有心人

早兩天在外擺攤位，那是黃金地段，人流不絕，短短兩天看了不少人情世態。有一個皮膚雪白的少女，一頭清爽短髮染成蜜糖金色，眼睛細長，嘴唇薄薄的，像動畫裡的人物，一張獨得的臉令人難忘。第一天她已經在徘徊，看我們出版的書。我當她日本人，說了一堆英語（日文早荒廢了），她只是笑。第二天早上，她竟然再出現了，拿本長大的書遮著半邊臉，有點害羞，還是看書。我正要攀談，身旁的男同事偷偷說：「她像中國人。」我心想怎麼可能，但他平時絕少出錯，而且常常幫我補鑊，我自然信他，一疊連聲用廣東話（一開腔說國語，容易得罪人）介紹書籍，她這才拿開嘴巴上的書，有點不好意思的吐出一句：「 Sorry I am Korean. 」我不覺失笑。她到底買了一本書，我問她在香港玩多久，原來當日便歸家了，下午三點鐘的飛機。看看手錶已經差不多十二點，腦海登時想像了一個 scenario ：她一個人來旅行，昨日路過覺得書很精美，一時沒拿定主意，這天臨上機特意再來一次，把它買下……想到這裡，卻見她拿起相機──是大機不是傻瓜機，型──問可不可以把我和男同事拍進鏡頭，還是靦靦腆腆的，好可愛，是我見過最不粗魯的韓國人。後來有個法國人，攜著漂亮的妻子駐足，漂亮不止在五官精緻，而在她談吐大方而且笑得燦爛。法國人教我讀 Truffaut ，妻子教我讀 Nouvelle Vague ；可惜他們喜歡我不喜歡的蔡明亮。經我游說他們也買下了同一本書，還請我推介一些書裡列出的電影，烈日下他們一點不怕熱，耐心聽我講胡金銓……遇上有心人，最高興。

莎岡的女人

假如我告訴你這樣一個故事：

「呂茜就像所有法國女人，熱愛自由，厭惡束縛，難以捉摸；她沒有工作，靠有錢的中年男友查理養活。在一個酒會上，她認識了跟她一般年輕熱情的安東，他們火速搭上，愛得驚心動魄。呂茜拋下查理跟安東同居，生活拮据得多，安東也不似查理般慣於溺愛和縱容，他竟然為她在出版社找了一份工作，讓她不致『無所事事』。偏偏呂茜只愛無所事事，上班不夠一個月，她已經吃不消辭掉工作，偷偷變賣從前查理送她的鑽石頸鍊充當薪水，終日睡覺，看書，遊蕩巴黎，想念安東……安東知道了自然不高興。不久呂茜懷孕了，於她等同世界末日，安東卻很想要一個孩子，而且也負擔不起墮胎開支，呂茜心一橫向查理借錢。兩人裂痕越來越深，呂茜終於回到查理身邊，回復慵懶，率性，無所顧慮的生活。」

這是莎岡的《狂亂》。

你或許很快斷定：畢竟錢作怪──但是不然。安東的生活 down to earth ，憂柴憂米而且覺得人應該有點建樹；查理護蔭下的生活卻 beyond the clouds ，他愛呂茜所愛，只要她快樂。那並不意味其中魅力來自奢華生活，恰恰相反，他們的生活像小說開場那一陣春日狂風般自然，帶著樹木、森林、泥土的氣息，自由，輕盈，高傲，快樂，他沒有一套價值觀要加諸在呂茜身上，正正喜歡呂茜對營營役役的抗拒。只有莎岡，能夠把這個看似拜金的故事寫得不沾一點庸俗氣，她的呂茜（雖然不愁生活，但）不喜歡揮霍金錢，只酷愛揮霍時間；她並不追求物質享受，只依戀心靈自由，響往絕對的安逸。換上戀慕物質的（女）作家，小說格調只會落得擁護貪慕虛榮。邁克說：「沙岡的漂亮來自對物質的漠視──不但不知道米價，甚至不知道米是要用錢買的。」（《坦白說，親愛的》）

（當然你可以很犬儒地反駁：她的自由還不是要錢？！但請留意，她眼裡看到的，從來不是錢，這是她以及這小說與別不同的地方。── and from the other way round, since when that life takes money to go on, such fundamental fact, becomes something evil or deserves condemnation? ）

