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84reedsy · 7 years

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A Pirate’s Life For Me - Pirate Negan AU

Author: @84reedsy

Characters: (Pirate) Negan X Female OC

Word Count: 4759

Warnings: A level of smut that I was not even really prepared for. Also my first time writing Negan! NSFW, Swearing, language, some violence.

Tags: @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash @negans-network

Description: A new crew member has a big secret to hide, will the Captain find out “Gabriel’s” hidden identity?

The seas were fairly calm, the skies were bright blue. The hull of the ship bobbed slowly in the water as if it were part of the tide, part of the sea itself. The Sanctuary was a mighty ship, it’s black sails setting it apart from many of its counterparts; the pirate ship’s appearance alone struck fear into the hearts of those who were unlucky enough to lay their eyes upon it. For when one saw the ship, it was usually to late to fend her off for long, for The Sanctuary was a mighty, mighty ship indeed as her lossless record of piracy would suggest.

The crew was kept well as any crew could. Captain Negan made a point to call them Saviours instead of pirates, saying their work was honorable and part of what the sea needs.

They did not want for much as long as their allegiance to their captain was strong. The deck swabbed daily, the ship kept in immaculate shape, even the cooks quarters, normally a source of disease and festering smells was kept well. The captain would tolerate no less. He was fair, but if crossed or disobeyed could be a vicious and as bloodthirsty as any pirate captain could be. Those he did not strike fear in upon his appearance, he would at the very least garner the utmost respect. Yes, Negan was one hell of a pirate.

The ship was large, one of the largest vessels ever stolen from the royal navy and left unreclaimed, for the military feared him as much as any other man. Knowing this only furthered Negan’s drive to plunder and amass his fortune.

Most of the crew was an aggregation of his conquests. Those that did not perish were invited to join the ship’s legion. Those that refused were left behind on their sinking vessels to die an almost certain watery death. It was on one of those ships that Gabriel was a recruit from. He was aboard a french ship on a destinationless pleasure cruise when they were taken by Negan and the rest of the crew aboard The Sanctuary.

As with all other he’d started very low in the pecking order, slowly working his way up. He kept to himself, rarely speaking to others. Those he considered friends assumed that his antisocial behavior was nothing suspicious and therefore were usually content with his quiet presence. The truth behind his silence is what was truly shocking, and something he felt he must keep for the fear of his own life and honor.

For you see, Gabriel made a snap decision the day the french based ship was taken into the control of The Sanctuary. A decision that would, in his mind, secure his life and possibly provided a chance one day to return to shore and seek out his family. This was something only a man could accomplish, Gabriel had thought. It was the reasoning behind his decision to hide that fact that he….she was actual a young woman.

Somehow over the last few months, she’d managed to conceal this hidden identity. Choosing her father’s name was the first task and one she made quite impulsively as she kneeled before Captain Neegan as he asked each survivor if they’d care to join his crew. It was her father’s clothes that she’d hurriedly dressed in as the pirate ship approached, spurring her decision as well.

Lowering her voice, her french accent obscured her otherwise obviously fake attempt at baritone. As a woman she was svelte and incredibly attractive, which made concealing her form difficult. But luckily most of those employed in piracy wore baggy rags of clothes; layers and odd posture also aided in her concealment. It was quite a departure from the corseted frock revealing ample cleavage she normally wore.

She made it a point to keep her appearance rougher than normal, smearing dirt on her normally flawless skin and keeping her loose, golden blonde curls dirtied and shoved in a ponytail, partially hidden by a scrap of fabric tied around her head.

The more time that passed, the less and less she missed the rigidness of her upbringing, of her dull courtship with a politician's son; a man so unmasculine and unendowed that she hadn’t even realized that she’d lost her virginity. Doomed to a life of ungratifying sexual boredom was something she was willing to escape from and grew happier and happier every day.She was respected and not questioned or looked down upon, even as a swab.

She tried to remain inconspicuous to those in charge. Normally they saw Negan’s first mate, Simon on a daily basis as he would give orders, shouting from the top deck the plans for the day, assignments, promotions….punishments. Negan only made appearances in important occasions, usually punishments and promotions. Apparently today as very important, as Negan appeared from his captain’s quarters, silently studying the crew as they gathered below, waiting for him to commence the announcements.

Everyone appeared to be on edge as a small cauldron smoked at his feet. A long metal rod protruded from it, most knew it was a flat metal end, almost a brand of sorts. Those who had been with him the longest knew what was to come and tried as much as they could to ignore the apparatus, gazing upwards upon Negan.

