Beyond Brokeback: the impact of a film

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mais ça à l'air passionnant, ceci

merci Omma et BB

BB, tu as le bouquin entre les mains ?

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tu as le bouquin entre les mains ?
oui
c'est peut-être plus simple que je te le prête

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Why do some people walk out of the movie and go to dinner and talk about the weather while others walk out of the theater to find the horizon has been erased?

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oui, betty ...

bises

Sujet: Re: Beyond Brokeback: the impact of a film Sam 06 Oct 2007, 01:33

Betty Boop a écrit:: Why do some people walk out of the movie and go to dinner and talk about the weather while others walk out of the theater to find the horizon has been erased?

traducteur wanadoo a écrit:: Pourquoi font certaines personnes marchent du film et vont au dîner et à la conversation du temps pendant que d'autres marchent du théâtre pour constater que l'horizon a été effacé ?

c’est promis je n’utilise plus de traducteur automatique !!!!!!

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Omma

t'as intérêt !!!! :-)

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........maybe for each of us Brokeback magnifies whatever inadequacy or discontent we feel. I can't say I am alone in life, but do I have an Ennis/Jack connection with anyone? Not really.

I have often wondered this: does Brokeback have the same power over people who are living lives they consider happy and rich and fulfilling, or is it just we who are a little chipped at the edges who suffer so?

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Pre-Brokeback: shopping, dining out, getting stuff done at work, a social life.

Post-Brokeback: messy house, dirty clothes, bad hair, friends who think I'm insane, regular emotional breakdowns

...and I wouldn't change a thing.

(là, c'est une femme qui parle, vous l'auriez deviné)

Sujet: Re: Beyond Brokeback: the impact of a film Sam 06 Oct 2007, 16:54

Où est mon Harrap's ? :-))
Très intéressant, Betty !

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16:49: ça c'est vraiment nous 2 !! :-)

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Allez, j'enlèverais les "dirty clothes", on n'est pas arrivé à ce point là, quand même! :-)

Sujet: Re: Beyond Brokeback: the impact of a film Sam 06 Oct 2007, 17:04

Allez, j'enlèverais les "dirty clothes", on n'est pas arrivé à ce point là, quand même! :-)
MDR !
Oui, ben pour moi, les "bad hair" tu peux les passer dans avant Brokeback, de ce côté-là, ça n'a rien changé ! :-))
Ah...et remplace "shopping" par "reading" ....

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The securest prisons are those we create for ourselves

Omma, demande à Josh de te traduire cette phrase

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Oui, ben pour moi, les "bad hair" tu peux les passer dans avant Brokeback, de ce côté-là, ça n'a rien changé ! :-))

M'enfin !! :-)

Sujet: Re: Beyond Brokeback: the impact of a film Sam 06 Oct 2007, 17:10

Ta phrase du dessus rejoint celle qui se trouve en exergue d'un bouquin que j'ai lu récemment :
"Je volette de perchoir en perchoir dans une cage de plus en plus petite dont la porte est ouverte, grande ouverte."
Gyula Illyes, poète hongrois.

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Très belle phrase!

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Bon je dois te quitter ma petite Emy, mes ados piétinent devant l'ordi :-)
Bises

Sujet: Re: Beyond Brokeback: the impact of a film Sam 06 Oct 2007, 17:29

Une phrase de ce bouquin que j'aime bien (excuse moi si je m'éloigne de Beyond Brokeback...) :

"C'est un des enjeux de notre vie: rester dans du connu qui nous pèse ou même nous torture, mais qui est rassurant puisque connu, familier comme un vieux paletot ou un vieux jean, ou basculer dans l'inconnu qui peut être infiniment plus réjouissant, infiniment plus riche mais qui implique un passage, un changement."

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Betty Boop a écrit:: The securest prisons are those we create for ourselves

Omma, demande à Josh de te traduire cette phrase

les prisons les plus inviolables sont celles que nous nous créons à nous-mêmes

je pouvais traduire cela, il suffisait de me demander

Sujet: Re: Beyond Brokeback: the impact of a film Sam 06 Oct 2007, 20:30

Betty Boop a écrit:: The securest prisons are those we create for ourselves

Omma, demande à Josh de te traduire cette phrase

Josh a écrit:: Les prisons les plus sures sont celles que l'on se bâtit soi-même...

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Merci Crousti et Josh

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...Brokeback Mountain brought many tears to my eyes. The recognition and regret that Ennis seems to have at the end reminded me of the wasted years of my life and how my own Alma was left to grow old alone. Moreover, I am reminded of the thousands of others whose lives were altered, were less fulfilling, and were loveless or lost because of how our culture treats homosexuality.
Now when I hear a man say he won't go to see Brokeback because he doesn't want to see 2 men kissing, I wonder why it is that seeing 2 men kill each other in bloody combat is so much more acceptable.
A gay combat-decorated Vietnam Vet, who died in 1988 and was finally buried with full honors in the Congressional Cemetery, has on his tombstone an inscription which he wrote himself: "When I was in the military, they gave me a medal for killing 2 men, and a discharge for loving one."

