午宴之歌

对于Alan迷来说，这部电影并不是一个花痴圣品，虽然将近50分钟的电影几乎全是Alan的特写，但这里的Alan既不是性感魅惑的优雅反派，也不是深情款款的英国绅士，而只是一个小有才华却有点潦倒有点猥琐的中年老男人，在一个默默无闻的小出版社里混日子，对着光彩照人的前女友不知所措。

一部由诗歌改编成的仅47分钟的短片，在轻柔醇厚如红酒般的男声旁白中娓娓道来，诉尽平生辛苦，有着四两拨千斤的气魄。

或许是诗歌本身的凝练含蓄所致，影片情节虽然细碎却不失紧凑，其中的戏剧性也都集中在他和她毫不搭调的对话上，他满脑子神游，说话刻薄而带有讽刺，失魂落魄，她却显得居高临下，对于他的种种毛病带着见怪不怪的包容，就像每一个对前男友仍有感情，怀着歉意，但还是恨铁不成钢的前女友一样。

故事中并没有说明两人见面的原因，是他在拥挤的办公室里闷得窒息了吗？是想给庸烦的生活找个出口？还是他根本还在期待着什么？

然而，一切一如往昔却已今非昔比。

我愿意相信他是去唤醒那沉睡的青春记忆，今日生活已如此无趣，当初怎么也不相信会活到这个境地，还是去找找过去甜蜜的时光吧，哪怕只是一顿午饭也好。曾经的柔情蜜意如今想来仍历历在目，甚至都不敢相信都过了这么久了？

五年？十年？……十五年！

我想他只是发现自己老了，他害怕老去，他或许后悔了？当初为什么没有留住他呢？如果他留住了她呢，生活会怎么样呢？我们也许可以想象出他年轻时是个什么样的人，才华横溢，幽默潇洒，却脆弱而狂妄，就如同身边的很多男孩一样，而她，也可以想象一下，温柔甜蜜，开朗明媚，聪明而优雅，渴望华丽多彩的生活。哪个女孩对自己的终生伴侣不是精挑细选呢？哪个女孩不是希望把婚姻当做一生的依靠呢？谁敢去选择一个毫安全感的人呢？他还是不能明白她离开她的原因，他不去管那些庸俗的现实，其实我们无法评说谁的选择是对的，是像他那样寄情于诗酒，还是像她那样面对现实。

但她俨然像个胜利者那样去数落他，破坏了他追忆往昔的雅兴。她仍是优雅迷人，却难有往日的柔情，他醒悟了吗？哦，不，红酒入喉，还是醉去吧！

英国人特有的幽默，如同这个国家出了名的保守与含蓄一样，它不像美国那种迪斯尼式的夸张，而是同所有英国贵族一样，优雅地，默默地，不动声色地讲述。它不会让你捧腹大笑，整部电影没似乎没什么笑点，但细细回想起来，一个落魄的中年老男人的各种失态却会让人忍俊不禁。英国人颇爱调侃，带着一种风轻云淡的贵族气质，竟把一个细想起来辛酸又无奈的人生故事讲得这般风趣，是骨子里流着莎士比亚的血吧。

一次本该温情脉脉的共叙往事的午宴，却在他的满脑子神游和酒后失态中草草收场，他一定觉得人品低爆了！可是你笑过之后可会惊醒？或许我们的人生也都是这样，带着后悔，带着遗憾，带着自欺，七分醉，三分醒，晃晃悠悠就老啦！

不知怎么的看了这个电影第一反应就是想到了LYNCH，短短不到一小时，在眼前所呈现出来的仿佛是一段美丽开始的爱情。

影片一开始，出现了他工作的地方。凌乱，狭窄的公用办公室里，一个只做装饰作用的电脑占据了办公桌的大部分空间，偷偷溜出去，逃出这个地方。

他背着个肩包，走路时不时几个跳步，好像一个三十岁的年轻人，好像是去一次普通的约会，好像还是15年前。

到了ZANZOTTI，餐厅里已经没有了从前典型意大利式温暖布置，友好愉悦的随意气氛，取而代之的，是干净整洁的白色唱主调，暖色调的小花低调的点缀着，纯净，理智的风格。就像她一样。

他站着那里。

等着服务生过来带他进去。许久，服务生确定了他有定位，在定位本上划去了他的名字。

Its official.

