Il pleure dans mon coeur
Comme il pleut sur la ville ;
Quelle est cette langueur
Qui pénètre mon coeur ?
–VerlaineEbben? Ne andrò lontana,
Come va l’eco della pia campana,
Là, fra la neve bianca;
Là, fra le nubi d’ôr;
Laddóve la speranza, la speranza
È rimpianto, è rimpianto, è dolor!
–Catalani/Ebben, ne andrò lontana
Poetry makes me feel like the weird bad guy in the film Diva who didn’t like anything. Beethoven, even. That analogy is completely meaningless to approxately 99.98% of the world’s population, but it’s really accurate if you just know what the fuck I’m talking about.
So.
Go and watch Diva and come back here. I’ll wait. Maybe I could find a clip, but really you should watch the film. It’s very French New Wave. Not New Wave like Godard’s Breathless, but like New Wave music. It’s the simple story of a boy who secretly records a diva who does not make recordings, and a big misunderstanding involving white slavery and the recording.
Just watch it. It’s good. Here are a few teasers:
the original trailer
Jules and Alma in his loft/garage
The Zen of the art of buttering bread
The movie Diva has everything. A Catalani aria. A petit postier. Richard Boehringer in a bathtub. Kick ass lofts. Mobilettes. Bad guys. Hookers. A Vietnamese shoplifting teenager who skates. A wave machine. Everything.
Poetry?
Oh. Right. I couldn’t find a clip of the “j’aime pas” guy.
J’aime pas la poesie.
That’s what reminded me of Diva in the first place.
Don’t think that I haven’t figured out that song lyrics are poetry set to music. I need the music, too.