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lostinmysticfalls · 4 years

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Worth The Fight - Javi x Fem!Reader

Summary: After finding out Javi’s interest in you started off as a ruse, you needed time alone to rethink your relationship. (This was written as a conclusion to Meet Me In The Afterglow but can be read as a standalone.)

Words: 4k

Warnings: unapologetic smut

It had only been three weeks but it felt like ages. The remnants of Javi’s voice still lingered in your head; the begging tone in his words as he asked you to trust him, the sound of him repeating that he loved you, assuring you that he’d be there waiting until you were ready to return to him. Reminiscing about it made your chest tighten and your insides flutter, spurring on an agonizing yearning and making the magnitude of his absence even more glaring.

Your late nights in bed had been occupied by countless minutes spent trying to figure out if you had been too hard on him. The thoughts made you falter in your decision and question your own reason. Had you perhaps judged him too harshly? Did he actually deserve you walking out on him that night? Did you punish him with a silence that was unwarranted—forcing both of you to drift apart like islands into a sea of uncertainty and loneliness?

Thinking about him stung like cold air on a fresh wound, even after all those days. It all eventually circled back to his deception, and then the vicious cycle and overanalyzing started all over again. Like a serpent swallowing its own tail, there was no beginning and no end.

Stopping yourself from reaching out to him before you had enough time to clear your head hadn't been easy but you had managed to get through the days without any incident. You hadn't heard from him since that night and his respectful approach to your time apart had been a double-edged sword. On the one hand, you appreciated that he'd remained true to his word about giving you your space, but on the other, the thought of him moving on without you struck you with a fear that made you anxious to the point of hurling. It was that tiny sliver of doubt that scared the hell out of you.

You held up the receiver with one hand, your index finger shaking over the telephone’s keypad, hovering above the first digit of his phone number.

"Fuck." You muttered, hanging up before you mustered up the courage to call him.

The probability of him being at the charity dinner that night was high; the head of his department was hosting it, after all. You had wrestled with the idea of speaking to him first before seeing him again, but even after three weeks of no contact you still couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

You grumbled, an exasperated huff leaving your lips as you took your evening gown out of the closet and made your way to the bathroom.

Maybe it was best to leave it all up to fate.

* * * * *

You got to the villa forty minutes later than the scheduled event, just at the time when an influx of guests were also starting to arrive. The plan had been to show up and wave hello to your boss, hang around long enough for him to see that you'd made the effort to network with important clients, and then slip out before anyone bothered you too much.

As soon as you entered the main foyer you had made a beeline for the bar, picking up a champagne flute and trying to blend in with everyone as you sipped it in silence.

But as your luck would have it, your alone time lasted all but ten minutes before an older gentleman tried to make conversation.

“Hola señorita, buenas noches."

"Buenas noches." You replied, a ghost of a smile appeared on your face but you avoided eye contact as much as possible.

“What’s a pretty lady like yourself doing here all alone?” He asked.

You laughed under your breath and then lied through your teeth. “I’m not here alone.”

Cranking your neck, you looked past him, pretending like you’d spotted a familiar face. “I came here with my friend, she’s just over on other side chatting up a guest.” Your finger pointed at nothing in particular, past the crowd, to the open doors that led to the garden.

You tipped back the champagne flute, finishing up your drink and placing the glass on the table before excusing yourself. “I’m afraid I have to go. Enjoy your night, sir.”

The flow of your long dress wrapped around your legs as you strutted away in a hurry. The atmosphere inside was starting to become suffocating anyway, so being outdoors and breathing in the faint, sweet smell of the orchids and the freshness of the crisp night air was a nice change.

The chatter outside was much quieter too, drowned out by the sound of the water spouting from the large fountain that adorned the center of the garden. You were starting to think that attending had been a mistake. Nothing about the party was vaguely entertaining, and frankly, the thought of running into Javi was starting to seem unlikely. He’d always been the type to show up on time.

The chirping of the crickets grew louder as you walked down the curved path in the direction of the side gate. The heels of your shoes clanked atop the stone walkway as you rounded the corner toward the small corridor to freedom, when all of a sudden the oxygen in your lungs escaped you. The rhythm of your heart becoming unsteady as you gulped nervously.

You stared at him in awe, completely entranced by his presence, your whole body frozen in place.

His lips curled into a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling with joy as he reciprocated your steady glances. The cigarette between his fingers still burning as he tossed it to the ground and stepped on it.

It only took a short moment and the sheer sound of his voice uttering your name for everything around you to disappear. The intonation like an idyllic melody as it left his lips.

Truth be told, you had spent quite a bit of time dreaming up a similar encounter, but no amount of fantasizing had really prepared you for that specific run-in.

You managed to squeak out a weak, “Hi.”

Javi drifted closer to you then, abandoning the shadows of the corridor. “Were you leaving?” A deflated timbre accompanied his voice as he posed the question.

“These kind of things are not really my scene. I’m not even sure if I should be mingling with some of these people—word on the street is some of them aren’t very nice.” You quipped. “I just came to make my boss happy.”

“That makes two of us.” He said, tilting his head to one side as he smiled.

You swept your gaze over his tall frame, taking note of his black dress shoes and his nicely fitted suit. Your hands clutched the small purse that hung from your shoulder, your way of restraining yourself from straightening his slightly crooked bow tie.

“You look good, Javi.” That was a vast understatement; he looked more handsome than ever.

He chuckled, like he didn’t believe your compliment. Shaking his head, he replied. “No. I’m just wearing a plain old, black tux.” He paused, looking at you in wonderment. “But you…”

He exaggerated an exhale as his eyes trailed over you, stripping you of all reservations the moment they slowly reached your face. “Eres la mujer más hermosa que eh visto en toda mi vida.”

You looked away, grimacing a little bit, the way you usually did whenever he showered you with flattering remarks. You tried to hide the flustered smile that followed but failed almost instantly.

“Way better than in my dreams.” He added, making your breathing hitch and stimulating your pulse as he gradually closed the distance between you.

After a few moments of you not saying anything in return, he cleared his throat. “Are you here with anyone?”

He already knew the answer to that, so you didn’t see the point in saying it. Instead you took the bait, finding a bit of amusement in your exchange. “Are you?”

A wicked little grin appeared on his face, accentuating his irresistible good looks. He shook his head. “Just me.”

Something about the way he spoke and the intense look in his eyes as he contemplated you, made every cell in your body whir and vibrate with need. You bit down on your lip as if by instinct, unknowingly giving him those bedroom eyes that you knew always drove him wild.

There was a shift in his demeanor, your shared silent glances compelling you both to give in to the feelings that had held you hostage for the past three weeks. It was impossible not to get caught up in each other when both of you wanted the exact same thing.

You remembered taking one step in his direction. It was the one defining push that swiftly fired up the pheromones in your brain. From one moment to the next, your lips engaged in a long-awaited heated clash that filled you with the type of dizzying feeling that gave you butterflies and knocked your whole world off balance.

Javi’s hands were on your face, his mouth hungrily enclosing yours. His craving for you intensifying the more he relished in the taste of red lips. You gave in to him without putting up a fight, his delicious smell inciting a spiral of heat deep in your belly. The sides of his body felt firm and warm against your fingertips as you tucked your hands underneath his jacket.

“I missed you so fucking much.” He murmured against your parted lips, kissing you like he couldn’t get enough.

“I did too.” You were breathless, not realizing until then how starved you’d been for his touch.

You kissed for a while longer, just the two of you in that isolated corridor, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you breathed each other in under the starry cloak of the night sky.

When you finally parted, you let out a small laugh, wiping your dark lipstick off his chin and mouth—your thumb gliding down the center of his bottom lip, teasingly.

