午宴之歌

买了这本书. 一来为了仔细研读,力图翻译准确; 二来为了留做纪念, 毕竟是第一次看诗歌改编的剧, 更是第一次接触诗歌翻译.
片子本身我不想再评论, 这种片子需要自己逐字逐句去体会. 看的次数越多, 便越是感叹语言的魅力. 就是这样在字斟句酌之间, 不经意的,好些台词几乎都记在心里了. (然而我要再啰嗦一句: 这种文学性太强的诗歌并不适合当作教材'学英文', 本诗一些用词和表达方式, 英国人表示他们自己也看不太懂, 更别提使用了.)

剧中的台词, 全是直接用的原诗句, 但不可避免有删掉的部分, 所以打算把原诗当中没有编进本剧的章节敲出来, 有兴趣的可以看看.

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注1: 括号中的是剧中出现过的, 方便大家定位.
注2: 大小写, 换行, 标点, 均依照faber&faber出版社2010年版 (http://www.faber.co.uk/work/song-of-lunch/9780571273522/).
<1>
(Keep your imagination peeled and see
Virginia Woolf
loping off to the library
with a trug full of books.)
At every twentieth step,
she takes a sharp drag at a cigarette
and pulls a tormented face
as if she had never tasted anything
so disgusting.

(And there goes T.S. Eliot,
bound for his first martini of the day.
With his gig-lamps and his immaculate sheen,)
he eases pastyou like a limousine:
a powerful American model.

<2>
(Gaggles of tourists straggle
more provocatively than ever;)
the approach to Bedford Square is blocked:
orange plastic barriers--
our century's major contribution
to the junk art of street furniture!

(Never mind, he's making good time--
note the active verb--
and he expects she'll be late.)
So he allows himself to feel
pleasure in his own fleetness,
in not being carried but riding
the currents and eddies
of the human torrent.

And occasionally stopping
to let another pass,
unthanked politeness being
the ultimate gesture
of the metropolitan dandy.

<3>
(The restaurant
is an old haunt,
though he hasn't been there for years;)
not since the publishing trade,
once the province
of swashbucklers and buccaneers,
was waylaid by suits and calculators,
and a strict afternoon
curfew imposed.

Farewell to long lunches
and other boozy pursuits!
Hail to the new age
of the desk potato,
strict hours of imprisonment
and eyesight tortured
by an impassive electronic screen!

Sometimes, though, a man needs
to go out on the rampage,
throw conscientious time-keeping
to the winds,
help kill a few bottles--
and bugger the consequences.
If not a right, exactly,
it's a rite,
and therefore approved in the sight
of some notional higher authority.

<4>
Lunch being a game with few rules,
and those unwritten,
it's important to him that the field of play
remain the same
as he fondly remembers it.

(Zanzotti's: unreformed Soho Italian.
...
cultureless, fly-by-night.)

He stops for a scrawny lad
wheeling a big, unsteady,
rust-patched, festering bin
to park at the roadside,
and wonders what he will find.

<5>
And that's where Dylan Thomas
scrounged ten bob off him,
then set about seducing his girl.

Not.

Seriously, though,
what will they say when they look back
at our demythologised age?

Postmodern Times:
garrulous, garish classic
starring

some idiot off the box.

Charlie Cretin!
Needs work.

Craplin? Forget it.

He cuts down Meard Street,
now much too smart for its name
but where he remembers
a knocking-shop henever went into--
feral whores at the window--
turns the corner, crosses,
and (hey presto:
Zanzotti's edges into view.)

<6>
Same tricolore paintwork,
thick from repeated coats
and somehow suggesting edibility.

Same signwriter's cursive
festooning the fascia-board
and flanked by the same brass lamps.

It's so much the same, it almost
looks like a replica.

The Wardour Street wideboys and creatives
must love it,
must think it's the campest retro--
when it's the real thing.

Through a gap in the blind,
he can see quite a few of them in there already.
Well, never mind.

He wishes no one ill.

Democracy of the feeding-trough;
swill and let swill.

He and his hand on the door-handle,
and foot on the grooved step,
(when he suddently recollects--
what, precisely?

Deja vu? Some artistic analogy?)

A true liminal moment,
or simply a trick
of the dictionary-picker's skittering brain?

Eye-corner glimpse
of fugitive epiphany
that, for several beats,
he pursues in vain.

