接触1971

原文地址：http://www.qh505.com/blog/post/7672.html

——你是十三人中的一员吗？ ——第十三个回来了，仍然还是第一个。总是只有一个。

第一天的下午，第二天的上午和下午，第三天的上午，四个段落的时间，被连接在一起，三天的观影时间组成了对一部12小时40分钟电影的体验。中断之前的裂隙早就存在了，在观看了雅克·里维特大部分冗长的电影之后，1971年的《出局：禁止接触》被放在了压轴的位置上，但是我承认，作为观者有一种天然的抗拒：近13小时的电影要完整看下来需要怎样的耐心？况且还有没有找到合适的中文字幕——在之前选择了4个多小时“精简版”的《出局：幽灵》，在没有中文字幕的情况下，对内嵌字幕字句的解读完全让阅读缺席，加上雅克·里维特的电影不是线性叙事，所以在半个小时之后关闭了电影。那道裂隙只有慢慢扩大的可能，关闭即放弃，这是一种自我选择。但是当最后找到了近13小时完整版的字幕，终于还是用了三天四个时间段的时间将裂隙又慢慢弥合上了，留下的也许只有在时间性形式上的“中断”。

雅克·里维特似乎知道这种中断在观者世界里是天然存在的，所以12小时40分钟也被中断成了相对独立的八集结构。但是中断只是形式上的存在，它的背后意义却是连接：每一集都有标题，“从……到……”便是一种从一个角色到下一个角色的连接；从第二集开始，这种中断而连接的标志更为明显：一开场就是轮播的黑白照片，它们是对前一集部分情节的回顾，带着打击乐声出现的静态图片提示着“前叙述”，之后黑白的电影也是连接着前一集的结尾——由皮埃尔·祖卡拍摄的每集15至28张照片，便是雅克·里维特的一种被连接的叙述策略：从黑白开始，从结尾出发，前叙述之后便是彩色的“后叙述”。中断的电视剧结构，连接而成为一部电影，从多到一，这是一种叙述结构上的“戏剧性”安排。

依然是雅克·里维特最熟悉也最擅长的“戏中戏”，既然是戏剧出现在戏剧中，“戏中戏”在整体上依然是一个戏剧，它在观者的面前也依然是一个相对封闭的单元，所以，如何进入戏剧的状态，便成为雅克·里维特所要探讨的首要问题。第一集《从莉莉到托马斯》，无疑人物的连接靠的就是戏剧：莉莉作为剧团的主要人物，和同伴们在排练的是《七雄攻忒拜》这一出戏，他们作为“颤抖的合唱队”，更注重声音的抑扬顿挫带来的戏剧效果，但是在演员的讨论中，在对动作的调整中，在对声音的处理上，他们始终找不到最准确的表达方式，玛丽坐在那里打起了毛线，昆汀踩着滑稽的步子行走，特奥带来了女友布拉迪斯，都是无法进入“戏剧”状态的表现；托马斯的剧团在排演的是埃斯库罗斯的悲剧《被缚的普罗米修斯》，他们更是在彻底的解构中表演，挣扎、喊叫、呻吟、咳嗽、抚摸、抽打，表演甚至走向了一种极端，他们命名为即兴表演，但是显然连“普罗米修斯”的符号意义也被消解了。这种消解似乎是一种如何表演的困境：从埃斯库罗斯的文本出发？他们根本无法进入到戏剧文本的情境中；从不断被念出的词语开始？字母表上的字母在舌头处变成词语，它是无意义的肉身，“一直都是词语惹的祸”，最后甚至变成了无声状态；从扭曲而涂满粘液的身体出发？是用自己在现实中的身体扭动、奔跑，但是在实验式的尖叫、痉挛、催眠中，很快异化为一出滑稽戏。

《从莉莉到托马斯》，从莉莉“颤抖的合唱队”到托马斯“普罗米修斯”的即兴表演，颤抖的尖叫带来的声音和挣扎扭曲的身体，无法完成关于戏剧的演出，它在“开始”的起点上就受到了阻力，而用现代的手法来演绎，也呈现为一种失语的状态，在讨论的时候，托马斯问其中一个女演员：“如果你是普罗米修斯，你会说些什么？”女演员在思索了很久之后回答说：“这很难。”这是一种失语，最后她只能靠引用表达：“人们帮不了我，太阳在哪里啊！”就像劳德在录音时，把录音带都放反了，声音当然无法被记录下来，即兴表演便是在即兴的随时性中被消费。但是，雅克·里维特让两部戏剧处在这种无法开始和失语、倒错的状态中，却提供了对于《出局》主题整体性的提示：两部戏剧都来自于古希腊悲剧，都是成文化的经典；《七雄攻忒拜》表现的是英雄主义，《被缚的普罗米修斯》表现的则是人的神化，经典悲剧、英雄主义、神化的人，它们高高在上，它们不容亵渎甚至改编，但是两个剧团却以解构和即兴的方式消解了高度，那么，当戏剧成为无法开始和失语、倒错的文本，是不是反而变成了一种“进入”？

第一集是一个预设，在近13小时的《出局》中更是在中断、裂隙中构筑了新的“开场”：从莉莉到托马斯，这种连接是两个剧团之间的并置，而除此之外，还有两条发展线索：一条是“聋哑人”科林在街边吹口琴“乞讨”的故事线，另一条则是弗雷德里克不断设置骗局骗取钱财的故事线，他们独立于两个剧团的排演，看上去和戏剧毫无关系，但是两条线索却在显在和潜在两个层面成为戏剧。在显在意义上，科林将本子上的纸撕下，然后装进蓝色信封里，然后到街上分发给坐着喝咖啡的人，纸上写着的信息是：我是一个聋哑人，给你提供信息。然后科林开始吹口琴，在几乎是啸叫声中，客人们只好拿出硬币给他，科林的“乞讨”看上去很文明，但是却是噪音，却是骚扰，这是关于“乞讨”的一种行为艺术；科林说自己是聋哑人，用口琴表达自己，实际上这就是一场骗局，他走进电话亭拿起电话，打给妈妈就是为了让爸爸给自己办理一张《巴黎日报》的记者证，从失语到开口说话，雅克·里维特设置了一个戏剧性转变的情节，更是对“失语”状态的一种哲理化处理。而弗雷德里克出没于大街小巷，用自己女性独特的魅力诱惑男人，用不断编织的谎言欺骗男人，最终的目的就是拿到钱财，她的骗局就是一种完全沉浸在表演中的戏剧生活。

科林和弗雷德里克的戏剧“表演”出现在现实中，和莉莉、托马斯排演的戏剧相比，他们更多开放性，也更多即兴感。这是雅克·里维特设置的两种戏剧类型，在剧场和现实中发生，但都带着解构和即兴的特点，而在某种意义上，外在的两条线索对于封闭式的剧团排演更具有一种重新编码的潜在意义。四条叙事线的独立性被中断、被连接：出现在第二集的35分钟，科林依旧在街头表演，但是他刚走出饭店大门，就被塞进了一张同样蓝色的信封，打开里面是一张纸头，之后他又在房间门口、楼梯上看见了其他的纸条，而这第一封信就是莉莉剧团的玛丽塞给他的——玛丽为什么会塞给陌生的科林这封信，雅克·里维特在整部电影中都没有给出答案，但是在形式意义上却是连接的开始：不仅是剧团演出和街头表演被连接在了一起，更在文本秘密和现实解密结合在了一起。科林将三张奇怪的纸拿回家里，展开钉在黑板上，然后逐字逐句寻找线索，这个过程是雅克·里维特电影中的关键。

“好像策划阴谋一样，大家聚在一起；好像那个老人在山上那样享受财富，在每个画廊都插一只脚进去，每笔资金都要插一只手进去……”另一张纸条上则是：“为了那些东西，读者从一个地下通道去往另一个地下通道，给他展示的事一条干尸，然后作为一个结论告诉他，这一切马上吓到了他，他找到了藏在墙纸后面的那扇门……”这些句子没有来由，像断句一样自言自语，它是文本上的另一种“自言自语”，正是从这个毫无线索的文本出发，科林不再聋哑人，他开口说话，他成为了“记者”，他开始查找线索——从句子到词语，从单词到字母，科林竟然在黑板上“计算”出了答案：13。也就是从“13”开始，他查找到了巴尔扎克的小说《十三人的故事》，他从小说开始在街上寻找更多线索，进入“机会转角”服装店，认识了里面的波林；认识波琳还产生了一段暧昧情感，而从波琳这个重要的连接点，带出了莉莉、莎莉、托马斯等人；科林循着“十三人”的线索，又以记者名义找到了托马斯的剧团，问托马斯关于“十三人的故事”；之后科林还为瓦洛克提供了关于“十三人”的信息……

从被塞在手里的纸条解读出“十三人”的故事，就像从聋哑人开口言说一样，科林无疑从读者变成了作者，起初他是好奇，那些纸条和纸条上的句子、单词甚至字母为他提供了潜在的线索，在这个意义上，他是被动阅读到这个“十三人的故事”的读者，但是之后他的行为变成了主动的探寻，探寻一方面让他如侦探一样查找线索，另一方面他不断对“十三人的故事”进行编码，从而他让完成了从读者、侦探到作者的转变，在作者编码的意义上，他串起了关于“十三人”这个神秘故事和“组织”的重要线索：从纸条到巴尔扎克的《十三人的故事》，里面提到的是阴谋，提到的是财富，提到的是地下通道，提到的是墙纸后面的门；从小说到现实中的可能存在，科林找到了由侯麦饰演的巴尔扎克研究者，问他巴尔扎克书中的“十三人”到底是什么？教授解释说：“阴谋、秘密结社、魔法是巴尔扎克小说的核心，但《十三人故事》又与这些毫无关系……可以说，巴尔扎克早期小说中出现的这类小团体更像黑帮，他们的行动出于私人利益；但随后他的小说中出现的社团往往有现实的参照物，并建立在某种意识形态的基础上。”又从小说中的“秘密组织”、怪物、恶势力联系到了现实中可能存在的神秘组织，科林去了波琳的服装店，问她“十三人”的信息，去了托马斯的剧团，问他普罗米修斯的故事和“十三人的故事”之间有什么关系，又去了瓦洛克的房间，提出了“十三人”组织是真实存在的……