“You wanna get out of here?” He asked.

Your heart pattered as you nodded in earnest, staring deep into his adoring brown eyes as you caressed his cheek with your hand. “Yes. Take me home, Javi.”

The drive back to his apartment wasn't long but you took the opportunity to finally address everything head on. You sat in the passenger seat, staring at the darkness of the road ahead—the headlights the only thing illuminating your path for the first few miles until you got to the main road.

"I wanted to call you." You said softly. "To see how you were doing."

“Why didn’t you?” His voice low and raspy as he glanced at you for a quick second.

You pursed your lips, feeling the anguish materialize in your chest as you muttered. “I thought maybe you'd moved on by now or something.” You scoffed. “It’s no secret that you’ve never been one to settle down.”

Javi took his eyes off the road to look at you. "Is that what you think of me?" Before you had a chance to answer, he added. "I wouldn't blame you if you did but I thought… I thought I'd made it pretty clear that once I commit to the right person, it’s pretty final."

"To tell you the truth, I'm not entirely sure what to think anymore." You twisted in your seat, angling your body until you were facing him. "But I can tell you what I do know."

This caught his attention, his dark eyes widening with curiosity as he perched his eyebrows. The car stopped at the intersection where he was supposed to take the next turn, remaining idle for longer than necessary as he stared at you.

His lips opened just a little bit, the tiny gap drawing your gaze to them for a second. It was those kind of moments that made everything around him fade into nothingness. Your stomach churned anxiously as you flicked your eyes away and slightly adjusted yourself in your seat.

"I know that not being with you hurts way more than knowing you lied to me." You lowered your voice as if admitting that to him filled you with shame. “And maybe I’m an idiot for feeling that way but it's the truth.” You said sheepishly.

Shortly thereafter, the car started to move again.

Javi sighed. “Look, I know this is all on me. I’m the only one who is at fault here.” The crestfallen look on his face was evidence that he felt terrible for having done that to you. “I hate that I made you feel that way. I never wanted to hurt you.” He put his hand on your leg and gave it a comforting squeeze. Shadows swaying over him every time you drove under another street light.

"I understand why you felt the need to keep things from me.” You said calmly, interlacing your fingers with his. “You said you did it to keep me safe, and I believe you, Javi.” A tiny huff abandoned you as you continued to speak. “That’s the thing about you. You’ve never before given me a reason to doubt you.”

"I meant to tell you. I wanted to. There's no other explanation for why I kept that file with me this whole time. But every time I thought about you reacting to the truth…” He paused, making a disgruntle noise as he gripped the steering wheel with one hand. “I was afraid of losing you. I’ve never been more scared of anything in my life."

He pulled into a parking spot on the side of the building, having arrived at the apartment complex by then. He killed the engine but made no effort to get out until he was sure that you’d finished your discussion.

“I love you more than anything. I don’t want to lose what we have.”

You took a minute to gather your thoughts.

“If we do this,” you said, seeing how his smile widened with hope. “If we're really gonna give this another try then there can’t be any more lies. Not of any kind. No white lies, no omissions, no deceptions. None of it, Javier. We are done with that.”

“No lies.” He replied in haste. “Te lo juro, mi amor.”

* * * * *

You were back in his arms the second the door to the apartment shut behind you, your body engulfed in the warmth and safety that they provided while his hungry lips desperately sucked and bit yours. You threw your head back, his mouth brushing your elongated neck, ardent tongue licking your feverish skin as his hands glided over your frame, tracing and squeezing every bend of your body.

The rousing feelings he produced in you were maddening. Your core throbbed with want, heat billowing within you as your heart beat unevenly.

Taking him by the hand, you guided him to the bedroom, your body buzzing from arousal and eagerness.

Once you were standing at the foot of the bed, you promptly slipped off his jacket, tossing it aside as you went to work on his bowtie and the buttons of his white shirt. Your fingers moved fast but with ease, pulling his shirt untucked as you got him out of it. The feel of his hard, bare chest against the palm of your hands was exhilarating. You breathed into his open mouth as you kissed, little noises escaping you and your body quaking every time he touched you.

He began pulling up the silky fabric of your dress over your legs, higher and higher up, until it was completely off over your head.

His hands were immediately drawn to your lower back, gliding over the lace of your underwear, searching for your supple skin until they were sprawled over the fullness of your ass. Squeezing and pulling as his kisses continued to consume you. His fingers slipped between the front of your thighs, stimulating your heated core as he rubbed your clit over your underwear, dampening the thin cloth in a matter of seconds.

He trailed his fingers along your spine, unclipping your bra in one swift motion and sliding it off. His lips brushed your chest, hands encompassing your breasts as he carefully molded his fingers around them. Your whimpers rippled through the stillness of the dark room, the feel of him pinching your nipples sending gratifying shivers all through your body.

Everything around you was spinning, all your senses captivated by his actions. His head moved over your breasts, mouth sucking on one nipple before switching to the other.

Javi’s breathing became stunted as your hand reached for the bulge protruding from his pants, little grunts leaving his lips every time you kneaded his hardened length over his clothes. He kicked his shoes off, helping as you started to undo his pants and pulled them down his legs.

As far as you were concerned, you had nothing to apologize for—nothing for which you had to beg forgiveness—and yet, you dropped to your knees right in front of him like you were ready to confess for all your sins.

He sat back on the edge of the bed, looking at you completely riveted. Watching and anticipating your every move, longing to have the heat of your mouth on him. There was a change in his breathing the moment you yanked down his underwear and took him in your hand.

You smiled at him as you securely wrapped your fingers around his girth and began stroking his length. After a few moments, your wet lips enclosed around his head, the intensity of your movements growing at the same time your tongue pressed against his silky skin, coiling around him as you began to suck him off with a type of fervor you had no idea you possessed.

Javi panted, holding the back of your head as you took him in as deep as you could manage, his tip ramming the back of your throat over and over until it made you gag. After a short while of relishing in his flavor, you released him with a pop. Licking your lips, you wiped the excess saliva off your mouth with the back of your hand.

A fiendish smile spread over Javi’s face as he lifted you up by the arms. He held you tight, kissing you hard until you were begging him to take you any way he wanted.

His large hands moved over you, playing with your breasts before he threw you on the bed and crawled toward you. Spreading kisses over the length of your legs as he slowly moved higher up your thighs. He gently nipped at the area bellow your navel and then pulled on the band of your underwear with his teeth before using his hands to take them off.

He licked his lips, spreading your legs apart as he lowered his head into your center. Your whole body shivered when his tongue finally brushed the delicate skin of your wet folds. It darted in between your slit in the most masterful of ways, making you whimper incessantly. His breath like a hot blanket over your sensitive bud, his mustache scraping your flesh, making you hum in delight. He eagerly sucked on your little bundle of nerves, your hands gripping the bedsheets when the sensations threatened to bring about your undoing.

You pleaded, ”Don’t stop." And it was the last thing you uttered before the waves of elation washed over you, in a split second clouding every rampant thought in your mind.

Javi smiled, taking in your gestures and loving your blushed complexion as you came.

“I need you.” You said quietly under your breath. “All of you.”

He adjusted himself on the bed, sitting back on his knees as he pulled you into him.

He stroked his cock with his hand, giving it a few tugs before guiding it into your narrow opening.

“You feel so good.” He moaned as he entered you, filling you up inch by inch.

It was astounding how gentle he was with you, carefully gaging your reactions as he glided in further. His hands spread over your hips, gripping you as he dove in deeper. You writhed beneath him, back arching as he invaded your depths with more force each time. The mind-blowing sensations making your eyes water.

