AAAAA

今天去哈佛电影档案馆看了两个爱尔兰电影，"Hell in the Pacific" and "Two nudes bathing". 第一个电影只有两个演员，不过有经常听VV说起的 三船敏郎，想起他在七武士里的表演，导演是英国人，到了现场，还讲了很多花絮，说这个跟日本人合作的电影是很困难的，因为交流的问题，三船敏郎脾气很大，很难对付，不过电影里他演的日本军官还是很可爱的。。。导演John Boorman是个anti-materialist, 所以风格比较原始自然，人与人的关系在这个电影里就象两只大猩猩，语言不通，互相吼，抢海螺肉，偷水，防卫与反击，互相奴役，到最后合作造船，离开荒岛已经成为患难之交了，不过穿上军装后又成了敌人，最后同归于尽。。。

I saw this movie last night in Harvard film archive, it’s a one shot movie in 96 minutes, quite splendid construction of old Russia, with classic music and ghosts in the winter palace of San Petersburg…but I almost fell asleep in the middle for the subtitle reading and no strong plot…however it’s a very different movie that need your knowledge on Russian language and history, some events and show with allergies…

I found this guy this morning when read Boston Globe, and will go to listen to his talk in Alington street church tomorrow. 

今天天气转晴，我也觉得一个星期的阴郁一扫而光，房东夫妇带我和Jeffery去植物园散步，Jeffery是他们朋友的一条大狗, Great Dane, 2岁。。。秋天的落叶真美，满地厚厚的，形状各异，颜色不同，尤其在阳光映射下显得格外的丰富。。。看着粗大的树干，一种怀旧思乡的情绪油然而生，那记忆深处的某个颜色让人亲近安逸。。。Jeffery兴奋地在草地上跑着，长长的腿像盛装舞步的黑马，优雅极了。。。我从繁忙的工作中突然松懈下来，感到久违自然的伤感，那种在我心中的根深蒂固的与自然亲近交流的感觉又回来了，它是如此强烈，让我忘掉一切烦恼。。。我的社交越来越少，已经不会说话了，恐怕失语为期不远了，以前记得的树木的名字都想不起来，象栗子，丁香的英文。。。

昨晚去哈佛电影档案馆看了两个法国电影，"Friday night"  and  "Trouble every day" by Claire Denis. 两个电影都是说话很少，大概是这个女导演的固有风格，都是巴黎的故事，然而外景并不多，第一个只在开始有日暮下的圣心教堂和民居楼顶的轮廓，第二个多一些，塞纳河的黎明，日暮，巴黎圣母院上的怪兽和俯瞰。。。暗淡的霓虹色调，一些慢镜头。。。因为更多的是描写人的接触交流的，所以场面集中在餐馆，旅馆，电话亭较多。人与人的关系，人与物的关系，紧张，积累，释放，主要是通过心理活动来表现的，当然在电影里人物的心理活动只有通过他/她的行为细节去猜测推断了。。。而这正是这个导演表现出色的地方，比如在Friday night里，女主角刚出场准备搬家试一条旧裙子，自言自语在镜子前，决定留下还是扔掉；坐在床垫上，突然听到弹簧的一声怪叫，感到以前从未注意到它。。。还有男人在浴室洗漱，喝水龙头的水等非常细节的描写。。。第一个电影是陌生男女一夜情的故事，一个晚上的事情，节奏及其缓慢，尤其是交通堵塞的时候，观众同样的焦灼，怎么还不完呢？昨天去哈佛及回家，我都遇到类似的交通问题，很烦！ 值得一提的是观影后一个女观众问导演的一个问题，为什么最后关于那个男人没有什么交待，来了，走了，似乎是pro一样。。。导演回答是自然而然的，她就是那么感觉的。。。她曾经想过设计不同的场景，象在开动的火车上，男人在洗漱室刮胡子；或是早晨在咖啡馆里喝咖啡，但都没有用，她觉得这样最好。。。陌生人的偶然相遇，互相吸引又排斥，冒险然后解脱的过程。。。Trouble every day有科学成分，科学家为了经济利益用自己做实验结果出了毛病，染上了热带病，象吸血鬼一样，在性爱高潮时，不能控制自己的嗜血行为，一个美国吸血鬼寻找法国吸血鬼的过程，表现吸血鬼与他们的丈夫/妻子之间的关系。。。让人很容易联想到艾滋病的类比，不过被导演否认了她有这种暗示。。。恐怖的场面处理的很艺术，象野地里草丛上的血珠在灯下暗红的闪亮，吸血后女孩白裙上溅满血迹从楼梯上缓步走下，男吸血鬼在浴室清洗血迹时浴帘上留下的一串血珠。。。这种关系也是紧张的吸引又排斥的亲密关系。。。两个电影都可以认为是性和死亡的主题，确实是人类面对的最本质的主题。。。

