…oder “Schweinsfüße sind aus”. Ich brauche Eure Hilfe…

Der geliebte Mann hat uns zum Thema “There’s no business like show business” Ginger e Fred gezeigt, einen der letzten Filme von Fellini mit seiner Ehefrau Guiletta Masina und Marcello Mastroianni. Aus dieser Satire über ein gealtertes Tänzerpaar, deren Integrität umso deutlicher wirkt vor dem absurden Hintergrund einer immer weniger Sinn aufweisenden Fernsehunterhaltung, hätte man alle möglichen Vorgaben ziehen können, und wenn ich auch zugeben muss, dass das “Flüstern im Dunkeln” eine der Schlüsselszenen im Film darstellt, so ist das Motiv “Schweinsfüße sind aus” wenig nachvollziehbar und wurde deshalb von mir abgelehnt – für dieses bisher nicht dagewesene Vorgehen erhielt ich Gott sei Dank die Rückendeckung des guten Freundes.

So bleibt es also beim Flüstern. So richtig mag mir nichts einfallen, zumal das Genre der Horror- und Gruselfilme für mich ausfällt – ich mache bereits bei Dracula den Fernseher aus.

Every so often I’ve updated the list of films that I have already seen with brief reviews.  Call it the complete-ist in me, but when I’m done with reviewing each of the films in the book, I’d like to have reviewed every single film in the book.

Anyhow, here’s another batch for you to read.

Enjoy!

Shichinin No Samurai AKA Seven Samurai (1954)

The Seven Samurai is the first movie that I had the pleasure of seeing from the master director Akira Kurosawa, and it is also one of his most praised works. Without a wasted frame, the story takes place over the course of almost 3 hours. Kurosawa, as he does in each of his movies, explores more than just the action and injustice featured in the plot. He is a humanist first and foremost, training his lens on the interpersonal relationships of the characters, tracking growth across this epic. As good as this film is, I would have to say that Kurosawa has numerous films that are even better, check out Stray Dog, Rashomon, Yojimbo, Sanjuro, and my personal favorite High and Low.

The Ladykillers (1955)

Existing as a special combination of dark humor, and slapstick farce, The Ladykillers is exceptionally funny and unsettling. Alec Guinness stars as the leader of a group of criminals staying at the home of a hardy, vivacious older lady under the guise of being musicians. The plan is simple, rob a bank, and utilizing the trusting nature of the kindly old lady, and the remoteness of her home to their advantage, get away with it. Easily my favorite of Alec Guinness’ films (thanks in part to the Star Wars prequels that is), The Ladykillers features a solid cast of great actors, including a very young Peter Sellers.

Bob Le Flambeur AKA Bob the Gambler (1955)

My introduction to the fantastic Jean-Pierre Melville, I was captivated immediately by the cool as ice gangster come gambler Bob. This film is filled with signature Melville-isms. Glorious post war street scenes in Paris. Trench-coats. Honor among thieves. And who could forget the caper. To talk too much about this film is to give too much away, and to do that is to ruin it for those who haven’t seen it. Other classics by Melville: Le Cercle Rouge, Le Samourai, and the recently released in the U.S. Army of Shadows. All are fantastic, and deserve to be in this book! Incidentally, Bob le Flambeur was recently re-made into The Good Thief starring Nick Nolte and directed by Neil Jordan, and while I’m not generally a fan of re-makes, I really, really liked this film. Not quite as good as the original, but it was one of my favorite films of 2002.

Kiss Me Deadly (1955)

The ultimate in hardboiled private eye crime stories, Kiss Me Deadly is a full on assault on decency. Kiss Me Deadly proudly presents itself as a grimy PI story, littered with bodies and intrigue. If you even have a passing interest in film noir, this should be your first stop. Violent, misogynist, brutish, and glorious, Kiss Me Deadly begs to be watched and dares you to look away. I myself, loved it!

The Ten Commandments (1956)

Apparently based on a book, The Ten Commandments is an epic in every sense of the word. Colored in bright explosive candy hues, and featuring huge sets, as well as a cast that number in the thousands, The Ten Commandments is more spectacle than great movie. Certainly not a waste of time, but not my first choice when choosing something light to throw in.

Det Sjunde Inseglet AKA The Seventh Seal (1957)

A classic, and well-loved film by Swedish auteur Ingmar Bergman, The Seventh Seal stars an extremely young Max von Sydow as a knight who faces Death at a game of chess to decide his fate. This film is filled with themes that find their way into each of Bergman’s works, ranging from courage in the face of death, religion, and humanity. The Seventh Seal still holds up to this day, with luminous black and white photography that, thanks to Criterion’s Blu-ray edition, has never looked better.

Note: Don’t be fooled by the similarly themed, but much worse, “Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey”

Kumonosu Jo AKA Throne of Blood (1957)

Kurosawa’s retelling of Macbeth set in feudal Japan. Shakespeare has never looked better as it does in the stark black and white, twisting shadows and swirling mists as seen through Kurosawa’s camera. Toshiro Mifune doesn’t disappoint in the lead role, but the real stand out is Isuzu Yamada in the as Mifune’s opportunistic, poisonous wife. The plotting and scheming starts right from the get go, all the way up till the frenzied end of the film.

Touch of Evil (1958)

One of the many trouble spots on Orson Welles’ resume due to studio interference, and financing issues, still Touch of Evil remains as possibly the best B-Movie ever made. Iconic (and sometimes hilarious) performances by Janet Leigh, Charlton Heston (as a Mexican) and Welles himself as the crooked cop willing to do almost anything to ensure justice prevails (just so long as it’s his justice). The movie is almost as famous for its long tracking shot opening as it is for any of the performances, featuring a nearly 4 minute shot done in one take which travels around cars, actors, and buildings. The film The Player, payed homage to it by mentioning it a few times during a similarly complex shot in that film.

Vertigo (1958)

Flopping on its initial release, Vertigo didn’t gain the acclaim it deserved until much later after it was released on video. Vertigo visits themes present in each of Hitchcock’s other works, including the obsession with blondes, innocence tainted with corruption, and the schlub who get in over his head. Jimmy Stewart plays the schlub, Kim Novak plays the blonde, and gloriously technicolored San Francisco plays the innocence and the corruption. Vertigo has a twisty convoluted story with elements of surrealism, an interesting watch.

Mon Oncle AKA My Uncle (1958)

My favorite of Jacques Tati’s Monsieur Hulot films, Mon Oncle was also the first of them that I had seen. Tati, playing Hulot, is a master of visual comedy, and not in the same way as the Three Stooges, or even Buster Keaton. Tati is an artist whose work is appreciated the longer you watch. The plot of the movie is not so much important to the film as it is simply a guide to get our characters into interesting situations so we can watch them get out. If you liked this film, check out other films featuring the bumbling Mr. Hulot, including Trafic, Playtime, and Les Vacances de Monsieur Hulot.

Les Quatre Cents Coups AKA The 400 Blows (1959)

My personal favorite of the French new wave movement was this small-scale film, personal piece from Francois Truffaut. Featuring the director’s alter ego, Antoine Doinel, The 400 Blows is the first in a series of movies, each about a different stage of life and the challenges that go along with them. The period from childhood to young adult is covered heart-breakingly here, following Antoine through the rough waters of his home life and his interaction with the outside world. Later chapters deal with finding love, getting married, having children, and growing old, but Les Quatres Cent Coups remains the directors most personal and his best.

North by Northwest (1959)

One of Hitchcock’s best, North by Northwest features Cary Grant, suave as ever, being mistaken for a government agent by a group of foreign spies. Just like in Hitchcock’s most famous works (of which this is one), the witty one-liners, suspense, and drama are heaped on generously. I can’t help but feel sad that a similarly themed, but better film featuring Cary Grant was left off this 1001 list. Charade, also featuring Audrey Hepburn, James Coburn, and Walter Matthau, is one of my favorite movies ever! Check out both Charade AND North by Northwest as a double feature! You won’t be sorry.

Some Like it Hot (1959)

Now this is an example of a classic, well-loved film, with actors that I really love (Jack Lemmon I’m looking at you), a premise that is more than suitable, yet the finished product never really caught me. It’s sort of like Hitchcock’s To Catch a Thief. I never really saw what all the hype was about. That being said, I didn’t hate it either. It never made fun of me when I had braces, or turned me down for a date, my affections and this film have just always been mutually exclusive. Perhaps it deserves another watch…then again maybe I should just watch The Last Boyscout again.

A Bout De Souffle AKA Breathless (1959)

Jean-Luc Godard is nothing if not a sacred cow of French cinema, and while I have loved some of his other films (Le Mepris, Bande A Part, and Masculin Femenine), Breathless or A Bout De Souffle never really did it for me. I can still rationalize why it was so revolutionary (use of jump cuts, editing, non-actors, and subscription to the aesthetic of the French new wave style), and see it’s importance, but I prefer other examples of New Wave cinema. If you are interested in seeing a Godard film, try Masculin Feminine, it is just as revolutionary and a bit more accessible.

Psycho (1960)

A prime example of Hitchcock in his prime. Psycho was so good, and so affecting that some of its actors were type cast just on the strength of this one film (Anthony Perkins, and Janet Leigh), so much so that without a little research it’s hard to think of what other films either of them has been in. Psycho may not be as visually shocking and gory as horror films of today, but it still manages to hold up over time and be just as unsettling as it was back in its day. Hitchcock has always excelled at making the comfortable un-comfortable (motels, birds, tea, dreams, the list goes on…), and the subtle touches in this film work perfectly. Consider for a moment that Perkin’s Bates is an amateur taxidermist of birds, and then that Janet Leigh’s name is Marion Crane a type of bird, or the fact before the crime Marion is wearing a white bra and a white purse, while after it she is wearing a black bra and purse. His attention to detail, and knack for foreshadowing is demonstrated in full force in Psycho and remains one of his best films. Despite all the uproar over the Gus Van Sant remake, I thought it actually did some justice to the original film and if nothing else brought it a little more deserved attention.

