全蚀狂爱(莱昂纳多主演心之全蚀)对白台词(上)Total Eclipse

Total Eclipse Total Eclipse of the Heart Turn around, Every now and then I get a little bit lonely and you’re never coming round. Turn around, Every now and then I get a little bit tired of listening to the sound of my tears. Turn around, Every now and then I get a little bit nervous that the best of all the years have gone by. Turn around, Every now and then I get a little bit terrified and then I see the look in your eyes. Turn around, bright eyes. Every now and then I fall apart. Turn around, Every now and then I get a little bit restless and I dream of something wild. Turn around, Every now and then I get a little bit helpless and I’m lying like a child in your arms. Turn around, Every now and then I get a little bit angry and I know I’ve got to get out and cry. Turn around, Every now and then I get a little bit terrified and then I see the look in your eyes. Turn around, bright eyes. Every now and then I fall apart. And I need you now tonight and I need you more than ever. And if you only hold me tight we’ll be holding on forever. And we’ll only be making it right cause we’ll never be wrong. Together we can take it to the end of the line. Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time. I don’t know what to do and I’m always in the dark. We’re living in a powder keg and giving off sparks. I really need you tonight, forever’s gonna start tonight, forever’s gonna start tonight. Once upon a time I was falling in love but now I’m only falling apart. There’s nothing I can do, a total eclipse of the heart. Once upon a time there was light in my life but now there’s only love in the dark. Nothing I can say, a total eclipse of the heart. Beginning: Sometimes he speaks in a kind of tender dialect of the death which causes repentance of the unhappy man who certainly exist of painful tasks and heartrending departures. In the hovels where we got drunk he wept looking at those who surrounded us a cattle of poverty. He lifted drunks in the black streets. He had the pity a bad mother has for small children. He moved with the grace of a little girl at catechism. He pretended to know about everything, business, art, medicine. I followed him, I had to. Waiter: Someone for you, sir. Over there. W: Do I know her? Waiter: she give me her card. W: Please……Please sit down. Has Andre been looking after you? Can I get you something to drink? 伊莎贝尔: No, thank you. W: Please. 伊莎贝尔: It’s really a business matter I want to discuss with you, Mr. Verlaine. This was published a few months ago, an unauthorized selection of my brother’s poem. My mother and I are anxious to prevent anything like this from happening again. We thought you might be able to help us. W: I? How? 伊莎贝尔: I understand you have a large number of my brother’s manuscripts. W: I have some, yes. 伊莎贝尔: My mother and I would be very grateful if you wound return them. W: I’ve always tries to use the utmost discretion in everything concerning your brother. I think I can say I’ve always defended his interests. Sometimes I wonder why, since in many ways they’re diametrically opposed to my own. 伊莎贝尔: I don’t see how. W: It took many years for his work to be understood, but once his name began to be known it soon became clear that our ways were numbered. The music of old-fashioned verse was no longer enough. He swept us away. Not that I mind, you understand. I know I was once a good writer. I: I didn’t know his name was so well-known. W: Yes, the young understand his now. He’s the voice of the future. What matters to me most is that we did our best work together. Both of us. Paris – 1871 R---- Rimbaud V----Verlaine M---- Mrs. Maute de Fleurville Mrs.---- Mrs. Verlaine F---- Mr. Maute de Fleurville I---- Isabelle Vi---- Vitalie RM----Rimbaud’s mother RB----Rimbaud’s brother In Verlaine’s home R: Morning. I’m looking for Paul Verlaine. M: Are you Monsieur Rimbaud? R: Yes. M: Monsieur Verlaine is not with you, then? R: No. M: He went to the station to meet you. R: He doesn’t know what I look like, does he? M: I am Mrs. Maute de Fleurville, Monsieur Verlaine’s mother-in-law, and this is my daughter Mrs. Verlaine. Mrs.: How did you get from the station? R: Walked. M: Perhaps you’d like a wash. R: No. M: You’re even younger than we imagined. Mrs.: How old are you? M: Darling, it’s not polite to ask people their ages. R: I need a piss. V: How old are you, if you don’t mind? Mrs.: He does. R: sixteen. V: You did say in your letter you were twenty-one. I noticed you at the station but I didn’t think it could be you. R: Likewise. V: Those poems you sent me were remarkable for someone of twenty-one. For someone of sixteen, they’re unprecedented. R: That’s why I told you I was twenty-one. I didn’t want you to feel patronizing before you’d read them. V: Of course. I hope your mother isn’t too angry with me. R: No. Once she’d found out you’d sent the fare she seemed quite happy. M: You come from the