Textes & Scènes de Théâtre / Dialogues de Cinéma / Séries / Littérature / Philo / Poésie…
Longue scène de dialogue pour deux hommes tirée d’Hunger de Steve McQueen (2008). Le film dépeint avec crudité les derniers jours d’incarcération du leader de l’IRA, Bobby Sands (Michael Fassbender), et la résistance des terroristes indépendantistes incarcérés à Prison de Maze. Ceux-ci refusent de porter l’uniforme de criminel régulier, et revendiquent un statut « politique » que le gouvernement de Margaret Thatcher leur refuse catégoriquement. Les prisonniers manifestent en refusant de se laver, en étalant leurs excréments sur les murs de leur cellule, en faisant ruisseler leur urine dans le couloir… Mais cette « grève de l’hygiène » est inefficace. Le chef décide alors de mener ses troupes dans une lutte radicale et suicidaire en entamant une grève de la faim. Il reçoit la visite du Père Dominic Moran (Liam Cunningham), qui vient lui rappeler les conséquences terribles d’une telle action collective… (Vous pouvez également extraire la tirade finale de Bobby pour en faire un monologue. Le script en anglais est suivi d’une traduction en français.)
BOBBY. You can sit down any time you like.
DOM. Priest etiquette. Never sit before you’re asked.
BOBBY. Sit down then.
DOM. Don’t want to come over to eager.
BOBBY. Best to hover at the door.
DOM. You learn that in your first week at the seminary, boy. Cig?
BOBBY. Come on.
DOM. Bit of a break from smoking the bible, hey? Have you worked out which book is the best smoke?
BOBBY. We only smoke the ‘Lamentations.’ A right miserable cigarette.
DOM. Nice room, very clean.
BOBBY. Where is it you’re from again, Dom?
DOM. Born you mean?
DOM. Oh, the city dog. A wee place south of Ballymoney. Kilrea.
BOBBY. I remember a homily you did at mass one time.
DOM. Oh, were you listening to it?
BOBBY. The men who hold you in high esteem.
DOM. Oh, I can feel a dig coming on.
BOBBY. You’re very quick,
BOBBY. Nah, you’re respected you know that. I like those stories you tell about the countryside.
DOM. A childhood of poaching, robbing apples, stampeding cattle.
BOBBY. A fine education for a priest.
DOM. A priest working in West Belfast, it is.
BOBBY. Stampeding comes in handy down the Falls Road. You miss it though?
DOM. Ah, sure. Nice to get home to see my wee brother every month or so, but… Ay, I miss the usual. Clean air, space, all that.
BOBBY. Feels closer to who you are?
DOM. Ay, it is. No question. Like a fish out of water working in a big city like Belfast, but it’s a job, isn’t it? You stop looking at your surroundings quick enough when you figure your business is the business of the soul.
BOBBY. Business of the soul?
DOM. Ah, you know what I mean.
BOBBY. Learnt that in seminary too?
DOM. Ay, and you can use that free of charge.
BOBBY. Go on.
DOM. I suppose what I’m saying is, you get on. Kilray can wait till I’m an old man.
BOBBY. Too many scoundrels to be saved in Belfast anyway.
BOBBY. You’ll get your reward in heaven.
DOM. And I’ll be thankful, if there’s wine involved.
BOBBY. So what’s your wee brother doing back home?
DOM. He’s a parish priest. He’s a sneaky wee bastard, you know the sort, Bobby.
BOBBY. He still goes poaching?
DOM. Poaching jobs. And he’s younger than me by 8 years all right.
BOBBY. Go on.
DOM. As a cleric I work in a parish beside Kilrea. A wee hole of a place. I’m working me arse off. House calls to the elderly, mobile confessions–
BOBBY. The glamour stuff.
DOM. Oh, ay. So a position comes up at Kilrea and I’m passed over for some reason or other, no reason probably.