Our world is strange beyond words, is it not? ...

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Le livre contient quelques poèmes inspirés par le film. Celui qui suit est l'un de mes préférés.

Love wore a black hat

Love rode up in a black hat
Black truck beat up dustcloud
Like a twister; steps out
Long and lean as electric wire

Love rode up in a black hat
Shook my hand like a salesman
Sell me somethin' I don't need
Handshake sealed the deal right off

Love wore hisself a black hat
Set just so over cool drink, cool blue eyes
You could drown in; dare to jump
Off that cliff to the center of nowhere

Last one in.

Hell drove away in a black hat
Drove away my guts turned
Inside out; guts upon dead pavement
Alleyway no shelter to that bitter dust

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I’m sixty-two.

No man who is gay does not live in the closet, betraying the truth about himself, denying who he is by presenting himself as who he is not, often many times a day – in the bank, at the laundry, at the gas station, to a neighbour, to a stranger – not just for convenience, but out of fear, mistrust, anxiety that is a low-grade constant, because no gay man has not seen the hostility, not encountered the contempt at one time or another. Few have not felt personally threatened; many have felt the smashing blows. Every gay man at one time knows the toll this disdain or derision takes, but if it is sometimes dealt with ably, too often it is not.

As Ennis says in the movie, “you ever get the feelin’, I don’t know, when you’re in town, and someone looks at you, suspicious…like he knows.” Gay people ache at seeing the harm that self-loathing exacts in the deception and fear brought into the lives of two nineteen-year-old hight-school dropouts, bewildered at what unfolds in them, in their world, in 1963, in Riverton, Wyoming. All gay men know the heartache of these two protagonists as intimately as their own, in their own loves and friendships lost. Brokeback mountain is about their lives. It is mine.

I grew up Catholic in a small town in Arizona, where shame was as wide and deep as that Wyoming sky in Brokeback. I felt something was very wrong with me. I could tell nobody about it, because I didn’t know why or how it had formed itself in me, where it got its name, how it found me, when it arrived, how it sprang forth. Even as a young boy, I was attracted to males, with the raw sexual fantasies children know to keep secret. I was thrilled by male nakedness. I would linger in the area where men undressed to go swimming and found myself going back there innumerable times while we went at the pool.

I started having sex shortly after puberty, at age thirteen, usually with friends, classmates in the usual genre of boys’ circles. I knew something was terribly wrong with me when a little later a high school counsellor told me it was a “character defect”, a kind of mental aberration. I was happy to know it had another name, a name taking precedence over “queer” and “fag”. I knew I was devious, sneaky, a liar, fundamentally defective because my furtive encounters were kept secret, tracks covered. I knew, above all, I should never say I was queer.

At age fifteen, I fell in love with a boy who was one year younger. He was thin, a taller boy, very handsome, very sweet. He loved me intensely. I was athletic, muscled, very macho, or so I tried hard to appear. He was a very sad kid who had been in foster homes throughout all his grade-school years, a series of homes where the fathers or the older sons of the pious foster families or other, older foster kids would regularly molest him.

My friend Billy wanted to be around me all the time and whenever we were safely alone he would kiss me and hold me in his arms and tell me how much he loved me. I did not want him to kiss me on the lips. I did not return his kisses. Like Ennis in Brokeback mountain, I would tell him I wasn’t queer, that I had a character defect that let me have sex with him, but that two guys couldn’t love each other because it was against natural law, that he only thought he loved me, but was mistaken, a kind of mental aberration: it was a sin. Yet there was not only the turbulence of a troubled love affair, there was more than just sin. We would go dove-hunting and take long hikes into the surrounding hills and mountain-climb or swim in the river, camp out at the lake over weekends, sneak into the movies, and all the other exhilarating boyish adventures being together allowed.

And I was glad as day for his company, even as my increasingly deliberate lack of response hurt him deeply. He often would cry or not talk, becoming sullen and withdrawn. I was scared. I became afraid that people would soon see or hear something and I told him I didn’t want him touching me in public, even if he thought people were not around.

We often slept at each other’s houses; both our families liked us. One night, after a late movie, he came to my house to sleep over. We were having sex in my bed, as we often did. My dad got up for some other reason; maybe we were making noise. He came in to check and switched the light on. Billy and I were entwined naked, and we froze for the longest instant. Then my dad switched the light off and closed the door.

The next morning I was terrified to go to breakfast, but he called us. We crept into the kitchen with hideous foreboding. My dad said not one word about what he had seen but was in fact very friendly. He made pancakes for us.

A few years later when I wrote my dad that I was a homosexual, he told me not to worry, many people go through similar phases. Even then he never mentioned the night he turned the light on. Perhaps that early view prepared him for what my mother would find herself to be so traumatically unprepared. For years, she would send me newspaper clippings of one person or another who had left the “gay lifestyle” to become heterosexual, of one psychiatrist or another who had devised a cure, of some priest in Chicago or Denver whose methods had turned gays around.