晚上去一个教堂听音乐会，是当地社区的一个音乐学校组织的，主要曲目有：

J.S.Bach, Cello Suite No.3 in C Major (1720)

B.Bartok, Rummanian folk dances for violin and piano (1915) 

G. Gershwin, Three Preludes (1926)

F. Kreisler, Tempo di Minuetto in the style of Pugnani (1938)

F. Mendelssohn, Trio No.2 for piano, violin, and cello in C minor, Op.66 (1845)

最后一个门德尔松的钢琴， 小提琴和大提琴的三重奏最好听，还有Bartok的罗马尼亚舞曲。

I heard this interesting, humorous poem recited by the author on sex and death:

If We Were Honest

When I tell you that cultural ritual is an artifice
composed of simultaneous social-dynamic complexity vectors acting in anthropometric units,
I’m thinking of sex. I mean it.
We all are. It isn’t just me. Or when I say
the war, or the god, or the list with the juice and the cereal…
sex. What is it the psycho-experts are claiming?—every ten seconds?
Wen I tell you that I’m thinking of sex,

I’m thinking of death. Its worm is always
in my eye, its sour and dirt-blown web is always
a catch in my throat. It was always a wen
releasing a small electrical jolt to the brain
of Napoleon, Alexander, Attila. It was funereally
in the black, black ink of the Brontes;
why should I be any different? Why can’t we

be honest?—every poem is “Sex.” (Or “Death.”)
If we were honest, half of our poems would be about
the making of poems, the conference on the making of poems,
the resume of poems successfully made…you know, the way
that half of the time is actually spent. And did
ten seconds pass just now? If so, then
sex. (If so, then death.) Not too long after

the Dolphin first made port in Tahiti, it was discovered
the crew were trading its nails
for dalliances with the pliant and welcoming
women of that island—“to such a great extent, the ship
was in danger of being pulled apart.”
Inside the cradling waves of moonlight
on those waters…smiling…consummating…human

nails into smooth, bamboo-brown human grain…
how did they know, how could they foresee, that
my mother would die from her own lungs
shaping hundreds of obstinate fists in her chest,
my father would die with his own blood turning
into a useless negative of itself?
And yet they must have known, they must have seen the lesson,

they were trying to deny it with the drive of such
combustive, zealous engines! This is my topic
tonight, and how the craft of poetry and the role
of the postmodern in a society of gender-defined relationship roles is yes a bare knee like a beacon,
like a skull beneath the face-skin, and a question
from the audience on a quasi-political sense is yes in my mind, yes in yours, yes
sex and death—the one thing.

Originally published in Third Coast (Spring 2005); rights retained by the author.

My professor in China sent me a bad news on our grant application of NSF; though it’s an interesting and novel proposal with strong theoretical and experimental bases, 3 out of 5 reviewers gave positive support while the other two refused. However when I read what the 2 negative reviewer wrote, I cannot help complaining that their critics are not based on the true facts but ignorance, what can I say of these specialists of knowing nothing new and made their illogical arguments on a shallow paper…

A new research found the rule of rainfall changes in China during the last 2000 years by analyzing the "signatures" of two forms of oxygen in the stalagmite in earth layers. And even connected the weather change with the fall and rise of dynasties, not only in China but also in America and Europe…That’s possilbe since the social structure is mainly depend on food and agriculture, especially before the industrical revolution. 