科林以作者的身份编码了“十三人的故事”，让它从小说文本走向了现实世界。而另一条线索也是完成了对于“十三人的故事”的一种解读，弗雷德里克是在实施她惯常的偷盗计划时拿走了米拉博放在橱柜里的信件，读着这些信件，弗雷德里克预感到这里隐藏着一个自己并不清楚但很重要的线索，于是她打电话给信里提及的人物，首先是米拉博，然后是律师露西，后来是波琳，她的唯一目的就是用这些神秘信件敲诈那些相关人员，无疑，这条线索和科林的线索一样，和另外两条和剧团有关的线索完成了连接，也从街头“表演”介入到了即兴演出中，但是和科林的主动编码不同，弗雷德里克其实一直在消费这些信息，在这个意义上，她也具有读者和侦探的角色意义，但是并不具备科林的作者意识：她的目的太过明显，所以接到电话的波琳、露西和米拉博，都没有让她的目的得逞，甚至还对她说信件都没有什么意思，在重要性被解构之后，弗雷德里克也慢慢推出了消费者的位置，最后他们轻松拿走信件弗雷德里克也无计可施。弗雷德里克不具备编码的作者意义，所以最后当她遇到了比他的演技更深一筹的雷诺之后，进入到雷诺所设计的“任务团伴”诱惑中，拿出枪的弗雷德里克却死在了雷诺的枪下，一股红色的血从弗雷德里克化妆成男人的身体中流出，明显的假血和不真实的男装，让弗雷德里克以戏剧化的方式死去。

骗子死在骗子手里，骗局死在更高级的骗局手里，弗雷德里克之死就是信息单纯消费者之死，是纯粹即兴演出之死。雅克·里维特对弗雷德里克和科林不同的安排，实际上就是在强调编码的作者和消费的表演者之间的区别。那么科林的编码意义何在？编码是一次进入，编码是一种行动，编码是一次开始，但是从句子、单词、字母的猜谜游戏到文化、语言的异化，这样的编码是不是真的能制造一种言说？科林的进入、行动和开始，的确对“十三人的故事”来说，创造了一个新的文本，尤其是他以记者的身份来找托马斯，问及“十三人”背后的意义，托马斯表面上解释“这只是一种巧合”，并且把“十三人”引向了一种扑克游戏，从而消解了“十三人”这个秘密组织的真实性。但是科林的这次到来让他极为不安，他和剧团的比阿特丽斯、莎莉说起了这个神秘的记者，“这难道只是一个游戏？”之后他又找到了瓦洛克，说起了科林问起的十三人，而瓦洛克也是科林找过的人，他们商议需要一次行动了。

科林在读者和侦探的层面让“十三人的故事”付出水面，表征的是它的神秘性，雅克·里维特没有明确表明这只是一个概念，也没有取消它在现实中存在的可能，甚至他就是沿着科林的预设，让“十三人”始终处在神秘而真实的中间地带，这个神秘而真实的中间地带出现的名字就是“皮埃尔”和“伊戈尔”：他们出现在波琳的口中，出现在托马斯的对话中，出现在莉莉和露西的交流里，在被反复提及的话题里，他们或者是这些人的朋友，或者是其中的丈夫或情人，他们也许在墨西哥从事秘密行动，他们已经许久没有联系——甚至从皮埃尔、伊戈尔引出了莉莉对丈夫乔治斯的担心，她怀疑乔治斯背叛了自己，寻求露西的帮助，让露西和名单上的12个人联系并做好记录——12个人加上乔治斯，仿佛是“十三人”的另一个版本，但是其中的背叛、消失也成为皮埃尔和伊戈尔的状态，正是这种不在场、只在言说中存在的状态呼应的就是雅克·里维特的“出局”，“他们在墨西哥遭遇了变局”，遭遇了变局而消失不见，就是出局。

皮埃尔出局了，伊戈尔出局了，“十三人”也遭遇了出局，在科林不断编码而深入了解“十三人的故事”的时候，它的浮现便是它的消失，它的意义便是它的无意义，它被编码的同时也在解码。科林最早进入的是波琳的服装店，波琳给他问三个问题的机会，科林的第一个问题是：“我是十三人中的一员吗？”波琳回答说：“好像是11个。”第二个问题是：“你是十三人中的一员吗？”波琳的回答是：“第十三个回来了，仍然还是第一个。总是只有一个。”这两个问题都呈现为答非所问的状态，或者说，波琳的答案故意消解了问题本身，这钟消解也取消了“十三人”的神秘性，甚至它在“第十三个”就是“第一个”的循环中变成了游戏。托马斯把十三人的问题转移到了扑克游戏上，瓦洛克说仅仅是巧合，那个在巴尔扎克小说中具有魔法和黑帮性质的“秘密社团”就是一个游戏，那个在现实中不断被丰富语义并不断呈现实体化的组织竟然只是一种概念，似乎“十三人”又回到了文本，回到了词语，甚至回到了字母。

雅克·里维特对于意义的消解，并不只是“十三人的故事”的无意义，在近13个小时中，故事的逻辑始终没有被建立起来，叙事的结构始终没有完整性，戏剧、骗局、神秘组织、即兴表演，都成为了文本和叙事本身，要从叙事探究背后的意义无疑是一种二分法，它预设的是主题，是中心，是逻辑，是因果，而雅克·里维特就是要推翻这些预设，弗雷德里克曾经极有艺术范地问及瓦洛克关于辩证艺术的问题，“您认为在如今，还有没有辩证艺术？”瓦洛克告诉她：“你想要权力，或者你想要金钱。有了金钱，你便有了权力。有了权力？那你便有了金钱！这就是辩证！我们要往上而不是往下。”瓦洛克解读了辩证法，而辩证法指向的是意义本身，是逻辑，它更是“十三人”这个秘密组织获取权力和财富的手段，它也写在巴尔扎克《十三人的故事》里，大家聚在一起是为了策划阴谋，是为了获得财富，但是这种辩证法就像弗雷德里克身为骗子的身份一样，它也只是一场表演，一个游戏。

但是，雅克·里维特用如此的篇幅和结构，只是为了取消意义本身？科林对十三人的编码最后走向了解码，这完全可以看做是他的一次“再编码”：正是在科林不断追寻“十三人的故事”具有的当代意义时，每个人都感觉自己的秘密被揭开了，于是离开成为了他们的选择：莉莉离开了，托马斯离开了，莎莉离开了，波琳离开了，瓦洛克离开了，甚至和比阿特丽斯谈话过的人种学家也说要离开巴黎——这些人统一选择的离开，更像是一次聚拢，因为秘密即将揭开，离开便是逃避，而逃避到海边的那幢房子更是“组织化”的另一次开始，莉莉、波琳、莎莉、托马斯，甚至托马斯剧团的两位演员也一起到了，他们聚在一起更像是在表达这样的主题：他们才是真正的“十三人”。但是这一次的编码同样伴随着解码，没有秘密的聚会，没有权力的讨论，没有财富的对话，更没有“黑帮”、魔法和阴谋，有的只是再普通不过的个体情感：莉莉说自己再不想表演下去了，波琳说很想和科林在一起，托马斯在沙滩上大喊大叫，“别烦我，让我一个人呆着……”

“十三人”真的是一个游戏？甚至它根本不存在？这样的疑问科林也曾问过，这样的问题波琳也曾回答，所以对于“十三人的故事”的意义雅克·里维特早就给出了答案，但是在这个“第十三个即第一个”的游戏中，雅克·里维特给出的真正答案是：一切就是行动本身：《七雄攻忒拜》的“颤抖”需要行动，《被缚的普罗米修斯》之自由和解放需要行动，科林的编码和解码需要行动，弗雷德里克设定的骗局需要行动——路易斯·卡罗尔的《猎鲨记》提供了“十三人的故事”另一个关于行动的解读：“我面前有两条路敞开，十三人最后去捕蛇鲨……”进入即逃逸、符号即行动、编码即解码、结束即开始的莫比乌斯环中，科林最后回归到聋哑人的状态，这不是被动的失语，这是主动的沉默，沉默即行动。

三天四个段落，近13个小时，在漫长探寻意义的观影中，观众似乎也成为了神秘的“十三人”成员，但是最后又无辜地被雅克·里维特推了出来，宣告了“出局”，但是在戏剧、游戏意义上的行动并没有走向“出局”：最后的镜头是玛丽站在圣女贞德的铜像下面，仰视的画面中她在四处观望，似乎还在寻找那个偷走了100万法郎的雷诺，6秒时间，电影戛然而止，却是另一个起点，甚至是无止境开始的标志：继续寻找，继续观望，继续等待——继续行动，“它是一个象征，需要做点事行动起来……”

无需再说这部电影在影史上的独特性，里维特成功地做到了在拍电影的同时解构电影，16mm胶片卓越的感光度将一切事物都置于一种幻觉般的凝视之下。

里维特电影的中毒性来自于他呈现出的影像所具有的反身性，一切关于电影的思考最终都会返回到观众自身，就像戈达尔在《一切安好》中尝试说明的那样。当《出局》迎来了最终结局，一切都奇妙地回到了原始状态，Colin又退化回了“聋哑人”，对于他来说这像是某种保护身份。

Emilie望向镜中，只能看到自己的无数分身被困于这块闪光的碎片中，它们互相碰撞、反射、重叠，仿佛在空旷山谷中不断回荡的回声。

里维特创造出了某种“镜像叙事”，《出局》的叙事逻辑恰好建立在对叙事本身的破坏和颠覆之上。这体现在随处可见的“无效的对话”之上。与其说在部电影旨在思考语言的功能，不如说它是在思考语言的瘫痪、无序、矫饰，以及处于不同频次上的表意系统——异文化语言、文本、字谜等等——之间的龃龉。

在第八集中，发生在Emilie和Sarah之间的对话就是一个典型的例子。Sarah始终在重复相同的疑问，而Emilie时而回以沉默的哭泣，时而无意识地重复着相同的回答。这是一种毫无方向的对话，迟疑着、重复着、循环着，疑问永远得不到回答，或者说无需回答，因为问题自身构成一种回声系统，在Emilie和观众的心中勾起阵阵涟漪。这样一种非功能性的对话（或者说是交流系统的瘫痪）与对话本身所具有的剖白、揭露、厘清的功能完全背离。

