詹姆斯弗兰科鼓动着自己一大家子自导自演自拍的Broken Tower。
他弟弟长得比他帅却没他演技好，当然兰兰自己还是长的不错的。
影片名字叫碎塔。
欧美同人论坛翻为断塔，没有关系，怎么搜都搜得到。
讲的是美国近代诗人哈特•克兰（Hart Crane）的事。
我爱把他叫做鹤小鹿。
1899年出生的鹤先生，13岁开始写诗，17岁开始发表诗歌，27岁出版第一本诗集《白色楼房》。
鹤先生是一个同性恋。
鹤先生作品，很像艾略特。
晦涩忧伤如平静的大海，如他于32岁便投海自尽的人生。
《碎塔》是他生前发表的最后一部作品，是鹤先生一生的代表作，也是他传记的名称，也是弗兰科的这部电影的名称。
这部电影成本不高，并不像一个中规中矩的作品，倒是很像你或者我或者随便谁都能拍出来的学生作品。
估计也是兰兰闹着玩的，想过一把诗人的瘾，也没想要赚多少钱，就开开心心拍了之后发在网上（就像我们班男生拍《会饮篇》那样，不过这是付费观看的），最多还发了个DVD，了事。
同样是黑白的影像，但是这部电影给我带来的冲击，毫不夸张地说，比《艺术家》带来的冲击要更大。因为毕竟《艺术家》远离我们所在的现实。而且有众所周知的原因，奥斯卡最佳影片往往连所有候选影片中最好看的都不是。
我们不是艺术家，但毕竟我们还偶尔写诗的，所以这种与缪斯相亲的生活，是最容易理解的。也是最共鸣最容易悲伤的。
卑微的青年要如何扬诗名，当他站在布鲁克林的桥下他都会觉得自己在金属的庞然造物面前的渺小？他思绪万千，将梦境付诸笔端。我也不吝惜把他的诗一首一首完整地摘录在下面：
To Brooklyn Bridge
By Hart Crane
How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
The seagull's wings shall dip and pivot him,
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty—
Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes
As apparitional as sails that cross
Some page of figures to be filed away;
—Till elevators drop us from our day . . .
I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights
With multitudes bent toward some flashing scene
Never disclosed, but hastened to again,
Foretold to other eyes on the same screen;
And Thee, across the harbor, silver-paced
As though the sun took step of thee, yet left
Some motion ever unspent in thy stride,—
Implicitly thy freedom staying thee!
Out of some subway scuttle, cell or loft
A bedlamite speeds to thy parapets,
Tilting there momently, shrill shirt ballooning,
A jest falls from the speechless caravan.
Down Wall, from girder into street noon leaks,
A rip-tooth of the sky's acetylene;
All afternoon the cloud-flown derricks turn . . .
Thy cables breathe the North Atlantic still.
And obscure as that heaven of the Jews,
Thy guerdon . . . Accolade thou dost bestow
Of anonymity time cannot raise:
Vibrant reprieve and pardon thou dost show.
O harp and altar, of the fury fused,
(How could mere toil align thy choiring strings!)
Terrific threshold of the prophet's pledge,
Prayer of pariah, and the lover's cry,—
Again the traffic lights that skim thy swift
Unfractioned idiom, immaculate sigh of stars,
Beading thy path—condense eternity:
And we have seen night lifted in thine arms.
Under thy shadow by the piers I waited;
Only in darkness is thy shadow clear.
The City's fiery parcels all undone,
Already snow submerges an iron year . . .
O Sleepless as the river under thee,
Vaulting the sea, the prairies' dreaming sod,
Unto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend
And of the curveship lend a myth to God.
詹姆斯弗兰科也采取了一个非常自然的方式，简直像纪录片一样，鹤先生的诗歌一首一首念来，成了背景音乐，一首The Broken Tower，也被完整地朗读下来，当然，配着钟与塔的意象：
The Broken Tower
By Hart Crane
The bell-rope that gathers God at dawn
Dispatches me as though I dropped down the knell
Of a spent day — to wander the cathedral lawn
From pit to crucifix, feet chill on steps from hell.
Have you not heard, have you not seen that corps
Of shadows in the tower, whose shoulders sway
Antiphonal carillons launched before
The stars are caught and hived in the sun's ray?