＊　＊　＊

下午無事，隨便找出嘉芙蓮丹露的 La Chamade ，瞄到片頭有 Sagan 的名字意外歡喜，再看幾個鏡頭，差點沒叫出聲來：不就是《狂亂》？但一開場就不妥──首先這不可能是一部彩色片，五光十色太世俗，也太悶蛋。我心目中的《狂亂》是高達和杜魯福最神采飛揚的年代（事實亦然），是黑白的又是充滿生命力的，因為黑與白象徵無限可能，沒有一種顏色可以封鎖想像，生硬地限定了那麼率性的人所置身的世界。而嘉芙蓮丹露──我心中的她其實不太 flexible ，她永遠是撐著藍傘的鄰家女孩，或苦悶的中產少婦，而不可能是莎岡的女人（朋友補充：或許，她可以是《日安，憂鬱》的 Anne ），太精細太成熟了。她那理得一絲不苟的長髮，如芭比娃娃工整的妝容，還有電影四平八穩的構圖，一板一眼的剪接，都滿溢中產口味，跟莎岡筆下那種充滿力量的激情與任性背道以馳。看《狂亂》小說，我一直想著清爽有點神經質的珍茜寶，那個演過《日安，憂鬱》的女人，那個擁有莎岡氣質的女人……只能是她！




又或者，那個漫不經心的，哧， Ludivine Sagnier 。




related: 〈關於她的二三事〉

溫文爾雅

她像侯孝賢片裡的女主角。一張修長的圓臉，眼睛微彎，長髮垂在胸前。通常是沉默的，自成一隅的，有時喜歡托著頭，不是刻意不望人，而是有自己在想的事。在她，一切都不可能刻意，只如呼吸般自然。穿一件紫青碎花長襯衫，套著牛仔褲，不是奪目的打扮，也與時尚不沾邊，路過卻自有一種格調，源自其人，本與衣著無關，又使人覺得內在與外在正好天衣無縫，一般 modest 又一般 pleasant ，叫人不可能不曾注目。－－又是欲靠衣裝營造氣質的人莫想效法的。一班人說話，她不侃侃而談，也不妄自菲薄，只留心點頭，專注說自己的話。溫文，爾雅。一個字聽不到他們的交談，但我知道，必然不浮淺。

直逼心靈的戰慄

「狼的時刻」是午夜之後，黎明以前的時刻，據說，也是一個人的靈魂最脆弱的時刻，一切的魔則在這個時分至為張狂，足以把人拖進深淵。

畫家約翰（麥士‧馮‧史度）為了避世，與妻子艾瑪（莉芙奧曼）搬到一個荒僻小島，最初過著平淡溫馨的生活。但約翰的過去──其實是他的內心深處，並不予他平靜，終於在一個夜，群魔（他的心魔）起舞，磨蝕了他的信念，吞噬了他的心靈，也擄走了他的人。

褒曼憑空蕩蕩的古堡房間，一張張抹去感情、充滿丘壑的臉容，簡單的剪接，便營造出異常戰慄的效果。不是製造驚嚇，而是訴諸人類原始的神秘的恐懼，直逼心靈的戰慄。「電影」憑它最純淨的形式發揮最大的魔力。

但相比那些簡約但凌厲的影像，開首與結尾艾瑪的自白，其實至關緊要：那提醒了觀眾：銀幕上發生的一切，都是由艾瑪的角度出發──包括約翰單獨在古堡經歷的夢魘。艾瑪最後詢問：「是不是因為我跟約翰日夕相對，耳鬢廝磨，因此我能想其所想，見其所見？到底那些幽靈般的食人獸，是否存在？」

答案既是，亦否。

約翰隻身再次赴會的一幕，艾瑪本來不曾親歷，但那並不是敘事角度的轉換，而是艾瑪的想像。可以是憑空想像，也可以是憑約翰的記事想像。艾瑪說：約翰從古堡歸來，即揮筆狂寫，然後離家，然後失蹤……

所謂揮筆狂寫，其實是艾瑪的陳詞，無從引證。假如我們相信艾瑪的話，那麼約翰寫的，是否就是前夜他在古堡的經歷？這一點已經非常耐人尋味。會不會是另一些與別不同的遭遇，刺激艾瑪想像出現在我們看到的場面？

其後森林的一幕，是約翰的幻覺，也必然是艾瑪的幻覺。艾瑪找到約翰後，擁著他沉沉入睡，之後一個溶鏡，接上她醒來看見古堡裡的男男女女纏擾約翰，溶鏡或許表示夢境，或許表示時間流逝，可以作多重解讀。但約翰的身體由掙扎到消失的幾個鏡頭，男男女女的身影忽隱忽現（這一幕在影碟的版本沒有），卻是極大的暗示──約翰有沒有被艾瑪找到過，他又是怎樣消失的？