在这段对话的开始，当Emilie和Sarah开始提到一些具体信息时，对话甚至完全被口琴声打断。音轨的错位阻止了信息的有效传递，观众成为了这段对话中彻彻底底的局外人，这也使得整个画面看上去是对聋哑人日常生活体验的某种模拟。

当我观看这部电影时，我总在问自己“我在看着什么”或“出现在我眼前的究竟是什么？”事实是绝大部分时候我都发现自己在看着一段毫无意义，与所谓的“主线故事”毫无关系的对话，并且很可能是演员的即兴发挥，比如Pauline商店的地下室里有一个烤箱，Pauline的外婆会做很好吃的大黄果酱，她的鹦鹉前段时间飞走了。这段情节发生在第五集，同时画面中还有几位无所事事的人物，他们似乎完全无心参与这种毫无生产性的闲聊。

在很多类似的段落中，里维特电影中叙事的缺席反过来启发观众去思考叙事的生产性和人为构建的特性。我们通常所说的故事必须要有完整起承转合，最好每句台词都暗示一些只有细心的观众才能发现的信息，最好每个人物都在他们应该出现的地方，都发挥一些或大或小的作用。

但《出局》最大胆的地方就在于对传统叙事逻辑的公开反叛。电影自身也拥有某种外表-内在二分地形学结构，通常由闪闪发光的奇观化视听语言与具有致命吸引力的内在叙事构成。里维特、戈达尔所做的就是通过破坏电影的结构完整性，强调每一种要素（声音、影像、叙事）之间的冲突、分离和割裂，从而形成对电影的资产阶级意识形态属性的破坏。这正是罗森鲍姆所说的里维特电影的巴别塔属性。当然在《出局》中还有对巴别塔属性的更直观的呈现，比如第二集中出现的用德语朗读的歌德，用英语朗读的雪莱，以及马达加斯加谚语。

在第三集的开头，由侯麦（侯麦和里维特的影评写作都受到巴尔扎克、19世纪文学的深刻影响）饰演的巴尔扎克研究者向Colin解释到：“阴谋、秘密结社、魔法是巴尔扎克小说的核心，但《十三人故事》又与这些毫无关系……可以说，巴尔扎克早期小说中出现的这类小团体更像黑帮，他们的行动出于私人利益；但随后他的小说中出现的社团往往有现实的参照物，并建立在某种意识形态的基础上。”

阴谋、秘密结社、魔法，这正也是里维特电影的三个关键词，尤其是在他的巴黎三部曲（如果能够这样定义的话）——巴黎属于我们、出局、北方的桥——当中，当然还有《塞琳与朱莉出航记》。但在《出局》当中，我们从来都无法接近阴谋，因为叙事时常被无关紧要的细节（里维特电影中那种对细节的近乎偏执的过度描绘也是受到巴尔扎克作品影响的产物）、无归属的对话、完全即兴的排练片段、几段戏仿刘易斯《猎鲨记》的诗歌所干扰。但正是“无法接近阴谋”这一事实使得阴谋的存在感越来越强烈，以至于让人产生一种阴谋无处不在的错觉。就像《巴黎属于我们》中的比喻，“悬在头顶的达摩克利斯之剑。”

也许可以这样说，这部电影在构建完整叙事这件事上所做的一切努力，都只是一种对轮廓的描摹，就像里维特后来在《不羁的美女》一片中所呈现的那样，只是到达一幅作品之前必经的道路，真正的画作（真相）永远被藏在砖石之下。这条道路布满洞穴，连接着无数分岔的小径，其自身构成了一个错综复杂的网络，没有人知道尽头在哪里。这并非代表生活是无意义的或不可知的，而是如果你愿意就生活的某一处细节抓紧不放，那么你很可能陷于某种狂热的幻想之中，一切细节背后都折叠着死亡的入口。

回过头来看，通过那些可以被读取的对话，我们只隐约地知道Pierre/Warok/Lucie/Igor/Thomas/Etienne这几人在两年前的1968年组成了一个小团体，Pierre是个理想主义的建筑家，Lucie是律师，Etienne是沉稳的商人，Warok是教师。但他们现在都或多或少地面临着后五月阶段的不适感。

1968年5月曾经在现实中制造出了一条窥探乌托邦的裂口，或至少让人看到了某种可能。但那些旺盛的行动力、高谈阔论的激情早已化为淡淡的怀旧（“怀旧”在这个语境下是如此讽刺），普罗米修斯带来的火种渐渐冷却。Thomas想要在戏剧中延续1968年5月创造出的平行时空，但最后他却在沙滩上孤独地远去，只留下那件白色大衣。

《出局》中所呈现出的后五月状态其实是一种失语，无法准确而直接地言说那段经历，就像小团体成员们那些语焉不详的对话一样；但同时又不得不言说，或许可以用他者的语言描绘（比如第二集中借助异文化来理解普罗米修斯），但无法做出任何主体性的言说（剧团成员无法用“我”的口吻说出普罗米修斯的感受），因为任何言说都会变成对亡灵的召唤。

当我重新思考这部电影中对“团结”的呈现时，我发现那些看似无法理解的排练的情节才是对团队关系中最美好的一面的描绘。Lili的剧团似乎想要尝试身体与声音的分离/再结合，Thomas则在即兴排练中多次强调“你必须照顾别人的感受。”里维特对类似的排练场面的痴迷几乎体现在他所有的电影中。剧团似乎是一种最理想的组织形式，他们共享同样的文本，拥有相同的目标，每天都花大量时间与彼此交流，这使得成员们之间的关系无比接近“同志”。或许正因如此，小团体中唯一从事剧团工作的Thomas才想要修补与“团体”的关系，以及与Lili之间的关系。

我们还有没有可能再次与世界相连、与他人相连？还是说就连戏剧都终究会变成个体的私语，就像《真幻之爱》中所呈现的一样？

电影中那位没有名姓的民族学家说道：“很多民族学家，会发现他从事的工作是关于他人的独白，而不是与他们对话，也不是教会人们思考他们自己，并最终思考作为民族学家的自己。他认识到这是一个封闭的世界。”

剧透慎入

如何结束一部长达12个半小时，拥有多条故事线的群戏影片？最胆怯者会把房间打扫到基本干净，看似离开房间，实则悄咪咪地躲在门后，并刻意留下一些面包屑吸引好奇的猫咪（电视台/流媒体，以及久留至此的观众们）来“续订”；境界高些的，则做同样的事情，但立刻宣布金盆洗手，而我们会相信他们，于是一部伟大的作品，在这像是终点而又非终点的地方停止，恰到好处又回味无穷；再有野心大者，会彻底扭转铺垫好的形式与命题，并打破现实，绽放抽象的烟花来盛大地谢幕；而雅克·里维特的《出局：禁止接触》的结尾呢？前所未见，以后也未必有人再敢尝试。

此时影片已经播到最后一集，一切看似都已结束，重大的悬念被揭开，该回到原点的则回到原点，一些我们不该知道的，也早早不再露面，留下一名绝望的男子在南法的海滩前，面向落日余晖作着最后的表演——他嘶吼着，如此地疲惫不堪，四肢歪歪扭扭地摇摆在沙子之上。这虽然不只是他的故事，但看上去，最后的谢幕留给了他，一个四平八稳的合理收尾，朗斯代尔的情感也反射着我们观看的疲惫，造型上也足够好看。但就当他消失在海平面前，一阵来自纯粹电影的激荡，无声的轰鸣——《火车进站》在1895年将咖啡厅里的观众吓得四散而逃，而里维特即将再做一次，但更简单，更惊人，最起码，对于我们这些刚刚经历了那些影像与表演的疯狂的观众而言（我做作地用了里维特所谓的“我们”，就像罗宾·伍德说的那样，里维特的疯狂粉丝是个小群体）。事情通常是这样的：

我们看到一个“似曾相识”的影像，我这么说，但只是因为我们在几小时（或者更久，考虑到观看的方式，但不管怎么说，还是长于一部相对“正常”时长的电影）前才见过她：穿着紫色的某剧院成员Marie站在一座金色的女神像前，她转过头去。这个镜头来自第六集。在当时，她应该正在寻找一个神秘人物，剧团被此人的到来彻底搅乱了节奏，随后鸽子开始在巴黎的几大片区里寻找。就是在这座金色的女神像前，她转过头去，似乎是看到了什么，可能什么也没有，但无论如何，她再给自己一次找到他的机会。然后片尾演职员表开始出现，《出局：禁止接触》到此结束。时间似乎凝固了。坐在黑暗中，我们问：“然后呢？”

首先是一种夹杂着震惊与失望等等其它情绪的混合物。失望于里维特竟敢用一个重复的镜头来结束一部巨作。这个偷懒的家伙！而震惊，好让我们把观影时早早准备好的影评腹稿统统在脑内燃烧殆尽。一瞬间，我们得重新开始。但这个“结局”的天才显然不言而喻，因为我们必须重新开始，或者说，一切从未真正结束。正如塞尔日·达内说的那样，在这里里维特创造的，就是时间！就像《席琳和朱莉出航记》里的那句：“但，第二天早晨......”

