Warsaw Bridge (1989) - full transcript

How are they knotting their
ties now? Large or small?

What are you mumbling?

The Wilson knot...
that's it, the Wilson...

- Have you lost it again?
- Not at all.

I just can't stop thinking
about what I am doing.

You've always had trouble
with the simplest things.

My father, with five
movements, or perhaps three,

tied a perfect knot.

Who were you talking
to in the garden?

- To a bore.
- To whom?

- To a bore from the university.
- What does he do?



I suppose the same thing
all of you do at the university.

- Do you know him well?
- No.

- What do you mean?
- I often run into him around there.

- What's his name?
- I don't know.

- But he must have a name.
- It's possible.

Yes? Oh, hello.

It's practically all decided.

I'm glad you are getting
the prize. Seriously.

Good.

Yes,

all right.

Fine,

we'll be talking.

Goodbye.



I have read a splendid book by a
Welsh writer, a marvel composition.

You know practically nothing
about the characters,

or their attitude about life.

The only protagonist
is the city of Constantinople.

In fact, the idea of
historical time does not exist.

The present and
the past are blurred.

One of the narrative
cores is the racetrack,

where, throughout centuries,

different urban factions
confront one another.

- Did you read it in English?
- Yes.

It was recently
published in London.

Read it again and you'll
find that this Constantinople

you talk about so fervently,

is not the city, but the
name of a racehorse.

If ordinary people, those
who make things work,

were as dispersed as you,
nothing would work.

You get confused
because you talk too much.

Verbal incontinence is,
in fact, a corporate tick.

- A tick?
- Yes, because it's compulsive.

You get a great idea

and then test it
by flinging it out.

Sure...

like a ball against a wall,

to catch it on the
rebound and throw it again.

A simple muscular movement.

I know people in this profession
who are practically mute.

Yes.

Poets who don't drink, but
there are very few of those.

- I am tempted to contradict.
- It's your obligation.

Each of you is a comforting
mirror image of the other...

- Come now!
- You need each other to endure

the hard conditions
of your profession.

Alright, let's get busy.

- They must be impatient outside.
- Some more than others.

What would you say to suggesting

that the author
change the title?

It's a hackneyed
and decadent title

with a romantic
smell that bothers me...

No, no! Definitely not.

I have a sense of smell
for titles. This one is perfect.

- Let's not complicate things.
- It shouldn't be changed. It's a find!

I dare say it's the best
thing about the book.

You're small-time, but you'd
die to say something significant.

Leave your professional abuses
for your literary gatherings...

There are none any more...

Then leave them
for another occasion.

Welcome, Mr. Mayor.

You have a knack for
getting people together.

Not me, culture.

Culture by itself
doesn't open any doors.

That's true, you are
right in that respect.

I appreciate you
having made the time.

- Pawn 4 Queen.
- Knight 3, Bishop, King.

Pawn 4, Bishop, Queen.

Pawn 3, King.

Pawn 3, Knight, King.

- Pawn 4, Queen.
- Bishop 2, Knight.

- Tartakower.
- Catalan opening.

Barcelona, 1929.

- May I?
- Sure.

- See you tomorrow.
- Not tomorrow. The day after.

- I knew you'd come.
- Really?

- Yes, of course.
- Why?

- I know you well.
- That's what you think.

You're a scoundrel.

- You look beautiful.
- Do you think so?

- Trying to impress someone?
- What's up?

Yes, you.

- How are you?
- Very well.

- Hello!
- Hello!

Is your father still
determined to seduce you?

Of course! I make it
very easy for him.

Don't take it so seriously.

Do you know anyone with a
secret, anyone with mystery?

One or two...

Seen anything
interesting lately?

An exhibit of
contemporary art.

Stop...

You and you, back
inside. Keep going.

I think you are exaggerating...

I said too little, I should
have added more...

You enjoy enhancing your
reputation as a louse.

What are you saying? You
see my innocent, angel face?

I don't know what malice is...

And what about the music?
What's wrong with music?

No great composer
has appeared in years.

- And why is that?
- Because silence no longer exists.

He's famous because
his book was liked here,

and there by those up
high and in the middle.

And those at the bottom?

In arts and letters
there is no bottom,

those on the bottom
are in the middle.

We must give the figure
of the writer prestige,

and these cultural
events help do this.

A country that forgets its
writers pays dearly for it.

What is the last
thing you've read?

A 275 page report
on the subsoil of the city.

I find it out of place.

What are writers like?

They have evolved very little.

