Ηταν αρκετα χρονια πριν οταν πρωτοειδα, στο σινεμα, τη ταινια "The Dead", που υπηρξε και η τελευταια που σκηνοθετησε ο John Huston, βασισμενη στη νουβελλα του James Joyce, (απο τη συλλογη Τhe Dubliners, 1914). Δεν ξερω αν ηταν οι περιστασεις, τοτε, αλλα ειναι απο τις λιγες ταινιες που μου εκαναν τετοια εντυπωση και θα θυμαμαι παντα....
Στη ταινια "Τhe Dead", ο Gabriel Conroy, (Donal McCann) ύστερα από ένα δείπνο, καποια χριστουγεννα, στο σπίτι της θείας του Τζούλιας, μαθαίνει, με το αφηγηματικό τέχνασμα της απροσδόκητης αποκάλυψης, για έναν αδικοχαμενο εφηβικό έρωτα της γυναίκας του, Gretta Conroy, (που την υποδυεται η Αnjelica Huston).
Τοτε ακουσα και το εξαιρετικο ποιημα "Donal Óg" ενος ανωνυμου ποιητη του 8ου αιωνα, (Middle Irish) για τη χαμενη του αγαπη. Πως ομως; Οταν διαβασει κανεις τη νουβελλα του Joyce βλεπει οτι δεν υπαρχει πουθενα εκει αναφορα στο συγκεκριμενο ποιημα. Oταν ο γιος του σκηνοθετη και σεναριογραφος, Τοny Huston, εκανε καποιες αλλαγες στη μεταφορα της νουβελλας στον κινηματογραφο, συμπεριελαβε τοτε κι ενα νεο χαρακτηρα, καποιον Mr Grace, ο οποιος και απαγγελει το ποιημα "Donal Óg". Ετσι ακουσα κι εμαθα για το εξαιρετικο αυτο ποιημα.
"Donal Óg"
Ο τιτλος σημαινει "Young Donal", ενα πολυ συνηθισμενο ονομα αγοριων, στην lρλανδια. Η τελευταια στροφη, ειδικα, ακουγεται πολυ "μοντερνα" για ενα ποιημα του 8ου αιωνα.
It is late last night the dog was speaking of you;
the snipe was speaking of you in her deep marsh.
It is you are the lonely bird through the woods;
and that you may be without a mate until you find me.
You promised me, and you said a lie to me,
that you would be before me where the sheep are flocked;
I gave a whistle and three hundred cries to you,
and I found nothing there but a bleating lamb.
You promised me a thing that was hard for you,
a ship of gold under a silver mast;
twelve towns with a market in all of them,
and a fine white court by the side of the sea.
You promised me a thing that is not possible,
that you would give me gloves of the skin of a fish;
that you would give me shoes of the skin of a bird;
and a suit of the dearest silk in Ireland.
When I go by myself to the Well of Loneliness,
I sit down and I go through my trouble;
when I see the world and do not see my boy,
he that has an amber shade in his hair.
It was on that Sunday I gave my love to you;
the Sunday that is last before Easter Sunday.
And myself on my knees reading the Passion;
and my two eyes giving love to you for ever.
My mother said to me not to be talking with you today,
or tomorrow, or on the Sunday;
it was a bad time she took for telling me that;
it was shutting the door after the house was robbed.
My heart is as black as the blackness of the sloe,
or as the black coal that is on the smith's forge;
or as the sole of a shoe left in white halls;
it was you that put that darkness over my life.
You have taken the east from me;
you have taken the west from me;
you have taken what is before me and what is behind me;
you have taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me;
and my fear is great that you have taken God from me!
Μεταφρ. Augusta Gregory.
Εκείνο ομως που συγκινει και υποβάλλει στη ταινια "Τhe Dead" είναι μια αμυδρη αισθηση θανάτου μαζί με μια συμπάθεια και εναν οίκτο για την ανθρώπινη μοίρα. Απο αυτη τη μικρή αποκαλυψη της Gretta στον Gabriel, ενας ολόκληρος κόσμος θα αρχισει να ξετυλιγεται μέσα του, και συμβολικα θα πάρει κοσμογονικές διαστάσεις που δεν αφορουν πια μονο τον περίγυρο, ούτε μονο την Ιρλανδία, αλλα τον κοσμο ολο, οταν στη ταινια ολα καλυπτονται συμβολικα και κυριολεκτικα κάτω από το χιόνι.
Τα λογια και ο θρηνος της Gretta Conroy (για το αδικο τελος του νεαρου Μichael Furey, που γνωριζε καποτε), εκφραζουν τις σκεψεις του James Joyce: Δεν εχει σημασια ποσο καιρος εχει περασει απο το θανατο καποιων, οι νεκροι παντα θα επηρεαζουν αυτους που ειναι ακομη ζωντανοι.
Ο κυνισμός, του James Joyce, ο αντικληρικαλισμός, η επαρση του και ο προκλητικός, για την εποχη του αθεϊσμός, βρισκονται πιο μετα στο εργο του "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man " (Το Πορτραίτο του καλλιτέχνη) και αποκορυφωνονται στο "Ulysses" (Οδυσσέας).
Ομως στο "The Dead", υπάρχουν ακόμα περιθωρια για μεταστροφή. Η στιγμή του non serviam (δεν θα υπηρετήσω), εννοώντας καμμία ηθική τάξη, σύμβαση, γλώσσα, λογοτεχνική νόρμα, κανένα κανόνα κ.λπ., δεν έχει έρθει ακόμα.....
Aκολουθει ενα απο τα καλυτερα, (κατα τη γνωμη μου), αποσπασματα:
From Τhe Dead (J. Joyce)
"…She was fast asleep.
Gabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked for a few moments unresentfully on her tangled hair and half-open mouth, listening to her deep-drawn breath. So she had had that romance in her life: a man had died for her sake. It hardly pained him now to think how poor a part he, her husband, had played in her life. He watched her while she slept, as though he and she had never lived together as man and wife. His curious eyes rested long upon her face and on her hair: and, as he thought of what she must have been then, in that time of her first girlish beauty, a strange, friendly pity for her entered his soul. He did not like to say even to himself that her face was no longer beautiful, but he knew that it was no longer the face for which Michael Furey had braved death.
Perhaps she had not told him all the story. His eyes moved to the chair over which she had thrown some of her clothes. A petticoat string dangled to the floor. One boot stood upright, its limp upper fallen down: the fellow of it lay upon its side. He wondered at his riot of emotions of an hour before. From what had it proceeded? From his aunt's supper, from his own foolish speech, from the wine and dancing, the merry-making when saying good-night in the hall, the pleasure of the walk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt Julia! She, too, would soon be a shade with the shade of Patrick Morkan and his horse. He had caught that haggard look upon her face for a moment when she was singing Arrayed for the Bridal. Soon, perhaps, he would be sitting in that same drawing-room, dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds would be drawn down and Aunt Kate would be sitting beside him, crying and blowing her nose and telling him how Julia had died. He would cast about in his mind for some words that might console her, and would find only lame and useless ones. Yes, yes: that would happen very soon.
The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. One by one, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover's eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live.
Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling.
A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead".
