请高手翻译2

Charlotte Rampling Back in the Limelight
By John Walsh
In this article: Moody , glamorous film actress Charlotte Rampling is more glo*ous than ever in Under the Sand, but in the flesh , she can be spiky , to say the least.
本文简介：情绪多变，魅力无穷的电影女演员夏洛蒂•兰普琳在《沙下》一片中比以往任何时候都辉煌，但她本人可能是难以对付的，至少可以这样说。
Film ctic Barry Norman once turned “rampling” into a participle. “Rampling all over the sofa” was, he said, the only way to descbe the way General Sternberg’s wife wggled and flounced when meeting Robert Mitchum’s Philip Marlowe in the 1975 remake of the Raymond Chandler detective classic Farewell, My Lovely. He borrowed the descption from the name of the actress Charlotte Rampling, conveying in a single word her impatient , sexy distance. This year, Rampling appears in the film Under the Sand.
But Charlotte Rampling always had a touch of sui genes about her. She was never a conventional leading lady. For one thing, she radiated a witheng B*tish hauteur that could stun a suitor at 200 paces.
Class but impatient, she was always smoking, or tapping her finger, or darting a look from those piercing eyes that expressed exasperation with the human race, especially men. In the classic 1966 Btish film Georgy Girl, she played Georgy’s bitchy flatmate Magold, who looks at her newborn baby and says “Yuk-take it away”; and so Ms Rampling stayed etched on the collective 1960s memory as a sexy bitch .
Meeting her in Covent Garden, you’re amazed how little Time has touched her (it wouldn’t dare). A slender beauty of 55 in black frock-coat and trousers, she inspects the hotel library with regal poise and perches on an armchair. She stares fixedly at the carpet while talking, occasionally fi*ng a coup d’oeil at her quaking interrogator . She is, to be honest, a bit of a nightmare to interview.
She speaks quietly, I fantastically dead sentences (“Why did this movie Under the Sand appeal to you?” “Oh, I just like it”), as though bored or amazed at your presumption (“What a strange creature you are”) and /or stupidity. “I don’t talk about favo*te directors,” she said at one point, “and I don’t tell anecdotes, as you may have noticed.”
The flatness in her voice is transformed when her phone *ngs and she speaks in rapid, vivacious French—a gorgeous sound, liquid and swooping and full of quelle horreur exclamations . She was educated at the Joan of Arc Academy for Young Women at Versailles and at the exclusive高级的St. Hilda’s school in Bushley, England. She has lived in France since 1978, in an apartment near the Luxembourg Gardens, but keeps her old town house in Chelsea in London. “I see an England as I imagine it, not as it rally is, because I don’t have to use the trains or hospitals or schools. I just come and take what I want without being too connected to all the realities.”
In France she’s adored , and was recently awarded a Caesar for her lifelong contbution to cinema. In England she got the OBE（=office of the Btish Empire ） “for services to cultural work between Pa*s and London----I’m on the diplomatic list.” The contrast is significant.
Her new film, Under the Sand, is a small-budget , existentialist mood -opera directed by the youthful Francis Ozon (of Les Amants Cminels and Water Drops on Burning Rocks) about a happily mared teacher, Mae, whose huand of 25 years takes her to their holiday home in Les Landes and disappears. One moment he is massaging sunblock into her shoulders on the beach, then he’s gone. A b*lliant 360-degree pan-shot registers her panic that Jean让has drowned淹死or abandoned her on the miles of sand and sea.
Back home in Pas, we find her chatting at a dinner party about Jean’s exercise regimen and we realize that she’s convinced he is still alive. Fends try to fix her up with a new man, Vincent, but she goes home to her fantasy life with the missing Jean. As reality encroaches , and fresh evidence suggests that Jean may have killed himself for disaffection , we watch her emerge from her dreamy limbo to confront what really happened.
Rampling is fantastically convincing as the wife---alternately distraught , self-assured, cocooned in fantasy, argumentative, sunny , stcken with mortality , luminous with hope, caught between despaing self-delusion and promptings of a new beginning. She’s always looking in mirrors, adjusting her appearance, her hair and clothes, as if trying on new identities, looking for her real self. It’s a performance that goes beyond acting.
“I think this film was very much about two people, ” she said. “Namely, the director and the actor. It was about how to put across , through the face of your actor, what you wanted your audience to feel about a subject very difficult to desc*be---namely, absence. It there’s nobody to deal with when someone dies or disappears, you have nothing except the supposition假设that anything is possible, anything could have happened.”
The film had an unorthodox gestation in having no actual scpt . “There wasn’t a screenplay when I first met Frances. He just wanted to film something he’d been on the beach when he was 12. He said: ‘After the disappearance, I want to stop filming and then wte the story around you, and then well find out together what happens to this woman.’ He didn’t know what would happen, but he knew he wanted to find a body at the end. It was,” she dryly concluded , “quite an o*ginal way of doing things.”
One major talking-point of the movie is the sight of a 55-year-old woman’s naked body. Ms Rampling’s delicious flesh is on display in a strangely affecting sex scene with Vincent (Jacques Nolot ) in which the camera itself inspects for face and breasts with impertinent frankness . The subject of nudity is a minefield with this diffident , p*vate woman, and I blundered into a dozen high explosives in as many minutes.
“No, of course I didn’t want to do the film because I had take my clothes of in it,” she snapped . What I actually meant (I stammered ) was, did you want to make a statement about actresses being allowed to express their sexualityafter a certain age? “Well if anyone can do that, and get away with it, the French man,” she said, distancing her own part in this bold initiative . “It’s not a nice thing to do, but it was important.” Why? “Because it was part of the story, ” she said, as though explaining to a child.
I asked what had brought her back to the movies. “I’ve been working all the time, in fact,” she said, “but I haven’t really wanted it to be seen. I’ve done a lot of small-budget French film.” It’s the work that interests her these days, not the money or the profile. “It depends on the project, ” she says, “on a director wanting me to be in his film…”
It was, it seems Luchino Visconti who turned her life around in the late 1960s, when he directed her in the award-winning 1969 film The Damned. “Visconti was a fine man. He really was my master. He showed me how I wanted to make films, with that kind of qualityand integ*ty, that kind of grandeur. I wanted to do things that were penetrating, dangerous, where emotion could be expressed. I didn’t just want to make films for entertainment.”
Her career was strangely shadowed by that of Dirk Bogarde, he con-star in The Damned and The Night Porter, who like wise fell under Visconti’s spell and began a love affair with France. “Yeah, there are those simila*ties. He was a soul in incredible torment, though his books helped enormously. We were very, very close-kindred souls really.”
Ms Rampling is on a roll at present. She has been playing a forensic nun in Superstition, filmed in Belgium with Sienna Guillory, about a homicidalnanny. And her commitment to arthouse movies has suddenly got her name back in the international limelight. Under the Sand has been a wild success in France. When it failed to win Best Picture at San Sebastian, there was an outcry. And now she’s taking it to Ame*ca. But she’s not dreaming of any massive change in her circumstances.
“What will be will be,” she says in her strange, flat way. “It’s how I’ve lived my life. I don’t see why it should change.” Was she perhaps a little young for a lifetime achievement award? “A bit young, yeah,” she said, laughing at last, “but I told myself, well---I can always have two of them! ” And the divinely impatient Charlotte rampled out of the room.