Ardennes, don’t you, Monsieur Rimbaud? R: Yes. M: Pleasant town, Charleville, isn’t it? R: Last place on God’s earth. Mrs.: What does your father do? R: Drinks mostly, I believe. We haven’t seen him for ten years. Mrs.: I’m sorry. R: No need. He’s very well out of it. M: Perhaps you’d like to read something to us after dinner. R: No, I don’t think so. M: Why not? R: I don’t want to. I never read out my poetry. Mrs.: All the other posts do. V: I don’t interested in what they do. Mrs.: We have soirees. V: Are you think poets can learn from one another? R: Only if they’re bad poets. In the bar V: You know about this? R: I know what is this. V: It’s the poet’s third eye, melts glasses. What do you think of my wife? R: I don’t know. What do you think of her? V: She’s still only a child, of course. R: So am I. V: Absinthe, two. At walk V: You should do something about getting it published. R: Why? V: Because that’s what writers do. R: I couldn’t care less about being published. The only thing that matters is the writing itself. Everything else is literature. Your last book wasn’t good enough. V: You don’t think so? R: Premarital garbage. V: No, Love poems. A lot of people found them very beautiful. R: But they’re all lies. V: That’s not lies. I love her. R: Love? V: Yes. R: No such thing. V: What do you mean? R: Whatever binds families and married couples together that’s not love. That’s stupidity or selfishness or fear. Love doesn’t exist. V: You’re wrong. R: Self-interest exists. Attachment based on personal gain exists. Complacency exists. But not love. Love has to be reinvented. Why did he want so much to escape from reality? There never was a man with such an aim. Did he perhaps know secrets to change life? In Verlaine’s home V: “Sometimes I’ve seen what people think they’ve seen.” Mrs.: He’s not how I imagined him. V: “I’ve wept too many tears heartbreaking dawns.” Mrs.: I prefer your poems. I don’t really understand that kind of thing. V: No, this is something new. “I’ve wept too many tears heartbreaking dawns.” V: What is it? Mrs.: He’s kicking. V: You see? There. Mrs.: Don’t you think it would be more sensible to get one of your friends to put him up for a while? V: People don’t understand him. I’m the only one who understand him. Mrs.: Well, Daddy certainly won’t understand him. V: We had a revolution this year which I supported. I could have been shot. If I hadn’t been thrown out of my job you think I would have accepted your father’s damn charity? For God’s sake, all I’m doing is helping a friend! Why must we go through all this? I’m your husband! Mrs.: I’m sorry, Paul. V: Are you trying to annoy me? Mrs.: No. V: Well, don’t. R: Evening! Everyone’s in bed, I’m afraid unless you’ve come to see the old boy. F: The old boy? R: Maute de Fleurville. A friend of his, are you? F: No. R: You wouldn’t like to buy a crucifix, would you? I can let you have this one on extremely reasonable terms. It’s made with real pearls, I think. F: Who the hell are you? R: I might ask you the same question except I’d be more polite. F: I’m Maute de Fleurville. R: Then this is your dog I just broke. F: What? Why? R: Dogs are all liberals. F: Since when have you had the right to invite people into this house without my permission? V: If I can’t put up a guest in my own home I might as well live somewhere else. F: If you weren’t so idle, you could afford to. V: You know very well… F: Any excuse. V: I don’t notice you working your fingers to the bone. F: When you next see that hooligan kindly ask him to return the objects he’s pilfered. V: What are you talking about? F: He’ll know what I meant. V: Ask him yourself. F: I’m happy to say he’s left the house. V: What? In the rain V: Thank god. I thought I would never find you. I don’t know what that bastard thought he was doing. R: It’s his house. V: Yes, come on. We’ll find you somewhere. In their little room V: It’s not much, I’m afraid. R: Just for a few days. It’s fine. R: So do you love her? V: Of course. She’s ideal. Eighteen, beautiful, plenty of money, all the wifely virtues, and she’s giving me a baby. R: Do you have anything in common? V: No. R: Is she intelligent? V: No. R: Does she understand you? V: No. R: Then the only thing she can give you is sex. In Verlaine’s home Mrs.: Did you find him? V: I did. Mrs.: And did he give you back Daddy’s crucifix? V: If your father’s capable of throwing that boy out he’s got no right having Christ hanging all over his walls. You people don’t understand what poverty is. In Charleville, if he wanted a book he had to steal it. Mrs.: That proves what kind of person he is. …………(不是人啊有没有!!!) V: I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have said that. F: What’s going on? Mrs.: Nothing. M: Are you all right, my dear? Mrs.: Yes, I’m all right. In their room R: It was last summer during the war one of the many times I ran away from home. I came down to the river to fill my water bottle and