Samak finds food and politics don't mix

Former Thai Prime Minister Samak Sundaravej died yesterday. He succumbed to liver cancer in Bangkok’s Bumrungrad Hospital, aged 74.

Samak was PM when I moved to Thailand in April last year. He was quite a character and his presence – along with the movements of his rivals and his interactions with the press – could at times be quite comic, if not downright farcical. Before Thai politics turned sour with mob protests, airports seiges and coups, it could even be quite fun to read about Samak’s exploits.

He was the first of three PMs in my time here (three leaders in 19 months in itself is an indictment of the state of Thai politics) and by far the most memorable. He was nowhere near as photogenic as current PM Abhisit Vejjajiva, nor was he anything like as polite as his successor, Somchai Wongsawat, but that is precisely why he made his mark. He behaved aggressively, he was beligerent to the media, he sulked in public, he was unafraid to belittle people if he felt they deserved it, he was stoic in the face of political pressure – and his hardened appearance matched these, ahem, qualities.

In deeply-divided Thailand, he certainly had his critics and enemies. It was his very presence as PM – and the fact that he was an open supporter of Thaksin Shinawatra and his ideology – that sparked the “yellow shirt” protests of the People’s Alliance for Democracy (PAD), who laid seige to the grounds of Government House for weeks while Samak was in charge, and which ultimately – under Somchai’s premiership – led to deaths and the one-week closure of Bangkok’s two airports, causing untold damage to the nation’s economy and reputation.

But I respected Samak’s single-mindedness in the face of such pressure, with not only the PAD but also significant political commentators calling for his head. Not for him the weak attempts to appease all of successor Somchai, whose two and a half months in office were among the more forgettable even in a country known for the transciency of its leaders. Nor for him the squeaky clean, ever-smiling PR profile of Abhisit, who was surely appointed (notice I didn’t say elected) more for his appearance and undoubted charisma than for any heavyweight political credentials.

No, Samak told it the way he saw it, and while that of course didn’t mean he was always right, it did at least show he had the courage of his convictions, and to express himself publicly without first needing a spin doctor to polish his words.

Now, as stated before, I’m not a political analyst. This is not my area of strength, although like most people I have my own political opinions. But the news of Samak’s passing gave me cause to remember some of his more colourful moments.

Cake-eating cat

First of all, before the squabbling erupted into violent demonstrations, there was the usual tit-for-tat name-calling in Government House, with one opposition politician (I forget her name) bringing Samak to task for his choice of cafeteria food. As a man in his seventies, she said it was inappropriate for him to choose a piece of cake for lunch, washed down with a glass of bright red soft drink. She suggested Samak seek psychological help, because Adolf Hitler was known to have similarly immature tastes.

Now, even within the realms of political cat-calling, which often amounts to no more than childish spats along the lines of “You smell!” “Yeah? Well, you smell worse!”, this was adorably convoluted. Never mind education, employment and crime – “Prime Minister, would you care to justify buying that cake? Because I’m rather worried it is a sign you may be a tyrant in the making, capable of ordering the slaughter of millions.”

Samak, as was his wont, barely dignified the comment, choosing instead to fix her with a customary silent staredown.

But Samak’s finest hour would not have looked out of place in an episode of Fawlty Towers, such was the level of high farce.

Pursued on motorbikes by a press pack from Government House to Chatuchak Market, Samak sought refuge in a public toilet. Not wishing to speak to the media, he remained in a cubicle, but unfortunately for him the journalists proved even more stubborn than he. More than an hour later, Samak could no longer stand the heat, moisture, smell and mosquitoes (I have been to the toilets at Chatuchak Market and they’re no place for a dignitary, let me tell you), and emerged, furious and doused with sweat.

He ignored the reporters’ questions (surely the fact he spent an hour inside a toilet cubicle would have told them he was in no mood to speak?), instead bearing down on them with a fuming glare of which Charles Bronson would have been proud. After staring them into silence, he set about berating them and their conduct, and labelling them “disgusting” no less than a dozen times.

Reaction to this incident depended, of course, on which side you were on – either Samak was rightly defending himself against media intrusion, or he showed an arrogant disrespect towards the free press, who were just doing their job in the public interest.

There’s a bit of truth to both sides, but the bigger picture for me at the time was the fun factor of living in a country where the PM is forced to flee halfway across a city as hungry hacks literally chase him into a stinking, mosquito-blown long-drop. Add to that the picture of the nation’s leader stewing there for over an hour, followed by his ultimate outburst, and clearly you can see Samak Sundaravej was not your average politican.

And his eventual dismissal from office in September 2008, after just eight and a half months, was also unorthodox, if not comic for its irony. While the country’s leading industries of tourism, exports and foreign investment were taking near-death blows from the effects of the protracted demonstrations, and while the spectre of corruption hung over everything Thaksin and his allies did, it was none of these concerns which spelled the end for Samak. No, he was booted out because he had twice appeared on a TV cooking show. Innocent enough, except politicians are not allowed to accept money for working with private enterprises. Samak’s fee was nominal and his appearance of no bearing whatsoever to his political standing, but this was a conflict of interest. Not quite along the lines of Thaksin using his position to allow his then-wife Potjaman na Pombejra to purchase multi-million-baht swathes of land, but still, rules are rules…

Ultimately, it may have been a face-saving move. As pathetic a reason it may have seemed for removing a democratically elected PM, Thailand was at the time being virtually held hostage by protesters, with the international news coverage doing the country no favours. There were far bigger concerns than the PM’s appearance on a cookery show, but Samak was steadfast in his refusal to stand down or dissolve the cabinet, the two main demands of the PAD, despite the presence of 30,000 protesters camping out on the lawns of his workplace.

So while the cookery show controversy was of negligible importance, by following the law to the letter, the courts could remove him from office legitimately. And with that removal came a lull – as temporary was it was – in the tensions. The PAD had not been placated, as the Thaksin-backed People Power Party was still in charge, but tempers were nevertheless calmed, and at a critical time.

It also proved timely for Samak himself. Despite being disqualified from the premiership, he had the opportunity to return to power if voted back in, but instead he accepted the judgement and retreated from politics. It seemed strange for such a combative man to slip away from the spotlight so quickly and readily.

But then news came less than a month later that he had been diagnosed with liver cancer, and it all made sense. It’s unknown how long he’d been sick. Indeed, it’s likely he was running the country while ill. Considering how stressful a task that must have been in the late summer of 2008, that shows either remarkable devotion or unwavering stubborness. In Samak’s case, it was probably a bit of both.

He flew to the US for treatment in the new year, returning to Bangkok and continuing to be treated at Bumrungrad, one of the country’s best hospitals. After roughly a year battling the disease, he passed away at 8:48am yesterday morning.

Eis o lema que sacode a poeira da sociedade juvenil brasileira

ps1: Não sou eu na foto

ps2: não é minha casa na foto

ps3: imagens meramente ilustrativas

ps4: dadinho é o caralho!

FAEL

Por culpa de minha irresponsabilidade tive que fazer todos os trabalhos do semestre em dois dias, fiquei acordado durante 40 horas só fazendo os trabalhos, parando apenas para cagar. Cochilei por alguns segundos, daí sem mais nem menos vi o Charles Bronson sentado na cadeira de balanço aqui da sala, ele estava com um cigarro de palha na boca com a cara sendo iluminada pela luz do sol, Charles Bronson falou comigo em portugues usando a voz de seu dublador oficial no Brasil:

- SÓ VIADO ATRAVESSA A RUA NA FAIXA DE PEDESTRES.