The sound of his firm balls slamming into you and his skin slapping yours was like a lewd hymn resonating through the stillness of the bedroom. Your bodies, two dancing silhouettes in the darkness, moving in rhythm with each other as you rolled over on the mattress and shifted your positions.

You felt your heart thump faster in your chest. The whimpers leaving your lips were a sign that your body was getting ready to reach that peak one more time. Your cheeks felt hot, your center throbbing as the ache increased and overpowered your senses once again. After a few minutes, his steady movements became too much for you to bear, your whole body overcome by a heated euphoric feeling that struck your core all at once.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Come for me.” Javi’s voice made you tremble as he kissed your neck, watching as your unraveled beneath him.

He turned you on your side, slipping inside you with ease from behind, your quivering walls nice and slick from your orgasm.

His hand ran along the curves of your body, firmly holding your hip every time he entered you. You turned your head, searching for his mouth, kissing him and feeling how his breathing became more labored and his pace more vigorous. You listened to the lustful noises he was emitting, inhaling in his scent, hoping the feelings he was instilling in you could last forever but ultimately knowing that you could only avoid the inevitable for so long.

“I’m so close.” Javi warned, his hips thrusting into you with force.

His skilled movements triggered your mewling cries. The sensation of your walls spasming around his cock and the noises you were making as a result of his actions were enough for him reach his climax. He wrapped his free arm around you, pulling you in closer as he let himself go. He grunted loudly, moaning as bursts of hot release bathed you from the inside in a matter of seconds.

You let out a profound sigh, letting the pleasurable feelings overtake you as you lied there in silence for a few minutes after. He remained inside you, not wanting to abandon your snug confines just yet. His lips brushed your shoulder blade, delicately kissing your skin as he embraced you.

Your bodies intertwined over the undone sheets, chests rising and falling with exertion as you continued to bask in the afterglow of your love-making.

“Please don’t go.” He said, fretting that you’d depart as soon as you got up and got dressed, just like you had done the last time.

You smiled, kissing his arm which was still roped around you. “You want me to stay the night?”

His loving gaze was fixated on you as he spoke. “I want you to stay tonight and every night.”

You beamed, snuggling into him and letting the feel of his mouth against your skin put any lingering doubts to rest.

“I think that can be arranged.” You said coyly.

He groaned, finally pulling out of you as your body turned on the bed to face him.

“You’ll always be my home, Javi.” You placed a sweet, drawn-out kiss on his lips, as if to reassure him. “I love you.”

“I love you.” He echoed, tenderly kissing your nose and then your forehead.

The way your heart swelled just for him was a confirmation that starting anew was the only right choice. There was no denying it.

Deep down, you had always known that the love you both shared was worth the fight.

#pedro pascal #javier peña #javier peña x reader #narcos #narcos netflix #fanfiction #oneshot #my previous post contained a gif that was too much for holier than thou tumblr so i'mreposting #javi x reader

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prudencepaccard · 7 years

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I think I may finally have gotten Jean-Pierre Melville’s L’Armée des ombres out of my system

like, maybe?

(under the cut there is a self-indulgent essay in French. That is what is under the cut)

Esthétique de personn(ag)e et de lieu dans L’Armée des ombres

L’œuvre de Jean-Pierre Melville est marquée d’une unité et d’une cohérence qui sont renforcées, plutôt que trahies, par une certaine idiosyncrasie. Connu pour ses films néo-noirs, dit à un moment le parrain de la nouvelle vague, Melville a inventé son propre « cool » et l’a mis au cœur de tout son travail. On dirait que c’est un réalisateur bien inattendu pour un film de guerre, et pourtant c’est précisément en adaptant un roman de l’Occupation qu’il a lancé sa carrière : bien avant Bob le Flambeur (1956), Le Samouraï (1967) et Le Cercle Rouge (1970), Le Silence de la mer a été tourné en demi-secret en 1949 d'après un roman de Vercors. Avec L’Armée des ombres (1969)—encore une adaptation—Melville clôt presque sa filmographie, la fermant en boucle à la crépuscule de l’époque gaulliste, une vingtaine d'années après sa lecture du roman de Kessel (qu'il a cependant voulu adapter tout au long de cette période).

Hors de la rubrique de la propagande et du registre héroïque, le film est à la fois typique et atypique de Melville. Dans un essai éponyme, Adrian Danks soutient d'abord que L'Armée des ombres est un véritable film de guerre: "Unlike, say, Godard, Melville’s films are less pastiches or collages of other films and genres than slightly displaced but ‘fully’ formed examples of the cinemas they refer to (thus, L’Armeé des Ombres is still very much a war film, a Resistance film)." Il souligne aussi l'unité de la filmographie de Melville, tout en insistant que L'Armée des ombres n'est pas calqué sur ses films de genre:

Melville’s cinema is more difficult to encapsulate than is often suggested. L’Armeé des ombres is often regarded as of-a-piece with the gangster films (Le Deuxième Souffle [1966], Le Samouraï [1967], Le Cercle Rouge [1970]) which surround it in his filmography, and yet, these evident but misleading correspondences tend to obscure the explicit specificity of the milieu depicted in the film, its faithfulness to and respect for the seminal Resistance novel by Joseph Kessel upon which it is based, the importance of elements of Melville’s own Resistance experience woven throughout, and the unusually heightened warmth and deep humanity that seeps into the chilly sounds and images that define the film.

L'Armée des ombres, donc, ne s'assimile pas facilement dans une schéma générique, mais il fait partie--avec les films de genre (si on les appelle films de gangster, films noirs, polars, ou autrement)--d'une vision et d'une démarche cohérentes, contenant des topoï et des images qui reparaissent, et régies par un traitement scénique, spatiale, et temporelle qui est tout à fait particulier à Melville. C'est une figure radicalement indépendante (et isolée), au niveau politique aussi bien qu'artistique; quand son interlocuteur lui demande dans Melville on Melville s'il est "a man of the Right," il répond, "Well, it amuses me to say so, because everyone else claims to be Left wing, and that irritates me. I hate following the crowd" (159) et précise, "I'm wary of any political credo, and I have no religious beliefs whatsoever" (160) mais que s'il faut choisir, il choisira quelque chose de contradictoire et d'indescriptible: "I'm a Right wing anarchist--though I suppose that's a barbarism and that no such thing really exists. Let's say that I'm an anarcho-feudalist" (159).

Son autonomie, d'ailleurs, est de première importance, et il fera tout pour le préserver sans faire de mal à personne; l'idée que sa liberté "termine où commence celle de son voisin" (pour ainsi dire) provoque la réponse, "[M]y liberty subsumes that of my neighbor, and I respect it absolutely. I would do nothing to harm him, but as a last resort I might arrange to have no neighbors. Which, as you will have noticed, I have done both in this house where we are now and in my country home. I bother nobody, and in bothering nobody I have also arranged things so that nobody can bother me" (160). Melville reconnait volontiers ses influences et ses dettes (artistiques tant que financières), mais résiste des comparaisons à ses contemporains qu'il trouve inexactes; par exemple, il refuse l'idée qu'il a cherché à imiter Bresson: "I sometimes read...'Melville is being Bressonian.' I'm sorry, but it's Bresson who has always been Melvillian...As a matter of fact Bresson did not deny it when André Bazin put it to him one day that he had been influenced by me. All this has been forgotten since" (27).

