quarta-feira, 30 de dezembro de 2009
filmes favoritos de 2009
Che, Steven Soderbergh
Um Conto de Natal, Arnaud Desplechin
Duplo Amor, James Gray
Gran Torino, Clint Eastwood
Inimigos Públicos, Michael Mann
Os Limites do Controlo, Jim Jarmusch
Milk, Gus Van Sant
O Profeta, Jacques Audiard
Sacanas sem Lei, Quentin Tarantino
Singularidades de uma Rapariga Loira, Manoel de Oliveira
ADENDAS:
* de início fiz isto por ordem, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, etc.. Depois depressa me arrependi (como me arrependo de ter posto ordem na dos discos). Não fará grande sentido colocar um em 3º e outro em 5º quando gosto dos dois em igual medida. Não tenho muito essa necessidade. Os favoritos dos favoritos estão a negro - e Torino, se quiserem, será o favorito dos favoritos dos favoritos. Seguem-se num segundo degrau (sem ordem): Duplo Amor, Inimigos Públicos, Limites do Controlo, Profeta. Num terceiro degrau: Milk, Che (parte um e dois), Singularidades, Um Conto de Natal.
* O Profeta estreará por cá amanhã, 31, e ganha cartão de entrada na lista à conta disso. Tenho sempre um ligeiro receio de sobrevalorizar filmes frescos em demasia no cérebro - vi-o a semana passada numa antestreia pelo King -, mas parece-me que Audiard fez para ali um filme a roçar o admirável.
* podiam caber: A Valsa com Bashir, Ari Folman; Estado de Guerra, Kathryn Bigelow; O Casamento de Rachel, Jonathan Demme.
* filmes que vi este ano e que julgo sem estreia 'oficial' pelas salas portuguesas: Revanche, Götz Spielmann; L'armée du crime, Robert Guédiguian. (Outro ainda que me ficou: Reprise, Joachim Trier, filme de 2006.)
* meia-dúzia que não vi e tinha curiosidade: 35 Shots de Rum, Claire Denis; Afterschool, Antonio Campos; Andando, Hirokazu Koreeda; Happy-Go-Lucky, Mike Leigh; Home, Ursula Meier; Ne Change Rien, Pedro Costa.
* entrará à força algures no meu top três ou cinco de 2010: Fantastic Mr. Fox, Wes Anderson (visto no Estoril).
* venha daí Invictus, venha daí o novo Resnais, A Serious Man dos Coen, Scorsese, Haneke, Herzog e o seu remake de Ferrara, e assim sucessivamente.
PS: Amigo Malick, vai dando notícias.
segunda-feira, 28 de dezembro de 2009
discos favoritos de 2009
1. Bill Callahan, Sometimes I Wish We Were an Eagle
2. Mulatu Astatke & the Heliocentrics, Inspiration Information, Vol. 3
3. Animal Collective, Merriweather Post Pavilion
4. Mos Def, The Ecstatic
5. Richard Hawley, Truelove's Gutter
6. The Very Best, Warm Heart of Africa
7. Dan Auerbach, Keep It Hid
8. Vincent Delerm, Quinze Chansons
9. The Mountain Goats, The Life of the World to Come
10. João Coração, Muda que Muda
11. St. Vincent, Actor
12. Vieux Farka Touré, Fondo
13. DOOM, Born Like This
14. Alasdair Roberts, Spoils
15. Lee Fields & the Expressions, My World
16. Sunn O))), Monoliths & Dimensions
17. Yeah Yeah Yeahs, It's Blitz
18. Mayer Hawthorne, A Strange Arrangement
19. Raekwon, Only Built 4 Cuban Linx... Pt. II
20. Richard Youngs, Beyond The Valley Of Ultrahits
Não ouvi Flaming Lips, nem Benjamin Biolay, nem Jim O'Rourke, nem Morrissey, nem David Sylvian, nem Norberto Lobo, nem Old Jerusalem, nem Samuel Úria, nem outros cem ou mil que gostaria. Nem sequer o 'Beware' do Bonnie "Prince" Billy, carai. É a lista possível. Quer-me parecer que meio mundo ignora o disco do Mos Def. Quer-me parecer que erradamente.
quinta-feira, 19 de novembro de 2009
1) Bento*
«O povo tem sempre razão mas por isso é que se diz que o Sporting não é um clube do povo. Em 2000, Luís Duque anunciava a saída de Inácio a uma sala de imprensa cheia de povo verde e já com Mourinho, entretanto despedido do Benfica, secretamente contratado. A determinada altura gritou-se "ó Duque, todos menos o Mourinho, o Mourinho é que não", e Duque manteve o Special One em segredo até ao dia em que não aguentou mais esperar para gritar que teve razão antes de toda a gente. Ontem Bettencourt não cometeu o mesmo erro e lavou as mãos da decisão de despedir Bento. Foi Bento que despediu o Sporting da sua vida. Com quatro meses de atraso. Bento foi o melhor treinador do Sporting dos últimos 20 anos. O tempo dar-lhe-á razão, como um dia deu a Luís Duque.»
(João Almeida Moreira, num i antigo que para aqui tinha)
(...)
2) Nani
«Com alguns momentos menos bons pelo meio, como a fase dos assobios.
Foi uma fase má. Cada dia que ia para um jogo pensava que não conseguia. Pesavam-me as pernas. Os adeptos estavam mal habituados. Eu não era um goleador, um Liedson. Na primeira época, fiz um bom trabalho. Na segunda, comecei muito bem, a marcar golos, a oferecer vitórias como a do Nacional na Madeira. Mas depois a equipa começou a baixar de rendimento, por causa do relvado também, e começaram a cair em cima de mim. Vieram os assobios e eu caí na depressão: não conseguia fazer absolutamente nada.
E o desentendimento com Custódio?
Foi assim: era uma semana em que eu estava a treinar de uma forma espectacular. Ouvia o Paulo Bento: "Isso, Nani, isso! Espectáculo." Só que, dois dias antes do jogo, sofro um toque no joelho num treino e no último treino da semana, quando sai a convocatória, eu não estive tão bem e ouvia algumas bocas, que eu estava a relaxar. Depois, nessa sessão, o Paulo Bento fez-me trocar de colete com o Carlos Martins e fiquei a exercitar-me com os suplentes. Percebi que não ia ser titular e fiquei com azia. Deixei de passar a bola, a querer fintar tudo e todos e a perdê-la de forma estúpida. Há um lance em que a bola vai adiantada e o Custódio entra de carrinho e eu piso o gajo de propósito. Houve bate- -boca. O Paulo Bento vira-se para mim e diz: "Acabou!" E eu: "Foda-se, ele é que está a falar, não sou eu." O mister disse--me para pegar nos calçõezinhos e ir para o duche. E pronto.»
(Nani, o mais talentoso jogador a passar pelo Sporting nos últimos cinco ou oito anos, numa bela e cândida entrevista ao i - Nani, não esquecer nunca, um tipo sempre que possível assobiado pelo bestial público que povoa Alvalade)
(...)
3) Blazevic
«Foi treinado por Blazevic no Euro-96 e no Mundial-98. Como o define?
É um treinador peculiar. Não sei se bom ou mau, mas era aquilo que nós, croatas, precisávamos naquele tempo. Ele pedia-me o mundo, o universo e um pouco mais. Depois, eu cumpria a missão e ele autorizava-me a ir relaxar para um nightclub. Ainda hoje falei com ele por telefone.
Qual é a sua principal qualidade nas palestras?
Cuidado com a pergunta. E cuidado com a minha resposta. Como posso explicar? Hããããã, amanhã vocês são o Brasil, o 'fucking' Brasil. Ouve, uma vez jogámos com a Estónia e ele falou com tanto fervor que parecia que íamos jogar com o Brasil. Eu olhei para ele e perguntei a mim mesmo: "What the fuck are you talking about?" [O que raio estás para aí a dizer?]. Ele mente e nós acreditamos.»
(Slaven Bilic entrevistado por Rui Miguel Tovar, no i de anteontem)
(...)
4) Guti
«No me veo con 60 años en una discoteca hasta las seis de la mañana, me veo ahora»
(Guti, 33 anos, um tipo inteligente)
(...)
5)
(...)
*Este blogue gosta de Paulo Bento. Gosta de gente corajosa e de carácter e que te olha nos olhos para dizer as merdas que o cérebro lhe diz para dizer. Que Bento tinha pouca ou nenhuma margem de manobra para continuar? Sim, era uma evidência. Que Bento deu tiros nos pés? Sim, em ser conivente com a contratação de medíocres ou medianos jogadores; em acreditar que podia fazer igual aos outros (Benfica e Porto) com o desequilibrado plantel de que dispunha. Mas que ninguém seja ingrato, que ninguém tenha memória curta. Bento, sempre refém do mísero orçamento que muitos julgam poder desvalorizar, fez milagre e mais milagre em quatro anos e em idênticas condições (planteis sofríveis, rivais directos financeiramente mais fortes). Acreditou este ano noutro milagre que não veio nem viria. Bento foi mesmo o melhor treinador do clube nos últimos 20 anos. Quem não entender isto, quem não o souber respeitar, merecerá sempre pouco ou nada. Merda para a gente ingrata, para os revolucionários de pacotilha cheios de certezas, de planos infalíveis. Se Bento não era já solução para os mais graves problemas do Sporting, não seria, por certo, 'o problema' maior deste Sporting. Esse é básico que dói, o mesmo da última década (desde 2001/02, época de Bölöni (ou época de Jardel, se preferirem)): dinheiro. No caso, a falta dele para se poder atacar o mercado em condições de clube que se diz grande. Hoje, financeiramente, o Sporting está longe - longe é eufemismo - do estatuto de 'grande'. É natural que o Benfica seja candidato sério a campeão se nas últimas 3 épocas investiu para mais de 85 milhões de euros em contratações. (Anormal seria não ter a óptima equipa que tem com este nível de investimento.) É natural que o Sporting não o seja se em idêntico período investe 20. Enquanto isto não for resolvido que venha Carvalhal, que venha Villas Boas, que venha Jesus ou Mourinho. Dará parecido.*
*Tenho quase a certeza do que escrevi aqui para cima.
«O povo tem sempre razão mas por isso é que se diz que o Sporting não é um clube do povo. Em 2000, Luís Duque anunciava a saída de Inácio a uma sala de imprensa cheia de povo verde e já com Mourinho, entretanto despedido do Benfica, secretamente contratado. A determinada altura gritou-se "ó Duque, todos menos o Mourinho, o Mourinho é que não", e Duque manteve o Special One em segredo até ao dia em que não aguentou mais esperar para gritar que teve razão antes de toda a gente. Ontem Bettencourt não cometeu o mesmo erro e lavou as mãos da decisão de despedir Bento. Foi Bento que despediu o Sporting da sua vida. Com quatro meses de atraso. Bento foi o melhor treinador do Sporting dos últimos 20 anos. O tempo dar-lhe-á razão, como um dia deu a Luís Duque.»
(João Almeida Moreira, num i antigo que para aqui tinha)
(...)
2) Nani
«Com alguns momentos menos bons pelo meio, como a fase dos assobios.
Foi uma fase má. Cada dia que ia para um jogo pensava que não conseguia. Pesavam-me as pernas. Os adeptos estavam mal habituados. Eu não era um goleador, um Liedson. Na primeira época, fiz um bom trabalho. Na segunda, comecei muito bem, a marcar golos, a oferecer vitórias como a do Nacional na Madeira. Mas depois a equipa começou a baixar de rendimento, por causa do relvado também, e começaram a cair em cima de mim. Vieram os assobios e eu caí na depressão: não conseguia fazer absolutamente nada.
E o desentendimento com Custódio?
Foi assim: era uma semana em que eu estava a treinar de uma forma espectacular. Ouvia o Paulo Bento: "Isso, Nani, isso! Espectáculo." Só que, dois dias antes do jogo, sofro um toque no joelho num treino e no último treino da semana, quando sai a convocatória, eu não estive tão bem e ouvia algumas bocas, que eu estava a relaxar. Depois, nessa sessão, o Paulo Bento fez-me trocar de colete com o Carlos Martins e fiquei a exercitar-me com os suplentes. Percebi que não ia ser titular e fiquei com azia. Deixei de passar a bola, a querer fintar tudo e todos e a perdê-la de forma estúpida. Há um lance em que a bola vai adiantada e o Custódio entra de carrinho e eu piso o gajo de propósito. Houve bate- -boca. O Paulo Bento vira-se para mim e diz: "Acabou!" E eu: "Foda-se, ele é que está a falar, não sou eu." O mister disse--me para pegar nos calçõezinhos e ir para o duche. E pronto.»
