好学生杰依兰

如果你像我一样是塔科夫斯基爱好者，但是有点厌倦了翻来覆去揣摩他的七部半作品，可以考虑试一试土耳其新锐导演Nuri Belge Ceylan。

在Ceylan第一部短片《Koza》中，塔科夫斯基的影响是压倒性的，而其效果也是绝对单纯的；黑白摄影和胶片的能力被展现到最大限度。Ceylan本身是个摄影者，但对比他的摄影作品（http://www.nuribilgeceylan.com）和这部短片，可以看到他更适合从事电影，因为他的摄影作品尽管各方面都很出色，但是刻意的痕迹实在太重。而放在一个“流”里，这种刻意就不再是很大的问题，因为影像之间的转接和更替成为注意的焦点。

第二部作品《Kasaba》当然是这个短片的延续。但有意思的是除了塔科夫斯基，这个片子表现出多方面的影响，比较明显的是Bergman，Bunuel和Kiarostami。在树林中一家人的交谈，那种代表不同生活观念的家庭成员之间的相互指责，完全是伯格曼系统的。至于布努艾尔，则基本上用做对塔科夫斯基的补充（比如那个蚂蚁在手掌上爬的镜头，剥离了超现实主义的怪诞）。最后说Kiarostami，那就是影片前面的乡村课堂了。题材是这个题材，但是Ceylan的手法还是跟塔走。说句玩笑话，塔科夫斯基只拍了打靶场，Ceylan替他补足了教室里面这一段，那个袜子上的水滴在炉子上的感觉真是学塔学到了家。这个片子最大的问题就在于好像没有能够把这所有的东西都融合在一起。或者说，经过反复剪接尝试，这已经是最好的结果，就好像《镜子》，不同材质的共存也成为一种特质。

在《Uzak》中，Ceylan对塔的崇拜被推到台前。主人公两次在深夜独自回味《潜行者》和《镜子》中的片段，他的摄影朋友们也直截了当地指出他想象塔科夫斯基那样拍电影，如同镜子里的主人公家里挂着Rublev的招贴画，Uzak的主人公家里挂着Koza的招贴画。但在部影片中，还有两个其他值得注意的方向，是以前所没有的。一个是侯孝贤式长镜头里的场景调度。塔科夫斯基也擅用长镜头，但侯孝贤的手法和他有两个基本不同。首先按说塔科夫斯基的长镜头不能不说缓慢，但比起侯孝贤明显地少了距离感；其次塔科夫斯基的调度刻意感太强，候就比较灵活。这个比较也全不是凭空猜测，据我一个土耳其朋友的描述，伊斯坦布尔举办侯孝贤影展的时候，他在观众里是看到了Ceylan的。

另一个是Ceylan好像学会了蔡明亮的招牌动作，即用固定机位的长镜头来捕捉喜剧元素。爱情万岁，洞，你那边几点，或者是天边一朵云，基本上都立足于这个招式。并且，这个手法的高明之处就在于，虽然观众笑了，但也必然感到一种苦涩。在远方这个片子里，偷看三级片，偷听别人电话后踩在粘鼠胶上的狼狈，都活脱脱是蔡明亮电影里的。

我们美丽的大脚们

中国没有西部片，但是中国有“农村题材”。而且越是漂亮当红的女演员，越是要在这个类型中一显身手。巩俐试过无数次，次次都成功（除了农村题材，巩俐大姐还参与过真正有价值的片子么）；继巩俐之后，又有章子怡，也是一炮打响（可惜章小姐没什么耐心）；章子怡之后，更有倪萍（杨亚洲的大脚泥鳅雪花三部曲），起码也达到了让人刮目相看的目的；现在这个行列又添了一个新丁，则是余男。

余男何许人也？正好比我当初看The Garden of the Finzi-Continis，没有看见Dominique Sanda，只看见了De Sica；八年前看《月蚀》，我也没看见余男，而只是看见了王全安。