Gabriel usually kept her eyes low, but Captain Negan was a specimen of a man that was difficult to avert your eyes from as a woman. He was muscular, but lean. His shirt split at the neck and dipped well into his chest, revealing a slight hairiness that solidified his masculinity. His salt and pepper stubble adorned his face, giving him a sight of wisdom. His constant smirk, an aire of confidence unmatched by any she’d ever seen before.

Her eyes scanned the rest of him as he began speaking, his dark red sash riding low, tightly cinched around his hips. She licked her lips as she remembered the dream she’d had of him sliding that sash around her waist and pulling her to him. She quickly shook the thought from her head, not wanting to rouse suspicion. She looked up at Negan’s face, her blood ran cold as he was smirking directly at her.

“SAVIOURS!” He boomed his greeting, leaning back as if it helped project his voice.

“CAPTAIN NEGAN!” The whole of the crew responding in resounding reverence.

“What a fine fucking day we have here.” His grin spread, showing his pearly white teeth, the envy of the ship, no doubt. It was one of the things that made him so mesmerizing. The crew responded again affirmatively.

“Simon, get on with this shit.” He clapped Simon on the shoulder, standing almost ominously to the side as Simon addressed the group. As much as most tried to give undivided attention to Simon, Negan’s presence made that impossible. He leaned against the newel post at the top of the stairway, one hand gripping the hand of his sword lightly. The sword even had a name, Lucille.

Gabriel had to ask several times if the other shipmates were being serious when she found out he’d named his weapon of choice that he held so dearly, so affectionately by his side. There were several rumors as to what the name signified. Most assumed it was a woman who’d broken his heart, some went as far as to say it was a sea nymph who’d lured him out to the sea, or a mermaid. The theories were endless but the coincidence of it was interesting to say the least.

Negan’s voice brought her mind back to attention as she realized he was looking in her direction as he spoke. His finger pointed and she felt her heart stop. Had she been found out? Had someone noticed something about her?

“Him...bring him here.” Negan pointed again in her direction. She felt the lump in her throat as two enforcers parted the crowd and made their way back. She was sure she would vomit when they reached her, but she felt a wave of relief as they grabbed a man next to her, who looked as pale and nervous as a man on death row. He fought their direction at first, but became almost lifeless as he was led up the stairs to a rickety wooden chair between Simon and Negan.

“You see, something that I demand from you Saviours...is respect, loyalty. If i get respect from you, you get it from me. I hope that’s fucking clear as crystal to all of you.”

“SIR, YES, SIR” was the again resounding response of the crew below.

“Absolutely fucking perfect.” He grinned, but it was almost devilish as if he were licking his chops over a fresh kill, “Because, you see, William here, has forgotten that very simple rule. The rule that says, ‘Don’t fuck over your Captain’.” He paced slowly back and forth on the upper deck, his heavy boots clunking with each step.

“You don’t fucking steal shit, from your Captain.” The silence below was almost deafening. It was almost as if the sea itself with quiet, listening to him, “I think William, here...need’s a reminder.”

Negan pulled Lucille from her sheath, holding it at eye-level to a clearly fear-stricken William. It was hard to feel sympathy for him. William was known to be quite selfish and insulting. Not to mention boorish and clearly entitled. But she felt a twinge of sorrow for him as his eyes were fixed on the blade, distracting him as Simon carefully handed Negan the glowingly hot brand.

William tried to apologize, begged to just let him return the gold he’d skimmed from their bounty, but it was clearly too late. She turned her head, unable to watch. Her eyes fell upon another of the saviours, his eyes blank, a scar on his cheek identical to the brand that Negan was wielding against William’s face. It was brutal and violent, but whether or not you agreed with his methods one couldn’t argue the results it produced.

She peered back as William fell silent, unconscious after the attack. Negan’s smile was wicked as he turned back to them. Parts of skin still hung from the end of the brand. The enforcers carted William off of the deck down below as Negan jabbed the iron back into the still smouldering cauldron.

Simon continued announcements as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. It made her stomach turn at the thought of that being a typical operating procedure, but she kept her head down the rest of the time. As they were dismissed, she scuttled about the crew, wanting to disappear below deck for a while, but as she approached the descending stairwell, a heavy arm blocked her escape.

Her eyes traveled the forearm, to the bicep, to the shoulder, finally seeing Simon was the one blocking her way.