(Nani, o mais talentoso jogador a passar pelo Sporting nos últimos cinco ou oito anos, numa bela e cândida entrevista ao i - Nani, não esquecer nunca, um tipo sempre que possível assobiado pelo bestial público que povoa Alvalade)
(...)
3) Blazevic
«Foi treinado por Blazevic no Euro-96 e no Mundial-98. Como o define?
É um treinador peculiar. Não sei se bom ou mau, mas era aquilo que nós, croatas, precisávamos naquele tempo. Ele pedia-me o mundo, o universo e um pouco mais. Depois, eu cumpria a missão e ele autorizava-me a ir relaxar para um nightclub. Ainda hoje falei com ele por telefone.
Qual é a sua principal qualidade nas palestras?
Cuidado com a pergunta. E cuidado com a minha resposta. Como posso explicar? Hããããã, amanhã vocês são o Brasil, o 'fucking' Brasil. Ouve, uma vez jogámos com a Estónia e ele falou com tanto fervor que parecia que íamos jogar com o Brasil. Eu olhei para ele e perguntei a mim mesmo: "What the fuck are you talking about?" [O que raio estás para aí a dizer?]. Ele mente e nós acreditamos.»
(Slaven Bilic entrevistado por Rui Miguel Tovar, no i de anteontem)
(...)
4) Guti
«No me veo con 60 años en una discoteca hasta las seis de la mañana, me veo ahora»
(Guti, 33 anos, um tipo inteligente)
(...)
5)
(...)
*Este blogue gosta de Paulo Bento. Gosta de gente corajosa e de carácter e que te olha nos olhos para dizer as merdas que o cérebro lhe diz para dizer. Que Bento tinha pouca ou nenhuma margem de manobra para continuar? Sim, era uma evidência. Que Bento deu tiros nos pés? Sim, em ser conivente com a contratação de medíocres ou medianos jogadores; em acreditar que podia fazer igual aos outros (Benfica e Porto) com o desequilibrado plantel de que dispunha. Mas que ninguém seja ingrato, que ninguém tenha memória curta. Bento, sempre refém do mísero orçamento que muitos julgam poder desvalorizar, fez milagre e mais milagre em quatro anos e em idênticas condições (planteis sofríveis, rivais directos financeiramente mais fortes). Acreditou este ano noutro milagre que não veio nem viria. Bento foi mesmo o melhor treinador do clube nos últimos 20 anos. Quem não entender isto, quem não o souber respeitar, merecerá sempre pouco ou nada. Merda para a gente ingrata, para os revolucionários de pacotilha cheios de certezas, de planos infalíveis. Se Bento não era já solução para os mais graves problemas do Sporting, não seria, por certo, 'o problema' maior deste Sporting. Esse é básico que dói, o mesmo da última década (desde 2001/02, época de Bölöni (ou época de Jardel, se preferirem)): dinheiro. No caso, a falta dele para se poder atacar o mercado em condições de clube que se diz grande. Hoje, financeiramente, o Sporting está longe - longe é eufemismo - do estatuto de 'grande'. É natural que o Benfica seja candidato sério a campeão se nas últimas 3 épocas investiu para mais de 85 milhões de euros em contratações. (Anormal seria não ter a óptima equipa que tem com este nível de investimento.) É natural que o Sporting não o seja se em idêntico período investe 20. Enquanto isto não for resolvido que venha Carvalhal, que venha Villas Boas, que venha Jesus ou Mourinho. Dará parecido.*
*Tenho quase a certeza do que escrevi aqui para cima.
domingo, 1 de novembro de 2009
Arnaud Desplechin interviews Wes Anderson [aprovo todas as perguntas]
ARNAUD DESPLECHIN: When do you finish shooting?
WES ANDERSON: We finish shooting tomorrow.
DESPLECHIN: Tomorrow? Are you depressed?
ANDERSON: We’ve been shooting for one year, so I’m not depressed yet.
DESPLECHIN: And you don’t have a wrap party?
ANDERSON: We had a wrap party.
DESPLECHIN: You already had it?
ANDERSON: Yeah. The wrap party had been scheduled in advance, and we went over schedule. It’s been a very long time shooting. The thing is, with the animation, you finish shooting, and then the whole thing is done. Everything else has already been put into place, so shooting is the last step, although we were mixing today on rue d’Enghien.
I do feel a bit like my characters from one movie could walk into another one of my movies and it would make sense.—Wes Anderson
DESPLECHIN: The weather in Paris is terrible now, quite depressing. I was just wondering, while sitting at my desk depressed by the weather, what kind of weather you had growing up in Texas.
ANDERSON: Well, Texas is hot. I went to school in Austin, but I grew up in Houston, which is on the Gulf of Mexico. It’s hot, hot like India, and humid, and full of mosquitoes.
DESPLECHIN: And you don’t miss it? [Anderson laughs] I ask because I am looking out the window and this city is all gray, and I don’t understand how you could stay in such a city. It’s quite different from where you are from. So you went to school in Austin?
ANDERSON: College in Austin. Then I lived in California for a while. Then in New York.
DESPLECHIN: Where did you meet Owen Wilson?
ANDERSON: In Austin. We must have been 18.
DESPLECHIN: And you both wanted to work in cinema?
ANDERSON: I guess we did. I don’t know. I was studying philosophy, and he was studying English. But we met in a playwriting class. We first started talking about writers, but we also talked about movies right off the bat. I knew I wanted to do something with movies. I don’t know if he had realized yet that it was an option.
DESPLECHIN: I think I read somewhere that in college, you were working on Proust?
ANDERSON: No, I was never working on Proust, but I read Swann’s Way, which made a big impression on me . . . At that time, literature students in America didn’t seem to read Proust—at least not where I was going to school. It took me a long time to finish reading the first book, and I only read the one.
DESPLECHIN: I never read it at all.
ANDERSON: You didn’t? [laughs]
DESPLECHIN: Because in my family it was a snobbish thing—you know, to read Proust. I thought if I read this book, it would take something like one year. Instead, I could spend the year reading strange, odd books that my father or sisters wouldn’t read. Plus I wanted to work in cinema, so I didn’t feel that I should start with a serious thing. I was supposed to focus on futile things that belong to popular arts. It was really an impression that I imposed on myself. I will never read Proust as a commitment.
ANDERSON: You still hold to that?
DESPLECHIN: Yeah. I read 10 or 12 books about Proust to know the different books. I mean, it was a sort of stupid decision to make as an adolescent— against the teacher and for the cinema. But it has to do with the fact that I’m French. Proust was sacred, so I didn’t want to be a part of it.
ANDERSON: The opening of Swann’s Way is about being on the verge of falling asleep. The book is filled with images that have never left my mind.
DESPLECHIN: So when you started to write films, was that the moment you and Owen split parts, where one would be the director and the other would be the actor?
ANDERSON: Well, we started writing together. I was always going to be the director, but he didn’t really want to be an actor—or I don’t know if he knew he wanted to be an actor. As far as he was concerned, he was strictly a writer.
DESPLECHIN: Does he still consider himself strictly a writer now that he has become such a big movie star?
ANDERSON: Nope. [laughs] Now he considers himself an actor, too. But he’s a very good writer.
DESPLECHIN: You wrote Fantastic Mr. Fox with Noah Baumbach.
ANDERSON: Yes. We wrote most of it in New York, some of it in Los Angeles, some of it in England. Actually, we wrote for a little while at Roald Dahl’s house, in Buckinghamshire. And we wrote a little bit in Paris, too.
DESPLECHIN: I thought you were trapped here, that you couldn’t escape from this rain. But you still can escape to New York and places like that.
ANDERSON: I can go to different places, yes. I live in New York most of the time.
DESPLECHIN: Would you call what you are experiencing—jumping around from one city to another—nomadism? Or would you call it an exile? Either way, to me, it is a typical American thing, these ideas.
ANDERSON: The thing is, you’re French. You’re French for generations. You’re genuinely French.
DESPLECHIN: I’m not that French.
ANDERSON: Well, you’re quite French. But most Americans will say, “I’m Swedish.”
DESPLECHIN: Are you Swedish?
ANDERSON: Yes, I’m half Swedish, half Norwegian. If somebody asks you what your background is, you don’t have to go back very far before it’s outside of America—unless you’re part Cherokee or something. Anyway, I certainly don’t think I’ve chosen to be nomadic. I always wanted to live in New York, and it took me a long time before I got there. But once you start moving around a lot . . . I don’t know. The difference between exile and nomadism is probably just your mood.
DESPLECHIN: You’ve seen a lot of movies. I wonder if you learned to watch a lot of films from someone like Martin Scorsese. One could say that there are two kinds of directors: those who love to see films and those who actually don’t see that many.
ANDERSON: If you are going to pick directors that make you feel like you should watch old films, I think that would be Martin Scorsese and Peter Bogdanovich. There are so many films I was introduced to by them in one way or another. For example, on the laser-disc commentary of Raging Bull [1980],Scorsese mentions something about MichaelPowell, and I had never heard of the Powell and [Emeric] Pressburger films before. From Bogdanovich, I think I first learned about Howard Hawks and LeoMcCarey. Bogdanovich saw everything. He had this metal file cabinet with drawers filled with notes. Every time he saw a movie, he typed up a little card that would list the title, director, writer, description, the date he saw the movie, and what he thought. He’d give it a rating. Then if he saw it again, he’d take the card and add a note: “I saw it again, and actually I thought it was a little better this time.”
DESPLECHIN: Do you do that?
ANDERSON: No.
DESPLECHIN: I think it’s a critic thing.
ANDERSON: Bogdanovich started it when he was, like, 15 years old. But I think he stopped the week that he went to Texas to make The Last Picture Show [1971]. He stopped as soon as he really became successful as a filmmaker. I think the first director I was ever aware of was Alfred Hitchcock—before I even understood the idea of a director. I was aware of Hitchcock because of The Alfred Hitchcock Collection. That was the first time I was aware that there’s a guy who is not in the movie who’s on the front of the box. He’s responsible. I loved those movies.
DESPLECHIN: Those were the first films that mesmerized you as a kid?
ANDERSON: Well, they were the first films I took note of and thought, This is interesting, and it was directed by this particular man. Before that I was interested in Star Wars [1977] and The Pink Panther [1963]. Actually, the first movie I saw when I got to Paris was one of the Pink Panther movies. I remember because I remember having to figure out how to say “Un billet pour La Panthère Rose . . . ”
DESPLECHIN: I’m not able to name the moment I wanted to be a director because I also didn’t know the word for that. I couldn’t distinguish between producer, director, and author. I just wanted to be the guy in charge—the guilty one! [Anderson laughs] But, you know, as a kid I was not precocious at all. I had such bad taste. I loved Hitchcock but for the wrong reasons.
ANDERSON: What are the wrong reasons?
DESPLECHIN: I don’t know. Today I try to see some of his films and, you know, I’m failing him because I’m not moved. But other times I’m shivering and crying because what he tried to achieve is so amazing. It’s such dedication. I think he’s almost a saint. I can see all the unbelievable emotion in it. Before, I thought the big thing with him was that he was clever. Actually, I don’t know what I love about him. Is it that he accepts that he’s stupid? That he’s clever? That’s he’s vulnerable?
ANDERSON: He follows the thing that he’s drawn to over and over again. Sometimes, if I have to do a scene that involves suspense or drama or just some basic genre storytelling, I think, What’s the Hitchcock way to do it? There’s a Hitchcock solution that’s clear and simple and sort of professional and says, I want the audience to feel something specific. Usually when I’m doing a scene, I don’t want it to feel specific—I want to make something that different people will feel in different ways. But the greatest thing about Hitchcock is that his scenes do have very specifically intended effects—even while the overall film would still be interpreted wildly differently from person to person.
DESPLECHIN: Are there other directors who you think about like that?
ANDERSON: Yeah. I mean, it depends on the thing I’m working on. One other director I feel thatI always think about when I don’t know how to approach something is Steven Spielberg. He would know how to do it. But, ultimately, if you’re asking me which director I think about in terms of just living my life—maybe this is crazy, but I’m going to have to say Stanley Kubrick, which I think is a bad sign because that is someone whose whole thing was about controlling his life. I mean, he apparently had a great family life, and he had his work arranged in a way that fit into the way he wanted to live. And people went to see his movies. And he only did the movies he liked to do. He didn’t do one movie for the money, so he could do the next one because he liked it. He only did the ones he wanted to do. He had total, utter, complete creative control over not just the movies but also the life of making them. He had a system, which you need because there are too many things to keep track of.
DESPLECHIN: I have a friend who visited Hitchcock’s house when he was really old. My friend had written a famous book on Hitchcock and was so proud to visit. Hitchcock showed him his basement. At this time, he wasn’t allowed to eat anymore because he was too fat. But he was keeping food in a basement storage area. He had enough to feed, like, 100 people, just to be sure he wouldn’t ever lack any food, which was absurd because he wasn’t allowed to eat it. He was just visiting his food. That’s beautiful, no?