BOBBY. Too much cake off the old ladies?
DOM. So about five years later, the position again comes up back home in Kilrea, and my brother Michael waltzes right into it.
DOM. He’s made a parish priest at 28.
BOBBY. More spiritual maybe. Less lippy than you.
DOM. He worked the Bishop, he’s a golfer. He’s a pushy little twerp that’s what he is.
BOBBY. At least you’re not bitter.
DOM. Oh, no, I couldn’t be that, no.
BOBBY. Parish priest at 28? Fantastic.
DOM. Hmm, he has two cars. And the house he has is massive. He has a maid, a cook, and I’m stuck in a two-up-two-down with a fat Kerry man who drones on and on about Gaelic football. Can we stop talking about this?
BOBBY. Jesus, you’re the one who’s talking.
DOM. How’s the smoke going?
DOM. Filthy habit, disgusting.
BOBBY. Ay, awful. Lovely though.
DOM. Ay, praise the lord.
BOBBY. 28… My god.
DOM. Oh, stop it. So what happened to your eye Bobby?
DOM. Get a dig? Your eye?
BOBBY. Difference of opinion.
DOM. How’s the other fella?
BOBBY. A lot worse, believe me.
DOM. So what did you call me here for?
BOBBY. Is that the idle banter over?
DOM. Priest etiquette, small talk first.
BOBBY. I’m learning a lot about the priesthood.
DOM. Oh, you’d make a good priest.
BOBBY. Oh, ay.
DOM. Good talker, man of principle, leader of men.
BOBBY. Political terrorist.
DOM. The church loves a reformed crook.
BOBBY. I always felt that thief next to Jesus got off lightly.
DOM. Ah, but he recognised his sins.
BOBBY. Did he, though?
DOM. Ay, said as much.
BOBBY. When you’re hung from a cross, you don’t say anything. Jesus offers him a seat next to daddy in a place called paradise. You’re always gonna put your hand up for a piece of that.
DOM. Ay, even when it’s nailed to your cross.
BOBBY. Jesus Christ, that’s sacrilegious.
DOM. Sacrilegious? No, no, he was a dirty thief. So what did you want to tell me? Where are you at? Been driven mad by that governer yet?
BOBBY. See this negotiating lark? It’s been a sideshow. I’ll tell you that for nothing.
DOM. But you understand why you need to do it?
BOBBY. Because we’re no longer good propaganda.
DOM. According to who? The leadership?
BOBBY. The time has come. A decision had to be made.
DOM. You think that’s what the leadership think?
BOBBY. Maybe, I don’t know.
DOM. A bit paranoid there Bobby.
BOBBY. Ten thousand people marched for the seven hunger strikers last October, right? International pressure on the Brits.
DOM. Busy time.
BOBBY. Even the pope’s having a say, getting involved. The whole world trying to get Thatcher to back down, to give us our demands. But it all came to nothing.
BOBBY. Hunger strike failed, we’re on the frontline. We created the protest, it’s our responsibility. Leadership have been very clear to me, Dom. Four and a half years of the no-wash protest as much as it’s highlighted republicanism to some extent, it’s also distracted from the development of the organisation.
DOM. Because your needs are specific.
BOBBY. Of course they are. Some woman bringing up 3 children in West Belfast shouldn’t care about civilian clothing or whatever they call these clown outfits. Honest to God, Dom, we were promised our own clothes. It’s childish skulduggery.
DOM. So the leadership have had enough of you?
BOBBY. In an ideal world, we’d be fight our battles independently. But we’re tied. Nothing’s changed here. The leadership are stuck with us until there’s some realistic chance of political status. That’s the hard truth. See, to get me to negotiate with these lying reneging monkeys when there’s never nothing on the table, it’s just pure crap. I’m not going be marched into this Governor’s office and get caught up in some pointless dialogue with that pompous bastard.
DOM. He’s a big fan of yours.
