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From a Beach of Haiti by Gordiano Lupi Translated by Aida Cavalera

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From a Beach of Haiti Da una spiaggia di Haiti by Gordiano Lupi

Translated by Aida Cavalera

June 1st 

A month has gone by since I first found refuge in this corner of the world off the Caribbean Sea.  Hispaniola is a fantastic island. According to Columbus, it was the most beautiful land anyone had ever set foot on, or perhaps he was talking about Cuba, I can’t quite remember…but after all, what does it matter? I’m surrounded by a population of negroes that speak a French dialect and live in misery and desperation. I could have chosen Santo Domingo or another Caribbean island, but I didn’t want any tourists around;  a wild landscape of banana and palm trees is better to drown one’s sad thoughts in. My solitary days go by on a tropical shore whitened by  a cascade of surreal light, a shelter to old seagulls.

Haiti is a good place to forget. A sweltering sun that  paints the sky and intensely colored vegetation allow me to take pleasure in watching African dancers swaying their hips along the shoreline, while an everlasting summer goes by. I have no regrets because I have no reason to have any. I was the one who chose this. My wife and my son are part of the past. I don’t need anyone to feel alive.  The simplicity of these places, the tropical warmth that slows down movement, both invaluable conquests.

I feel no pain when I think about our last fight. I see Raffaella’s  face and her scowl of disdain, Giacomo’s sad gaze of bewilderment .  I know I will no longer see anyone, a long awaited escape is my only life companion. Before this beach I am able to continue my work, thanks to a laptop resting on a wooden table by the shore, under an awning of palm leaves and bird droppings, observing the feline movements of a waitress of African features who is serving icy beer. I have nothing more to do but fully take pleasure in my newly restored liberty, as I savour  the smiles of splendid women, consoling to mesmerized eyes.

I managed to talk to the editor and I reassured him. The novel is going well and soon I’ll be able to send off the short stories for the magazine. I’m in Haiti, escaping from my old world, but I must work in order to survive. The erotic magazine for which I theatre comics and write short stories is my only form of income, along with a contract that requires me to hand in two novels per year for a collection of porno books.

I didn’t become the writer I had always dreamed of, I have nothing in common with Hemingway, but at least now I can live the same lifestyle as he and, all in all, I earn my living by writing. My masterpiece might not be “Fiesta” or “The Old Man and the Sea”, but “ The Porno Desires of a College Girl” was a hit at highway stop-offs and even “Pornotales” went well. I can’t complain. All in all, I have fun and they pay me well to stir up readers’ repressed cravings and desires. I have no knowledge of writer’s block, the words just chase after each other and my fingers run unstoppably over the laptop keyboard. Now I’m writing a series of erotic short stories that take place in a school and I think the idea might work. I can draw from my student memories, and where memory fails  me, imagination intervenes. Perhaps later on I’ll work on a parody of Salgari, since it should turn out well from this island, and I can jot down twenty chapters of “ The Porno Pirates of Malaysia”. The atmosphere works well. No pain-in-the-ass kids. No demanding wives who ask you to go grocery shopping. Finally, free as I have never been before. I could even write a real novel, an old existential idea, something lofty , so I can sign it with my real name. I’ve got nothing but peace, I spend many a long day at the bar on the beach; I drink icy beer, fruit cocktails supplemented with homemade, stomach-busting rum.

Every day brings new emotions, among maliciously dancing females who provoke  and let you know they are willing to give themselves in exchange for a gift. I might as well take advantage. Why shouldn’t I? I might as well take the good things this new life is offering me; a woman has no more worth that a freshly picked ripe fruit. I stretch my gaze to the Caribbean Sea, past banana trees and endless coconut palms and I look for a new idea, while  between dark lustful legs I tell of unforgettable moments of sex.

June 4th

Yesterday I met Karin, a beautiful mulatta with brown eyes and black hair that sinuously caresses her hips. There aren’t that many mulatte in Haiti, but she is most certainly the daughter of a black mother and some old French pig who has now gone back to his country. I was at the usual bar on the beach near the small home I share with a local, while she was helping her uncle unload crates of fish after a day at sea.

“If we want to survive, we need to make do” a man told me in a broken French dialect.