“Charles Bronson em Hard Times“

Logo depois despertei do cochilo e raciocinei, aquela mensagem não era atoa, o espirito dele deve ter aparecido para me alertar, talvez me salvar de um acidente. Então decidi nunca mais atravessar a rua na faixa.

Com o passar dos dias segui a risca o conselho de Charles Bronson, podiam ser ruas movimentadas, paradas e etc, o importante era ir sempre fora da faixa. O que estragava tudo eram os motoboys imundos que chegavam cortando os carros loucamente, era dificil desviar deles. Meus reflexos estavam cada vez mais rapidos, tão rapidos que se eu quisesse, poderia me desviar de um caminhão em movimento à 2 metros de distancia.

Chegou o sabado, e como de costume fui no bar aqui do meu bairro, o bar do Divino Perereca, meus amigos estavam lá me esperando para beber cerveja, infelizmente o otario do Maique tambem estava. Maique sempre foi inimigo meu, é aquele tipico idiota com espirito esportivo, sempre querendo fazer alguma competição. Depois de varias rodadas de Antartica fiquei tonto, aí o Maique que não bebeu se aproveitou disso e me chamou para jogar sinuca, se eu dissesse não, iriam me chamar de cagão, mas ao aceitar o desafio ia ser derrota na certa, enfim, acabei aceitando.

As bolas foram posicionadas pra começar a partida, a primeira tacada foi minha, matei bola nenhuma, chegou na vez do Maique e ele conseguiu acertar 2 listradas e falou provocando: “Seja o taco”, o otario errou na outra chance. Pensando na humilhação que seria perder me concentrei muito, dei uma tacada com muita força, para delirio de todos acabei encaçapando 4 bolas de uma vez. Fui jogando normalmente e acertei todas e ganhei a partida, nunca pensei que eu tivesse uma mira tão perfeita. Maique enfurecido tentou me acertar com o taco, desviei e mandei uma bola no meio da testa dele, aí caiu desmaiado no chão. Fui pra casa muito feliz, pois ganhei do babaca e descobri em que eu iria trabalhar: jogador de sinuca profissional.

Ao dormir me encontrei com Charles Bronson novamente, dessa vez ele apareceu para me parabenizar, depois despediu-se, foi voando em direção as estrelas.

Robert Ryan and Ida Lupino in "Beware My Lovely."

A bleak message surfaced this weekend watching three movies from two different eras which all deal with the same theme: the terrorizing of women. In 1952’s Beware My Lovely, Ida Lupino plays a war widow who runs a boarding house with good cheer and a strong work ethic. Preparing for the holidays, she hires Robert Ryan, a drifter with a penchant for tiny ties and blackouts, to do some odd jobs around the house. Lupino is lovely, with her shiny hair pulled up in an elaborate twist, and so demure in her long sleeves and long sweeping skirt, that she can barely bring herself to scream when Ryan starts freaking out on her. For that matter, in her confining clothes, she can barely run away from him. Ryan, it seems, suffers from severe psychological problems. An emotional meltdown is set in motion after Lupino’s boarder makes an innocent joke, and Lupino’s sassy niece makes things worse — a lot worse — when she derides Ryan’s masculinity after he rebuffs her overtures. Ryan certainly terrorizes Lupino, and fucks up her house, but keeps the physical harm to a relative minimum (see below) — a slap, an unwanted caress on the cheek, some rough handling –  before she uses her wits to get him out of her house and, we can only hope, into the hands of some heavy duty psychiatry.

Leslie Uggams in "Poor Pretty Eddie."

Leslie Uggams is the victimized woman at the center of Poor Pretty Eddie, a real piece of crap from 1975. Uggams plays a celebrity songstress who tries to get away from it all and ends up having car trouble at the motel from hell, a dive run by Shelley Winters, Ted Cassidy (Lurch from The Addams Family), and the eponymous Eddie (Michael Christian). Christian mysteriously “fixes” her car so that “only he can start it,” and shows up shirtless in Uggams’s bed. When she objects, he brutally rapes her in a stomach-turning scene that is intercut with Cassidy and friends watching dogs mating. Over the ensuing days, Uggams tries to get away, only to find that the town officials (including Slim Pickens as the sheriff) are just as rotten as her captors. Cassidy seems to want to help, but his efforts are too wanly executed (inexplicably so) to do any good. It is Cassidy at the end who opens fire on the town citizens who show up at the motel at the “wedding” that is being forced upon Uggams by Christian, and when he is finally killed, Uggams takes up where he lefts off — right before the movie abruptly ends.

Margaux and Mariel Hemingway in "Lipstick."

In Lipstick (1976), the late Margaux Hemingway plays a model who lives with her squeaky-voiced little sister, Mariel Hemingway. Mariel has a crush on her teacher, Chris Sarandon, and gets Margaux to agree to listen to his music. As Margaux is not a musician, it’s unclear why, but it furthers the “plot.” Sarandon shows up at a seaside photo shoot clutching a tape player and eyeballing the semi-nude Margaux, who is alternately posing for the cameras and smooching boyfriend Perry King. She doesn’t have time to listen to Sarandon’s music, so she invites him over for the following day. When he arrives at her highrise, however, she’s forgotten about the appointment and is taking a shower, so she has him wait as she puts on a diaphanous robe and then sits with him and his tape player. His “music” turns out to be a nonsense cacaphony, and when the phone rings, she eagerly takes the call. What follows is Sarandon’s eruption of rage and a sickeningly drawn-out, graphic rape scene that sure as hell seems meant to titillate the viewer.

The remainder of the movie focuses on a humiliating trial for Margaux — in which nude photographs of her are entered as “evidence” — which sees Sarandon smirk his way to a “not guilty” verdict despite prosecuting attorney Anne Bancroft’s middling efforts. As the final fifteen minutes of the film draw to a close, Margaux finds herself at a photo shoot in the very same building where Sarandon tinkers with a composition, and ultimately chases and brutalizes the kid sister, Mariel. Margaux whips out a shotgun a la the proud Hemingway family name, and shoots Sarandon multiple times in the crotch, rendering him dead and finally, without a smirk on his face. Quickly, we see an insert of Margaux at trial as the jury acquits her; there’s a freeze frame and the credits roll. As revenge dramas go, this one is as offensively piss poor as Poor Pretty Eddie. Who’s revenge is it supposed to be, Margaux’s revenge against the crimes suffered by her and her sister, or some type of revenge against women? In one of my favorite revenge flicks, Death Wish, Charles Bronson’s family — his wife and daughter, notably — are brutalized in the beginning and Bronson spends the rest of the film bringing his A game against New York City’s criminal element.

Revenge is a dish best served Bronson.

