欧宝娱乐

"Like you, I wanted to have an inconsolable memory, a memory of shadows and stone."

"I'll think of this adventure as the horror of oblivion. I already know it."

This is the screenplay of one of the finest films ever made. It is a delicate, poignant, slight and tender thing, but it probes the mysteries of love, forgetfulness, memory, time and oblivion in a way that few films have, within the framework of a nimble narrative that understands how the human brain processes and thinks about time -- past, present and future simultaneously. Duras showed that same kind of mastery in The Lover, and even though I loved that book more than this screenplay, I am rating this higher. In these scant few pages, in a wispy few lines, Duras says more profound things than more allegedly "important" thousand-page tomes can muster.

It's probably not a surprise, then, that I come to this screenplay with a tremendous bias. Hiroshima mon amour (1959) is my favorite film of the French nouvelle vague. To me, it is as important a milestone in film narrative as Citizen Kane. Although, its place in the New Wave movement has been debated -- since Resnais' work has a certain aloof poetry and timelessness and romanticism that defies the rawer efforts of his peers and sets it apart -- the movie nonetheless did represent something new, and happened to be made just as Truffaut, Godard, Varda and others were demolishing the French cinema's "Tradition of Quality."

One of the truly beautiful things about Hiroshima mon amour -- the film -- is its collaborative nature. Of course, all films are collaborative, and perfect writer/director pairings are not unheard of in the movies (Riskin and Capra, Diamond and Wilder, etc.). But what is special about the creation of this innovative and deeply felt French film is the generosity, complete respect and lack of egocentricity between screenwriter Marguerite Duras and director Alain Resnais, both masters in their respective fields. The "masters" aspect is important to stress here, because when two artists at their mutual peaks meet there often can be a turf wars over artistic ownership. Duras was aware that the screenplay she presented to Resnais was amorphous enough for him to bring his own vision to her words; it was something she intended and invited. In fact, there are passages in this screenplay where she provides alternate dialogue and situations for the director to choose, trusting his judgment. Resnais, in turn, trusted hers. In one instance, given three choices by Duras, Resnais did not choose one, but used all three. This was the level of artistic bonding and understanding at work. The startling and poignant results on the screen speak for themselves. Duras, in her preface to this edition of the screenplay, characterizes the interplay between herself and the filmmakers as "precious," so much so that she regretted, in hindsight, that the minutes of their creative meetings had not been scribed for posterity.

What is Hiroshima mon amour about? On the surface, it is a love story, a brief encounter between two strangers, neither of whom have names, or, if they do, are not sharing them with each other or us. As in Last Tango in Paris names are not important. Each has survived the war, each is lucky, though each realizes the advantages of dying. She is a French actress playing the role of nurse in an on-location film-shoot in Hiroshima. The subject of her film is the horror of the Hiroshima bombing and the necessity of peace. It is a UNICEF-type film, we are made to gather, a pedantic and earnest movie, not fictional but neither a pure documentary. He is an engineer or an architect, a professional man, an ex-soldier who made it through the Pacific war. His wife is away for a few days. How they meet is not important, Duras tells us only that they have, and that they have made love.

They have bonded, but what will make their meeting more than a temporary coupling? They only have 16 hours left before they part. Her film shoot is over; she is leaving the country, he must return to work, and his wife will return. What can he know, how can he know her, in such a short time? He hones in on one episode: her first love in Nevers, France. A love that has haunted her. A love she has not spoken of with anyone. She had met a German soldier, an occupier, and taken the forbidden step of making love with the enemy. The community learned of it, and she was shunned. They cut off all her hair. Humiliated, she was imprisoned in a cellar. She felt suicidal and wanted to die. With time, she copes, but her taboo lover never dies in her soul. He remains.

And now, 15 years later, the French actress and the Japanese engineer have met. A war has brought them together, or at least its aftermath. Before they part, they ironically note it might take a war to bring them back together again. Having made love, the man tells her that the vibrant city of Hiroshima, the one risen from the ashes, contrasted against the photos of past horror tells the French woman nothing about Hiroshima. She seems indignant at this; of course she has seen. He says, no, she hasn't. What can anyone know, who has not experienced?

Thus comes the confession he extracts from her; the record of her own pain in the war. In extracting it, he has assumed the identity of her former lover, her taboo love of youth; she, in the dreaminess of the moment, accepts that surrogacy, and tells all. The surrogacy is easy, in part, because the Japanese man, like her German soldier, is "the other," a taboo. They are not supposed to be together. He is Japanese, and married. They are both married; happily, so they say. Having confessed, she feels relieved, freed of a weight, but she also feels regret, a sense of betraying her dead lover of long ago. She wants to live that love again, but it is impossible. Their time is short, and it is passing. It already has passed. Their parting is inevitable. As inevitable as death. Ultimately, they come to know each other as place names, Nevers and Hiroshima; they become microcosms of the human condition, they represent all lovers in all times and places.

The ever-pressing cruelty of time awakens inner fears and panic. The man wants his lover to give of herself, not just of her body. But can he really understand, in so short a time? Of all the thousands of things to choose from in which to try to know someone, what can he pinpoint? He astutely focuses in on her love in Nevers. He knows that this is the essence of her pain, her outlook, her being, and its also a point of mutual understanding, an intersection that cements their physical act; because in that memory he sees his own memories, his own survival in crisis. It is the knowledge that makes their sexual bond meaningful.

As she tells her story, we realize we are eavesdropping on two people painfully aware of the mercilessness of time. These are two people reflecting on a past when they could not have known that they would ever meet each other. Two people whose demons will always render part of them mute. Like all people.

In the telling of the story, time shifts between past and present, in a nonlinear way, but not confusingly. The narrative allows for overlapping images, shifts in time and imagery. There is nothing confounding in the way the film shuffles time. It is very deft.

We never learn anything about the man's past, but, by extension, we know all. Her episode reflects his. The best that each can do, in this circumstance, is extend time, to stretch it. And the effort is pathetic, and they know it. They also know that to continue to see each other would be banal, would render what they've had with each other trite. In any case, forgetfulness and oblivion are inevitable. They realize this.

My reading of Hiroshima mon amour will differ from others' views. There are more things that can be said. This screenplay is a sweet thing to contemplate. In addition, the back pages include very interesting notes by Duras about the backstories of her characters, things not fully elaborated on in the film.

(KevinR@Ky 2016)