I was becoming afraid that Billy’s neediness would arouse suspicions and expose what I had so tautly kept hidden. I finally told him I didn’t want to spend time with him anymore because he was, in Catholic terms, “a near occasion of sin”. For several weeks or months, I made him miserable by refusing to see him. He would come to the house on the pretext of visiting others in my family, but I would ignore him. Once I found him on the street outside my high school as if he had chanced by. I refused to even acknowledge him. He followed me for blocks before I told him to go away, not to visit me, not to call me, not to write me. After a few minutes I relented, but it changed our friendship.

We went back to spending a lot of time together that summer and into the fall working for the campaign of John Kennedy for president. In my senior year, I was given a scholarship to a private boarding school, and I was thrilled to leave home, in no small part because it would separate us finally. Yet he came up to visit me several times that fall, hitchhiking or getting his mom to drive him. He seemed to grow sadder and withdrawn. I would see him on those weekends I came home and over the Christmas holidays, often again staying over at each other’s houses, still committing sin, mortal sin. He had started seeing an older married man in his twenties whom he liked. The man had been a driver in the Kennedy campaign and had two small kids.

I was glad to hear it, as I thought it would relieve me of the burden of guilt and responsibility for his emotional and sexual neediness. After the Christmas break, I intentionally began staying at school most weekends, going places with new friends and classmates. I saw a lot less of Billy.

One Thursday evening in spring, my mom called to tell me Billy had shot himself in the mouth and was dead.

He has haunted my life. I told his mother about our relationship, because I felt I had to confess my part: I had to tell her my part in driving him to despair. She thought that was small potatoes, had already known about it, but she suffered terribly the unrelieved self-recrimination of his loss, blaming herself for his tragic death, nearly wild with intolerable sorrow. She drank a lot. We spent much time together over that summer, nearly every day. Then I moved to New York, never to live in Arizona again. Billy’s mom moved to Tacoma, finished high school and college, became a high school counsellor, and adopted two teenage girls, sisters.

In death he became my constant companion, whom in life I had tried to flee. I still carry him around with me daily, though I have almost never talked about it in forty-five years. I still see him as a boy, head tilted, smile slight and abashed, his dark hair, thin face. I recall his face at odd times in any day, and we have talked often through the years in my dreams. I love his visiting me in my dreams, even in a recurring dream of unalleviated sadness that over the years has grown less frequent, where he appears not talking, with no skin, his raw naked body wet from tears. In this dream there is only sobbing, but in most dreams we talk of many things. When Jack said to Ennis, “I wish I knew how to quit you”, its resonance hit sharply, its torn, bare cry piercing and true.

Brokeback Mountain reverberates in my life. I am profoundly shaken over the memories it gave life to in Ennis and Jack, memories I thought had been shielding and well-insulated long ago. Memories of two sad, poor boys I’ve mourned all these years: one who lost his life, one who lost his love.

Brokeback Mountain knew somehow what I carry in my heart; it guessed the ghost kept pastured away in a concealed, secluded valley, its howls at night over the distance heard below a small moon mainly in sleep. Sorrow’s pure springs are each unique, yet all the same, no matter their names.

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Maintenant vous comprenez pourquoi je ne veux pas traduire...

J'ai un stock de mouchoirs à votre disposition.

Sujet: Re: Beyond Brokeback: the impact of a film Lun 08 Oct 2007, 15:37

Il m'a fallu le dico, là, ma Betty !

C'est beau, poignant. Combien de suicides et de vies gâchées ? :-(

Sujet: Re: Beyond Brokeback: the impact of a film Lun 08 Oct 2007, 16:12

Betty Boop
Emy:
c'est vrai qu'on peut sortir les mouchoirs même si je n'ai pas tout compris, j'ai qd même saisi l'essentiel et c'est terriblment poignant comme l'a écrit Emy

Sujet: Re: Beyond Brokeback: the impact of a film Lun 08 Oct 2007, 20:20

Thank yu my betty....

you know, i grew up in a tiny french village...No shame, no doubt about my desires or my wishes...
that's life, that's my life.
BBM reverberates my life too....no matter about this.
I'm proud to be that i am. that's my life. mine.

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Ce témoignage m'a déchiré le coeur, vraiment...

Emy
Suite à ta question en off, on emploie souvent "would" en anglais pour exprimer une action qui se répète dans le passé. "would" = "used to" ici

Y a quand même une nuance entre les 2: "used to " exprime à la fois la répétition de l'action et son caractère révolu, ce qui n'est pas le cas de "would".

Ex: We used to go to the cinema on Saturday evenings = Nous allions au cinéma le samedi soir. Cette phrase veut dire:
1/ que nous y allions souvent et,
2/ que nous n'y allons plus.

Tu me diras, oui mais toutes les actions dans ce texte sont révolues. Personnellement je trouve que, dans un long texte, il est plus joli d'utiliser "would" que "used to" pour des actions qui se répètent dans le passé

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