broken Arrow (1996) and didn’t think it was so bad, but that was just a studio film, where he was fulfilling the terms of his contract. But I find Face/Off disgusting, physically revolting, and pornographic.

Taste of Cherry (Abbas Kiarostami, 1997)

His work is always very beautiful but the pleasure of discovery is now over. I wish that he would get out of his own universe for a while. I’d like to see something a little more surprising from him, which would really be welcome…God, what a meddler I am!

On Connaît la Chanson (Alain Resnais, 1997)

Resnais is one of the few indisputably great filmmakers, and sometimes that’s a burden for him. But this film is almost perfect, a full experience. Though for me, the great Resnais films remain, on the one hand, Hiroshima, mon amour (1959) and Muriel (1963), and on the other hand, Mélo (1986) and Smoking/No Smoking (1993).

Funny Games (Michael Haneke, 1997)

What a disgrace, just a complete piece of shit! I liked his first film, The Seventh Continent (1989), very much, and then each one after that I liked less and less. This one is vile, not in the same way as John Woo, but those two really deserve each other – they should get married. And I never want to meet their children! It’s worse than Kubrick with A Clockwork Orange (1971), a film that I hate just as much, not for cinematic reasons but for moral ones. I remember when it came out, Jacques Demy was so shocked that it made him cry. Kubrick is a machine, a mutant, a Martian. He has no human feeling whatsoever. But it’s great when the machine films other machines, as in 2001 (1968).

Ossos (Pedro Costa, 1997)

I think it’s magnificent, I think that Costa is genuinely great. It’s beautiful and strong. Even if I had a hard time understanding the characters’ relationships with one another. Like with Casa de lava (1994), new enigmas reveal themselves with each new viewing.

The End of Violence (Wim Wenders, 1997)

Very touching. Even if, about halfway through, it starts to go around in circles and ends up on a sour note. Wenders often has script problems. He needs to commit himself to working with real writers again. Alice in the Cities (1974) and Wrong Move (1975) are great films – so is Paris, Texas (1984). And I’m sure the next one will be, too.

Live Flesh (Pedro Almodóvar, 1997)

Great, one of the most beautiful Almodóvars, and I love all of them. He’s a much more mysterious filmmaker than people realize. He doesn’t cheat or con the audience. He also has his Cocteau side, in the way that he plays with the phantasmagorical and the real.

Alien Resurrection (Jean-Pierre Jeunet, 1997)

I didn’t expect it as I was walking into the theater, but I was enraptured throughout the whole thing. Sigourney Weaver is wonderful, and what she does here really places her in the great tradition of expressionist cinema. It’s a purely plastic film, with a story that’s both minimal and incomprehensible. Nevertheless, it managed to scare the entire audience, while it also had some very moving moments. Basically, you’re given a single situation at the beginning, and the film consists of as many plastic and emotional variations of that situation as possible. It’s never stupid, it’s inventive, honest and frank. I have a feeling that the credit should go to Sigourney Weaver as much as it should to Jeunet.

Rien ne va plus (Claude Chabrol, 1997)

Another film that starts off well before falling apart halfway through. There’s a big script problem: Cluzet’s character isn’t really dealt with. It’s important to remember Hitchcock’s adage about making the villain as interesting as possible. But I’m anxious to see the next Chabrol film, especially since Sandrine will be in it.

Starship Troopers (Paul Verhoeven, 1997)

I’ve seen it twice and I like it a lot, but I prefer Showgirls (1995), one of the great American films of the last few years. It’s Verhoeven’s best American film and his most personal. In Starship Troopers, he uses various effects to help everything go down smoothly, but he’s totally exposed in Showgirls. It’s the American film that’s closest to his Dutch work. It has great sincerity, and the script is very honest, guileless. It’s so obvious that it was written by Verhoeven himself rather than Mr. Eszterhas, who is nothing. And that actress is amazing! Like every Verhoeven film, it’s very unpleasant: it’s about surviving in a world populated by assholes, and that’s his philosophy. Of all the recent American films that were set in Las Vegas, Showgirls was the only one that was real – take my word for it.I who have never set foot in the place!