(Too bad. Let it go.)

He has his hand still on the dimpled
brass bul of the door-handle.

Which he turns, noticing
the familiar loose-jointedness:
that's a promissing sign.

With the meekest bump of resistance
from the spring contraption overhead,
the door yields and he steps inside
to stand on the prickled mat,
peering into the gloom.

Midday twilight,
requiring adjustment
of all the senses
before it delivers its secrets.

He scans the room,
which is deeper than you might guess from the street,
registers its busyness,
and wonders which of the few
untaken covers will be his.
Not that one by the door
to the toilets, he hopes;
nor the one with too much window light.
Snug privacy is what he wants:
to be tucked away from the bustle:
ideally, over there.

(On the threshold, on the edge
of a shadow-world)

<7>
(Without a smile, without a word,
he is eybrowed and nodded to follow.)

Which he does, past tables,
past people at tables,
he is careful not to brush
with either himself or his shoulder-bag.

Aloof carriage, side=steps,
calculated indirection:
it's as much a dance as a walk.

And it gets him nicely
to the spot he had spotted
from the door.
Laid for two. A little island. An eyot.
Perfect.

<8>
(We said we wouldn't look back.)

Innocent jaunty wistful
ditty from the wings
and would run uninterrupted
if he didn't shoo it away.

Just one of those things.
Ditto.

A song for every cliche!

Though it was more, he's perfectly sure,
than a bell that now and then

(Why did she e-mail him
suggesting)
No, he

Woofs of laughter
in imprecise unison
from a table, all men,
jolly good company,
off to his right.

He draws a breadstick,
wrong brand, from its ripped sheath
and beheads it with a bite.

<9>
In twilight himself
(he commands, nice word,
a clear view of the entrance,
...
What will she look like?)

On his third tasteless
but moreish breadstick,
he's startled: she's changed.
But he's wrong. She hasn't. She isn't.

Back to his chewing:
the fragmentation
and mashing of rusk
soothingly loud
in the isolated chamber of his skull.

<10>
(Hello?)

He jolts. Ice cubes
slurrily clatter
to the bottom of the tumbler
as he bumps it back on the table.
Wiping his wet lip
also expresses surprise.

(She's here. How did that happen!)

<11>
(Have some wine,) he adds,
any stage business
being better than a dry.
(I'm afraid it hasn't really had time,
but

He pours into the two glasses,
measuring by ear
identical notes,)
then doesn't put the bottle down.
He has a speech to deliver.

(...
And they drink.
Becoming palatable.)

Her expression expresses no judgement
and she puts the glass down.

(You haven't changed.
...
It's almost all pizzas,)
he apologises
before she has read a word.
(I'm afraid the place has gone to the dogs.)

She looks around, cursorily.

(Don't be absurd, it's fine.)

<12>
Across the table
across clean cloth and clutter
she leans and wooingly twice
with middle finger
nudges him on the knuckle.

(Come on, no sulks. Be nice. Sois sage.
...
Pax,) he agrees, aggrieved.

And they shake hands,
a squeeze of fingers rather:
hers light then tight
then light again in his,
then efficiently retrieved.

<13>
He is startled from this reckless
plunge into memory
by his own awareness of it:
like snpping out of a doze.
How long can it have lasted?
Gone some time.

(But she seems not to have noticed,
...
you were practically seducing him
a minute ago.)

She swivels her gaze back:
smiling, surprisingly.

(It's nice to know
you're still madly jealous.)

<14>
(And we'll need another bottle of this.)

The waiter goes:
one of those fellows
you'd describe as nondescript
if the word wasn't forbidden.
How many times
in some author's manuscript
has he crossed it out and written
There is nothing that cannot be described.
But in this particular case,
searching in ain
for any distinctive feature,
he may allow and exception.