Note: This film also has the distinction of being the first American film to ever show a toilet flushing on-screen.

Peeping Tom (1960)

Released the same year as Psycho, and dealing with similar subject matter, Peeping Tom wasn’t received with the same acclaim and attention that the former was. On the contrary, Peeping Tom was seen as subversive, perverted, and generally too shocking. The story revolves more around the killer than the victim in this one, whereas Psycho is presented more from the victim’s point of view. Either way, Peeping Tom is a fine film, one worth watching, however it is so similar to Psycho that I’m not sure it needs to be on the list of 1001 films.

The Apartment (1960)

As far as light-hearted, touching movies about someone recovering from a bout of depression, this one is my favorite. Billy Wilder directs Shirley MacLaine and Jack Lemmon in a sweet touching comedy without losing any of his trademark cynicism or the pointedness of his dialogue. The Apartment is another chance for me to champion the somewhat maligned talents of Mr. Fred MacMurray as Lemmon’s boss. MacMurray plays a fantastic creep who really defines the term “heel”.

Spartacus (1960)

Containing almost none of the trademark elements that make up a Stanley Kubrick movie as we know it (Kubrick apparently dis-owned the film before it’s release), Spartacus remains an interesting movie that isn’t great. It is, however, another example of a film that enabled an up and coming filmmaker to gain his voice, and define himself later on in his career. If only for that reason, Spartacus is a great film, but luckily for the studio, it has some other things going for it. Kirk Douglas plays the title role of Spartacus, and despite all the lavish set production, and concentration on spectacle, brings some heart to the slave who defied Rome.

Jules Et Jim AKA Jules and Jim (1962)

One of director, Francois Truffaut’s most well thought of films, Jules and Jim may be the Lost In Translation, or Juno of its time. Viewed from a certain angle, the plot is a completely moving and emotional story that you believe, so much so, that you can see yourself and those around you in the roles that these characters embody. Viewed from another perspective, it can seem a little precious or purposefully manipulative. Depending on what is happening in your life (I’m mostly thinking about whether or not you are in a relationship, and if you are happy), this movie can preach the glory of love and the pain of rejection. On the flipside, if you have shaken free the angsty, teenager-esque feelings everyone has had in their youth, you may feel like you’re being talked down to.

Cleo De 5 A 7 AKA Cleo from 5 to 7

Taking place, as the title suggests, from 5 to 7, we get a slice of the life of Cleo played out before us. Sometimes we, along with Cleo herself, are a voyeurs into the lives of people around her, and other times we are focused on her as she roams around Paris. By and large Cleo lives a carefree, spoiled life, yet we still sympathize with her when times are hard, and cheer for her when they are good. This is a small film in a lot of ways, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t impacting and beautiful.

Lawrence of Arabia (1962)

I have to admit.  I didn’t like Lawrence of Arabia that much.  Perhaps I was too young to appreciate the aesthetic beauty of Lean’s desert panorama camerawork, or just maybe it was the epic length that decided it for me.  One way or another, I didn’t appreciate it as much as everyone else seems to think I should. 

The Manchurian Candidate (1962)

Overly reliant on gimmicks and quick editing techniques, The Manchurian Candidate doesn’t flesh out the story nearly…wait, no that was the terrible re-make that came out in 2004.  The original 1962 version, is just as taught, and well executed today as it was at its release.  While the story between the two versions remained virtually the same, the consistent building of tension and anxiety, combined with the pitch perfect acting of Lawrence Harvey, Frank Sinatra (yes…Frank Sinatra), and the devilish turn of Angela Lansbury as the Queen of Hearts, makes for a fantastic film.

Lolita (1962)

It took me forever to finally see Lolita.  I have known the basic story (older man, younger girl) but had just never gotten around to seeing it.  And while I’ve been told that the book is much better, I thought the film was pretty good.  Not great, mind you, but definitely solid.  The shocking and controversial nature of the relationship was toned down a bit for the screen, and maybe as a result doesn’t seem all that shocking in today’s day and age.  Memorable turns by Peter Sellers, and Shelley Winters, not to mention it’s an early film of Stanley Kubrick.

The Birds (1963)

Despite being one of Hitchcock’s most popular, I actually think that The Birds is one of his most over-rated.  I think I owe it to myself to give this one another look someday, but right now I feel that it was too heavily based on the gimmick that had to rely on special effects.  Though it is not necessarily the fault of the movie, but the special effects seemed particularly dated and old fashioned.  Worth a watch, but not my favorite by a long shot.

8 1/2 (1963)

Federico Fellini is, by most accounts, a master of cinema.  One, that I have always had a little trouble getting fired up over.  It’s not that I don’t like his films once I’ve seen them, the problem comes in when it comes to motivating myself to see them.  I couldn’t tell you why, but his films consistently get pushed off when they come up on my Netflix Queue or when I see the one or two I have on my shelf.  I shouldn’t feel this way, considering I really loved the moving poetry, and soul baring passion in 8 1/2, yet it still happens.  One very definite reason to watch this film is the man-crushable Marcello Mastroianni, swaggering through as the alter-ego of Fellini himself.  Dealing with all the reservations with women, making movies, childhood, and the future that the director very famously dealt with himself, Mastroianni embodies a certain cool, yet believable character that begs to be watched.  Combined with imagery that leaves the audience wanting more, 8 1/2 is a fantastic film.

Well, that’s it for this time.  Thanks for reading!

Pocas obras cinematográficas reflejan con tal estilización de la realidad el exceso y la amoralidad reinante en nuestro siglo XX. La obra del italiano Fellini, La dolce vita, es un desfile de fantasmas atados a la banalidad por el hilo del desenfreno, de la frivolidad y del espectáculo. La historia de cómo un hombre se deja llevar progresivamente por un mundo sin escrúpulos, donde la soledad y la incomunicación son los más crueles y callados acompañantes. Marcello Mastroianni comienza con un personaje que trata de posicionarse en el mundo de la literatura, que quiere atreverse a dar el paso final que le defina como un escritor serio, que se revela de tanto en tanto contra ese entorno de lujo y tontería mientras se esfuerza en encontrar un alma pura que le demuestre que todavía hay hueco para la conciencia y la integridad en la realidad que habita. Steiner, Paula. Pero sigue el camino que su profesión le va abriendo a su paso y se deja llevar, frecuentando los lugares más concurridos por el famoseo con el fin de encontrar algo con que alimentar el morbo de los lectores. Cada vez más inserto en ese ambiente abyecto y sórdido en el que el producto a vender cobra más valor conforme adquiere mayores dosis de estertor y sensacionalismo, Marcello acaba convirtiéndose en un publicista que ya no entiende lo que Paula le dice desde el otro lado de la orilla, símbolo de la inocencia y la bondad que en el universo de Felinni sólo le son concedidas a unos pocos. Para el director, los seres humanos vivimos aferrados a una ilusión óptica continuada bajo la impotencia soterrada de la incomunicación y la imposibilidad de vivir nuestras emociones.

Y sin embargo, ese mundo que se erige en estandarte de la máscara trata de quitarle el antifaz a todo lo que la audiencia demanda. Cual juego sin límites, todo está permitido. El periodismo rosa, ese que perfila la película, se vende a la imagen, se regala a la impostura y destroza la sabiduría popular evocada en las palabras de Machado: aquí el valor y el precio son la misma cosa. Una vida dulcemente envenenada que ha sabido sobrevivir hábilmente hasta nuestros días. Apoyándose en los instintos más carvenícolas de la especie “superior”, los medios dedican la inmensa parte de su tiempo a desvelar las vidas estropeadas, la desgracia ajena y la inmundicia, mientras perjuran su servil vocación por satisfacer las demandas de los gustos imperantes. Y así se inicia el círculo vicioso, pues cómo cerciorarse de lo que gusta realmente la gente si son los medios los que deciden entre qué posibilidades elegirán éstos. Sus necesidades se ven avocadas a intentar saciar su apetito en lo que los medios ofrecen con unos formatos que a cada momento exaltan la ausencia de valores y la pérdida de conciencia, de empatía. Ese tipo de periodismo, el que reivindica su responsabilidad de informar a los espectadores sobre los vaivenes de la farándula y se indigna ante una negativa de quién no quiere ser partícipe de su juego, no es el periodismo por el que se luchó contra la censura, ni es el periodismo vocacional capaz de poner en riesgo la vida de quien lo siente verdaderamente como algo personal, propio. Ese periodismo, en mi opinión, es una cuestión de negocios.

Los estudios Cinecittá han decidido rentabilizar su legado a lo grande: construyendo un parque temático. Las autoridades romanas confían en que Cinecittá World incremente el ya impresionante catálogo de estímulos turísticos de la ciudad, pero aún queda la difícil tarea de decidir qué películas rodadas allí tienen potencial como montaña rusa, coches de choque o espectáculo en vivo. Los estudios Universal tienen Parque jurásico (1993), una película con estructura de atracción. Warner Bros. tiene a los Looney Tunes para entretener al visitante infantil y a los superhéroes de DC para los amantes de las emociones fuertes. ¿Y qué hay de Cinecittá?