Starship Troopers doesn’t mock the American military or the clichés of war – that’s just something Verhoeven says in interviews to appear politically correct. In fact, he loves clichés, and there’s a comic strip side to Verhoeven, very close to Lichtenstein. And his bugs are wonderful and very funny, so much better than Spielberg’s dinosaurs. I always defend Verhoeven, just as I’ve been defending Altman for the past twenty years. Altman failed with Prêt-à-Porter (1994) but at least he followed through with it, right up to an ending that capped the rock bottom nothingness that preceded it. He should have realized how uninteresting the fashion world was when he started to shoot, and he definitely should have understood it before he started shooting. He’s an uneven filmmaker but a passionate one. In the same way, I’ve defended Clint Eastwood since he started directing. I like all his films, even the jokey “family” films with that ridiculous monkey, the ones that everyone are trying to forget – they’re part of his oeuvre, too. In France, we forgive almost everything, but with Altman, who takes risks each time he makes a film, we forgive nothing. Whereas for Pollack, Frankenheimer, Schatzberg…risk doesn’t even exist for them. The films of Eastwood or Altman belong to them and no one else: you have to like them.

The Fifth Element (Luc Besson, 1997)

I didn’t hate it, but I was more taken with La Femme Nikita (1990) and The Professional (1994). I can’t wait to see his Joan of Arc. Since no version of Joan of Arc has ever made money, including ours, I’m waiting to see if he drains all the cash out of Gaumont that they made with The Fifth Element. Of course it will be a very naive and childish film, but why not? Joan of Arc could easily work as a childish film (at Vaucouleurs, she was only 16 years old), the Orléans murals done by numbers. Personally, I prefer small, “realistic” settings to overblown sets done by numbers, but to each his own. Joan of Arc belongs to everyone (except Jean-Marie Le Pen), which is why I got to make my own version after Dreyer’s and Bresson’s. Besides, Besson is only one letter short of Bresson! He’s got the look, but he doesn’t have the ‘r.’

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liliesofpur-i-ty · 7 years ago

Text

the death-obsessed old woman’s monologue in Mouchette, by Georges Bernanos, translated by J. C. Whitehouse

‘Mouchette, I’ll go and watch over your mother tonight,’ she said.