From that thought idly
on a ride of the eye
around the room--
the bustle, the hubbub--
he travels to the next:
a small dark waitress carrying
three filled plates
from the kitchen hatch
reverses pauses turns proceeds
with such practised fluency
that he'd like to catch
her eye to show her
his appreciation
and be rewar

影片最后
“床边还有人独坐
十分苍老的人
羊皮纸似的脸庞
稀稀落落的白发平整的梳起
失明而呆滞的眼睛
黑色的领带
黑色的套装
像是西西里坟茔中的死尸”
WHY?
或许我并不适合看这样的短剧
里面太多的短兵相接让我措手不及
太多的心计太多的得失太多的在意
但是最后的这个镜头
静止在一个衰老男人的目光里
谁又能想到
他就是那个为了爱牺牲了自己一辈子的悲情男人

看过将爱之后
很多人写
12年后会怎样
刚好
女人说，刚好十二年
两个在一起也不会太快乐的男人女人
在十二年之后会是这个模样
不会有同是天涯沦落人的相互舔舐
更不会一个人对另一个人说，我们回家吧
老男人不停的喝酒
而老女人指节明显的手始终拒绝着共饮的邀约
如同这家餐厅
过去已死
真正停留在时间里的
还有诗歌

时间偏袒了这个做了正确决定的女人
笑起来
看到皱纹明显
哲人慧眼中始终彰显最明确的拒绝

好吧，我承认我胃疼
这是一部让我胃疼的电影
我讨厌争吵
我讨厌男人推卸责任
我讨厌男人装疯卖傻
我讨厌男人不顾及别人感受自以为是
我讨厌男人在失去某个女人后假装的痛苦与悔意
这个老男人让我讨厌
我讨厌他诗歌中不停的反复与折磨
我讨厌他不得体的西装外套和假装的优雅
讨厌他猥琐的眼神讨厌他的幻想
我讨厌这个电影
但是却始终不敢妄加评价
它精致、优良，冲突明确
两位演员演技精湛，细节把握准确，情绪酝酿完整
但是我依然讨厌这部电影
如同我讨厌这个老男人

（如果有錯的話，概不負責：p）

“It's an ordinary day
in a publishing house
of ill repute.
Another moronic manuscript
comes crashing down the chute
to be turned into art.
This morning it was Wayne Wanker's
latest dog's dinner
of sex, teenage philosophy
and writing-course prose.
Abracadabra, kick it up the arse -
and out it goes
to be Book of the Week
or some other bollocks.
What a fraud. What a farce.
And tomorrow: who knows
which of our geniuses
will escape from the zoo
and head straight for us
with a new masterpiece
lifeless in his jaws.
That's about the size of it.
What about you?”

  這才是英國式的毒舌，英國式的嫉妒和鬱憤……太地道了，反而覺得作者有點可憐……我沒看過原作，不過如果不是影像的話，大概也不會是我的菜吧，太英國中年男人了，而且還是比較失意的那一掛，看太多會内傷的。

  Alan Rickman杯杯深藍色襯衫上面鐵棕色的西裝，看起來説不上風雅，也顯不出落魄，Emma Thompson阿姨白色的裙子質地顯得極好，趁出一身的風韻尤存。


  她招來侍者，他就說她誘惑，她說他是嫉妒，他表面不動聲色的否定，可内心的聲音說著完全相反的態度，“madly jealous”，“madly jealous”：P


……
…………
“The very table linen
has lost its patriotism.
Plain white: we surrender.
twanging And this menu, this twanging
laminated card,
big as a riot policeman's shield? ”
……
…………
………………而其實從這裡開始，我就一直不停的在怪笑了。

 Alan Rickman杯杯的“内心的聲音”和表面的不動聲色實在是太精彩了，面對爲了一個“小”男人離開他的女人，深深的相信這要是多麽愚蠢的女人才做得出這樣的決定啊，可人家如今是暢銷書作家……看著杯杯“說”著“how could she have been so stupid”，一邊不懂聲色的把紅酒倒進杯子。那看著waitress的裙子不小心翻起來的眼皮一跳，那精彩的在肚子裏罵這“笨女人”實則“強烈的嫉妒”，那對她新老公的諷刺，那個沉默，對著侍者的那段挖苦……其實Rickman杯杯都沒怎麽動嘴皮，甚至臉皮XD 那雙不大的眼睛一轉再配上那些心里的聲音，再加上另一根戯骨Emma Thompson阿姨的風韻和配合，就十足的撐起了這將近一個小時。