What I see is that as women became more and more sexualized in the cinema, the violence inflicted upon them became more and more sadistic. Ida Lupino in Beware My Lovely, in her high-necked blouse and pulled-up hair, is psychologically terrorized for the most part, but eventually uses her wits to defeat her tormentor and ends up snuggled up in an armchair with her dog. Uggams, a strong, no-nonsense woman who is quite definite about her boundries, is raped and otherwise degraded and humiliated. And finally, the ultimate in a sexualized woman — Margaux Hemingway as a model who uses her body to sell lipstick at the behest of the men in her life (“I just do what I’m told,” she says on the stand, where she and her sexuality — not her rapist — are on trial). It’s as if the very fact that she is willing to pose nude warrants the despicable and graphic rape that is committed upon her. And in a “man’s” revenge film like Death Wish, the majority of the movie is dedicated to the avenging of Bronson’s loved ones via serious ass-kicking. In a “women’s” so-called revenge film, the majority of the film focuses on the acts of crime perpetuated on the woman in the first place. It’s a very sad commentary, a bleak message that has been delivered to movie audiences. Time to watch some movies that focus on the strength of women as a much-needed palate cleanser.

I never knew just how many famous people dropped off society’s radar because of Alzheimer’s/dementia! I was surprised to see certain people in this list, because often the news would only say that so-and-so passed away; the person’s Alzheimer’s/dementia diagnosis was not always mentioned.

(Please ignore the depressing soundtrack and overly dramatic ending; the names and faces are really the most interesting part of this video.)

Originally shot for 3-D, this one still works as one of the classic horror movies. Professor Henry Jarrod is betrayed, and is burned badly and thought to be dead. After disposing of his partner, Jarrod decides to reopen his House of Wax paying tribute to the macabre, making his Palace of Wax a true House of horrors.

The great Vincent Price (The Pit and the Pendulum) plays Henry Jarrod. He plays a good portion of the film with very heavy make-up, and in my opinion, maybe a little too much make-up. There is just something about his performances that are naturally creepy, down to the tone of voice and the way each line is delivered. Also if you think you recognize Igor, yes, that is Charles Bronson (Death Wish), even though he is credited under his real name Charles Buchinsky.

If you are in the mood for classic horror with style, you should watch this one. Since it was originally a 3-D movie, there a few shots that would not make it into a normal film, or at least be cut back. Still, this movie is all classic horror movie fun. Throw it on late at night with a big bowl of popcorn.

You may not know it, and many may not adMIT it, but power violence — a relentlessly fierce hybrid of punk, death metal and grindcore — is alive and well. RIP Charles Bronson, Spazz, Man Is The Bastard, etc.; your memory lives on in groups like Deep Shit and Have Fun, who offer us a split 7-inch of virtue true.

Greeted with a blast from Dr. Dre’s original Chronic album, I thought maybe I was in for a spate of Excepter weirdness-in-a-can. But noooooo — Deep Shit are just that: If you step in/listen to them, you’re going to have a hard time scraping their grime off your brain.

What I love best about Deep Shit’s side of the coin is their vicious breakdowns, one part Dystopia slug-’n'-chug, two parts black-metal snarl. Fucking outrageous, really, hitting harder than the hardball when it hits the catcher’s mitt and emits a round cloud of dust.

After taking such a vicious punch to my sweet, sweet jacobs all one can do is hope for a little mercy from the flipside. I mean, the band’s name is “Have Fun,” right?

Oh heaven’s to Betty Boop, no. Have Fun might be even MORE abrasive, rustier than a suicide razorblade (jesus, sorry) and prone to a desirable brand of effects-laden, Mindflayer electricity. There are blast-beats, stop-starts, choppy, auctioneer-ish screaming and, most important, unpredictability is tantamount.

If I had to choose between stepping in Deep Shit or going out to Have Fun, I’d have to choose the latter by a slim margin. But that’s the charm of the split release: Have your cake and eat it, too.

When I was younger and would go over to my Grandparent’s house, my Grandpa would always be watching TV. I swear there was one of maybe three different things that he would watch for the better part of my childhood and they were: war documentaries, old westerns (especially John Wayne) and the Death Wish series. My Grandpa is the man.

Paul Kersey: Nothing to do but cut and run, huh? What else? What about the old American social custom of self-defense? If the police don’t defense us, maybe we ought to do it ourselves.
Jack Toby: We’re not pioneers anymore, Dad.
Paul Kersey: What are we, Jack?
Jack Toby: What do you mean?
Paul Kersey: I mean, if we’re not pioneers, what have we become? What do you call people who, when they’re faced with a condition or fear, do nothing about it, they just run and hide?
Jack Toby: Civilized?
Paul Kersey: No.

Respirando e transpirando cinema noir.

Max Reinhardt was the most tremendous and important person to have ever influenced my career and my work. - Bob Ryan provando que Reinhardt não fora apenas um dos pais do teatro moderno e do cinema alemão, mas dele também.
Sem Reinhardt não existiria Lang, Murnau, Lubitsch e outros desocupados, por consequência não existiria todo expressionismo alemão e cinema noir norte-americano. Sem Reinhardt não haveria o curso de teatro que fundou nos EUA, Ryan não teria encontrado um rumo para sua vida neste mesmo curso e todos perderíamos um ator estupendo imortalizando uma quantidade incalculável de grandes cenas do cinema, boa parte delas fazendo parte daquele mesmo cinema noir supracitado.
Mas Ryan era diferente de outros ícones noir, gente como Bogart, Ladd, Lancaster e Mitchum possuíam um tipo de aura heróica e dignidade que prevalecia mesmo nos mais profundos esgotos, Ryan não, ele ia mesmo fundo na podridão humana, se mesclamava na escória, rastejava nos dejetos e é aí que entra a influência de Reinhardt, ao abster-se da vaidade do astro de cinema para dar vazão à necessidade do ator, numa quase-versão sexy de Peter Lorre. Robert Ryan é pulp cinema em suor, sangue, penumbra, músculos, pistolas, cigarros e câncer no pulmão.

RR tem tanto filme excelente no currículo que dá impinge pensar em fazer um top de sua filmografia.

1- Meu Ódio Será Tua Herança (The Wild Bunch, Sam Peckinpah, 1969)

2- Cinzas que Queimam (On Dangerous Ground, Nicholas Ray/Ida Lupino, 1952)

3- Punhos de Campeão (The Set-Up, Robert Wise, 1949)

4- A Quadrilha Maldita (Day of the Outlaw, André De Toth, 1959)

5- Casa de Bambu (House of Bamboo, Samuel Fuller, 1955)

6- Homens em Fúria (Odds Against Tomorrow, Robert Wise, 1959)

7 -O Preço de um Homem (The Naked Spur, Anthony Mann, 1953)

8- Rancor (Crossfire, Edward Dmytryk, 1947)

9- O Menino dos Cabelos Verdes (The Boy With Green Hair, Joseph Losey, 1948)

10- O Homem que Surgiu de Repente (La Course du Lièvre à Travers les Champs, René Clement, 1972)

11- Ato de Violência (Act of Violence, Fred Zinnemann, 1948)

12- Os Que Sabem Morrer (Men in War, Anthony Mann, 1957)

Nem só de sombras viveu um dos maiores motherfuckers do cinema, mais do que noir, Robert Ryan exalava testosterona. Desde os anos 40 Mr Ryan poderia entrar em qualquer antologia de cinema-de-macho, o homem trabalhou com Peckinpah, Fuller, Aldrich, Walsh, Boetticher, Winner, Frankenheimer, Anthony Mann, John Flynn e Sturges – ele também trabalhou com o resto da galera sem talento do outro lado como Lang, Tourneur, Losey, Ray, Ophuls, Lupino, Renoir, mas isso não tem a mínima importância. O que quero mesmo dizer é que o senhor Ryan tem todo direito de estar naquele seleto hall onde estão inclusos Clint Eastwood e Charles Bronson, com a diferença que Bob Ryan já era motherfucker antes que esse povo tivesse sonhado em ser tal coisa.
Apesar de RR ter sido separado de seu siamês Sterling Hayden logo após o nascimento, dessa galera macho-pra-dedéu o único ator páreo para ele no cinema americano era Lee Marvin – foram dois dos mais intensos, versáteis e talentosos atores evindeciados no pós-guerra – vai ver por isso fizeram quatro filmes juntos e Bloody Sam queria Marvin ao lado dele no Wild Bunch, em vez disso Marvin foi cantar com o Eastwood naquele outro filme… A verdade é que o duo Marvin-Ryan formam uma espécie de objeto transitório de anti-heróis com testosterona acima da média entre a geração Cagney-Bogart para o ciclo Eastwood-Bronson.