他的名字被划去。就好像他被抹去了一样。

他没有选择电话，而是选择EMAIL给她，说要叙叙旧。胆怯，犹豫却又期盼，这种情绪夹杂的情况下，只有EMAIL给她才好。就算她没有回，他也可以保点面子，就当什么都没有发生，或是找些什么借口，比如她忙，或者网络出问题。

但她出现了。

一头短发，白色的中袖衫配搭金色首饰。干练。清爽。迷人。
他们开始叙旧，她自信优雅，凸显出了她的个性及独特的魅力，他几杯红酒后，神情恍惚，大声说话使她尴尬，放肆打量女服务员就像个猥琐倔强的中老年人。

在一段指责及发泄之后是沉默。主菜来了，她的是精致的芦笋鱼块轻放在盘子的中间，而他的是一块大饼状的东西占据了整个盘子，还切得大小不等。对主菜的描述仿佛是在烘托他们现在的生活。

她，有孩子有丈夫，在巴黎过着主妇滋润的生活。
他，失去了爱的人，在小办公室里的无名气作家。

不同于前菜，他们没有互相尝对方的菜。没有了之前的礼貌对待，也仿佛是在暗示：现在的生活是对方都不能触碰的，而前菜时候的愉快氛围，仿佛是15年前恋情的写照：甜蜜，陶醉却又短暂。

跌跌撞撞的他去卫生间，去时还不忘给一群大声说笑的人一个SNAPE式的震撼表情。试图把这一切都怪罪在这群人身上。

酒精作用着他的全身，侵蚀他的意志，最后，

在通风楼顶上，他睡着了。他看到了当年的她，陪着他，坐在他身边。他多么渴望可以从头开始，他多么渴望不被遗弃。正当他近乎清醒的时候，他突然想到了她还在楼下。

他飞奔下楼，但她已经走了，ZANZOTTI进入了休息时间，他失望，懊悔，差异，更可笑的是，15年后的重逢，竟然还是她买的单。

他静静的环视着餐厅，不知道该干什么，这次午餐莫名其妙的即将收尾，他无奈发现，他没有选择。能做的只有离开，继续过他那可怜的生活。

霎时，一个在喝咖啡的老人映入他眼帘，他！那个15年前会在各桌间游荡的ZANZOTTI老板。

不。

他没有被遗弃，他可以找回原来的那份感情，他依然在这个冰冷，陌生的世界里看到了自己熟悉的事物。一丝暖意融化在了他心里。

影片的最后一个镜头停留在了他的脸上。

他会去找她，不会让这次午餐草率收场。他知道她一定还爱着他，他会让这次午餐成为他们的开始。也许，下一次，他来买单。

走出餐厅，他得到了解脱。

1.面对平凡的现实。能力与理想的差距，成就了平凡又带有落魄的人生。又因为心怀，或者怀过梦想，所以不能心甘情愿过这样的生活，因为能力不足，所以只能自怨自艾。这就是现实的失落。
2.面对曾经盛开却又不能拥有的感情。Found a treasure and threw it away。本应是自己的，却被别人抢走，而自己竟然放任他人抢走。感情的失落。
3.演技。为什么能让我看别人一个落魄小编辑吃一顿饭，听他内心这些自怨自艾的话，忍受他的无所作为。只因为男主的演技。其实，看你的眼睛，看你的嘴唇，看你的双颊，就足够了。