“Massimo……”
………………
個人覺得Massimo也很是個點：P 這個結尾滿絕的。

於是整個好英國，好中意：p

有的文字能带给人画面般的遐想，而她的节奏、韵律就是音乐。

有的影音加上人物的表演同样能带来文字一样的思索，是诗、是歌，同样也会成为自省后人飘忽然的动机。

看了两边，第二遍尽量不受画外音的干扰，不一样的感觉，同样的感、伤。长度也恰到好处，饱满却令人意犹未尽。

  因为哈利波特中的斯内普教授，开始迷上Alan Rickman，因为迷上Alan Rickman的声音，开始看更多的英国电影。似乎大部分打着“英国制造”标志的电影都有一种与生俱来的沉静，一如英伦淑女绅士见面时的点头致意，再浓烈的情感也多半只保存在一个人心中，隐忍而无声。《午宴之歌》在众多英国电影中可谓代表了典型的英国性格。但将【电影】这张名片加之又略微牵强，因为它只是一部45min的drama。取材自Christopher Reid柯斯达（costa）文学奖获奖诗歌，用制作者的话说，它展现了“Christopher Reid的全部智慧，诡计和人道”。这话的确是句一针见血的概括，由百分之八十的诗朗诵般独白支撑起的45min，细节的描摹可以精致到变态，跳跃的思维亦是一种冷静的神经质。

  这并不是一个复杂的故事。男主角——天命之年却庸碌的无名编辑— —在昔日的餐厅约会15年前旧情人的一次午宴。一如那句烂俗的情话：分手后，你是不是过得比我好？15年后的女主角，贤妻良母，养尊处优。于是本应互诉衷肠的午宴变成宴无好宴的闹剧，只能以男主角的狼狈仓皇而黯然收场。而两位老戏骨，Alan Rickman和Emma Thompson，绝对称得上英格兰国宝级影星，虽然演的只是连姓名都不知道的“他”和“她”，从眉宇到嘴角的不着痕迹，讲述关于时间与情感的哲学命题。

  不得不承认，诗化的影像总是太过细腻而凌乱，连看两遍《午宴之歌》，能让我记住的都还是只言片语的画面。

【His trusty blue pen can snooze with its cap on.】
这是个颇有点“偷得浮生半日闲”的句子，画面里的他脚步匆忙而不急促，满心渴望辉映故作姿态的矜持，还有那么一星心虚的惶恐，仅凭这点，他绝对不是个可爱的老男人。

【How long has it been? Five years? Six years? Ten? Fifteen.】
光阴似流水这话不假，Massimo和他的pirate crew连影子都找不到，从前熙熙攘攘的意式餐厅如今整洁的更像医院，面无表情的侍者更像看惯生死的医生护士。他想要一份酒单，面无表情的侍者直接翻到纸张粗糙的菜谱反面。一开始确实有些讨厌老男人的矫情，转念又觉得凄凉，15年光景已经把过往的情调侵蚀到仿佛一张薄薄的菜单，上面写满毫无温度的快餐名字。

【He commands-nice word-a clear view of the entrance, lit contre-jour so that each new arrival, new candidate for his notice, appear to step from brightness to bathos with an tacit apology. Sorry I’m not…】
不过他还是在嘴唇与红酒的亲吻中错过她从阳光走进阴影的瞬间，于是他惊惶、手足无措。像个孩子，穿上自己最好的衣服等待露天演出，然后突然来了一场倾盆大雨。他们点菜，他照旧一脸厌烦的开始抱怨，而她则更圆滑与老练的请求侍者为她推荐。他小心翼翼让她高脚杯中的红酒与自己的持平，他们像从前一样互相品尝对方的午餐……他透过酒杯和红色的液体，偷偷望向杯底，那双藏在他心底的“精灵之眼”。

【Skulking at dusk in her prim grey square, address folded in his raincoat pocket, with no real intention of ringing the doorbell, yet unable to depart. Until the horrible shock of the pigeon, an entire flock rising at some scare into the diminished light, like a thousand umbrellas simultaneously opening, and tell him to go.】
他称这是生命里唯一一次“疯狂”，当巴黎的街景渐渐湮灭在暮色中，脑海里挥之不去一个想象的、被细密的雨打湿肩头，睫毛间夹着水珠，倒映眼神中落寞与无奈，最终踽踽独行在陌生的街区，游离而空洞。承认这是整部电影中我最爱的一分钟，灰白喑哑的色调，安静的钢琴一个音符一个音符闲逛，时间黏稠到几乎停滞，或许真的停下了最好，这样他就可以伫立在她的窗前，一眼万年。