BOBBY. Thick as two short planks. Can you believe they made him Governor? Bloody insult to humanity!
DOM. Where do you get your energy from?
BOBBY. I was a cross country runner when I was a boy.
DOM. Could have guessed it. Big engine on you. Cross-country running, explains a lot about you, Bobby.
BOBBY. Why, I loved it, so I did. That’s the whole country thing for me. Jesus, they’d have to hold me back at the finishing line or I’d keep on running. Little scraps. We were mongrels from the city, frightened of cattle and all.
DOM. Frightened of cattle?
Ay, terrified of them. It was a funny time. Think you could get milk and burgers from them monsters? Jesus christ! The next time round, I’ll be born in the countryside. Guaranteed. Wildlife, birds, I love all that. Paradise.
DOM. Ay, and you could learn to relax too.
BOBBY. Maybe, you never know, never tried it before. I’m starting a hunger strike on the first of March. That’s why you’re here, that’s what I’m telling you.
DOM. Ay, I heard that. Does your family know?
BOBBY. I got word out to them, ay.
DOM. Have you spoken with them?
BOBBY. Got a visit in two weeks. We’ll talk then.
DOM. How do you think they’ll take it?
BOBBY. What do you think, Dom?
DOM. And your wee boy? (Booby does not answer. He lights a cigarette) So what makes it different from the last time?
BOBBY. Last time the strikes were flawed. It became emotional. Seven men started at the same time. They all got weak, and they couldn’t let the weakest one die, which left us susceptible to being conned by the Brits, and that’s exactly what we were, conned. This time out, the men will start consecutively two weeks apart, then somebody dies, they’ll be replaced. There’s no shortage of us, 75 men have put their names forward–
DOM. For christ’s sake!
BOBBY. The announcement’s being made today.
DOM. So what makes this protest different is that you’re set to die, Bobby?
BOBBY. May well come to that.
DOM. You start a hunger strike to protest for what you believe in. You don’t start already determined to die, or am I missing something here?
BOBBY. It’s in their hands, our message is clear, they’re seeing our determination.
DOM. So it will take a couple of deaths do you think, maybe five or six, but there are 75 of you.
BOBBY. Ay, well, it won’t come to that.
DOM. Alright maybe the Brits will buckle after twenty or so, but why should you care cos’ you’re already dead, right? Have you thought about what you’re going to be putting these boys through? I mean putting aside what’s going to happen to these poor men’s families. You’re going head-to-head with a British government that clearly despise republicanism, who are unshakable, who can easily live with the deaths of what they call terrorists. And the stakes are much higher this time.
BOBBY. I know that.
DOM. And if you’re not even willing to negotiate, you’re looking for them to capitulate, is that it?
DOM. So failure means many dead men, families torn apart, and the whole republican movement demoralised.
BOBBY. Ay, worst case scenario might well mean all that. But short term. Out of the ashes–
DOM. Come on–
BOBBY. Guaranteed there’ll be a new generation of men and women, even more resilient, more determined–
DOM. Look who you’re talking to!
BOBBY. There’s a war going on, I thought you might understand. You’re talking like a foreigner!
DOM. You’re talking to me like I’m a foreigner. You think I don’t know Northern Ireland, I live here, man!
BOBBY. Then support us!
DOM. I supported the first hunger strike on the basis that it was a protest, not some predesign to die, and balk at negotiation other than complete surrender from Thatcher. That’s ridiculous Bobby, it’s destructive!
BOBBY. What’s been happening here the past four years? The brutality, humiliation, our basic human rights taken from us. All of it has to come to an end!
DOM. Through talking!
BOBBY. So what? We take their offer put their uniform on cos’ the last four years have been nothing. We could do that DoM, or we could behave like the army we proclaim to be and lay down our lives for our comrades.
DOM. Is there not even a small part of you that’s hoping for a breakthrough? That could find you negotiating again?
BOBBY. That won’t happen.