（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

去伦敦SOHO区吃一份意大利餐，是因为与旧日情人的约会，虽然那里的餐厅不是很体面，在男主角的印象中，往时的Zanzotti's是传统的意大利餐馆——"木篮中的Chianti红酒，掰开时碎渣微溅的脆面包棍，纯绿纸桌布上交错叠着红色格子桌布，玻璃水罐上的斑斑指纹，还有佯作亲切的马西莫（餐厅老板）在桌间周旋穿梭"。但这里拥有十五年前的恋爱幻想，以及一位文艺老青年仍然对于执着自我兴致盎然。
故事画面开始于一个偷闲的午后，充满着清新爽朗，正是男主角大好心情、得意忘形的行走在伦敦布鲁姆伯瑞区(Bloomsbury)，那里出版商云集，映射着这位终究落寞的男主角，逃脱不了出版界自尊与竞争相矛盾的残酷命运，至今，他才出版过一本诗歌集。
    步行20分钟，来到SOHO区，他挑剔起了这里的改变——“一堆鸡肋，缺少文化，毫不可靠”。剧中不少尖酸的言辞，令某些观众特别是女性开始厌烦。当然，描写剧中的人物思绪及用餐细节十分有趣，又处处着迹于男主角敏感又自恋的言行举止，这时已经想象得出为何十几年前情人离他而去，而今日的相见已不存在什么幻想了。
餐厅里，他又开始挑剔服务员微笑欠奉一言不发，桌布改成了白色没有了爱国之心，餐牌用上哗啦作响的塑封纸卡硕大无比，菜单上披萨品种太多口味繁杂，而在他总结为“在新的不善经营之下，一切终究是变了”。这时，他要先点一瓶红酒，酒单就在菜单背面，红酒作简单的分类——Merlot一瓶16.3镑;Chianti一瓶15.3镑;Rioja Crianza一瓶15.6镑，他点了一瓶Chianti。接下来看看是如何描述初尝一瓶廉价红酒的——“砰，瓶塞抽离瓶口，他灵敏的鼻子想要获取逃逸的酒香，侍者按规矩将酒斟出少许，两分满，他举杯细闻...Not corked,他要亲自倒酒，入口颇涩但应会后味绵长，他拿起他的冰水，泡泡一拥而上向他致意，轻掇一口感觉冰凉的泡沫拍打他的上颚，他没想到自己如此口渴，一饮而尽直到冰块堆至上唇”。描述的有点讽刺，这时，他的旧日情人安然而至。
    似乎此时，故事才进入对话阶段，但导演没有马上迎来中国式的嘘寒问暖，让观众久久等待之余，却又舒服的看着他们轻吻，指尖抚摸着对方手背，目光伴随着轻奏的钢琴声对她进行细致的扫视，轮廓突出清澈怡人，最后却聚焦到她那鲜红的名牌皮包，消费无忧的迹象，财富的味道！完了，自尊又受伤了。在等她发音：“There(到了)”,他回应：“Here(来了)”。就这样，开始了他们的午宴约会。
一开始还能优雅地轻斟细掇——“他倒了两杯酒，凭耳朵判断量度，让两杯酒奏出相同音韵；杯沿叮咚轻碰，酒光婀娜摇曳，酒色深邃黯淡，一口美酒下肚，他们于是心满意足”。可不争气的他又念叨了，多余的怀念起旧日用木篮子装承的酒瓶。点菜时甚有喜感，再结合略带妄想症的话题，他这样形容自己在出版社的工作——“一份粗制滥造的手稿，经过流水线要变成文艺作品，今早某个傻冒的新作，一通淫词艳曲幼稚哲学低级散文，胡言乱语的滚出来，便成为本周最佳节目之类不知所谓的东西，欺蒙拐骗荒诞离奇，而明天，我们的天才们会从动物园逃出来直奔我们，爪子里举着毫无生气的最新巨著”。而她，只描述了一下自己“Business as usual（生意照旧）”以作回应。
    她点了南瓜饺搭海鲈，他是白汁红肉那波里披萨，对于食物的评价，牛肉肥瘦正好，续随子酱味道也没有太过，可是形容他的披萨，一轮盖满粘稠物的面团，边缘微微烧焦，哎，又是他。而在他眼中的她就优雅得多——落下餐叉，刺穿，划破，切断，锯割，片开一块鼓鼓囊囊的闪闪发亮的通心粉快，乘起半块送入口中咀嚼。慢慢地，他进入了往日的意淫，他们的床上云雨，穿过酒气蒙蒙的迷雾，他又再一次被提醒“你的眼神有点不正”。但无论他如何意淫，在每次思绪飘远时，缓如细水的钢琴伴随着旧日片段，另一种性感的呼吸声随着镜头落在她香肩长颈，他想轻轻吸吮，用鼻子蹭蹭她的下颚，观众都能尽情享受着这一切。当微醉时，矛盾复杂的心情又再现于他对最后一杯酒描述——“最后一口酒的滋味，如锈般蚀在舌上，粗粝，但舌头仍在渴望，杯中剩下的酒发出铁锈紫般光泽，所以酒与舌之间有一种亲密联结，一种强烈的相互吸引，它们彼此互补深切相爱，舌发出静默的呼唤，而酒虽无生命气息，却会留神倾听，那这一次举杯之时，就不要停留，好让情人得以相见，它们亲吻了，一瞬间极致的快感，不足以尽兴，好在可以随后不断重演”。
最后一杯Grappa落肚，他醉倒了，醒来已是故事尾声，却有种反讽的唏嘘，在空挡的餐厅里他终于见到了已近风烛残年的餐厅老板马西莫，“如西西里地下墓穴中的尸体般僵硬，空有躯壳毫无生气，仿佛轻触一下便会溃散一地”。
    《午宴之歌》改编自Christopher Reid 的叙事诗，Alan Rickman与Emma Thompson主演，诗般的妄想陈词，犀利的对答，用Alan Rickman磁性声音作心里独白再好不过了。

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.

------
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