艾瑪的想像

惡夢的開端是艾瑪偷看了約翰的日記，特別是其中提及舊情人（英格烈杜林）的部份。她還向約翰提起維若妮卡，喚起了他一直抑壓的渴望，促使他拋下她去古堡赴會。

更大的惡夢是艾瑪深信約翰的舊情仍然深深扎根在腦海，「想其所想」，因此她深信他在古堡經歷各式各樣奇幻、扭曲、詭異的事──所有這些事，包括老婦人對約翰「調情」，另一個情人的嫉妒，精神分析師的化妝癖，化身烏鴉的男人，都圍繞著約翰對維若妮卡的慾望！

被心魔折磨的，不止約翰一人；艾瑪所受折磨若不更大，也一定同等。甚至不妨大膽設想：那一個一個擾亂約翰的心魔，全都是受艾瑪的感召而現身。因此艾瑪喃喃自語：「假如我愛他多一點，或少一點──其實是，少一點妒忌──是否便可以挽救他？」是救他，也是自救。

為了想跟對方親近而偷看書信、日記，卻因發掘到對方的心靈深處而受傷害，《假面》也有相同的刻劃，艾瑪（也是艾瑪！比比安德遜飾）偷看了伊莉莎白（莉芙奧曼）寫給丈夫的信，信中談及與艾瑪的關係語調輕浮，艾瑪深受傷害。早期的《夜草莓》，其後的《沉默》和《哭泣與低語》，雖然沒有相同情節，說的亦是渴望親近，反而互相傷害的母題，而這個母題，直到《夕陽舞曲》仍在不停重覆。

如果說最蝕人心的，不是人的心魔業障，而是跟親蜜的人更加親近的渴望，相信褒曼最為心有戚戚然。

虛虛實實不重要，《狼的時刻》的豐饒是，它探索了飽受罪孽與情愛纏繞的心靈，也探索了一個愛得痛苦的心靈。

電影節這次放映的是「足本」。電影前後的後設敘事，在正式上映前被褒曼刪去。

敏感

假如朋友訴苦：誰人眼神總似懷有敵意，某君說話句句帶刺；多半會將他籠統判斷為「太敏感」。某人被指天生敏感，則難免被對號入座為林黛玉的知音。但願我們的語言裡，還有一個詞與「敏感」共通，可以盛載它的另一重意思，不要讓它天生負著一陣陰霾，使我有時不敢稱讚別人「敏感」──有這樣一個人，從不會費心推敲其他人一言一笑背後有何深意，卻總知道身邊人腦海裡迂迴曲折的連翩浮想，五色感受，不必依靠任何蛛絲馬跡，就是心中明白，「解釋不來，但我知你會」。世上人的敏感原有兩種，一種是卑微的，自傷的；一種是知心的，靈性的。

不知名的

揮過手道別，是否可以說是認識了？但我不知道你的稱呼，不知道你來自何方。只知道你一個人來看褒曼的《沉默》。是褒曼，《沉默》啊。你是低調的，沉實的，安靜的。並不急於入場，你坐在一角讀著甚麼，驀地向我瞧一眼，我是馬上瞄到了，無心的，彷彿冥冥中偏有旨意教我知道有這個人，又教我走向另一邊不看你。入場打一個照面，那麼倉卒，未預備驚艷，來不及反應，我倆馬上擠半點微笑，有點靦腆，有點失措，人已經錯開了。完場時自覺或不自覺站在早先位置──我絕少的，老遠就打定心，這次眼神不游移了。似有默契地──算是我的狂想也好──面對面，交換了我們第一個，正式的，微笑。你沒有停下，去了，我大膽憑眼神追隨你，就在快要消失門後以前，你回過頭來，是不好意思受逼視，還是念頭不知所起？視線再度交接，又一個微笑。我發呆偷喜一陣，追出去又想，你會不會有些耽擱，還在？而我會不會太貪婪？電光火石間你的身影卻已在眼前，我唯盼著，說不出一句「明天還會來嗎？」微笑以外，你手一揮，嘴裡念念說著再見。並不止於表示友善，我自牽牽扯扯，你有看出來嗎？怎麼說，明明一定沒見過，卻總覺從前已經認識。五次相對，腦海重想千百遍。你笑得那樣甜美，還會再遇上嗎？

The Mégélise way

女皇外遊， Société Particulière de la Reine 的（深宵） soirée 活動暫停， Duchesse de Polignac 乘空小休數天。連日花天酒地，無以為記（或不在此記）；倒是寧願抄書一段－－最近讀完的，一直想抄。如不嫌行貨，我想告訴你，再沒有別的文章，能如此優美而完全地說出我對某些往事的難以割捨，以及它們對我的深刻的影響－－尤其當別人無法理解我的快樂時。