DOM. Right, forget about that. I want to know whether your intent is purely to commit suicide here.
BOBBY. You want me to argue about the morality of what I’m about to do and whether it’s suicide or not? For one you’re calling it suicide, I call it murder. And that’s another wee difference between us two. We’re both catholic men, both republicans. But while you were poaching salmon in lovely Kilrea, we were being burnt out of our house in Rathcoole. Similar men in many ways, Dom, but life and experience have focused our beliefs differently, you understand?
DOM. I understand.
BOBBY. I have my belief, and in all its simplicity, that’s the most powerful thing.
DOM. So what’s your statement by dying? Just highlighting British intransigence?
So fucking what? The whole world knows what the Brits are like.
DOM. Ay, it is good! And it’s nothing to do with you! The Brits have been fucking up everything for centuries!
BOBBY. I can feel your hatred Dom.
DOM. What? You’re looking for martyrdom?
DOM. You’re sure? Cos I’ve heard you eulogising, Wolfe Tone, Mac Connolly, Mac Swiney… all them men. Can’t help thinking you’re writing your name large in the history books.
BOBBY. Cos’ you think that matters for me?
DOM. Oh ay! I know it does!
BOBBY. Well, you’re wrong.
DOM. You see you’re soldiers, it’s all about the freedom, but you got no appreciation of a life, Bobby. You no longer know what a life is, you mean. Four years living in these conditions, no one expects you to be normal. There’s nothing normal about you. Right now the republican movement has talked itself into a corner. You IRA are standing right behind it looking into that corner. All that history, all them dead men and women, you’re still seeing nothing. When your answer is to kill everything you’ve blinded yourself, and you’re scared to stop it. Afraid of living, afraid of talking, peace. So what would Ulster be if it wasn’t turning itself to shit? And this situation here, that the future of the republican movement is in the hands of you men who have lost all sense of reality. You think your head’s all right? Locked up in here 24 hours a day in piss and shit. And you are making decisions that could see so many men die. Build a statue to Bobby Sands! You’re joking. Freedom fighter? They’re the men and women working out there in the community. And that was you, once upon a time. Am I right? All that work you did in Twin Brook. That’s where we need you, Bobby! And you know I’m right!
BOBBY. That I’m deluded. You want me to answer that?
DOM. They’re beating you Bobby. You’re playing into their hands.
BOBBY. The strategy’s in place.
DOM. Then stop it. Just stay ‘stop’!
BOBBY. You don’t understand a thing.
DOM. You’re in no shape to make this call.
BOBBY. It’s done. It won’t be stopped.
DOM. Then fuck it, life must mean nothing to you.
BOBBY. God’s gonna punish me.
DOM. Well, if not just for the suicide, then he’d have to punish you for the stupidity.
BOBBY. Ay, and you for your arrogance. Cos’ my life is a real life, not some theological exercise, some religious trip that’s got fuck all to do with living. Jesus Christ had a backbone. The same as disciples, every disciple since. You’re just jumping in and out of the rhetoric, and deadend semantics. You need the revolutionary, you need the cultural political soldiers to give life a pulse, to give life a direction
DOM. That’s just stupid talk, you’re deluded.
BOBBY. Ay, so you say.
DOM. Yeah and what’s your wee son gonna say?
BOBBY. Fuck off!
DOM. Doesn’t that interest you?
BOBBY. You gonna attack me with sentiments? Typical priest!
DOM. What’s your heart saying Bobby?
BOBBY. I thought you had me all figured out, Dom?
DOM. What’s it saying? Tell me!
BOBBY. My life means everything to me. Freedom means everything. I know you don’t mean to mock me, Dom, so I’ll just let all that pass. This is one of these times when we’ve come to a pause, it’s the time to keep your belief pure. I believe that a united Ireland is right and just. Maybe it’s impossible for a man like you to understand. But having a respect for my life, a desire for freedom, and an unyielding love for that belief means I can see past any doubts I may have. Putting my life on the line is not just the only thing I can do, Dom. It’s the right thing.