They practice an old profession,
like prostitutes and actors.

- But they're adorable.
- Why?

They are shy and aggressive,
and, like politicians,

they consider themselves
much better than they are.

- Thank you a lot.
- Not at all.

The waiter has taken
my whiskey again.

- I won't sign without it.
- Does the glass have to be full?

Of course!

It's just that
I sign in two stages:

first, I write my name,

then I take a sip
from a full glass,

and finally I
scribble a flourish,

cause I sign with a flourish.

Leaving each person's idiosyncrasies,
no doubt very legitimate

it would be more reasonable
and more in keeping

with the residual
character of literature...

- I'm not signing.
- Bring me a glass of whiskey.

- Sign, will you.
- You said the same thing last year.

Wrong! I remember that last
year I spoke of invisible ink.

Your memory's going.
You're getting old.

After the voting, the jury

awards this prize to the novel

"Warsaw Bridge".

Excuse me. Did
you expect to win?

- I suppose so.
- Are you satisfied?

At the moment, overwhelmed.

What are you planning
to do with the prize?

First spend it and then regret
having spent it so foolishly.

Would you dedicate
this prize to someone?

Yes, but only in case
of an Act of God.

Would you like your
book to be a film?

More than please me,
it would worry me.

What is the last
book you've read?

I couldn't say. I
read many at a time.

Do you admit the
influence of American

post-war literature
on your work?

Which American literature?
Columbian, Mexican, Peruvian?

I'm referring to American,
from the USA, of course.

And which post-war?

World War II, Korea, Vietnam,

or the war on the
island of Grenada?

What will you do to
celebrate the prize?

Go to a restaurant I
save for special occasions.

Do you know what you will order?

Yes, that I know.

And you, what do
you think of quatrains?

Are you referring to quatrains of 3
verses or tercets with 1 rhyme?

Yes, of course.

A lot has been
written on the subject.

It has even been said that
because of the fashion,

many on-rhyme tercets
could have lost the 3rd verse

becoming 2 verses or 4 verses.

But if you want my opinion,

I do not believe
in this possibility.

Now, if you'll allow me...

So, how am I doing?

Perfectly.

Do you follow the same line
as in your earlier novels?

I hope so, since one always
writes about the same things.

- Did it take much to write it?
- In time, money or mental effort?

Well, let's say in time.

If you mean writing
time: three weeks.

By hand or with a typewriter?

- It depends...
- On what?

The genre. I write poems by hand
and novels on the typewriter.

And I dictate articles.

Could you give me a
synthesis of the plot?

If it were a film script, it
would take me 30 seconds.

For the novel, the
synthesis you want

consists of the
200 pages of the book.

- In other words, one has to read it.
- Or at least try to.

All right, I'll try.

WARSAW BRIDGE

Body of a man.

Age: about 45.

Decubitus prone position.

Right arm folded over thorax,

left arm in unnatural
position due to fractures.

Hyper-flexing of the head,

face covered with mixture
of dried blood and mud.

Probable fracture of the spine.

Remains of encephalic
mass on the forehead.

After washing face to
eliminate the remains,

we observe black and
blue swollen features,

deformed

and fundamentally asymmetrical,

as if the left side
of the face had

slid vertically over
the other half,

with the eye socket, cheek,
and jawbone on the left

displaced towards the
centre and downwards.

It seems evident
the fractures affect

not only the neck and skull,

but the whole
osseous facial mass.

No sign of violence
on the hands,

very neat, clean fingernails

with no foreign matter,
such as hair or threads.

Difficult to distinguish

whether the skin belongs to
the palm or the back of the hand

as there are no
calluses, grazes,

or light injuries.

In the lower abdomen

we observe

a bruised wound some
20 centimeters long,

with evisceration
of intestinal mass.

Cause of death:

injuries compatible with
cranialencephalic traumatism

and traumatic shock.

Mechanism of death compatible with
a fall from an undetermined height.

The passing of time
modifies my capacity to evoke

and introduces a new
system of memory selection

bit by bit those memories I could
share with others become blurred.

They are vivid and
persistent memories,

but not verifiable by anyone
else. There are no witnesses.

They are like still
photographs that are redeemed

during moments
of undefined emotion...

streets,

squares,

bridges,

open fields...

huge iron and glass domes,

station platforms
without passengers.

All submerge in the slowness

and silence of distant memory.

I caught the urban
train in Friedrichstrasse

and went by the Warsaw Bridge.

From the station I saw a
landscape of railroad tracks,

cars stopped on the sidings,

trains moving in
different directions,

and engines making almost
imperceptible maneuvers

when my car started moving.

I could see sheds,

asbestos roofs
and chimneys,

various buildings colored
by smoke year after year,

eroding the original
color of the walls.

In the background a bridge,

the Warsaw Bridge,

grey on an identical sky.

For years that view
gave me an emotional shock.

I always intended to go
as far as the bridge some day

to cross it from side to side.

I never did.

Suddenly things accelerated

to such a fever pitch that
few could have foreseen it.

Rather, no one foresaw it.

That going from the old situation
to the new was staggering

but also splendid.

What failed was our perception.

In other words, ourselves.

Do you believe there is a
reality outside of ourselves,

an objective reality, perhaps?

I didn't say that.

To get away from this objective
reality that worries you so,

I would never say "solus
ipse" as Bishop Berkeley did.

- The Bishop of Berkeley?
- Not the Bishop of Berkeley!

Berkeley who was a bishop!

It is the human mind
that makes the distinction

between the living
and the non-living.

The most primitive forms
are those of a single cell.

Cells that duplicate
themselves indefinitely.

At this stage there is
no division of labor,

and consequently,
no aging process.

They are, in a way, immortal.

There is no doubt that
these organisms were aquatic,

unable to live out of water.

The primitive atmosphere of the
earth was not suitable for life.

Because the delicate molecules

were subjected to
strong radiations.

Nowadays nobody

except die-hard theologians

doubt that life originated

from the organic
forms diluted in water.

The evolution of plant
life is a prodigious tale;

the adventure
of some types of algae

that manage to leave the
sea and colonize the earth.

The blue of the sky is a consequence
of the green of the algae,

thanks to the intense activity
of these photosynthesizing beings.

The first colonizers
were very simple

and their reproductive
systems asexual.

Sexuality is an evolutionary
success that involves paralysis

and death,

but which makes selection and

the permanence of
the species possible.

The first very
rudimentary algae,

incessantly swept by the water,

had great difficulties...

In the process of
evolutionary adaptation

the algae that acquired
systems of fixation

to the substances which protect
their cellular membranes,

for example, gelatinous
algae, flourish.

- What time is it? Late?
- Twenty five after twelve.

Some voice!
Are you hoarse?

I talked too much.

You should measure
your strength.

When I finish a class, I always
feel depressed somehow.

I digress a lot...

but besides, today
I had the feeling

I was saying
someone else's words.

I'm not surprised.
You could be a medium.

- Don't laugh. I'm serious.
- So am I!

Oh, come on!

Some days we have
strange feelings. That's all.

I really think I'm not
cut out for teaching.

You must be, you've
done it for years.

You and most of the
others know how to act.

I lack appeal. I can't seduce...

You can't seduce?

You are the
paradigm of seduction.

We'll go to lunch and
continue the conversation.

- Are you serious?
- Let's talk.

There's a restaurant that
serves baby squid with aubergine.

Are you sure they're
squid? Not cuttlefish?

No, squid!

Are you sure?

Cephalopeda
decapoda dibranchiata!

With laminar expansions

or contractile fins
on both sides?

Exactly!

With a calcareous and
wide internal shell?

Yes, but they remove it first.

With 2 tentacles
longer than the rest.

With a prehensile
function, and suction cups.

With an ink gland...

that secretes a black liquid
for defensive purposes...

Very developed crystalline eyes

and anterior and posterior
sockets that form real images...

And a notable visual and
tactile associative memory.

They're not squid,
they're cuttlefish.

They are not
cuttlefish! They're squid.

Lolinguncula vulgaris,

lolinguncula vulgaris.

Squid, squid!

Good afternoon.

Is this the road
to "Los Arcos"?

On the other shore.
You can't miss it.

Thanks. Could you tell
me what you are doing?

I'm putting oxygen
into the pond.

The water is low and
the fish are dying.

- They need oxygen.
- Right. Bye.

Hi.

How're you doing?

This knife cuts very well.

Do you wash the mushrooms?

When I go near the
dam, I feel strange.

Does that happen to you too?

No. For me a dam is
just an ordinary reality.

The most ordinary things can
take on an unusual dimension.

Dams are sleeping waters,

that sometimes
arouse foul fantasies,

they're easy to interpret

because they refer to
some submerged village

or to the foreboding
of a catastrophe

if the retaining wall gives way.

Even the story about
the bells in the dam

is easy to explain
because, in fact,

the bells do toll.

