Story Of O Part 2

Story Of O Part 2
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Sandra Wey Manuel de Bias Rosa Valenty Carole James Christian Cid Frank Braña Elmer Modling
Bedrock Holding Image Communication

August 8, 1984 ( 1984-08-08 ) (France)

Australia: 107 minutes France: 95 minutes

Sandra Wey [ it ] as "O"
Manuel de Blas as James Pembroke
Rosa Valenty as Rosa Pembroke
Carole James as Carol Pembroke
Christian Cid as Larry Pembroke
Frank Braña
Elmer Modling
Eduardo Bea
Alicia Principe
Tomás Picó
Rubén Bianco
Frank Sussman
Walter Finley
Emilio Linder [ es ]
Luis Suárez [ es ]
Irene Teppa
Catherine Basseti
Agustin Bravo
Malgozarta Dobosz
Pepita Full James
Mariano Vidal Molina

^ Andy Black (1996). Necronomicon . Creation Books. pp. 103–. ISBN 9781871592375 .

^ Oliver Jahraus (2004). Amour fou . Francke. pp. 261–. ISBN 978-3-7720-8005-0 .

^ "Histoire d'O 2" .

^ Hans Zimmer http://www.filmreference.com/film/90/Hans-Zimmer.html

^ Thomas S. Hischak (16 April 2015). The Encyclopedia of Film Composers . Rowman & Littlefield Publishers. pp. 741–. ISBN 978-1-4422-4550-1 .

^ Livres hebdo . Editions professionnelles du livre. 1999. pp. 16–.

^ Le nouvel observateur . May 1986. pp. 221–.

^ La Revue du cinéma (in French). Ligue française de l'enseignement et de l'éducation permanente. 1984. pp. 18–.

^ Elizabeth Locey (15 January 2002). The Pleasures of the Text: Violette Leduc and Reader Seduction . Rowman & Littlefield Publishers. pp. 167–. ISBN 978-1-4617-0519-2 .

^ "Histoire d'O numéro 2" . Télépro .

^ "Histoire D'O Chapitre 2" .

^ "Histoire d'O : Numéro 2" . EcranLarge.com .

^ "Histoire d'O: Chapitre 2" . 1 August 1984.

^ "Histoire d'o chapitre ii" . Cinefil.com . 8 January 1984.

^ "Histoire d'O: Chapitre 2 - Movie Quotes - Rotten Tomatoes" .

^ "Histoire d'O: Chapitre 2" . Challenges .

^ "Histoire d'O: Chapitre 2" . Ados.fr .

Story of O 2 ( French : Histoire d'O: Chapitre 2 ) is a 1984 Franco-Spanish erotic drama film directed by Eric Rochat . [1] [2]

The script is a continuation of the film Story of O (1975), an adaptation of the eponymous erotic novel published in 1954 by Pauline Réage .

O, initiated by Sir Stephen to all subtleties of eroticism, takes control of her powers. A powerful industry group engages O to discredit the leader of an American competitor's financial empire, James Pembroke. Upon Pembroke's arrival in a splendid castle in France, O has the role of compromising his entire family: father, wife, son and daughter will succumb to the perverse and seductive talents of O who will meet only little resistance.

ONE DAY A girl in love said to the man she loved:
"I could also write the kind of stories you
like..?"

"Do you really think so?" he answered?"

They met two or three times a week, but never during vacations, and never
on weekends. Each of them stole the time they spent together from their
families and their work. On afternoons in January and

February when the days begin to grow longer and the sun, sinking in the
west, tints the Seine with red reflections, they used to walk along the on
banks of the river, the quai des Grands Augustins, the quai de la to
Tournelle, kissing in the shadow of the bridges. Once a clochard shouted at
them:

"Shall we take up a collection and rent you a room?"