出于对王的仰慕，最近看了《图雅的婚事》，不过奇怪的是，这次我没有看见王全安，倒是看见了谁是余男。

我注意力的转移，是有充足的依据的。月蚀的叙事是多点式的，女主角在里面并没有决定性的作用；或者说，月蚀的叙事，实际上是从一个男性的视角（摄影爱好者）出发，女主角是他摄影机里的一个形象，是一个他脑海中的图像。在图雅的婚事里，叙事则完全集中在图雅身上，所有的男人，要么是追求她的（占了大多数），要么是依赖于她的（丈夫和孩子），这样一来，图雅就理所当然地成了世界的中心。王导不愿意承认而我们却不能不指出的是，这个结构，包括女主角的Quest-Oriented Narration，和秋菊打官司如出一辙（女人强过男人，女人为男人伸张正义）。

柏林电影节的评委们没有觉得这有多大不妥，我也愿意在这个问题上放王导一马，毕竟，这方面的电影不是已经太多，而是还可以再多一些。但是《图雅的婚事》有一点问题，就是，余男是否胜任这个角色所要求的表面真实性？我没有看过惊蛰，但是就从这个片子上来看，好像不完全是这么回事。

导演是怎样努力创造余男作为一个内蒙古女人的表面真实性呢？除了脸部化妆，头巾，臃肿的服装（这些都可以在她的前辈们那里中找到），基本上是两点：一个是手持摄影机跟拍（大家都用的万金油）；另一个就是让余男用一种特殊的语气说话。她当然是说普通话（我怀疑一个真正的牧民是否说普通话），但却故意采用了一种发音上的偏移，含糊和怒气冲冲，再加上一种刻意的“粗糙”感——比如，她嘴里经常轻蔑地蹦出来“算球他妈的”几个字。

但是导演苦心经营的表面真实感却在一个镜头中被摧毁了。约莫在影片中间的位置，图雅已经决定嫁给开奔驰的老同学，在高速路的收费站外面碰到牵马的邻居，一段对话後，图雅重新坐上汽车——就是在这儿，有一个镜头交代图雅从后方走上来，拉开门，上车——她的动作怎么这么熟练？就好像每天都要上车下车无数次？我当时看到这里，心里不由得咯噔一下，隐隐觉得大事不妙。因为我并不知道这个电影除了余男，巴特尔就真的是巴特尔，森格儿就真的是森格儿——如同柏林电影节的观众们，我并不知道余小姐的“客串”身份。但是当灯光亮起，我面前出现一个身着皮衣的时髦女郎的时候（还伴随与王导激情拥吻之类场面的联想），我并没有如同柏林电影节的观众一般，彻底折服。

很简单，我倒回去再看。越看越是觉得，余男骑在骆驼上，真的好像一节木桩。

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说了这么些，我的结论是什么？不是说余男的演技有多成功或者失败（我虽然拍了她的砖，但我觉得她已经很努力，也很成功了），而是说有一点奇怪，人们往往从演员的真实形象和角色之间的这个落差来衡量所谓的演技。这个是从方法派的原则中来的。因为方法派讲究完全带入角色，所以你演的人越是不是你，任务越是有挑战性，你越是让人敬佩。

在我看来，这恐怕不是唯一能够衡量演技的地方。首先哪怕一个人演的就是自己，他所能“表演”出来的东西，那是很不一样的。其次，什么是自己？什么又是他人？表演当然可以将自己的真实面目隐藏在一个他人的面具之下，但也许同时，也可以一个他人的面目隐藏在自己的身份中。在我看来，能够表现出这种一个个性，一个形象的“似是而非”之处，更让我着迷。