Eu sei que meus bíceps são irresistíveis, mas tenha respeito, Bronson!

Top “resto”:

13- Coração Prisioneiro (Caught, Max Ophüls/Robert Aldrich, 1949)
14- Só a Muher Peca (Clash by Night, Fritz Lang, 1952)
15- Os Doze Condenados (The Dirty Dozen, Robert Aldrich, 1967)
16- A Mulher Desejada (The Woman on the Beach, Jean Renoir, 1947)
17- O Mais Longo dos Dias (The Longest Day, Ken Annakin/Andrew Marton/Bernhard Wicki, 1962)
18- A Quadrilha (The Outfit, John Flynn, 1973)
19- Expresso Para Berlim (Berlin Express, Jacques Tourneur, 1948)
20- Billy Budd – O Vingador dos Mares (Peter Ustinov, 1962)
21- Rastros do Inferno (Inferno, Roy Ward Baker, 1953)
22- Conspiração do Silêncio (Bad Day at Black Rock, John Sturges, 1955)
23- The Iceman Cometh (John Frankenheimer, 1973)
24- Rei dos Reis (King of Kings, Nicholas Ray, 1961)
25- Uma Batalha no Inferno (Battle of the Bulge, Ken Annakin, 1965)
26- Os Profissionais (The Professionals, Richard Brooks, 1966)
27- Nas Garras da Ambição (The Tall Men, Raoul Walsh, 1955)
28- O Pequeno Rincão de Deus (God’s Little Acre, Anthony Mann, 1958)
29- A Batalha de Anzio (Lo Sbarco di Anzio, Duilio Coletti/Edward Dmytryk, 1968)
30- À Borda da Morte (The Proud Ones, Robert D. Webb, 1956)
31- Os Bravos Não se Rendem (Custer of the West, Robert Siodmak, 1967)
32- A Hora da Pistola (Hour of the Gun, John Sturges, 1967)
33- A Estrada Dos Homens Sem Lei (The Racket, John Cromwell/Nicholas Ray/Mel Ferrer, 1951)
34- Alma Sem Pudor (Born to Be Bad, Nicholas Ray, 1950)35- Mulheres de Ninguém (Tender Comrade, Edward Dmytryk, 1943)
36- Império do Pavor (Horizons West, Budd Boetticher, 1952)
37- O Assassinato de um Presidente (Executive Action, David Miller, 1973)
38- De Volta da Eternidade (Back from Eternity, John Farrow, 1956)
39- Escravo de Si Mesmo (Beware, My Lovely, Harry Horner, 1952)
40- Lonelyhearts (Vincent J. Donehue, 1958)
41- Tudo Por Ti (The Sky’s the Limit, Edward H. Griffith, 1943)
42- A Guerra Secreta (The Dirty Game, Christian-Jaque/Klingler/Lizzani/Terence Young, 1965)
43- O Homem da Lei (Lawman, Michael Winner, 1971)
44- Cidade Abaixo do Mar (City Beneath of Sea, Budd Boetticher, 1953)
45- Selvas Indomáveis (Escape to Burma, Allan Dwan, 1955)
46- O Melhor dos Homens Maus (The Best of the Badmen, William D. Russell, 1951)
47- Cada Vida… Seu Destino (The Secret Fury, Mel Ferrer, 1950)
48- Caçada ao Pistoleiro Escondido (Un Minuto per Pregare un Instante per Morire, Giraldi, 1968)
49- Horizonte de Glórias (Flying Leathernecks, Nicholas Ray, 1951)
50- A Volta dos Homens Maus (Return of the Bad Men, Ray Enright, 1948)
51- Capitão Nemo e a Cidade Submarina (Captain Nemo and the Underwater City, J. Hill, 1969)
52- Bombardeio (Bombardier, Richard Wallace/Lambert Hillyer, 1943)
53- Sem Deus e Sem Lei/O Passo do Ódio (Trail Street, Ray Enright, 1947)
54- Os Homens da sua Vida (Her Twelve Men, Robert Z. Leonard, 1954)
55- Marine Raiders (Harold D. Schuster, 1944)
56- Nuvens de Tempestade (The Woman on Pier 13/I Married a Communist, R. Stevenson, 1949)

Nota 1: Ninguém chuta a bunda de Deke Thornton, mas se não fosse pelo final, On Dangerous Ground seria talvez o primeiro dessa lista. O filme de  Ray sofreu exatamente a mesma coisa que The Magnificent Ambersons na década anterior, onde o final original foi refeito porque o estúdio assim quis e apesar do final imposto não ser uma tragédia, a situação original desejada por Ray era amplamente superior. Robert Ryan foi queridinho dos filmes B durante o reinado de terror de Howard Hughes na RKO, um bom motivo para que ele e Nicholas Ray se tornassem tão unidos no período, trabalhando juntos em quatro filmes seguidos (mais tarde tiveram um quinto filho temporão) – enquanto Hughes entrava de cabeça no macartismo, Ryan e Ray batiam o pé como notórios liberais, o que gerou todo aquele entrevero com John Wayne durante as filmagens de Flying Leathernecks, um filme cujo conteúdo belicista e de direita nada tinha a ver com suas visões.

Nota 2: Só as participações com no mínimo uma fala entraram no top, filme com participação ínfima deixei de fora, como é o caso de sua estréia em O Castelo Sinistro (The Ghost Breakers, George Marshall, 1940) onde fez figuração carregando uma maca (é, eu reconheço alguém com dois segundos em cena e praticamente de costas)Nota 2: O maior choque que tive seguindo a carreira de Ryan foi quando assisti O Pequeno Rincão de Deus (God’s Little Acre, Anthony Mann, 1958) foi alí que me dei conta que estava diante de um dos maiores atores do mundo. Quando vi a cena em que sua personagem resolve raptar um albino não sabia se gritava, gargalhava ou chorava de emoção por estar diante de um gênio em sua arte. Mann havia começado essa tranformação de Ryan em Zé Buscapé já em O Preço de um Homem (The Naked Spur, 1953), onde em meio a uma atmosfera leoniana Ryan praticamente cria o pai do Tuco de Três Homens em Conflito.

Nota 3: O top é por qualidade geral dos filmes, mas se fosse eleger as 12 melhores atuações de RR, seriam estas: Odds Against Tomorrow, Billy Budd, Caught, God’s Little Acre, Custer of the West, Clash by Night, The Iceman Cometh, The Set-Up, Born to Be Bad, The Naked Spur, Inferno e On Dangerous Ground.