ANDERSON: That’s beautiful, yes.
DESPLECHIN: I wanted to talk to you about music in your movies. You have a very personal way of working with scores—such an exact taste and combination of songs.
ANDERSON: I like working on the music for my own movies—which is about the only music I’m interested in working on.
DESPLECHIN: Do you play an instrument?
ANDERSON: A little bit, but barely anything. For Fantastic Mr. Fox, we had Jarvis Cocker make a great song—he’s also the voice of one of the animated characters in the film. And, right now, we have Alexandre Desplat in the middle of doing the score. There’s much more music than I had any idea we were going to need. It’s like an hour or more of music that he’s written.
The first director I was ever aware of was Alfred Hitchcock—before I even understood the idea of a director. That was the first time I was aware that there’s a guy who is not in the movie who’s on the front of the box.—Wes Anderson
DESPLECHIN: Were you with Jarvis Cocker when he recorded the music?
ANDERSON: Yes. We recorded it in Jean Touitou’s basement studio. We have a French banjo player who’s very good. I don’t think there are that many wellknown French banjo players, but we found the best one.
DESPLECHIN: I was surprised when you said you studied philosophy and read Proust, because it sounds so serious. But your films are also quite entertaining. The first time I had to introduce one of your films in Paris, it struck me that that you are to American cinema what J.D. Salinger is to American literature. You create a sort of pure cinematic world and the characters connect from one film to another and the films together are drawing a world that is constantly expanding. It seems so close in style to what Salinger did.
ANDERSON: I do feel a bit like my characters from one movie could walk into another one of my movies and it would make sense, whereas people from other peoples’ movies would probably feel a bit uncomfortable there. [both laugh]
DESPLECHIN: But it’s quite rare, no? To have created such a collant world. It reminds me of Francois Truffaut because you need to create life, jokes, cries . . .
ANDERSON: Your movies have the same thing, except they’re more realistic, so it becomes more subtle.
DESPLECHIN: I wouldn’t say that.
ANDERSON: Well, I suppose I mean the characters in A Christmas Tale [2008] and Rois et reine [2004]—I can’t really say the r’s right in Rois et reine—they are part of an imagined world, but those characters feel more like real life to me.
DESPLECHIN: You have all these guys who are really big fans of your movies because there is something so intimate about them. Even if we don’t know a thing about you, there is something so revealing in your films, something we see about your life there. If there is another director who gives me the same feeling, it’s Quentin Tarantino. To me, you and Tarantino are two brothers in the American cinema.
ANDERSON: I feel like with Tarantino, when he was doing Pulp Fiction [1994], there’s all this genre that he’s working with in this inventive way. But you also kind of get the feeling that he’s been traveling in Europe and he’s never been there before and he has just come back to town to report on some of the things that have happened in his life. Your film Ma Vie Sexuelle [1996] has the complete feeling of somebody reporting about their life, but it’s not like a documentary-style movie. Was your life at the time anything like that movie?
DESPLECHIN: Not at all. But there is a truth that when you learn a character or write a scene for a film, you can make it part of your life. I had an actor who didn’t smoke before he was cast as a chain-smoker in my film. Now he does. But even from a line in a film—writing it or acting it—you can think, “I could say this and also be funny. The girls might stop and laugh and I could get laid.” It’s true: You find a good line and after that you try to use it in real life. So, in a way, you are taught by your own films and the characters you impersonate. When people see the results of your work, they guess they can see something about your private life.
ANDERSON: But when your experience of making the movie turns into your life—what Kubrick called “pure cinema” then—that’s probably a bad sign.
DESPLECHIN: Well, thank you, Wes. On va manger?
ANDERSON: Oui.
(daqui)
WES ANDERSON: We finish shooting tomorrow.
DESPLECHIN: Tomorrow? Are you depressed?
ANDERSON: We’ve been shooting for one year, so I’m not depressed yet.
DESPLECHIN: And you don’t have a wrap party?
ANDERSON: We had a wrap party.
DESPLECHIN: You already had it?
ANDERSON: Yeah. The wrap party had been scheduled in advance, and we went over schedule. It’s been a very long time shooting. The thing is, with the animation, you finish shooting, and then the whole thing is done. Everything else has already been put into place, so shooting is the last step, although we were mixing today on rue d’Enghien.
I do feel a bit like my characters from one movie could walk into another one of my movies and it would make sense.—Wes Anderson
DESPLECHIN: The weather in Paris is terrible now, quite depressing. I was just wondering, while sitting at my desk depressed by the weather, what kind of weather you had growing up in Texas.
ANDERSON: Well, Texas is hot. I went to school in Austin, but I grew up in Houston, which is on the Gulf of Mexico. It’s hot, hot like India, and humid, and full of mosquitoes.
DESPLECHIN: And you don’t miss it? [Anderson laughs] I ask because I am looking out the window and this city is all gray, and I don’t understand how you could stay in such a city. It’s quite different from where you are from. So you went to school in Austin?
ANDERSON: College in Austin. Then I lived in California for a while. Then in New York.
DESPLECHIN: Where did you meet Owen Wilson?
ANDERSON: In Austin. We must have been 18.
DESPLECHIN: And you both wanted to work in cinema?
ANDERSON: I guess we did. I don’t know. I was studying philosophy, and he was studying English. But we met in a playwriting class. We first started talking about writers, but we also talked about movies right off the bat. I knew I wanted to do something with movies. I don’t know if he had realized yet that it was an option.
DESPLECHIN: I think I read somewhere that in college, you were working on Proust?
ANDERSON: No, I was never working on Proust, but I read Swann’s Way, which made a big impression on me . . . At that time, literature students in America didn’t seem to read Proust—at least not where I was going to school. It took me a long time to finish reading the first book, and I only read the one.
DESPLECHIN: I never read it at all.
ANDERSON: You didn’t? [laughs]
DESPLECHIN: Because in my family it was a snobbish thing—you know, to read Proust. I thought if I read this book, it would take something like one year. Instead, I could spend the year reading strange, odd books that my father or sisters wouldn’t read. Plus I wanted to work in cinema, so I didn’t feel that I should start with a serious thing. I was supposed to focus on futile things that belong to popular arts. It was really an impression that I imposed on myself. I will never read Proust as a commitment.
ANDERSON: You still hold to that?
DESPLECHIN: Yeah. I read 10 or 12 books about Proust to know the different books. I mean, it was a sort of stupid decision to make as an adolescent— against the teacher and for the cinema. But it has to do with the fact that I’m French. Proust was sacred, so I didn’t want to be a part of it.
ANDERSON: The opening of Swann’s Way is about being on the verge of falling asleep. The book is filled with images that have never left my mind.
DESPLECHIN: So when you started to write films, was that the moment you and Owen split parts, where one would be the director and the other would be the actor?
ANDERSON: Well, we started writing together. I was always going to be the director, but he didn’t really want to be an actor—or I don’t know if he knew he wanted to be an actor. As far as he was concerned, he was strictly a writer.
DESPLECHIN: Does he still consider himself strictly a writer now that he has become such a big movie star?
ANDERSON: Nope. [laughs] Now he considers himself an actor, too. But he’s a very good writer.
DESPLECHIN: You wrote Fantastic Mr. Fox with Noah Baumbach.
ANDERSON: Yes. We wrote most of it in New York, some of it in Los Angeles, some of it in England. Actually, we wrote for a little while at Roald Dahl’s house, in Buckinghamshire. And we wrote a little bit in Paris, too.
DESPLECHIN: I thought you were trapped here, that you couldn’t escape from this rain. But you still can escape to New York and places like that.
ANDERSON: I can go to different places, yes. I live in New York most of the time.
DESPLECHIN: Would you call what you are experiencing—jumping around from one city to another—nomadism? Or would you call it an exile? Either way, to me, it is a typical American thing, these ideas.
ANDERSON: The thing is, you’re French. You’re French for generations. You’re genuinely French.
DESPLECHIN: I’m not that French.
ANDERSON: Well, you’re quite French. But most Americans will say, “I’m Swedish.”
DESPLECHIN: Are you Swedish?
ANDERSON: Yes, I’m half Swedish, half Norwegian. If somebody asks you what your background is, you don’t have to go back very far before it’s outside of America—unless you’re part Cherokee or something. Anyway, I certainly don’t think I’ve chosen to be nomadic. I always wanted to live in New York, and it took me a long time before I got there. But once you start moving around a lot . . . I don’t know. The difference between exile and nomadism is probably just your mood.
DESPLECHIN: You’ve seen a lot of movies. I wonder if you learned to watch a lot of films from someone like Martin Scorsese. One could say that there are two kinds of directors: those who love to see films and those who actually don’t see that many.
ANDERSON: If you are going to pick directors that make you feel like you should watch old films, I think that would be Martin Scorsese and Peter Bogdanovich. There are so many films I was introduced to by them in one way or another. For example, on the laser-disc commentary of Raging Bull [1980],Scorsese mentions something about MichaelPowell, and I had never heard of the Powell and [Emeric] Pressburger films before. From Bogdanovich, I think I first learned about Howard Hawks and LeoMcCarey. Bogdanovich saw everything. He had this metal file cabinet with drawers filled with notes. Every time he saw a movie, he typed up a little card that would list the title, director, writer, description, the date he saw the movie, and what he thought. He’d give it a rating. Then if he saw it again, he’d take the card and add a note: “I saw it again, and actually I thought it was a little better this time.”
DESPLECHIN: Do you do that?
ANDERSON: No.
DESPLECHIN: I think it’s a critic thing.
ANDERSON: Bogdanovich started it when he was, like, 15 years old. But I think he stopped the week that he went to Texas to make The Last Picture Show [1971]. He stopped as soon as he really became successful as a filmmaker. I think the first director I was ever aware of was Alfred Hitchcock—before I even understood the idea of a director. I was aware of Hitchcock because of The Alfred Hitchcock Collection. That was the first time I was aware that there’s a guy who is not in the movie who’s on the front of the box. He’s responsible. I loved those movies.
DESPLECHIN: Those were the first films that mesmerized you as a kid?
ANDERSON: Well, they were the first films I took note of and thought, This is interesting, and it was directed by this particular man. Before that I was interested in Star Wars [1977] and The Pink Panther [1963]. Actually, the first movie I saw when I got to Paris was one of the Pink Panther movies. I remember because I remember having to figure out how to say “Un billet pour La Panthère Rose . . . ”
DESPLECHIN: I’m not able to name the moment I wanted to be a director because I also didn’t know the word for that. I couldn’t distinguish between producer, director, and author. I just wanted to be the guy in charge—the guilty one! [Anderson laughs] But, you know, as a kid I was not precocious at all. I had such bad taste. I loved Hitchcock but for the wrong reasons.
ANDERSON: What are the wrong reasons?
DESPLECHIN: I don’t know. Today I try to see some of his films and, you know, I’m failing him because I’m not moved. But other times I’m shivering and crying because what he tried to achieve is so amazing. It’s such dedication. I think he’s almost a saint. I can see all the unbelievable emotion in it. Before, I thought the big thing with him was that he was clever. Actually, I don’t know what I love about him. Is it that he accepts that he’s stupid? That he’s clever? That’s he’s vulnerable?
ANDERSON: He follows the thing that he’s drawn to over and over again. Sometimes, if I have to do a scene that involves suspense or drama or just some basic genre storytelling, I think, What’s the Hitchcock way to do it? There’s a Hitchcock solution that’s clear and simple and sort of professional and says, I want the audience to feel something specific. Usually when I’m doing a scene, I don’t want it to feel specific—I want to make something that different people will feel in different ways. But the greatest thing about Hitchcock is that his scenes do have very specifically intended effects—even while the overall film would still be interpreted wildly differently from person to person.
DESPLECHIN: Are there other directors who you think about like that?
ANDERSON: Yeah. I mean, it depends on the thing I’m working on. One other director I feel thatI always think about when I don’t know how to approach something is Steven Spielberg. He would know how to do it. But, ultimately, if you’re asking me which director I think about in terms of just living my life—maybe this is crazy, but I’m going to have to say Stanley Kubrick, which I think is a bad sign because that is someone whose whole thing was about controlling his life. I mean, he apparently had a great family life, and he had his work arranged in a way that fit into the way he wanted to live. And people went to see his movies. And he only did the movies he liked to do. He didn’t do one movie for the money, so he could do the next one because he liked it. He only did the ones he wanted to do. He had total, utter, complete creative control over not just the movies but also the life of making them. He had a system, which you need because there are too many things to keep track of.