  作为一个理想主义的观众，我没法记住他和她的争吵，太过杂碎而现实。或许人到中年，浪漫就变成了奢侈品，即便是15年未曾谋面的爱人，她也会毅然宣称自己的手腕已经有了主人。她埋怨他精神涣散、话语刻薄、心智消沉，可她自己又何尝不是？为他多看了女侍应的玲珑曲线忍不住发起牢骚，纠结在他的回忆录里她是怎样的角色。之于他，是缺失家庭感而精神上歇斯底里的老单身汉；之于她，是衣食无忧但掩盖不住岁月带来灵魂衰老的中年女人。总之，他和她都不可爱。

  犹然印象深刻结尾那个面无表情，呆滞的坐在打烊餐厅里行尸走肉一遍的那个人，Massimo，十五年前他还是觥筹交错间穿梭如鱼的店老板，十五年后已然脱了人形如同灵魂被抽离身体。相比之下，他和她，是不是也算命运的幸运儿了呢？电影名为《午宴之歌》，中国亦有古话“无酒不成席”，只是他的两瓶红酒与一杯白兰地，并没有让十五年来的故事化作从喉头缓缓滑向胃里的一缕温润，也没有浓烈到引爆一切、吞噬万物的助燃剂，而是愈沉愈无味，愈久愈嘶哑，直到呕哑嘲哳，颓唐而残破，唱不出一首完整的歌……

我不是文青，绝对不是。并非因为“文青”在当今像是骂人话，而是因为我的思维结构与文青格格不入。我看重事实，讲求证据，逻辑，推理，科学事实，这些东西无一不是艺术的大忌。
自然而然地，我尽量不碰文艺片，不读诗。塔可夫斯基的《乡愁》我看了三遍，都没看完；西莫斯·希尼的诗集我也知道写得极好，却就是看着……不给力。
文艺片那大段大段无声镜头，长镜头，超长镜头，不停地蒙太奇，我受不了。你知道我在看《乡愁》时会走神到什么程度？因为片子里基本没什么对话，我忍不住胡思乱想：这个教堂是东正教的还是天主教的？东正教堂我可从没见过，不知里面放的圣乐和其他教派的是不是一样的？是不是格里高利圣咏？那巴赫的音乐呢？……我自己在生活中可以连续几天一字不讲，但要我长时间忍受无声的有声电影是很痛苦的。
诗歌我从来不喜欢，这里尤指现代诗歌。唐诗宋词我还是愿意一读的，给个注释就更好了。国外诗歌我得羞愧地承认自己好像只读过《浮士德》。对，我喜欢看长篇叙事诗，有文采又有内容，文质彬彬，寓教于乐。
又是孤陋寡闻了，不知道如今还有把叙事诗拍成影视作品的。我值的就是这部，《午宴之歌》（The Song of Lunch）。原作者是出生于我国（香港理论上算“我国”吧？）的英国诗人克里斯朵夫·里德（Christopher Reid）。两位主角也很熟了，一位是女人喜欢的老男人，另一位是男人喜欢的老女人——顺便问一句，男人有喜欢老女人的吗？反正我是喜欢的。
这部片子我目前看了三遍，已经看得抑郁了。连续不断的优美词句和对细节的捕捉让我根本不可能胡思乱想，更要命的是，我就算胡思乱想，可能也就是诗中所说的细节（我无意暗示自己有什么“诗情画意”）。对本人而言，一部好的文青作品的标准是什么？让人看得心慌。上一次让我看得倒吸凉气的作品是罗兰·巴特的《恋人絮语》——一本我发誓不再翻阅的顶级个人禁书，读过的人都知道我说的是什么意思。
很好，《午宴之歌》让我重温“心慌意乱”了，而且是毫无防备的情况下。午宴之歌，瞧这名字，怎么看怎么觉得是个轻松愉快的样子。抱歉，是我幼稚了，Professor Snape和Professor Trelawney在一起能怎么轻松愉快？
这下好了，抑郁了，怎么办呢？以前用恶意解构作品的办法驱赶忧愁，但面对她，我无能为力。
要不这么得了，背背诗作，里面有一百多个高分词汇呢，用到考试里，得牛逼啊？考试是扼杀一切情绪的手术刀，不是么？