“Even my niece has to work, although she is young and this is no job for a woman; nobody thinks about us in this country, they never have thought of us…”

I drank some terrible rum with them and I bought two lobsters for dinner, which I will make my landlord cook. A few words pronounced in my school-learnt French, while she answered in a melodic dialect, full of indigenous influences. Many gazes of complicity and smiles tossed on unexplored territory. The sun was setting and we were still on that white shore, shaded by huge palm trees. I was there, letting the sun burn my white skin, while Karin was savoring the salty taste of her land, with the intense aromas of tropical plants. Her young body caressed the heat of the sand, as I let myself be captivated by the scent of her amber-coloured skin. Raffaella had vanished from my thoughts. My son was but a memory. The overwhelming beauty of Karin captured my senses as she swept away my bygone days.

June 6th

I haven’t seen Karin in two days. Two long days of waiting, gone by spying on the movements of black-skinned girls among the palm trees and sensual rhythms of seductive mulatte. The locals are always dancing, even when there is no reason to; it seems their religion imposes magic rites around bonfires, frantic body movements as holy men sing chants and prayers. I don’t understand these things. I have never had a faith. I have never entered a church. These people’s rites seem like the ceremonies of savages. Karin is nowhere in sight. That is my only thought. And I can’t write. The editor is expecting short stories, but I can’t manage to do a thing.

The novel is stuck even though the terms of consignment are about to expire. Karin has had the effect of a hurricane that has disrupted confused thoughts, modified the present and destroyed the past. I’m alone on this beach and I’m awaiting her smile. Now that she is gone, I can’t help thinking about her. I see her uncle unloading crates of fish. He tells me Karin can’t come to the beach because she must work. He complains to me about living conditions, but there is little I can do about it and it interests me even less. I haven’t come to Haiti to take care of them.

“We’re not tourists. For us life is hard. Papa Doc or some sort of democracy changes very little. We’ve always been taken advantage of. If foreigners start coming here, we’ll become like Santo Domingo and Cuba. A land for woman-hunting…”.

Come to think of it, I know nothing about Karin, we’ve spent such little time together. She had never spoken to me about her job, I don’t know what she does for a living. However, I have an extreme need to see her again, to stroke her scented skin, to taste the salty flavour emanating from her hair and to kiss her full lips after a run on the foreshore. Karin has bewitched me with a smile and I let myself be lulled by the sound of waves and the tribal beats of Haitian music. I observe some natives as they sing ritual chants and dance frantically releasing droplets of sweat. I get up from the table and I examine the rapid movements of their young bodies. How I would like to be like them, so I wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable around  Karin. She is young and beautiful, perhaps too much so for my forty-year-old self. I remain immersed in my thoughts while the magic of tropical music generates the image of Karin’s luminous eyes in the distance. It is nothing but a visual deception caused by the light, a trickery produced by the setting sun, a daydream which I am determined to forget.

June 7th 

Haiti heals my suffering. I let myself go, I chase away sad thoughts, I follow the rites of this population. I’m much calmer now. I know I will soon see Karin again. Perhaps I won’t need to write a diary anymore  and I will live a new love story. Karin’s uncle has invited me to a celebration and he said it would be an unusual event for European eyes. They’re going to allow me to participate in magic rites which are usually forbidden to outsiders. They’re making an exception for me. I will be allowed to take part in a voodoo ceremony, some sort of tribal black magic. I’ll witness how they capture a soul to transform a man into a zombie, a slave who follows orders without asking questions. I have nothing to fear, Karin will be by my side. I only wish to see her again, I’m willing to face any danger to caress her skin once more and come across her smile. Plus, I am a writer and seeing these magic rites will prove useful for my job. I’m already thinking of my next story, a sort of sequel to “ The Serpent God” a hard version, with a few references to “The Serpent and the Rainbow”, but with lots of sex.

A warm wind is troubling the Caribbean Sea, it messes up my hair and disperses sensations, as a whirlwind of sand announces bad weather. Haiti had accustomed me to abrupt changes. One minute the rain is raging in the form of a tropical storm, it bends the palm tree branches and strikes the thriving ceiba trees and makes vultures and condors fly and chases away seagulls. Perhaps it’s the right time to write.