Qu'est-ce qui caractérise et définit le cinéma de Melville, et en quoi est-il bien adapté pour un film sur la Résistance ? La première partie de cette question est vaste et exige une étude comparative de toute sa filmographie (ce qui dépasse ce travail), mais la deuxième partie peut être considérée dans le cadre d'une lecture approfondie du film. On peut prendre pour point de départ cette citation de Danks, qui réunit le ton, l'espace, la couleur, etc. dans sa description du style melvillien comme il se décline dans L'Armée des ombres:

The film's dream-like, almost clandestine sense of geography, place and period sits alongside equally evocative but austere observations of the realistic minutiae of the Resistance movement. Throughout, it establishes a kind of memory world of isolation, intimate moments, and desperation, producing, in the process, an overwhelming sense of lived experience. One can literally feel time passing in L’Armeé des Ombres, as the cold, seasons, cultural stagnation and desperate actions of the characters are matched by the cinematography’s restricted tonal palette (all green, blue and grey).

Le film est alors à la fois réaliste et onirique, "at once a highly personal...non-naturalistic, dream-like fictional narrative and a kind of documentary"; en effet, "[e]verything and yet nothing seems real" (ibid.). On pourrait le comparer à un tableau d'Edward Hopper; ce dernier est classifié comme un peintre réaliste, mais Nighthawks ne se distingue non seulement par son emploi magistral de la lumière et de l'ombre, mais également par des détails qui détonnent--notamment le manque d'une porte dans le restaurant. L'Armée des ombres contient cette même inquiétude, claustrophobie et irréalité hyper-réelle. Ni tout à fait détaché, ni tout à fait immédiat, le film est marqué par une froideur styl(is)ée qui n'exclut pas de vives émotions.

Au risque de trop insister sur le côté dialectique et contradictoire de l'œuvre de Melville, il faut ajouter encore une tension: celle du personnel et de l'impersonnel. Même si les détails restent un peu flous[1], la participation de Melville dans la Résistance est (vue comme) intégrale à son cinéma. Cependant, le rapport assez apparente entre la vie de Melville et le sujet du film est nuancé par son attitude ambivalente envers la réalité et le passé, qu'il décline longuement dans Melville On Melville. La mémoire est essentielle au cinéma de Melville, mais il ne faut pas la confondre avec l'autobiographie; il s'agit de ce qu'il a vu, et non pas ce qu'il a vécu: "[W]hat people often assume to be imagination in my films is really memory, things I have noticed walking down the street or being with people--transposed, of course, because I have a horror of showing things I have actually experienced" (8).

Cette combinaison de détails tirés de sa mémoire, tels des artéfacts--par exemple, un appartement dans Deux hommes dans Manhattan qui était "an exact reconstruction, without any invention, of a homosexual's apartment [Melville] had seen in Greenwich Village at the time" (73), et de "transposition" qui les éloigne de la vie du réalisateur, donne lieu à une certaine "fausseté" travaillée: "I never work in realism, and I don't want to...I am not a documentarist. And since I am careful never to be realistic, there is no more inaccurate portraitist than I am. What I do is false. Always" (69).

Ses films ne sont donc pas à propos de lui; ils reflètent son esthétique, mais sa démarche est fondamentalement impersonnelle:

You mustn't try to interweave what I do in my films with what I am in life. You know very well who I am in life: a man living in solitude for five--my wife and three cats--who has made it an absolute rule not to associate with his contemporaries...Don't ever think, even if I sometimes feel strongly about the things I tell you, that there is any connection between me and my characters. I tell stories that interest me, or which, transposed, recall a period of my life. But they are never personal stories. Never! Never! Never! It is true that there is a scene in L'Armée des ombres which relates to my private life; but it's the only one and it only lasts two minutes (118).

Plus tard, Melville parle en plus de détail du coté exceptionnellement personnel du film. Il admet qu'il y a mis ses expériences, mais insiste comme toujours sur un manque de fidélité à l'histoire: "For the first time in this film I show things I have known and experienced. Nevertheless my truth, of course, is subjective and has nothing to do with actual truth. With the passing of time we are inclined to recall what suits us rather than what has actually happened" (140). Il reconnait volontiers que le livre de Kessel sera médié et réinterpreté non seulement par sa vision artistique, mais aussi par sa propre mémoire: "As the story proceeds, my personal recollections are mingled with Kessel's, because we lived the same war" (146).

D'ailleurs, il est conscient de faire un "period piece," pour ainsi dire: "The book written by Kessel in the heat of the moment in 1943 is necessarily very different from the film shot cold by me in 1969. There are many things in the book--wonderful things--which it is impossible to film now. Out of a sublime documentary about the Resistance, I have created a retrospective reverie; a nostalgic pilgrimage back to a period which profoundly marked my generation" (140). Nostalgique en effet, car pour Melville les années de l'Occupation sont indissociables à sa jeunesse: "The war period was awful, horrible and...marvellous!...As I grow older, I look back with nostalgia on the years from 1940 to 1944, because they are part of my youth" (141). C'est pour cela qu'il utilise comme épigraphe, au début du film, la citation de Georges Courteline, "Mauvais souvenirs, soyez pourtant les bienvenus...vous êtes ma jeunesse lointaine."

Malgré l'insistance de Melville que sa vérité est subjective et n'a rien à voir avec l'histoire, d'autres résistants voit en L'Armée des ombres une reconstitution très fidèle à leur expérience. Le film représente alors non seulement les souvenirs de Melville et de Kessel, mais d'autres personnes, telles que Henri Frenay, qui a dit de la séquence avant les crédits:

As leader of the Combat movement...I was obliged to return to Paris in December 1941 although I had no wish to see the city under occupation. I got out of the Métro at the Etoile station, and as I was walking towards the exit I could hear the sound of footsteps overhead...it was a curious feeling keeping in step with them. When I came out on the Champs-Elysées I saw the German army filing past in silence, then suddenly the band struck up...and you reconstructed the scene for me in the first shot of your film! (142-3).

Selon Danks, "Melville’s cinema is at heart paradoxical. This is evident less in the look and structure of the films themselves, which often seem so controlled and meticulously stylised, than within the worlds the characters find themselves trapped within" ("L'Armée des ombres"). Plus tard dans le meme essai, il souligne l'importance du ton; le cinéma de Melville est également "essentially tonal: a sensibility (melancholy, poetic, unhysterical) which is founded upon a ‘purity’ of style, performance and narrative action (which is like and yet remarkably different to Bresson). Some of the greatness of Melville’s later films can be found in this interpolation of a consistent, non-melodramatic, and almost abstract style with elliptical but quite classical dramatic structures." Pour synthétiser ces deux signalements, on pourrait dire que L'Armée des ombres est tonalement paradoxal, toujours en train d'aller à contresens de l'attendu. Comme a été observé lors du cours, on "montre et brouille les pistes en permanence."

Le rythme du film est très variable; des courts moments d’action font irruption dans des longues périodes d’attente, et certaines scènes semblent se passer en temps réel—ce qui Colin McArthur appelle, chez Melville, “cinema of process." Au lieu de montrer seulement les “beats" importants de la scène, Melville inclut le processus dans son intégralité, ce qui entraîne toujours une sensation d’attente qui produit un effet soit de suspense, soit d’ennui (selon le contexte) ; par exemple, on voit cette espèce de prolongation--ou plutôt de refus de raccourcir—dans la scène où Gerbier se fait raser par le coiffeur chez lequel il s’est refugié, celle où Mathilde, Le Bison et Le Masque tente (sans succès) de sauver Félix, et celle où Gerbier fait passer des cigarettes aux autres condamnés (cette dernière scène sera analysée plus tard).

