温暖但又有点忧伤的故事.Henry像是一个独特的物种,徘徊在时间的牢笼.美好在于,小时候的他就遇到了长大后的自己,更成熟懂得更多,同时还了解自己.像父亲的存在.之后遇到了Clare,像父亲一样陪伴自己的妻子从小到大.我突然很想问问我未来的妻子,了解她小时候的事情.这两个人在他总体苍白的人生中添抹了一点色彩
很明显我特别喜欢这个故事.
我在豆瓣是这样评论的: 我希望把它分成上中下三部分,导演出我脑海中的: the timetraveler and his wife (原谅我一直觉得这标题会更合适.)
时间旅行者和他自己
在这一部,电影会充斥着 Henry 个人的独白.他母亲去世对他家庭的打击,他渴望留在现在却总是突然地消失.
这一部,或许要突出的是一个人孤独者大量的内心戏.这一部最精彩的我会把镜头交给博物馆的那一夜: Henry带着小时候的自己参观博物馆. 可以满足每个人对小时候的各种幻想.
男主穿越到小时候,带领自己参观夜晚的博物馆.看起来是像父亲带着儿子,但从头到尾都是他自己.一个已经深受时间折磨,他现实生活中过的是不堪的生活:莫名其妙的消失而只能不断抢劫打架来求生存.即便是短暂地活在当下,也只能通过酒精来麻醉自己.另一个他,还是个小孩,还是天真无邪,完全不知道自己将来将要面对的是这样的生活.这是第一次,我在温暖的情节中看到了悲伤.
还有一幕: 教小时候的自己当扒手.我感觉这一部分拍出来会很有喜感.甚至可以当做影片的开头.
当然有了时间旅行这个元素,很多事情会变得很有意思,例如,未来的他可以这样来警告过去的自己:”我来自一九九六年十一月十三日. 我正准备上床睡觉,所以先让我好好睡一会,不然五年之后你会后悔的”,可以这样安慰自己”放松点,过几分钟你就会回去了没有人会注意到的,你后面一帆风顺”.更强悍的是,可以给自己戴绿帽.这些逻辑细想一下,没毛病,囧…
第一章:脱离时间的男人 摘录
我跑得比以往慢,热热身就可以了,自己那对破膝盖和脚踝骨,一辈子可都得依赖它们随时奔命的.我的肺泡感受着干冷的空气,心脏平缓地搏动.到达北方大道时,我感觉不错,于是开始加速.跑步对我来说意味着很多:生存,镇静,欣慰,独处.它是我肉身存在的证明,虽然我不能完全控制我在时间中的移动,但跑步表明我至少还能控制自己在空间上的位移,还有身体对意志的服从,即使只是短暂的瞬间.我跑着,我让空气前后交换,我让眼前的一切随我进退,我让脚下的路犹如胶卷般转动不息.我记得,在孩提时代,在那距离电子游戏和网络遥远的年代,我在学校图书馆里把胶卷穿进小小的投影机,朝里张望,旋转把手,每往前翻动一下,机器就发出”哔”的一声.我再也记不得投影机的样子,也记不得胶卷里的内容,可我能记得图书馆的味道,还有那”哔”的一声每次都会让我吓一跳.此时,我好像在飞,多么美妙的感觉,仿佛我就能这样跑进空中,仿佛我是不可战胜的,什么都不能阻挡我,什么都不能让我停下,什么都不能,什么都不能,什么都不能,什么都不能–
不过我极少去未来我在那里也没有发现什么有用的东西去的时间也很短暂或许我根本就不知道我要在那里发现什么还是过去对我的引力更强大.在过去我也觉得自己更真实也许未来本身就比较虚幻?我不知道.我总是先觉得呼吸的空气稀薄起来然后便发现自己身在未来这也是我判断那是不是未来的一个办法:感觉不一样在那儿我就明显跑不动了.
我已经太习惯正常时空里的自己,而我现在不得不暂时离开它,不得不专心回忆起九岁时感知的奇迹.突然间我明白了:我的朋友,我的向导,我的兄弟–就是我自己.一直都是我自己,也只有我自己.孤独的自己
时间旅行者和他的妻子
第二部故事开始于两人的相遇.以两个人的孩子出身为结束.中间过渡是两个人的婚礼.这一章可以重点描绘的场景实在太多了,以至于我在想,是否要第二部分再拆成两个篇幅.