DESPLECHIN: I have a friend who visited Hitchcock’s house when he was really old. My friend had written a famous book on Hitchcock and was so proud to visit. Hitchcock showed him his basement. At this time, he wasn’t allowed to eat anymore because he was too fat. But he was keeping food in a basement storage area. He had enough to feed, like, 100 people, just to be sure he wouldn’t ever lack any food, which was absurd because he wasn’t allowed to eat it. He was just visiting his food. That’s beautiful, no?
ANDERSON: That’s beautiful, yes.
DESPLECHIN: I wanted to talk to you about music in your movies. You have a very personal way of working with scores—such an exact taste and combination of songs.
ANDERSON: I like working on the music for my own movies—which is about the only music I’m interested in working on.
DESPLECHIN: Do you play an instrument?
ANDERSON: A little bit, but barely anything. For Fantastic Mr. Fox, we had Jarvis Cocker make a great song—he’s also the voice of one of the animated characters in the film. And, right now, we have Alexandre Desplat in the middle of doing the score. There’s much more music than I had any idea we were going to need. It’s like an hour or more of music that he’s written.
The first director I was ever aware of was Alfred Hitchcock—before I even understood the idea of a director. That was the first time I was aware that there’s a guy who is not in the movie who’s on the front of the box.—Wes Anderson
DESPLECHIN: Were you with Jarvis Cocker when he recorded the music?
ANDERSON: Yes. We recorded it in Jean Touitou’s basement studio. We have a French banjo player who’s very good. I don’t think there are that many wellknown French banjo players, but we found the best one.
DESPLECHIN: I was surprised when you said you studied philosophy and read Proust, because it sounds so serious. But your films are also quite entertaining. The first time I had to introduce one of your films in Paris, it struck me that that you are to American cinema what J.D. Salinger is to American literature. You create a sort of pure cinematic world and the characters connect from one film to another and the films together are drawing a world that is constantly expanding. It seems so close in style to what Salinger did.
ANDERSON: I do feel a bit like my characters from one movie could walk into another one of my movies and it would make sense, whereas people from other peoples’ movies would probably feel a bit uncomfortable there. [both laugh]
DESPLECHIN: But it’s quite rare, no? To have created such a collant world. It reminds me of Francois Truffaut because you need to create life, jokes, cries . . .
ANDERSON: Your movies have the same thing, except they’re more realistic, so it becomes more subtle.
DESPLECHIN: I wouldn’t say that.
ANDERSON: Well, I suppose I mean the characters in A Christmas Tale [2008] and Rois et reine [2004]—I can’t really say the r’s right in Rois et reine—they are part of an imagined world, but those characters feel more like real life to me.
DESPLECHIN: You have all these guys who are really big fans of your movies because there is something so intimate about them. Even if we don’t know a thing about you, there is something so revealing in your films, something we see about your life there. If there is another director who gives me the same feeling, it’s Quentin Tarantino. To me, you and Tarantino are two brothers in the American cinema.
ANDERSON: I feel like with Tarantino, when he was doing Pulp Fiction [1994], there’s all this genre that he’s working with in this inventive way. But you also kind of get the feeling that he’s been traveling in Europe and he’s never been there before and he has just come back to town to report on some of the things that have happened in his life. Your film Ma Vie Sexuelle [1996] has the complete feeling of somebody reporting about their life, but it’s not like a documentary-style movie. Was your life at the time anything like that movie?
DESPLECHIN: Not at all. But there is a truth that when you learn a character or write a scene for a film, you can make it part of your life. I had an actor who didn’t smoke before he was cast as a chain-smoker in my film. Now he does. But even from a line in a film—writing it or acting it—you can think, “I could say this and also be funny. The girls might stop and laugh and I could get laid.” It’s true: You find a good line and after that you try to use it in real life. So, in a way, you are taught by your own films and the characters you impersonate. When people see the results of your work, they guess they can see something about your private life.
ANDERSON: But when your experience of making the movie turns into your life—what Kubrick called “pure cinema” then—that’s probably a bad sign.
DESPLECHIN: Well, thank you, Wes. On va manger?
ANDERSON: Oui.
(daqui)
segunda-feira, 19 de outubro de 2009
Benedita Pereira
Sabem aquele anúncio da Vodafone em que um rapaz vulgar de Lineu sonha convidar a monumental Eva Mendes para sair? Pois bem, ele tem um amigo fotógrafo, e a irmã de um amigo de um primo desse fotógrafo parece que trabalhou na equipa de um filme em que entrava a Eva Mendes. Então o nosso rapaz contacta o primo do amigo, o amigo do primo, a irmã do amigo do primo, e finalmente chega ao produtor do tal filme, que lhe envia o contacto do agente da Eva Mendes. O rapaz, agora disfarçado de cineasta americano, vai aos States e tem uma longa reunião com o agente da Eva; este acabar por concordar com o suposto projecto e dá-lhe o número da actriz. E eis o rapaz, felicíssimo e ansioso, a telefonar à mulher dos seus sonhos: dois toques, ela atende: «It’s Eva Mendes». E ele desliga.
Confesso: já fiz isso com a Benedita Pereira.
(Pedro Mexia)
adenda: ler também isto
e outra: melhor definição de Facebook de sempre (Vontade Indómita) (e eu que também por lá ando)
Confesso: já fiz isso com a Benedita Pereira.
(Pedro Mexia)
adenda: ler também isto
e outra: melhor definição de Facebook de sempre (Vontade Indómita) (e eu que também por lá ando)
terça-feira, 29 de setembro de 2009
sexta-feira, 26 de junho de 2009
passeata de carro com Mulatu Astatke ao volante
É comprar, é ler o ípsilon de hoje, páginas 24 e 26. O amigo Mulatu e a Sasha Grey foram as pessoas mais bonitas do mundo desta minha semana.
quarta-feira, 24 de junho de 2009
Também ando para aqui encantado com o gosto da Sasha Grey (via Provas de Contacto). Sou um pavloviano irrepreensível no que toca a estas coisas.
(E curioso à brava com o último Soderbergh:
)
(E curioso à brava com o último Soderbergh:
)
há uma parte de mim, algures, que morre de saudades do Cintra...
"Mark Knopfler? Não duvido que seja um bom jogador mas temos o plantel fechado"
"Romário? Não, íamos era contratar o Rosário do Torreense, isso deve ser gaffe"
(...mas como não ter saudades deste homem?, um falador compulsivo, embora nem sempre inteligível. Um milagre ocasional.)
"Romário? Não, íamos era contratar o Rosário do Torreense, isso deve ser gaffe"
(...mas como não ter saudades deste homem?, um falador compulsivo, embora nem sempre inteligível. Um milagre ocasional.)
sábado, 20 de junho de 2009
quinta-feira, 18 de junho de 2009
segunda-feira, 15 de junho de 2009
The Good, the Bad and 'his Humphrey Bogart jacket open, his special smile'
It was a surreal day, an ominous day in Tehran yesterday, of censored newspapers and of soft words and threats against Mahmoud Ahmedinejad's political opponent, Mirhossein Mousavi. We didn't even know where Mousavi was – in custody or house arrest – nor whether a hundred of his election campaign workers had been arrested. It was a day heavy with plain-clothes policemen, blocked roads and jeering supporters of the government. No, there will not be another revolution in Iran. But this is not quite the democracy that Ahmedinejad promised.
True, we met Ahmedinejad the Good yesterday, preaching to us at an elaborately-staged press conference, talking of the noble, compassionate, honourable, smart people of Iran. But we also met Ahmedinejad the Bad, swearing to thousands of baying supporters that he would name the "corrupt" men who had stood against him in Friday's election.
I'm still not at all sure we met President Ahmedinejad, always supposing we believe in the 63.62 per cent of the votes that he claims he picked up. For what do you make of a man who five times refers to the presidential poll as a football match and then utters – in front of us all – in the softest of voices and with the gentlest and most chilling of smiles, a terrible warning to the mysteriously absent Mousavi. "After a football match, sometimes people feel their side should have won and they get into their car outside and drive through a red light and they get a ticket from a policeman. He didn't wait for the red light to change. I am not at all happy that someone ignores the red light." We all drew in our breath.
Less than two hours later, before the sweating thousands of his supporters in Val-y-Asr Square, we saw Ahmedinejad the Bad. "They are branding us as liars and corrupt," he screamed. "But they are themselves corrupt. I am going to use my position as president to name these people..." The crowd roared its approval. Of course they did. They all held Iranian flags or pictures of their pious leader amid heavenly clouds.
The day started badly with another of those dangerous, frighteningly brief statements from Tehran's loquacious police commander, Bahram Radan. "We have identified houses which are bases for the political mobs." This was the only reference the authorities would make about the outrageous street battles in which Radan's black-clothed cops beat Mousavi's supporters insensible on the streets of Tehran.
Then there was the front page of "Etemade Melli" – "National Trust" in English – which belongs to another of Ahmedinejad's enemies, Mehdi Karoubi. After the election results at the top of the front page – Mousavi officially won only 33.75 per cent of the votes and Karoubi 0.85 per cent – there was a caption: "Regarding the election results," it read, "Mehdi Karoubi and Mirhossein Mousavi made statements which we cannot publish in our newspaper." Beneath was a vast acre of white space. You could doodle on it. You could construct a crossword on it. You could draw a red light on it. But you couldn't read those statements.
And just to rub home the message – which we heard in various forms all day – a postage-stamp size photograph of Tehran's cops running down a street appeared at the top of page two with two worrying sentences. "The Public Security Police have delivered a statement, stating that any kind of gatherings, demonstrations or celebrations without a licence are forbidden. Any kind of gathering would be unlawful and the consequences will lie on the shoulders of the candidates and their campaign offices." We all knew what that meant; indeed, we approached Ahmedinejad's press conference with the absolute conviction that there would be more threats; there were, but they couldn't have been made in a kinder, more sinister way.
He sat before a vast spray of red and white roses, his back to a poster of a snow-tipped mountain, an Iranian banner floating in front, his Humphrey Bogart jacket open, his special smile – the UN smile, the CNN smile, the humble worker smile, the sportsman smile, the wisdom smile, we all know it – amid his whiskered features. There were prayers. And then came Imam Ahmedinejad. The Iranian people won the elections. It was their role to rule. "In countries where there was liberal democracy, the people are pushed out of the system and the professionals take over but in Iran, a democracy rules which is based on ethics."
It went on like this for quite a while. Iran loved all peoples. It would help all peoples. Iranians loved each other. They were unified. They would always stand together. "We are a noble people, we are smart people and the Iranian people believe in right and righteousness. The Iranian people hate lies and are satisfied with their lot... but we stand up to bullies and arrogance... the Iranian people will never be afraid of threats," he continued.
Readers will decode this as they wish. Clearly Ahmedinejad had read through Barack Obama's Cairo speech very carefully – indeed, he sometimes sounded grotesquely like the American president – and some of his "change" motifs fit rather well with the new US administration.
Bullying was in the past. We needed dialogue with all issues on the table. Post-World War Two political systems had proved anti-humanitarian. "The time when a handful of countries came together to decide the fate of a smaller country was over. It is finished."
It seemed endless. Democracy, ethics, human values, welfare, confidence, mutual respect, justice, fair play... From time to time it sounded like an updated version of Plato's Republic with the unwilling philosopher king behind the red and white roses.
But there was that infuriating refusal to deal with physical realities. When I asked Ahmedinejad the Good if he remembered the young Iranian woman dragged screaming to the gallows a few weeks ago, pleading with her mother by mobile phone to save her life seconds before her neck was broken by the rope, and whether he would guarantee that such a terrible event would never be repeated in the Islamic Republic, he set forth on an exegesis of the Iranian legal system. "I am myself against capital punishment," he replied. "I do not want to kill even an ant. But the Iranian judiciary is independent." And then he promised to talk to the judiciary about softening punishments and thought Iranian judges would benefit from "dialogue" with their opposite numbers in Europe and America. But the young woman so cruelly executed – for a murder she may not have committed – had disappeared from his response. She wasn't an ant. She had been in the hands of Ahmedinejad's noble, caring, compassionate, just Iran.
Nor was Mousavi an ant when CNN's Christiane Amanpour demanded Ahmedinejad the Good's guarantee for his life and those of his supporters. That's when we got the bit about the red light and all that it represented. Amanpour repeated the question. "Perhaps I missed something in the translation of your reply," she said sarcastically. "Perhaps you missed the translation that you didn't ask for a second question," Ahmedinejad snapped back. "No," said the imperishable Amanpour," this isn't a second question. I'm repeating the first one!"