June 9th 

It’s been a couple of days since the ceremony and I am feeling stranger and stranger. I recall a wrinkly woman with white hair, her skin as black as coal and her rotten teeth scattered in a mouth which kept savouring puffs of smoke and sips of rum. Everyone calls her the “the Priestess”. She twists her body in a strange dance, while, at her side, two black servants slit the throats of young goats and kill snakes with machetes. Lots of blood is streaming around me, the music becomes more intense and follows the rhythm of the drums, the dances become frantic. I remember Karin’s gaze, she held my hand before kissing me on the lips, the indelible seal of an evening impossible to forget. I stay and watch the horrible show just for her. If I weren’t for Karin, I would run far away from these savages who sing and shout dark sentences of death. Strange guttural noises which seem to come from the afterworld to evoke distant spirits and lost souls. I see sacrificed animals and I hear ritual prayers, immediately after, the hands of crazed, possessed people raise a cloth dummy and stab it with long pointed pins. The Priestess, bathed in sweat and under the effect of convulsions,  sanctifying the horror with her hands towards the sky in sign of prayer. Luckily Karin is by my side, she gives me strength, she squeezes my hand, she comforts me. I would like to escape after the first drop of blood and after the first slaughtered goat.

I recall Karin offering me a drink. “It’s love nectar. If we both drink it no one will ever be able to separate us.” I can’t decline an offer like that. A stunning mulatta, whom I met on the beach of Port-au-Prince, offers me her love through a magic-tasting beverage. I want nothing else. I drink without thinking much about it. It feels as if my stomach has been pierced by a hard stab; that unfamiliar liquid burns like live fire and stirs up my innards. The Priestess watches the scene with a smile. It’s not a normal smile, but a derisive sneer. I remember nothing else, perhaps because the pain is making me faint.

Upon awakening, I am lying in my bed without knowing how I got here. Perhaps it was Karin. What I would like to know now is why I feel so ill, my stomach is struck by a vortex of fire, the pain becomes wrenching, excruciating, then suddenly it subsides. I need to ask Karin. She’ll know how to reassure me.

June 10th

I see Karin sitting on the shore early in the morning. As soon as she sees me, she says hello and comes towards me, beaming as always. I tell her that since the evening of the magic rite I haven’t been feeling well. I explain I’m feeling strange and I have agonizing pains in my stomach. I’m restless. She reassures me. She says I’m frightened because I’ve witnessed an unusual ceremony. According to her, even the love filter needs to be assimilated by my body. In the end I seem to feel better. I feel no more pain. I hug Karin impetuously and I end up with her on the beach,  sizzling under the sun, beneath a huge palm tree. We make love as I never have before in my whole life, seized by a whirlwind  of passion, uninhibited. My illness starts again when she leaves, as a matter of fact, it gets worse and worse. The strangest thing is, I see my body become downy, words come slowly from my lips, I find it difficult to articulate sentences and construct logical discourse. I sweat a lot, but it’s a cold, unnatural sweat that never abandons me, even when the sea wind blows forcefully. I find no peace, in my home I find not one instant of tranquility. I am not able to write and when I’m sleeping, I am the victim of desperate nightmares. I see monsters riding huge waves, fiery words coming out of ancient books and sorcerers reciting terrorizing magic spells. What’s happening to me?

June 11th 

Upon awakening, I go down to the kitchen for my breakfast but the landlord becomes frightened and escapes, shouting. My hands are covered in hair and most of my body has acquired a beastly appearance. I can hardly hold the pen in my hand to write these few lines. Where is Karin? I would like to go out on the beach and look for her, but I can’t. I must stay inside. I’m experiencing terrible headaches and the sunlight annoys me. Suddenly, I think I’m seeing Karin’s face, the stunning mulatta who has sent my life in turmoil. But the transformation is rapid. She comes to me as she has always been: old and deformed, her face plagued, her mouth toothless, her hands shriveled in a horrible menacing gesture.

The real Karin is  before me as I attempt to write these sentences. She gets closer taking slow, menacing steps. Now I understand everything. I know I cannot escape. I know I will never see my wife and son again. My future is before my eyes and it looks at me with a disturbing expression. The hair will stop growing and my teeth will become sharper. In the early morning sky, I read the nocturnal vision of a full-moon. In the spectral atmosphere of the tropical night, a cry will rise in the sky of Port-au-Prince. I now know I have a duty to fulfill. I’ll dive into the darkness like hunted prey and discover my destiny as an avenger. A population of slaves needs an inhuman hero who must feed on the blood of new conquerors. My destiny is to punish my own lineage of rich Westerners who pretend to be defenders of the poor, but who only want to exploit them. This is what Karin and her people expect of me. I will be their slave during full-mooned nights.  A sinister howl echoes in the silence of the morning. On a forgotten shore in Haiti, the first night of revenge is being prepared.