Mouchette had cut off sharply to the right to avoid the café, whose doors were now wide open, and had found herself face to face with the sacristine. ‘If you want to. Do as you like,’ she said unsteadily. The pale blue eyes, irresistibly curious and compassionate, stared at her with a look of strange complicity. ‘Come on in,’ said the old woman softly. Mouchette did as she was told, simply because she felt she could go on no longer. She dropped into a chair by the empty hearth. The carefully-cleaned tiles smelled of polish and sour apples. In the ebony-coloured oak of the cupboard she could faintly see the reflection of her own face. The old woman had sat down silently opposite her. The clock with a bronze cock perched on its top, was ticking slowly and dully, each fall of the copper pendulum casting a brief reflection on the wall. For a time Mouchette struggled against the heavy silence. It was too late. She felt as if an invisible cloth were covering her face and shoulders. The illusion was so strong that she seemed to be making an immense effort to thrust it off, but she was unable to move. Just as she abandoned the effort and yielded herself to the sensation she heard the old woman’s voice again. She seemed to be finishing a sentence which she had already started. ‘You’re a little upset. Take things gently for a time, my dear. Stay here.’ ‘No,’ said Mouchette. ‘I’ve got to get back.’ The strange silence fell again, but this time Mouchette made no effort to break it. She slipped into it with an almost physical delight. ‘You were going to do something wrong,’ the old woman went on. ‘There’s something in your eyes. When you went past the house this morning, I thought “that girl’s up to no good”.’ Silence. Mouchette followed the ticking of the clock with a strange new pleasure, for her dreaming was rarely as disconnected and sleep-like as this. It was so disconnected that she saw nothing clearly and distinctly, but was rather only aware of the extreme slowness of the rhythm of her thoughts. Her state was like that which precedes all deep rest, between wakefulness and sleep, scarcely a part of life. ‘I’ve been thinking about you for months,’ the old lady continued. ‘Isn’t it strange? And I know you well. It all started only one day last summer. Do you remember? I gave you a green apple.’ Mouchette remembered, but did not give any sign of doing so. She had never trusted anyone -- in the exact sense of the word -- and the urge which had carried her a few hours ago to her mother’s bedside was the only one of its kind she had ever felt. She somehow knew that it would be the last, and that some mysterious instinct in her had died at its first expression. Her secret was not one which could be shared, for it was connected with so many different things. It was like one of those sickly-looking plants which bring up, when one tries to uproot them, the lump of earth which has sustained them. Yet she could make no effort to escape from the strange, delicious languor which filled her and seemed to be weaving around her, diligently and patiently, the threads of some invisible design. ‘I didn’t say anything earlier, because it was too soon. Everything comes in its own good time. Why try to stop a horse when he’s kicking and biting? When he’s tired and he’s had enough, that’s when you speak quietly to him and put the bridle on. There aren’t many animals or many people who can resist a gentle word when it’s needed. But people talk too much. They talk and talk so much that when the time comes there’s nothing left in their words. They’re like the dust you raise when you’re winnowing grain.’ She went over to the cupboard and opened it. A faint, warm scent of verbana filled the room. From top to bottom the cupboard was full of white linen, imperceptibly golden in the gleam of the centuries-old polished wood. It seemed, in the darkened room with its one window with drawn curtains, another source of incredibly soft light. What woman of Mouchette’s class had never dreamed of such a treasure? At any other time her bewildered admiration would soon have changed to anger, but now she was too exhausted. As she caught the delicate perfume, she seemed to feel the caressing coolness of the gleaming sheets on her hands. ‘On the day of your mother’s death you can’t go home like that. Today is a special day and you must honour it. Believe me, my dear, it’s an important day. Have you ever thought about death?’ Mouchette did not reply. Her gaze was still drawn towards the cupboard. Suddenly the idea of death was confused with the image of the piles of immaculate sheets. ‘I understand death,’ the old woman went confidingly on. ‘I understand the dead too. When I was your age I was afraid of them. Now I talk to them -- in a manner of speaking -- and they answer me. It’s like a murmur, a little whisper, that seems to come from the depths of the earth. ‘I told the curé about it one day. He scolded me. He thinks the dead are in heaven. I don’t want to contradict him, you know, but I stick to my own ideas. They say that once people used to adore the dead, that they were gods. I think that must have been the true religion, don’t you? You think that the dead don’t smell nice. I know. When cider’s boiling, it smells like a wet cow-stall. Death’s like cider -- it’s got to throw off its scum.’ She trotted to the far end of the room and put down on the bed a bulky parcel carefully rolled in cloth. ‘If I said what I think’ (putting the pins between her teeth as she pulled them out), ‘people would laugh at me. You too . . . you know that on any other day you’d be pulling faces already. But today your heart’s asleep. Don’t try to waken it too quickly, my dear. They’re the best moments of life. I can’t do anything for people who’re too wide awake. There’s too much bad in them. You might just as well put your hand in a badger’s hole. When you passed by this morning, just remember, you stopped a minute in the middle of the road. Your whole face was asleep, apart from your eyes. When you came back, your eyes were asleep too. What’s the good of waking her, I thought. Hasn’t she had enough unhappiness already?’ She whispered these last words into Mouchette’s ear. Mouchette slowly looked up. ‘I know you understand.’ Her wrinkled cheeks coloured. ‘I suppose you haven’t even a sheet at home to wind her in? It hurts me to see how they look after their dead here. Before Jesus came, they used to embalm them with perfumes -- spices, they called them -- it cost a fortune. And now they don’t even wash them. Even the Marquis had a week’s beard and dirty nails. If they dared, my dear, they’d put them in their coffins straightaway, and the curé would back them up. What’s he want to walk round the coffin for, with his holy water and incense! He just thinks the body is something to get rid of, like an empty bag. You should treat a dead person better than a sweetheart and be nice to it and spoil it before it goes off to purify itself under the ground.’ Her faded eyes gleamed bright blue. Mouchette gazed at her in amazement. It was clear that the old woman was lost in her own mysterious memories. In her voice, her features and her fixed smile there was a kind of frightful innocence. ‘I’ll bring one of my sheets, my very best one. We’ll wrap her together, my dear. I’ll do that for you because you’re listening to me without laughing. ‘I come from somewhere you’ve never heard of, in the mountains. In my village, once autumn was past, you didn’t see the sun any more. It came up one side and set on the other and never got high enough for you to see its silly face. In winter, the ground was frozen so hard you couldn’t bury the dead. They used to hoist the coffins into the roof of an isolated barn, and the cold preserved them till spring. The cemetery was just by our house, and the church, just a tiny one, half stone and half wood. The road was poor, and was always being cut by avalanches, and for six months on end the curé scarcely used to show his face. The sacristan had to read the gospel on Sundays because there was no Mass. There wasn’t much room, and they’d made the cemetery on a kind of small piece of flat land -- but the sides dropped a hundred metres. it was just a tiny little cemetery, but you can’t imagine anything prettier. I used to get up at night to look at it. Even when there wasn’t a moon, you could make out the crosses.’ She spoke without raising her voice, but more and more quickly. It reminded Mouchette of the little wooden windmills that the local boys made. There was one behind the house, unnoticed since the summer, and now almost covered by the swollen waters of the stream, whose insect-like sound could still be heard above the gushing of the spring. ‘Listen,’ said the old woman. ‘Because we’re friends, I’m going to give you this nice sheet. There are a lot of rich people who don’t leave us so nicely-dressed -- families are so nasty! And I’ve a nice surprise for you, too.’ She picked up the half-open parcel from the bed. ‘It’s a souvenir,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll find something nice to wear inside, if you feel that you should. It must be your size. But I’m afraid the colour isn’t very suitable -- it’s all either blue or white. The poor girl was pledged until she was fifteen, you know.’ ‘Pledged?’ said Mouchette. ‘What does that mean?’ ‘It was a vow her mother had made. Her mother had been old M. Trévène’s daughter, the big mill-owner from Roubaix, a very rich man. He’d bought the château at Tremolens, about eighty kilometres from here. I used to be in service there every summer. When I was getting on for thirty I wasn’t in too good health -- I was very thin and sallow and my breath was bad. No boy looked at me without laughing. Never mind! The little girl would only play with me, and the grandfather had nothing against it. I say play, but she really only liked reading and talking. I was slow and didn’t understand much, but I liked to watch her. I know now that you mustn’t go by appearances. I’ve seen so many of those lovely girls die! Anybody seeing the two of us together wouldn’t have thought much of my chances. I was as thin as a rake. ‘When Mademoiselle came back in the summer, jumping out of the big black carriage full of leather trunks, all white and sweet-smelling and young, she never missed telling me, with her little hand on my shoulders, how sad I looked. One year she came back from town a lot earlier than usual, in the spring. I’d never seen her looking so beautiful, and for a long time I didn’t notice that she’d lost weight. The funny thing is that from that moment I started to get better. I didn’t know why. The servants hardly recognized me. They told me I’d got a different face. It wasn’t my face; I felt that something wonderful was going to happen to me, that it was my turn now. ‘When I was with Mademoiselle I never felt embarrassed any more. In any case, everybody made a fuss of me because Mademoiselle was ill and I was looking after her as well as I possibly could. Nothing was too much for me. I stayed up three nights running with her, even though it wasn’t necessary, and watched her sleeping. Perhaps it was by watching her like that that I began to like watching over the dead. Just before dawn, especially, her face lost its bloom and its youth. It was a face that belonged to me. The distance between us seemed suddenly wiped out. You would have thought that all the strength and freshness she lost while she was most deeply asleep were passing into me. It was like another blood flowing under my skin. Sometimes Mademoiselle was resentful. She’d ask me why I was looking at her like that. I’d tell her not to be afraid. When I went near her, she would laugh in a strange, quiet way. And yet she always gaze way in the end. My pity was stronger than her revulsion. Sometimes she even put her head on my shoulder and cried. ‘Her fair hair smelt of heather. It was so nice that it made me think about love -- me, who’d never bothered with me. But even at those times I couldn’t forget how ill she was. The sweat on her forehead was cold and think. She wiped it off all the time with her finger-tips, pulling faces, and I always pretended not to notice anything. But it was still our secret. And it was for a long time, because she made up so carefully every morning that it was a long time before her mother realized how ill she was. But she was getting worse very quickly. I heard the doctors talking to each other, saying she wasn’t putting up a fight. Why should she put a fight? After a few weeks, as soon as she was alone with me, she gave up. I think she even liked to let me see her at her worst, as pale as death under her make-up, with her eyes lifeless. In the neck of her blouses -- I’d always envied them -- I could see how hollow her chest was. Perhaps that was how she made up for the show she’d had to put on during the day? Now she insisted that I slept in her room on a camp-bed. The grandfather had booked a room for the autumn in one of those places they call a sanatorium, a hospital for millionaires. “It’s not so urgent,” her mother used to say. “In summer the climate’s as good here as anywhere, and you can see that she can’t do without Philomène.” And she did cling to me more and more, and I clung to her. Her mother was a bit mistrustful. The grandfather would say I wasn’t looking after myself properly, and she’d answer that I was putting on weight. It was true. The watching at night had no effect on me -- I could do without sleep. And Mademoiselle could do without sleep too, or she no longer liked to sleep. ‘During the day, she came and went as usual, and sometimes she laughed. I kept myself away from her as much as possible, but if she happened to meet me, she would pretend not to see me, or smile in a funny, embarrassed way. When we were alone together, she always began by pretending to be asleep. About midnight, her cough used to wake her. I had to sit on her bed. Her nightgown was sticking to her skin. Once the crisis was over, she’d no more strength than a child. She would tell me that she was going to die, and that she knew it, and that all the doctors’ lies made her ashamed. From then on, it seemed to me that you just had to give in to death. She cried for hours, quietly, with no sobbing, without even blinking, just as if life were passing out of her. In the end I’d cry too. She used to say “How you love me!” They weren’t bad tears, because tiredness was never too much for me. To tell the truth, I’d never had such an appetite. I was always first in the kitchen in the morning, before the milk was in the saucepans. I could have eaten a horse!’ She was clearly speaking to herself now, forgetting Mouchette and the parcel in her lap with her trembling arms around it. She had reached, in her confidences, some deep inner depth -- but in vain. ‘What become of Mademoiselle, then?’ Mouchette’s hoarse voice interrupted her. She seized the old woman’s arm nervously, with her ‘bad look’ on her face. ‘You frightened me, my dear. Where was I? I can’t remember. You startled me, my girl.’ The short rest had refreshed Mouchette. She felt a well-known flush on her cheeks and a circle of pain round her head, a sure sign of the stubborn bad temper which exasperated the schoolmistress. ‘You horrible old woman. If I’d been the young lady, I’d have strangled you.’ ‘Look at you,’ retorted the old woman, with no trace of fear. ‘A real wild-cate. What have you got to do with the young lady; you’re too swarthy. She was pretty and fresh. You’re like a gipsy.’ With a sudden unexpected movement which took Mouchette unawares, she went up to the girl and put her hand on her breast, over her heart. ‘I only wish you well,’ she said. ‘You’re bad, but it’s only because you don’t understand. I think I know your story already. You just tell me about it, my dear.’ She had curled up in her chair, and her fingers were moving so restlessly and quickly along her black dress that her hands were like two small grey animals hunting an invisible prey.