En principio, lo más lógico sería pensar en las superproducciones de Hollywood: la carrera de cuádrigas de Ben-Hur (1959) darían para una buena montaña rusa de madera, las peleas callejeras de Gangs of New York (2002) serían un gran espectáculo con actores, Daylight (1996) es casi la quintaesencia de eso que los norteamericanos llaman dark ride… También hay posibilidad de un Viaje submarino de Steve Zissou (con un tiburón jaguar animatrónico) o una Visita a la Luna con el Barón de Munchausen. No obstante, los ideólogos de este parque deberían apostar por las películas italianas y edificar las atracciones más heterodoxas y gafapastas de todos los tiempos: ¡un restaurante inspirado en la Via Venetto de La dolce vita (1960)! ¡Unos caballitos con la banda sonora de Bellisima (1951)! ¡Un… algo de Saló o los 120 días de Sodoma (1975)! Al fin y al cabo, la inminente adaptación cinematográfica de Nine promete ya un acercamiento de la ansiedad existencial felliniana a las coordenadas de un parque temático.

Ah, más ideas para un parque temático loco, loco, loco en este antiguo post.

Var och såg Killinggänget på Dramaten tillsammans med Paula och Peje.

Den tre timmar långa föreställningen med paus var rakt igenom roande men framför allt oroande. Precis som Fellini lyckades förvandla en kreativitetskris en lysande film, 8 1/2, lyckas Killinggänget med motsvarande på Dramatens stora scen.

Det är lite som att befinna sig på en bludderafton på tidningen Blandarens. Skämt kommer och går, men egentligen händer det inte speciellt mycket mer än så. Rheborg åmar sig, Gustafsson gör några undflyende gubbar, Schyffert visar upp sina vältränade ben. Men framför allt är det amatören Martin Luuk som bär föreställningen med ett skådespeleri som fyller hela den anrika salongen.

Men i slutändan är det Robert Gustafssons enmansnummer som tar hem kvällen, när han tvingas klä av sig alla sina tics, dialekter, trix och fix  och fråga sig om han duger som han är, allt inför en andlöst lyssnande publik.

Ge Gustafsson tio år till så kommer han våga bli den lysande skådis har är redan idag, med samma tyngd och tajming som salig Carl-Gustaf Lindstedt.

Där hade föreställningen gärna kunnat få sluta för min del, men Killingarna plöjer på nån halvtimma till och slutar i stället i ett demokratiskt ensemblespel, som funkar bra det med.

Gå och se.

(Biljett-tack till Willy)

crossposted at Orbis Mediologicus

The combinatory is an idea whose time, once again, has come. In The Language of New Media, Lev Manovich argues that the database is one of the primary apparatus of the new media age. He cites Dziga Vertov’s use of this form to ‘digitize’ the visible world, in films such as Man with a Movie Camera (decades before the advent of the digital computer), as a key precursor of the mode of de/reconstructing the world in the age of computerized media. And yet we can go back further – Leibniz, widely considered one of the forefathers of the modern computer – was himself fascinated by dream of a ‘universal characteristic’, a combinatory which could translate human thought into a series of symbols which could avoid the ambiguities of human language. Combined with production of the first binary numeral system, as well as his attempt to produce a mechanical adding machine, Leibniz’s desire seems fulfilled in the contemporary form whereby inputs hit computers, are metabolized into numerical codes which are stored in database grids, then to be read and output in cybernetic loops with us, their human relay centers.

Manovich has argued that time itself changes in the digital age, it ceases to be the linear time of modernity (which for Vilem Flusser was prompted itself by the linearity of the sentence as promoted by the ‘Gutenberg revolution’), and rather is spatialized by the very form of the database grid. In database time, each cell in the grid contains a moment, retrievable at random, not necessarily placed in the order of temporal flow. Thus, you open one cell and the grid and see yourself as a child, in the one nextdoor, as a geriatric, and in between as split between ovum and sperm. Certain experimental films and books, particularly hypertext fictions, pursue a related notion of temporality which Gilles Deleuze, Cinema II: The Time-Image, calls crystalline time. In crystalline time, there is still a flow of present to past at the level of the observer, but this observer moves continually amongst a series of ‘cells’ of the past and future, thereby combining the linearity of modern temporal flow with the spatialized time of the computer database. A film such as Federico Fellini’s 8 1/2 is an example given by Deleuze of the manner in which ‘time is out of joint’ in the post-war world, producing an interpenetration of memory and imagination, desire and anticipation, all in a multi-temporal present which explores time as one explores a house whose labyrinthine structure is crystlline, and whose rooms indicate moments of time. A film which takes this to the next level, for Deleuze, is Alain Resnais’ Last Year at Marienbad, in which the protagonists explore a variety of virtual scenarios, what Leibniz would call ‘incompossible’ combinations of events, each of which present alternative futures and pasts, many of which could not exist at the same time. For Deleuze, Resnais’ film presents us with one of the most advanced images of the crystalline form of time appropriate to the postwar age.

Videogames present perhaps some of the most advanced forms of crystalline narration available today, in forms which go beyond the inherent linearity of time within film. Many contemporary videogames present the player with virtual worlds which are like Leibniz’s combinatory of possible worlds as presented in his Monadology (leading Ken Wark, in Gamer Theory, to refer to Leibniz’s God as a sort of cosmological video-game programer).. Key events lead to forking paths which separate the world of play into parallel realities, only one of which the player can follow at a time, but which by playing multiple times and making multiple choices, allow for an exploration of incompossible parallel realities. Such an approach uses a linear formation to explore the potential permutations of time as algorithm, as spatio-temporal crystal. What’s more, on the level of the code whereby the game itself operates, the form of the database generates this time-as-crystal via a mode of production whose form is analogous to its content. The crystal is in many senses the form of time, or as Mikhail Bakhtin would say, the ‘chronotope’ of our networked digital age.

What’s more, there seems to be something fundamental about this form of time in relation to contemporary quantum physics, which seems to increasingly lend support to the notion that quantum states are able to explore multiple spatiotemporal potentials before they actualize. Many physicists seem to feel that it is only our macroscopic time which works in linear fashion, and even then, physicists argue that this linearity likely breaks down at extreme conditions, where it returns to more ’spatial’ forms. Black holes and singularities destroy the distinction between macro and micro/quantum, dragging time and space back into a sort of pre-individuated (or as Whitehead would say, pre-’extended’) state. According to many contemporary theorists, were it not for the flow of energy (negentropy) in our universe, time might not in fact have an ‘arrow’ or direction at all. From such a perspective, ‘time’ is fundamentally multi-directional, it only takes on linearity in specific situations. Our contemporary cultural mileu may in many senses then be a return or resonant echo, if on a more macro level, of what exists as our quantum foundation. [For more info on all of this, see a text like Paul Davies' About Time: Einstein's Unfinished Revolution, or recent books by Huw Pryce or Julian Barbour].

All of which, surprisingly perhaps, brings us to Hegel. Few thinkers would seem, at first glance, more contrary to this form of networked, spatialized time than that of Hegel. The thinker of the dialectic, of the linear progress of time, Hegel seems the thinker of the linear flow of temporal par excellence. And yet I feel that Hegel has much to teach us about what it means to think the potentials of this seemingly ‘new’ type of temporal form.

Many miss the non-linear side of Hegel’s approach to temporality, his ‘database’ side, if you will, because they put the emphasis of their readings on the early parts of his texts at the expense of their ends. And this makes sense: Hegel’s books are beyond dense, long, and arduous – they are filled with abstruse digressions into outdated scientific topics which may or may not turn out to be essential to later parts of the argument. Reading Hegel is an exercise in frustration (with perhaps the Encyclopedia Logic being the quickest of the bunch, and that’s not saying much). But for those who do get to the end of one of his works, the fact that the temporal model outlined at the start of his works, one in which linearity prevails, is itself made by the end to seem overly simple, and in fact, is a key insight. While at the start of Hegel’s work, linearity prevails, by the end, not only does spatiality prevail, but it is shown to be that from which linearity emerges.

The implications of this might not only be useful in regard to furthering our understanding of what might be at stake with database forms of temporality, but in regard to contemporary theory. Slavoj Zizek’s highly influential reading of Hegel as a thinker of the radical split, of the fundamental dehiscience of the now, hinges upon a very particular reading of Hegel’s relation to time. My sense is that this ek-static, contemporary reading of Hegel is as one-sided as those which reduce him to simple linearity.

As I’ve argued in previous posts, Hegel’s works are written in performative fashion. What this means in regard to time is that time in fact operates, both as described and as deployed, in a different manner in all the three parts of any of his books. In the Logic (either version, Encyclopedia or Science of), Hegel emphasizes that the movement of time between the moments presented in his first section, on ‘Being’, is that of ‘passage’ between distinct and separated entities. In the second section, on ‘Essence,’ time is presented as a splitting of the present into the virtual experience of a part of the present which is past and one which is the future, both of which are contained within the present. This is the form of time privileged by Zizek, in which the past is always a nostalgic fantasy, and the future always an wishful illusion. The model of time operating within the final section of Hegel’s Logic is that of the ‘Concept’. This is for Hegel the more ultimate form of time, one which encompasses the other two in their disjunct unity. For the Hegel the Concept is that which gives rise to time: it is not only the splitting of the now into past/present, nor the passage of time between past, present, and future, but the unity and difference of these two approaches within a sort of ‘disjunct-unity’ which does not merely ‘move’ in time, or ’split’ itself in time, but is in fact all of these as unified and different at the same ‘time.’ The concept, for Hegel, presents us with an atemporal genesis of time itself.

But what exactly does this mean? For Hegel, each part of his work not only describes the aspect in question, such as ‘Being’, ‘Essence’, or ‘Concept’, but also the parts thereof – parts which are composed of the approaches to the world described in ‘earlier’ parts of the text. Thus, ‘Being’ is described three times – once in the section on Being, then seen through the lens of Essence, and then again both of these preceding approaches to Being are recast from the perspective of the Concept. Thus, not only does ‘Being’ change along the way, retroactively reworked, but it shows three different faces, so to speak, the final form of which contains the preceding two. The result is that Hegel’s books are like fractals, they are expansively ’self-similar’ up and down at multiple levels of scale. But if we are to understand them at the level which he considers the most fundamental, that of the concept, we need understand them as self-similar not only within each section, but between them as well. The result is that his books necessarily need to be read, and the model of time presented therein understood, as structured around a far more complex model of time than has generally been thought.