Nota 4: Presumo que o “Patch Pack” tinha uma queda pelo senhor Ryan – Walsh, Ray, De Toth e Lang trabalharam com ele, o único maldito de tapa-olho com quem não trabalhou foi o John Ford.

Nota 5: É fato – Ryan tem os melhores bíceps e tenho dito. É por isso que recomendo com veemência filmes em que aparece sem camisa ou de camiseta, também por isso Ed Dmytryk disse certa vez: Bob hit like a mule.

Nota 6: A minha “fase Jeff Bridges” do último semestre me levou, por consequência, a ver alguns filmes onde Robert Ryan esteve presente. JB tem RR como ator favorito e impusionou-me a ver o porquê foi tão importante como muso inspirador, além do fato de dois dos últimos filmes com Ryan terem sido também dois dos primeiros filmes com a presença de Bridges. Só depois de ter trabalhado ao lado de Ryan, Lee Marvin e Fredric March em The Iceman Cometh (John Frankenheimer, 1973) é que JB resolveu ser ator de verdade, coisa que até então ele só levara na brincadeira, tamanho o peso que tais homens tinham em cena, algo fácil de se perceber já que Ryan e Marvin jogam ping-pong com JB naquele filme, onde o então guri fica na função de bolinha. Também pudera, The Iceman Cometh é o último momento de Ryan no cinema, o câncer em estado bastante avançado acabou tornando seu personagem ainda mais melancólico do que dramaticamente já era e presumo que nenhum outro ator de qualquer montagem da peça de Eugene O’Neill tenha sido mais efetivo durante o final do terceiro ato.

Nota 7: Robert Ryan foi o único ator que vi eclipsando James Mason. Vi Mason de igual para igual com Alec Guinness, Peter Sellers e John Gielgud, mas a única presença que esteve um degrau acima de Mason numa cena foi o Robert Ryan em Caught – *Medo. Em compensação o Nemo de Ryan não chega aos pés do de Mason.

Você é fodão, mas eu sou mais alto. mimimi

Hughes called Ryan in and said “It’s okay if you play me, I don’t want them to put some other actor in there” – Robert Parrish, então editor de Caught (Max Ophüls, 1949) sobre o fato de Howard Hughes achar que apenas Robert Ryan seria digno de interpretá-lo - como se já não fosse suficientemente estranho o patrão deixar que um personagem pouco lisongeiro fosse inspirado nele.

Nota final: Hoje comemora-se cem anos do nascimento de RR, oras.

*Da série: Este post foi programado, eu não estou aqui!

So the other day I’m looking around on YouTube for Elton John’s Carla/Etude, and found the following mashup:

Which in and of itself is pretty neat, ’cause the music totally works for what’s wordlessly going down. But the real reason I’m bothering to post this is to share the unshakable déjà vu I’m getting watching this, and I wonder if anybody can back me up here…

Check out the angle of the street and the buildings at :08, and the truck at :15. And again, look at the same street in the closing moments at 4:13. Have I played Half-Life 2 too much, or is this street not copied dead to rights in one of the game’s sequences where you’re pinned down by sniper fire? I’m fuzzy on whether it’s from HL2 proper, or HL2: Episode One, since it’s been several years since I’ve played them. You gotta admit, it would be cool if the person(s) who worked on a Half-Life 2 level also managed to pay homage to the original Twilight Zone, yeah? Further, I would go so far as to guess that it might have even been suggested by one of the writers who works at Valve. But what do I know?

Die Doppelfrau an der Spitze der deutschen Justizverwaltung redet endlich Klartext a la Thilo Sarrazin! Bei Politically Incorrect lese ich gerade:

Im Rahmen des Sonntagsstammtisches des Bayerischen Rundfunks sprach sich Bundesjustizministerin Sabine Leutheusser-Schnarrenberger angesichts des Anschlages von Fort Hood dafür aus, daß Muslime nicht eingesetzt werden sollten, wenn sie dabei gegen ihre Glaubensbrüder „agieren“ müßten – und dort nicht eingesetzt werden wollen.

Wie einer der Leser von Politically Incorrect anmerkt, bedeutet das nichts anderes, als daß, Frau Leutheusser-Schnarrenberger zufolge, Moslems prinzipiell nicht in diese Gesellschaft zu integrieren sind! Die letztendliche Loyalität von Moslems gilt, wenn man Frau Leutheusser-Schnarrenbergers Einwurf zuende denkt, immer und überall einzig dem Islam.

Wenn wir (mit Blick auf Fort Hood) nicht mal Soldaten islamischen Glaubens trauen können, wie können wir dann überhaupt irgendeinem Moslem vertrauen?

Frau Leutheusser-Schnarrenberger, dieses Land ist noch kein Polizei-, sondern ein Rechtsstaat, der sich weitgehend darauf verlassen muß, daß sich die Bürger an die Gesetze halten und beispielsweise nicht systematisch die Sozialkassen ausplündern. Frau Leutheusser-Schnarrenberger, dieser Staat kann nicht liberal und freiheitlich bleiben, wenn sich eine ständig wachsende Gruppe in dieser Gesellschaft diesem Land gegenüber im Grundsatz nicht verpflichtet fühlt, sondern es nur ausnutzt.

Wie viele radikale Moslems sind mittlerweile Bürger dieses Landes mit allen Rechten? Bürger, deren Interessen dieses Land auch im Ausland vertreten muß!

Ich erinnere nur an das „CIA-Opfer“ Khaled el-Masri, dessen Fall in letzter Zeit erneut durch die Presse gegangen ist. Die ganze haarsträubende Geschichte findet man bei Wikipedia.

Wenn es überhaupt einen Skandal gab, dann ist er darin zu suchen, daß dieser Mann deutscher Staatsbürger werden konnte. Unser deutscher Mitbürger Khaled el-Masri war seit Jahren regelmäßiger Besucher der Moschee im „Multikulturhaus“ (!) in Neu-Ulm und des Islamzentrums in Ulm, zwei Hochburgen des radikalen Islam („Islamismus“) in Deutschland. Auch pflegte er enge Kontakte zum Al-Kaida-Aktivisten Reda Seyam. Und was machten Sie, Frau Leutheusser-Schnarrenberger? Unter dem Stichwort „Jeder hat das Recht auf die freie Entfaltung seiner Persönlichkeit (Art. 2 I)“ schrieben Sie über Der Fall Khaled el Masri. Regierungen im Zwiespalt zwischen Terrorbekämpfung und Menschenrechten. Die Herausgeber des Bandes Grundrechte-Report 2006 meinten damals:

Nichts geändert hat sich auch an der Grundthese der Herausgeber, Jahr für Jahr durch die Realität bestätigt, daß ernsthafte Gefahren für unseren freiheitlichen, demokratischen Rechtsstaat mit seinen Bürger- und Menschenrechten weniger ausgehen von sog. Verfassungsfeinden und verfassungsfeindlichen Bestrebungen, sondern in erster Linie vom Staat und seinen Institutionen, und daher der Schutz der Verfassung nicht etwa in den Händen der Verfassungsschutzbehörden liegt, sondern Aufgabe der Bürgerinnen und Bürger ist.