我必须承认，在那个晚上选择打开《出局》第一集开始观看前，我对它几乎没有一点了解。当然，此时我已经看过几部里维特了，但一直还是不敢碰这部集大成之作。有时候，我会随意地，极不严肃地打开一部电影，然后随便看几分钟。但那天我并没有停一下，那么，究竟发生了什么？里维特的电影对我做了什么？

在影片的第一集第十分钟开始有一场差不多四十分钟长的“戏剧排练”，但虽说只是一场在某个简陋的排练室近似“习作”的片段，却是一种源自天外的东西。已经很难完完全全地回想起我是如何撑过那些疯狂的场面了，但唯一可以肯定的是：1.我不是老老实实坐着看完它的；2.不可能再出现第二次这样的场面了。可能是呆在家里自己看的优势，随着银幕上的演员的抽搐和叫喊：一种无以言状的结合了高潮、犬吠、密语以及一系列完全动物化的恐怖声音，我意识到我的身体不禁地发生物理扭曲，和影片中那些扭曲的人体一起运动，正如片中的六七人围住那个橘红色的人体模型并实施邪教般的朝拜和涂抹，而很快他们围抱在一起，尖叫着进行着某种催眠术。在他们终于褪下了演员的姿态后，我发现我和他们一样，达到了一种神奇的放空状态，这既是出自于我的疲倦，也是出自电影的疲倦：16毫米的手持摄影机不断地靠近，推后，时而处于观察者的状态，时而一步跨出去加入了他们的舞蹈。我发现我首次做到了如此这般和电影中的状态同步，而当一切消停下来，我也和他们一样，长呼一口气，哈哈大笑起来，如果我能穿越银幕（也许我已经做到了），我会好好和他们拍个掌。

总的来说，如果我们经历一场旅程是为了首先看到旅程的末尾，随后再重塑整个过程，那么在“排练”终结时那种如释重负的极致放空便是最好的证明。至于重塑，我在部分重看了这一段（为何只是部分？那是因为我已经无力再复制那次的体验了，虽然耳机里依旧放着它的声音）以后或许破解了一些秘密。或许整个中邪似的魔法生成自整个场景的“第一幕”：演员之间的镜像（mirroring）。在排练开始时，演员们两人一组面向对方，以极为缓慢的速度模仿着各自的动作，那么如果电影也希望和与观者一同执行这样的镜像？孩子总喜欢模仿，模仿是他们的天性，一种幼稚的模仿欲望被这些影像和声音所激活。而随着片段的时长越来越变得令人难以忍受，或许参与其中才是唯一的解脱之路。最起码于我而言电影的效果是这样，这也和摄影机那种忽远忽近的运动有关。

用文字来还原自己对这样的一部作品的感受，最困难的可能便是维持理性思考的同时保留那种原始纯粹的对作品的感知，而要从整体上破解《出局》的脉络，首先要认识到的便是整部作品从根本上的随机性，这和观影者的状态可谓不谋而合，观看它和解析它是一种同样难以预测的形态。里维特在《疯狂的爱情》，他的首部强调即兴创作的作品后，1970年和一众演员们（正如我前面形容的，这帮演员个个是奇才：戏剧上的、肢体上的、语言上的）拍摄了约三十个小时的即兴内容，并以巴尔扎克小说集《十三人的故事》序言中关于一个巴黎的地下神秘组织为引子，连接成了一部十二个半小时分八集放映的巨作。

一口气看完整部《出局》大概是不现实的，除非你能找到一场无间断的电影院放映，但在大多数情况下，或许更好的观看方式是像读一本长篇小说一样分段来看。我花了五天看了全片，其中最后一天一口气看完了最后三集。我不清楚一口气看完整部影片会是什么样的体验，但这5天几乎马拉松式的观影下来，能感受到的便是这群角色和这部电影同呼吸的过程。里维特在影片中制造松散的流动，以及即兴发挥带来的不规则的事件联系需要观众直接活在影片其中，而影片无时无刻也不在控制着观众自己。

而后来我们开始慢慢了解到的这个所谓的“13”组织，也正是这样的一个团体，一个从1968年的硝烟中走出来试图要改变世界的理想主义乌托邦。而这一天，Colin突然被几个人塞了一些神秘的纸条，上面写着一些无厘头的诗句，正式为观众缓慢地打开了《出局》中的世界。无厘头！自然，里维特的天才则在于在利用即兴创造事件的同时维持一个整体的结构，他与副导演苏珊·席夫曼制作了一整套系统来记录拍摄时所有三十三位演员的互动所产生的剧情走向，并在摄制中创造“路线”，最终创造出了《出局》的四条故事的整体。四条线平行进行，并逐渐产生交集，生成新的线索、事件与新的故事线。然而，这些场景的呈现却毋庸置疑地被神秘化，甚至撕裂化，产生了变异。观众几乎没有办法预知场景的始终，而在第一集上述的诡异“舞蹈”中，里维特则看似随机地抛入一些Colin的画面，我们看到利奥德如演默片喜剧一般，独自在家机械化地制作着他的卡片，他持着印章的手臂如同被电脑控制的机械臂一样敲打着印泥，然后敲打着蓝色的卡片，发出咚咚的声音。Colin制作这些卡片，是作为“命运的声音”分发给巴黎街头咖啡馆的人们以换取1法郎，而当有人拒绝给钱时，“聋哑人”Colin会吹着口琴骚扰他们，这影史上最佳的“配乐”就是这么诞生的——另一种即兴发挥，另一种不稳定。另一个场景更为直接地与里维特的剪辑产生了平行效应：在接下来的某个场景中，我们更加详细地看到Colin制作其“命运卡片”的内容：他从书柜中取出一本随机的书，并从中随机地撕下一叠纸，并随机分发到每张卡片里——Colin的“技法”，这种随机的信息撕裂和里维特贯穿全片的剪辑思路堪称异曲同工。这也正像是Thomas排练的戏剧，几乎要把人的身体给分离开来。同时，我们也意识到本片的四条故事线中，两条是群体的，而另外两条则是个人的。在群体中，里维特突然切入到个人这个举动，从Thomas宽大的排练室，到Colin狭小安静的房间，或者突然又来到Frédérique走在大街上......空气突然安静下来，也可能突然沸腾。观看它几乎如时空穿越时陷入了一个无规则的漩涡中，在各种16毫米胶片制造的混沌时空之间闪过。

影片制作的时间是1971年（电影中的时间设定为1970年），也就是说距离1968年5月的巴黎学生运动也就仅仅过去了两年。而也就是在这么短短的时间内，我们就从戈达尔1967年的《中国姑娘》（同样有贝尔托和利奥德两人出演）里带着莽撞理想的“革命青年”，沦落到变成里维特这里，像Frédérique这样望着天花板发呆的浪人。再者则像Colin一样，唯一能做的便是创造一些毫无意义的机械动作（我们美妙的“命运卡片”）和子虚乌有的爱情幻想来维持生活的假象；他在街上大声疾呼着连他自己都无法破译的密语，但听上去又如同某种宣言：“CREW!（团队）”但奇迹般地，他不缺乏追随者——摄影机无意中捕捉到了几个奔跑着的男孩尾随在利奥德四周，这个《四百击》中的传奇少年曾经也是他们。至于两个剧团，他们能做的也就是表演罢了，甚至没有观众。此时，作为一个2020年的年轻人，我意识到这样的转变甚至无需一次所谓的大革命就能发生。

随着自己逐渐写不出东西，并对着一些《出局》的片段发了整整一小时的呆，我突然意识到了为什么影片会如此感人。这一切不都写在贝尔托饰演的Frédérique，无所事事地掏出包里的那支左轮手枪后，在自己那个简陋的“女仆间”里发呆的样子么？此时，演职员表字幕随着黑屏弹了出来——电影的第一集突然宣告结束。在加缪的小说《局外人》中，主角莫梭在街上散步，有这样一串并排写在一块的文字：“足球队员庆祝着他们的胜利。两辆小轿车从路上驶过。”这为何不是某种蒙太奇，展现了两件性质完全不同的事物可以在一个特定的视角下变成平等的存在，也就是在莫梭，一个相信万物皆荒谬的人的身上，足球队庆祝胜利的欢呼雀跃和路上开过的两辆车并没有任何实质上的区别。而对于影片中的Frédérique，则是镜头开始时望向巴黎城，随即旋转着看向坐在床垫上的她，一座城市和一个人瞬间也到达了平行状态。

原标题：Out 1 and its double

首次发行于Carlotta的美版《出局》蓝光碟套装

[Ornette Coleman's Free Jazz] causes earache the first time through, especially for those new to Coleman’s music. The second time, its cacophony lessens and its complex balances and counter-balances begin to take effect. The third time, layer upon layer of pleasing configurations — rhythmic, melodic, contrapuntal, tonal — becomes visible. The fourth or fifth listening, one swims readily along, about ten feet down, breathing the music like air.

– Whitney Balliett, “Abstract,” in Dinosaurs in the Morning

If there is something comforting — religious, if you want — about paranoia, there is still also anti-paranoia, where nothing is connected to anything, a condition not many of us can bear for long.

– Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow

In the spring of 1970, Jacques Rivette shot about thirty hours of improvisation with over three dozen actors in 16mm. Out of this massive and extremely open-ended material emerged two films, both of which contrive to subvert the traditional moviegoing experience at its roots. Out 1, lasting twelve hours and forty minutes, structured as an eight-part serial, originally subtitled Noli me tangere, that was designed for but refused by French television, was screened publicly only once (at Le Havre, 9-10 September 1971), still in workprint form. Seventeen and a half years later, at the Rotterdam Film Festival in February 1989, a somewhat re-edited but nearly finished print was screened over several days for a much smaller audience, including myself, and then in the early 90s, a version that had apparently been re-edited somewhat further by Rivette (including the deletion of a lengthy sequence featuring Jean-Pierre Léaud in the final episode), was shown at a few film festivals and on French and German television, and this version, to the best of my knowledge, is the one being presented here.

As I recall, no more than about five viewers in Rotterdam cared to watch the serial in its entirety in 1989, and very few others turned up even to sample it. But such are the conundrums of shifting fashion that when the Museum of the Moving Image in New York’s Queens screened the serial over a weekend in late 2006, tickets were sold out well in advance, and the entire event was rescheduled the following March to accommodate the others who wanted to see it. (In this case, an appreciative article in the Sunday New York Times by Dennis Lim clearly helped.)

Out 1: Spectre, which Rivette spent the better part of a year editing out of the first film — running 255 minutes, or roughly a third as long, and structured to include an intermission halfway through (as was Rivette’s previous feature, the 252-minute L’amour fou in 1968) — was released in Paris in early 1974, and to the best of my knowledge, is the same version that is included in this release.

I

The organizing principle adopted by Rivette in shooting the raw material of both films was the notion of a complot (plot, conspiracy) derived from Balzac’s Histoire des treize, where thirteen individuals occupying different sectors of French society form a secret alliance to consolidate their power. Consciously setting out to make a critique of the conspiratorial zeitgeist of his first feature, Paris Nous Appartient, Rivette also used this principle to arrange meetings and confrontations between his actors, each of whom was invited to invent and improvise his or her own character in relation to the overall intrigue. The only writing done as preparation came from Rivette’s codirector Suzanne Schiffmann, who helped to prepare and plot the separate encounters, and from Rivette himself when he wrote three separate coded messages intercepted by one of the characters that allude to the complot and the “13”.

Paradoxically, if one can get past the relative tedium of the theatrical exercises, Out 1 might be the most accessible and entertaining of all of Rivette’s works, with the possible exception of Céline at Julie vont en bateau — quite unlike Spectre, which probably qualifies as his most difficult film. (Arguably, these three films feature Rivette’s most inventive and pleasurable uses of color.) But because of its initial rejection by French state television and its subsequent lack of availability, its reputation has assumed legendary proportions, inflating notions of its alleged difficulty due to the length of its combined episodes (which few viewers would ever think of applying to other TV serials and miniseries, especially those in English). Soon after a pirated version of the serial as it was shown on Italian TV turned up on the Internet, furnished with English subtitles provided by amateur fans, English critic Brad Stevens was moved to write the following in Video Watchdog: “It is surely evidence of how widely cinema is still considered a second-rate art that one of its supreme masterpieces has been denied to British and American audiences; if a similar situation existed where literature was concerned, we would only be able to read English translations of Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu in the form of clandestinely circulated photocopies. Yet one can hardly resist a wry smile upon discovering that Out 1, a work obsessively focused on conspiracies, has finally achieved widespread distribution thanks to what might described as an Internet ‘conspiracy’.”

It should be noted that repeated viewings of Out 1 and Spectre help to clarify not their ”plots” but their separate formal organizations. The analogy suggested above between Rivette and Coleman is far more relevant, however, to the notion of performance. Much like Coleman’s thirty-eight-minute venture into group improvisation with seven other musicians, Out 1‘s surface is dictated by accommodations, combinations, and clashes brought about by contrasting styles of “playing.” The textures run the gamut from the purely cinematic skills of Jean-Pierre Léaud (Colin) and Juliet Berto (Frédérique) to the stage-bound techniques of Françoise Fabian (Lucie); from the relative nervousness of Michel Lonsdale (Thomas) and Michele Moretti (Lili) to the relative placidity of Jacques Doniol-Valcroze (Etienne) and Jean Boise (Warok); from the reticence of Bulle Ogier (Pauline/Emilie) to the garrulity of Bernadette Lafont (Sarah). Most radical of all is the supposition that “everything” an actor does is interesting, effectively abolishing the premise one can discriminate in a conventional manner between “good” and “bad” performances, which is always predicated on some fixed notion of the real.

For Coleman as for Rivette, the thematic material is kept to a minimum and mainly used as an expedient — a launching pad to propel each solo player into a “statement” of his own that elicits responses from the others. Apart from the brief ensemble passages written by Coleman, there is no composer behind Free Jazz, hence no composition; the primary role of Coleman as leader is to assemble players and establish a point of departure for their improvising.

Rivette’s role in both versions of Out 1 is similar, with the crucial difference that he edited and rearranged the material afterward, assembling shots as well as players. And the assembly is one that works against the notion of continuity: sustained meaning, the province of an auteur, is deliberately withheld — from the audience as well as the actors. Consequently, it is hardly surprising that the “13″ in both versions of Out 1 never reveals itself as anything more than a chimera. It eventually becomes evident that the complot is a pipe dream that never got off the ground, an idea once discussed among thirteen individuals that apparently went no further. Aside from the efforts of certain characters (mainly Thomas and Lucie) to keep its real or hypothetical existence hidden, and the attempts or threats of others (Colin, Frédérique, Pauline/Emilie) to “expose” it, the “13″ never once assumes a recognizable shape — in the dialogue or on the screen.

Both films begin by pretending to tell us four separate stories at once—although the beginning of the first and longer version could perhaps also be described, with greater accuracy, as presenting us with four separate and alternating blocks of documentary material with no narrative connection between them. We watch two theatre groups rehearsing plays attributed to Aeschylus—Seven Against Thebes (directed by Lili) and Prometheus Bound (directed by Thomas), and also observe Colin and Frédérique — two rather crazed and curious loners, each of whom contrives to extract money from strangers in cafés. (Colin hands out cards declaring that he’s a deaf-mute, and plays aggressively and atonally on his harmonica whenever someone hesitates to give him money; Frédérique, when she isn’t hanging out with her gay friend Michel [played by her real-life gay husband at the time, Michel Berto], usually starts by flirting and/or inventing stories about her identity and background.) For the first three dozen or so shots of Spectre — ten of them black-and-white stills accompanied by an electronic hum – Rivette cuts between these four autonomous units, establishing no plot connections. The only links set up are occasional formal repetitions: a scene echoed by a subsequent still, two pans in separate shots of Colin and Frédérique in their rooms. Even within each unit, many shots are either “too long” or “too short” to be conventionally taken as narrative. Rivette often cuts in the middle of a sentence or a movement, and the missing pieces are not always recuperated. Conversely, a shot in which Colin’s concierge reminds him to leave his key ends irrelevantly with her walking away from the camera and sitting down at a table to write. Like some of the cryptic stills punctuating later portions of the film, such a diversion proposes — without ever substantiating — yet another supplementary fiction.

Then almost miraculously, 13 minutes and 35 seconds into Spectre—and 35 minutes and 28 seconds into the second episode of the serial (or more than two hours into the overall proceedings) — two of the four “plots” are brought together: Colin is suddenly handed a slip of paper by Marie (Hermine Karagheuz), a member of Lili’s theatre group. On it is typed a seemingly coded message which he sets out to decipher, along with two subsequent messages he receives, following clues provided by references to Lewis Carroll’s “The Hunting of the Snark” and Balzac (the latter gracefully explicated by Eric Rohmer in a cameo role). And when Colin’s deductions eventually lead him to a hippy boutique called “l’Angle du hasard,” the “plot” appreciably thickens: the boutique is run by Pauline, whom we later discover is a friend of both Thomas and Lili, another member of the collective; and all three are members of the alleged “13.”

Meanwhile, Frédérique, the fourth narrative strand, has been making some unwitting connections of her own. After stealing letters from the flat of Etienne (another one of the “13,” along with his wife, Lucie) for the purpose of possible blackmail, she dons a wig and arranges a meeting with Lucie: an incongruous match suggesting Mickey Rooney in an encounter with Rohmer’s Maud. Then, when she fails to collect money, she turns up at the boutique to try the same ploy with Pauline.

This second encounter marks the fusion of all four “plots,” and occurs just before the intermission of Spectre, although it doesn’t occur in the serial until much later, during the fifth episode. It is the only time Frédérique and Colin ever cross paths (they are the only important characters who never meet), and the spectator may well feel at this point that she or he is finally being led out of chaos. But the remainder of the story in both versions, after drawing the four strands together more tightly, proceeds to unravel them again; and the final hour of Spectre and the remaining episodes of the serial leave us as much in the dark as we were at the beginning.

By this time, many of the characters have wound up revealing various secrets – Colin, for instance, starts talking a blue streak in one of the intermediate episodes, losing his deaf-mute pose for several hours — and the conspiracies paradoxically seem to grow thicker at the same time that both groups start to dissolve. Even though certain scenes toward the end defy explanation or decoding — in a dialogue between Colin and Sarah at the end of the seventh episode, some of her lines and one of his are literally played backward on the soundtrack, and Frédérique in the eighth episode is killed in an obscure intrigue with her recently acquired lover on a rooftop involving dueling pistols and a black mask (in effect, another romantic 19th century fantasy that seems to rhyme with Colin’s obsession with Balzac) — the overall design and meaning of Out 1 become increasingly lucid as the serial unfolds. By the end, the paranoid fiction that the actors have generated has almost completely subsumed the documentary, even though the implied conspiracy continues to elude their grasp as well as ours. The successive building and shattering of utopian dreams — the idealistic legacy of May 1968 — are thus reproduced in the rising and declining fortunes of all the characters, outlining both the preoccupations and the shape of the work as a whole.

Much as folie à deux figures centrally in L’Amour Fou and Céline et Julie vont en Bateau, failed folie à deux gradually becomes the very essence of both Out and Spectre. The inability to “connect” reveals itself as part and parcel of the incapacity to sustain fictions, a failure registering most poignantly in the relationship of Ogier and Léaud, which begins with mutual attraction and ends in estrangement. Of all the ”two-part inventions”, theirs is the richest in shifting tensions, and the growing rift is brilliantly underlined by the staging of their scenes in the boutique — particularly when they’re stationed in adjoining rooms on opposite sides of the screen, each vying in a different way for our attention. This spatial tension reaches its climax in their last scene together, on the street, when Ogier forcibly breaks away and Léaud mimes the invisible barrier between them by pushing at it in agonized desperation, finally wandering in a diagonal trajectory out of the frame while blowing a dissonant wail on his harmonica.

II

The ideal form of viewing the film would be for it to be distributed like a book on records, as, for example, with a fat novel of a thousand pages. Even if one’s a very rapid reader — which, as it happens, isn’t my case — one never reads the book in one sitting, one puts it down, stops for lunch, etc. The ideal thing was to see it in two days, which allowed one to get into it enough to follow it, with the possibility of stopping four or five times.

– Rivette describing the serial to Gilbert Adair, “Phantom Interviewers Over Rivette,” Film Comment, September-October 1974

At least part of the impressionism you see in Duras and Straub (who, by the way, was totally hypnotized by a screening of the thirteen-hour Out) comes from their low-budget techniques. I aim at something a little different in my recent films; you might almost say that I am trying to bring back the old MGM Technicolor! I even think that the colors of Out would please a Natalie Kalmus [Hollywood color consultant 1934-49]….

– Rivette to John Hughes, “The Director as Psychoanalyst” (Spring 1975), http://www.rouge.com.au/4/hughes.html

Complot becomes the motivation behind a series of transparent gestures: specters of action playing over a void. We watch actors playing at identity and meaning the way that children do, with many of the games leading to dead ends or stalemates, some exhausting themselves before they arrive anywhere, and still others creating solid roles and actions that dance briefly in the theater of the mind before dissolving into something else. Nothing remains fixed, and everything becomes ominous. Relentlessly investigated by Colin and blindly exploited by Frédérique, the specter of the “13″ reactivates the paranoia of its would-be members, mainly increasing the distances between them. Other crises intervene (a stranger runs off with the money of an actor in Lili’s theater group; Pauline threatens to publish the intercepted letters); fear begets fear; both theater groups disperse; Emilie and Lili are last seen driving off to meet the perpetually missing Igor; and Frédérique and Colin are each returned to their isolation. Repeated “empty” shots of Porte d’Italie in the final reel of Spectre — chilling mixtures of Ozu-like emptiness with Langian terror — embody this growing sense of void, which ultimately widens to swallow up everything else in the film.

The delivery of the first message to Colin is totally gratuitous, an act that is never explained or even hinted at, and most of the other “connections” are brought about by equally expedient contrivances. In a country house occupied at various times by Sarah, Thomas, Emilie (aka Pauline), and Lili, Rivette parodies the very notion of “hidden meaning” in a subtler way, by making sure that a single nondescript bust with no acknowledged relation to the “plot” is visible in every room. It even crops up in the locked room possibly inhabited by Igor, Emilie’s missing husband, a room she enters only near the end of the film. Obviously the bust is a joke; but why is it there? To suggest a complot. And according to the tactics of Out 1, suggesting a complot is at once an absurdity and a necessity: it leads us nowhere except forward – a compulsive movement that often leads to comedy in the serial but mainly produces a feeling of anguish in Spectre.

For much of the preceding, I’ve been treating the plots of Out 1 and its shortened and fractured “double” as if they were identical, but in fact the experiences and meanings of the serial and of Spectre are in many ways radically different, as they were meant to be. The opening shot of Spectre, for instance, occurs almost three hours into the serial, and the final episode of the serial largely consists of material missing from Spectre. One of the more striking differences in the long version is that Thomas (Lonsdale) emerges as virtually the central character (which he clearly isn’t in Spectre) — not only because of his role in guiding his group’s improvisations and psychic self-explorations, but also because his ambiguous role as a rather infantile patriarch, climaxing in his falling apart in his last extended sequence on the beach, becomes pivotal to the overall movement of the plot.

Beginning as a documentary that is progressively overtaken by fiction, the serial has no prologue, merely a rudimentary itinerary set down in five successive intertitles — “Stéphane Tchalgadjieff présente / OUT 1 / Premier Episode / de Lili à Thomas / Le 13 avril 1970″ — followed by an opening shot of five actors in a bare rehearsal space performing elaborate calisthenics together to the sound of percussion. Minus the date, the same pattern of intertitles launches every other episode, each of which is labeled as a further relay between two characters, beginning in each case with the second character named in the previous segment. (In the sixth chapter, the relay is between two guises of the same character, Pauline/Emilie.)

All seven of the remaining episodes have prologues, each of which is structured similarly: 15 to 28 black and white production stills shot by Pierre Zucca that recap portions of the preceding episode, accompanied by the same percussion heard in the first shot of the first episode, followed by the one or two concluding shots of the preceding episode in black and white that carry their original direct sound. Thus the notion of precise links in a chain — between one episode and the next, between one character and the next – is maintained throughout as a strictly practical principle as well as a formal one. Each black and white prologue provides both a ghostly abstraction of the preceding segment as an aide de mémoire and a version of “the thirteen” (roughly, 2 x 13 = 26) as a compulsive rearrangement of existing data that might provide certain clues about what is to come. Similarly, each relay-title posits a beginning and an end to the trajectory of characters within each episode while establishing that each new beginning was formerly an end and each new end will form a new beginning — another form of abstraction-as-synopsis that retraces the action as if it were a kind of puzzle that might yield hidden meanings. (In Spectre, these titles vanish, but the black and white stills are reformulated at various junctures to provide cryptic extensions to as well as recollective summaries of the action, accompanied by a droning hum rather than percussion. As Rivette described this sound and function in a 1974 interview, “What we have is just a meaningless frequency, as if produced by a machine, which interrupts the fiction — sometimes sending messages to it, sometimes in relation to what we’ve already seen or are going to see, and sometimes with no relation at all. Because there are stills from scenes, especially toward the end [of Spectre], which don’t appear in the body of the film and are frankly quite incomprehensible.”)

In contrast to the serial, Spectre might be said to begin as a fictional narrative that is progressively overtaken by documentary — the precise opposite of its predecessor. Despite the fact that both theater groups are putatively preparing to perform plays ascribed to Aeschylus, there are no deaths at all in the serial apart from that of Frédérique, and apparently none whatsoever in Spectre. (One can’t be entirely sure about the messenger played by the film’s producer, Stéphane Tchalgadjieff — brained by Pauline with a blunt instrument bottle in the back of the hippie boutique where she works, for no apparent reason, and never seen again.) Moreover, the meaning and impact of many individual shots and sequences are markedly different. Colin’s efforts to get an Eiffel Tower trinket to swing back and forth 13 times -— a minor gag in the serial that parodies his manic efforts to impose meaning where there is none, to convert chance into destiny —- becomes the final shot of Spectre. There it figures as an ironic metaphor for the viewer’s frustration in trying to make sense out of the latter film. After repeated efforts, Colin finally concludes, “It didn’t work,” speaking now for Rivette as well as the spectator: the physical act becomes metaphysical.

III

ROSENBAUM: Why did you choose the title Out?

RIVETTE: Because we didn’t succeed in finding a title. It’s without meaning. It’s only a label.

– “Phantom Interviewers Over Rivette,” Film Comment, September-October 1974

Seen as a single work, or at least as two versions of the same work, Out 1 strikes me as the greatest film we have about the counterculture of the 1960s. I hasten to add that unlike all the American or English examples one could cite, there is nothing in Out 1 about hallucinogenic drugs (despite some riotously bright, psychedelic colors), and as a period statement that is related directly to the disillusionment that followed the failed revolution of May 1968, it projects a specifically French zeitgeist. (One could perhaps speculate that the Cartesian basis of French thought provided French culture with a sort of shortcut to the mindset provided by hallucinogenic drugs in North America, thereby delaying and otherwise limiting their cultural impact.)

But seen more broadly as an epic reflection on the utopian dreams of the counterculture as they manifested themselves on both sides of the Atlantic, Out 1 remains an invaluable touchstone, above all in its perceptions of the options posed between collectivity and isolation, the major theme of Rivette’s early features. Virtually all of Out 1 can be read as a meditation on the dialectic between various collective endeavors (theater rehearsals, conspiracies, diverse counter-cultural activities, manifestos) and activities and situations growing out of solitude and alienation (puzzle solving, scheming, plot spinning, ultimately madness) — the options, to some extent, of the French left during the late 1960s.

Formally, the serial could be called Bazinian and Renoiresque in its preference for the long take and for mise en scène in deep focus over montage as a purveyor of meaning, and in this respect, the aggressively edited, splintered, and Langian Spectre forms a striking dialectic with it. In the serial, this ultimately leads to a kind of parodic summation of Bazin’s notions about realism — a Rouch-like pseudo-documentary mired in fantasy — that might be said to undermine Bazinian theories more than simply illustrate them.

A major difference between the Rivette’s serial and the crime serials of Feuillade — accounting for their vast difference in popular appeal, at least to the audiences of their respective periods — rests in the notion of a stable base beneath or behind all the machinations. In Les Vampires (1915-1916) and Tih-Minh (1919), a supreme confidence in the fixed generic identities of heroes and villains and in the fixed social identities of masters and servants makes all the “revisions” of these characters and the improvised spirit of their enactments a form of play that never threatens their root functions and identities as narrative figures. In Out 1, the absence of this social and artistic confidence — a veritable agnosticism about society and fiction alike that seems to spring from both the skepticism of the late 1960s and the burden placed on all the actors to improvise — gives the narrative a very different status, entailing a frequent slippage from character to actor and from fiction to nonfiction. Because none of the masks seems entirely secure, the fiction-making process itself — its pleasures, its dangers, even its traps, dead ends, and lapses — becomes part of the overall subject and interest. (The issue at stake isn’t so much the skill of Rivette’s actors — which varies enormously — as the perfunctory nature of many of the fictions that they embody.) Here there is no fixed text beneath the various proliferating fictions that might guarantee their social and generic functions; what one finds instead is a series of references and allusions — Balzac and Renoir, Aeschylus and Lang, Dumas and Rouch, Hugo and Feuillade — that can provide only theoretical pretexts or momentary, unsustainable models, as well as an overall spirit of drift and play.

IV: Three Afterthoughts

He who leaps into the void owes no explanation to those who watch.

– Jean Luc Godard, reviewing Montparnasse 19 (1958)

1. Perhaps the most detailed comparison between the two separate theater groups in Out 1 has been offered by Cristina Álvarez López and Adrian Martin in two separate videos and an accompanying text commissioned by the Melbourne International Film Festival in late 2014 as part of an ongoing series of audiovisual essays and written texts about Out 1. (Kevin B. Lee and I provided the second video in this series, Álvarez López/Martin made the first and fourth, David Heslin and Chris Luscri provided the third, and Luscri alone, working with an audio interview with Tchalgadjieff, produced the fourth.) The following two passages are drawn from an essay posted in mubi.com/notebook on 7 August 2014 to accompany the first of these videos, “Paratheatre: Plays Without Stages (from Ito IV)”:

“The fact is that Out 1 is an extraordinary, synthesizing document of many experimental movements in theater, dating from the immediate post-war period and surviving through to our day, in performance workshops grand and small across the globe. Although some of the commentaries indicate, in passing, that Rivette drew upon (through his actors) a mélange of influences including the Polish theatre guru Jerzy Grotowski and The Living Theatre from USA, it is dizzying to realize just how many traditions and tendencies are referenced in the physical work of the performers that Rivette records with such care, and at such length. The film is like an immense corridor through which the history of contemporary, experimental theatre passes.”

“One group uses gestural and vocal work to explore and express, in highly stylized ways, Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes; the other uses a radical form of improvisation, nominally based on the pretext of Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound, that is not quite psychodrama (its aim is not in the least bit therapeutic), but certainly reaches down to the roots of Artaud’s Theatre of Cruelty — in the latter case, the written text slips further and further away. Both groups base their work on the types of rigorous exercises (Grotowski’s exercises, psychophysical exercises, and ancient games such as mirroring) that are crucial, for instance, to Richard Schechner’s The Performance Group (which later became The Wooster Group), whose production of Dionysus in ’69 was documented (in split-screen) by Brian De Palma in 1970.

“Both troupes talk, analyze and review their work a lot — but whereas the Thebes group tend to re-work things practically (according to various kinds of ‘scores’ for voice and movement), the Prometheus group is more into research and self-critique, once they emerge from each ‘trance.’ Note, too, the dual orientation of both groups: while, in one way or another, they are fully avant-garde, they are also trying to plug back into mythic, sacred sources — the revival of theatrical spectacle as ritual which both attracted and disturbed Pasolini by the end of the 1960s.”

Based on my own limited theatergoing experience in this period, I would add to this account that some of the “trances” in the Prometheus group closely resemble certain interludes in The Living Theatre’s production of Paradise Now (which I attended at Brooklyn’s Academy of Music in the fall of 1968, after the same group and production toured Europe).

2. The eventual knitting together of four seemingly autonomous and unrelated narrative strands — more cursory in Spectre, but central to the serial — might be seen as the belated fulfillment of an innovative aspect of Erich von Stroheim’s original Greed, running at a length of some 40-odd reels, that is completely absent from the release version. As I’ve noted in my monograph about Greed (BFI Classics, 1993), an enormous amount of narrative material was added by Stroheim to the plot of Frank Norris’s novel McTeague: “Nearly a fifth of the plot (a quarter of the [latest version that we have] of the script — 69 out of 277 manuscript pages) transpires before one arrives at McTeague eating his Sunday dinner at the car conductors’ coffee joint, the subject of the novel’s opening sentence. Mac’s life prior to his arrival in San Francisco, which takes up about a quarter of this prologue — over twenty-four pages in the published script — comprises an elaboration of only two shortish paragraphs in the novel.

“A brilliantly designed and extended sequence that comes four pages later in the published script, and encompasses about thirty pages more, introduces all the other major characters in the film [including three that are entirely missing from the release version] on a ‘typical’ Saturday, the day that precedes the novel’s opening, without establishing any connections between them apart from the fact they live in the same building. It seems entirely plausible that Harry Carr — who described watching a forty-five-reel-version of Greed between 10:30 am and 8:30 pm—had this sequence at least partially in mind when he wrote in Motion Picture Magazine (April 1924), “Episodes come along that you think have no bearing on the story, then twelve or fourteen reels later, it hits you with a crash.”

3. Undoubtedly the most significant change brought about in Rivette’s re-editing of the serial between 1989 and the early 90s was his deletion of Léaud’s powerful climactic scene, which is no longer part of the film. (The only other changes I’m aware of involve the order of certain sequences.) This lengthy plan-séquence occurred originally just after a comparably lengthy scene between Bulle Ogier and Bernadette Lafont. (In fact, the final episode in its original, ninety-minute form showed all four of the major characters — Ogier, Léaud, Berto, and Lonsdale — going to pieces in a separate extended sequence; no trace of any of these four sequences is to be found in Spectre. Lonsdale’s scene is placed last, and his reduction from director-patriarch to a mass of blubbering jelly on a beach seems to bring the serial full circle from the wordless hysteria of his group’s first exercise.)

I suspect that this hair-raising sequence, which showed Colin alone in his room in a state of hysteria oscillating between despair and (more briefly) exuberance, carried too many suggestions of Léaud’s subsequent real-life emotional difficulties for Rivette to feel comfortable about retaining it. When Léaud appeared at the Viennale in 2013 to speak about the film, along with its heroic producer Stéphane Tchalgadjieff (whose other adventurous credits include India Song [1975], Rivette’s Duelle, Noroît [both 1976], and Merry-Go-Round [1981], Straub-Huillet’s Fortini/-Cani [1976], and Bresson’s The Devil, Probably [1977]; Out 1, moreover, was the first film he produced) and myself, he didn’t allude to this deletion. But it also became clear that he’s never seen the serial in its entirety; he spoke mainly about his earlier friendship with Rivette and the influence played by North African music on his harmonica wails.

Based on my notes taken at the 1989 Rotterdam screening, the missing sequence, punctuated by a few patches of black leader, showed Colin crying, screaming, howling like an animal, banging his head against the wall, busting a closet door, writhing on the floor, then calming down and picking up his harmonica. After throwing away all three of the secret messages he has been trying for most of the serial to decode, he starts playing his harmonica ecstatically, throws his clothes and other belongings out into the hall, dances about manically, and then plays the harmonica some more. Dramatically and structurally, this raw piece of psychodrama inevitably suggested certain parallels with the sequence relentlessly recording Jean-Pierre Kalfon’s self-lacerations with a razor in Rivette’s L’Amour fou — a disturbing piece of self-exposure in which the fictional postulates of the character seem to crumble into genuine pain and distress, representing in both films a dangerous crossing of certain boundaries into what can only be perceived as madness.

Note: This article draws on material from two previous essays (“Work and Play in the House of Fiction,” Sight and Sound, Autumn 1974, and “Tih-Minh, Out 1: On the Nonreception of Two French Serials,” The Velvet Light Trap, spring 1996) and a few other previous texts, most of them available at jonathanrosenbaum.net

“假设——故事地点：巴黎及其复象；故事时间：1970年4月或5月”（《出局：幽灵》）

关于对“两年前”的五月风暴的指涉，在各种对话中我们得知从未出现的Pierre是建筑师、城市规划师，曾在两年前有城市改造的理想，而显然并未实现。同时，影片展现出对于城市空间的兴趣（使我们联想到10年之后的《北方的桥》，那里对“空间”的探讨到达顶峰），突然插入的拍摄街角广场的空镜头，Quentin（《七将攻忒拜》剧团成员）(Pierre Baillot)在路口无望的来回踱步，在城郊公交车站对巴黎地图近乎荒诞的测量与计算……人生存于一片并不属于自己的空间内，而对地图的精确测量既是任由偶然摆布的运气游戏（Quentin想再次利用让他彩票中奖的逻辑），又似对于“严密理性”的空间规划的戏仿。

上述这一视角和它之外的其余场景共同组成了五月之后的集体幻灭。但我们更多看到的不如说是对五月风暴的反思。里维特并不掩饰展现阶级性，无论是通过Frédérique(Juliet Berto)和Colin(Jean-Pierre Léaud)居住的“女仆间”，还是对les treize所出自的巴尔扎克《十三人故事》(Histoire des Treize)的引用：“仅在精英中招募成员”。在此之上所展现的则是各人物的相交与断层，是“入局”的不可能性之辩证：

如果说《Out 1》是一个声效的奇迹或许不会有人相信，毕竟全片的音轨上几乎只有环境音和几处鼓点。但声效在《Out 1》里具有了叙事效果。Émilie(Bulle Ogier)的小店里的一处画面被分割成两半的同时，一边是Émilie和Sarah(Bernadette Lafont)几乎不可听见的交谈，另一边是发出“噪音”的Colin；《出局：禁止接触》第七集结尾Sarah和Colin谈话的音轨被倒放；第八集Émilie和Sarah交谈的信息时常被Colin的口琴声盖住，似乎他成为了一个飘荡于海滨别墅上方的幽灵。当然这种用杂音掩盖关键信息的手法并非《Out 1》所独有，类似的还有布努埃尔《资产阶级的审慎魅力》里的飞机声。但《Out 1》里的口琴融合得无疑更加高明。不仅Colin和les treize间的交流被失效化了，而且我们还看到失效的原因是一方的话被视为“噪音”，而他的坚持只意味着继续吹奏口琴并自我强化了交谈的不可能性。正如朗西埃所说的“治安秩序”里所涉及的感性分配，一部分人的话被视作有意义的信息，而其余人则被视作噪音。于是那些多少游离在外的人物即使都一个个都因les treize而被卷入局中，打破区层隔断的某种“接触”却是不可能的。

既然《Out 1》的制作动机之一，是在十年之后对于《巴黎属于我们》里流露出的对世界性阴谋和秘密组织的着迷的反思，那么对于这一反思的表达方式，如果说《出局：禁止接触》用明语说话，《出局：幽灵》则可以说是在用暗语说话，而这无论是在内容选择上还是剪辑逻辑上。《禁止接触》中Béatrice（《普罗米修斯》剧组成员）(Edwine Moatti)和研究马达加斯加的人种学家(Michel Delahaye)的对话里，已经讨论了马达加斯加和法国两个分别“封闭的世界”，无论是人种学研究意义上还是当地族群自己的话语声音意义上。另有在一系列“调查”之后Colin在Warok(Jean Bouise)那里直接讲出了“十三人”故事是“纯粹的幻觉”。

而在《幽灵》里，我们看到的只是Béatrice和人种学家对话之前的一次碰面（在其过程中他们约定了下次碰面的时间），他们的第二次出现仅是在近结尾处的一张黑白剧照里。且《幽灵》以Colin对les treize偏执狂的信念与幻想作结，坚信着铁塔吊坠会在摆动13次后停下，他试图计数其摆动的次数并在数到“13”后停止计数，纵然吊坠仍继续摆动下去。保留的则是Thomas(Michael Lonsdale)和Étienne(Jacques Doniol-Valcroze)的谈话，其中Thomas认为《普罗米修斯》和《十三人故事》之间的联系是，les treize在停滞、“被缚”的社会环境中“促使事情前进”。如果不进行任何延伸理解，《幽灵》呈现的首先是一种偏执狂式的幻想，而它无论来自“十三人”团体的内部还是外部。相比之下《禁止接触》里Thomas的结尾则呈现了《普罗米修斯》和《十三人故事》关系的另一面，仿佛回应了Thomas和Sarah此前一次非正式的谈话里不经意谈到的对普罗米修斯结局的构思，即淹死在海边，Thomas在《禁止接触》的结尾俨然成为了普罗米修斯，而不是所谓将其在束缚中解下的人。此外《禁止接触》还保留了一段普罗米修斯与朝圣者的表演练习，那里盗火者重新成为需要被服侍的神（Noli me tangere! 是他的叫喊），如同乌托邦理想幻灭而始终处在顶端的les treize。

不同于《禁止接触》的明晰，《幽灵》里的暗语需要另做理解，然后我们才能看到对于无处不在的阴谋的幻想是怎样被消解掉的。除了尝试通过计数验证关于数字“13”的假设失败后的一句“不灵”，近乎怀疑论的剪辑也在质疑关于les treize的各种意义上的信念。场景变得更加破碎，并且使人感到对话时常在关键信息出现前被剪断（相反，在《禁止接触》中只是对于少数的对话，其意义的接收受到阻碍，以放大阶层之隔和交流的失效），并穿插着配有单调的嗡嗡噪音的黑白剧照，而杂音“纯粹人造的”，仅仅是“无意义的频率，好像由一台机器产生”。这时我们意识到，《幽灵》不过是一台通过剪辑制作意义的机器，而神秘的“十三人”组织是这台人造机器的虚构。

从《Out 1》开始我们常能在里维特的电影里看到这样的过程，情节先通向一个谜题（往往涉及某种阴谋）和对其的寻找和调查，然后又有各种方式将我们所深陷其中的这个谜题消解掉，而对于此，在《Out 1》里尤其发挥作用的是影片构建自身的逻辑。如里维特对于《幽灵》的观影所说，观众“进入到虚构中”，之后又逐渐意识到“虚构实际上是一个陷阱，它充满裂缝，是彻底人造的”。如果说《幽灵》通过伴随着侵入的剧照和噪音的碎片剪辑，将电影关于阴谋和谜题的虚构揭示为虚构，那么《禁止接触》则是通过可以强烈感知到的即兴表演。Pauline/Émilie这个拥有两个名字的角色，也正处在对谜题的妄想与超越阴谋构想的即兴之间，前者事关Igor的失踪（而在幻想的顶点她看到的却只是自己在镜廊中无尽的镜像），而后者则发生于与Colin在L’angle du hasard的相遇。并不是说《幽灵》不含有这一即兴元素，毕竟两部影片来自相同的由即兴表演构建起来的素材；而是说《禁止接触》里每个场景由即兴表演积蓄起来的能量，由于更少被打断（尽管有时也有短暂地提醒我们另一条同时进行的情节线的平行剪辑），而集中爆发出来：尤其是当《禁止接触》进入到最后三集时，Colin反复背诵着Lewis Carroll的《猎捕蛇鲨》(The Hunting of the Snark)冲下巴黎的街道，Colin和Sarah那段我们无法理解的对话后呼喊着“Pauline”逐渐远去，或是幽灵般的Sarah在半弃置的海滨别墅角落里凝视Émilie，“你为什么这样盯着我看”“我正常地看着你啊”，我们不可能不感受到一种能量和张力。

具体地，这种能量来自何处？内容很少是预先已知的，演员需要根据现场环境接收到的，尤其是对方的反应，调整自身的反应，由此形成一种双向的反馈机制。因此对手戏里的张力是双重的，除了意义层面一方对另一方（Colin和Émilie之间、Émilie和Sarah之间、Frédérique和Lucie(Françoise Fabian)之间）的质问，还有表演层面双方互相的影响、依存和调整（Colin和Émilie伸出手对对方距离的试探）。《普罗米修斯》剧组的“镜子练习”走出（剧中的）剧场，便成为了《Out 1》里面的即兴表演，因为两者的互动过程遵循着同一个逻辑。在对手戏之外呢？当Colin大声吟诵《猎捕蛇鲨》冲下街道，偶然路过的孩子的兴趣被其吸引，并跟着他一同疾走。如果说《塞琳和朱莉去划船》里，塞琳和朱莉闯进鬼屋彻底打破了现实与幻想和虚构的边界，那么《Out 1》则在即兴表演所发生的街道上向我们呈现了现实与虚构和创造从未有边界的共存。现实和对虚构的创造同时发生，好奇地望向镜头的路人等待传统意义上的穿帮镜头，在我们这里同时产生了尴尬感和自由感，因为我们意识到这是一部未受条框限制、“正在发生”的电影。于是complot（阴谋）变成了com-plot（共同-情节），不是仍在影片内容中的les treize曾尝试过却因精英团体的封闭性而未能有实际成果的共同-情节，而是指向这一即兴电影自身逻辑的共同-情节。在一圈阐释之后，我们回归到里维特对于元电影、对于电影自身之“真理”的理解：“唯一的真理是关于电影胶片和演员的真理”。

而这其实在现实的中心打开了虚构与创造的空间，Colin和跟着他奔跑的孩子不过是这一逻辑的具象化表现。让我们再来对比《禁止接触》和《幽灵》四条主线结局的相似与差异，除了同样走向解体的剧团，《幽灵》里停止于偏执狂阶段的Colin，在《幽灵》里Frédérique通过信件和les treize发生短暂的联系后又回到了出发点，身旁放着一把枪躺在狭小的房间里（甚至还丢了骗到的钱），而在《禁止接触》的最后她则戴上一幅带有巴尔扎克时代指涉的面具，死于一场决斗。这就是为什么罗森鲍姆说《禁止接触》是里维特最易接近、最令人愉悦的电影，相反《幽灵》则是他最难的一部，除了前者的连贯和后者的破碎（我们几乎是在插入的剧照里猛地知道剧团的解散和Quentin等《七将攻忒拜》剧团成员测量地图、对Renaud(Alain Libolt)枉然甚至荒诞的找寻），除了前者用明语而后者用暗语说话，“与《禁止接触》相反，《幽灵》从虚构叙事开始而逐渐被纪录取代”。 两种剪辑版本的差异甚至可以说大于其共性，虽说四条主线先交汇缠绕在一起又迅速解开是两者共同的命运，但《幽灵》呈现出的是一个密不透风甚至令人窒息的世界，如其隐晦，如跌回原点的Frédérique，如其结尾的纪录性叙事，它结束于纹丝未变的阶层区隔和由其导致的偏执妄想。而《禁止接触》则向创造与解放开启，它甚至可以看作一篇关于感知和创造力解放的宣言，宣告了一种不需要外部的启蒙或灌输就一直在那里的创造潜能，影像所需要做的仅仅是将它呈现出来：尽管交流的失效和被当作“噪音”的话，Colin最后仍在Warok面前发表了关于les treize的演讲；而Frédérique则踏上了游戏与创造：

决斗或对决斗的戏拟（Frédérique衬衫上的一滩假血提醒着我们），Frédérique在《出局：禁止接触》里的结局不如看作一个开始，当她跳转过身出现在Renaud面前时，未尝不能联想到Juliet Berto在《塞琳和朱莉去划船》里作为Céline出现在鬼屋和表演戏剧的幽灵前的场景，那是想象与虚构开始的时刻，也是里维特《Out 1》之后接下来的三部宣告l’imagination et la fiction au pouvoir的作品开始的时刻。

参考文献/ Jonathan Rosenbaum, Lauren Sedofsky, Gilbert Adair, Phantom Interviewers over Rivette Jonathan Rosenbaum, Out 1 and its Double

里维特的《出局》仰慕已久，这几天终于下定决心得空看一下，共八集。

第一集的场景大概就用了六个，符合里维特的简约舞台风，说到舞台风，有两个场景就是关于两个戏剧团队的排练情况，镜头风格几近纪录片，其中之一的戏剧排练更是用了长镜头，如果不是间或穿插了两个另外场景，这个戏剧排练几乎可以一镜到底一个小时解决了。

这另两个场景是特吕弗的”安东尼系列“的男主角让-皮埃尔·利奥德扮演一个乞丐，每天在酒吧咖啡馆里向陌生人分发一个信封，信封里是他从一本书中撕下的几页纸，然后就向人们讨钱，不给钱的话，利奥德就在他们面前吹手中的那只破口琴，没腔没调，直吹到他们给钱为止，或者吹的他们逃之夭夭。

那两个戏剧团队，一个很像是业余的，四五个戏剧爱好者组团排演一出莎剧，虽是玩耍，看着高雅，只是野路子的表演风格实在不敢恭维。有意思的是另外一个戏剧团体，他们排练的时候，一开始我以为是某种精神治疗，后来又觉得像是某种宗教的降灵会，或者更像是指一种现代即兴戏剧表演？反正看完之后我也不能断定他们是在排演戏剧，虽然之后他们还在煞有介事的交流当时的感觉。这个桥段让我想起了日本导演滨口龙介的《欢乐时光》，其中也有很长的一段类似于戏剧排演的场景，好像那是精神治疗或类似于某种团建活动，只是《出局》中的这个剧团的“精神治疗表演法"更具爆发力，简直就是潜意识的大爆发。不管怎样，我还是挺喜欢这种在剧情片中加入纪录片（或伪纪录片）的表现形式。

准确的说，《OUT》不是一部电影，应该是一部电视剧吧，共八集，13多个小时，（后来，里维特又剪了一版4个多小时），电视剧要求观众不必那么投入，玩玩手机，打打电话，去厨房拿点吃的，回来接着看，剧情照不耽误。看样子，《OUT》第一集的确秉承了这种“电视剧精神”，基本没什么剧情，总之，从第一集里，我的确不知道它到底要讲个什么故事，想到网上找找剧情介绍看看，心想还是算了吧，就怕写剧情介绍的人也没看懂这部片子，还是自己慢慢来吧。

六个场景中剩下两个场景，是一个女孩在咖啡馆里给一个陌生男人偷偷画像，结果被男人发现了，两人聊了一会儿天，无果而终，后来女孩便无所事事的回到自己的住处发呆，本来被那两个剧团搞得一头雾水的我，此时对剧情更加迷茫了。

只是觉得女主很好看。

附：这部剧集每集我都写了一篇观后感：

第二集 普罗米修斯的愤怒：//www.douban.com/note/687641997/

第三集 生活的状态：//www.douban.com/note/687835040/

第四集 草蛇灰线：//www.douban.com/note/687929084/

第五集 知识分子电影：//www.douban.com/note/688140652/

第六集 阴影地带：//www.douban.com/note/688306588/

第七集 谜中谜：//www.douban.com/note/688537487/

第八集 没有结局的结局：//www.douban.com/note/689295400/

总之，不敢称影评，只能称“观后感”。