there was a Prussian soldier not much older than me asleep in the clearing. I watched him for a long time before I realized he wasn’t asleep. He was dead. And somehow it clarified things for me. I understand that what I needed to become the first poet of this century was to experience everything in my body. It was no longer enough for me to be person. I decided to be everyone. I decided to be a genius. I decided to originate the future. In a dining hall Poet 1: The principle is very like photography only instead of photographing a man’s face, you photography his voice. Then twenty years later, just as you’d open a photograph album, you put the relevant cylinder into the paleophone and you listen to a poet reading his poems or singing his songs. Poet 2: And you think you could invent a machine like that which worked? R: For Christ’s sake, let’s get the fuck out of here. V: We can’t. R: Why not? V: He’s about to read. R: Which one is it? V: Aicard. Over there. R: I don’t think I’ll like him very much. Poet 3: Verlaine showed me some of your poems. R: Oh yes? Poet 3: Remarkable. Very promising. Only, it seems all that ingenuity is marred by, well, not exactly a juvenile urge to shock but something of the sort. R: And were you shocked? Poet 3: No, I wasn’t. R: Then why would you suppose Intended you to be? Poet 3: That’s not really the point. V: Seems fair enough to me. Poet 3: I could object to your technical approach. R: I could object to your tie. V: He doesn’t like discussing his poetry. Poet 3: I see. R: I have a surprise for our friend. Aicard: Thank you. Thank you, gentlemen. R: Sulfuric acid. Aicard: ……I would ask you a bear this in mind. Although, as with all worthwhile work for children, it’s hoped what is said is of relevance to adult. The poem is called ”Green Absinthe.”Green absinthe is the potion of the damned, a deadly poison silting up the veins while wife and child sit weeping in their slum…… G: I don’t believe it. Aicard: ……pours absinthe into his brains. G: Shit. Aicard: O drunkard, most contemptible of men…… G: Shit. Others: Be quiet. G: It’s authentic shit! Others: Please…… Aicard: ……degraded, fallen, sinful, and obruse…… G: I like it! Aicard: ……to beat your wife and child. G: For trying to deprive you of the juice! Others: Get out! G: Me? Poet 3: Yes, you offensive little bastard. Get out. R: I think I may be permitted to raise some objection against the butchering of French poetry. Poet 3: No, you may not. Apologize and get out! R: Don’t come near. V: Be careful. Poet 3: You think you can frighten me with that thing. V:Careful, careful I say. Others: Get out. R: Now you, you fucking. In the days of Francois I wise and benevolent giants roamed the countryside and one of their primary functions was to rid the world of pedants. Fools, and writers of no talent by pissing on them from a great height. V: Ah ha ha ha ha…… In their room V: How to make your way in the literary world. R: The depressing thing about this city is that the artists are even more bourgeois than the fucking bourgeoisie. R: We should make a bargain. You help me, and I’ll help you. If we go away together I’m sure you’ll be able to do good work again. And when we’ve taken as much as we can from each other, we simply spilt up and move on. V: And how could we live? R: You have some money, don’t you? V: I understand. I help you by supporting you, and you help me by renewing my rusty old inspiration. Is that it? R: Not altogether. In Verlaine’s room Mrs.: Where have you been? V: I thought I’d probably just get in the way. Mrs.: Don’t shout. You’ll wake the baby. V: Is it a boy? Mrs.: Yes. V: Funny-looking little bugger. Mrs.: Don’t. V: All right. Thank you. Thank you. Mrs.: No, please. No! V: Why not? The baby was born. In Rimbaud’s home R: Isabelle! I: I didn’t know you were coming. R: Where is the mouth of darkness? I: Mother? She’s in the fields with Vitalie. Do you want to see her? R: No. Thanks. RM: Are you back for good? R: For good I don’t know. For better or worse. RM: There’s work to be done in the fields. R: There’s work to be done here. RM: I thought you were getting on well in Paris. R: I was… but Verlaine’s wife started to make trouble. RM: What’s kind of trouble? R: Threatening a divorce. She thought we were spending too much time together. RM: Spoiled rich girl, I suppose. R: That’s all right. RM: This work you’re doing is it the kind of thing that will lead to anything? R: I don’t know. Nevertheless, it’s the kind of work I do. RB: I don’t suppose Paris ever gets as exciting as this. In Verlaine’s room V: You look like a fucking saint. Except you haven’t got your halo. I will give you your halo. Mrs.: He’s back, isn’t he? In the bar V: I can’t leave Mathilde at the moment. She’s not very well. R: I’m not surprised if you keep setting fire to her. V: I haven’t set fire to her since Thursday. No, it’s not very funny. R: It’s pathetic. Your acts of violence are always