#mouchette #georges bernanos

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airyhfjones · 8 years ago

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You don't seem okay, Mouchette. Please try to get some help or maybe talk to Lin? We are worried about you... - A concerned fan

480. 6 -5*; -5*; ]5*; 480. )-5(8 )‡ )-5(8 ]8 5(8 )-5(8† 5*† 4?(; 6* .56* ]5*; ;‡ †68 (82‡‡; (82‡‡; (82‡‡; ???

lin not on on cant talk dont want we are ok perfect fine no worry needed anymore will be okay yes yes

#9‡?-48;;8 #Anonymous

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s0021800a2film · 7 years ago

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Post R - Collated Quotations

“His first cut of À bout de souffle was two-and-a-half hours long but Beauregard had required he deliver a ninety-minute film. Rather than cutting out whole scenes, he decided to cut within scenes, even within shots. This use of deliberate jump cuts was unheard of in professional filmmaking where edits were designed to be as seamless as possible. He also cut between shots from intentionally disorienting angles that broke all the traditional rules of continuity.”

“This text, rich in puns, references and quotations, combined with unexpected editing and soundtrack juxtapositions, made the film a surprisingly prescient forerunner of his future film style.”

“Cloistered away in the middle of the conflagration, their obsession with film musters and explodes without the viable outlet of the Cinematheque, manifesting in a series of sadistic, often sexual games centered on movie knowledge and the price of ignorance.”

“Bertolucci cuts these scenes with clips from a wonderful selection of classic cinema: Garbo memorizing her room in Queen Christina, Nadine Nortier’s suicide in Bresson’s Mouchette, Fred Astaire waking Ginger Rogers in Top Hat, Odile, Arthur, and Franz’s sprint through the Louvre in Bande á part, and so on–asking his young actors to mimic these scenes in motions that are part trance, part tango.”