Ces limbes temporels sont assortis à un certain manque d’action “productif." Les résistants ne sont quasiment jamais engagés dans des missions de guerre proprement dites ; il s’agit plutôt des réactions contre des malheurs comme la trahison et l’arrestation. On entend Félix parler de leur activité journalière (rendez-vous, parachutage, etc.) mais on ne la voit pas ; le seule exception, c’est la livraison de la radio à Mathilde par Jean-François. Cependant, les scènes d’action « négative » sont loin d’être statiques, et sont marquées par un registre mélangé. Toujours sérieux mais (comme on a vu) jamais complètement réaliste, il réunit des éléments différent au niveau du ton et de l’ambiance, quelquefois dans une seule scène. Par exemple, la course dans le champ de tir, où Gerbier confronte la mort certaine au début et finit par s’évader, est à la fois cauchemardesque et rocambolesque. Une corde surgit de la fumée, Gerbier (quoique blessé à l’épaule) grimpe dessus, et ses camarades l’emmène dans une voiture…tout cela est assez fantasque, et pourtant, les moments précédents étaient profondément sombres, quoique plutôt irréalistes à leur manière (par exemple, le champ de tir semble se prolonger infiniment).

Comme Danks suggère avec la formule "almost clandestine sense of geography, place and period," le spectateur suit avec (au moins un peu de) difficulté les mouvements des personnages et la progression spatiale et temporelle de l'intrigue. Le film commence in medias res dans la zone occupée, et ensuite fait des zigzagues continuelles à Marseille, Paris, Lyon, en Normandie, en Angleterre...on ne voit presque jamais de transitions, le passage d'une ville à une autre; on entre brusquement sur scène, sans explication, et on en sort de la même manière. Le voyage à Londres est une exception frappante; la traversée en sous-marin de la Manche est mise en accent, et le retour en France au moyen d'un saut en parachute est une scène encore plus frappante (et constitue aussi un plus grand cliché). Cet encadrement est approprié pour une paranthèse où Gerbier et Jardie entrent dans un monde différent, régie par une temporalité alternative; la séquence a quelque chose d'incongru, et effectivement contient une scène qui a provoqué des accusations de Gaullisme chez Melville.[2]

Parmi les villes qui paraissent dans le film, Lyon surtout a disposé depuis longtemps d'une certaine clandestinité; c'est une ville habituée au cycle de la révolte et de la réaction (la contre-révolution et ensuite la siège en 1793, les révoltes des Canuts aux années 1830s-40s), ainsi que la lutte entre l'Église Catholique et l'ésotérisme--entre le culte et l'occulte, pour ainsi dire. Jadis la capitale de la Gaulle, Lyon est devenu (selon de Gaulle) "capitale de la Résistance"; en même temps, il avait l'honneur douteux d'être la siège de Klaus Barbie. C'est à cette époque que son patrimoine un peu "obscure" se voit réunie aux actions de révolte qui caractérisent l'histoire lyonnaise, dans l'image du résistant qui s'enfuit par les traboules du Vieux Lyon et de la Croix-Rousse, et que seulement les miliciens français, et non le Gestapo, savent poursuivre.

Comme la plupart des éléments de son film, Melville se sert de cette géographie urbaine d'une manière hautement ambigüe. D'un coté, certaines scènes se passent autour des points de repère qui sont monumentaux, télégraphiques; on identifie facilement les pentes de Fourvière et les grilles du Parc de la Tête d'Or whoops that was actually the gate of the Parc Monceau in Paris. La scène où Gerbier, Mathilde et Jean-François discutent de leurs plans pour sauver Félix à côté de la Basilique de Fourvière est non seulement symboliquement à propos (on domine la ville en maîtrisant la situation), mais aussi tirée de la mémoire de Melville: "I was also among the first young Frenchmen to enter Lyon in uniform. Do you remember the spot where the scene between Gerbier and Mathilde takes place, beside the pigeon-house? It was there, on that little Fourvière promontory belonging to the bishopric, that I arrived in a Jeep with Lieutenant Gérard Faul. Lyon lay at our feet still full of Germans. We left that same evening after installing an observatory on Fourvière's little Eiffel Tower" (Melville On Melville, 147).

D'autres lieux s'affichent à partir du contexte, même si on les reconnait moins bien: l'École de Service de Santé Militaire, Fort Montluc. Et encore d'autres localités sont définis par leur quartier, leur région, mais sont difficile à cerner; elles font allusion, elles évoquent, mais en fin de compte ne montrent pas. Quand Félix se promène dans les ruelles de Saint-Jean avant son arrestation, ou quand Mathilde et Gerbier déjeunent dans un restaurant sur les quais de la Saône (également avant l'arrestation de ce dernier), on a l'impression qu'ils sont enveloppés par l'idée d'un espace, hors de secours et sans point d'entrée ou de sortie (ou fuite) claire. Ce sont des moments plutôt sinistres, que ceux quand surgit un personnage, même (ou bien surtout) un héros. Comme on a vu, souvent le spectateur ne sait pas précisément où les personnages ont été menés par l'intrigue, du moins pas sans un petit délai. On est jeté dans une attente quelquefois insupportable, pareille à celle qui est engendrée par le "cinema of process."

Le jeu du personnage s'opère à coté de, ou bien à l'intérieur de, ces maniements scéniques; ils sont obligés, après tout, d'exister dans ce monde: "The characters of the film act within a social and cultural void which renders familiar French landscapes and iconography (the Metro, city streets, etc.) as Cocteau-like shadow worlds, and that frame an underworld that is reminiscent of but never reducible to that found in Melville’s gangster films" ("L'Armée des ombres").

Les personnages, souvent composites[3], sont dessinés--par Melville (en tant que scénariste ainsi que réalisateur), par la costumière, et par les acteurs--avec une extrême précision juxtaposée à une extrême indétermination. Ce sont des types, des esquisses, mais aussi des personnages totales et des tableaux coloriés; les traits sont gros mais l'image n'est pas une caricature, pas une silhouette. Ils sont sensibles mais néanmoins opaques, avec une intériorité qui reste résolument impénétrables--tout comme le monde qu'ils habitent:

Throughout, Melville eschews conventional character psychology and motivation, for example we never know precisely why particular individuals (particularly Simone Signoret’s seemingly unimpeachable Mathilde) inform on their comrades, and yet his handling of characters (including those who necessarily break these codes) still has a rare sense of balance and grace. Even the characters themselves seldom act out of malice, greed or justifiable revenge (or even out of clear-cut convictions), they simply respond to the contradictory and somewhat unreadable world that surrounds them ("L'Armée des ombres").

Leur extérieur est aussi visible que leur intérieur est inaccessible. Les habits sont un élément stylistique très important dans les films de Melville, et Colette Baudot, la costumière, porte une attention soigneuse aux détails menus; à la différence de Melville, elle y met un peu de vraisemblance historique, un trait que Melville apprécie:

One day while we were filming the shooting-range sequence, the French army captain who was responsible for the technical side of it told me that there was something wrong with the SS uniforms. So I summoned my costume-designer and the captain said to her, “I am from Alsace, Madame, and during the war I was forcibly enrolled in the SS. So I can assure you that a member of the SS always wore an arm-band on his left arm with the name of the division he belonged to.” “No, sir,” Madame Baudot replied, “you must certainly have belonged to an operational division, whereas the SS in the film are from a depot division.” And the captain was obliged to admit that she was right (142).

Les personnages se révèlent en se déguisant; le masque et le visage sont explicitement et implicitement confondus. Quand Gerbier explique son appréciation pour Mathilde, la voix off est accompagnée d'un montage d'identités différentes. Plus tard, elle doit se déguiser pour approprier des vêtements qui serviront de déguisements à leur tour; plusieurs couches de dissimulation séparent les héros de l'action concrète qu'ils tentent enfin à l'École de Service de Santé Militaire. Gerbier se déguise plus provisoirement après son évasion de l'Hôtel Majestic; s'étant réfugié chez un coiffeur d'une manière assez suspecte (hagard, au bout de souffle, demandant qu'on lui rase une barbe qui existe à peine), il craigne que ce dernier ne le trahisse et est soulagé quand il lui propose plutôt de changer de manteau.