For in fact, if we read Hegel’s book as presenting simply three models of time – Being (progression), Essence (splitting), and Concept (atemporal genesis) – we in fact read the three sections merely under the mode of thought appropriate to the first section of the work, that is, the ‘lens’ of Being. We hypostatize the three forms, without considering them through the lenses of Essence or the Concept. If we then try to fix this by viewing the three approaches to time (Being, Essence, and Concept) through the lens of Essence, we get another three models of time – Being (progression as produced from an original scission which is its essence, thereby giving rise to all three models presented under the lens of Being – Zizek’s reading of Hegel, as it were), Essence (a scission of time into a progression and atemporal genesis, thereby giving rise to all three models presented under the lens of Being), and Concept (a scission which gives rise to progression, scission, and atemporal genesis, thereby giving rise to all the previous models . . .).

Taking this chain of logic to its final, hypercomplex conclusion, we need to be able to see how this all plays out form the perspective of the Concept – Being (a progression through all three models of time till we finally understand it as atemporal genesis, thereby giving rise to the previous models – the common caricature of how Hegel’s works function), Essence (a series of intertwining scissions leading up to the folding of atemporal genesis into itself, thereby giving rise to the previous models . . .), and finally, well, the most fundamental model of all, or the Concept of time as understood under the lens of the Concept itself. But what might this be?

The Concept of Time under the form of the Concept is in fact rather similar to what quantum physicists might describe as the varying modes of the disjunct-relation between micro and macroscopic levels of time. That is, the time of the Concept, understood ‘Conceptually’, is in fact all the other eight models just mentioned, all at once, both understood as unity (Being), giving rise to each other (Essence), and Concept (as all of these both in unity and difference).That is, we have yet another fractal threefold division of what previously seemed to be the final category.

In the first of these (or the Concept of time under the form of Being), we see what in fact corresponds to what we have discussed in the first part of this post, namely, time as combinatory – database time. But what in fact might lie beyond this? This is where Hegel may be useful to help us think beyond the time of the database. Continuing this line of logic, the second approach to the time of the Concept (this time viewed under the scission of Essence), views time as giving rise to itself from the atemporal. That is, this approach concerns how time comes to be by means of the splitting of itself from the atemporal from which it emerges and will return. This is precisely what quantum physicists describe when the discuss transitions from quantum multi-temporality to and from macroscopic linearity. But what is the last, keystone approach to the notion of time, that is, the Concept of time, viewed Conceptually? It is all of these, all at once. It is as if one could be like a quantum particle, in many places at once, all of these approaches incompossible yet folded into each other, but then also be like a macroscopic entity as well, differentiated in each of the preceding forms. At once temporal and atemporal, both within the database and outside it, flowing yet spatialized, this notion of time is more than just the combinatory, but a combinatory which thinks itself and is the knowing of itself at every level of scale, in all its unities and differences.

And this in fact helps us understand precisely what is at stake with the Hegelian notion of what it means to ‘know’. The word in German for ‘the Concept’ (often unfortunately translated as ‘Notion’) is Begriff. Derived from the verb greifen (to grasp), a literal translation of a ‘the Concept’ is as a ‘grasping’. Any introductory reading of Hegel presents this basic translational quirk which is difficult to render in everyday English. But as some scholars have argued, this grasping can also be translated as ‘the knowing’. And in fact, that is precisely what Hegel aims to produce with his works. Knowing is more than a thing, or process, or even a database. It is rather the interplay, intertwining, and interpenetration of all these levels. Hegel’s model of time is thus much more than a simple combinatory, going beyond this to what might best be described as a sort of hyper-complex, video-game-like ‘crystal’ of time in the process of ‘playing’ itself – even as it is ‘writing’ itself – and all at the same time and separately, and all the states in between. And here we see precisely why Hegel’s texts are necessarily performative, because language itself begins to break down in any attempt to simply describe such a supra-linear, and hence supra-linguistic, concept of time.

Many contemporary post-structuralist approaches to time, which are much more limited than that presented by Hegel, can perhaps learn much from such an approach. And this in fact seems where a thinker like Deleuze, who in most of his works presents time as a Bergsonian flow of duration, may be going in his later works, with his notions of time as crystal or network of Leibnizian worlds. From such a perspective, the Bergsonian and Zizekian approaches, as well as many others, including that of the databse, are included as elements/moments (whatever such terms might mean within the model of temporal/atemporal knowing presented by Hegel). And perhaps this truly provides us with, to use a much maligned word, a ‘post-modern’ approach to the issue of time, one which no longer asks which form of time is true, but which, in a given situation, works.

And is this not the situation we see in contemporary videogames, in which chronotopes of various sorts expand and contract, putting us at one ‘moment’ in the mode of collecting coins while a clock ticks down, another moment frozen into a section of cinematic interaction while watching ourselves linearly unfurl from a distance, another moment exploring the multiple pathways of a game as so many incompossible futures, even as pulling back into special screens to modify our parameters as time is paused? Hegel’s time is video-game time, and increasingly, perhaps, it is the time we live.

Welcome to the chronotope of the digital age.

Voto: 7 (su 10)

“La mia luce è la verità”. Lo dice Tetro, impersonato da Vincent Gallo, il protagonista del nuovo film di Francis Ford Coppola, Segreti di famiglia (Tetro in originale), mentre sta curando le luci di uno spettacolo teatrale. Ma potrebbero essere le parole di Coppola stesso. Tetro ama giocare con la luce, perché così crea un mondo, perché la cosa gli dà potere. Tutto questo è in fondo il desiderio di ogni regista. In particolare del nuovo Francis Ford Coppola, che da Un’altra giovinezza in poi ha imboccato la via di un cinema indipendente e personale. Che ha a che fare, eccome, con la luce: con un gioco di parole, Tetro potrebbe diventare “retro”, nel senso che è girato in un bianco e nero scintillante e ricco di contrasti che si rifà a film d’altri tempi come Fronte del porto di Elia Kazan, e anche al suo Rusty il selvaggio, l’unico altro film che Coppola girò in bianco e nero. E di cui Segreti di famiglia potrebbe essere il figlio: anche questa è una storia di fratelli. Bennie, 17 anni, arriva a Buenos Aires alla ricerca del fratello maggiore Tetro, che non vede da dieci anni. Tetro è scontroso, ha lasciato di New York per fuggire da un padre autoritario. Ed è di questo che parla il romanzo che ha scritto, in codice, che l’ha portato quasi alla pazzia e che custodisce gelosamente. Bennie prova a leggerlo, e a farne un’opera teatrale.

“Quello che si dice non è importante: il linguaggio è morto”. Sono più importanti le immagini o le parole? Se lo chiedono spesso i personaggi del film di Coppola. Che sembra propendere nettamente per le immagini, sin dagli affascinanti titoli di testa. Ma più che l’immagine in sé, Coppola sembra volere difendere un modo di fare cinema libero, in cui l’immagine abbia la precedenza, e il racconto non debba per forza essere quello lineare e più scontato del cinema mainstream. Il romanzo di Tetro è scritto al contrario e in codice. Toccherà a Bennie decifrarlo. E attraverso le sue parole proverà a decifrare l’anima del fratello. Così è il nuovo cinema di Coppola, più criptico e meno immediato di quello di un tempo. Anche l’opera di Coppola in un certo senso va decriptata, decifrata, decodificata. C’è, nella storia, la sua anima: non si tratta di un’opera autobiografica, ma di un film che porta in sé tanti temi della sua vita. E c’è nella forma visiva, fatta quasi sempre di inquadrature fisse (magistrale quella in cui Tetro/Vincent Gallo è fuori campo e la sua voce “parla” attraverso la sua ombra riflessa sul muro) o in cui la macchina da presa si muove pochissimo, l’amore per il cinema di maestri come Antonioni, Kurosawa e Kazan.

È meno potente, il Coppola di oggi, rispetto a opere come Il padrino e Apocalypse Now. E forse le sue opere necessiterebbero di una maggior coesione. Ma il suo cinema sembra quello di un giovane. Segreti di famiglia mescola dramma, farsa, romanzo di formazione e anche un tocco di noir, con scene lineari e pulite e altre movimentate e teatrali che potrebbero essere uscite dal primo Almodovar come da La dolce vita di Fellini. Quella di Coppola è davvero, per citare il titolo del film che ha segnato il suo ritorno, Un’altra giovinezza: Coppola ha la voglia di sperimentare e la passionalità di un autore ventenne. Youth Without Youth, recitava il titolo originale di quel film: è proprio giovane senza esserlo Coppola, perché la sua vitalità prescinde dall’età anagrafica. “Brama di vagare”, si chiama l’opera di Tetro che viene messa in scena. Anche queste parole sono un altro segnale del senso del cinema di questo autore: Coppola e il suo cinema bramano di vagare tra le loro storie, tra i generi cinematografici, tra i paesi del mondo cinematograficamente più giovani per trovare linfa vitale. Dopo la Romania di Un’altra giovinezza, ora c’è l’Argentina di Segreti di famiglia. In ogni caso siamo lontani, lontanissimi, da Hollywood.  

Da vedere perchè: Coppola e il suo cinema bramano di vagare tra le loro storie, tra i generi e tra i paesi del mondo. Lontano da Hollywood.

(Pubblicato su Movie Sushi)

Cualquiera que me conozca un poco sabe que soy un enamorado del cine y de la música; dos pasiones sin las que se me haría muy difícil vivir. Y con el reciente trailer de NINE me han puesto los dientes largos, muy largos, qué le vamos a hacer.