 

 

 

 

 

A Halloween to Be Forgotten by Elena Garbugli

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A Halloween to Be Forgotten by Elena Garbugli

Translation by Crystal Bianchi

Serena was preparing to go out, she had to accompany her sister while she went “trick or treating” with her friends. She didn’t want to, not because she didn’t want to be with her sister, or because she had something to do, but simply because she didn’t like Halloween night at all. She was frightened of it. Every thirty-first of October, she hoped the day would end soon and she moped around all day long, locked in her room. She preferred to stay at home and give chocolates and sweets to the children who rang the doorbell rather than going out among the people who cackled while wearing costumes. There wasn’t a real reason for why she didn’t love this holiday, it simply gives her the shivers. Everyone always made fun of her, they said that it was a childish fear, but what could she do?

That year it was up to her to accompany her sister. Her parents had gone out along with her brother, who used to take on the responsibility knowing her hatred for this holiday, and so there wasn’t any alternative. She also tried to convince her sister not to go. She had promised her endless sweets, toys and gifts of all kinds, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

Sara loved Halloween, she would go out at any price to show off her beautiful witch costume. In fact she looked really nice in her costume, and how could she say “No” to that adorable, supplicating gaze? Therefore, Serena took courage and she dressed up to go out. She wouldn’t have worn any costume, that’s all we needed! It was hard enough just to peek out the door. It was 8 o’clock pm when they went out and Serena held Sara’s hand tightly, looking around as if something terrible were going to happen at any moment.

“Hey, don’t squeeze me so tight! “ said Sara, trying to wriggle from the grip of her sister.

“Sorry…”, rumbled Serena, slackening off.

“Don’t tell me you are scared!” Sara complained, “What a wimp! Who are afraid of meeting? You should know that monsters don’t exist for real! Being told something like that by her ten-year-old baby sister made her feel a bit foolish. In fact, if her sister wasn’t frightened in any way, why should she be? It was just a matter of a children’s festival. She looked at her while she was running towards her friends. She was carefree and happy. There was nothing to be afraid of. She heaved a sigh and she caught up with her to start the tour of the houses. Going from house to house, Serena seemed to be relaxed. She was surrounded by children, for many of whom she had babysat, so she felt at ease. On the contrary, she was having fun: it was nice to see them laugh, joke and give out the sweets. It was 9.30 pm when they arrived at the last house. The tour was finished, and it was time to go back home, so Sara would be in bed at ten. Everything had gone off smoothly. Maybe she was wrong to be so frightened of that holiday. They were right to make fun of her, and from that moment she would laugh at it. After taking all the children home, she was alone with her sister, who had offered her many sweets from her bag full of  goodies, and she was telling her sister she was disappointed she hadn’t even had the chance to play a trick. She was very happy that Serena had accompanied her. They had almost reached their walkway when Sara exclaimed: “Look!”

Serena turned to the direction indicated by her sister, but she didn’t see anything and she couldn’t say it in time because her sister was already running toward that direction.

“Sara! Where are you going? Come back here! Serena screamed while she was chasing her sister. Sara was running fast and Serena was afraid of losing touch with her. What was she thinking? She had never behaved like that, and had always been a good child, the typical girl who never ran off and always obeyed. While Sara was running, Serena realized that the road was deserted. What had happened to the other people? Until recently there were many people all around. They had arrived at the outskirts of the neighborhood, and Sara had turned left too. She couldn’t see her, the grass in the field was so tall that she couldn’t even see the peaky hat that Sara was wearing. She thought she had seen something move in front of her, and without thinking twice, she went into the field. She ran fast and was calling her sister. She was terrorized, what would happen if she lost her? The moon shone in the sky, by that time it was night and Serena could hardly breathe. She didn’t even know how long she had been running. She couldn’t take it anymore so she stopped to catch her breath. Looking up to the sky, she realized she had stopped in a clearing where the grass seemed to have been cut recently; in front of her, there was a windmill. She didn’t know that there was a windmill out there, she had never heard of it. While she was observing it, she noticed that a little witch was slipping into the small opening which was left open by the windmill’s heavy wooden door. It was Sara. Serena rushed into the windmill looking for her sister.The door opened with loud creaking and, once she was inside, Serena was wrapped in darkness. It took some time before her eyes got used to the darkness. When she began to see again, she noticed that the room was empty ; it looked like an old , abandoned barn, and the dim light of the moon filtered through a small window in the wall opposite the door. It seemed that nobody was inside, and there weren’t other doors except the main door. Then, where was her sister? She panicked, and she felt paralyzed, frozen and petrified. Then, she saw a tiny door at the other end of the room; Sara must be in there. Serena approached the door and opened it. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed by a strong, foul smell, so she had to cover her nose and her mouth. She found herself before a winding staircase; the walls were made of bricks covered with moss. There were burning torches and the trembling flames created weird plays of light reflected on the steps. It was cold, and Serena had to keep her shoulders close together while she was going downstairs.  Who knows where they led to. She thought she had heard some whispers more than once, she turned quickly because she was sure of being chased. The more she descended, the colder it was, and the more she went down she, the more she felt discouraged and anguished. Where was Sara? What happened to her? While she was walking, she whispered her name.  At the end of the staircase, she found herself in a big hall, which seemed to be the exact copy of the windmill’s hall, but it was not as dark as the room upstairs; on the contrary, it was lit up by torches hung on the walls and many candles spread on the floor. On the walls there were weird symbols written with red paint. Was it paint? Wasn’t it? Now, Serena was really upset, she almost passed out, but couldn’t. She had to find Sara. In front of Serena, at the opposite side of the room, there was a door. She had to go through it to get her sister home, no matter what. She sighed, trying to take courage. As she was making for the door, she heard a scream. Sara! Serena leapt toward the door, she opened it wide and…