Bürger wie Khaled el-Masri, der sich wirklich sehr aktiv für die Grundrechte einsetzt?! Wie gesagt, man lese den Wikipedia-Eintrag über el-Masri! Man überfliege auch die Titel weiterer Beiträge zum Grundrechte-Report 2006:

Gesinnungstest für Muslime Diskriminierende Einbürgerungspraxis in Baden-Württemberg
Moscheegänger unter Kontrolldruck Repressionen gegen Muslime auf zweifelhafter Grundlage
Wenn Fundamentalisten Toleranz fordern
Gericht bricht Kirchenmonopol Das Ende der Diskriminierung von Weltanschauungsgemeinschaften an öff. Schulen
Der lange Weg zur Gleichbehandlung Islamischer Religionsunterricht an öffentlichen Schulen
Abschiebegegner ohne Rechte
Auftrag Menschenjagd Kommandosoldaten der Bundeswehr im schmutzigen Krieg am Hindukusch
Aufklärung und Prävention Die offenen Aufgaben der Bundesregierung im Kampf
gegen den Terrorismus mit Blick auf die Menschenrechte
Die Folterungen in Abu Ghraib und das deutsche Völkerstrafgesetzbuch
Die Zelle im zweiten Stock Grundrechtsverletzungen durch die Ausländerbehörde

Dieses Land kann nicht lebenswert bleiben, wenn man ständig Angst haben muß, von jungen aggressiven muslimischen Männern angegriffen zu werden. Wer traut sich abends noch ohne innere Anspannung raus und kann guten Gewissens seine Kinder in die Schule schicken? Nicht nur Schüler, sondern auch Lehrer, insbesondere die Lehrerinnen, leben in panischer Angst. Sogar die Polizei hat Angst vor jungen Türken und Arabern. Die mutige Islam-Kritikerin Frau Leutheusser-Schnarrenberger deutet an, daß Soldaten Angst haben müssen, von ihren muslimischen „Kameraden“ in den Rücken geschossen zu werden.

Wie soll sich nach Ihrer Meinung, Frau Leutheusser-Schnarrenberger, der Bürger im Alltag gegenüber dem potentiell meuchelmörderischen Feind verteidigen? Pfefferspray, Arbeitsschuhe mit Stahlkappen, Münzen in einem Strumpf, wie von Charles Bronson in Ein Mann sieht rot? Sollen wir uns die Mühe machen Krav Maga zu betreiben, Frau Leutheusser-Schnarrenberger?

Im Gegensatz zu den üblichen Kampfsportarten, meistens fernöstlicher Provenienz, geht es hier ausschließlich um effektive Selbstverteidigung ohne viel Brimborium. Krav Maga wurde im Zweiten Weltkrieg von Juden entwickelt, die sich gegen islamophile Nationalsozialisten zur Wehr setzen mußten und wurde später kontinuierlich von den Israelis im Kampf gegen sogenannte „Palästinenser“, d.h. nahöstliche Nazis, weiterentwickelt.

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What?

A New York City architect becomes a one-man vigilante squad after his wife is murdered by street punks in which he randomly goes out and kills would-be muggers on the mean streets after dark.

Where?

At home.

With?

On my own.

Why?

As I mentioned previously, when documenting my viewing of Death Sentence, I’m a big fan of the revenge movie. Whilst going through the movies I plan to watch over the next year, it dawned on me that I hadn’t seen the daddy, the original pissed off father on a rampage movie. Time to amend that with the added bonus of finding it in a charity shop for 80p. Cash back!

Worth It?

It was definitely effective! I now like Jeff Goldblum less than before (but not a lot more, it will take a lot to diminish Ian Malcolm in my eyes) and it definitely raised the question of why Michael Winner is doing car insurance adverts!

The original act of thuggery was harsh and really made you believe in Kersey’s anger and wish for revenge and Charles Bronson played the bubbling volcano of hate pitch perfectly. However…

Once Kersey is empowered enough to take revenge, all we are “treated” to are numerous repetitive scenes of him taking out muggers with a hand cannon. And then it ends! The credits started to roll and I had to rewind it to make sure I hadn’t fallen asleep and missed a whole chunk of the flick.

As a result, the final third feels awkwardly paced and clumsy, and serves only to lessen the impact of the first act.

Shame, it was so close to being awesome.

6.5/10

Well I am sure the first question that is on everyone’s lips is; “Where have you been Señor FilmWipe?” Well this is a fine question that is on everybody’s lips.  Unfortunately for you the fans I have been ill the last week and was unable to fulfil my duties as the UK’s number one film critic.  Or failing that the UK’s number 3567 film reviewer.  It depends on who you ask and whether I bribed them in advance.  Anyway, I am back (ish) it depends on whether my new found limited health will give me the opportunity to continue to provide you with reviews that will rival luminaries in the field such as Mark Kermode or at least say the things that they are too scared to say.  It is worth pointing out at this point I am not dying of a series disease, and despite various rumours on twitter I do not have leprosy it is simply a severe bout of flew. Anyway, today’s review is of Nicolas Winding Refn’s latest release Bronson and is another fine example of how one of Europe’s up and coming directors is carving a niche for himself in a crowded cinematic market.

If you do not know who Charles Bronson is, he is Britain’s most expensive criminal (this is due to all the damage he has caused while in prison).  The film follows  Michael Peterson – a slightly deranged youth –  who commits a robbery on a post office and is sentenced to seven years in prison.  However, after realising his limitations he seizes his time in prison as an opportunity to become infamous.  This leads to him develop an alter ego as Charles Bronson committing a number of violent crimes while inside that draw him to the public’s attention and result in him serving over 30 years in solitary confinement at her Majesty’s pleasure.

Refn takes the character of Bronson on a fascinating journey.  He decides to create these surreal scenes where Bronson is performing for a public on a stage.  He regularly is dressed as magician or as a mime artist/clown.  It is a delightful visual metaphor for Bronson’s repressed desires of how he would like to be and what he actually is.  What is brilliant about these scenes is the fact that you see the disintegration of any form of mental stability to the point that he loses any semblance of sense or reason.  By the end of the film you feel as if he has lost all control but has some how managed to find a balance between his artistic and violent sides.

It is very difficult to give an opinion of Tom Hardy’s performance.  There is no question that he creates a disturbingly wonderful character.  However, by trying to make him as real as possible (What I mean by this is the characters simpler side) at times you feel as if there is the odd moment of nonchalant acting.  This may be slightly unfair as it is a great performance and he does create what is arguably the ultimate cinematic anti hero.  It is quite an experience to watch a character who is so easily dislikeable for an hour and a half and yet actually care about what happens in the end.

Readers of my thrilling review of Refn’s Bleeder will know that I am a massive fan of his work even if it doesn’t quite hit the spot.  This is probably the best biopic (if you can call it that) I have seen since The Diving Bell and the Butterfly and is on a par with this wonderful French gem.  I will freely admit that his film doesn’t quite hit the highs of the Pusher series, although in all honesty very little does.  But it is still a development of such and is a man who is close to perfecting his style.  I would hazard a guess that within the next couple of  films he will probably become Europe’s most sort after directors.

Overall this is a good film that marks a landmark in the development of one of Europe’s brightest talents.

7/10 – Good but not brilliant

God is a carnivore, but lives on a
diet primarily consisting of
bamboo.

Due to increasing encroachment
by man, God has been driven out of His
usual lowland habitat.

There may
be as many as 3,000 Gods still
in the wild, with conservation efforts
helping those figures to grow.