La historia de este musical está inspirada en la película “8 y 1/2″ de Federico Fellini y es la adaptación de un éxito teatral de los 80. El director es Rob Marshall, que ya hizo antes “Chicago” y “Memorias de una Geisha” y tiene todo a su favor para tener una presencia más que notable en la próxima entrega de los Oscar.

En Venecia, Guido Contini, director de cine, atraviesa por una crisis artística y personal durante el rodaje de su última película. Mientras tanto, sopesa el papel que juegan las mujeres más importantes de su vida: su mujer (Marion Cotillard), su amante (Penélope Cruz), su musa cinematográfica (Nicole Kidman), su diseñadora de vestuario (Judi Dench), una periodista de moda (Kate Hudson), una prostituta a la que acudía cuando era joven (Stacy Ferguson) y su madre (Sofía Loren). Daniel Day Lewis será el afortunado protagonista, papel que rechazó Javier Bardem, al que acompañará tan impresionante reparto femenino, la mayoría de ellas ganadoras de un Óscar.

Ya sólo con ver el trailer (aquí) o el video con los ensayos (aquí) uno tiene ganas de que llegue el 22 de enero. Mira, un buen regalo de cumpleaños.

j’avais quand même un peu la trouille. Des interview, je sais comment m’y prendre même avec des coriaces comme la Contesse M. mais en public ce n’est pas la même chose.

Et puis j’ai eu l’impression de courir, et de ne pas laisser assez de temps à Dominique. C’est en fait le temps qui m’angoissait.

Je m’aperçois qu’on était dans le noir, surtout Dominique.

Guillaume qui disait les textes, s’est bien défendu je trouve.

J’aurais dû ne pas aborder du tout la Dolce Vita. Mais bon, c’est fait. Bien contente qu’il y ait eu tout ce monde. Pas mal de personnes n’ont pu entrer.

Donc, je quitte le tournage!!!

Reçu un mail très touchant de DD ce matin.

Bon, maintenant ça me fait bizarre . Il faut commencer autre chose ou plutôt continuer , reprendre.

Je pense toujours aux contes d’Hoffman-à cette idée avec C-mais pas réalisable parce que trop cynique, voudrais regarder le Narcisse Noir de Powell, aller à la piscine, me faire un café.

Hier M et E sont venus mais je n’ai pu les suivre après. R. est rentré vite avec la crève.

I was sitting here this afternoon, watching previews online for the upcoming film Nine, which is a sort-of remake of/homage to Fellini’s 8 ½, a classic and one of my favorites of all time (it comes out at Christmas). But I was trying to figure out just why that was – what about it is so imperfectly beautiful to me, makes me feel like (although it’s in Italian) it’s in my own personal language, it’s not just a movie that I get, but I feel like it’s a movie that gets me. Do you have a film that’s like that? I can only hope that you do.

So I was trying to boil it down, unravel the story in my mind and all the fantastic singular moments. And what I realized is that it’s a film without a love story. It has romance, and it’s sexy, and it has a marriage and an affair and countless fantasies, but it commits to the person at the center of them, not to one particular relationship working out. And maybe that’s what makes it special, different. The film is a whole series of relationships and plotlines (much like La Dolce Vita), with no definitive answer of which is right – and isn’t that how most of us experience our choices? We have options, ups and downs, but ultimately the one we’re committed to is ourself, married, divorced, parent or not.

I don’t like most film love stories, where you’re rooting for the couple to finally get together, or to break up for good and finally be happy on their own. I mean I watch them, because that’s what most films are like, but they’re not my ideal. I can’t get wrapped up in the romance of it. Because life isn’t like that, the happy ending is a lie. Not to say that there aren’t ways to end up happy in life, but the next morning after that Hollywood happy ending, the characters would wake up, and maybe they’d be stressed because of work, or maybe they’d argue and make up all over again, and that’s just the way it is. Maybe five years down the road they’d divorce, and that would be the right thing at the time too.

But 8 ½ isn’t like that. It’s about work and love all wrapped up together. It’s about uncertainty and indecision and inaction and misdirected passion, and those moments when you know you’re moving in the wrong direction but you don’t know how to get out. As abstract as it is, it is so real. The final scene of the film (and I’m not giving much away here) is a sort of parade of all the people in the life of a single mind – the ones you let down, and the ones who were never really there at all – and isn’t that how we all are? No matter what we always have all our memories, all our relationships and accomplishments and failures, there, co-existing and pulling us in different directions, no matter where you place the arbitrary curtain drop in your story. And maybe it’s just me, but there’s something imperfectly beautiful about that.

Que cela se passe d’une manière ou bien d’une autre ce soir prendra fin mon indigestion Fellini.

Bonne saturation, car j’ai souvent souri, souvent ri en regardant des extraits de castings désopilants.

Et puis le fameux UNO DUE qui est mon top 5O, lorsque FF dirige un type à la tête incroyable. C’est extraordinaire.

Cela réconcilie avec tout.

Ma crainte pour tout à l’heure c’est d’avoir “trop ” de choses. Hier j’ai rendu une petite visite à D. pour lui rendre ses dessins de FF. Quand il n’y a pas de musique chez lui, c’est comme s’il manquait quelqu’un.

Il y a la petite table ronde près de la fenêtre. J’y vois Tati et Fellini. Et la maman de Dominique.

J’y entends le récit du mage que l’on verra plus tard dans Cabiria. Une scène exceptionnelle de celles que je préfère. Le prestidigitateur, qui vient direct de Luci di Varieta et compagnie.

Parfois je repense à JMR qui avait ce côté là, un peu tragique . ce que j’aimais aussi c’est sont habit blanc éclatant dans la lumière et qui de près laissait voir le fond de teint épais, par traces ici ou là.,le col sali; Lorsqu’on se retrouvait près du bar, et qu’il parlait avec cette voix “rocailleuse”

Bref chez Dominique il y a un lustre avec des fausses bougies qui vacillent. J’aime bien

( Roger entre et me dit: Je me suis fait une épée. je ris et il part répéter )

Hier Christophe est venu trop gentiment m’aider à préparer un DVD de sécurité. Moi, sur DVD studio pro j’avais fait comme dab. Mais ce n’est pas si simple et ça marchait moche. Passer par compressor, faire des réglages. Entre un thé puis un peu de vin, un cannelé puis un toast au tarama.

Demain j’irai à la piscine et à Argenteuil pour reprendre tout ce qui est en cours.. Préparer les dessins etc

The 2010 Courier Mail Good Food and Wine Guide was released recently with a handful of GC restaurants garnering a well-earned star or 2 or in Absynthe’s case…3

Along with Absynthe (3 stars) Ristorante Fellini (2 stars) and Vanitas (2 stars) were the only other eateries to notch multiple accolades.  Chill on Tedder, Darcy’s, Songbirds in the Forest and V Bar (Versace) each were awarded 1.

The Fellini Team

Co-owner of Ristorante Fellini Tony Percuoco said it was great to see so many Gold Coast restaurants awarded star ratings, a testament to the evolving food quality and service the city offers.  “I am passionate about the Gold Coast restaurant industry and believe the city should be proud of its portfolio of quality restaurants. We are very honoured to be recognised as one of the city’s best.”

Owner of Absynthe, Meyjitte Boughenhout deserves some well-earned respect and support to be awarded the highest among our cities restaurants, while Daran Glasgow of Chill on Tedder is proving hard work and dedication pays off with his 1 star.

Absynthe owner - Michelin starred Meyjitte Boughenout..The Courier Mail Good Food and Wine Guide has awarded him 3 stars

These top-tier establishments seem to always crop up in the discussion of where to find our cities best food, wine and service. All must be visited to sample what a restaurant should deliver when dining out.

For the record Brisbane’s relative newcomer The Buffalo Club was awarded the top gong in categories of Restaurant of the Year and also Chef of the Year. Ryan Squires (chef) is a man with impeccable pedigree. He has seen time in the kitchens of not 1, but 2 of America’s dining institutions, Thomas Keller’s The French Laundry in The Napa Valley and New Yorks’s Per Se.

I.

The spring of 2015 is when Emma and I will meet. It will be at Elton John’s Oscar party. Emma will be cavorting with a group of her friends, one of them nominated and winning Best Supporting Actress. It will shock the world. Their group will trot about with Emma being dragged around. The friend wields the statuette like an axe and gets her photo taken. Emma will be trying to quell her jealous feelings. She will believe she is bored. I, who will not be working in Hollywood, but will know many of the powerful figures in the industry, will be sitting with my good friend Robert DeNiro and what will be left of his inner circle. I will be drinking a whisky sour, as I will have rejected clear liquor at this point in my life. Emma will be wearing a svelte black cocktail dress, her breasts accentuated by the firmness of the fabric. She will be drinking chardonnay. She will be trying now, at this important junction of her young career, to be considered not merely a beautiful young movie star, but rather a beautiful actress. She will be fighting for the role in the next Neil Simon adaptation, playing a tortured young transvestite, coming to grips with her fathers recent suicide, which or may not have been about her characters sexual identification. She is hoping she will be the one carrying a statuette at this time next year. As of the spring of 2015, she will have been considered a shiny piece of meat, bombarded with stiff drinks and high compliments in routine attempts to get into her pants. She wouldn’t mind meeting a more serious man, a creative man, who could assist in her elevation into a more respected level. Plus the boys, the parties, and unfortunately, the drugs, do not seem to be filling the empty gaps in her existence.