Useless, of course, especially when the Iranian and Arab journalists arrived with their fawning questions, always preceded by congratulations for Ahmedinejad's real or imagined victory. In fact, the most frustrating thing about this performance was that he kept praising the massive turnout on Friday – perhaps more than 80 per cent – as his personal victory. But it wasn't the enthusiasm to vote that proved his presidency. It was the nature of how the result was calculated that enraged so many of Ahmedinejad the Good's noble Iranians.
But then, as they say, the mask slipped. Down amid the hot crowds on Val-y-Asr square – the scene of a huge 1979 Revolution massacre – Ahmedinejad the Bad was with us, screaming of his victory in confronting America.
"The enemy is furious because the Iranian nation is firm in its ideology... I will do my best to make the imperial powers and governments bow before you and bow before the nation of Iran."
His hand went up and down like a see-saw and the men and chadored women – some brought into Tehran by bus from the countryside, I noted from the registration plates – shouted "Ahmadi-, Ahmadi-, we are supporting you." And back came the vaunted boast: "America and other countries, you threaten Iran and you'll get your answer!" That's when he said he'd name his enemies.
So is it peace or war? It rather depends whether it's Ahmedinejad the Good or Ahmedinejad the Bad, I suppose.
For Mousavi's fate, watch this space.
(Robert Fisk)
True, we met Ahmedinejad the Good yesterday, preaching to us at an elaborately-staged press conference, talking of the noble, compassionate, honourable, smart people of Iran. But we also met Ahmedinejad the Bad, swearing to thousands of baying supporters that he would name the "corrupt" men who had stood against him in Friday's election.
I'm still not at all sure we met President Ahmedinejad, always supposing we believe in the 63.62 per cent of the votes that he claims he picked up. For what do you make of a man who five times refers to the presidential poll as a football match and then utters – in front of us all – in the softest of voices and with the gentlest and most chilling of smiles, a terrible warning to the mysteriously absent Mousavi. "After a football match, sometimes people feel their side should have won and they get into their car outside and drive through a red light and they get a ticket from a policeman. He didn't wait for the red light to change. I am not at all happy that someone ignores the red light." We all drew in our breath.
Less than two hours later, before the sweating thousands of his supporters in Val-y-Asr Square, we saw Ahmedinejad the Bad. "They are branding us as liars and corrupt," he screamed. "But they are themselves corrupt. I am going to use my position as president to name these people..." The crowd roared its approval. Of course they did. They all held Iranian flags or pictures of their pious leader amid heavenly clouds.
The day started badly with another of those dangerous, frighteningly brief statements from Tehran's loquacious police commander, Bahram Radan. "We have identified houses which are bases for the political mobs." This was the only reference the authorities would make about the outrageous street battles in which Radan's black-clothed cops beat Mousavi's supporters insensible on the streets of Tehran.
Then there was the front page of "Etemade Melli" – "National Trust" in English – which belongs to another of Ahmedinejad's enemies, Mehdi Karoubi. After the election results at the top of the front page – Mousavi officially won only 33.75 per cent of the votes and Karoubi 0.85 per cent – there was a caption: "Regarding the election results," it read, "Mehdi Karoubi and Mirhossein Mousavi made statements which we cannot publish in our newspaper." Beneath was a vast acre of white space. You could doodle on it. You could construct a crossword on it. You could draw a red light on it. But you couldn't read those statements.
And just to rub home the message – which we heard in various forms all day – a postage-stamp size photograph of Tehran's cops running down a street appeared at the top of page two with two worrying sentences. "The Public Security Police have delivered a statement, stating that any kind of gatherings, demonstrations or celebrations without a licence are forbidden. Any kind of gathering would be unlawful and the consequences will lie on the shoulders of the candidates and their campaign offices." We all knew what that meant; indeed, we approached Ahmedinejad's press conference with the absolute conviction that there would be more threats; there were, but they couldn't have been made in a kinder, more sinister way.
He sat before a vast spray of red and white roses, his back to a poster of a snow-tipped mountain, an Iranian banner floating in front, his Humphrey Bogart jacket open, his special smile – the UN smile, the CNN smile, the humble worker smile, the sportsman smile, the wisdom smile, we all know it – amid his whiskered features. There were prayers. And then came Imam Ahmedinejad. The Iranian people won the elections. It was their role to rule. "In countries where there was liberal democracy, the people are pushed out of the system and the professionals take over but in Iran, a democracy rules which is based on ethics."
It went on like this for quite a while. Iran loved all peoples. It would help all peoples. Iranians loved each other. They were unified. They would always stand together. "We are a noble people, we are smart people and the Iranian people believe in right and righteousness. The Iranian people hate lies and are satisfied with their lot... but we stand up to bullies and arrogance... the Iranian people will never be afraid of threats," he continued.
Readers will decode this as they wish. Clearly Ahmedinejad had read through Barack Obama's Cairo speech very carefully – indeed, he sometimes sounded grotesquely like the American president – and some of his "change" motifs fit rather well with the new US administration.
Bullying was in the past. We needed dialogue with all issues on the table. Post-World War Two political systems had proved anti-humanitarian. "The time when a handful of countries came together to decide the fate of a smaller country was over. It is finished."
It seemed endless. Democracy, ethics, human values, welfare, confidence, mutual respect, justice, fair play... From time to time it sounded like an updated version of Plato's Republic with the unwilling philosopher king behind the red and white roses.
But there was that infuriating refusal to deal with physical realities. When I asked Ahmedinejad the Good if he remembered the young Iranian woman dragged screaming to the gallows a few weeks ago, pleading with her mother by mobile phone to save her life seconds before her neck was broken by the rope, and whether he would guarantee that such a terrible event would never be repeated in the Islamic Republic, he set forth on an exegesis of the Iranian legal system. "I am myself against capital punishment," he replied. "I do not want to kill even an ant. But the Iranian judiciary is independent." And then he promised to talk to the judiciary about softening punishments and thought Iranian judges would benefit from "dialogue" with their opposite numbers in Europe and America. But the young woman so cruelly executed – for a murder she may not have committed – had disappeared from his response. She wasn't an ant. She had been in the hands of Ahmedinejad's noble, caring, compassionate, just Iran.
Nor was Mousavi an ant when CNN's Christiane Amanpour demanded Ahmedinejad the Good's guarantee for his life and those of his supporters. That's when we got the bit about the red light and all that it represented. Amanpour repeated the question. "Perhaps I missed something in the translation of your reply," she said sarcastically. "Perhaps you missed the translation that you didn't ask for a second question," Ahmedinejad snapped back. "No," said the imperishable Amanpour," this isn't a second question. I'm repeating the first one!"
Useless, of course, especially when the Iranian and Arab journalists arrived with their fawning questions, always preceded by congratulations for Ahmedinejad's real or imagined victory. In fact, the most frustrating thing about this performance was that he kept praising the massive turnout on Friday – perhaps more than 80 per cent – as his personal victory. But it wasn't the enthusiasm to vote that proved his presidency. It was the nature of how the result was calculated that enraged so many of Ahmedinejad the Good's noble Iranians.
But then, as they say, the mask slipped. Down amid the hot crowds on Val-y-Asr square – the scene of a huge 1979 Revolution massacre – Ahmedinejad the Bad was with us, screaming of his victory in confronting America.
"The enemy is furious because the Iranian nation is firm in its ideology... I will do my best to make the imperial powers and governments bow before you and bow before the nation of Iran."
His hand went up and down like a see-saw and the men and chadored women – some brought into Tehran by bus from the countryside, I noted from the registration plates – shouted "Ahmadi-, Ahmadi-, we are supporting you." And back came the vaunted boast: "America and other countries, you threaten Iran and you'll get your answer!" That's when he said he'd name his enemies.
So is it peace or war? It rather depends whether it's Ahmedinejad the Good or Ahmedinejad the Bad, I suppose.
For Mousavi's fate, watch this space.
(Robert Fisk)
quarta-feira, 10 de junho de 2009
"Se houver força suficiente entre os jovens que para que peguem no testemunho dos críticos italianos, que criem festivais, que façam trabalho de selecção, trabalho de estímulo, é possível que o entusiasmo deles seja recuperado. Quando as pessoas se dispersam, acaba-se tudo! Há uma velha fábula: um velho está a morrer e chama os filhos à beira da cama. Pede ao mais velho: 'Traz essas flechas; ata-as umas às outras e tenta parti-las'. O filho tenta mas não consegue. O velho diz: 'Parte-as uma a uma'. E então já as consegue partir. 'Se permanecerem unidos nada vos acontecerá'. Mas no contra-provérbio georgiano, o velho moribundo quer dar esta mesma lição clássica e diz ao filho: 'Vá, tenta lá partir as flechas'. O miúdo tenta e parte-as mesmo. Diz o pai: 'És um cretino e hás-de ser sempre um cretino!'.
Aqui está a resposta à vossa pergunta sobre o humor georgiano."
(Otar Iosseliani, Cinemateca Portuguesa)
Aqui está a resposta à vossa pergunta sobre o humor georgiano."
(Otar Iosseliani, Cinemateca Portuguesa)
sábado, 6 de junho de 2009
-Como era ela?
-Quem?
-Quem te pôs assim.
-O contrário de ti.
(citando de memória um diálogo de "Un conte de Noël", de Arnaud Desplechin)
(a propósito de Desplechin: "Falar de Desplechin como sendo alguém que leu demasiados livros e viu demasiados filmes sem compreender bem nenhum deles parece-me uma excelente descrição; é precisamente por isto que gosto dos filmes dele." - Animais Domésticos)
-Quem?
-Quem te pôs assim.
-O contrário de ti.
(citando de memória um diálogo de "Un conte de Noël", de Arnaud Desplechin)
(a propósito de Desplechin: "Falar de Desplechin como sendo alguém que leu demasiados livros e viu demasiados filmes sem compreender bem nenhum deles parece-me uma excelente descrição; é precisamente por isto que gosto dos filmes dele." - Animais Domésticos)
domingo, 31 de maio de 2009
quarta-feira, 27 de maio de 2009
Não lembro a razão, está misturada com outras tantas histórias e esquecimentos menores de infância, mas um catalão (amigo do meu velho) ofereceu-me uma camisola do Laudrup era eu miúdo. À camisola juntou-se Romário (imenso Romário), Stoichkov, este mesmo Guardiola e aquele sempre encantador egocentrismo de Johan Cruyff*. Opor-me à ideia de ser do Barça ficou nítida e drasticamente impossível. É bom não cair na palermice: pode-se gostar pouco ou nada do Barcelona, do que representa, ou mesmo de Tom Henning Øvrebø (atente-se no preciosismo aqui demonstrado); não se pode é não gostar daquele cordão umbilical que liga a bola a Messi, Xavi, Iniesta e companhia restante. Um que dá a bola, outro que a recebe; joga-se a 11 como se ensina a jogar futebol de cinco. Que alívio, que paz, ninguém jogava tão lindo há muito tempo.
* "There is a development in football currently in which the most creative players - and that's mainly forwards - are the ones who have to run the most. In a team that plays defensively, the distance to goal for an attacker quickly becomes 50 metres. Defenders have to work less because of that and attackers have to run more. Because I play attacking football, my attackers only have to run 15 metres, unless they're stupid or sleeping. That's why I'd like to have Van Basten. I think i'm not your average trainer. I say don't run so much. Football is a game you play with your brains. You have to be in the right place at the right moment, not too early, nor too late. When my attacker is one-against-one, I always say: "let him do it himself". Then the players say: "aren't we going to help him?". And I answer: "In the first place, there's a large chance you'll get in his way, and secondly, as a second attacker you'll take a second defender with you and two-against-two is harder than one-against-one"."
Nieuwe Revu
February 1989
("Ajax, Barcelona, Cruyff: The ABC of an Obstinate Maestro", Frits Barend e Henk van Dorp, 1997, Bloomsbury, pág. 106 e 107)
terça-feira, 26 de maio de 2009
* "Who is the Renee French actress in Coffee and Cigarettes?". Ao fim de apurada discussão: "Also, I don't think she'll go out with any of us so let's just respect her mystique and leave her alone."
domingo, 24 de maio de 2009
Walt Whitman's Niece
Last night or the night before that,
I won't say which night
A seaman friend of mine,
I'll not say which seaman,
Walked up to a big old building,
I won't say which building,
And would have not walked up the stairs,
not to say which stairs,
If there had not been two girls,
leaving out the names of those two girls.
I recall a door, a big long room,
I'll not tell which room,
I remember a deep blue rug,
But I can't say which rug,
A girl took down a book of poems,
not to say which book of poems,
And as she read, I lay my head,
and I can't tell which head,
Down in her lap, and I can mention which lap
My seaman buddy and girl moved off
after a couple of pages and there I was,
All night long, laying and listening
and forgetting the poems.