God is thought
to be docile, but is known to attack
humans on occasion.

God has appeared
on several commemorative coins.

God is black and white now, but was born pink.

God can live to be up to thirty when
raised in captivity.

God’s hands have thumbs.

God is rare, and cannot be found at all
in South America or Africa—
although Australia will have God soon.

The word “God” originally referred
to another species; scientists now
say that the two are not really even
related.

God can be found in a zoo.

Seven films to watch while you’re laid up with the cold, H1N1, or whatever else gets you down.

NOT recommended viewing. For so many reasons.

Welcome to cold and flu season! Each years untold millions of people get the common cold, the flu, the stomach flu, and a variety of other painful and discomforting illnesses.Many sufferers cope by parking themselves on the couch and in front of the DVD player , creating some prime movie-viewing time.

Watching a favorite movie is pretty much the best way to spend a sick day. You don’t have to move around, you don’t have to think that much about the plot (since it’s your favorite, you’ve seen it before already) and you can pause the film for trips to the bathroom, kitchen, or medicine chest. For those of you who don’t have a “favorite” movie to help get you through the long, queasy recuperation hours, consider these classics. We’ve tried to include a variety of stuff, representing several genres.

Office Space - If you’re not going in to work you owe it to yourself to laugh at American office culture. Mike Judge’s (Idiocracy) comedy, in which Ron Livingston gets hypnotized into not giving a damn about anything his boss or company wants, remains the perfect way to laugh at all the healthy worker drones spending the day at their jobs. Bonus sick day activity: Drawl like office middle manager Bill Lumbergh (Gary Cole) to everyone you speak with, as in: “Hello, pharmacy? I’m gonna need you to go ahead and refill my prescription. Yeah, that’d be great.”

In The Good Old Summertime – A favorite among Judy Garland’s legions of fans, this romantic comedy/musical puts her at professional odds with fellow music shop salesman Van Johnson, even while the two fall in love as pen pals when off the clock. Proudly warm and nostalgic for its soundstage-perfect Victorian Era setting, the film features Garland as irresistable as ever and Johnson well-cast as a suitor so straight-laced he seems almost quaint by modern standards. And if store owner Mr. Oberkugen seems familiar, you probably also saw S. Z. Sakall play Carl, the maitre d’ at Rick’s Cafe Americain, in Casablanca. Bonus sick day activity: Sing along with Garland, especially during the showstopping “I Don’t Care.”

The Dirty Dozen - The epitome of classic Hollywood cinema that doesn’t ask too much of the brain, director Robert Aldrich’s fast-paced adventure stays enthralling right up until the last, disappointing final scene. Still, it’s a hell of a lot of fun to see while you’re watching it. Bonus sick day activity: Devise your own resolution to the Dozen’s raid on the Nazi castle, one that doesn’t uphold the Establishment status quo but instead lets Posey (Clint Walker) and Jefferson (Jim Brown) survive.

High Noon - Speaking of guy films, this high-water mark of the Western genre has everything a good Western should: an iconic good guy (Gary Cooper), a ferocious antagonist (Ian MacDonald) and a whole town up for grabs. Director Fred Zinnermann (From Here To Eternity) films the story in real-time, ratcheting the suspense up even further. Not for nothing, but it’s also probably got the coolest theme song of any Western ever made. Bonus sick day activity: Count off the townspeople running from outlaw Frank Miller (MacDonald) on their big clay feet; come up with your own argument to give the sheriff’s wife (Grace Kelly) that yes, sometimes violence is the answer.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles – Especially topical this time of year, John Hughes’ masterwork tells the hilarious story of an uptight yuppie (Steve Martin, giving probably his best performance) and an uncouth shower curtain ring salesman (John Candy, definitely giving his) stuck with each other while trying to get home for Thanksgiving. The ending is amazingly touching without falling into hokum, a rare feat in most Hollywood films. Bonus sick day activity: Follow Del Griffith’s (Candy) suggestion and play pickup sticks with your butt cheeks; alternately, wash all your pillowcases.

Stripes - Ivan Reitman’s spoof of basic training and army operations works from such an episodic script you can basically watch the film in ten and fifteen minutes doses. Nevertheless, stars Bill Murray and Harold Ramis put in some sublime comic acting, bolstered by a wide ensemble cast including Candy, Judge Reinhold, Sean Young, Warren Oates and John Larroquette. Fans of the Canadian series SCTV should look for cameos by alumni Dave “Doug McKenzie” Thomas and Joe “Count Floyd” Flaherty. Bonus sick day activity: Teach yourself to march and drill the John Winger (Murray) way, by shouting Manfred Mann songs and making goofy faces.

The Lord of the Rings trilogy – Probably best if you’re going to be laid up all weekend (or for several days, anyway) the monumental LOTR saga has everything you could want from a film series – adventure, intrigue, romance, a metric ton of action – while still remaining approachable and reasonably episodic. The plotlines start to drag a bit at times, and director Peter Jackson’s (King Kong) sense of restraint gets out from under him in the third chapter. Nevertheless, taken as a whole the trilogy delivers hours and hours of riveting viewing, especially the epic Battle of Helm’s Deep. Bonus sick day activity: Take a shot of Vitamin C every time Frodo (Elijah Wood) or Legolas (Orlando Bloom) stare at something in close-up. You’ll be up and moving around in no time.

We’ll be back later this week. Take it easy and we hope you feel better.

- Michael Kabel
:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::

La copertina dell'LP della colonna sonora.

Tra pochi giorni partirò per San Francisco per presentare un paper sul cinema di Tonino Valerii, concentrandomi sul versante Western. Ne ho approfittato in questi giorni per rivedere i suoi film di quel genere, tra cui il celeberrimo Il mio nome è Nessuno, e per vedere C’era una volta il West, grande capolavoro di Sergio Leone.

Beh anellidi, han voglia gli americonzi a chiamarlo “Spaghetti Western” con tono di denigrazione. Delle sceneggiature così, una costruzione dei personaggi da mozzare il fiato, una scelta di facce di attori assolutamente superlativi… non mi stupisco che il cinema italiano di quell’epoca sia considerato da molti, tra cui Tarantino, come una pepita d’oro.

Inoltre, va detto, vedere Henry Fonda prima eroe degli eroi, e poi cattivo dei cattivi, è davvero una bella esperienza. Consiglio a tutti di vedere i due film uno dopo l’altro, a voi la scelta dell’ordine.

#100!

Data
Title: The Great Escape
Year: 1963
Length: 172 minutes
Director: John Sturges
Writers: James Clavell & W.R. Burnett, based on the book by Paul Brickhill
Starring: Steve McQueen, James Garner, Richard Attenborough, James Donald, Charles Bronson, Donald Pleasence, James Coburn, Hannes Messemer
Music: Elmer Bernstein
Distinctions: currently #100 on IMDb’s Top 250

My reaction
Synopsis: WWII POWs plot a massive escape attempt to distract German resources
How I saw it: on video (rented from Netflix), yesterday
Concept: Great.
Story: Good. The plot is great, but the details start to seriously fall apart at the end.  I had to look it up online to even see if the plan worked.
Characters: Indifferent. I had no investment in any of these people. Also, after looking online, it seems that the people on which the characters are based were actually pretty interesting. But in the movie we get “I like to ride bikes.”
Dialog: Good.
Pacing: Bad.
Cinematography: Indifferent.
Special effects/design: Great.
Acting: Good. Attenborough is great. Most of the other leads are just okay.
Music: Bad. “…this land belongs to you and me!” So. Very. Obnoxious.
Subjective Rating: 5/10 (Indifferent). Lots of potential, but a pretty boring movie.
Objective Rating: 6/10 (Okay).