The Best Supporting Actress winner will burst into the conversation at our table, which is not uncommon considering the self-complimenting nature of the Oscars. As the Best Supporting Actress winner interrupts Bob’s anecdote about waking up with Peter Lorre and missing a digit on his hand, I will gaze off into the chandeliers, and exhale my cigarette wistfully. I will be satisfied with my decision to distance myself from Hollywood, but also happy to be able to visit; to remind myself of the fortunes in my own life. I will think of one of my cats, a stray I picked up and named Crayon, and imagine what he must be doing at that future date. After the Best Supporting Actress winner leaves to go on enjoying the highest point in her career, Emma will stay behind to catch up with Bob, good friends from their recent remake of Pearl Harbor, in which Emma reprised the role portrayed by the recent Kate Beckinsale and Bob playing the role of FDR. The film will be met with near universal acclaim, and will be nominated for multiple awards to be handed out this very evening.

And as she kisses Bob on his wrinkly cheek and turns to leave, she will notice me, in the corner, still looking off wistfully and meaningfully, and think to herself “My god? Who is that stunning creature?” However, the Best Supporting Actress winner will pull Emma away, and she will look over her shoulder three times, trying to capture a mental image of my frame for later, when she will approach me, a when she will not know. I will notice her ogling me. I will always be fond of prime numbers.

Emma will approach me seventeen minutes later, as I get up to stretch my legs and retrieve a handful of drinks for myself. She will swear later, many months later, during an intimate moment in bed, that she could see into my soul at that moment, when our eyes first met.

And she will say that what she saw was a gentle, brave and lovely man, one that she may very well love forever.

And she will be half-right. She will have seen into my soul. But, from my perspective, at that moment, our eyes did not meet. My eyes will have been following a curvy young caterer’s frame, and my mind will be planning out what gratuitous thing I will say to her to her in twenty-three minutes to coerce her into coming into the walk-in freezer with me to engage in coitus against the vegetable counters, with a chair propped under the wide door handles. The caterer will not want to lose her job over a spontaneous fling, but she will find my charm irresistible, and her supervisor will later find dollops of tomatoes all along the floors of the freezer. Such is the rollercoaster of life.

To my future surprise, when Emma will approach me, the very first thing she says will be “Just what do you think you’re looking at?” in a wispy, overtly sexual voice. And my mind will mentally scramble, thinking maybe she is hitting on me, or maybe she noticed my stealth-like leering, but my face won’t show this debate. I will take a gamble. “You, beautiful.” She will smile; flashing her gums and running her tongue across her front teeth, quickly and tempestuously, narrowing her eyes.

“Can I get you a drink?”

II.

About a month or so into our relationship, I won’t be able to ascertain for sure in the future- as my conception of time will be completely warped from an incident in which a young man, who I exchanged unkind words with, will stab me in the temporal lobe with a salad fork- I will take Emma to the opera.

My third novel, Time, and Its Death (A Vacuum, A Seal, A Corset), will have just been published, and the media storm will be in full swing. The critical consensus will be divided- it’s wide lyrical scope will be interpreted as a cruel joke on readers. The characters, each one killed and resurrected as one of the other characters, and then killed and resurrected as one of the more obscure Muppets will be considered one of the great metaphors in art for the oneness of humanity, although it will remain altogether very beguiling to readers. The New York Times Book Review will say like “Rosencrantz and Gildenstern if Stoppard did brown-brown and went on vision quests.” In private circles, most critics will admit adoring the lyrical prose paired with the unflinching sparseness of the third-person descriptions. They will also admit, to publishing their negative reviews in complicity with the future conspiracy that will be paid by my publishers to further publicity for the work. The majority of the critics will also admit to not having even finished the 4,498 pages that will comprise the work, much less parsing the introduction. This will not be due to a lack of understanding, but due to a disabling amount of patience, not wanting to waste the joyful experience of reading due to some asshole editor’s deadline.

I will be taking Emma to the opera to lift her spirits. The day before she will have lost out on the part in the Simon adaptation to Abigail Breslin, that snotty little bitch, we will agree. The opera date is a surprise. She thinks that Elektra is her favorite, but it is truly mine, and convinced her that it is hers. I will personally feel, yet of course will not communicate to Emma, that Breslin isn’t just better for the part, but a better looking person, and actress, if not person, in sum. I will not able for sure to ascertain that final fact for a few months, as I will not be able to return Breslin’s frantic and steamy voicemails in a timely fashion. Emma will be attached to my hip, against my will, since we meet. I haven’t decided how I feel about her company, outside of the sex.

Our seats will be in the sixth row, in the center of the aisle. During the opera, she lean into my shoulder, and firmly nuzzle into place there, and I will smile. A few times, Emma will pet my bicep or begin to kiss the fabric on my forearm, and I will casually shoo her away, and will quietly communicate to her that she is distracting me from enjoying the show to its fullest. It will be a rare thing to see James Gandolfini and Michael Cera perform opera together.

During the second hour of the performance, she will take a tactile attempt to fellate me. I will push her away, bit-lip red with embarrassment and march out of the show, my head slung low, trying to avoid a scene. Emma will follow, holding her evening gown up, so not to trip or sully the fabric, and whisper-yell to me to get my attention, so she can apologize properly. I will ignore her and continue marching.
Prince William will notice we are beginning to make a scene, the who’s-who of the crowd will point and look at us as we leave, and the Prince will stand up to assuage me, he will know how short my temper can be, and his face will look indignant. I will wave him off, and he will slowly sit back down, making the phone-hand with his thumb and pinky, mouthing for me to call him when I get the chance. I will try not to roll my eyes, and I nod at him in acknowledgment.

Emma will apologize profusely, explaining that she just wanted to show me how much I meant to her, and what she would do for me, without my asking, and how it didn’t matter who saw, she just wanted to do it, she wanted the whole world to know how passionately she felt for me, so why not now. I will tell her first that I love her, and that I appreciate the gesture, but she needed to understand that I did care who saw. She will nod knowingly, and I will wipe a single tear from her eye. She will buy me two beers from a tavern a few blocks away and I allow her to fellate me in the taxi on the way back to my west side loft.

So is life.

III.

Against my initial wishes, during the summer of 2015, Emma will move into my house in the Pacific Northwest. My spare room, a space previously designated for nomads, jilted lovers, vengeance-seeking lovers, wandering animals, and close friends to sleep in, will be taken over by her collection of rare and antique stuffed animals and the pile of fan mail she has received over the course of her career.

This will became her sort of ‘safe place’ during the times that I will upset her, which will be often, considering life-style choices and living situation when she will move in. I will not have revealed to her that I chop wood in the living room while I am asleep, and also awake, completely dependant on the events of my dreams or the fluctuations of my mood, something a medical professional will diagnose as ‘schizophrenic’ in 2021. I will also then be staging my undisciplined creative endeavor of recreating Fellini Satryicon with a group of elderly Philippino women who speak no English, and had only seen the bizarre source material once, on a small television set with no sound on. The point, and quality of this work will be grasped by very few, deservedly.

Unfortunately for Emma, sweet patient Emma, this stage of our relationship will coincide with the first peak of my infamous addiction to morphine of 2014-2017, something I will have kept under wraps pretty well I imagine. However I will need her to bathe me, change me and provide me with my limited nutrition, which will consist of saltines with feta cheese, bananas, airline peanuts and brown rice. I will see this as one of the few ‘upsides’ of her moving in – that I could release Henrietta, my Swedish nurse and save a few dollars. I will be suspicious that was stealing from me. Upon opening her coffin my suspicions will be confirmed.

One of the ‘upsides’ for Emma will be that she will not be present for the famous morphine addiction of 2021-2024, which will prove to be fatal, albeit temporarily.

And when she is upset, and in her ‘safe place,’ she will read the fan mail, and remember when she was young and nubile, and unconditionally loved. She will feel small against the crushing tidal wave of the adult world, and feel she cannot handle it. And in the moments when she hates me to the very core, and whenever I am coherent and sober enough to stand up and take care of myself, I will present her with an ice mocha latte, a Star magazine and a container of JuJuBee’s; her three favorites. I’ll remind her that I love her, and that I am completely dependent on her, and without her, my work, integral to the future of art, and culture itself, would be lost.

IV.

In the fall of 2015, I will pack my things, and leave for my winter retreat, with my partner in creative expression, Sir Richard Van Diesendorg and his alluring mute wife Purra. It will become our annual tradition to stay at my cabin, in an undisclosed location, and brainstorm potential future accomplishments. Emma, understandably, will not be invited, and I will impolitely inform her of this fact minutes before we leave the house. The preceding days will have been my detox from a three week cocaine-orgy-meth binge. I will be a little on edge and still unable to feel my left hand. Emma will be beginning to move her bags from our room when I tell her. She will cry, and I will explain to her that I need someone, someone important, to watch over my four beloved cats – Crayon, Fernando, Albert and the newest addition to the family Xxyuog, whom Purra playfully named.

I will explain that if I feel they are in danger or unsafe in any way whatsoever, it will comprise the integrity of my fragile creative mind. She will not understand why we can’t just hire a nanny, or ask the neighbors to come over, what with my unending funds and countless friends, why does Emma need to watch over the cats? She will be completely right. My assertion will make zero sense. But I however, will become oblivious to common sense, as additional side effect from the salad fork incident, immortalized in an SNL sketch.

She will say she wants to be with me, that she wants to watch my genius unfold. I will be understandably flattered, and even briefly consider allowing her to come. Then I will remember that she will more than likely see Purra and I engaged in some unimaginably fantastic gymnastic-like coitus, where I am practically pounding Purra into the fucking ceiling, and that may upset Emma and infuriate her with jealously. I will not want to upset her. I will care about her. I will love her after all. I will sigh and look down at the marble floor, and I will feel a pain in my huge loving heart, enlarged from years of chronic alcoholism and loving too much. I will feel that small segment tear.
“Em,” I will say “This just isn’t the year. The Guggenheim is all up my ass for something bold and exciting, and I gotta deliver. Next year for sure.” And we will deliver. The art world will be shattered when “The Great Pantomime” is first exhibited in Dubai. It will be a 50m installation art piece. It will consist of Richard, Purra’s and yours trulys own vomit and bile from the substance binging during the winter brainstorm, and said vomit will be poured upon a bed of hardcore Turkish pornography and white roses, with the center of the piece being a recreation of Michelangelo’s “David” constituted from cigarette butts and whittlings of squirrels that Richard will be just banging out like every five minutes.