一个讲相遇,重点放在不同的时间线.另一个讲婚后生活的琐碎,凭空消失的丈夫一直在等待中煎熬的妻子.
在相遇这一部分, 他们两个人对彼此的故事线是相反的. Clare 在遇到 Henry 的时候已经跟他相处了很长的时间.而 Henry 只是第一次遇到她.我一直在想,这一部十分适合烧脑,时间线的重叠,而且可以有大量玩味的细节.因为一个是在过去,一个是在未来.
在两个人婚姻后 H 突然消失给 C 带来的困扰,两个人的矛盾也在 C 的不断流产达到最大化.前面的虐是为了衬托孩子出身给两个人带来的欣喜.产房那一幕,两个人为了迎接新生命的努力,绝对会是最温馨的.
第二章:牛奶碗里的一抹红 摘录
当 Clare 十三岁的时候(已经到了会自己思考,有点叛逆的年纪了),有一次她跟 三十五岁的Henry在草地上有这样的对话:
- “这个嘛,通常没那么可怕,你喜欢放很多糖和奶精.”Henry 说道. Clare 把剩下的咖啡全部倒在草坪上,取出一块面包圈说:你是要把我培养成一个怪人. “不,我没有.你什么意思呢? 我根本没想把你培养成任何人” “你心知肚明,我根本没尝过,你就说咖啡加奶加糖我会喜欢喝,我怎么知道那是我自己真正喜欢的,还是听了你的话后才喜欢的呢?” “提前了解未来并不意味着要你提前告诉我喜欢什么” “为什么? 这些都是自由意志呀”
后面 Clare 好像已经不在意这样的事情了.我的理解是,她有意识无意识的知道,比起这些事情,能遇见 Henry 才是更重要的.这是她更在乎的. 就算我可以改变, 我也不想
Henry, 你害怕什么?我害怕冬天,我害怕警察,我害怕去荒唐的时空,被汽车撞,被人打 . 还有,我害怕在时间中迷路,永远回不去.我害怕失去你…时间,场所,际遇,死亡都无法让我屈服. 我最卑微的欲望就是最少的移动.
这些年来,我们之间的爱,一直是汪洋的苦海中指航的明灯.是高空钢索步行者身下的安全网.是我怪诞生活中惟一的真实,惟一的信任.
我仍会不停地回到你所追忆的那些场景,所以对我来说,这些并没有过去.我担心的只是我们并没好好地珍惜现在时间旅行是种扭曲的状态,所以离开那里后我会更加……清醒,这似乎很重要,但有时我想,如果我在此时此地也能够保持清醒,那么一切会更完美的
最后在产房,在这里看不见两个人之前的苦难,只有一个准妈妈和一个准爸爸很努力地在迎接他们的新生命的到来.
- 我一下子懵了,过了一会才想起来在众人面前背诵里尔克的诗歌,还真有些不自在我开始了,”Engel!EswäreeinPlatz,denwirnichtwissen–” . “用英文啊”克莱尔打断我. “不好意思,”我换了换姿势,坐到克莱尔的肚子旁,背对着查丽丝,医生和护士们,我把手伸进克莱尔扣得好j好的衬衣里,隔着她滚烫的腹部,感受爱尔芭身体的轮廓
徘徊在时间的尽头
随着一声枪响,电影即将迎来最虐的一幕.一开始注定好的命运一样,一切开始于那片草地,也结束在那片草地.
回忆可以也是一种时间穿越,思念也是,想念也是,牵挂也是…
我不想让你独自一个人…在那之后而且我想和大家告别今晚我过得很好,这是最后一场精彩的欢呼…
所有的压抑我希望会通过 Henry 给 Clare 的那封信得到深化.令我震撼的是最后 Henry 的那一句: time is nothing. 他的整个生命,基本就是被时间给愚弄了.最后他是带着释怀,感恩离去.这才是了不起的一生呀.
这份信,最后一句,” time is nothing” 是很具备感染力和冲击力的.两个人再次相遇的场景描绘,这些我觉得翻译出来意境就差了些,所以我原封不动摘抄下来了.