Their places of refuge often changed. The old car, which the girl drove,
took them to the zoo to see the giraffes, to Bagatelle to see the irises
and the clematis in the spring, or the asters in the fall. She noted the
names of the asters-blue fog, purple, pale pink-and wondered why, since she
was never able to plant them (and yet we shall have further occasion to
refer to asters). But Vincennes, or the Bois de Boulogne, is a long way
away. In the Bois you run into people who know you. Which, of course, left
rented rooms. The same one several times in succession. Or different rooms,
as chance would have it. There is a strange sweetness about the meager
lighting of rented rooms in hotels near railroad stations: the modest
luxury of the double bed, whose linen you leave unmade as you leave the
room, has a charm all its own. And the time comes when you can no longer
separate the sound of words and signs from the endless drone of the motors
and the hiss of the tires climbing the street. For several years, these
furtive and tender halts, in the respite that follows love, legs all
entwined and arm unclasped, had been soothed by the kind of exchanges and
as it were small talk in which books hold the most important place. Books
were their only complete freedom, their common country, their true travels.
Together they dwelt in the books they loved as others in their family home;
in books they had their compatriots and their brothers; poets had written
for them, the letters of lovers from times past came down to them through
the obscurity of ancient languages, of modes and mores long since come and
gone-all of which was read in a toneless voice in an unknown room, the
sordid and miraculous dungeon against which the crowd outside, for a few
short hours, beat in vain. They did not have a full night together. All of
a sudden, at such and such an hour agreed upon ahead of time-the watch a!
ways remained on the wrist-they had to leave Each had to regain his street,
his house, his room his daily bed, return to those to whom he wa joined by
another kind of inexpiable love, those whom fate, youth, or you yourself
had given you once and for all, those whom you can neither leave nor hurt
when you're involved in their lives. He, in his room, was not alone. She
was alone in hers.

One evening, after that "Do you really think so?" of the first page, and
without ever having the faintest idea that she would one day find the name
Réage in a real estate register and would borrow first name from two
famous profligates, Pauline Borghese and Pauline Roland, one day this girl
of whom I am speaking, and rightly so, since if I hay nothing of hers she
has everything of mine, the voice to begin with, one evening this girl,
instead o taking a book to read before she fell asleep, lying on her left
side with her feet tucked up under her, soft black pencil in her right
hand, began to writ the story she had promised. Spring was almost over. The
Japanese cherry trees in the big Paris parks, the Judas trees, the
magnolias near the fountains, the elder trees bordering the old embankments
of the tram lines that used to encircle the city, had lost their flowers.
The days lingered on forever, and the morning light penetrated at unwonted
hours to the dusty black curtains of passive resistance, the last remaining
vestiges of the war. But beneath the little lamp still lighted at the head
of the bed, the hand holding the pencil raced over the paper without the
least concern for the hour or the light. The girl was writing the way you
speak in the dark to the person you love when you've held back the words of
love too long and they flow at last.

For the first time in her life she was writing without hesitation,
without stopping, rewriting, or discarding, she was writing the way one
breathes, the way one dreams. The constant hum of the cars grew fainter,
one no longer heard the banging of doors, Paris was slipping into silence.
She was still writing when the street cleaners came by, at the first touch
of dawn. The first night entirely spent the way sleepwalkers doubtless
spend theirs, wrested from herself or, who knows, returned to herself.

In the morning she gathered up the sheets of paper that contained the two
beginnings with which you're already familiar, since if you are reading
this it means you have already taken the trouble to read the entire tale
and therefore know more about it today than she knew at that time. Now she
had to get up, wash, dress, arrange her hair, resume the strict harness,
the everyday smile, the customary silent sweetness. Tomorrow, no, the day
after, she would give him the notebook.