“Yes, sir?” she mumbled in her muddled, falsely deep voice.

“The captain, requests your company...Gabriel” Now even a complete greenhorn of a sailor knew that it was no request, but a veiled order to appear. She was a little surprised to hear him say her “name”. She wasn’t aware that Simon nor Captain Negan even knew she existed. She swallowed the lump in her throat, nodding silently. As Simon led her to the captain’s quarters she kept her head down, careful to not make any eye contact with the other crew, a few of which who were looking on curiously.

As she was let into the room, she had to contain herself from being visibly awestricken. The wood pillars and molding around the room shown with a brilliant shine. It smelled of spices and good tobacco. She saw a tray with two crystal glasses, both filled halfway with a clear liquid. Lanterns hung around the room, giving the room a warm glow. His bed was the most impressive. Crisp, satiny sheets were tucked neatly; she remembered days of such extravagance, the way those sheets would cascade across your bare skin as you slept. Far better than the rough hammock she’d become accustomed to.

“Captain, deckhand Gabriel...as you requested.” Simon announced, a slight smirk on his face. He exited the room before she had a chance to really wonder what his smirk could have implied.

She stood at attention as best as she could while still leaving her chest caved in to hide her bosom. She clasped her hands behind her back to hide the nervous wringing of her hands. She heard his boots first as he emerged from behind a dressing screen. He’d removed his vest and head scarf, also letting the lacing on his shirt loose so that most of his chest and abdominals were exposed. The warm day left the slightest sheen of sweat glaze his body. It made every female part of her take notice as she tried not to let her eyes linger.

“You...You wanted to see me Captain?” She asked, her accent and low tone almost comical in a one on one setting. She felt her body shiver as a grin spread across his face and he lightly chuckled.

“Why yes, Gabriel. I did ask for Simon to bring your ass in here.” He sat down at the table, kicking both boots up on its edge, lighting a cigar, “I was wondering you knew the fuck why?”

From his grin she knew he was playing with her. She didn’t know the endgame but had nowhere to run, so she stayed.

“Sir, I do not know why you asked me here.”

He lifted his hand and curled his index finger, signalling her to approach him. He kept curling his finger as she edged closer, stopping a mere foot from him.

“Well...I thought I might need to reiterate my point earlier to make it crystal fucking clear about what I expect.” He turned the cigar between his full lips as he bored his eyes into her.

“Sir, you were very clear.” She somehow was keeping herself from shaking.

“Then care to tell your Captain why you’ve been a god damned liar since you got here?”

She felt frozen in place, she clenched her feminine hands in a fist as if that would keep him from noticing.

“S-sir?” She tried to play ignorant, stuttering as she couldn’t speak as deeply as she wanted.

“Wash your face.” He said, puffing away on the cigar. She stood, still frozen in place, his command a little confusing. “I said wash your fucking face.” He rose his voice a little, pointing to the wash basin.

Somehow her feet moved in that direction though they felt like solid bricks. She washed her face, staring into the mirror behind it as she did, the more dirty and grime that washed away, the more feminine she appeared. She returned to his side as she was instructed to do.

“Ah much better….Gabriel.” But the way he said the name, she had a suspicion that he was using it sarcastically.

“Now, back to you being a filthy little liar.” His voice almost growled. She couldn’t decide if it was fear or attraction that spurred her at this point, “Go ahead, tell Captain Negan you’ve been a bad little liar this whooooole time.” He bit lightly on the cigar as he smiled.

She wanted to defend herself, to convince him he was wrong, but she couldn’t find the words, or perhaps, the courage to say them. At her silence, Negan made the next move.

“Well…” He sat his cigar down, “I have a sneaking fucking suspicion, that if I keep doing this.” He clamped his hand on the inside of her knee, making her gasp as he slowly slid it up her thigh, “I’m gonna find a distinct fucking lack of dick.”

Her breathing quickened with each inch that his hand moved. Panic set in her brain as she realized she was not going to be able to talk her way around this one. Just as his fingers grazed her, she spoke up.

“Ok...Ok...You’re...you’re right...I’ve been lying...to protect myself.” She tried to offer as an explanation, but it almost came out pleading. She spoke in her normal feminine tone that seemed to make his grin widen.

“I like that voice much better. Take your hair down.” He stopped moving his hand, but left it on her inner thigh. She took a deep breath as she removed the cloth from her head. She took her hair down gently shaking it out.

