Arhive zilnice: ianuarie 12, 2010
In lumea lui Tim Burton
Imi place Tim Burton si lumea lui ciudata. Este printre putinii “creatori de ciudatenii”, de lucruri out of this world care nu mi se pare fortat, fals, artificial. Pentru ca am oroare de artificial. Cred sincer ca lumile lui, personajele lui exista cu adevarat undeva in mintea lui. Cred ca o calatorie prin mintea lui ar fi una din cele mai fascinante experiente, din punct de vedere artistic, cultural, psihologic. M-as inscrie oricand intr-o astfel de excursie.
Tim Burton are acel je ne sais quoi pe care il apreciez la un artist, care din punctul meu de vedere il transforma intr-un artist adevarat: vocea unica, inconfundabila. Nu cred ca, vazand filmele lui, trebuie sa iti spuna cineva ca sunt de Tim Burton – stii. Nu cred ca, vazand desenele lui, trebuie sa iti spuna cineva ca sunt de Tim Burton – stii. Descopar cu bucurie ca are aceeasi voce unica si in poezie.
De ce vorbim azi despre Tim Burton? Pentru ca, dupa ce am citit cateva fragmente in Dilemateca, am avut ocazia sa rasfoiesc Melancolica moarte a baiatului stridie. Am rasfoit-o, nu am citit-o, pentru ca imi rezerv placerea asta pentru un moment in care o pot savura 100%.
Asadar, doar rasfoind, am remarcat aparenta superficialitate a desenelor si a poemelor, ascunzand intelesuri si drame profunde. Sa luam simpla poezie a lui Jimmy, the Hideous Penguin Boy:
„My name is Jimmy,
but my friends just call me
‘the hideous penguin boy.’”
Aceeasi simplitate o are si poezia The Girl with Many Eyes, desi putin mai lunga, o frumoasa meditatie asupra superficialitatii.
One day in the park
I had quite a surprise.
I met a girl
who had many eyes.
She was really quite pretty
(and also quite shocking!)
and I noticed she had a mouth,
so we ended up talking.
We talked about flowers,
and her poetry classes,
and the problems she’d have
if she ever wore glasses.
It’s great to now a girl
who has so many eyes,
but you really get wet
when she breaks down and cries.
Burton spune: “……lipsa de cultura din suburbii m-a impins spre lumile astea”. Pe noi unde ne impinge lipsa de cultura? Tare mi-e teama ca nu spre o lume ca a lui.
Alte personaje Burtoniene. Sau alter ego-uri?
Iar ca incheiere, poemul ce da titlul volumului, si o esenta a lumilor lui: neadaptarea, respingerea, blestemul de a fi “altfel”.
The Melacholy Death of the Oyster Boy
He proposed in the dunes,
they were wed by the sea,
Their nine-day-long honeymoon
was on the isle of Capri.
For their supper they had one specatular dish-
a simmering stew of mollusks and fish.
And while he savored the broth,
her bride’s heart made a wish.
That wish came true-she gave birth to a baby.
But was this little one human
Ten fingers, ten toes,
he had plumbing and sight.
He could hear, he could feel,
This unnatural birth, this canker, this blight,
was the start and the end and the sum of their plight.
She railed at the doctor:
„He cannot be mine.
He smells of the ocean, of seaweed and brine.”
„You should count yourself lucky, for only last week,
I treated a girl with three ears and a beak.
That your son is half oyster
you cannot blame me.
… have you ever considered, by chance,
a small home by the sea?”
Not knowing what to name him,
they just called him Sam,
„that thing that looks like a clam”.
Everyone wondered, but no one could tell,
When would young Oyster Boy come out of his shell?
When the Thompson quadruplets espied him one day,
they called him a bivalve and ran quickly away.
One spring afternoon,
Sam was left in the rain.
At the southwestern corner of Seaview and Main,
he watched the rain water as it swirled
down the drain.
His mom on the freeway
in the breakdown lane
was pouding the dashboard-
she couldn’t contain
the ever-rising grief,
„Really, sweetheart,” she said
„I don’t mean to make fun,
but something smells fishy
and I think it’s our son.
I don’t like to say this, but it must be said,
you’re blaming our son for your problems in bed.”
He tried salves, he tried ointments
that turned everything red.
He tried potions and lotions
and tincture of lead.
He ached and he itched and he twitched and he bled.
The doctor diagnosed,
„I can’t quite be sure,
but the cause of the problem may also be the cure.
They say oysters improve your sexual powers.
Perhaps eating your son
would help you do it for hours!”
He came on tiptoe,
he came on the sly,
sweat on his forehead,
and on his lips-a lie.
„Son, are you happy? I don’t mean to pry,
but do you dream of Heaven?
Have you ever wanted to die?
Sam blinked his eye twice.
but made no reply.
Dad fingered his knife and loosened his tie.
As he picked up his son,
Sam dripped on his coat.
With the shell to his lips,
Sam slipped down his throat.
They burried him quickly in the sand by the sea
-sighed a prayer, wept a tear-
and they were back home by three.
A cross of greay driftwood marked Oyster Boy’s grave.
Words writ in the sand
promised Jesus would save.
But his memory was lost with one high-tide wave.
But his memory was lost with one high-tide wave.