And as well as I could recall
or my seaman buddy could recollect,
My girl had told us that she was a niece,
of Walt Whitman, but now which niece,
And it takes a night and a girl
and a book of this kind
A long long time to find its way back
quinta-feira, 21 de maio de 2009
João Bénard da Costa
"
(...)
Há mais de cinquenta anos, JOHNNY GUITAR chegou a Portugal em Janeiro de 1955 e o seu culto só começou nos finais dos anos 50. Os textos citados são de 1959. Mas assim se escrevia no anos 50, no tempo de JOHNNY GUITAR, nos tempos em que Belmondo louvava a baby-sitter que tinha ido ver o filme: "Il faut qu'elle se cultive". Hoje, como se escreve? O que se aprende? Aprende-se, por exemplo, que, quando Sterling Hayden pergunta a Joan Crawford "How many men have you forgotten?", Crawford não lhe responde com outra pergunta "How many women do you remember?" mas lhe pega na palavra e diz "As many as you remember". Ou será: "As many as you. Remember?".
(...)
"Só recordam aqueles que confidenciam, a recordação é uma arte que arranca da solidão e do silêncio", escrevi há quarenta e muitos anos, sem ainda saber ler nem escrever. Hoje, que tinha obrigação de saber mais, só posso repetir que esta arte recordatória, este filme mítico, este filme-mito (tão, tão diferente da memória) arranca também daí: da solidão e do silêncio.
Trinta anos depois, ou quase - também - Nicholas Ray destruído, cego dum olho, com o cabelo todo branco, tão e tão magro, veio dizer-nos (We Can't Go Home Again) que ajudar-nos uns aos outros era a nossa única possibilidade de sobrevivência. Não se passa em vão tantas vezes debaixo daquela cascata. He hasn't moved. Percebam-no e amem-no os que também não."
(d' As Folhas da Cinemateca sobre Nicholas Ray)
(Poucos, muito poucos, me deram ou vão dando tanto prazer na leitura. É isto, não pode ser muito mais que isto: "Obrigado.")
terça-feira, 19 de maio de 2009
"Henri olha fixamente para Margaret com um estranho brilho nos olhos. Ao longe ribombam os trovões. Douglas Sirk mexe-se silenciosamente no seu túmulo enquanto cada um deles dá um passo em direcção ao outro e caem na cama. Mais tarde, só a lua ilumina a cena".
Do guião de "I Hired a Contract Killer/Contratei um Assassino"
(Aki Kaurismäki, pág. 37, Edição Cinemateca Portuguesa)
(Balanço da feira do livro de Lisboa: um livro sobre o Aki Kaurismäki a três euros e picos; outro sobre o Iosseliani a sete e picos. "A História de Um Sonho", do Arthur Schnitzler, na Relógio D'Água, a dois e meio. O passeio do Moravia pela Índia, na Tinta-da-China, por uns dez euros. Isto não está para brincar, isto de não ter dinheiro é muito tramado. A miúda mais gira da feira mantém-se aquela de sardas na Relógio D'Água.)
Do guião de "I Hired a Contract Killer/Contratei um Assassino"
(Aki Kaurismäki, pág. 37, Edição Cinemateca Portuguesa)
(Balanço da feira do livro de Lisboa: um livro sobre o Aki Kaurismäki a três euros e picos; outro sobre o Iosseliani a sete e picos. "A História de Um Sonho", do Arthur Schnitzler, na Relógio D'Água, a dois e meio. O passeio do Moravia pela Índia, na Tinta-da-China, por uns dez euros. Isto não está para brincar, isto de não ter dinheiro é muito tramado. A miúda mais gira da feira mantém-se aquela de sardas na Relógio D'Água.)
The Natural
Ser sportinguista, ser sócio desde que nasci - responsabilidade única e abusiva do senhor meu pai -, fez-me ter uma adolescência radical, quase trágica. Já o período pós-jejum-de-18-anos tornou-me, em parte, num tipo resignado, conformista e cansado. Não há pachorra alguma para sportinguistas, essa é que essa. Mas aqui gosta-se de Bettencourt, aqui gosta-se de Ribeiro Telles, aqui considera-se o trabalho de Paulo Bento quase quase miraculoso. (E esquecendo estas três figuras, no dito 'universo sportinguista' pouco sobra do meu agrado.) É demasiado fácil e óbvio votar nesta gente. Daqui se declara, portanto, o total apoio a este tipo e sua candidatura. Expressão imediata do pesadelo sportinguista será Bettencourt não ganhar à larga a 05 de Junho próximo. E disto não falo mais que é temática auto-suficiente para fazer acordar a minha úlcera.
*Mas quem se lembrou agora de aborrecer o Dias Ferreira? Entendam, é como vos digo, não há pachorra para gente assim, não há.
segunda-feira, 18 de maio de 2009
Rainwater Cassette Exchange EP
1 Jun 2009 - Lux Fragil w/ Ariel Pink - Lisboa
É que se estou a fazer bem as contas, e eu tenho uma musculatura de pensamento muito interessante e digna, um dia antes temos o Jeff Tweedy no Coliseu.
sexta-feira, 15 de maio de 2009
O amigo Carlos - que hoje por hoje só pensa em Jorge Jesus - fez no outro dia anos e eu esqueci-me tanto. Aqui ficam os parabéns atrasados, nas pessoas de J. Jesus e J. Phoenix reunidos numa dita casa de Veneza, rodeados por gente que lhes é estranha em absoluto. Abraço.
*Sou um portento no photoshop, reconheçam-no; tenho, aliás, uma bestial piada desaproveitada a respeito dos tiques do Izmailov.
**E uma música:
Le Tigre, Deceptacon
*Sou um portento no photoshop, reconheçam-no; tenho, aliás, uma bestial piada desaproveitada a respeito dos tiques do Izmailov.
**E uma música:
Le Tigre, Deceptacon
segunda-feira, 11 de maio de 2009
sexta-feira, 8 de maio de 2009
Ruben A. - começo a gostar muito deste homem
(...)
27.4.
Aquela telefonou-me hoje para irmos à praia. - Tem um corpo estupendo e cheio de tutânicas atracções. Não sei se vá, não me quero atraiçoar. E ainda para mais depois da chegada dela. Ela chegou ontem. Ainda não a vi.
2.5.
Esta tarde saí com Ela. Não consegui dizer-lhe nada - fui um pateta nervoso a contar coisas estúpidas e sem sentido. Pareci-me com um eléctrico.
3.5.
Que palerma que eu fui, hoje já lhe contava tudo. Não me liberto, tenho de aceitar a tragédia em vida.
6.5.
Esta faculdade que eu tenho de me sentir gelado de calor amedronta-me tanto como não poder atravessar o atlântico a pé.
- Ontem encontrei o outro... «Então daqui a tempos Ela casa-se! Quem não se casa sei eu. Não está tempo para essas coisas. Tens ido a desafios? - No domingo houve um encontro magnífico. Tu estás mais magro! Vê lá se te apaixonas outra vez. Realmente tu desde muito pequeno que sempre te apaixonaste por Ela. Deixa lá mulheres há muitas» -.
7.5.
As nódoas negras que sinto na cabeça parecem gaivotas à procura de petinga. O mundo a simplificar-se só me dá atrasos de visão. Não sei o que fazer - é tudo tão absurdo. Estou dominado pelas sensações mais estranhas. Sinto-me Ele! É horrível sentir-me assim. A luta entre mim e Ele é tremenda. Já não há cartas que se declarem nem quejandices.
10.5.
Aquela telefonou-me. Há qualquer coisa de positivo entre nós dois.
(...)
(Caranguejo, Assírio & Alvim, 1988)
27.4.
Aquela telefonou-me hoje para irmos à praia. - Tem um corpo estupendo e cheio de tutânicas atracções. Não sei se vá, não me quero atraiçoar. E ainda para mais depois da chegada dela. Ela chegou ontem. Ainda não a vi.
2.5.
Esta tarde saí com Ela. Não consegui dizer-lhe nada - fui um pateta nervoso a contar coisas estúpidas e sem sentido. Pareci-me com um eléctrico.
3.5.
Que palerma que eu fui, hoje já lhe contava tudo. Não me liberto, tenho de aceitar a tragédia em vida.
6.5.
Esta faculdade que eu tenho de me sentir gelado de calor amedronta-me tanto como não poder atravessar o atlântico a pé.
- Ontem encontrei o outro... «Então daqui a tempos Ela casa-se! Quem não se casa sei eu. Não está tempo para essas coisas. Tens ido a desafios? - No domingo houve um encontro magnífico. Tu estás mais magro! Vê lá se te apaixonas outra vez. Realmente tu desde muito pequeno que sempre te apaixonaste por Ela. Deixa lá mulheres há muitas» -.
7.5.
As nódoas negras que sinto na cabeça parecem gaivotas à procura de petinga. O mundo a simplificar-se só me dá atrasos de visão. Não sei o que fazer - é tudo tão absurdo. Estou dominado pelas sensações mais estranhas. Sinto-me Ele! É horrível sentir-me assim. A luta entre mim e Ele é tremenda. Já não há cartas que se declarem nem quejandices.
10.5.
Aquela telefonou-me. Há qualquer coisa de positivo entre nós dois.
(...)
(Caranguejo, Assírio & Alvim, 1988)
quinta-feira, 30 de abril de 2009
MUDANÇA
A fé que perdemos nestas ruas
não se recupera nem produz
as consequências da sua mais profunda
vocação. Antigamente não sabíamos
quase nada e ninguém ensombrava
o nosso sangue: o desamor era apenas
um motivo para dividir ao meio
o fundo calafrio de alguns versos.
Mas foi talvez o amor
que nos manteve juntos e unidos
nas montanhas. E quando a noite
encheu a boca de pedras, nós descemos
à cidade onde julgámos poder respirar
com mais proveito, outra insuspeita
cilada da esperança.
(Rui Pires Cabral, "Longe da Aldeia", Averno)
não se recupera nem produz
as consequências da sua mais profunda
vocação. Antigamente não sabíamos
quase nada e ninguém ensombrava
o nosso sangue: o desamor era apenas
um motivo para dividir ao meio
o fundo calafrio de alguns versos.
Mas foi talvez o amor
que nos manteve juntos e unidos
nas montanhas. E quando a noite
encheu a boca de pedras, nós descemos
à cidade onde julgámos poder respirar
com mais proveito, outra insuspeita
cilada da esperança.
(Rui Pires Cabral, "Longe da Aldeia", Averno)
quarta-feira, 22 de abril de 2009
fiquei profundamente comovido
a) com esta notícia: 'A Ninfa Inconstante'
b) com esta entrevista ao Casares (via dias felizes)
começa assim:
?De joven fue buen jugador de fútbol, rugby y tenis. ¿Cómo se convirtió en escritor?
?Sí, casi es inexplicable para mí también, porque mi actividad y hasta mis ensoñaciones eran deportivas. Pero cuando algo me golpeaba mucho, mi reacción era planear un libro. Estaba enamorado de una chica y no me llevaba el apunte, y entonces, sufriendo, pensaba escribir un libro que se llamaría Corazón de payaso. Por suerte la voluntad no me acompañó. (...)
b) com esta entrevista ao Casares (via dias felizes)
começa assim:
?De joven fue buen jugador de fútbol, rugby y tenis. ¿Cómo se convirtió en escritor?
?Sí, casi es inexplicable para mí también, porque mi actividad y hasta mis ensoñaciones eran deportivas. Pero cuando algo me golpeaba mucho, mi reacción era planear un libro. Estaba enamorado de una chica y no me llevaba el apunte, y entonces, sufriendo, pensaba escribir un libro que se llamaría Corazón de payaso. Por suerte la voluntad no me acompañó. (...)
domingo, 19 de abril de 2009
sexta-feira, 20 de março de 2009
"Sim. O estilo abrange tudo. Qualquer um pode fazer planos extravagantes. Há quem julgue que o estilo consiste em mexer a câmara sem parar. Isso é muito comum. Vi um filme, uma noite destas. O realizador não sabia parecer o que estava a fazer: havia planos fixos, outros que não paravam quietos. Perguntei-me o que levaria este realizador a chamar a atenção para ele, quando havia dois bons actores. Era neles que se devia concentrar. A mesma coisa com uma paisagem: se é boa, é suficiente. Tomemos o filme de John Ford, MY DARLING CLEMENTINE [A PAIXÃO DOS FORTES, 1946]. Estou a pensar no plano de Henry Fonda, sentado na varanda, os pés no parapeito. É um plano bastante largo, que dura e que conta imensas coisas. Há um milhão de histórias, neste plano. Hoje, fariam um zoom sobre o rosto da personagem, antes de andar à volta dele com a "dolly" até apanhar o outro perfil, antes de fechar sobre o rosto muito depressa. Perder-se-ia muito tempo, quando basta um único belo plano. É preciso ter a coragem de fazer durar um plano sem mexer a câmara."