“Well hell, you’re pretty as a fucking picture.” Negan drawled, puffing on the cigar again, “ Shame you’ve been hiding it so long...we coulda been having some fun.” His hand left her thigh to rest in his own lap, “Shirt. Off.”

Her eyes widened at his direction. His smile diminished a little as she stalled.

“No naughty deed goes unpunished.” was his warning to her, “Shirt...now.”

She saw his hand gently squeeze himself and couldn’t deny she was curious to see how much of a man he was. She slowly untucked the gauzy shirt, lifting it over her head and letting it fall to the floor. She had several layers of cloth wrapped around her chest to suppress what would have made her sex all too obvious.

“Well, look at that you crafty little thing.” He chuckled but stood. She jumped as he unsheathed Lucille, holding it near her face as he stood in front of her, studying the blade.

“Tell me doll, what’s your real name?” He tilted his head, staring down at her, aware of how overbearing he appeared. Her eyes flickered from the blade to his, “If it’s Gabrielle or some boring french shit, I’m gonna be real fucking disappointed.”

“It’s...It’s...Lucille.” She felt her cheeks blush as his smile faltered.

“Huh, no shit?” He was taken by surprise at this, quickly regaining his composure as she shook her head, “Well ain’t that some shit.”

Lucille almost yelped as she felt the cool dull side of the blade of her same name sake run between her skin at the cloth, the sharp edge tearing the cloth along it’s edge, making it fall to the floor. Her instincts were to cover herself, but she kept her arms stiff at her side.

“Oh, damn, doll...even more of a shame that you kept these things under wraps.” his voice was quieter, somehow deeper. She kept her eyes on his, trying to remain unflinching as his hand grazed her breast, his rough skin abrasive on her nipple, but she didn’t dare ask him to stop. The fire in her belly was being stoked and she wanted more.

“If this isn’t ok...just fucking say so. I’m not into forcing a woman to please me.” His motion stalled, leaving her wanting for more, surprised at his request, “I can always find other ways to punish you.”

“It’s ok….it’s more than ok.” She murmured, arching her back a little so that her breast was pushed more into his hand. His smile has her answer as his hand squeezed her breast tightly, massaging it as her lips parted in a whispery moan.

His head slowly leaned down, his lips touching hers. A teasing kiss at first, toying with her lips to make her press herself upwards into his lips. Her eyes fluttered closed at the feel of his lips. She felt her legs shake as he deepened it suddenly, his tongue demanding entrance, pushing past hers and exploring her mouth as if it were a sea he’d had yet to conquer.

“Get them britches off...I wanna see all of what I’m working with here.” He released her breast, sitting back down in his chair, his legs splayed wide, she could see the growing bulge that strained his pants a little; already she could tell he was much more than she’d had before.

She did as he asked, lowering them slowly. His eyes followed them down to the floor and slowly drank her in, his eyes lifting over her legs, her thighs. She felt a heat pulsate between her legs as his eyes seemed focused on the blonde tuft of hair that adorned her sex.

He no longer smiled, but his eyes were worshipful and darkened with desire. She could help but feel some pride at clearly garnering his attraction. He slapped his hand on the table a few times, beckoning her. She obeyed, feeling a little exposed, being completely nude in front of him, not having been so ever before. Even the joke of a courtship she’d had, he’d been to nervous so she’d kept her underclothes on the entire time.

She hopped up on the table, perched on the edge as he leaned forward.

“I think you know what I want you to do now.” His voice was more gravely by the second. His hands rested on her knees. She obeyed him again, parting her legs. She breathed quickly, her breasts almost heaving as his face leaned between her legs. He took a large inhale, letting her scent. He could smell her arousal, “You like this shit, doll? Damn I heard you french girls were into some freaky shit.”

Lucille felt herself go speechless to his teasing. She leaned back on her hands, giving him better access, her wordless request for him to continue. She almost jumped as he tasted her. His tongue thick and warm, almost rough against her tender, sensitive lips made her feel weakened, for sure knew she would do anything to let him do this to her for the rest of her life.

His mouth worked her masterfully. His hums from enjoying her sweetness vibrated against her clit, driving her quickly towards an edge she had only ever gotten to by herself, and most surely never this intensely.

“C-Captain…” She whimpered, her delicate hand lay softly on his hair. When he didn’t protest, she let her fingers sink into his locks, pressing his head more firmly against her sex, now soaked from a mix of his mouth and her wetness. His thick finger teased her entrance causing her hips, on their own accord to twitch, sinking into her.

“Captain WHAT?” He demanded, gently biting down on her clit. She squirmed a little, bucking into his face as she panted.