我的这个理论和方法派的根本不同在于，方法派认为电影表演力图反映的层面是表面真实，而不是人性的深层真实。举一个例子，Mastroianni所扮演的角色也许和他的真实形象并没有天涯之隔（他从来没有大搞表面文章），但是仍然有着相当的复杂性。他的奇妙之处在于，他似乎是个变色龙，虽然始终保持壁虎的样子，但却可以随着环境的变化而改变颜色。比如在《八部半》里，他身上有费里尼的荒唐；在《夜》里面，则变成了安东的凝重；又换了《白夜》，维斯康蒂的古典气质；《意大利式离婚》，西西里乡绅的土气，等等。

在每一部Mastroianni所扮演的影片中，我们都不仅能够毫不费力地认出这个演员，认出导演，还可以清楚地看到至少两种距离，一个是演员两个身份之间的距离，一个是作为不变数的演员和作为变数的导演之间的距离。Mastroianni的表演并不抹杀这些距离的存在，他并不试图完全“潜入”他的新角色，而是大胆地保留所有这些差异，并力图通过这些差异揭示一些新的东西。

同样的效果，在一部中国影片中我也有看到。这个就是李阳的《盲井》。甚至还要更有意思些，因为这个片子里涉及到三重身份的距离：演员（演员），角色（骗子），角色所扮演的角色（矿工）。当“矿工”暂时拉下一层面具（商量下一步行骗的细节），回到“骗子”的时候，它不仅体现了角色和他所扮演的角色之间的距离，也体现了演员和角色之间的距离。何以见得？因为这两个距离是同质的。所以尽管电影没有直接揭示後一个距离，它的存在可以被感受到。而为什么要揭示这个距离？就是因为这个距离树立了一种多重性，是任何方法派的表演所不能达到的。

A voyeuristic cinema

Cinema is indeed an art form. But this observation does not exclude another somehow unpleasant truth—cinema is inherently voyeuristic. As Stanley Cavell points out, the cinema enables us to be wrapped in a cloak of invisibility, allowing us to be present and not present at the same time—a viewer with no responsibility except to view. Although this situation leads to something definitely lower than the aesthetic experience that Kant and Schopenhauer promoted, it is not without its charming innocence. A child, embraced by the mother, or lying safely on bed, protected by the quilt, often insists on hearing a story before fall in sleep. Is not there something common between the demand of the child and a spectator in a movie theater, who is riveted to his seat by the catastrophe taking place in front of him and yet knows perfectly well that he is perfectly safe?

Voyeurism allows us to experience without taking the consequence, to excite in front of horrible events without feeling the real pain. For this purpose, the event presented on the screen has to be “real” to build the necessary conviction; yet it also has to be absolutely unreal to qualify for a spectacle, since the condition of this pleasure is at least partly derived from the knowledge that all this is not true, that it has happened (as in documentary) or is only reproduced by stunts, special effects, etc. In other words, the disaster of bringing the real King Kong to a Broadway theater is a doomed one since the pleasure of the spectacle prescribes that the real danger is not to be present. Instead of the real animal, what Denham and his crew should bring to the theater is the picture, which is indeed what they set out to capture—Peter Jackson succeeds exactly where Denham fails.

In fact, the voyeuristic aspects of cinema is so prominent that it would be hard to give a counterexample where voyeuristic pleasure is completely absent. The “disaster spectacle” discussed above is only one possibility among many (think about horror, adventure, western, gangster, action, where strong physical danger is present). The pleasure of looking at the female body (or the male body, to a lesser extent) is another prevalent application of this notion[1]. Like the previous category, this sexual pleasure is triggered by a visual and physical presence of events or objects and corresponds to concrete physiological phenomena. The secretion of adrenaline, for instance, corresponds to “thrill”; the secretion of hormones, “attraction”. In this sense, although the spectator in a movie theater is completely immobile during the screening, something physical is always taking place inside his/her body; otherwise the film will be perceived as “boring”.

So what about melodrama? In principle, the hidden mechanism of melodrama is no different than that of horror (which functions almost entirely on a set of clichés) and it relies on a limited repertory of spectator-reactions to arrive its ends.

