Across the bridges

Soundtrack: from the movie in question, plus some of Ennio Morricone's most exquisite pieces. Just for the sense of atmosphere. "Doe Eyes", the love theme, along with Dinah Washington's rendition of "I'll close my eyes", and next; Morricone's own theme from "Navajo Joe", which was used in "Kill Bill vol 2" as well. To a rather peculiar, and equally sob-afflicting scene. But the music thrills me. Lovely stuff, all of it. Which is probably the only reason why it's worth crying over. For - in my case - that's nothing but a compliment.

There are a few, meaning a very restricted, but specific number of films I can watch over and over again, regardless of frequency or state of mood. And each and every time of rewatching, I achieve the same sense of wonder, joy and - not least - engagement. I feel warmed and touched and enthused by these stories, to an enormous extent, regardless of how well I already know them. Even though I do know them by heart, that is; thoroughly from one scene to the last, I still enjoy every single moment. And, more to the point, "The Bridges of Madison County" resides, firmly, among these particular, specifically selected film experiences, and this very evening I watched it for the first time in - well - a year or so, approximately. And, of course, it was as great as ever. It's such a simple, yet stunning, and absolutely brilliant feature. Directed by a master of the arts, the one and only Mr. Clint Eastwood, with himself in the main role, and with one of the (quite possibly) best actresses in the history of ever, alongside him. Meryl Streep - who was nominated for another Oscar (her tenth nomination on the list), which she should have won too, for her portrayal of sixties' housewife Francesca Johnson; an italian of birth, now living a slow and rather uneventful life in Iowa, USA. Then, for a brief four days, she experiences that wonderous, totally unexpected meeting of a lifetime; through the intensely passionate encounter wth National Geographic photographer and professional travellerer, Robert Kincaid; a proper adventurer, of heart and soul, whom she falls head over heels in love with, and - naturally - he is completely, utterly and incorrigibly infatuated as well. It's an impossible romance; between two people destined to be together, who must live in despair over the fact that they can not. Sad as Hell, it leaves me in utter grief and misery and, despite any attempt to constrain and recompose myself, drowning in tears - every single time - which is why I don't watch it that often. But I do love it, nonetheless, and I can't help loving yet another round of watching it. For, it brings some immense, unparallelled happiness, besides all the crying. It's such a beautiful piece of movie art, and it's so well-made, well-enacted, well-produced; that alone could bring tears to my eyes. A story whose tragic elements are only emphasized further by the lovability of these two characters depicted therein, whom I can so easily sympathize with and relate to and, on a cheekier sidenote, cheer for. Also, it's got poetry by Yeats, beautiful landscapes, locations, sunsets and picnics in autumn-clad parks, plus an incredible jazz club concert, numerous dancing scenes, desirable time pieces; such as Meryl Streep's entire wardrobe, not to mention that erotic bathtub, haha; and Clint induldging in a barechested outdoor shower session, and - everything else that is to adore, within a single work of art. Most importantly, perhaps, it holds my very favourite film quote of all time, which is quite relevant to this particular context, namely Kincaid's immortal lines to Francesca: "This kind of certainty comes but once in a lifetime." And, forthermore, as one can tell by the text below, it proves highly inspirational. As with all my favourite films, really. "Bridges...", for one, triggers all the right emotions and moves me in exactly the right way. I enjoy, wholeheartedly, to be moved like that by the medium that is motion pictures, and the kind of people allowed to work in the business surrounding (and creating) them. Especially when it brings to my mind pieces of new inspirationally induced art, likeso:

"That kind of Certainty" - for Francesca and Robert
by Scaramouche, the Po(t)et, who is and will always be a fond devotee of the genius that is Mr. Eastwood; cowboy, composer and conductor of masterpieces. Written on a whim, spur of the moment, simply because I thought their story deserved a tiny verse of poesy from this humble Po(t)et's pen. Also, set to the tone of the story, or rather - its last parts, in which Francesca visits those places packed with memories; not elaborating here, in order not to spoil anything for anyone; and tries to relive the moments she had there, the times well spent. I was trying to evoce a notion of what she might have felt, there and then, and what she might have imagined and thought, to herself. This is, sorta, what I came up with.

she tugs at her sleeves
and the rims of her skirts
and she blinks
whilst she's cocking her head
to get a look at his smile
the wryness of his glances
and he's squinting at the sun
lightning up her back
showing them in silhouettes
bending slightly, doesn't know
but she's got one feet before the other
set to move towards the bridge
in his direction
and she's clutching the fabric
of her dresses, she shivers
just a little, tangent, fleeting moments
might have been a glimpse
or simply leaves across the forest
blocking all their views, or tears
and she was nodding, quietly,
when he stepped up to her
she whisked the strains of hair away
to eye him, and he watched her too,
through blurred-out lenses
he whispered without uttering
a sense of confirmation, merely,
never shy, but truthful, and aware
they turned to one another, in their hearts
and melted into dreams
of all that's timeless, tenseless
everything in sight, and soul
and which to savour
whatever furthered warmth is gone
she rubs her skin, in ways to free herself
of anything, of any felt sensation
and she clutches her chains
and she fends off the pain
and she knows
just where, once a time,
he was standing