DOM. This is why you called me here. You needed a sounding board, not a hundred percent sure of yourself. Been doubting yourself maybe.
BOBBY. Ay, we’re only human.
DOM. And I’ve made it clear for you there.
BOBBY. Man of guidance, Dom, business of the soul. (He takes another cigarette) Have you been to Gweedore, in Donegal?
BOBBY. I went there when I was twelve. Wee cross-country race for the boys, and we’re all on the back of the minibus heading towards Derry one morning. I mean, this is big time, this is like international athletics for us cos’ we’re racing against boys in the South. And we have this thing to do Belfast pride. Three of the boys were Prods, and the rest of us were catholics. It’s a cross-community event. I suppose good people in the South think this is great stuff, and let’s get this wee team over from Belfast, and all that patronising shit. Anyway, we’re through the border, the boys all singing pop tunes and all. But I’m just in the back of the bus looking out of the window. We’re going through them mountains, you know where Mount Errigal is? It’s a beautiful sight Dom. Donegal has to be the most beautiful place in Ireland I reckon.
BOBBY. Anyway we arrive at Gweedore, what a place! And it’s hopping with about two hundred boys in there, and getting into their gear and limbering up. The whole event is run by Christian brothers, and they’re clipping young fellas around back of the ears, basically trying to maintain some order. Our team goes out for a wee jog, stretch out the legs, we’re surrounded by fields of barley, and we take down to a wee valley where there’s a stream and woods running through it. Woods and the stream are out of bounds. Naturally us Belfast boys have to go check them out, woods and the stream look just like the Amazon to us. And we come across these young fellas from Cork. And there’s some banter about our accents. They could barely talk, we couldn’t understand a word they were saying. You get the idea that they’re lording over us a bit, you know, looking down on us, I’m sensing it anyway. We run along and we come up with this idea to go down to the stream and check it out for fish. So we’re down by the river, down the stream, there’s half a foot of water in there. Little silver fish but nothing substantial. So one of their boys calls us further down. Lying in the water is a wee foal, four five days old, he’s all skin and bone, grey colour, and he’s got flecks of blood on his coat cos’ he’s cut himself pretty badly on the sharp rocks. We were just standing over him and you can see his back leg’s snapped. And he’s breathing, he’s alive, but just about. So this big conversation gets started up between the boys who suddenly reckon themselves the leaders, and they’re deliberating what we should do. Someone says ‘drop a rock on his head’. But I’m looking in their faces and I can see they’re either scared stiff or clueless. It’s all bravado. And this foal on the ground, in real pain, all this chitchat going on, going nowhere. Next thing, one of the priest sees us, sees the foal, tells us not to move and we’re done for. We’re really done for. A group of boys will always get the blame for hurting a foal. Group of Belfast boys will get a hammering for sure. So it’s clear to me in a instant, and I’m down on my knees, and I take the foal’s head in my hands and I put it under water. He’s thrashing around a bit at the start so I press down harder until he’s drowned. Priest arrives, Dom. He’s dragging me by the hair, dragging me through the woods, promising me a proper hiding. But I knew I did the right thing by that wee foal. And I could take the punishment for all our boys. I had the respect of them other boys now, and I knew that. I’m clear of the reasons, Dom. I’m clear of all the repercussions. But I will act, and I will not stand by and do nothing.
(Dom pauses, then grabs the cigarettes)
BOBBY. You can leave them there if you like. Don’t want me rolling up the Letter of St John, do you?
DOM. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience, no. I don’t think I’m going to see you again, Bobby.
BOBBY. There’s no need, Dom.
Extrait de Hunger de Steve McQueen et Enda Walsh. N’oubliez pas qu’il est impossible de travailler un texte sans l’œuvre complète.
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