I listen to the ipod very often recently since VV gave me. And I keep on listenning "Kill Bill" all the day, seems it stimulates my morale and drive away the laziness, I felt more efficient not only in work but also in rest while walking on the road…It’s like a drug…the secret might be in the style of this music is very rhythmatic and make the neurons to oscillate and fire together, which make the transmission more efficient. This also made my mood better…

昨天是鬼节，小鬼在百忙之中参加了coolidge corner电影院HALLOWEEN HORROR MARATHON活动，在十多年后又一次体验了连场电影的感觉，“爽”就一个字。。。
电影前还举行了最佳服饰及"prom king, prom queen" 的评选活动，观众大概有一百多人，十多个坚持到了最后。。。
PROM NIGHT by Paul Lynch
摄于1980，表现美国七十年代的校园生活，现在看来很传统，胶片色彩古旧感，摄影有纪录片的感觉，恐怖节奏很轻松，没什么血腥场面，直到最后一颗人头落地。凶手一直到最后才出现，开始一直用电话恐吓，很象恶作剧，还有凶手从毕业相册里斯照片的场面，打电话时用铅笔敲击本子的表现，很好笑，总能引起笑场。3/5

PUMPKINHEAD by Stan Winston
写实性怪物恐怖片，摄于1988，导演是特效孤儒Stan Winston，他的作品有蝙蝠侠，终结者，AI…Lance Henriksen的表演非常好，后面的续集他继续演，X file, Transformer也有他的参与。怪物看起来没那么恐怖恶心，主要看主角的表演很吸引人。4/5

DEMONS by Lamberto Bava
哥特僵尸片，摄于1985，美女帅哥联场表演，有美女配英雄的俗套，现在看起来很好笑，难怪是意大利裔的导演。神秘的电影院，一个咬一个被变成恶魔僵尸的观众，电影与现实的合拍，人在生存关头的心理。。。没什么怪物，只是比较恶心，伤口喷血流脓，青面獠牙，呕吐污物。。。感觉不恐怖，更搞笑。4/5

FROM DUSK TILL DAWN by Robert Rodriguez
警匪+吸血鬼+搞笑片，摄于1996，是最新的一个，George Clooney和Quentin Tarantino是一对疯狂鲁莽又幽默多话的兄弟，杀警察，杀无辜，贩毒品，劫人质，最后陷入吸血鬼的黑店，殊死搏斗。。。有色情，有暴力，有宗教，还有斯德哥尔摩综合症。5/5

FROM BEYOND by Stuart Gordon
科幻恐怖片，摄于1986，还是科幻的原始阶段。俊男科学家发明机器诱导第六感，引发美女科学家研究精神分裂症的疯狂，并主动献身与魔鬼纠缠，最后逃离但终于疯狂。有科幻，有色情（萨德ism), 有暴力,怪物比较恶心,还没有苍蝇那么恶心了,没什么恐怖的。3/5

Jigoku by Nobuo Nakagawa 
日本伦理恐怖片，写实加神秘，摄于1960，摄影及绘画精美，有地狱酷刑场面，阴森但不恐怖，好像跟介川龙之介的《地狱变》没什么关系。4/5

Boston globe recommended some books for Halloween, such as Complete Stories and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe, Heart-Shaped Box by Joe Hill, Witchfinders: A Seventeenth-Century English Tragedy by Matthew Gaskill, The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson.

Copy a poem of Allan Poe, “The Raven,” about a gloomy man’s bizarre encounter with an “ebony bird.”

"The Raven"
by Edger Allen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore –
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" ‘T is some visitor, " I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door–
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow — vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore–
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore–
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before:
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating.
" ‘T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door–
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door–
That it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer,
"Sir, " said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore:
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"– here I opened wide the door–
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering fearing.
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before:
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!"–
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore–
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore–
‘T is the wind an nothing more!"

Open here i flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door–
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door–
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore–
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door–
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpoor.
Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered–
Till I scarcely more then muttered, "Other friends have flown before –
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is it only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –
Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never - nevermore.’"

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door,
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore–
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking, "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er
But whose velvet-violet lining with lamp-light gloating o’er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God has lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite — respite the nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird of devil!
Whether Tempter sent, or whatever tempest tossed thee ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted –
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore –
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird of devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore–
Tell his soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore –
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting –
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor,
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — nevermore!