“The suggestion, and it’s one drunk with sublimity, is that our relationship with film transcends articulation, encompassing philosophy, politics, sex, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll, and pot-spiced bubble baths that last a day in one giant, sloppy, beautiful clinch.”

“Disturbingly, Bertolucci, a poet raised on the cinema in Langlois’s Cinematheque, a “true artist” now refusing interviews to anyone not associated with a “major daily,” has crafted a film that talks about growing out of movie love as something inevitable and to be accepted with resignation.”

“Michel Poiccard is a vicious hood, growling sexual predator and casual killer.”

“Godard continues to influence younger generations of filmmakers and when Quentin Tarantino named his film company A Band Apart, he paid tribute to the legendary French director.”

“The Nouvelle Vague rewrote the cinematic romance, playfully shifting between colour and black and white, as well as counterpointing interior monologues with dialogue”

“They also intensify the art-cinema convention of the open-ended narrative”

“In Breathless, Gordard’s jump cuts create a skittery, nervous style.”

“The French New Wave is largely responsible for the romantic image of the young director fighting to make personal films that defy the conventional industry”

“Moreover, Nouvelle Vague films proved more exportable than many bigger productions.”

“The French New Wave became a vibrant influence on international cinema which is still being felt today.”

“New Wave filmmakers inspired the cult of the director as artistic icon on a par with writers and painters.”

“The production signalled a revolution in the art of filmmaking; the film’s narrative technique, at once perfectly lucid and completely impenetrable, pushed the boundaries of the medium while diving into more complex, epistemological questions about the nature of fiction, belief and perception.”

They always insisted on a naturalistic style”

“Unlike all classical Hollywood films, French New Wave films tend to break the rules of continuity editing and using free editing style. The directors of French New Wave often drew attention from audiences by discontinuity, reminding them that they are watching a movie.”

“The directors of French New Wave had admired the Neorealists especially Rossellini, and in opposition to studio filmmaking, they decided to shoot on location.”

“In opposition to the classical filmmaking, the directors of French New Wave often shot their films with loose structure and open-ended storyline.”

“They argued that the French cinema was similar to the literature”

“They were able to create few memorable films with the help of talented script writers. The participation of script writers helped them to stay away from adding their personal opinions and views into the movies that they created.”

“It became famous around the world as well and its concepts influenced a lot of directors. These ideas have created the layout for the popularity of alternative cinema, which exist in today’s world.”

“It’s hip, moody black-and-white stories of love, violence, ennui, and social strife provide a perfect entrance into the private-made-public world of cinema.”

“The most obviously revolutionary quality of the New Wave films was their casual look”

“New Wave films were intoxicated with the new freedom offered by the hand-held camera”

“The film industry could come from talented, aggressive young people inspired in large part by the sheer love of cinema’’

“Moreover, the films often lack goal-oriented protagonist”

“The seminal new-wave film that broke all the rules of storytelling and form”

“Raoul Coutard, who worked completely without artificial lighting, either holding the camera while standing or while being rolled about in a wheelchair.”

“Reveals the ‘screenwriter’ Francois Truffaut”

“There must be an elegant way of summing up a moment of transition in film culture’’

“Bertolucci pays homage to Godard’’

“All on top of Bertolucci’s own desire to establish a distinctive voice of his own”

‘Jean-Luc Godard’s luminous, polyphonic film Notre Musique (2004) combines lightness of touch, depth of thinking and pleasure in formal experimentation to evoke and confront such pressing contemporary issues.’

‘Godard today is a multimedia artist as a conventional feature film maker’

‘Displays strong thematic and stylistic affinities with his voluminous output of the past decade.’

‘The idea of music is what makes us live, or makes us hope’

“Bertolucci describes The Dreamers as being about three utopias centred around his memories of May ‘68: political, cinematic and sexual, and by far the most engaging aspect of the film is its celebration of cinema.”

‘In a more pervasive way, The Dreamers is suffused with references to Last Tango in Paris , and Jean-Pierre Melville’s adaptation of Jean Cocteau’s novel Les Enfants terribles (1949).’

‘In Le Divorce the French attraction was Hermès bags and gourmet restaurants. In The Dreamers , it is the aura of rebellion and cinephilia in a sublime domestic setting.’

‘In a wonderful elegiac montage, Bertolucci splices together archive shots of Jean-Pierre Léaud giving a passionate speech in defence of Langlois, with his own shots of Léaud today reproducing the same event’

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