pō’ĭ-trē

Adrienne Rich

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1.

Suppose you stood facing
a wall

of photographs

from your unlived life

Suppose we had time
and no money
living by our wits

telling stories

which stories would you tell?

I would tell the story
of Pierrot Le Fou
who trusted

not a woman

but love itself

till his head blew off
not quite intentionally

When I close my eyes
other films

have been there all along -

a market shot:
bins of turnips, feet
of dead chickens
close-up: a black old woman
buying voodoo medicines

Another film:

an empty room stacked with old films

I am kneeling on the floor
it is getting dark

they want to close the building

and I still haven’t found you

Scanning reel after reel
tundras in negative
the Bowery

all those scenes

but the light is failing

and you are missing

from the footage of the march
the railway disaster
the snowbound village

even the shots of the island
miss you

yet you were there

6

To record
in order to see

if you know how the story ends

why tell it

To record
in order to forget

the surface is always lucid
my shadows are under the skin

To record
in order to control

the eye of the camera
doesn’t weep tears of blood

To record
for that is what one does

climbing your stairs, over and over
I memorized the bare walls

This is my way of coming back

If you’ve been reading 2×3x7 this week, you know that I practically worship Godard. So when we first came up with this theme, this Adrienne Rich poem was one of the first pieces I thought of, mostly because it’s about a film that I love and have blogged about elsewhere.

The poem itself I’ll admit to having some reservations about. I love parts 1, 3 and 6, which for me, resonate strongly with the film, and I think part 5 is stunning though I’m less sure of its connection to the film. Mostly though, I’m just not sure if the poem works for a reader who hasn’t watched the film, so if you fall into that category I’d love to know what you think.

That said, for those who have watched the film (and if you haven’t you really, really must - here’s the trailer to entice you)  I think Rich does a splendid job of evoking the spirit of the film - its feel of whimsy, of endless reinvention, its carefully constructed haphazardness, its sense of things constantly shifting, of the mind constantly searching for the right words, the right story, the right image, all joined to an idea of beauty, a living, aching beauty that exists in the present without caring for the past or for consequences. “The story / of Pierrot Le Fou / who trusted / not a woman / but love itself” as Rich so eloquently puts it.

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P.S. I can’t resist posting a few more clips from the film - here’s the bit where they reenact the Vietnam War and here’s the ‘fate line’ song that I blog about in my post on the film.

Michael Ondaatje

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All week since he’s been home
he has watched late movies alone
terrible one star films and then staggering
through the dark house to his bed
waking at noon to work on the broken car
he has come home to fix.

21 years old and restless
back from logging on Vancouver Island
with men who get rid of crabs with Raid
2 minutes bending over in agony
and then into the showers!

Last night I joined him for The Prisoner of Zenda
a film I saw three times in my youth
and which no doubt influenced me morally.
Hot coffee bananas and cheese
we are ready at 11.30 for adventure.

At each commercial Sky
breaks into midnight guitar practice
head down playing loud and intensely
till the movie comes on and the music suddenly stops.
Skyler’s favourite hours when he’s usually alone
cooking huge meals of anything in the frying pan
thumbing through Advanced Guitar like a bible.
We talk during the film
and break into privacy during commercials
or get more coffee or push
the screen door open and urinate under the trees.

Laughing at the dilemmas of 1920 heroes
suggestive lines, cutaways to court officials
who raise their eyebrows at least 4 inches
when the lovers kiss…
only the anarchy of the evil Rupert of Hentzau
is appreciated.
And still somehow
by 1.30 we are moved
as Stewart Granger girl-less and countryless
rides into the sunset with his morals and his horse.
The perfect world is over. Banana peels
orange peels ashtrays guitar books.
2 a.m. We stagger through
into the slow black rooms of the house.

I lie in bed fully awake.The darkness
breathes to the pace of a dog’s snoring.
The film is replayed to sounds
of an intricate blues guitar.
Skyler is Rupert then the hero.
He will leave in a couple of days
for Montreal or the Maritimes.
In the movies of my childhood the heroes
after skilled swordplay and moral victories
leave with absolutely nothing
to do for the rest of their lives.

I love how this poem evokes the charm of old movies, confounding our nostalgia for the films of our childhood with our nostalgia for that childhood itself, making the “perfect world” of the movie a metaphor for the deeper escapism of memory, in which everything is simpler, more innocent [1]; a world at once archaic and familiar, otherworldly yet achingly real.

But what makes this poem particularly special to me is the way it conjures up the intimate experience of watching a late night film on television - so different from the experience of watching a film at the theater. The mythology of cinema is always (or mostly) about the big screen, yet how many films have I seen staying up late into the night, either alone or with company, patiently finding something to do in the commercial breaks, one eye on the TV for when the film comes back, feeling the midnight pangs of hunger steal over me, leaving me with a craving for popcorn and chocolate? It’s an experience that Ondaatje’s poem does justice to, capturing the feel of cinema not as high art or grand spectacle but as an integral, almost ordinary part of our homes and our lives.

[1] Idealism at the heart of what is essentially deceit, being, of course, the main theme of The Prisoner of Zenda, perhaps explaining its popularity among film makers. IMDB lists nine films with the title The Prisoner of Zenda, including an animated feature, a spoof starring Peter Sellers, a 1937 version starring Ronald Colman, Douglas Fairbanks and David Niven, and the version Ondaatje is talking about (don’t miss the trailer).

Jonathan Aaron

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(RKO Pictures, 1947)

“I never told you I was anything but what I am,” she says.
Black and white, the sunset behind Lake Tahoe looks spectacular.
She turns and goes upstairs, his chance to light a cigarette
and dial the operator. She slips the pistol into her briefcase,
gives the bathroom a cursory final glance. Moments later,
sitting on the couch, he hands her a shot of brandy.
“Thanks”, she says. “Por nada,” he answers, pouring one
for himself. She says she thinks they both deserve a break. “We deserve
each other,” he replies, and wings his glass into the empty fireplace.
She’s unperturbed, strictly business, already in Mexico.
His sleepy expression shows he knows exactly where they’re going.
Night has already covered most of the country. The airwaves
are vibrating with strains of “Sentimental Journey”, “Satin Doll”,
and “String of Pearls”. As they get into his Chevy station wagon,
I could be five and just waking up from another nightmare.
Half the world is lying in ruins.

It’s theme time! We’re doing a new series this week - poems about movies. Not poems that feature in movies, which tends to come up a lot, but poems that are based on / inspired by / describe specific films. Obviously this pretty much rules out anyone writing before the twentieth century, but we’ve got poems by Agha Shahid Ali, Adrienne Rich, John Berryman, Michael Ondaatje and Bob Hicok (among others) lined up. So enjoy. And if you have suggestions for poems we could include, e-mail us.

Today’s poem comes from Jonathan Aaron’s delightful collection Journey to the Lost City (Ausable Press, 2006). It isn’t a particularly stunning poem, but what I like about it is how accurately and vividly it captures the look and feel of the 1947 film, the black and white stillness of the action on screen joined to an atmosphere of growing frenzy, Bob Mitchum with his slow-motion good looks, Jane Greer in her perversely nurse-like outfit, looking poised and deadly (”You can’t make deals with a dead man”). In a way, Aaron’s poem has the same feel as the great noir classics - the sense of something flat and timeless and right, though when it comes right down to it you can’t put your finger on just what it is that makes it so memorable.

Oh, and in case you haven’t seen the scene he’s talking about, here it is (courtesy of YouTube)

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