Parece que as coisas não andam rendendo ultimamente (se é que já renderam algum dia). Olhando as estatísticas do blog, percebi que ele só tem sido visitado exporadicamente por amigos da Isis que olham seu twitter. Ok, não tem problema com isso. Porém, devemos lembrar que queremos ficar ricos com esse blog. Logo, temos que divulgá-lo. Outro problema esse.

Sabe-se que os melhores meios de divulgação hoje são twitter e o tradicional boca a boca que não morre nunca.  Tem o Google também que faz pesquisas através de tags. As tags são uma ferramenta até útil. Só que temos que viver fazendo referências no texto para podermos “taguear” bonitinho, o que deixa o trabalho mais complicado. E o pior é que rola escrever coisas tais quais “Rambo”, “Silvester Stallone”, “Chuck Norris”, “Bradock”, “Charles Bronson” e etc. para que sigam nossas tags.

Infelizmente, a ferramenta de busca da Google está cada vez mais eficiente. Tornando, assim, nosso trabalho mais difícil. Se não fossem esses malditos da Google vagabundagem não seria problema.

La revista People tiene colgados en su página todos sus números. No voy a decir nada del contenido porque todavía no lo he mirado, pero es agradable pasearse por los primeros años y encontrar portadas como estas:

Luego la cosa cambia, claro.

Bronson… When one sees the character name on IMDB, one would naturally be quick to think of the late legendary actor Charles Bronson. This is not the case. But still, this movie is based on the life of prison inmate, Michael Peterson, who, at the age of 19, decided to make a name for himself and become one of Britain’s most violent criminals.

The movie more or less begins with us being introduced to Peterson, and along the way we see him take on the new name of Charlie Bronson.

In the lead role is British actor, Tom Hardy. It is hard to believe, but Tom Hardy also played the role of Praetor Shinzon, in Star Trek  Nemesis.

Tom Hardy and director, Nicholas Winding Refn are the stars of the show here, taking the story of ‘Britain’s most violent prisoner‘ and twisting it into an explosion of style.

Tom Hardy plays Michael Peterson who was initially incarcerated for 7 years after robbing a Post Office but this sentence turned into a 34 year stretch after numerous cases of violence in prison. Of these 34 years 30 were spent in solitary confinement. In his short period outside he assumed the fighting name of Charles Bronson after the Death Wish star. It is his alter ego which dominates the film.

Hardy is magnificent, prowling around people almost growling, a hulking, brooding, unpredictable beast who almost doesn’t care what happens to him, preferring gaol where his is someone to the outside where he is no-one.

By the time the film ends we are unsure who to feel sorry for, lost in a world of hard lines and constant violence. A very interesting film that marks out Hardy and Refn as exciting talents in modern cinema.

Apart from the overuse of some of the most colorful metaphors known to man, I thoroughly enjoyed this movie… Twice.

Claudia Cardinale, "Once Upon a Time in the West"

 I’m not going to add much to the encyclopaedia’s worth of stuff written about this, surely the greatest Western ever made.  The audacity of killing off Woody Strode and Jack Elam in the first scene; those locomotives, screaming and screeching their way through virgin landscape; the casting-against-type of Henry Fonda, Hollywood’s decentest man, as a psychopath; that unforgettable, instantly recognisable Ennio Morricone score; and, most of all, that final, glorious  gunfight, Fonda’s eyes flickering momentarily right and left to judge the best angle of the sun to gain an advantage against the stony-faced Charles Bronson.

I first saw this in 1968 in the George cinema in Barrhead.  You have no idea what Claudia Cardinale’s mascara and cleavage did for my bedtime fantasies - I must have rescued her from a whole trainload of  bad guys, and then didn’t know what to do with her afterwards  - or how much the smirking, spitting Fonda frightened the shite out of me.  Seeing it again on a big, big screen, beautifully restored, is one of life’s infinite pleasures.

Oh, Henry Fonda!  Oh, Charles Bronson!  Oh, oh, oh, Claudia Cardinale!

De repente me deu vontade de falar sobre o  Prêmio Darwin, que pra quem não conhece trata-se de um prêmio concedido aos membros da espécie humana que contibuíram com o melhoramento genético da nossa  espécie ao retirar seu material genético da face da terra.

Alguns exemplos:

Momento Harry Potter: (Abril de 2003, Inglaterra) Um passageiro de trem que tinha o hábito de disparar o alarme de emergência para que ele pudesse descer num local em que não havia uma parada programada, ao desembarcar nos trilhos foi atingido e morto por um outro trem.

Queria ser Charles Bronson: (Julho de 2002, Romênia) Um certo indivíduo não ligava muito para cartazes com os horários dos trens. Como se fosse um índio americano de filmes do Velho Oeste tentando ouvir a aproximação de cavalos, esse romeno colocou seu ouvido nos trilhos para tentar perceber a aproximação de um trem que estava por chegar à estação em que ele se encontrava. Em lugar do que esperava, esse homem de 46 anos foi atingido por um trem expresso e morreu instantaneamente, dando sentido ao ditado que diz que você não ouve a bala que lhe atinge.

Eles merecem!!!

Holy.Shit.

I’m not too familiar with the story of Michael Peterson aka Charlie Bronson, Britain’s most famous and dangerous inmate, who is as of this writing still incarcerated and has not been giving a release date.  The movie as a whole doesn’t fully hold because it doesn’t show us any other aspect of Charlie Bronson other than the criminal side and it seems to not know how to end–basically a story that hasn’t ended yet, and as a whole it also doesn’t know what to make exactly of it’s larger than life subject.  But fear not, the movie is mesmerizing from beginning to end thanks to Tom Hardy.

The film is told entirely from the perspective of Charlie Bronson; he narrates the film from both a dark room and a theater stage, where he’s entertaining an audience with his life story and random comedic tricks–all in his head ala Chicago.  The whole movie is presented more like an ultra violent comedy in drugs than a serious biography which may explain why–since it’s Charlie Bronson’s show–it refuses to give us anything but what he wants us to see: his life as a criminal.

It is definitely a very stylized film that wouldn’t probably work as much if it wasn’t because of Tom Hardy who gives one of the most in your face-take no prisoners-(literally)-no holds barred performances ever.  He’s a vision of utter immersion into a character and he is completely mesmerizing.  He plays Charlie Bronson as the embodiment of violence.  He exudes danger from every pore; his every look is nothing but palpable danger.  To encounter him is to encounter your maker and he holds the screen and your attention with a closed fist grip.

The movie itself may not reach what the filmmakers were going for but Tom Hardy gives the most firecracker performance of the year and he even manages to make Charlie Bronson a charismatic character among all the chaos trailing behind him.  Watching him dive head first into this role is worth paying to see the movie, and he’s completely unrecognizable under pounds and pounds of muscle, a shaved head, a mustache that’s both funny and frightening, and the palest of skin this side of an albino.  The term *a star is born* fully applies here.

Tom Hardy makes this movie, even if the myth of who really is Michael Paterson remains a mystery.  Grade: B