(Clint Eastwood, às tantas, numa entrevista com Nicolas Saada e Serge Toubiana - "Clint Eastwood: Um Homem com Passado", Edição Cinemateca)
(Clint Eastwood, às tantas, numa entrevista com Nicolas Saada e Serge Toubiana - "Clint Eastwood: Um Homem com Passado", Edição Cinemateca)
quarta-feira, 11 de março de 2009
O volume 13 faz uma rima catita com o amigo Chamberlain. Sai a meados de Julho e é o último. Eu não leio 'comics', que fique escrito. '100 Bullets', de um tal Azzarello (não sei quem é, não me interessa, não é bom saber que gente é esta, digo-vos eu), é, vá, dogma nisto: 'outra qualquer coisa'. Palavra, isso que fique bem entendidinho por todos: eu não leio 'comics', pelo amor de Deus; eu releio Turguéniev. E a Nina Berberova, é o que eu leio, Turguéniev e Berberova. Enfim, eu tenho uma imensidão de defeitos de carácter. Não levem a mal tamanha tacanhez, não é caso. Nunca fui íntimo do mundo dos 'comics' e sofro ainda de criminoso preconceito. O meu super-herói era o Paulinho Cascavel, figura suprema da minha infância. Ele e o cabelo do Bozinovski. Eu nem no 'Tintin no Congo' devo ter posto a vista em cima. Li certa vez uma coisa muito acima do decente do Joe Sacco sobre a Palestina (e tenho outra dele por ler); li o 'Watchmen' de um sopro (sem me hipnotizar). Compreendam-me: cínico e presumido que sou, trocei sempre que me fartei de amigos cegos de espírito por 'comics' – ora essa, claro que trocei – 'I always contradict myself.' Que dilema moral inaudito: amar Turguéniev, andar seduzido à barda por '100 Bullets'; o perspicaz jovem russo Bazárov lado a lado com Cole Burns (pesquisem, distraiam-se) será delito num mundo perfeito. A verdade é que isto transpira ao universo Tarantino por todo o santo lado (e Elmore Leonard e Ellroy e toda essa gente amiga). A verdade é que fiquei aferrado a isto nos últimos dias de detenção forçada por casa à conta da tacícula. Vou para o quarto volume; como isto sairá caro e mais caro; preferia nunca ter pegado num que por aqui tinha há ano e tal emprestado. Deus me livre de me depravar noutra destas! Eu releio Turguéniev, pelo amor de Deus, isto não está nada certo. E as considerações do Samir Kassir, um tipo singularmente bonito. E a Havana do Cabrera Infante, é isto que eu leio, a narração ponto por ponto de uma masturbação ao Cabrera Infante numa sala de cinema ‘habanera’. E o William Gaddis? Não há pai para o William Gaddis, um fulano que não entendo nada de nada, que me tiraniza linha por linha (e passo já a palavra ao Jonathan Franzen a respeito do 'The Recognitions' ("Gaddis's 956-page first-novel"): "There were quotations in Latin, Spanish, Hungarian, and six other languages to be rappelled across. Blizzards of obscure references swirled around sheer cliffs of erudition, precipitous discourses on alchemy and Flemish painting, Mithraism and early-Christian theology." E as capas da colecção? E o Pacheco Pereira que vê ‘Deadwood’? E Ratatat? (Vídeo de inquietante hilaridade e música enjoativa; Ratatat faz, ainda assim, as delícias de determinada casa em Veneza inundada por estudantes de arquitectura.) E Marrocos com os outros dois do InterRail? E deportar o Miguel Veloso para a Crimeia? E a Cristiane Cardoso (via Provas de Contacto)? (Zero em cinco, bravo.) E o Eastwood que estreia já amanhã? E o James Gray que nunca mais estreia? E o Guilherme Aguiar também partiu o braço? E qual é o problema do Silvio Cervan? Já tirei o gesso, já me visto sozinho.
segunda-feira, 2 de março de 2009
Entretanto, deixo-vos com três minutos de Shakespeare na Cova da Moura
(...) Só para ficar mais descansado, transformei o visionamento dos quatro primeiros episódios numa desesperada caça ao cliché. Não tive grande sucesso. A língua inglesa é claramente a actriz principal, mas vê-se que passou anos a treinar para isto. Está mais gorda, mas ganhou agilidade; consegue saltar por cima das coisas; consegue esconder-se atrás de outras coisas; é tudo muito bonito. O espremido livro de estilo do police procedural também foi brutalmente vandalizado. Há algum fervor antropófago na sequência em que o McNulty vai ver um jogo de futebol do filho e conversa sobre direitos de visita com a ex-mulher, mas regra geral os guiões têm-se comportado como se a televisão tivesse sido inventada ontem à tarde. Há uma enorme vala comum no meio daquilo tudo onde as convenções foram enterradas: os guiões limitam-se a ir lá de vez em quando para mijar em cima dos cadáveres. (...)
(Viva o Major Rawls, um filho da mãe encantador.)
(Viva o Major Rawls, um filho da mãe encantador.)
Com os diabos, fui a Itália, caí de uma maneira patética na neve e fracturei a tacícula radial. Que idiotice impensável. Seja o que for a dita tacícula, garanto que ando aqui que nem posso a sofrer. Em imundo sofrimento. É tudo muito espinhoso com o meu braço esquerdo agarrado ao gesso. Lido tão e tão mal com a dor, estou capaz de choramingar e suplicar por analgésicos. E passear por Veneza engessado?, que pinta, que aberração; calhou ser Carnaval. Mantenho-me um tipo mui influenciável: agora reparo no Joaquin Phoenix e quero desmesuradamente uma barba igual. Dêem-me assim mais um mês ou isso que chego lá; não há cá barba feita, essa é que é essa, enquanto o braço esquerdo não voltar a cooperar por inteiro com o dono. Pensemos ainda no amigo Joaquin por mais dez segundos: uma pessoa deve sempre por sempre respeitar a escuridão da alma alheia. Estou muito grato às duas pessoas do 'Centro Traumatologico di Courmayeur', mas, lá está, mais grato estaria se me enviassem de vez a radiografia que por lá esqueci.
* não é fácil livrar-me de coisas supérfluas: não posso ver nada, agora quero uns óculos iguais.
* não é fácil livrar-me de coisas supérfluas: não posso ver nada, agora quero uns óculos iguais.
sexta-feira, 13 de fevereiro de 2009
O blogue anda moribundo, é fácil de ver. Não o vou declarar morto, não se trata disso. Fui educado, bem ou mal, que existem na vida situações nas quais o mais inteligente é não dizer (escrever) nada. Julgo ser possível manter um blogue sem nada de relevo ter para contar - criando empatia com outros amontoando um conjunto de referências mais ou menos supérfluas (fotografias, transcrições, etc.). É possível, sim, interessante q.b., mas cedo ou tarde aborrece. Isto, um blogue, para mim, é um plano de evasão (roubando o título a Casares) - desgosta-me e desgasta-me se for mais que isso. Aprecio quem tem a dizer o que tem a dizer e se cala (penso em Salinger, lembro os longos períodos de hibernação de Malick.) A verdade é que não ando capaz de mexer, capaz de jogar com as palavras da maneira que queria. Nesse estado, o mais inteligente é mesmo não dizer nada. É o melhor e o mais honesto.
Se Changeling me parece um Eastwood menor* (sujeito a revisão), não deixa de continuar a ser um Eastwood. A discreta perfeição de Mr. Eastwood sai intacta. E esta música final que não me sai por nada da cabeça? Idílica até à exasperação. Thank heaven for Mr. Eastwood.
* Um "filme menor" maior, se quiserem. Eu tenho uma tremenda incapacidade de amar Mystic River, por exemplo, filme consensual até mais não, mas creio que White Hunter Black Heart, por exemplo, tido como "falhanço" por Richard Schickel, o próprio biógrafo de Eastwood, é um dos pontos altos da arte do cineasta. Por exemplo.
(The New York Times, 1977)
* Não sei se já repararam: a edição nacional de Revolutionary Road não tem foto alguma de Richard Yates. Estas minudências afectam-me muito muito.
AMISTAD:Camarónes
/58/
Hoje vim aqui para pedir que me fritassem alguns camarões que trazia no bolso. Esperaria sentado no patamar que os trouxessem, porque não estavas. Não consegui falar. Alguém entreabriu a porta e a fechou logo abruptamente; nem sequer lhe vi a cara. Sabes que onde vivo não há portas nem janelas. A qualquer hora poderás ir lá para um desabafo, uma notícia que tu queres dar-me, te encoleriza ou alegra. Juro-te que não tornarei a tocar a campainha de tua casa.
("Albas", Sebastião Alba, Quasi, página 116)
Hoje vim aqui para pedir que me fritassem alguns camarões que trazia no bolso. Esperaria sentado no patamar que os trouxessem, porque não estavas. Não consegui falar. Alguém entreabriu a porta e a fechou logo abruptamente; nem sequer lhe vi a cara. Sabes que onde vivo não há portas nem janelas. A qualquer hora poderás ir lá para um desabafo, uma notícia que tu queres dar-me, te encoleriza ou alegra. Juro-te que não tornarei a tocar a campainha de tua casa.
("Albas", Sebastião Alba, Quasi, página 116)
terça-feira, 3 de fevereiro de 2009
lembrete: April 14
Tuba-voiced depressive Bill Callahan used to call himself Smog, but he's been going by his given name ever since 2007's Woke on a Whaleheart. That change in moniker was supposed to signal a transition to happier music (or, at least, to less cripplingly bitter music), but in the time since Whaleheart, he broke up with Joanna Newsom, and now she's going out with fucking Andy Samberg.
So we'll see just how committed to positivity Callahan still is on April 14, when his longtime label Drag City releases Sometimes I Wish We Were an Eagle, Callahan's second album under his government name. That grammatically convoluted title makes its own kind of sense. Eagles, after all, don't generally have to worry about losing their girlfriends to sketch comics.
...
entrementes:
Few took notice when Kath Bloom retreated from the New York folk scene in the 1980s. Her disappearance is neither as romantic like Vashti Bunyan's bucolic sojourn nor as storied as Cat Stevens' conversion: On hard times, Bloom moved to rural New England to raise her sons. Two decades later, Australian label Chapter Music has reissued the bulk of her catalogue, including two albums with Loren Connors, Finally in 2005, and the gorgeous Terror in 2008. A tribute album seems like an obvious epilogue to that back-in-print campaign: Loving Takes This Course features testimonial covers by Devendra Banhart, the Concretes, Mark Kozelek, Marianne Dissard, and the Dodos.
The standout track may be Bill Callahan's cover of "The Breeze/My Baby Cries", a devastating medley from her 1982 album with Connors, Sing the Children Over. Bloom sounds so weary on the original-- exhausted by the simple act of living-- and Callahan knows he can't re-create that fragility. Instead, over a simple guitar theme, barely-there percussion, and mood-setting keyboard accompaniment, his self-reflection is more stoic, yet just as emotionally precarious, and his line readings make Bloom's lyrics starkly ominous. There's an entire break-up (mental or romantic, you choose) in the opening lines "I'd like to touch you, but I don't know how," and his insistence that "the breeze will kill me" sounds genuinely haunted and resigned. "The Breeze/My Baby Cries" is that rare find: a cover that adds depth to the original and a tribute album track that sounds absolutely essential.
(aquele início da canção calca-me de uma maneira.)
So we'll see just how committed to positivity Callahan still is on April 14, when his longtime label Drag City releases Sometimes I Wish We Were an Eagle, Callahan's second album under his government name. That grammatically convoluted title makes its own kind of sense. Eagles, after all, don't generally have to worry about losing their girlfriends to sketch comics.
...
entrementes:
Few took notice when Kath Bloom retreated from the New York folk scene in the 1980s. Her disappearance is neither as romantic like Vashti Bunyan's bucolic sojourn nor as storied as Cat Stevens' conversion: On hard times, Bloom moved to rural New England to raise her sons. Two decades later, Australian label Chapter Music has reissued the bulk of her catalogue, including two albums with Loren Connors, Finally in 2005, and the gorgeous Terror in 2008. A tribute album seems like an obvious epilogue to that back-in-print campaign: Loving Takes This Course features testimonial covers by Devendra Banhart, the Concretes, Mark Kozelek, Marianne Dissard, and the Dodos.
