L'Après-midi de Monsieur Andesmas, Paris, 1962; as The Afternoon of Monsieur Andesmas, London, 1964. International sales: TF1 Studio, Paris. Det er et ulige forhold, men det forarger ikke, fordi hun viser sig at blive stærkere, mens han svækkes af den smerte, der er resultatet af den store kærlighed.
Watch one of the films she worked on Hiroshima, Mon Amour or Nagasaki Song and compare it to its literary source. On DURAS: books— Bernheim, N. Retrieved 18 September 2018. L'Après-midi de Monsieur Andesmas, Paris, 1962; as The Afternoon of Monsieur Andesmas, London, 1964. She was born at Gia-Dinh, near Saigon, French Indochina now Vietnamafter her jesus responded to a campaign by the French government encouraging people to work in the colony. During World War II, from 1942 to 1944, Duras worked for the in an office that allocated paper quotas to publishers in the process operating a de facto book-censorship systembut she also became an ring member of the the. L'Amant, Paris, 1984; as The Lover, New York, 1985. In this way the audience participates in the search for a story, constructing possible narratives. In the title story, Duras recounts her experiences with the French Liberation Movement during the war.
It opens, briefly, in April, 1945, where a writer named Marguerite Duras Mélanie Thierry is desperately hoping for news about her husband, Robert Antelme Emmanuel Bourdieu , an activist in the French Resistance who has been arrested. Then the action shifts back to June, 1944. Marguerite, seeking information about Robert, goes to a German police office in Paris and is received warmly by a French collaborationist official named Rabier Benoît Magimel , who has literary aspirations of his own. In the course of her encounters with Rabier, the course of the war shifts—the Allies have landed in Normandy, the German occupiers are on the run, the Resistance is emboldened though still endangered , and formerly arrogant collaborators are now scared. Then Paris is liberated, Rabier vanishes, and Marguerite waits for Robert, in increasing panic, as deportees return from German captivity or news of their death arrives. Scenes offer touches of narrative import while offering little of originality—in diction, gesture, or presence—from the actors. The movie is generic, in the literal sense. It offers a series of clichés of the war-film genre, such as the Gestapo building decked out with Nazi flags; the Liberation of Paris, with its cheering and its dancing; and, worst of all, the crowds of skinny men in striped concentration-camp uniforms. These scenes, which emphasize approximate representations of historical phenomena, at once dematerialize the story and de-intellectualize it. Finkiel eliminates not just the physical specificity of the events and actions that Duras describes but also the complex, deadly, morally demanding decisions that such specificity imposes—decisions that form the very heart of her book. There will never be any justice in the world unless you—yourself are justice now. Physical hardships, the menace of arrest, the threat of death, and the prospect of killing are all downplayed throughout the film. She is, alongside Proust, the great French writer of memory and subjectivity, qualities that Finkiel approaches either fussily, fretfully, or hardly at all. He renders her ferocity genteel. Those facts are as much inner as outer, as much intellectual as observational, and, if they give way, they expose the absolute void of delusion and madness. For that matter, the book is a much wider and fuller work than the film that bears its title suggests. He also ignores two fictional chapters, a stark tableau of another collaborator being held in a wasteland on the outskirts of Paris, and an intimate, quasi-theatrical sketch of a Jewish girl in Paris who faces death and lives to write. Rather, he shrinks its multi-layered, fragmentary complexity to a simple, self-satisfied completeness. It ultimately offers very little of what makes the book worth reading. © 2018 Condé Nast. The material on this site may not be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, cached or otherwise used, except with the prior written permission of Condé Nast. The New Yorker may earn a portion of sales from products and services that are purchased through links on our site as part of our affiliate partnerships with retailers.