“Captain Negan,” She immediately whimpered, “Please sir...make me cum. Please, please, please!” Her instinctual eroticism took over, as her body continued to gyrate, working herself towards a release that she was craving desperately.

Her moans were cut short as the intensity of her orgasm rocked her body to the core, shuddering as he growled against her, his finger finally sinking in, working her through her orgasmic aftershocks.

“Absolutely...fucking dripping..” Negan sat back, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve, grinning smugly. She continued to pant on the table, her sex throbbing and aching for more.

“Knees...get down here on your fucking knees.” He said it through almost gritted teeth as he swiftly undid his red sash. He slid his hand down his pants, he gripping himself, stroking. She did exactly as she was told, her eyes wide and innocent as she knew what he was asking, but never having done so herself.

His large hand held her cheek for a moment, humming as he stroked himself. He leaned back farther in his chair as he displayed himself to her, and oh, what a man he was. She couldn’t help but lick her lips as the size of it. Thick and swollen, she could smell the musk from it that dilated her senses into an erotic frenzy.

“Open up, Lucille…” He grinned as he said it, his hand drawing her face to it, guiding the tip around her lips before parting them. He hissed as the head sunk into her warm mouth and her tongue greeted it. She slowly ran her tongue around the ridge, sliding his tip in and out of her mouth, watching him for a reaction. She took more in as his large hand encouraged her to do so, pressing the back of her head. His hand gripped her hair firmly as she struggled to swallow more and more of his throbbing, regal manhood.

His taste was salty and musky, but she couldn’t get enough of it, bathing his shaft with her tongue, humming and whimpering for more. She was caught off guard when he lifted her mouth from him. He pulled her face close to his, she felt him hard and pulsing against her belly as he did.

“Much more of that shit, doll, and you’ll be swallowing what I’ve got for you.” He surprised her by standing quickly and lifting her as if she were weightless. She bounced a little on the bed as he dropped her. He tore off his shirt, stripping completely himself as he looked down upon her wanting body.

As he slid over her, he hooked an arm around her leg, drawing it high, opening her to him.

“Fucking tight little bitch aren’t you…” He grunted, his face inches from her as he thrust in slowly. Each inch filled her like nothing before, drawing a long, wanton groan from her.

“It’s...your cock...it’s so huge, Captain Negan…” She purred, feeling her belly tingle at the knowing grin that spread across his face.

“Fucking right it is.” He growled once more, kissing her roughly as his hips set a punishing pace, working in her like it was an actual punishment. But punishment couldn’t be farther from what Lucille felt. Her body aflame, she was overwhelmed by sexual gratification. The feel of his sweat-slickened body against hers intensifying her arousal. She was aware her noises were not leaving much to the imagination of anyone with in earshot, but she was finding it less and less important to her to conceal any of it.

She whimpered in disappointment as he withdrew, only to be immediately satisfied when he flipped her over and entered her from behind. Negan leaned over her, biting her neck and shoulders as he grunted, each thrust a culmination of his power. His hands gripped her back side, smacking down on it.

“Such a….fine fucking ass…” He snarled, “God damn, you’re a good fuck girl…” He thrusted in her a few more strokes before leaving her sex again, laying back on the bed.

“Get up here and ride your Captain…” He pulled her by the arms and she eagerly straddled him. Her little experience seemed to have no ill-effect on her abilities as she let her intuition take over, sinking him in her and grinding her hips. She loved the way his large hands possessively roamed her, squeezing, pinching, slapping. It was no surprise to her that she came against, her body shuddering the muscles of her sex tightening around him as she cried out his name.

“Oh...OH...OH CAPTAIN NEGAN!” She squealed as she let it overtake her.

“Yeah doll...FUCK...let ‘em hear ya.!” He slapped her ass to encourage her.

Nega’s hands gripped her hips, forcing her to fuck him rapidly as he became more and more needy for his own release. She acquiesced, more than willing to let him use her for his own fulfillment. She felt his shaft growing, stretching her more. He bit his lip as he slid out of her and into his hand. He worked himself roughly, holding her in place as he came, shooting streams of his warm seed onto her belly, gasping and seething.

Lucille watched as he came, his release bringing her more satisfaction that she’d assumed she would feel. As he stroked himself down from his zenith, she gently rubbed his seed on her, stimulated by his attention as she did. She brought some to her lips, humming as she tasted him.