L'identité individuelle est toujours et partout subordonnée aux besoins du réseau, et il est impossible de s'affronter à ces contraintes sans désastre. Félix Lepercq déteste le chapeau melon qu'il doit porter pour compléter son masque de collaborateur, mais ne peut s'en débarrasser sans se détruire lui-même; en faisant tomber son chapeau dans une ruelle du Vieux Lyon, son arrestation résout de manière tragique le conflit entre l'individu et la collectivité. Quant à Mathilde, son refus de se débarrasser de la photo de sa fille (un refus comparable, quoique de manière incomplète, à l'hésitation de Félix de porter son chapeau), mène à sa ruine.

Comme Melville lui-même (né Grumbach), plusieurs résistants emploient des noms de guerre; mais à la différence de Melville, ils ne servent pas à cacher un surnom juif--en fait, ils ne cachent aucun surnom, car on sait bien que "Le Masque" s'appelle Claude Ullmann et que "Le Bison" s'appelle Guillaume Vermersch; Mathilde, Gerbier, Félix, et Jean-François et Luc Jardie n'ont pas de nom de guerre du tout. Ce mélange de vrais et de faux noms créé une double confusion: le nom de guerre prend une certaine authenticité en même temps que l'authenticité du vrai nom est remise en question--peut-être que les noms sont tous des noms de guerre ?

L'ascétisme qu'on retrouve chez Le Samouraï ou Un Flic touche aussi aux personnages de L'Armée des ombres. Dans un sens, les critiques du film ont eu raison en accusant à Melville d'avoir comparé les résistants aux gangsters; ils ne sont pas des tueurs à gages comme Jef Costello, mais ils tuent quand même, et dans la même froideur, fut-ce contrainte et affectée. Eux aussi ont leurs rituels[4], leurs objets fétiches--des chapeaux[5], des cigarettes, des photos, des radios, des pilules de cyanure. La relation entre les combattants aussi est caractérisée par le soupçon et par une solidarité incomplète, ce qui n'est guère surprenant pour un réalisateur qui était, au fond, assez paranoïaque: "Commerce with men is a dangerous business. The only way I have found to avoid being betrayed is to live alone" (116). Il cherche à représenter l'amitié dans ses films justement parce qu'il n'y croit pas: "...I don't believe in friendship...That is one of the things I don't believe in any more, but which I don't know myself and therefore like to have in my films" (Melville On Melville, 59).

Il n'y a jamais de consommation, ni de reconnaissance. Les frères Jardie ne connaissent jamais l'engagement de l'autre--selon Melville, il l'a écrit ainsi pour atteindre la tragédie en évitant le mélodrame (Melville On Melville, 144); le réseau ne saura jamais du sacrifice de Jean-François (et Jean-François et Félix ne sauront jamais pourquoi ils n'ont pas été sauvés); et Mathilde est compromise par son amour pour sa fille. Enfin, les résistants sont heroïques non en dépit de, mais en raison de, la futilité de leur travail: "The central characters of L’Armeé des Ombres live by a necessary but abstract code, an unspoken and perhaps unspeakable mode of making sense of and reacting to the shadow world of occupied France. The impossibility of this code is underlined by the dramatic emphasis of the film, which focuses upon the inevitable betrayal between comrades rather than the positive outcomes of the characters’ essentially heroic work" (Danks, "L'Armée des ombres").

Il serait peut-être utile de terminer avec l'analyse d'une scène qui relie tout le discours précédant à propos du style par rapport au ton, rythme, à la cinématographie, au personnage, à l'espace, etc. Dans son commentaire audio sur la DVD Criterion, Ginette Vincendeau appelle le partage des cigarettes à Fort Montluc, juste avant la fusillade, la scène la plus "pessimiste" du film. Avec les scènes de torture, le vol de nuit, la descente en parachute, etc., le rituel de la dernière cigarette constitue un des gros clichés du film (Lindeperg dans Hewitt, 208), mais l'importance de la scène dépasse le pure forme; sinon le cœur du film, elle sert certainement de charnière, puisque c'est à ce moment que notre protagoniste se retrouve au seuil de la mort, hagard et mal rasé (comme on ne l'a jamais vu, même au moment où il dit au coiffeur, "...pour la barbe"), et radicalement isolé quoique plus entouré (littéralement encerclé) de camarades que jamais.

La scène commence à l'extérieur de la cellule, et la première perspective qu'on nous donne est celle d'un garde SS; après s'être promené dans un long couloir, il ouvre le judas de la porte et Melville "se permet"--pour reprendre le langage de Vincendeau--un grand geste vertueux, où la caméra passe à travers le judas et entre la cellule; cela commence donc avec un gros plan et termine avec un plan d'ensemble. À l'intérieur de la cellule, on retrouve un tableau de sept résistants, qui se ressemblent dans leur attitude et leurs circonstances, mais qui se distinguent aussi, représentant "toutes les sensibilités de la Résistance [et] composant ainsi une palette d'idéaux-types" (Guigueno 82). Même sans avoir lu le livre de Kessel, on peut esquisser une histoire et une identité pour chacun des condamnés à partir de leur âge, leur mine et leurs habits--il y a un ouvrier, un étudiant, un bourgeois, un paysan, etc.

Il y a deux rangs de prisonniers, adossés à des murs opposés (ceux qui sont perpendiculaires à la porte, alors personne n'est directement en face du judas); Gerbier est à gauche, au milieu de deux jeunes hommes qui ont l'air d'être des étudiants, et d'un vieux qui a l'air d'être un paysan; à droite sont un jeune homme qui a l'air d'être un ouvrier et deux hommes plus âgés (on dirait un autre ouvrier, et un bourgeois). Cependant, bien qu'il s'agisse (au niveau de la composition) de deux rangs parallèles, le montage insiste sur la circularité de l'espace et de la communication des condamnés. Pendant que chaque prisonnier lance le paquet de cigarettes à son voisin (et ensuite attrape le briquet qui circule aussi), la caméra ne quitte jamais leur visage; on ne voit qu'une seule personne à la fois, et le contexte spatial est caché.

Du coup, il n'y a pas de distinction entre la communication avec un voisin de droite et avec un voisin d'en face, sauf peut-être que ce dernier exige un peu plus d'énergie--surtout la deuxième fois, où l'ouvrier âgé, qui a toujours eu l'air un peu dur (peut-être puisqu'il a été torturé), jette le paquet d'une manière presque violente. Cela dit, on est toujours laissé avec l'impression d'une transition homogène: c'est un circuit électrique dont le courant se communique non seulement par la transmission des cigarettes, mais aussi par l'établissement du contact visuel qui la précède. Le cercle est brisé lorsque le voisin de gauche de Gerbier prend la dernière cigarette, mais il s'y était déjà résigné, car on le voit compter les cigarettes avant de les faire passer; en offrant le paquet à son voisin de droite sans prendre en prendre une cigarette, il s'était sacrifié.