Emma will nod and tears will trickle down her face. I’ll place my thick, tan hands on her thin, beautiful neck and pull her close to me. I will then lick the side of her face, catching some of the tears, with my big pulpy tongue, leaving a trail of saliva embedded with hash resin and bits of brown rice upon her plump, lovely cheek.

“I love you Emma Watson,” I will say. And she will hug me tight, and weep into my chest, muttering nearly incomprehensibly “I understand, go, I understand.”

Crayon will be looking up at us, confused and curious, and will then roll on his , flicking his fat furry tail, playful and lovely, alive and incandescent.

V.
In the spring of 2016, the paparazzo’s fury will reach its peak. At the time of this hoopla, I will be 28 and she 24. The American and British media will theorize that Emma will be the one to tame my wild spirit, or what is reported of it. As time goes on there will be less and less that is dangerous or wildly ascetically experimental for me to engage in, and my known romantic qualities would be due to dominate my needs. And a strong beautiful woman, which Emma surely is, they will say, would ground my life in the best of ways. ‘Why cannot one make convention and tradition dangerous?’ they will say. They will say I am the only man with the potential to do it.

And I will be tamed. I will immerse myself in a life of purity and restraint, under a self-designed monastic discipline. I will abstain from illicit substances, meat, all preservatives and additives, all forms of cheese, socks, television and sexual climax. This last constraint will frustrate Emma immensely, as her principal joy in life will have become my sexual satisfaction. She will find methods of relieving this frustration, dabbling in haiku and skeet shooting, enjoying the meditative qualities of creative composition and the jolt of a rifle against her shoulder. The force will be quite thrilling, feeling a wave of release when hearing the clang and shatter of the clay pigeons.

The media’s central question, after they’ve realized my new dogmatic lifestyle is not temporary, will surround the concept of us marrying; a subject Emma will have never brought up verbally, but will be of evidential stress in her facial patterns and body language, whenever hinted at in social situations. When I see her skin tense up, and her shoulders go rigid, pushing out her breasts – I realize I would be more than happy to enter a binding written partnership contract with her for an indefinite period of time.

I will propose to Emma in the fall, at the previously-secret cabin, and will begrudgingly revise my final constraint, to offer her an avenue of happiness. She will bound up and down, throw her arms around my neck, and wrap her legs around my waist, saying yes, a thousand times yes, a million times yes.

The marriage will mark a new era in her career, she will be offered roles usually only reserved for the Charlize-Theron, Mary-Kate-Olsen or Abigail-Breslin type actress. She will star in the long-troubled Janis Joplin biopic and pick up her long awaited golden statuette, and pick up a second one for her portrayal of Amelia Earhart’s disfigured lesbian lover in the Earhart biopic. She will even receive offers to direct.

However, for myself, the road will not be paved so well. I will complete my directorial debut, The Prior Engagment, which will concern the plight of a fictional Haitian poet, and his phobia of the sun and physical contact, and will receive stunning reviews and bring in another small fortune for my Swiss Bank account. After its release I will begin another personal downward spiral. Whilst at work on my fourth novel, a book with no characters, no discernabe plot, and page upon page of childish-doodles of stick figures fighting battles with tanks, planes and shark-machetes, I will relapse on morphine.

After three months of full-bore abuse, with no sleeping or eating anything beyond saltines, I will be found catatonic in my office and hospitalized. Emma will be away on the shoot for the highly anticipated Pearl Harbor II, and will be frustrated beyond all understandable words that no one in my inner circle had the nerve to call her and tell her about my descent. However, this will not be their fault, as I will have crafted legal-contracts, signed in blood, with their promise not to divulge any of the information regarding my lifestyle choices while she was away. And I will also have threatened to kill them on the off-chance that they decide to break the contracts.

I will remain hospitalized during the Christmas of 2016, and she will keep vigil, having taken a vow of silence and dressed entirely in black. She will wait, for her love to return to her. As time will wear on, she will become more and more frustrated with my unresponsive self. She will think to herself “Why? Why would my lovely James do such self-destructive things, with such talent, with so many lovely people surrounding him?” She will stand up at this point in her thoughts, words hear and there will be spoken aloud “Why did I devote myself to such a man, who after these two years still treats me like a rotten kid, who ignores me, cheats on me, borderline tortures me, and all for what? WHAT?” She will climb on top of my virtually-lifeless body and begin to pound my chest viciously. The nurses will at first move in to stop her, but will understand, and let her continue, “I wish, I wish, that I never spoke to him at that party, I wish I never tolerated all his behavior, I wish that James Case had never been born!” and she will slap me in the face. And my head will slowly turn, brought back to life and look her straight in the eyes. There will be an endless sorrow behind them, needing her. And she will know this. And her questions will be answered.

And she will smile. It will be an hour shy of midnight on New Years Eve. She will smile, and she will cry, and she will tell me that she missed me, and I will apologize, and say I will never do another drug again, and that I love her, and a priest will then enter our room, and perform the ceremony as I lay in bed, unable to stand from the protein deposits in my knees. The MS patient I will share the room with and one of the nurses will act as the witnesses. And Emma will be happy. And after she sees my body return to life, she will have forgotten all of her protests, all her complaints, because my living presence will wash her mind clean.

She will exclaim that she’s never been happier, and that she loves me, endlessly.

And “I know,” will be my reply, as the nurses leave after we take our vows.

C’est le printemps.

On ne peut pas dire que je sois trop bavarde ces temps-ci. Le passage de G. puis la préparation pour Mardi.

Reprise du tennis cet aprem. Je me suis dit qu’on verrait bien. Pas si simple après l’arrêt de 6 mois et encore mal au bras malgré le kiné.

Je me demande si je ne vais pas ouvrir la fenêtre. Petite indigestion Fellinienne je dois dire. Demain je dois appeler la librairie de la cinémathèque. les nuits de Cabiria que j’ai ( René Chateau sont en Français, autant dire l’horreur)FNAC idem. Le type appelle un autre magasin

-Tu aurais les nuits de..; De Ca-ri-bia !

Bon Caribia ou Cabiria, ça ne me donne rien.

Comme R. est au festival deSarlat, je viens de manger une soupe chez le Viet désert.

Bon. J’arrête. trop ennuyeux ce que je raconte; Je vais plutôt aller décrocher ces tableaux pendant que R. est parti.

.

Museu de Cinema de Melgaço – ticket: 1€

More than thirty years ago a French cinephile met a Portuguese couple and accepted their proposition to spend holidays in Melgaço. His name was Jean-Loup Passek, he was responsible for the International Festival of La Rochelle, a cinema counselor at the Georges Pompidou Centre, wrote a Cinema Dictionary (“Dictionnaire du Cinema” edited by Larousse) and coordinated the “Camera d’Or” award in the Cannes Festival. It seems he was so much charmed by the town that some say he mentioned the ideia of creating a museum dedicated to the 7^th art in his first visit.

The Cinema Museum of Melgaço contains all the donated private collection of Jean-Loup Passek. I was told that the first room is permanent and the rest keeps rotating every week or two.

First Room

 In the first room you’ll find XIX century objects, previous to the invention of the cinematograph by the Lumière brothers, like magic lanterns and others with strange names like “Zoetrope”, “Praxinoscope”, “Phenakistoscope“ or “Phantascope”. Not only are these old inventions of technique and science but also the testimony of the search of new ways of entertainment and of manipulating perception by Mankind.

La Dolce Vita poster

After the first room, when I visited the museum, the rest of the exposition was dedicated to the Italian director Federico Fellini (1920 – 1993), with film posters, photos and even a letter from the director to Jean-Loup Passek. As said before, this section changes periodically.

The museum also features a small “viewing room” with chairs facing a screen hanging in front of the exposed Castle wall. The screen displays short films of Charlie Chaplin and of Buster Keaton, among others.

The museum is located in Old Town – Vila – Melgaço. For more info check other posts under the “Melgaço” category like THIS ONE.

“8½? Non, le vrai chef-d’oeuvre est Amarcord“¹ (Sidney Lumet)

Vu les titres de la presse italienne ce matin, le gros tas de boue déversé ce week-end de part et d’autre et le relent toujours plus fascisant -ou simplement fasciste- et inquiétant de la presse du patron (Il Giornale), il apparaît salutaire, pour commencer la semaine, de ne relever que la page 34 de La Stampa: une intervention de Sidney Lumet, à Rimini, où le réalisateur recevait le prix Fellini, du nom de l’un des plus grands réalisateurs de l’histoire du cinéma italien, qui sut lui évoquer le fascisme, d’ailleurs*, dans Amarcord.

“J’adore Amarcord, comme j’aime Satyricon et Roma, alors qu’en vieillissant 8½ s’éloigne un peu, ne semble plus ce qu’il était alors, bien que nous parlons ici de la différence qu’il y a entre ce qui est grand et ce qui magnifique. (Sidney Lumet)

Amarcord (musica di Nino Rota)

* Amarcord (trailer américain)

Nebbia (brouillard)

Tutti al mare!

“Voglio un donna” (“je veux une femme!”)

aEc

¹ “Amarcord” signifie, en dialecte romagnolo (de Rimini, région Romagna) : “Mi ricordo”, c’est à dire “je me souviens“.

Hace una semana vi Julie & Julia, la nueva película de Nora Ephron y que además es la primera “major motion picture” que gira en torno a un blog.