It's been proved that
when the water level drops,

the bells toll, whether
they are there or not,

the bells toll.

On the other hand,
salt marshes, swamps

but above all lakes,
are something else.

- Should I use flour?
- No.

They really do
stimulate the imagination

with legends relating to the
mysteries of their unknown depths.

Today a woman in the
bread shop was telling

a strange story about her
sick sister and the bells.

My older sister

was put in a rest home

because she was losing her mind.

Suddenly she would ask me

"Who are you?

What are you doing here?"

I felt so sorry for her.

This morning we went to see her

and she seemed to
remember everything.

She even remembered making
me the sweater I was wearing.

Suddenly she looked
at me like a child,

she leaned closer

and whispering in
my ear, she said:

Confidentially, why
don't you tell me

how long I've been dead?

"How long have I been dead?"

My blood went cold.

You don't care whether
things correspond.

If you mean names
attract me, you're right.

But without losing
interest in their meaning.

At times temptation is tough.

I think I know what
I'm dealing with.

You probably know
better than many others.

Does it surprise you to find

there are real idiots
among writers?

Idiocy does not surprise me,
every profession has its quota.

What bothers me is that the
printed word has too much prestige.

Some printed words
merit their prestige.

Some are like night court,

like that band of writers

who research into a
supposedly lived past,

when they are really
reducing memory

to insubstantial recollections.

Some have a poor heritage.

Do you want to talk
about your book?

Is this is the best
time? Of course I do.

You never know
what you've written

if others don't
explain it to you.

I can only discuss
part of it now.

- I couldn't finish it.
- You missed the best part.

- Were you bored?
- No, that's not it.

Then it's really serious.

At first it works, even suggests
that it may be interesting,

but you introduce a change that
probably makes for more sales.

But that's another story.

Look, I write to be read,

and I can continue
writing because I am read.

Yes, of course. Why?

The reader must be
given enough clues

to defend himself
against general stupidity.

The public accepts anything.

The important reader is the
one who isn't a reader yet,

and perhaps never will be.

I insist, the most lucid authors

create the most reasonable
and renovating trends.

What you call public
should go fuck itself.

I'll show you something
you're going to like.

I don't want you to
reproach my rustic origins

but a man in my village took
the same route every day.

He would leave home at
dawn and go back at dusk.

In both cases in the twilight,

which is the best time,
he observed the sky.

The man knew what he wanted.

He traveled on a donkey.

He got to know the
heavens so accurately

that they said he
knew them by heart.

On one occasion he
observed a change

in the order of the
planets and stars.

He stopped and noted the
presence of a new heavenly body.

He hurried to
announce his discovery.

The weird thing is he
discovered it some hours

before it was tracked at
the Observatory at Greenwich.

They tell many stories
like that in villages.

Really?

- It's logical they should.
- Really?

Perhaps they express
a certain prevention,

as opposed to science,
which is an urban phenomenon.

Now I have the
interpretation. Now what?

Nothing, but it's natural
for different life-styles

to create their own
mythology in self-defense.

I think you are
taking it too literally.

The person who made up the
story could be just a wise guy!

It's a good story and
literally believable.

In the right hands it would
be a good short story.

I'm glad you said short story,

at least they are brief.

I was addicted to politics.

An addiction that made me
feel worthwhile as well as free.

For years I lived
entrenched in my dignity.

Too entrenched, probably.

It was not difficult for
me to put off decisions

because I lived
intensely in the illusion

that the future was much
more real than the present.

I lived as if I deserved
a second chance...

I remember a name,
the face of a friend,

but suddenly my mind goes blank,

and is unable to establish
any significant ties.

You talk about
stirring up your memory

but you live engrossed
in your memories.

You use your past, your
shitty Warsaw Bridge,

to feed your narcissism.

You are stifled by aesthetics.

It's true.

You're stifled by rather
precarious aesthetics.

You'd better shut up.

You've had things
very easy up to now.

- You're going too far.
- Mind your own business.

Let's not make this something
personal when it is not.

What do you mean?

That you are
avoiding the question.

And what is the question?

You know very well,

it's the attitude one
takes towards literature.

Because in literature, as in
everything else, there are 2 choices:

you either take risks or
you use it to earn a living.

- You're a real son of a bitch!
- Probably.

Newspapers have reported

the strange case of a diver

found in a burnt forest.

According to the press,

while filling its water tanks,

a plane from the Forest Service

scooped up the diver

hurling him down later

on the burning forest.