me a body then': this is the formula of philosophical rsal The body is no longer the obstacle that separates r*ve . t from itself, that which it has to overcome to reach h' king It is on the contrary that which it plunges into or must ' I nee into, in order to reach the unthought, that is life. Not that the body thinks, but, obstinate and stubborn, it forces us to think, and forces us to think what is concealed from thought, life. Life will no longer be made to appear before the categories of ihought; thought will be thrown into the categories of life. The categories of life are precisely the attitudes of the body, its postures. 'We do not even know what a body can do':in its sleep, in its drunkenness, in its efforts and resistances. To think is to learn what a non-thinking body is capable of, its capacity, its postures. 11 is through the body (and no longer through the intermediary of the body) that cinema forms its alliance with the spirit, with thought. 'Give me a body then' is first to mount the camera on an everyday body. The body is never in the present, it contains the before and the after, tiredness and waiting. Tiredness and waiting, even despair are the attitudes of the body. No one has gone further than Antonioni in this direction. His method: the •ntenor through behavior, no longer experience, but 'what remains of past experiences', 'what comes afterwards, when ,1, ^'V'ng has been said', such a method necessarily proceeds via *riatUfU^eS °r P°stures ^e body.1 This is a time-image, the •nt< .h ,lme' e att'tude's what puts the before and after deadij - timC 'nt° the body' the b°dy as a revealer of the iba, ne-. ' he attitude of the body relates thought to time as to f>erL Z81^ which is infinitely further than the outside world, taneon S|t,redness is the first and last attitude, because it simul-alscj \viS y contains the before and the after: what Blanchot says is the Ant°moni shows, not the drama of communication, but 7he Q ense tiredness of the body, the tiredness there is beneath mUni cr>< and which suggests to thought 'something to incom-e. the'unthought', life.

But there is another pole to the body, another cinenufl thought link. 'To give' a body, to mount a camera on the takes on a different sense: it is no longer a matter of follow' ^fc trailing the everyday body, but of making it pass thr ceremony, of introducing it into a glass cage or a crvsM^i imposing a carnival or a masquerade on it which makes it ** grotesque body, but also brings out of it a gracious and »lo*1-10a body, until at last the disappearance of the visible bod°^ achieved.Carmelo Bene is one of the greatest constructors * crystal-images: the palace in Notre-Dame des Tures floats in ik. image, or rather it is the whole image which moves or thtnU reflections take on a violent colour, the colours themsebtj crystallize in Don Juan, in the dance of the veils in Capricci where the material comes between the dancer and the camera. Eyes haunt the crystal, like the eye in the monstrance, but what we are first allowed to see are the skeletons in Notre-Dame, the old men in Capricci, the old, decrepit saint in Salomé, who exhaust themselves with useless gestures endlessly taken up again, with constant!) inhibited and recommenced attitudes, up to the impossible posture (the Christ in Salomé who can't manage to crucify himself alone: how could the last hand nail itself?). The ceremony in Bene begins with parody, which affects the sounds as much as the gestures, for gestures are also vocal, and apraxia and aphasia are the two sides of the same posture. But what emerges from the grotesque, what is torn from it, is the gracious body of woman as superior mechanic, whether she dances among the old men, or goes through the stylized attitudes of a secret wish, or becomes fixed in an attitude of ecstasy. Is this not done in order finally to free the third body, that of the 'protagonist', or master^ ceremonies, who passes through all the other bodies? It is aireaajr his eye which was sliding into the crystal, it is he who communicates with the crystalline setting, as in Notre-Dame where history of the palace becomes an autobiography of the Prota™() ist. It is he who takes up inhibited or incomplete gestures, a* ^ Notre-Dame where he is continually missing his own. .r^i totally bandaged mummy who can no longer give h'^^^jjil injection, the impossible posture. It is he who must desecrat . gracious body, or use it in some respect, in order finally to acqI

the power to disappear, like the poet in Capricci who looks best position to die in. To disappear is already Salomé s o ^ desire, when she went away, back turned, towards the.IT1.£>^tiliis' when the protagonist takes up everything in this way, ,s hed that point of non-desire which now defines the he haS ret'^e ^hopenhaurian point, Hamlet's point in Un Hamlet pathet"1- ^ ^¡m where the visible body disappears. What is it """^'on-desire is music and speech, their intertwining in a freed ^ .s now oniy SOund, a body of new opera. Even aphasia body * 'es the noble and musical language. It is no longer the ihe11 s who have a voice, it is the voices, or rather the vocal Qf the protagonist (whisper, breathing, shout, eruc-rn. ) which become the sole, true characters in the iatl°nony in what has become a musical setting: as in the Ctndiirious monologues of Herod Antipas in Salome, which rise from his leprosy-covered body, and which carry out the sound wersof the cinema.2 In this undertaking, Carmelo Bene must be the director closest to Artaud. He has the same experience: he believes' in cinema, he believes that cinema can bring about a more profound theatricalization than theatre itself, but he only believes this for a short time. He soon thinks that theatre is more capable of renewing itself, and freeing sound powers, than a still limited, over-visual cinema, even if this means that the theatricalization has to include electronic rather than cinematographic aids. None the less he believed in it for a while, the time of a work too soon interrupted, voluntarily interrupted: the capacity that cinema would have to give a body, that is, to make it, to bring about its birth and disappearance in a ceremony, in a liturgy. It is perhaps here that we shall be able to grasp a stake in the theatre-cinema relationship.

These two poles, the everyday body and the ceremonial body, are discovered or rediscovered in experimental cinema. The a ter is not necessarily more advanced; it can even come th erTds- difference between experimental cinema and disc Cr c'nema's lhat (he former experiments, whilst the other Proc ^^ ^ v'rtue a different necessity from that of the filmic the CSS exPerimental cinema, sometimes the process mounts the everyday body; these are Warhol's famous three S'X 3nt* hours on the man asleep in a fixed shot, Eat) 'So aPt^rS °^an hour on the man eating a mushroom (Sleep, a cererr,rnetlrnes'on tbe contrary' this cinema of the body mounts attcr, °ny' takes on an initiatory and liturgical aspect, and body, to ° SUmtnon all the metallic and liquid powers of a sacred ^ien„a , e P°int of honour or revulsion, as in the essays of the of oppoj. Brus, Muehl and Nitsch.4 But can we talk in terms lte poles except in extreme cases which are not

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