Lo primero que hice, naturalmente, fue recomendársela a quienes habitan y dan forma al espacio murciano y que por esta condición (que puede pasar por gratuita o inofensiva y que en realidad es todo lo contrario) nos hemos hecho muchas de las preguntas que el personaje de Amy Adams se hace con respecto a la labor de dar vida y alimentar un blog: la necesidad, la realidad, el compromiso. Estas preguntas, hay que decirlo, no tienen respuesta. Pero esta falta de salidas (o de salidas fáciles) no afecta a la película que, contra todos los pronósticos, se logra sostener y cerrar después de haberse abierto como cola de globo. Lo que quiero decir es que la película ni sale volando ni se escurre. Más bien como que se congela. Y creo que ésa es su mayor virtud: evitar el hervidero. El entusiasmo que me provocó esa muestra de contención o profesionalidad narrativa me llevó a calificar la dirección de Ephron como “precisa” y al guión como “intimidante”. Ahora, es evidente que exagero.

Lo que es cierto es que la película de Ephron revela una forma muy particular, que además me gusta mucho, de hacer cine y coloca definitivamente a Ephron en el equipo de Spielberg. Es una forma que recuerda más a un campo de refugiados o a un campamento de sobrevivientes o a un grupo de soldados rasos que se juntaba en la noche a contar historias mientras esperaban el amanecer y que, al final, terminaron hablando en un código que fue producto del aislamiento. Un día estos sobrevivientes regresaron a sus países y fueron recibidos como héroes y la reintegración fue feliz. Entre ellos están o Giuseppe Tornatore o Billy Wilder o Guy Ritchie, y es ahí en donde Spielberg es la gran ballena blanca y en donde Scorsese se mueve como un submarino y en donde David Fincher es un buzo a la deriva y en donde Christopher Nolan o Jean-Pierre Jeunet amenazan con convertirse en huracán. También aquí está Alfonso Cuarón. No hay tiburones.

Por otra parte, están los directores que siguen en el campo de batalla. Ellos, salvo algunas excepciones, nunca saldrán de ahí. Tampoco tienen un código sino que aprendieron a vivir en soledad. Unos viven huyendo constantemente. Otros, como Fellini, se revuelven y saltan en el lodo frente al enemigo porque saben que son inmortales. Lars von Trier, en cambio, está herido y sus últimas fuerzas están destinadas a acribillar a quien se acerque, ya sea por traidor o por cobarde o porque sí. Hitchcock entendió el secreto de esta guerra eterna y Kubrick lo reformó. Kurosawa fue un suicida nato. Lo que más hay son fantasmas, pero con una particularidad: estos fantasmas primero fueron fantasmas y después, a fuerza del horror, se convirtieron en personas (o en algo que simulaba personas; nunca lograron perder su calidad espectral). Entre ellos están Bergman, Welles o Jean Renoir.

Todo esto, claro, es a grandes rasgos y no es verdad.

Dom Mingo

Fellini: “Otto e mezzo è un mosaico di sogni, ricordi, fantasie, mescolati alla realtà della preparazione della pellicola, diario cinematografico del film che si deve fare e non si arriva a mettere insieme, ma alla fine ci si accorge che è fatto e non è altro che la storia del film che non si farà mai” (in M. Verdone, 1995).

(Dalla sceneggiatura del film) Il critico Daumier: Lei ha fatto benissimo. Mi creda oggi è una buona giornata per lei. Sono delle decisioni che costano, lo so, ma noi intellettuali, dico noi perché la considero tale, abbiamo il dovere di rimanere lucidi fino alla fine. Ci sono già troppe cose superflue al mondo, non è il caso di aggiungere altro disordine al disordine. (…) No, mi creda, non abbia né nostalgia né rimorso. Distruggere è meglio che creare quando non si creano le poche cose necessarie. E poi c’è qualcosa di così chiaro e giusto al mondo che abbia il diritto di vivere? (…) Meglio lasciar andare giù tutto e far spargere sale, come facevano gli antichi per purificare i campi di battaglia. In fondo avremmo solo bisogno di un po’ di igiene, di pulizia, di disinfettare. Siamo soffocati dalle parole, dalle immagini, dai suoni, che non hanno ragione di vita, che vengono dal vuoto e vanno verso il vuoto. A un artista veramente degno di questo nome non bisognerebbe chiedere che quest’atto di lealtà: educarsi al silenzio. Ricorda l’elogio di Mallarmé alla pagina bianca? E di Rimbaud? Un poeta mio caro, non un regista cinematografico (…). Se non si può avere il tutto, il nulla è la vera perfezione. (…) La nostra vera missione è di spazzare via le migliaia di aborti che ogni giorno oscenamente tentano di venire al mondo. E lei vorrebbe addirittura lasciare dietro di sé un intero film, come lo sciancato si lascia dietro la sua impronta deforme. Che mostruosa presunzione credere che gli altri si gioverebbero dello squallido catalogo dei suoi errori. E a lei che cosa importa cucire insieme i brandelli della sua vita, i suoi vari ricordi, o i volti delle persone che non ha saputo amare mai?

Fellini aveva in mente un altro finale per 8 ½: un treno, con i personaggi del film, che si lancia nell’oscurità della notte. Decise poi per la passerella che doveva fungere in un primo momento da trailer. La passerella è sostanzialmente una marcetta da circo frammezzata dal Tema di Carla (l’amante di Guido) e Ricordo d’infanzia che caratterizza il flashback di Guido bambino. Ascoltiamo per la prima volta la marcetta, in un andamento lento, quando appare il telepata nello spettacolo serale nei giardini delle terme. Il telepata è da considerare come simbolo del cinema di Fellini, dell’arte intesa come magia: è il telepata che nel carosello finale invita Guido a riprendere il suo lavoro. Sempre nello spettacolo nei giardini la marcetta diventa un ballabile, prova della malleabilità dei temi rotiani. Ritorna anche nella sequenza dell’harem come sorta di “residuo diurno” del lavoro di Guido. Trova infine la sua applicazione più riuscita quando, eseguita con lo staccato al pianoforte, commenta l’impiccaggione fantasticata di Daumier, il saccente critico francese che rappresenta l’antitesi del telepata.
A. L.

© RUBRICA “SGUARDI E ASCOLTI DAL MONDO” a cura di M. Lizzadro

Alessandro Mannarino con la sua chitarra, da moderno cantastorie, canta il suo strampalato mondo in questo suo primo disco: “Al bar della rabbia” uscito la primavera scorsa. In questo disco palcoscenico di una Roma massacrata i cui protagonisti sono immigrati che dondolano su impalcature barboni e pagliacci, Mannarino da voce a tutta quest’umanità indigente. E’ la stessa gente raccontata in alcuni film di Pasolini o di Fellini. Un mondo sommerso e dimenticato dalla gente per bene. Un universo ai limiti della cosiddetta società civile: pagliacci ubriachi e folli che cantano amore, immigrati che abitano baraccopoli incrostate di fumo, barboni che trovano città immaginarie in fondo al mare e girovaghi che cercano la propria identità. Ed allora tutta questa ciurma di reietti e di ribelli indigenti ecco che, magia dell’arte, trova finalmente voce e spazio in questo Bar della rabbia, luogo immaginario e reale al contempo, grazie a Mannarino funambolo di parole ed artista di strada. Il Bar della rabbia, terra di confine tra quotidianità e fantasia, diviene così un luogo metaforico ma reale in cui in cui questi esiliati ritrovano la loro voce e la loro profonda umanità. Alessandro Mannarino è nato a Roma nel 1979 ed ha iniziato la sua attività artistica nel 2001, quando si è esibito in strane session a cavallo tra il djing e i live acustici. Lasciandosi alle spalle queste esperienze di “dj con la chitarra”, nel 2006 da vita alla “Kampina” una band formata da 5 elementi con cui si esibisce nei maggiori club e locali della capitale. Nei suoi testi surreali convivono storie oniriche e tragicomiche di pagliacci, ubriachi e zingari innamorati. Partendo dalle sonorità e dai ritmi della musica popolare italiana Mannarino condisce il proprio mondo con elementi di musica balcanica e gitana, citazioni Felliniane e evoluzioni circensi. Quest’anno è uscito il suo primo disco: “Al bar della rabbia”, che da voce a tutte le sue storie a tutta la sua rabbia diventando portavoce di quest’universo sommerso e dimenticato: un mondo di persone reiette in terre di confine.

Mariano Lizzadro

Stop the press: STEVE GUTTENBERG IS NOT DEAD!

As we rapidly hurtle towards our destruction by a future angry at us for crimes other people committed, the dividing lines between good and bad seem more sharply defined than ever. Climate change: bad; climate awareness: good. Swine flu: bad; pork: good. Postal strikes: bad; the postal service: good.

 Do the same dividing lines apply equally to the world of cinema? Given the willingness of some of us to lap up any old horseshit as long it’s horseshit that looks like it’s  hurtling towards us in 3-D, whilst the rest of us retreat into our Fellini DVD boxsets, I think maybe they do.

 In a world of good and bad: what of the run-of-the-mill, the ok, the mediocre? Spare a thought for Steve Guttenberg, the undisputed king of mediocrity (cf Fist of Fun, 1995). I assumed he had died a quiet, mediocre death somewhere, possibly of SARs (not swine flu: too now). I was wrong.

 Steve Guttenberg is back and seems to be undergoing a bit of a career re-positioning. First, he’s trying his hand at stand-up comedy. Second, 19 years after the last one, they’re making a new Three Men and a Baby film. It’s going to be called Three Men and a Bride. What with the announcement of a movie adaptation of the Berenstein Bears books, is this the week my childhood finally breaks down into a big weeping puddle of despair?

 Is Guttenberg funny? See for yourself (the answer is no, obviously):

http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/cfa7881384/guttenbergs-steak-house-from-steve-guttenberg-and-drew