So the Mégélise way and the Guermantes way remain for me linked to many of the little events of that life which, of all the various lives we lead concurrently, is the most abundant in vicissitudes, the richest in episodes, I mean our intellectual life. No doubt it progresses within us imperceptibly, and the truths that have changed its meaning and its appearance for us, that have opened new paths to us, we had been preparing to discover for a long time; but we did so without knowing it; and for us they date only from the day, from the minute in which they became visible. The flowers that played on the grass then, the water that flowed past in the sunlight, the whole landscape that surrounded their appearance continues to accompany the memory of them with its unconscious or abstracted face; and certainly when they were slowly studied by that humble passerby, that child dreaming - as a king is studied by a memorialist lost in the crowd - that corner of nature, that bit of garden could not have believed it would be thanks to him that they would be elected to survive in all their most ephemeral details; and yet the fragrance of hawthorn that for ages along the hedge where the sweetbriers will soon replace it, a sound of echoless steps on the gravel of a path, a bubble formed against a water plant by the current of the stream and bursting immediately - my exaltation has borne them along with it and managed to carry them across so many years in succession, while the paths round about have disappeared and those who walked on them have died, and the memory of those who walked on them. At times the piece of landscape thus transported into the present detaches itself in such isolation from everything else that it floats uncertain in my mind like a flowery Delos, while I cannot say from which country, which time - perhaps quite simply which dream - it comes. But it is most especially as deep layers of my mental soil, as the firm ground on which I still stand, that I must think of the Mégélise way and the Guermantes way. It is because I believed in things and in people while I walked along them, that the things and people they revealed to me are the only ones that I still take seriously today and that still bring me joy. Whether it is that the faith which creates has dried up in me, or that reality takes shape in memory alone, the flowers I am shown today for the first time do not seem to me to be real flowers. The Mégélise way with its lilacs, its hawthorns, its cornflowers, its poppies, its apple trees, the Guermantes way with its river full of tadpoles, its water lilies and buttercups, formed for me for all time the contours of the countryside where I would like to live, where I demand above all else that I may go fishing, drift about in a boat, see ruins of Gothic fortifications, and find among the wheat fields a church, like Saint-André-des-Champs, monumental, rustic, and golden as a haystack; and the cornflowers, the hawthorns, the apple trees that I still happen, when travelling, to come upon in the fields, because they are situated at the same depth, on the level of my past, communicate immediately with my heart. And yet, because places have something individual about them, when I am seized by the desire to see the Guermantes way again, you would not satisfy it by taking me to the bank of a river where the water lilies were just as beautiful, more beautiful than in the Vivonne, any more than on my return home in the evening - at the hour when there awakened in me that anguish which later emigrates into love, and may become forever inseparable from it - I would have wished that the mother who came to say goodnight to me would be more beautiful and more intelligent than my own. No; just as what I needed so that I could go to sleep happy, with that untroubled peace which no mistress has been able to give me since that time because one doubts them even at the moment one believes in them, and can never possess their hearts as I received in a kiss my mother's heart, complete, without the reservation of an afterthought, without the residue of an intention that was not for me - was that it should be her, that she should incline over me that face marked below the eye by something which was, it seems, a blemish, and which I loved as much as the rest, so what I want to see again is the Guermantes way that I knew, with the farm that is not very far from the two that come after pressed so close together, at the entrance to the avenue of oaks; those meadows on which, when the sun turns them reflective as a pond, the leaves of the apple trees are sketched, that landscape whose individuality sometimes, at night in my dreams, clasps me with an almost uncanny power and which I can no longer recover when I wake up. No doubt, by virtue of having forever indissolubly united in me different impressions merely because they had made me experience them at the same time, the Mégélise way and the Guermantes way exposed me, for the future, to many disappointments and even to many mistakes. For often I have wanted to see a person again without discerning that it was simply because she reminded me of a hedge of hawthorns, and I have been led to believe, to make someone else believe, in a revival of affection, by what was simply a desire to travel. But because of that very fact, too, and by persisting in those of my impressions of today to which they may be connected, they give them foundations, depth, a dimension lacking from the others. They add to them, too, a charm, a meaning that is for me alone. When on summer evenings the melodious sky growls like a wild animal and everyone grumbles at the storm, it is because of the Mégélise way that I am the only one in ecstasy inhaling, through the noise of the falling rain, the smell of invisible, enduring lilacs.

Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time