“God fucking damn it, doll...are you for real?” His words were teasing, but his face told her he was more than entertained by it.

Soon they both were on their backs, recovering from the vigorous session. Negan rolled over slowly his hand gripping tightly around her sex making her shiver.

“As long as this pussy stays only for me. You have nothing to worry about on this ship.” His terms were simple, but straightforward. She nodded her head in acceptance.

“Captain Negan...I think you’ve ruined me for any other man.” She purred, letting her finger slide along his jawline. His smug grin returned.

“Good fucking answer.”

#ash’s round 3 negan challenge #twdsm #negan #negan smut #negans thirst squad #twd fanfiction #negan fanfiction

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miguelmarias · 5 years

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Something Really New: Starting Over

Il faut recommencer de zéro. - J.-L. Godard (around 1966)

In order to be clear, let me tell you three seemingly unconnected stories.

In 1983, my phone rang. A young man I had never heard of named José Luis Guerín, who was then, it turned out, aged 23, and who lived in Barcelona, was to have some sort of preview of his first feature film in Madrid, and wanted me to present it. I told him I had to see it and like it enough. Which I did (both) some days later. Once I had agreed to present it, I asked him why he had thought about me. He replied that he had read and liked some of my reviews, especially one, about 9 years before, on Bresson's Lancelot du Lac. I was doubly intrigued, because very few people (and he was only 14 at the time) had liked that particular Bresson movie, and I had detected some Bressonian attitudes in his film, Los motivos de Berta. Thus began one of our usually spaced but very long conversations, which make him always late at some appointment (I feel guilty that he once kept Marcel Hanoun waiting for a very long time). It was already then quite unusual for such a young man to talk about Flaherty, Griffith and Dovzhenko as his contemporaries, just like Godard, Eustache or Garrel, not that even the latter trio were very popular or even widely known among Spanish cinéphiles or filmmakers in the early '80s.

Guerín was, no doubt about it, one of a kind. And he not only kept but steadily surpassed the promise of his first feature. He made, in Ireland, Innisfree (1990), in English and Gaelic, about the memories left around Cong, County Mayo, by the shooting of John Ford's The Quiet Man (1952); in 1996, he shot Tren de sombras (Le Spectre de Le Thuit), practically with no dialogue, in France, which was a fascinating inquest starting from a "found footage" home movie (actually shot by Guerín); in 2000, he filmed at long last his native city of Barcelona, in the copiously awarded (including the National Cinema Award) and very personal documentary En construcción, which made of him a relatively known figure. I seem to have been the first to watch each of his movies, although I must state (since people wonder when they see your name in the acknowledgements section of the end credits) that I merely encouraged him or supported his stand against producers or other people who wanted him to shorten his pictures, a step which would have impoverished them and damaged their precious rhythm. Since En construcción, he has continued lecturing and teaching, spurring youngsters to make unconventional movies, and has been busy preparing a new film.

In a medium-sized cinema like the Spanish one, which is not really an industry but rather a mixture of small business and individual craftsmanship (not always on good terms with each other), the only truly original, ambitious, and interesting films are made by a shrinking group of independent filmmakers, devoted enough to suffer long periods of forced unemployment, frustration, and even poverty. They still believe film could be an art, and try to do something about it. The reluctant "father figure" or model of most of the younger promising filmmakers is, of course, Víctor Erice, and they incur the risk of doing almost as few pictures as he. There are better and worse seasons in such a fragile cinema as ours, depending on how many of these filmmakers succeed in making something (even a short), but 2005 has yielded, for me, a very poor harvest, despite the official, corporate, or complacent opinions voiced by most critics and filmmakers and the depressing box-office success of some of the worst. And, fittingly, the best film of the year does not exist.

Of course, it does, since I've seen it eleven times, in three different versions so far. But it has no official or administrative existence: the Ministry of Culture does not know about it, has not "reviewed" or "registered" it, and therefore, it will not appear in the catalogue of Spanish Cinema: 2005. It has never been publicly shown. At my insistence, Guerín has screened it privately to only a handful of friends, and has so far refused to allow anybody from festivals to see it. All that on the dubious ground that it is not really a film, but merely a sort of photographic blueprint for a future feature, purportedly to be shot on 35mm film stock (instead of with a small, low-definition digital-video camera and partly at least with a digital still camera), in color (the "prototype" is in black and white, since Guerín completely de-saturated it), with dialogue, noises, and music (instead of being absolutely silent, which I feel is how it should stay), without intertitles (whereas it is a film to be read, and it is a vital part of its experience to see the words appearing on the screen, as in some of Godard's later films), and with full normal movement (actually, it looks almost like a feature-length La Jetée, since most of the images are stills; there are only, occasionally, some slight, brief, rather tentative movements, a bit like in some Godard films starting with Sauve qui peut [La vie]).