The standout track may be Bill Callahan's cover of "The Breeze/My Baby Cries", a devastating medley from her 1982 album with Connors, Sing the Children Over. Bloom sounds so weary on the original-- exhausted by the simple act of living-- and Callahan knows he can't re-create that fragility. Instead, over a simple guitar theme, barely-there percussion, and mood-setting keyboard accompaniment, his self-reflection is more stoic, yet just as emotionally precarious, and his line readings make Bloom's lyrics starkly ominous. There's an entire break-up (mental or romantic, you choose) in the opening lines "I'd like to touch you, but I don't know how," and his insistence that "the breeze will kill me" sounds genuinely haunted and resigned. "The Breeze/My Baby Cries" is that rare find: a cover that adds depth to the original and a tribute album track that sounds absolutely essential.
(aquele início da canção calca-me de uma maneira.)
quarta-feira, 7 de janeiro de 2009
A Scattered Homage to Guillermo Cabrera Infante (1929-2005)
(...)
5.
In the introductory pages to A Twentieth Century Job, the fictitious friend of the dead Cain writes:
Curioser and curioser, Cain always went to movies alone. For this he also had an explanation: ‘Women don't let you watch movies in peace,’ he explained. ‘It seems that the combination of the darkness, the music and the so soft seats predisposes them to something quite different from a critical judgement: to erotic prejudice.’ (5)
In spite of (or because of) this, the last pages of the 1979 novel La Habana para un Infante difunto (Infante’s Inferno) depict a fantastic voyage beginning in the body of a woman and ending in the clear light of a cinema projector. (6) The character, more or less the author himself, goes to a well-known Havana cinema with a premonitory name: Fausto. There, in the lobby, he perceives a gesture of invitation in a woman’s face. Immediately he buys a ticket and enters the theatre in pursuit of this woman, who is sitting in the middle of a group of empty seats. Sitting means waiting: the woman is, the whole time, paying attention to the action on the screen (a Pluto cartoon) as he begins putting a hand on one of her knees, then one of her breasts, until she finally opens her legs, where he touches her ‘intimate nakedness’. It is at this very moment that magic begins, because he loses his wedding ring ... inside her.
I know that I am spoiling one of the most beautiful passages ever written in the Spanish language, but I need to tell this story to finally return to cinema via another route. She gives him permission and the incredible quest for the ring begins, but then ... he loses his wristwatch in the same place/hole and, then, then the cuff links from his shirt. As all efforts to find these objects end in failure (there is so little light in a movie theatre), she gives him a flashlight and opens her legs as wide as she can. Not only to facilitate the search, but to give him the possibility of entering her body. Inside, he does not find the ring, watch or cuff links, but a book with Latin words on the cover: ‘Ovarium, corpus luteus, labium majus, matrix, tubae Falloppi.’ The next phase is the loss of the book and the exit from the labyrinth in a grand parody of Jules Verne’s famous novel, Journey to the Centre of the Earth. The only thing which the character never leaves behind is the light: the phallic light of the cinema projector.
This journey into the body of woman is a strange rite of passage in which the hero loses time (the watch), social bonds (the wedding ring), and the correct dressing (the cuff links) that symbolises his civilised condition. The woman with open legs, hieratic and tempting at the same time, with enormous internal organs, wet and dark, is a sort of absolute Nature – at least, if we consider the loss of time, social bonds and civilised condition experienced by the character. From this point of view, the words printed in the cover of the book (and the loss of the book when the character is finding the exit of the labyrinth) are not only logical, but the only words one could find there, as we are now in the empire of origins. Matrix is source, rising, birth. The novel starts with an adolescent character, an emigrant from a provincial town in the big city, the capital of the country, trying to find his way in life in a double direction: erotic and professional. At the end we have travelled, with him, the road to maturity and cinema (both of them signifying creation) in a single movement of reading.
© Victor Fowler Calzada and Rouge 2005.
5.
In the introductory pages to A Twentieth Century Job, the fictitious friend of the dead Cain writes:
Curioser and curioser, Cain always went to movies alone. For this he also had an explanation: ‘Women don't let you watch movies in peace,’ he explained. ‘It seems that the combination of the darkness, the music and the so soft seats predisposes them to something quite different from a critical judgement: to erotic prejudice.’ (5)
In spite of (or because of) this, the last pages of the 1979 novel La Habana para un Infante difunto (Infante’s Inferno) depict a fantastic voyage beginning in the body of a woman and ending in the clear light of a cinema projector. (6) The character, more or less the author himself, goes to a well-known Havana cinema with a premonitory name: Fausto. There, in the lobby, he perceives a gesture of invitation in a woman’s face. Immediately he buys a ticket and enters the theatre in pursuit of this woman, who is sitting in the middle of a group of empty seats. Sitting means waiting: the woman is, the whole time, paying attention to the action on the screen (a Pluto cartoon) as he begins putting a hand on one of her knees, then one of her breasts, until she finally opens her legs, where he touches her ‘intimate nakedness’. It is at this very moment that magic begins, because he loses his wedding ring ... inside her.
I know that I am spoiling one of the most beautiful passages ever written in the Spanish language, but I need to tell this story to finally return to cinema via another route. She gives him permission and the incredible quest for the ring begins, but then ... he loses his wristwatch in the same place/hole and, then, then the cuff links from his shirt. As all efforts to find these objects end in failure (there is so little light in a movie theatre), she gives him a flashlight and opens her legs as wide as she can. Not only to facilitate the search, but to give him the possibility of entering her body. Inside, he does not find the ring, watch or cuff links, but a book with Latin words on the cover: ‘Ovarium, corpus luteus, labium majus, matrix, tubae Falloppi.’ The next phase is the loss of the book and the exit from the labyrinth in a grand parody of Jules Verne’s famous novel, Journey to the Centre of the Earth. The only thing which the character never leaves behind is the light: the phallic light of the cinema projector.
This journey into the body of woman is a strange rite of passage in which the hero loses time (the watch), social bonds (the wedding ring), and the correct dressing (the cuff links) that symbolises his civilised condition. The woman with open legs, hieratic and tempting at the same time, with enormous internal organs, wet and dark, is a sort of absolute Nature – at least, if we consider the loss of time, social bonds and civilised condition experienced by the character. From this point of view, the words printed in the cover of the book (and the loss of the book when the character is finding the exit of the labyrinth) are not only logical, but the only words one could find there, as we are now in the empire of origins. Matrix is source, rising, birth. The novel starts with an adolescent character, an emigrant from a provincial town in the big city, the capital of the country, trying to find his way in life in a double direction: erotic and professional. At the end we have travelled, with him, the road to maturity and cinema (both of them signifying creation) in a single movement of reading.
© Victor Fowler Calzada and Rouge 2005.
VÍCIO DE MATAR
Para onde há-de ir billy the kid?
Billy não sabe para onde há-de ir
Persegue a morte na pessoa dos outros
quando era nele que ele a devia afinal perseguir
Mata inimigos e mata amigos
Viver é para ele matar
Procura um refúgio mas nunca sabe
onde se há-de refugiar
Sabeis qual o seu maior inimigo?
É ele o seu maior inimigo
Matam-lhe a gente de quem ele gosta
e ele gosta de coisas simples
como de ver ondular o trigo
E billy morre billy está salvo
É ver aquela mão abrir
Sobre si próprio concentrado
de tudo o mais alheado
billy já tem para onde fugir
O caminho da ida e o caminho da volta
não são afinal o mesmo caminho
Billy conhece agora o destino
Sempre inquieto sempre a correr
amou a vida como se amar fosse morrer
Sabe-lhe bem ser de novo menino
Billy the kid para onde há-de ir?
Não o sabia bastava um gesto
Mas billy que estava cansado e gasto
leva um tiro e então já sabe
para onde é que sempre quisera ir
Billy the kid nunca soubera o que era fugir
e a morte mãe o recebe
Billy que nunca soubera fugir
nem mesmo pergunta para onde há-de ir
(Ruy Belo, Todos os Poemas I, Assírio & Alvim, pág. 278)
* 'The Left Handed Gun', hoje, no sítio do costume.
The Pretender
Oldham served drinks and talked about a recent European tour, during which he smuggled psychedelic mushrooms across a border (he hid them in his underwear) and stole a hairpin from a flamenco singer (he hid it in his beard).
(...)
The concert hadn’t been Oldham’s idea; it had come from his friend Oscar Parsons, a singer and guitarist from western Virginia (on his MySpace page, he calls himself a “skinny ass billhilly”), who first befriended Oldham by offering him some homemade blueberry moonshine. Parsons wanted to know how much Oldham charged for a concert. Oldham said, “Fuck, anywhere from zero to twenty-five thousand dollars. It depends who asks.”
(...)
He looked none the worse for wear-the next afternoon, sitting in his kitchen. Remembering his disappearance the previous night, Oldham said, “I figured I should sleep for, like, an hour and a half. For legal reasons.”
(...)
In March, he plans to release “the big record,” a deeply satisfying album called “Beware,” which conjures a mood of resolution, maybe even finality. (In the stately country song “I Don’t Belong to Anyone,” he amplifies the title of his 1993 début album: “I don’t belong to anyone, there’s no one who’ll take care of me / It’s kind of easy to have some fun when you don’t belong to anyone.”) He intends to promote the album with singles, a photo shoot, and a handful of interviews, if only to prove that record promotion doesn’t really work, at least not for him.
(...)
“Sometimes,” he says, “we need to tell ourselves that we’re not going to do certain things, just in order to stay sane.”
(...)
He proffered a copy, with an inscription inside: “K. GOOD LUCK. BPB.” But it was clear that he wasn’t feeling entirely optimistic about having agreed to a magazine profile. “My mother’s a huge fan, and I really liked that Merle piece, but definitely there’s already . . .” He trailed off. “I don’t know. I really hate press. And it’s . . . yeah.” ♦
(daqui, via Vidro Duplo.)
(...)
The concert hadn’t been Oldham’s idea; it had come from his friend Oscar Parsons, a singer and guitarist from western Virginia (on his MySpace page, he calls himself a “skinny ass billhilly”), who first befriended Oldham by offering him some homemade blueberry moonshine. Parsons wanted to know how much Oldham charged for a concert. Oldham said, “Fuck, anywhere from zero to twenty-five thousand dollars. It depends who asks.”
(...)
He looked none the worse for wear-the next afternoon, sitting in his kitchen. Remembering his disappearance the previous night, Oldham said, “I figured I should sleep for, like, an hour and a half. For legal reasons.”
(...)
In March, he plans to release “the big record,” a deeply satisfying album called “Beware,” which conjures a mood of resolution, maybe even finality. (In the stately country song “I Don’t Belong to Anyone,” he amplifies the title of his 1993 début album: “I don’t belong to anyone, there’s no one who’ll take care of me / It’s kind of easy to have some fun when you don’t belong to anyone.”) He intends to promote the album with singles, a photo shoot, and a handful of interviews, if only to prove that record promotion doesn’t really work, at least not for him.
(...)
“Sometimes,” he says, “we need to tell ourselves that we’re not going to do certain things, just in order to stay sane.”
(...)
He proffered a copy, with an inscription inside: “K. GOOD LUCK. BPB.” But it was clear that he wasn’t feeling entirely optimistic about having agreed to a magazine profile. “My mother’s a huge fan, and I really liked that Merle piece, but definitely there’s already . . .” He trailed off. “I don’t know. I really hate press. And it’s . . . yeah.” ♦
(daqui, via Vidro Duplo.)
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- passeata de carro com Mulatu Astatke ao volante
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- Também ando para aqui encantado com o gosto da Sas...
- há uma parte de mim, algures, que morre de saudade...
- Joe Klein on Iran's Election (via roda livre)
- Stars in My Crown, Jacques Tourneur, 50
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- Broken Flowers
- The Good, the Bad and 'his Humphrey Bogart jacket ...
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- "Se houver força suficiente entre os jovens que pa...
- E ainda não foi ontem que o vi. (Cartão daqui.)
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- olá, hoje já repararam nos olhos da Daria Werbowy?
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- Walt Whitman's Niece
- João Bénard da Costa
- "Henri olha fixamente para Margaret com um estranh...
- The Natural
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- 12 May 2009
- A gente bem procurou, mas o blogue não existe. Dev...
- O volume 13 faz uma rima catita com o amigo Chambe...
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- lado “b” da minha mente
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- O ente lectual
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- O Inventor
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- O Novo Selvagem
- o signo do dragão
- Ouriquense
- Pastoral Portuguesa
- Phantom Limb
- Poesia & Lda.
- Provas de Contacto
- Quetzal
- Ricardo Gross
- roda livre
- Sete Sombras
- Shakira Kurosawa
- sinusite crónica
- sound + vision
- State Of Art
- terapia metafísica
- the art of memory
- The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter
- umblogsobrekleist
- vida breve
- vidro duplo
- vontade indómita
- Voz do Deserto
«I always contradict myself»
Richard Burton em Bitter Victory, de Nicholas Ray.