…the alarm clock rang. Serena had never been so happy to wake up. The only problem was that the calendar marked the thirty-first of October, and at that early hour of the day she was angry because the day had begun with the wrong foot and it would have been so long. How she detested Halloween! That night, would she have taken her sister around the neighborhood to “trick or treat”?

 

Fragments of Heroes in American Noir Movie

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Fragments of Heroes in American Noir Movie
by Alessandra Calanchi
Translation by Margherita Pergolini and Maria Teresa Vitali

The secret lies behind appearances… action can no longer be one dimensional, characters cannot be people of sterling character. The rule of the game is être double.                       Alain Corneau

The male protagonist of the American noir movie of the 40s, very different both from the gangster movies’ “tough guy” and from the most refined British cousin in the style of Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot, is doubtless one of the most attractive and contradictory creations not only of the hard-boiled genre, but in all of cinema. Virtual superman of undisputed talents in solution and investigation, he actually does nothing more than handle big guns without ever using them, falling into traps which insidious blond women fatally set, letting himself be hit, imprisoned and drugged almost without blinking an eye. Nevertheless, he usually does not lose face and comes out on top. At the beginning, he is often presented to us as a name (P.I., Private Eye, appears on the office door-even better when upside down- in many films) or as a voice (Sunset Boulevard, Letter from an Unknown Woman): through a limited perception – visual or aural – the spectator is called upon to build, a bit at a time, his own cognitive process and link the fragments he arranges to unite them into a whole that will be the product of an entire organization of perceptions.
Sometimes, the “visible” character’s identity is revealed later (Sunset Boulevard); sometimes, it continues to be hidden until the end, just showing itself now and then, perhaps with a mirror trick (Lady in the Lake). Other times, we have to content ourselves with seeing physical parts (a hand, a profile) or details in attire (a hat, shoes), as if the camera were not able to offer us an “entire” version of the scene – or, turning the dialogue around, as if the view were inadequate to gather the whole reality of the situation in its totality, or maybe because, after all, reality is made up of numerous points of view which can create a “whole” only when put together.
The labyrinthine structure of many noir films seems to underline the fragmentary character not only of the image, but of the character’s identity itself. He often moves about among dark and unknown paths in a sort of trance, feeling a tension which, even if not truly part of the male hero’s prerogatives, has in any case its own moral and psychological justification in the context of the crisis that the P.I. is called to resolve. Sam Spade (The Maltese Falcon) is time after time represented as fragments: more frequently we see parts of his body in the foreground than his entire body, and around him the whole universe is disjoined; it is a mosaic made up of many pieces – a falling key, a bill, a statuette – which have to be combined together.
Even voice-over, a very frequent devise in noir, is part of this separation. It is a breaking point between image and word; this voice belongs to a face of which we cannot catch sight. It is a further fragment of reality, which hides an empty space. Both when explaining everything (The Lady from Shanghai, Sunset Boulevard) and when speaking in a confused or deceptive manner (Crossfire), but also when it acts as a liberating factor (Out of the Past), the voice is, again, just a piece of the whole. It is often a mere appearance of reality, or just one among the numerous points of view, up to the extreme case of Touch of Evil, in which the voice fractures into three different voices: the real one, the echoed one and the recorded one.
The elaborate expedient of Welles is coloured with an existential motivation: the more interpretations we have of the same reality, the more the same reality paradoxically loses consistency and meaning (as Kurosawa wonderfully reaffirms in his Rashomon).
Noir’s physical and mental fragmentation approaches that of the dream. It is not by chance that Spade, speaking about the statuette of the hawk, says that it is “made out of the same material with which dreams are made”: actually, this similarity can be applied to all these films.
They are perceived by the spectator as “light in the dark” (Alloway), and based on that detection, called by Edenbaum “metaphor of existence”, they are characterized by a fabric like that of the dream, in which “the psychic states… are exposed to an obscure pressure, following which the relationship between images divides; the perceptive pictures of things, people, places, events and actions of life are separately reproduced while wide-awake”(Strümpell).
