bUNGUIDED TOUR/b
by Susan Sontag
A tourist city different from
any other.
Different from Florence.
Different from Siena.
Different from Rome.
Different from Athens.
Or Dubrovnik.
Because there's an imaginary kingdom
of which this city is the capital.
of which this city is the centre.
There was a very dear friend of mine,
an Argentinian film-maker in exile
who fled to save his skin.
As he was a journalist too.
And... hundreds of journalists
have been killed in Argentina
during the past few years.
So, I was talking to that friend
who's been living in Paris
for almost 7 years
and I asked him:
Can you imagine going back
to live in Argentina?
Provided that there's
a change of government.
Well, he replied
Certainly, I'd like to.
Often too.
But to really live there, you know...
Besides, Buenos Aires
is too far from...
And we, both together,
at the same time, exclaimed:
Venice.
Venice is a city that even the Italians
visit as if it were a foreign city.
As for foreigners...
There's every kind of foreigner.
Everyone brings their own homage.
Their own admiration.
Their curiosity.
Their anxiety.
Their complacency.
Their avidity.
Wishing to be in Venice.
Wishing for having been in Venice.
This place...
A certain devotion always
brings me back to this place.
I'm thinking about all the people
who have been here.
Good morning.
May I help you?
You don't know? - No, Madam.
I'm sorry. It's full, Madam.
What class, Madam?
Second-class.
You're welcome, Madam.
Yes. I'm so sorry.
Once I was standing next to
two Americans who were watching
Saint Mark's Basilica, spellbound.
The big triumphal arch.
Five portals.
The gold, statues and bas-reliefs.
At one point,
one turned to the other and said,
almost reluctantly,
What kind of church is this?
And after a long pause,
the other man replied:
I think that it's Catholic.
But we're not talking
about tourists such as these.
To these it's so easy
to feel superior.
For us.
Tourists of a different kind.
There's one kind of tourist.
And then there's
a special kind of tourist.
Attracted, above all, to Venice.
The melancholy tourist.
For that reason, a special tourist.
Predestined to Venice.
Venice is the capital of melancholy.
I went on a journey
to see beautiful things.
Change of scene.
A change of heart.
And do you know something?
- What?
They are always there.
But they won't be there for long.
I know.
And this is why I went.
To say good-bye.
When I'm travelling,
it's always to say good-bye.
Sunsets...
Leaning towers...
Tiled roofs.
Gates.
Wooden balconies.
Canals.
And one after the other,
the bridges' humps.
Move away from the window.
Please.
The sound of footsteps in Venice.
And Venetian shouts.
Every word here...
however articulated it may be...
always sounds like an appeal...
made over the sea.
Their names are scratched
at the bottom of the fresco.
Vandals!
Yes.
Their way of being present.
The most superb things
made by human beings
lowered to the level
of the things of nature.
Last Judgment.
We can't put away everything
in the museums.
There are no beautiful things
in your country?
No.
Yes.
Less.
Did you have guides on you? Maps?
Rubber boots?
I read the guides later on.
At home.
But you did go visit
the famous places?
Didn't you have
the perversity to neglect them?
Yes, I visited them.
As conscientiously as possible,
although protecting your ignorance.
I don't want to know
more than I already know.
I don't want to grow fond of
those places...
more than I already am.
Do you remember what you saw?
No. Not much.
- It's not true.
Of course. I remember everything.
It's always been this way.
I know all my future reactions.
I know all the words
that they will prounounce.
You should've taken me with you.
Instead...
Instead of him, you want to say?
Yes.
Obviously, I wasn't alone.
But we were quarrelling
almost all the time.
He obtuse.
Me unbearable.
You're going to catch a cold.
Drink this.
- I'm feeling fine.
Don't get angry.
Did you give Bruno a tip?
Forebodings.
On the cloister's wall...
A long, diagonal chink opened up.
The water level is rising.
The marble nose of the saint
is no longer aquiline.
But beautiful things are here.
They didn't disappear before us.
They are still here.
They're even trying to save them.
I'd like to preserve my...
First impression?
We can call it so.
- For God's sake!
Let's limit ourselves to real things.
I don't want to model
my intelligence with facts.
If you don't want to look at that picture,
look at me.
Death in Venice.
Venice is a city where it's easy
to think about death.
About memory.
Even the memories
which don't belong to us.
In memory.
One arrives in Venice with a heart
full of soothed memories.
One comes here to
look back on with regret.
One is allowed to do that... Here.
Here. He died here.
In this room.
On February 13th 1833.
Tell yourself 50 times a day.
I'm not a connoisseur.
I'm not a romantic wanderer.
I'm not a pilgrim.
So you say.
Were you happy sometimes?
Not only, despite everything.
Staying on the bridge at sunset.