The bells, I say, the bells break down their tower;
And swing I know not where. Their tongues engrave
Membrane through marrow, my long-scattered score
Of broken intervals ... And I, their sexton slave!
Oval encyclicals in canyons heaping
The impasse high with choir. Banked voices slain!
Pagodas campaniles with reveilles out leaping —
O terraced echoes prostrate on the plain! ...
And so it was I entered the broken world
To trace the visionary company of love, its voice
An instant in the wind (I know not whither hurled)
But not for long to hold each desperate choice.
My word I poured. But was it cognate, scored
Of that tribunal monarch of the air
Whose thighs embronzes earth, strikes crystal Word
In wounds pledged once to hope — cleft to despair?
The steep encroachments of my blood left me
No answer (could blood hold such a lofty tower
As flings the question true?) — or is it she
Whose sweet mortality stirs latent power?—
And through whose pulse I hear, counting the strokes
My veins recall and add, revived and sure
The angelus of wars my chest evokes:
What I hold healed, original now, and pure ...
And builds, within, a tower that is not stone
(Not stone can jacket heaven) — but slip
Of pebbles, — visible wings of silence sown
In azure circles, widening as they dip
The matrix of the heart, lift down the eyes
That shrines the quiet lake and swells a tower ...
The commodious, tall decorum of that sky
Unseals her earth, and lifts love in its shower.
“The bells, I say, the bells break down their tower”钟们碎了他们的塔，这是多么令人震惊的意象！我的膜拜之情油然而生。
虽然鹤先生的歇斯底里让人着迷。
摔打字机，劈柴，周游世界。
风声，钟声，海浪的涛声。
我们不可能如这样的诗人一样发狂，然而我们依旧可以欣赏他所创造的世界。
可是最后，他将衬衫放在船边栏杆上，翻了过去。
画面被剪断。平静而忧伤的大海浮出水面。
电影的末尾念了这样一首诗：
Voyages
By Hart Crane
Part I
Above the fresh ruffles of the surf
Bright striped urchins flay each other with sand.
They have contrived a conquest for shell shucks,
And their fingers crumble fragments of baked weed
Gaily digging and scattering.
And in answer to their treble interjections
The sun beats lightning on the waves,
The waves fold thunder on the sand;
And could they hear me I would tell them:
O brilliant kids, frisk with your dog,
Fondle your shells and sticks, bleached
By time and the elements; but there is a line
You must not cross nor ever trust beyond it
Spry cordage of your bodies to caresses
Too lichen-faithful from too wide a breast.
The bottom of the sea is cruel.
“大海之根是残酷的。”
鼓掌，落幕。
美丽在于兰兰忧伤而温暖的声音，萦绕不去。
我时常会回想一个问题，就是当我在一旁观察其他人的时候，我会突然出神地想到我自己。
我就会想，我是怎么意识到我自己的，我是怎么意识到“此在”的？这种看到别人，又看到自己的状态？
我想起作为小男孩的时候的我，或许并没有意识到“我”的真正含义吧。
一切都是因为“爱”而起的，当青春的萌动起了，关注别人的同时越来越关注到自身的存在，自己的欲望与身份的界定，自我的认同与生成。小孩子是不会更多的关心到别人的，他关注的更多的是自己的感受和他所接触的事物，而非其他小孩子，或者其他人。
这样他反而不能认识到自己。
然而认识到“自己”，又将“自己”引向一个必然的后果：认识到自己是可毁灭的而且是在未来必然会毁灭的。
于是自己又有了两种想法。
一，保护好自己，好好活着。
二，先自己把自己毁灭了又怎样（俗称自杀的念头）。
诗人于是在这两点之间徘徊了。
兰兰的表演也许让他意识到了自己与鹤先生类似的可能性。
也让所有写过诗的人意识到自己成为一个“诗人”的可能性，癫狂、歇斯底里的可能性，温柔、优雅的可能性。在床上和妳而语，优雅地和你在客厅跳交谊舞，粗暴地打架，摔打字机直至碎片的男人，可能是同一个人呢。
生活真是有无数的可能性。
或者不成为诗人呢，也很漂亮，就像我一样。
撇开一句，鹤先生和女人在家里独自跳交谊舞的一段真是迷人，音乐和氛围都很忧伤而美。当然，跳过之后应该是要做爱的。
