Waves (Golven)

WAVES

on the novel of the same name by Virginia Woolf (1931)

in the film were shot:

Atat Celelen / Neville /.

Thea Kosterink / Roda /.

Mikhel Van Roy / Louis /.

Truyus Te Selle / Ginny /.

Marianne Steiger / Susan /

Edwin De Fries / Bernard /

and in the role of Percival - Gerard-Jan Reinders.

Composer Luis Andrisen.

Operator Theo van de Sande.

Written and directed by Annette Apon.

"I see the ring," Bernard said.

"It's hanging over me." Trembling and hanging in a loop of light.

I see a yellow liquid smear, - Susan was talking.

He spreads and runs off into the distance, until he stumbles on the red strip.

"I hear a sound," Roda said.

Chick-chirik; Chick-chirik; Up down.

"I see the balloon," Neville said, "he was

hanging down on the huge side of the mountain."

"I see a red brush," Ginny said, "she's threaded with gold threads."

"I hear someone stomping," Louis said.

"A huge beast is chained by a chain." And stomping, stomping, stomping.

"Bernard, Neville, Ginny and Susan are running

rampets into the flower beds," Louis says.

Peel the surface of the world.

They shout: "Louis, Louis!", But they do not see me.

I'm hidden behind the hedge.

O Lord, let them throw their butterflies on a handkerchief on the road.

If only they did not see me.

I am green, like a yew, in the shadow of this hedge.

Hair - from leaves.

There's something pink glimmering past.

Between the leaves a quick glance. His ray scorches me.

Ginny found me.

Something hit me in the back of my neck.

She kissed me.

And it overturned everything.

"After breakfast," Ginny said, "I ran at a run."

Suddenly I see: The leaves on the fence are moving.

I thought - the bird is sitting on the nest.

I spread the branches and looked;

I see there are no birds.

And the leaves are moving. I was frightened.

I cry myself, but I run and run, all faster.

Why did the leaves jump so much?

Why is my heart jumping so much and my legs will not be able to crouch?

And I rushed here and I see - you stand, green like a bush,

you stand quietly, quietly, Louis, and your eyes are frozen.

I thought: "Suddenly he died?" - and I kissed you,

and my heart pounded under the pink dress

and trembled like leaves, it's unclear why.

"Susan passed us by," Bernard was speaking.

I'll follow her, Neville.

Quietly go after her, to be near at hand with all my curiosity;

To console her when she walks, she will cry and think: "I'm alone."

The golden warmth in my side turned to stone, - Susan said, -

when I saw: Ginny kisses Louis.

I'll squeeze my anguish, squeeze it in my handkerchief.

I'll go to lessons in a beech grove, alone.

"There's a white house, it's stretched out among the trees," Bernard said.

This is Alvedon.

A lady sits between two tall windows. The

gardeners sweep the meadow with huge brooms.

We came here first. We are the discoverers of new lands.

White-white - all my ships, - Rod spoke.

Let the white petals float when I swing the pelvis.

From the shore to the shore floats my flotilla.

You can be a little alone,

While Miss Hudson is laying out textbooks on the school desk.

A little while to be free.

And I will swing back and forth a dark basin,

so that my ships will overcome the waves.

Some will drown.

Others will break against the rocks.

Only one will remain. My ship.

"Where is this Bernard?" Neville said.

He left and my knife carried away.

We were in a barn, cut out boats, and Susan walked past the door.

And Bernard threw his boat, followed her, and took my knife.

Bringing me down; Runs for Susan;

Susan will cry, and he will pull out my knife and tell her stories.

Well, call, we'll be late.

We must give up toys.

And all enter the classroom together.

When I meet a stranger

and I want to show him, here, at this table,

what I call "my life",

I'm not looking back for one life;

I'm not one person; I'm a few:

Ginny,

Susan,

Neville,

Family,

Louis...

To give you an idea of my life, I must tell you a story,

but there are so many, there are so many of them -

about childhood, about school,

about love, marriage, about death and so on;

And all is a complete lie.

I'll tell you a story about our doctor.

When Dr. Crane dives into the wide door after evening prayers,

he seems to be convinced of his immense superiority;

Let's imagine how he reveals himself in his own room over the stables.

