On s'est tous défilé (1988)
Réalisé par Jean-Luc Godard
English Subtitles
- 참고: 장-뤽 고다르는 1988년에 <영화의 역사(들)>(Histoire(s) du cinéma)의 '1(a) Toutes les histoires'를 제작하는데, 또한 같은 해에 <말의 힘 Puissance de la parole>과 <우리는 모두 도망쳤다 On s'est tous défilé>를 제작한다. 그 중 후자의 영어 자막을 기록용으로 업로드한다.
- 참고2: 자막 소스는 구글링을 통한 다운로드.
A throw of the dice will always abolish chance.
We all ran away
from the Latin "angustia," anguish.
from the Latin "angustia," anguish.
What will the living do here?
They are little so, according to the legend stamped with vigor comparing them to specters.
An/guish
What representation, the world holds: a book, held in our hand, if it enunciates some august idea, makes up for all theaters, not by casting them all into oblivion, but, to the contrary, by imperiously recalling them.
A metaphoric heaven spread out around the thunder of verse artifice par excellence at the point of stimulating and incarnating the hero.
Arrived alone at this hour because the present hour is ceaselessly as good as ever, in the way of a messenger, with a gesture he brings the book or on his lips before effacing himself; and the one who kept the general dazzlement, multiplies it in everyone, by dint of communication.
The marvel of a high poem seems to me that, as here, conditions are born that authorize its visible deployment and interpretation, first it lends itself to it and ingenuously as needed only replaces everything as needed.
I imagine that the cause of assembling, henceforth, in view of the festivals inscribed into the human program will not be the theater limited or incapable alone of responding to subtle instincts nor music also too fleeting to not disappoint the crowd.
I had rowed for a long time, with a clean, sweeping, drowsy motion, my eyes turned inward in utter forgetfulness of the passage, as the laughter of the hour flowed round about.
So much motionlessness idled away the time that brushed by a dull sound into which my boat half slid, I was only able to determine it had come to a halt by the steady glittering of initials on the bared oars, which recalled me to my worldly identity.
What was happening?
Where was I?
Here, the harmony of a naive art will be established according to the site, and costumes become rural effortlessly with emotions and truths ample, grave and primordial.
The following: But theater institutes characters acting and in relief precisely so they can neglect metaphysics as actors omit the presence of the chandelier; they won't pray toward anything beyond themselves except through the elementary and obscure cry of passion.
What will the living do here; they are little so, according to the legend stamped with vigor which compares them with specters?
A Salon, I know, one put forth in attenuation which will charm: where, ceremoniously, they chat for the beauty of it beyond the laughing launched by a lady; of subjects where echo isn't propagated.
That rumor, rather, which makes of them an elite stuck in survival as branch the naked syntax of a sentence, attentive to the funeral slab of the dictionary, that scattered words strew: or if, according to their metaphor, they are disquieted by the death in a double sense of one of them immediately they climb on a platform where the successor finishes off through features understood only by itself the unsuitable shadow and invites the empty quiver of some there to appear invulnerable.
The spectacle, on the audience, imposes a mythical exploit, perhaps of the Phoenix recovered from his ashes such as humans can represent it.
What's the use of the decor if it doesn't uphold the image: the human translator has, poetically, only to undergo and render this haunting.
Positive, negative, you see, they're also reversed.
The shadow projects something so there's... completely—there you go, like that.
Look, there they're reversed, you see. It's the positive, right?
Society, hollowest of terms, inheritance of the philosophers, has this at least which is advantageous and easy, that nothing exists, approximately, in fact like the summons that its august concept arouses to speak about it is equal to
treating no subject at all or to being silent in the way of relaxation.
Something, missing, confronts the violence of
contradictions, and in no direction, does one risk going too far about an entity.
Nothingness or dazzlement in a vacuum, with fear in the mass of folks who have run to the fake shelter, any vulgar working-out usurping that profitable invocation.
To divest oneself, on the other hand, To divest oneself, on the other hand, of the general means and question it, announces, in poverty a solidarity and classy taste.
All selection, on high, fine: it can be reflected, inverse, down low; and the modern base consists in that equivalence however indicative still it may be of where the top is, where the bottom, parsimony, opulence, all ambiguous.
Essentially the work of art: this suffices, as opposed to ambitions and interests.