28 março 2007
Music and Lyrics
Desde o Everyone Says I Love You que não a ouvia cantar e soube-me tão bem. E o Hugh Grant? A provar que ainda pode contribuir para a evolução da comédia romântica?
Quem diria?
27 março 2007
Ciclo Paul Bowles – CCB
The Sheltering Sky ou Um Chá no Deserto
Bernardo Bertolucci
Port Moresby: Could you be happy here?
Kit Moresby: Happy? Happy? How do you mean?
Narrator: Because we don't know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well, yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more, perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.
Pequeno Auditório cheio. Pessoas sentadas pelas escadas. Debra Winger no ecrã – que saudades desde Shadowlands. Lá está ela, chamam-lhe Kit Moresby. Incrível, lânguida, a sofrer por uma morte pressagiada. Mais tarde, depois da consumação daquela, há-de recusar o encontro com o luto.
Ciclo Paul Bowles – CCB
Confissão
É verdade que fiquei irritada com o Daniel Blaufuks depois de ter visto o documentário Um Pouco Mais Pequeno que o Indiana. Mas também é verdade que acabo de me reconciliar com o seu trabalho. A pequena exposição de fotografias a preto e branco, tiradas em Tânger, que está em exibição no CCB é qualquer coisa de extraordinário. