Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Catherine Portuges
L'Esprit Créateur, Volume 30, Number 1, Spring 1990, pp. 40-46 (Article)
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them what I expect you to do with them, by that I mean exactly as you please. That’s the
way I want it. That it should be meant for you. Where are you? How can I reach you? How
can the two of us draw ourselves nearer to that love and erase the illusory fragments of time
that separate us from each other?
In this zone of visual and auditory pleasure and pain, that privileged ter
rain which is also the space of autobiography, both subject and reader/
spectator may experience what Lacan has called “ correct distance,” and
Winnicott “ potential space,” the safety of apprehending the desired
object without fear either of the suffocation of excessive closeness or the
detachment of too wide a separation.3 Through these words echo those
of Hiroshima mon amour: “ Tu me tues, tu me fais du bien,” the opposi
tions of pleasure and anguish, and the process of reconstruction in time
and space that is the occasion of cinema.4 Of the making of Aurélia
Steiner, dite Aurélia Melbourne, Duras writes:
I think there is no hiatus, no blank between the voice and what she speaks. In a sense, when
I am speaking, I am Aurélia Steiner. What I pay attention to is less, not more. It is not to
convey the text but rather to be careful not to distance myself from her, from Aurélia, who
is speaking. It demands extreme attention, every second, not to lose Aurélia, to say with
her, not to speak in my own name. To respect Aurélia, even if she comes from m e.5
The wish to see and to be seen, present in other Duras texts from Le
Ravissement de Lol V. Stein to L ’Homme assis dans le couloir, reasserts
itself here in cinematic form. Here, too, the Durassian discourse of love
and death, of pleasure inextricably combined with loss, absence, and
even destruction, is intensified by the look of the other that engenders
desire:
It was later, yes, afterwards, that it happened. A very, very long time, nothing. And then,
your eyes. Your eyes on me. At first the blue, liquid and empty, of your eyes. And then you
saw me.
At the moment these words are intoned, a coal barge appears on the
river, moving from left to right toward the camera, penetrating the visual
sphere. This instance is the first moment in Aurélia Steiner, dite Mel
bourne that an object advances toward the viewer’s gaze, marking the
light reflecting off the water in a metonymy of desire of the other. Duras’
visual and aural structures proceed thus in tandem throughout the film,
undercutting the viewer’s desire to identify the absent voice, as the river
too is cut through by bridges linking its banks.
Such subtle interpenetration of image and sound overtake the spec
tator, leaving him in thrall—despite the avowed distancing strategies of
the artist—to its hallucinatory visceral effects. In a chapter in Les Quatre
concepts fondamentaux de la psychanalyse, translated as “ Of the Gaze
as Objet petit a,” Lacan describes the dialectic of the eye and the gaze in
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Duras too speaks of a lack, from the place from which she writes and
sees, as creator of words and images eventually to become signifiers for
other subjects. In an interview she states:
One says things through absence, through “ manque d’être, manque d’amour, manque de
désir” . . . I love to film at the very minimum: the emptiness of a beach gives me great
pleasure. I can say, for example, that I have a brother who died during the war at twenty-
eight, such an abomination that I wanted to die. Suddenly I understood that this young
man had been a great, great love for me, an immense love. .. . Yet nothing can bear witness
to incest, which is not representable. That is the paradox I show in my cinema, that im
possibility. I show what is not representable, that is what haunts and interests me.6
The unrepresentable is for her doubly absent, a search for true speech
transmitted from the unknown. Such subversion at the level of the sig
nifier, in which silence and passivity become the strength of the feminine
subject, defies translation, itself a form of transference.
Duras states the origins, the trajectories, the endings of love and
desire of her primarily female speaking subjects, suspended in the simul
taneous creation and negation of language. “ When I am writing I am not
dying,” she remarks in her interview in Cahiers du Cinéma, for which
she was given carte blanche:
Before films there are books; before books, nothing. . . . I always want to be reading while
shooting a film, but I cannot because I must look while the camera is on. . . . For me
cinema is an adjunct of writing . . . yet I feel guilty for having deserted the word in favor of
the image. The place of writing is magnificent, unique, terrifying . . . the written part of a
film is for me cinema, (op. cit., 5-6)
Duras’ films make demands on the spectator. They both invite and
repel our desire, both promise and refuse to gratify. Reading them as a
text—for pleasure, for obliteration, for reconnection with those extreme
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L ’E spr it C réa teu r
biography, repressed history and enacted story. In Les Yeux verts, Duras
notes that what she seeks in her films is the primary state of the text, as
one tries to remember a distant internal event not lived out but heard
told. Its meaning, she believes, comes later, and has no need of her
authorship, for the voice of the reading alone will impart that meaning
without intervention on her part. For this to be accomplished, everything
must be read, including what she calls the “ empty place.”
In his “ Hommage fait a Marguerite Duras,” Lacan suggests that if
Duras’ art makes her the ravisher, we as readers (and spectators) are the
ravished.7 Writing, speaking, and seeing from the phantasmal place of
her own desire, Duras insists upon the obsessional and deceptively simple
questions that continue to torment human beings, despite efforts to gain
distance from them: why do we love, suffer, die? What do we want from
the indescribably and eternally lost object—man, woman, child? how is
anything possible without absolute love, absolute desire? By permitting
the viewer a major role in her cinematic project, Duras discovers a lan
guage adequate to these questions, to speak the unspoken, hear the
unheard.8
University o f Massachusetts
Notes
1. Marguerite Duras, “ Les Yeux verts,” Cahiers du cinéma, nos. 312-313 (June 1980): 23.
Translations mine.
2. Marguerite Duras, Aurélia Steiner, dite Melbourne (1979), 16mm. Film courtesy of
French-American Cultural Services and Educational Aid, New York City. All tran
scriptions and translations of the film text are mine.
3. Jacques Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts o f Psychoanalysis (New York: Nor
ton, 1978). See also D. W. Winnicott, Through Paediatrics to Psychoanalysis (London:
International Psychoanalytical Library, 1973); The Maturational Processes and the
Facilitating Environment (London: International Psychoanalytical Library, 1963); and
Playing and Reality (London: Tavistock, 1971).
4. Marguerite Duras, text of Hiroshima mon amour, directed by Alain Resnais (New
York: Grove Press, 1961).
5. Interview with Marguerite Duras on Apostrophes, Bernard Pivot, interviewer/pro
ducer. Radio-television française, Station 2, translation mine.
6. Marguerite Duras, “ Le Malheur merveilleux: Pourquoi mes films?” Cahiers du
Cinéma, June 1980: 79-86.
7. Jacques Lacan, “ Hommage fait à Marguerite Duras, du Ravissement de Loi V. Stein,
in Marguerite Duras, Collection Ca/Cinéma (Paris: Editions Albatros, 1981).
8. For more detailed analysis, see my “ Cinematic Countertransference: Duras and
Lacan,” PsychCritique 2:1 (1987): 17-23, and “ Seeing Subjects: Women Directors and
Cinematic Autobiography,” in Life/Lines: Theorizing Women’s Autobiography, eds.
B. Brodzki and C. Schenck (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1988) 338-50.
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