Fabre says that in the American movies of the 40s and 50s, “physical presence separates and loses the total dimension of the medium”.
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Part 1 -Translation by Margherita Pergolini
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In a rarefied and neurotic atmosphere, where the urban background is often the enemy of the character (“the world that we know disappears”, Wood) and also where mirrors deceive rather than showing reality (The Lady from Shanghai), the hero struggles in vain against the stranger oppression of the nightmare, of the hallucination. Marlowe, unconscious and drugged, has deformed visions of a huge spider’s web and a series of narrow and unreachable doors (Murder, My Sweet). Again, the objects, or the fragments of them, get the better over the whole: as the figurative motif of the spiral in the film credits of Vertigo, or as the eye in various films by Hitchcock, the fragment becomes reality, the synecdoche takes the place of unity.
Since the structural coherence always prevails perceptively, and the observation has a subjective structure, based on what we already know or what we wish to see, the incompleteness will be filled in by the spectator in any case, who will rebuild it by a reformulation and recombination of the available fragments. The opening scenes in Crossfire, for example, in which we watch only the shadows projected on the wall and in which we vaguely perceive legs and backs in a surreal lighting effect that at the end is switched off leaving the screen completely dark for a few moments, there is no obstruction in our ability to re-establish the events even in their confusion: an argument is going on and a man is killed. This is because the parts cannot exist autonomously but only when linked together, since we have already perceived through ‘thought’. This decidedly cinematographic expedient of “rage” is particularly present in thriller films, however, in all movies suspense is of a certain importance. In “noir”, to the subject of “surprise” (we are expected to pass from surprise to surprise without understanding) that of incertitude is joined, the “broken” identity of the hero. Women who surround him (sisters, mothers, vestals, or in contrast, deceptive witches) belong to a much more stable and dualistic universe, they always know which side to be on, and even when they are playing a double game, they do so by choice. Bad or good beings with no chance for compromise, sometimes nothing more than unconscious beings, a source of agitation and upheaval or, vice versa, a source of love and protection . Sometimes, man erases them from his memory (Letter from an Unknown Woman) and sometimes he evokes them so intensely as to bring them back to life just by contemplating their portrait. (Laura)
The presence of the male protagonist in noir is contradictory and complicated: an incomplete and imperfect character, supported by the same mechanisms as the “detection” itself but always on the edge of self disintegration. He is a hero whose parts tend to join together, but his wholeness is often in danger. In him, there are always some blank spaces to fill in, invisible images that can become visible only through our active perception; there are parts to link, lines to trace. The mystery that surrounds him and he is asked to resolve is passed down to us: its detection is completed by our own.

NOTES
₁ The voice-over, a part from being a frequent technique in noir, in the great majority of cases is a male phenomenon (and it is always, except for rare exceptions, when it appears in its “purest” form, that is when it belongs to someone that doesn’t belong to the story).Regarding this issue, consult G. Fink, From Showing to Telling: Off-Screen Narration in the American Cinema, in American Literatures, Bulzoni, Year 3 n. 12, 1982; A. Calanchi, The imperfect hero of the black American film in New Cinema, year 31, n. 278/279, 1982; S. Kozloff, Invisible storytellers, University of California Press, 1988.
₂ In regard to the perception problem, and in particular regarding the perception as a constructive process and the reconstruction of the whole based on its parts, please refer to a very interesting book by G. Kanizsa, Grammatica del verde. Saggi su percezione e gestalt, Il Mulino, Bologna, 1980.
₃ The German word, introduced by phenomenology (Husserl) with which the various perceptive aspects of a same object in its sensitive multiplicity are defined, is Abschattungun (in Italian we speak less of overshadow). In other words, perception doesn’t occur in just one fixed way, but it is trigged by a patrimony of knowledge already acquired individually.
Part 2- Translation by Maria Teresa Vitali
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