She gave it to him as soon as he got into the car, where she was waiting
for him a few yards from an intersection, on a small street near a metro
station and an outdoor market. (Don't try and situate it, there are many
like it, and what difference does it make anyway?) Read it immediately? Out
of the question. Besides, this encounter turned out to be one of those
where you come simply to say that you can't come, when you learn too late
that you won't be able to make it and don't have time to tell the other
party. It was already a stroke of luck that he had been able to get away at
all. Otherwise she would have waited for an hour and then come back the
following day at the same time, the same place, in accordance with the
classic rules of clandestine lovers. He said "get away" because they both
used a vocabulary of prisoners whose prison does not revolt them, and
perhaps they realized that if they found it hard to endure they would have
found it just as hard to be freed from it, since they would then have felt
guilty. The idea that they would have to return home gave a special meaning
to that stolen time, which came to exist outside the pale of real time, in
a sort of strange and eternal present. They should have felt hemmed in and
hunted down as the years went winging by without bringing them any greater
degree of freedom. But they did not. The daily, the weekly
obstacles-frightful Sundays with- out any letters, or any phone calls,
without any possible word or glance, frightful vacations a hundred thousand
miles from anywhere, and always someone there to ask: "A penny for your
thoughts"-were more than enough to make them fret and worry and constantly
wonder whether the other still felt the same way as before. They did not
demand to be happy, but having once known each other, they simply asked
with fear and trembling that it last, in the name of all that's holy that
it last . . . that one not suddenly seem estranged from the other, that
this unhoped-for fraternity, rarer than desire, more precious than love-or
which perhaps at long last was love-should endure. So that everything was a
risk: an encounter, a new dress, a trip, an unknown poem. But nothing could
stand in the way of taking these risks. The most serious to date,
nonetheless, was the notebook. And what if the phantasms that it revealed
were to outrage her love or, worse, bore him or, worse yet, strike him as
being ridiculous? Not for what they were, of course, but because they
emanated from her, and because one rarely forgives in those one loves the
vagaries or excesses one readily forgives in others. She was wrong to be
afraid: "Ah, keep at it," he said. What happens after that? Do you know?
She knew. She discovered it by slow degrees. During the rest of the waning
summer, throughout the fall, from the torrid beaches of some dismal
watering spot until her return to a russet and burnt-out Paris, she wrote
what she knew. Ten pages at a time, or five, full chapters or fragments of
chapters, she slipped her pages, the same size as the original notebook,
written sometimes in pencil, sometimes in ink, whether ballpoint or the
fine point of a real fountain pen, into envelopes and addressed them to the
same General Delivery address. No carbon copy, no first draft: she kept
nothing. But the postal service came through. The story was still not
completely written when, having resumed their assignations back in Paris in
the fall, the man asked her to read sections out loud to him, as she wrote
them. And in the dark car, in the middle of an afternoon on some bleak but
busy street, near the Buttes-aux-Cailles, where you have the feeling you're
transported back to the last years of the previous century, or on the banks
of the St. Martin Canal, the girl who was reading had to stop, break off,
once or more than once, because it is possible silently to imagine the
worst, the most burning detail, but not read out loud what was dreamt in
the course of interminable nights.

And yet one day the story did stop. Before O, there was nothing further
that that death toward which she was vaguely racing with all her might
could do, that death which is granted her in two lines. As for revealing
how the manuscript came into the hands of Jean Paulhan, I promised not to
reveal it, as I promised not to divulge the real name of Pauline Réage,
counting on the courtesy and integrity of those who are privy to it to keep
the secret as long as I feel bound not to break that promise. Besides,
nothing is more fallacious and shifting than an identity. If you believe,
as hundreds of millions of men do, that we live several lives, why not also
believe that in each of our lives we are the meeting place for several
souls? "Who am I, finally," said Pauline Réage, "if not the long silent
part of someone, the secret and nocturnal part which has never betrayed
itself in public by any thought, word, or deed, but communicates through
the subterranean depths of the imaginary with dreams as old as the world
itself?" Whence came to me those oft-repeated reveries, those slow musings
just before falling asleep, always the same ones, in which the purest and
wildest love always sanctioned, or rather always demanded, the most
frightful surrender, in which childish images of chains and whips added to
constraint the symbols of constraint, I'm not sure which. All I know is
that they were beneficent and protected me mysteriously-contrary to all the
reasonable reveries that revolve around our daily lives, trying to organize
it, to tame it. I have never known how to tame my life. And yet it seemed
indeed as though these strange dreams were a help in that direction, as
though some ransom had been paid by the delirium and delights of the
impossible: the days that followed were oddly lightened by them, whereas
the orderly arrangement of the future and the best-laid plans founded on
good common sense proved each time to be contradicted by the event itself.
Thus I learned at a very tender age that you should not spend the empty
hours of the night building dream castles, nonexistent but possible,
workable, where friends and relatives would be happy together (how
fanciful!)-but that one could without fear build and furnish clandestine
castles, on the condition that you people them with girls in love,
prostituted by love, and triumphant in their chains. So it was that Sade's
castles, discovered long after I had silently built my own, never surprised
me, as I was not surprised by the discovery of his society, The Friends of
Crime: I already had my own secret society, however minor and inoffensive.
But Sade made me understand that we are all jailers, and all in prison, in
that there is always someone within us whom we enchain, whom we imprison,
whom we silence. By a curious kind of reverse shock, it can happen that
prison itself can open the gates to freedom. The stone walls of a cell, the
solitude, but also the night, the solitude, again the solitude, the warmth
of the sheets, the silence, free this unknown creature whom we have kept
locked up. It escapes us and escapes endlessly, through the walls, the
ages, the interdictions. It passes from one to the other, from one age to
another, from one country to another, it assumes one name or another. Those
who speak in its behalf are merely translators who, without knowing why
(why them, why that particular moment in time?), have been allowed, for one
brief moment, to seize a few strands of this immemorial network of
forbidden dreams. So that, fifteen years ago, why not me?

