Destabilization of Seeing in Literature and Film: Alain Resnais, Marguerite Duras, and John Ashbery

Alain Resnais's directorial master interpretion of Marguerite Duras's eloquent Hiroshima, Mon Amour, Marguerite Duras's intoxicatingly seductive novella, The Malady of Death, and John Ashbery's evocative poem, Forties Flick artfully destabilize and disrupt images. The countless implications of these destabilizations on the possibilities of seeing are compellingly overpowering.

Marguerite Duras masters the destabilization of image and the problem of "seeing" in her works: she has the especial power of building readers and viewers up to the most dramatic of emotional peaks and then obliterating all of our preconceived notions and assumptions in a manner that manages to be both poignant and enthralling. Duras is unmatched in her ability to strip away our inhibitions and concept in approaching the world and experiences whether it be in a woman who does not allow herself to love or a man who would trade the world to be able to love.

Hiroshima, Mon Amour, Marguerite Duras's intricately crafted tale of love, denial, rejection, and renewal, chronicles the encounters of a libertine French actress in Hiroshima; her scripts and dialogues are skillfully interpreted by Alain Resnais. As the nameless "Elle" describes the images of Hiroshima to "Lui," images of the two lovers are weaved in and out of the images of devastation, creating a powerful destabilization of our concept of film. One moment, the lovers are entangled in each other, the most subtle motions of the hand and images of flesh causing a dramatically provocative response in the viewer. Just as the viewer becomes involved in the concept of the lovers and the meaning of their liaison, "Elle" begins to describe the destruction of Hiroshima to "Lui" once again and a montage of documentary images are infused among each other, interposed on the lovers' images. The marked destabilizing metamorphosis from flesh engaged in intimacy to flesh ravaged by the atomic bomb is overwhelming. As the screen flashes from the liaison to children ravaged by war to death back to the lovers, the soothing voice of "Elle" is the only thing which leaves us with any clarity or stable ground. As calmly as one might recount the events of a day, she recounts the horror of Hiroshima, yet it is not in a detached manner; it is apparent that she is much impressed and moved by these images, "Four times at the museum in Hiroshima. I saw the people walking around. The people walk around, lost in thought, among the photographs, the reconstructions, for want of something else, among the photographs, the photographs, the reconstructions, for want of something else, the explanations, for want of something else. Four times at the museum in Hiroshima." Among these photographs in the museum, she believes that she will find truth. In fact, she intricately associates herself with the tragedy of Hiroshima and tries to exhibit her deep understanding and empathetic pain for these events. By the time that this sequence finishes, our conceptions have been so challenged that it is impossible for the viewer to feel as though they have found any stable concept of the world. We have seen and discovered more in these few cinematic minutes that entire hours spent in other films; we have seen everything and yet, we have seen nothing. It is clear that the viewer has seen something powerful and incomparable, yet it is so intricate that we have not yet begun to marginally understand the implications. It seems, in fact, that one must reflect on this sequence, which gives rise to much introspection, for at least a week before one can begin to comprehend its significance.

The Malady of Death, incomparable for its dark examination of a soul which has "the malady of death," searching constantly for meaning and emotion, but failing. When the nameless and emotionally empty "you" attempts to generate any kind of genuine human connection, readers are floored by the lengths to which "you" will go to, ill attempts and means, and absolute failure. Marguerite Duras chronicles a man who tries to perceive and experience sex as a meaningful occurrence and women as people who can truly love and be loved, "You say you can't know why, that you don't understand the malady you suffer from (45)." He has never felt love or emotion for another human being and believes that he can buy love and experience what he is missing. The woman takes interest in the man because she sees something within him that interests her, "an essential and fatal weakness." This psychotrauma explores love for rent; it is in their fleeting encounter that the two nameless lovers, albeit a misnomer as they are loveless lovers, attempt to fulfill a kind of purpose to sex. "She" attempts to discover the malady of death which "you" first struck her with, "She smiles, says this is the first time that until she met you she didn't know death could be lived. She looks at you through the filtered green of her eyes. She says: You herald the reign of death. Death can't be loved if it's imposed from outside. You think you weep because you can't love. You weep because you can't impose death (45-46)." This powerful examination of the human mind deeply shakes and destabilizes the concept of seeing. It is through "she" that the reader can see the mind of "you," a deeply disturbed individual. One can "see" death and misery and emptiness. It is this misery and emptiness that "she" sees that brings about her introspection, "She says almost inaudibly: You're going to die of death. Your death has already begun (46)." It is in these words that Marguerite Duras allows the reader to see the emptiness of the soul of "you," without any meaning, "you" are already dead. This provocative psychopathologic exploration elucidates the tragedy of emotional death, allowing the reader to see much more than what is written on the page, destabilizing all of one's preconceptions about lovers and emotion in literature.

John Ashbery's stirring poem, "Forties Flick" evokes powerful visual images; however there is an underlying darkness and meaning which can not be "seen" on the page:

"Why must it always end this way?
A dais with woman reading, with the ruckus of her hair
And all that is unsaid about her pulling us back to her, with her
Into the silence that night alone can't explain."

Although we may "see" the woman reading, there is something powerful in Ashbery's words, motivating the reader to ponder the significance of the woman's life. Ashbery is "pulling us back to her" with his words; it is impossible to explain why we have taken such interest in this woman who exists only for a few short lines. The woman compels us to wonder about her life and ponder why she is alone. Unlike many personalities in poetry, we find it impossible to believe that the woman exists one from lines one to twenty-one; she seems to have a story that goes far beyond these few words. Ashbery's description of the woman is elucidated perfectly in:

"But we didn't have to reinvent these either:
They had gone away into the plot of a story,
The "art" part--knowing what important details to leave out
And the way character is developed."

It is in the details that are left out that the woman's character is best described; she is shrouded in mystery that the reader can not begin to fathom; had Ashbery written a detailed character sketch, the reader would not think any more of the woman than her existence within twenty-one lines of text. Nothing can be seen and yet everything can be seen. The mystery of the poem is seductive to the reader; each word holds the hope of understanding, yet one can not begin to understand the woman in these lines. The faltering and destabilization experienced in reading this poem is purely exhilarating.

Alain Resnais, Marguerite Duras, and John Ashbery masterfully destabilize and disrupt images, impressions, and perspective. The implications of the cinematic and literary work of these three masters reconstruct our conceptions of the world, love, and life in a manner that is adroit, artistic, and seamless.