But it is not at all true, as its author pretends, that this film is a blueprint, or a collection of random notes taken in order to prepare a film, or a preliminary sketch of a film to be made — which, I feel, would be wholly redundant, since Guerín has already made it, and very successfully, in a more innovative and cheaper way. Far from being a pre-production "scale model," it is a minutely edited, carefully structured and rhythmed marriage of narrative and reflection, of recollections and speculation, full of mystery and with an acute sense of unceasing, perhaps endless search, which often makes one think of Hitchcock's Vertigo only to remind you, a moment later, of Jonas Mekas's Reminiscences of a Journey to Lithuania, or suggest a longer, more complex development of Eustache's late short Les Photos d'Alix. I throw out all these references not in order to boost the film, but to help readers to grasp the very particular nature of a film they are unable to see, and perhaps will never have the chance of getting a glimpse of. And it is something so unique that I find it very difficult to describe.

By the way, it is provisionally titled Unas fotos... En la ciudad de Sylvia... y otras ciudades. Which could be translated as Some Photographs... In the City of Sylvia... and Other Cities. Or perhaps as Some Stills... In Sylvia's City... and Other Cities, or maybe Some Snapshots... In Sylvia's City... and Other Cities. In any case, the title is what I like least about it. It is self-derogatory (although partial, like everything in the world, the film is far from being merely "some photos") and utterly misleading as a description. Its present title does not even suggest the narrative drive that makes the film move (in every sense of the word), even though its images are mostly still and its pacing quite deliberate. It should be called, for example (to change it as little as possible), In Search of Sylvia through Her City... and Other Cities. Even if Guerín wants to conceal how personal and subjective a film it is (I wonder how, and even why? He's shy, of course, but...) and would rather pretend that Unas fotos has nothing to do with an intimate journal.

However, what is really meaningful is the personal starting point of what finally becomes a very peculiar kind of speculative fiction, which made me think of a daylight version of André Breton's Nadja, a book that, surprisingly, the filmmaker has not read. In 1980, in the city of Strasbourg, Guerín (or the unseen, nameless narrator who addresses us silently, in brief written phrases) met a girl named Sylvia, who spoke a little Spanish because she had studied nursery in Salamanca. He either never knew or forgot her family name. The only "mementoes" of their meeting are a box of matches from the café "Les Aviateurs," where they met and talked, and a beer mat with some annotations on it: the address of a local old bookstore that, twenty years later, when Guerín tried to find her, wasn't there anymore.

Considering her profession, Guerín takes a city map and locates the places where she could be: hospitals and clinics, the Faculty of Medicine and such. He roams around these places with watchful, hopeful anticipation. Looking at every girl on foot or bicycle, standing in wait for a date or a green light at a pedestrian passage, sitting in a café or a restaurant. Seemingly without realizing at first that, since twenty years have passed when the search starts, any young girl resembling Sylvia would more likely be her daughter. Looking at women, finally of all ages, without finding Sylvia, he becomes interested, intrigued or attracted by several others, many of them utterly different from Sylvia, and even follows some through the streets of the city, while recalling the love of Goethe for Charlotte (or Lotte), who was also from Strasbourg and who felt jealous when the character in "Werther," who so closely resembled her, happened to have eyes of a different color from hers.

I will not disclose more about Unas fotos, because part of the excitement it produces comes from the surprising connections and associations that Guerín spins. It would lose its almost Hitchcockian suspense, its Bressonian drôle de chemin where "the wind blows where it wills," the sense of strolling through different European cities — what the French call flâneries — which account for a large part of its most peculiar charm. It is enough to suggest that it is a truly European film in its spirit and its cultural references — Petrarca and Laura, Dante and Beatrice crossing paths in the past of cities visited once and again, and making the narrator wonder where exactly, and from what point of view, the poets first saw the women they would become obsessed with — typically a filmmaker's concern.