Ce stoïcisme est mêlé au pathétique. Gerbier a déjà eu des moments de mélancolie et de désarroi, mais lorsque la caméra le retrouve à Fort Montluc, il atteint son nadir. Il ne s'est jamais douté, même quand il était question d'étrangler un jeune homme avec un torchon, mais maintenant il semble abandonner; ses jambes repliées sous son corps, il se redresse à peine pour tirer un paquet de Gauloises de sa poche. Son attitude est reflétée par les autres prisonniers, qui ont tous, comme dit Vincendeau, "the same dejected posture." Chacun réagit d'une manière plutôt différente, mais il s'agit de décliner la même condition; lorsqu'ils songent, simultanément mais cinématographiquement un par un, ils pensent tous à la même chose.

Effectivement, il n'y a pas de seul "POV character" dans cette scène--ni dans le film en général, d'ailleurs. Aucune perspective--même pas celle du protagoniste--n'est privilégiée, mais en même temps, la caméra ne sert pas d'œil omniscient. Il s'agit d'une perspective fragmentée, voire diffractée. Après que le voisin de Gerbier prend la dernière cigarette et qu'ils échangent des regards de regret et de résignation, nous avons la fausse impression de prendre la perspective de Gerbier: dans un apparent champ/contrechamp, on le voit se tourner la tête et regarder dans la direction de son autre voisin, et ensuite on voit les pieds de ce dernier. Cependant, il n'y a pas du tout de "eyeline match"; en regardant on ne voit pas ce que verrait Gerbier. La perspective est autre; le montage nous trompe.

Après la circulation des cigarettes et du briquet, il n'y a plus de mouvement, plus rien à faire, et presque plus rien à dire; le reste de la scène est encore plus introspective que le début, chacun fumant en silence pendant que la caméra lui explore le visage dans le même ordre que la distribution des objets s'est effectuée. Il s'agit d'une attente pareille à la scène dans l'Hotel Majestic, sauf que là, le dialogue entre Gerbier et l'autre prisonnier a provoqué une tension productive, alors qu'ici il n'y a pas de plan, pas d'espoir; on est dans une tension négative et passive où la seule action possible est la réflexion. Le spectateur a l'impression que cette partie de la scène dure cinq minutes plutôt qu'une.

Comme la plupart de ces scènes sombres et interminables, il y a très peu de dialogue: le paysan annonce son intention de garder sa cigarette "pour toute à l'heure"; le garde SS dit aux prisonniers (en allemand) de se dépêcher de fumer, puisqu'on viendra bientôt les chercher et "il voudrait pas d'ennuis"; Gerbier traduit; le paysan ironise, "On a les ennuis qu'on peut !"; et un jeune prisonnier, celui qui a eu la dernière cigarette du paquet, déclare, "Cette fois, c'est la bonne." Chaque ligne constitue un punctum qui flotte dans l'espace atone de la scène. Hors la traduction de Gerbier, il n'y a aucune réplique; au lieu d'être une réponse, chaque ligne de dialogue rompt le silence. Ils parlent, mais ne se parlent pas--au mieux ils s'adressent et au pire ils s'apostrophent.

La scène des cigarettes est à la fois le contrepoint et la préfiguration de l'exécution et évasion suivante, et ensemble les deux scènes forment une séquence qui, dans un certain sens, récapitule le film entier. Il y a là la solitude qui est toujours en tension avec une camaraderie instable, l’anonymat qui trahit une profonde intériorité, et l’austérité qui cède, ou plutôt mène, à des moments d’improbable transcendance. Le désespoir est envahi par l’espoir, et inversement ; on est laissé avec une impression de grandeur mais aussi d’une grande banalité. Le style de Melville est bien adapté pour un film de guerre clandestin : son mélange du personnel et de l’impersonnel, du réel et de l’onirique, de la couleur et du monochrome (il a désiré de filmer un film noir et blanc en couleur, avec seulement des taches vifs pour « rappeler » au spectateur qu’il était capable de filmer en couleur), de l’action et de l’inertie, ont tous l’effet de souligner les conflits internes de cet état de vie. Il n’est guère surprenant que L’Armée des ombres est souvent considéré l’un des films les plus authentiques sur la Résistance ; Melville n’est pas le seul réalisateur qui l’a compris, mais il l’a représenté d’une manière incomparablement polyvalente.

Footnotes

[1] "Le parcours de...Melville...de l'expérience de la Résistance à l'adaptation différée de L'Armée des ombres, explique la singularité du film. On sait peu de chose du Melville résistant et combattant de la France libre, sinon ce que lui-même a bien voulu en dire...Ce témoignage mêle le cinéma à des événements militaires et un premier engagement résistant à tout le moins obscur : jamais le nom de Melville n'est cité dans les histoires des mouvements Combat et Libération et son pseudonyme n'est pas enregistré au fichier des agents du BCRA" (Guigueno 80).

[2] Melville a trouvé cette accusation aussi ridicule que l'idée qu'il a présenté les résistants comme des gangsters: "It's absolutely idiotic. It's absurd how people always try to reduce to its lowest common denominator a film which wasn't intended to be abstract, but happened to turn out that way" (Melville on Melville, 142). Il précise que Jardie a été décoré par de Gaulle tout simplement parce que Jean Moulin l'a été, et aussi parce que "[he] thought it would be interesting to show how de Gaulle decorated members of the Resistance in his private apartments in London so as not to jeopardize their return to France" (148).

[3] "In the film, as in the book, Gerbier represents seven or eight different people" (Melville On Melville, 146).

[4] "These types of stoic, often joyless and strangely sacred rituals are for Melville’s characters a way of distancing themselves from the world, of maintaining an impossible purity or of simulating a rigorous professionalism. It is in the moment when this ritual, professionalism or purity breaks apart that the characters’ demise is prefigured or marked" (Danks, "Great Director profile: Jean-Pierre Melville").

[5] Dans la piste de commentaire, Ginette Vincendeau souligne le caractère auto-réferentiel et presque badin du plan des chapeaux des officiers allemands dans le vestiaire du restaurant où Jean-François rencontre Félix.

Bibliographie

Danks, Adrian. “L’Armeé des Ombres” Senses of Cinema Issue 1 (1999). "Great Director profile: Jean-Pierre Melville." ibid. Issue 22 (2002). “The Outsider Auteur? Jean-Pierre Melville: An American in Paris by Ginette Vincendeau” ibid. Issue 32 (2004). “Together Alone: The Outsider Cinema of Jean-Pierre Melville.” ibid. Issue 39 (2006).

Guigueno, Vincent. “Le Visage De l'Histoire: ‘L'Armée Des Ombres’ Et La Figuration De La Résistance Au Cinéma.” Vingtième Siècle. Revue d'Histoire, no. 72, 2001, pp. 79– 87.

Hewitt, Leah D. Remembering the Occupation in French Film: National Identity in Postwar Europe. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008.

Nogueira, Rui, et Jean-Pierre Melville. Melville on Melville. New York: Viking Press, 1972.

#Jean-Pierre Melville #Nazis cw #film criticism

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latinosbelike · 7 years

Text

A Mix of Home and Away

By Oscar Mancinas

…didn’t know [music] would be what would begin to tell her what she remembers.

-Ofelia Zepeda

I have the (mis)fortune of belonging to a diaspora. My parents left their homeland and have yet to return—and probably won’t. Meanwhile, ever since I had a say, I’ve done very little to return to any homeland, imagined or otherwise; in fact, I’ve done the opposite and taken almost every opportunity I can to travel, to move, to resist calling anyplace “home.” However, I’m about to return, for a long-term stay, to the land that birthed and raised me, and, this return—the first time I’ll be back home for an extended stay in roughly a decade—brings with it a reflective mood. Channeling this mood into recollection, I decided, would be the best way to go about things. To that end, I’ve compiled my own “mixtape for diaspora,” made up of songs that have followed me—songs that evoke sharp, unmistakable moments but also transcend and take shape in new contexts.