Walking on the tessellated
floor of the basilica.
The splendour of the things.
Decrepitude.
Pathos.
Beauty.
Beatitude.
You send postcards
with beatitude written on them.
Remember?
You sent one to me too.
I do remember.
Don't interrupt me.
Let's visit the church,
if it's not closed.
Let's visit the cemetery.
Let's go see the regatta.
There's a concert at La Fenice.
How do you decide where to go?
By playing roulette with my memory.
It's always this way.
At first, I'm not so impressed.
But afterwards...
After a few days...
I'm in tears.
I can't love a past trapped in
my memories like a souvenir.
There's always something ineffable
in the past.
Don't you think so?
In all its original glory.
Indispensable legacy
of a cultured woman.
You're making a fool of me.
- No...
I'm making a fool of myself.
I should be grateful.
So we agree?
I don't consider devotion to the past
as a form of snobbery.
It's just one of the most devastating
forms of unrequited love.
Attention.
Will the cemetery priest please
go to the sixteenth enclosure.
Will the cemetery priest please
go to the sixteenth enclosure.
Attention.
Three workmen to enclosure n.8.
Three workmen to enclosure n.8.
It is said that a trip is a great
opportunity to restore a bruised love.
Or rather, the worst.
With feelings similar to pieces of shrapnel
half-extracted from a wound.
Opinions.
And the rivalry of opinions.
Desperate love practices in the hotel
during the golden, summery afternoons.
Room service.
But you used to be so full of hope.
Prisons and hospitals
brim over with hope.
But not charter planes
and exclusive hotels.
Yes?
What do you like, Madame?
What do you need?
What do you need?
Yes... no, for a...
for the double room.
Yeah.
No, I'm sure, Madame.
The day after we are full up.
Only for one night, Madame.
It's up to you.
I don't know, Madame.
No, because the weekend,
with the hotel we're full up in Venice.
One moment...
Where are you from, Madame?
Mrs. Ross...
Double room with bath.
Double with bath or shower?
One moment, Madame, please.
For three nights it's possible.
What time do you arrive, Madame?
You arrive at 6 o'clock in the morning?
But the room is not ready
till after 12 o'clock.
Till after 12 o'clock, Madame.
That's alright.
In any case, we keep the room
not later than 12 o'clock in the afternoon.
Bye-bye, thank you.
Were you moved, sometimes?
Of course I was.
I still am.
You should be careful
to not ask yourself
if these pleasures are superior
to the ones of the last year.
They never are.
It must be the seduction of past again.
But just wait until
now becomes then.
You'll see how happy we were.
I don't expect to be happy.
I love you.
And my heart is beating.
Mine too.
The main thing is that we're
strolling together under this arch.
That we're strolling...
That we're looking...
That it's wonderful.
Complaints.
I've already seen it.
I'm sure it'll be full.
It's too far.
Just two showings at the cinema.
At 7 and 9 o'clock.
A strike is on.
I'm unable to phone.
This damned siesta.
Everything's closed from 1 to 4pm.
If all this stuff
has slipped out of my bag.
I don't understand why
you can't just put it back.
How could you put up with him?
It was easier that it might seem.
I've already seen it.
It'll be full.
It's too far.
And a strike is on.
This damned siesta.
Is the fish soup ready?
The porter says he closes at 2 o'clock.
It's a remarkable collection.
One can hardly please you.
I want to go back
to that antiquary shop.
All we can do
is wait for the next meal.
Like animals.
You'll soon stop worrying
about these petty nuisances.
You'll notice that you're free
from worries and duties.
And then the uneasiness will start.
I want to resist
the melancholy temptation.
If you knew how much...
Yet, I loved him sometimes.
At the mercy of your moods.
My stubborn silences.
Were you trying to
put right a mistake?
I was trying to reverse a situation.
The siren sounds.
It announces the tide
is rising more than usual.
It is now a nice sound for the Venetians,
later for the pigeons, look.
The pigeons move.
The pigeons go up.
They have nests up there.
Only we Venetians live down.
Now we go inside the church,
before the high tide.
No danger, no danger.
I feel...
like Moses, you know Moses?
Guiding the people through the Red Sea,
I am Moses.
I told you.
You should've taken me with you,
instead.
It wouldn't have changed anything.
I would've left you too.
But you may decide to stay.
Make other plans.
Or, it might seem to you that
you give up something irreplaceable?
In the whole world.
A city inhabited by the buildings.
Buildings threatened with extinction.
A city that will disappear one day.
Venice...
Our Titanic in slow motion.
When did we feel this pain
for the first time?
How far are we?
That's better than asking ourselves
how far are we from the end?
In the beginning...
someone said
the whole world is America.
But, in the end...
the whole world is Venice.
marooned2 & corvusalbus, KG/b