Only on one point can I understand Guerín's reluctance to show his new film: it is perhaps a new kind of movie, probably too far apart from the commonplace, and the times are not too open to experiences like this. As a matter of fact, I have difficulty in imagining a time when such a film as Unas fotos would be normally shown at your nearest theater, no matter where you live (even in Paris). It is perhaps too intimate an experience for people you don't know to be sitting around you. And the total, hard silence I find so necessary to look at it properly, without the rhythms of any music interfering with those of the film, without sound or dialogue or music announcing, underlining, stressing, or "poeticizing" any part of it, probably would be as dangerous in an almost empty theater as in a crowded house. Most people react quite aggressively towards prolonged silence, they would think the sound was not properly working and start yelling and guffawing, only to realize, aghast and angry, that the film is really, wholly silent. Which would cause a self-defensive reaction against a film that commanded so much attention and concentration on its images as to give no rest, no truce, no clue, no hope of distraction from the screen. Maybe a new kind of cinema calls for a new way of communication with the audience, which could be not a crowd, but individuals or small groups of friends sitting before a TV set, in the intimacy of their own homes. Perhaps it would have to be distributed on DVD or bought online.

On the other hand, I find that Guerín's new film should be seen everywhere, because it provides an exhilarating demonstration of freedom. It proves that, thanks to new, ultra-cheap technology, you can make a great, daring, personal film without money, on your own, with only (of course) a lot of talent, effort, and time, and I find that this could be extremely encouraging to aspiring filmmakers who almost despair at the difficulty of getting started, of convincing producers, and even — the film once made — of getting a fair release. Since the film really does exist, it should be seen. After all, what are films for whose goal is not merely making money? For seeing and for helping others to see.

Guerín has been collecting images for this project during almost four years, and building it up and reshaping and refining it incessantly. For that he needs no money, no funding, no producers. His main investment is his own time. Time to travel and walk, to read and think, to choose angles and frames, to look around and to edit his recollections, the traces of his search. Modern technology allows that for almost no money at all. But DV may be used — it is often — too recklessly; it is too easy. And for a true filmmaker, it should pose some questions. With digital video you can shoot as much as you want, and make very long uninterrupted takes, rather than carefully thought shots; the cameras are so small you may become easily a Peeping Tom or a voyeur, and so light you can hold them in your hand, forget about tripods and move it around all the time, with no apparent need to care about continuity or even about properly framing and composing. As a matter of fact, digital technology has no photograms, no frames, no 24-frames per second speed, no Maltese Cross, no persistence of vision, no projection, almost no shots to cut and link; that is, almost nothing of what has defined cinema for about a century. Even editing is a different issue: digital video encourages a new, quite passive conception of "montage." I'm sure Guerín has read at least some of Serge Daney's disquieting writings about freeze-frame, about stills, about the variable nature of images. I gather he's given these issues some deep thought, and I believe he has, perhaps unconsciously, found a way of avoiding the temptations and facilities and dangers of digital video filmmaking.

His instinct has made him start at the very beginning. With the new, cheap, almost cost-free equipment, and taking as his model not D.W. Griffith or Louis Feuillade, or even Louis Lumière, but rather the very earliest of pioneers, Étienne Marey and Edweard Muybridge, he has found again the true essence of cinema, its forgotten, invisible, taken-for-granted secret: that there are in fact no real images of movement, but only stills, a succession of photographs whose succession creates the illusion of movement. Between each, there is always at least a diminutive, almost unperceivable ellipse, the black blank piece of film between each frame. Godard was hinting at this very problem, I think, when he began employing videotape and started stopping the movement of images, or slowing it down, then accelerating again, so as to render visible the original isolation and the willful, deliberate linking of the frames that allows the passage from one photogram to another, which also explains Bresson's insistently calling what he did cinématographe instead of cinéma: after all, he was writing with the articulate movement of fixed, still images. That's why I consider it some sort of "poetic justice" that Guerín, reinventing cinema with digital means, has returned to the very beginnings, without any sort of sound, not even music or noise, without color, and has employed only the minimal, bare elements, those available when cinema was not yet entertainment, not even a show, but almost a scientific tool intended to look at what you cannot see with the naked eye, and to register it and keep a record, to take notes, to make annotations. But Unas fotos is not merely a remake of the early steps of cinema before Lumière: I don't recall a single silent film that used titles as some sort of inner monologue, as a kind of silent, written equivalent of voice-over commentary, as Guerín does. As the W. B. Yeats poem quoted at the beginning of Guerín's Innisfree announced, "I will rise now, and go...."

http://fipresci.hegenauer.co.uk/undercurrent/issue_0106/guerin_marias.htm

#Miguel Marías #José Luis Guerin #unas fotos en la ciudad de sylvia #fipresci

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