curiously disgusting. V: What do you mean? R: They are not clean. You’re always in some sort of a drunken stupor. Then you start apologizing and groveling. V: I don’t like hurting people. R: Then don’t. But if you do, do it coolly. Don’t insult your victims by feeling sorry afterwards. V: I love her, you see. R: You can’t possibly. V: I love her body. R: There are other bodies. V: No, I love Mathilde’s body. R: But not her soul? V: I think it’s less important to love the soul. After all, the soul may be immortal. We have plenty time for the soul but flesh rots. It’s my love of flesh which keeps me faithful. R: Faithful? What do you mean? V: I’m faithful to all my loves because once I love them, I will always love them. And when I’m alone in the evening or in the early morning, I close the my eyes and I celebrate them all. R: That’s not faithfulness. That’s nostalgia. If you don’t want to leave Mathilde, it’s not because you’re faithful. It’s because you’re weak. V: If strength involves brutality, I prefer to be weak. R: With you, weakness involves brutality as well. Don’t except me to be faithful to you. V: Why are you so harsh with me ? R: Because you need it. V: Isn’t it enough for you to know that I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone and that I’ll always love you? R: Shut up, you sniveling drunk. V: Tell me that you love me. R: For God’s sake! V: Please. It’s important. Just say it. R: You know I’m very fond of you. Do you love me? V: What? R: Do you love me? V: Yes. R: Then put your hands on the table. V: What? R: Put your hand on the table. V: Palm upwards. R: The only unbearable thing is that nothing is unbearable. R: We have to leave. V: I don’t know. R: Yes, it’s time. The happiest days of my life was last year when I run away from home. I didn’t know where I was going. I just carried on. I’ve never seen such long and colored days and I could never get far enough. I’ve never seen the sea. I want to walk to Africa and across the desert. I wanted the sun. I want the sun. Do you understand me? I want the sun. V: Where do you want to go? R: I don’t know. I don’t care, just away. V: You know I can’t leave Mathilde right know. She’s not very well. R: Then don’t. V: What? R: Don’t leave her. Brussels – Belgium V: Do you remember happier times? Mrs.: Why did you leave us? V: I had a tip-off I was going to arrested for my work in the propaganda press during the Commune. Mrs.: But that was over a year ago. V: Well, the police may be slow, but they are methodical. I couldn’t bear to go to jail. I think it’s best to stay out of the country for a few months. Mrs.: With Rimbaud? I suppose he’s wanted by the police as well. V: No. Mrs.: Why do you prefer him to me? V: I don’t. I don’t. Don’t have to dressed right away, do you? Mrs.: I told mummy I’d meet her for breakfast. V: What’s she doing here? Mrs.: She come with me. V: That’s another thing. I certainly can’t stand living with your parents anymore. Mrs.: It’s not safe anywhere else. V: What do you mean? Mrs.: You know what I mean. Listen, I had this idea, I thought of this idea. I thought we might emigrate. V: Emigrate? Where to? Mrs.: New Caledonia. A lot of your friends from the Commune are there. You’d be able to write. It would be like it was when we were first married and… V: What? Mrs.: Nothing. V: No. go on. Mrs.: I was only going to say that you could stop if you wanted. It would be easier for you if you wanted to stop drinking. V: You’re frightened of me, aren’t you? Don’t think that I like getting drunk. I mean, I do like getting drunk. I don’t like being drunk. Anyway, when I hit you, I feel so terrible all I can think of is to get drunk again and forget about it. Can you see us living in a grass hut? Mrs.: Why not? V: Let’s go, for Christ’s sake. Let’s go before it’s too late. We can go whenever you like. Mrs.: Not now. V: Why not? Mrs.: Help me with this. No, help me with this. Stop! Mrs.: Why are you doing this to us? R: Don’t worry. You can have him back quite soon and only slightly damaged. He’s coming back now. V: What are you doing here? R: What’s this? My poor Mathilde, don’t be upset. Don’t be cry. This a bad dream. One day, I’ll wake up. Love, Paul. Nice, was it? Scene of conjugal bliss? V: I’m going back to Paris with her. R: Right. V: Wait! Let me explain. R: Why should I? V: It’s not what you think. It’s something else. She suggested we emigrate to New Caledonia. It would be a change. A quiet life. I could stop drinking. It’s a good idea. R: No. V: Don’t you care about my happiness? R: No, and neither should you. V: You don’t understand how much I love her. This morning she was lying there naked. She looked so beautiful, so young and so… what’s so funny? R: Was she really lying there naked? V: Yes. R: My estimation for her goes up a long way. V: Why? R: For realizing what was needed and providing it. What does it matter? She’s your wife. You love her, right? Go back to her.