Although a cinematic experience aims to simulate and will considerably evoke, if artistically successful, our experiences in real life, there is a considerable difference in their strength and latitude. Again, a cinematic experience approaches life, yet it will never reaches there—and it never intends to.

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[1] Some feminists, with their habitual naivety, “discover” this and mold in a great haste a purely psychological observation to weapons of ideological critique.

The unbearable lightness of being Anthony Perkins

This movie I watched tonight on television has a silly name. It is called Goodbye Again (1961) and is adapted from Françoise Sagan’s Aimez-vous Brahms?

Sagan is repetitive in her own way, yet what she likes to say, she says it well. The plot is tight and subtle and maintains its pace without hurrying into any of those clichés. It is indeed a pity that the cinematic aspects of the film do not catch up in every critical moments to amount to something really unforgettable.

What really shines in this film is the acting. The three main characters all deliver high quality performances. But Anthony Perkins[1] is wonderful. First of all, he is one of the few actors who is able to deliver a physical agility outside the context of musicals. Although he never does tip-tap dance, one is almost sure he is perfectly capable of doing it. Moreover, in musicals, the physical agility is something that is taken for granted. If it is to be dialectically used, it is usually contrasted with the non-musical scenes, where actors and actresses act normal. In this way, agility signifies a transfer of dramatic context and it is accompanied by the act of singing. In Goodbye Again, however, the agility of Perkins has a quotidian function, which is to contrast with the inertness, the northern-Europe logy manner of Ingrid Bergman (think of how she and then how Hepburn moves). As if their movement is not obvious enough to deliver the message, the director arranges a detail to emphasize this difference. In the film, the Perkins character (Philip) drives a race car (sorry guys, not familiar with the mark) which has tight seats. When the Bergman character (Paula) enters the car, her stockings are scratched. At this moment, Philip remarks, “it is an art to get into this car.” But when Paula enters the car the next time, she scratched herself again. And this reenactment brings back the comment under a new light. It is as if Philip is actually saying, “it is an art to live young”, because the physical appearance visualize not only their age difference, but also the difference in their attitude towards life. The Perkins character is young, playful and irresponsible; the Bergman character experienced, solemn and realistic.

One has to note that this dichotomy is more often expressed in the reverse gender pattern, with a young woman being the naïve one. But the present pattern is not altogether without precedent. Sunset Boulevard (1950) is probably the best example. The setting, however, plays an important role here. In contrast to LA’s image as a sin city, a gloomy monster that ruins the youthful years of millions, Paris is the perfect place to have an affair and then go on with life’s serious demands.

Although in regards to the physical agility, Perkins is right in the lineage of Chaplin and Keaton, they are quite different underneath. For one thing, Perkins has actually proved that one can speak and not compromise this agility of his in the same time. Compared to his effortless speeches, Chaplin in Monsieur Verdoux (1947) and Limelight (1952) looks really like an old man—is it because Chaplin, like Keaton, is no good for the talkies? I would rather believe that if Chaplin (Keaton is another case altogether) did talk at the height of his career, the result would have resembled the performance of Perkins (the sometimes magical, sometime desperate romanticism and its consequential melancholies ). But Chaplin opened his mouth too late, for even for someone who seems to have kept his youth forever—don’t forget he did Modern Times at the age of 47 and City Lights at 44—sixty is certainly beyond the limit. Do we not know that when a man gets older, not only he moves slower, he also speaks slower? The failure of the last three films of Chaplin is after all understandable (although they are all good films and I was especially touched by Limelight), for what is Chaplin without the physical agility? Gerald Mast has a point when he argues that even when Chaplin is bound to his seat and cannot move at all (the lunch machine scene in Modern Times), his agility is still in its full swing if he just moves his eyes.

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[1] Let me remind you that this is immediately made after Psycho. So there is this mocking relationship again between the Perkins character and his mother. But unlike in Hitchcock, this relationship does not really bring anything into the plot. I even imagine it is not present in the novel (maybe I should read it some day).