"What intrigued and excited him, I mean the person for whom I was writing
this story," she went on, "was the relationship it might have with my own
life. Could it be that the story was the deformed, the inverted image of my
life? That it was the shadow of it borne, unrecognizable, confined like
that of some stroller in the midday sun, or otherwise unrecognizable,
diabolically elongated like the shadow that stretches before someone
walking back from the Atlantic Ocean, over the empty beach, as the setting
sun goes down in flames behind him? I saw, between what I thought myself to
be and what I was relating and thought I was making up, both a distance so
radical and a kinship so profound that I was incapable of recognizing
myself in it. I no doubt accepted my life with such patience (or passivity,
or weakness) only because I was so certain of being able to find whenever I
wanted that other, obscure life that is life's consolation, that other life
unacknowledged and unshared-and then all of a sudden thanks to the man I
loved I did acknowledge it, and henceforth would share it with any and all,
as perfectly prostituted in the anonymity of a book as, in the book, that
faceless, ageless, nameless (even first-nameless) girl. Never did he ask
any questions about her. He knew that she was an idea, a figment, a sorrow,
the negation of a destiny. But the others? René, Jacqueline, Sir Stephen,
Anne-Marie? And what about the places, the streets, the gardens, the
houses, Paris, Roissy? And what about the circumstances, the events
themselves? For these, yes, I thought I knew René, for example (a
nostalgic first name), was the remembrance, no, the vestige of an
adolescent love, rather the hope of a love that never happened, and René
had never had the slightest suspicion that I might be capable of loving
him. But Jacqueline had loved him. And before she loved him, she had loved
me. She had in fact been responsible for being the first to break my heart.
Fifteen, we were both fifteen, and she had spent the entire school year
chasing me, complaining about my coldness. No sooner had summer vacation
come and whisked her away than I awakened from this lack of interest, this
coldness. I wrote her. July, August, September: for three full months I
watched and waited for the postman, but in vain. And still I wrote. Those
letters proved my undoing. Jacqueline's parents stopped her from seeing me,
and it was from her, enrolled in another division, that I learned that
"that was a sin." That what was a sin? What did they have against me? The
day is not more chaste . . . I had reinvented Rosalinde and Celia, in all
innocence-who did not last. The fact remains that Jacqueline, this real
Jacqueline, figures in the story only by her first name and her fair hair.
The one in the story is rather a young actress, pale and overbearing, with
whom I lunched one day somewhere on the rue de l'Eperon. The old man who
gave her her jewels, her dresses, her car, took me aside and said: "She's
beautiful, isn't she?" Yes, she was beautiful. I never saw her again. Is
René what I might have become had I been a man? Devoted to another, to
the point of yielding everything to him, without even finding it
anachronistic, this vassal-to-lord relationship? I'm afraid the answer is
yes. Whereas the imaginary Jacqueline was the stranger par excellence. It
took me a long time to realize, however, that in another life a girl like
her-one whom I admired unequivocally-had taken my lover away from me. And I
took my revenge by shipping her off to Roissy, I who pretended to disdain
any form of vengeance, I took revenge and wasn't even capable of realizing
it. To make up a story is a curious trap. As for Sir Stephen, I saw him,
literally, in the flesh. My current lover, the one I just mentioned,
pointed him out to me one afternoon in a bar near the Champs Elysées:
half-seated on a stool at the mahogany bar, silent, self-composed, with
that air of some gray-eyed prince that fascinates both men and women-he
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Story Of O Part 2

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