He unfastens the socks from the elastic bands (let us

allow ourselves this vulgarity, this indiscretion).

Dropping both hands along the armrests of the chair, he reflects

(the moment is purely intimate; But here we will cover it):

Is it worth crossing the pink bridge to the bedroom or is it not worth it?

Two of these rooms are united by a bridge of pink

light from a lamp at the head of Mrs. Crane,

which, scattering hair on the pillow, reads French memoirs.

At the same time, she sadly, happily passes her hand across her forehead and sighs:

"And it's all?",

comparing himself with the French duchess.

So, the doctor thinks, in two years - resignation.

I could become an admiral; Judge; Not a school teacher.

What mighty evil forces brought me here? -

he asks and notices with longing,

that a burgundy fleecy carpet had grown bald beneath the foot of his chair.

But how difficult it is to tell stories about people in their private corners.

I can not continue this story.

Bernard says everything in the world is history.

I'm history. Louis is history. We are all phrases for the history of Bernard.

They murmur and effervesce - images.

From his stupid comparisons the soul becomes empty, light.

And you flow and bubble, as it is his murmur.

And then we all feel that among us lies Percival.

I'm furious, I believe, bygone.

He was bored; I was bored too;

Bernard instantly feels that we are bored.

I discern the stretch, the pressure in his phrase,

as if he said: "Listen!", and Percival said: "No!"

The phrase stumbles, fades.

Yes, it's a terrible moment when Bernard's authority is changing him,

and there is no already connected plot, and he settles, he trembles like a torn wire,

and he stops, his mouth gaping, as if about to burst open.

Rising, I think every step,

with each trample something.

And every night I tear out the old day from the calendar

and I squeeze into a tight ball.

So you end, died, you, school day, hateful day.

All the days of June - today the twenty-fifth -

Here they marked out, riddled with gong blows, lessons,

teams - to wash, change, engage, eat.

And at home the hay is in the meadows.

Dad smokes, leaning his elbows on the gate.

Then one door in the house will knock, then another,

When an empty spring wind blows through an empty corridor.

All this I see, I always see when we go up the stairs by this mirror -

Ginny is in front, Rod is woven from behind.

I do not tolerate a small mirror at this site.

Only our heads show;

Cuts off our heads.

And I jump over the steps, quickly to another platform,

where a tall mirror hangs and I see myself as a whole.

Now I see myself all the time - head and body;

Even in this twill dress they are one whole,

my head and body.

I'm in awe, I'm dancing.

I shiver, as that leaf trembled on the fence

and frightened me - then, in my childhood.

I do not know how, like Susan, to stand lost, in tears remembering the house;

Or, like Rod, huddled in the ferns, planting a pink dress,

dream of flowers on the bottom of the sea,

about the rocks between which slowly swims the fish.

I can not dream.

This is my face - there, in the mirror, over Susan's shoulder.

But I'll duck, I'll hide it, I'm not here.

I have no face.

Others have; Susan and Ginny have faces; Here they are both here.

Their world is this, the real world.

What they raise has a weight.

They say "Yes"; They say "No";

And I am flaying and mnus and in a second is visible right through.

To think, with what astonishing conviction Ginny pulls on these stockings -

just play tennis.

It fascinates me.

When I am alone, I often fall into nothingness.

I have to bang my head against the hard door to go back, into myself.

These bouncers all went to cricket.

If I could go with them, be among them, I would give everything I know for it.

But they also throw trembling butterflies, cutting off their wings;

Rasshvyrivayut in the corners of dirty, stuck together, bloody handkerchiefs.

Lead up to the roar of small on dark corridors.

Large red ears stick out from under their caps.

And that's what we would like to be - me and Neville.

I look with envy when they pass.

That Percival and left.

He only thinks about this match.

Despises me for being too sick for cricket

(though always so sympathizes with my this vileness).

He complains of my devotion;

Accepts my quivering and, what to say, belittled sacrifice,

mixed with contempt for his mind.

He does not know how to read.

Although, when I'm lying in the tall grass, I read Shakespeare or Catullus,

he understands more than Louis.

Not words - but what words?