Choosing music as the backdrop felt obvious. Music is memory. It’s personal yet communal; it connects and divides us, makes us feel when we’re numb, tells things about ourselves we don’t know, or don’t want to know, and, most of all, music tells us where we’ve been and what we’ve done. I divided my selections—or tried, at least—roughly into eras. To be clear, though, by no means do these songs fall along a clean chronology because: a) that’s boring, and b) if you’re part of a diaspora, you know time, history, and memory are anything but linear; rather, these three beats ebb and explode, seemingly at random, as though triggered by something said or left unsaid.

I. Early Fragile Nights

In my family, there are many of us, and when I was a kid, we took any excuse we could to gather at someone’s house, grill carne asada, and play the night away. The kids would chase each other around until we were too tired to do little else but sit and watch our parents dance and sway to music from their home. Always, the music opening the night was upbeat, a celebration of life and family. Those of us present were to bounce and cheer—nothing’s promised when you leave home, especially when you do so for another country, so vamos a bailar!

1.“El Noa Noa” - Juan Gabriel

(Note: Of course we start with El Divo de Juárez)

As the night went on, though, the songs slowed and became melancholic. My parents, aunts, and uncles—all firmly entrenched in their respective marriages—swayed and crooned to lyrics of intense heartbreak and loss, like they were the protagonists in each song. Night blended with tender futility, and every grown up moved in their own space like only they knew, truly, the depth of the singer’s yearning. Separated from those nights by more than a few thousand miles and two decades—maybe this says more about me than them, but—I’m tempted to say, for the adults moving slowly through the summer night, the missing beloved in each song was their lost homeland. The pain, I imagine, came from how the land of their birth—present in music, food, and family, nonetheless—was utterly irretrievable.

2. “Como te voy olvidar” – Ángeles Azules

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3. “Golpes en el corazón” – Los Tigres del Norte

(Note: A lyric from this song inspired the first poem I ever published in print, which you can also read here)

II. Boppin’ Around the Barrio

When we were old enough to realize we were different from our parents—but still too young to appreciate what those differences meant—we were restless. The songs of lost love or describing the beauty of another land didn’t always resonate. What, after all, did those singers know about the hood? What could they tell us about being brown but speaking a mixed Spanish? These kinds of questions stirred within us, and we ran around hoping to find answers. Worse still, as we got older, and teachers took notice of me and didn’t take notice of many of my peers—at least not for positive reasons—it became clear that soon I’d have other questions to answer on my own. If I sound melodramatic or nostalgic, it’s probably because I am. Aside from the comradery of shared struggle, little is to be missed from adolescence in the ghetto—and, yet, it’s still home.

So, before we get too far ahead, we need to stop and appreciate what it was to be on the West Coast(ish), as hip hop from Los Angeles and Oakland became the soundtrack to every scene on a sun-drenched day on the streets. Kickin’ it in the park, cruisin’ down the street, or just chillin’ on somebody’s porch, when Chicano and Mexican artists got their hands on hip hop, it finally felt like somebody knew who we were and what we were going through.

4. “On a Sunday Afternoon” – A Lighter Shade of Brown

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(Note: A Lighter Shade of Brown introduced me to the phrase “Brown and Proud”)

5. “Comprendes Mendes” – Control Machete

(Note: ¡El Cerro de la Silla presente!)

Still, try as we might to shake off some of the old country’s cultura, we couldn’t deny its power. Being a Southwestern Latinx, especially, means also being tuned into Norteño Latinx flavor—that border can’t do anything to stop culture from crossing both ways. Tejas, then, and Tejano music was never more than a track or two away, and even though we didn’t know her for very long Selena made all of us dance like we belonged.

6. “Bidi Bidi Bom Bom” – Selena

(Note: I won’t fault any reader for pausing the article to go down any number of youtube/spotify rabbit holes, but I especially can’t discourage anyone from watching every single Selena video out there. She’s majestically singular.)

III. Foreigner in a Familiar Land

Then I went away. In a very white place, in a very white school, I was severed from everything I knew. Never was I more distant, yet hyperaware, of my Latinidad than when I went to college. I tried, nonetheless, to make do. Like a lot of my classmates, who also felt their own brands of disaffection, I relied on emotionally-drenched indie folk and pop music to try to work out where I fit in this suddenly-isolating world, and it helped, a little.

At times, though, the new music on which I depended for survival and guidance felt like using a blunt instrument to self-examine almost microscopic wounds. I could relate to artists and bands singing in English, but they couldn’t always relate to me, not all of me, at least. Uncared for went the parts of me that speak almost exclusively in Spanish whenever I’m on the phone with my folks, or shares a joke with complete strangers in a bodega, barbershop, or bus stop, or sits somewhere and reads Reinaldo Arenas or Guillermo Rosales or Elena Poniatowska or Federico García Lorca, or…you get it. Anyway, I craved something and didn’t realize it until it smacked me upside the head and said: “¡O’e we’on, ya p’e, deja de joder!”

In the colonial capital of Lima, Perú, I had my horribly-belated introduction to Rock Latino. I met, and fell in love with what it meant to be young, Latinx, and frustrated. Thanks to the friends and family I made in Perú, I found the sounds of resistance and desire in my mother tongue. These artists sang of longing, alienation, and primal anger with how, still, the world was not better for us or our people. Intoxicated by it all, I became, momentarily, a howl—freed from a mouth normally forced shut. Time bent and compressed as though I’d snapped back into an existence I was meant to be leading all along, and suddenly it felt like loved ones I’d lost or left behind could join the loved ones who’d found me, and we could have it all. Nights in bars, friends’ houses, clubs, cafes, and parks crashed into and caressed us like the Pacific does Lima’s coast, and I swore I never wanted it to end.

7. “Las Torres” – Los Nosequién y Los Nosecuantos

8. “De música ligera” – Soda Stereo

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9. “Lamento Boliviano” – Los Enanitos Verdes

I imagine, or I hope, everyone feels something like this in this in their early 20s. For me these songs, and the memories of that momentary liberation—or belonging—still bring me a small, quiet peace. For once, diaspora and I could dance, almost, in harmony.

10. “Bicicleta” – Kanaku & El Tigre

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(Note: On Kanaku & El Tigre: I saw them open for Andrew Bird in a bar in Lima at 2 am, so don’t ever try to step to me or my indie cred, fool.)

11. “Cinema Pasión” – Turbopótamos

IV. Bring It All Home

Back in the country of my birth, I’ve learned to carry these songs, and the feelings they conjure, wherever I go. Being, once again, back in an overwhelmingly white space—as many grad schoolers can relate—I have a newfound sense of belonging and focus. Doubt inevitably creeps in, but I know for whom I do the work I do. I know I have a pueblo—several, in fact—out there who hunger like I hunger, and I delight in our chances to connect and give each other a knowing nod when our colors are flourishing in full force.

12. “Latinoamérica” – Calle 13

As I said before, I’m preparing to end my self-imposed exile and get back to the land from whence I came. A mixture of angst and relief accompanies me, so I’ll resist trying to tie this all together because, honestly, I’m all over place. This is all so personal—as music should be, I think—and I want to believe my journey is nowhere near finished. Instead, then, I’ll encourage whoever reads this to reflect on, recover, and share the music that’s propelled them. I’m always down to learn about the songs people hold close, and how they push and protect you, especially when it seems like loneliness and pain are around the next corner. What keeps us going? Maybe the answer will find us in the next song.

13. “Pick Up Folks” – Los Vikingos del Norte

(¡Viva Chihuahua!)

14. “Leña de pirul” - La Santa Cecilia

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If you want the mix in its entirety, you can find it here. Hasta pronto.

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