A Letter to Be Opened in the Event of My Death
December 10, 2006
Dearest Clare,
As I write this, I am sitting at my desk in the back bedroom looking out at your studio across the backyard full of blue evening snow, everything is slick and crusty with ice, and it is very still. It’s one of those winter evenings when the coldness of every single thing seems to slow down time, like the narrow center of an hourglass which time itself flows through, but slowly, slowly. I have the feeling, very familiar to me when I am out of time but almost never otherwise, of being buoyed up by time, floating effortlessly on its surface like a fat lady swimmer. I had a sudden urge, tonight, here in the house by myself (you are at Alicia’s recital at St. Lucy’s) to write you a letter. I suddenly wanted to leave something, for after. I think that time is short, now. I feel as though all my reserves, of energy, of pleasure, of duration, are thin, small. I don’t feel capable of continuing very much longer. I know you know.
If you are reading this, I am probably dead. (I say probably because you never know what circumstances may arise; it seems foolish and self-important to just declare one’s own death as an out-and-out fact.) About this death of mine-I hope it was simple and clean and unambiguous. I hope it didn’t create too much fuss. I’m sorry. (This reads like a suicide note. Strange.) But you know: you know that if I could have stayed, if I could have gone on, that I would have clutched every second: whatever it was, this death, you know that it came and took me, like a child carried away by goblins.
Clare, I want to tell you, again, I love you. Our love has been the thread through the labyrinth, the net under the high-wire walker, the only real thing in this strange life of mine that I could ever trust. Tonight I feel that my love for you has more density in this world than I do, myself: as though it could linger on after me and surround you, keep you, hold you.
I hate to think of you waiting. I know that you have been waiting for me all your life, always uncertain of how long this patch of waiting would be. Ten minutes, ten days. A month. What an uncertain husband I have been, Clare, like a sailor, Odysseus alone and buffeted by tall waves, sometimes wily and sometimes just a plaything of the gods. Please, Clare. When I am dead. Stop waiting and be free. Of me-put me deep inside you and then go out in the world and live. Love the world and yourself in it, move through it as though it offers no resistance, as though the world is your natural element. I have given you a life of suspended animation. I don’t mean to say that you have done nothing. You have created beauty, and meaning, in your art, and Alba, who is so amazing, and for me: for me you have been everything.
After my mom died she ate my father up completely. She would have hated it. Every minute of his life since then has been marked by her absence, every action has lacked dimension because she is not there to measure against. And when I was young I didn’t understand, but now, I know, how absence can be present, like a damaged nerve, like a dark bird.
If I had to live on without you I know I could not do it. But I hope, I have this vision of you walking unencumbered, with your shining hair in the sun. I have not seen this with my eyes, but only with my imagination, that makes pictures, that always wanted to paint you, shining; but I hope that this vision will be true, anyway.
Clare, there is one last thing, and I have hesitated to tell you, because I’m superstitiously afraid that telling might cause it to not happen (I know: silly) and also because I have just been going on about not waiting and this might cause you to wait longer than you have ever waited before. But I will tell you in case you need something, after.
Last summer, I was sitting in Kendrick’s waiting room when I suddenly found myself in a dark hallway in a house I don’t know. I was sort of tangled up in a bunch of galoshes, and it smelled like rain. At the end of the hall I could see a rim of light around a door, and so I went very slowly and very quietly to the door and looked in. The room was white, and intensely lit with morning sun. At the window, with her back to me, sat a woman, wearing a coral-colored cardigan sweater, with long white hair all down her back. She had a cup of tea beside her, on a table. I must have made some little noise, or she sensed me behind her…she turned and saw me, and I saw her, and it was you, Clare, this was you as an old woman, in the future. It was sweet, Clare, it was sweet beyond telling, to come as though from death to hold you, and to see the years all present in your face. I won’t tell you any more, so you can imagine it, so you can have it unrehearsed when the time comes, as it will, as it does come. We will see each other again, Clare. Until then, live, fully, present in the world, which is so beautiful.
It’s dark, now, and I am very tired. I love you, always. Time is nothing.
Henry
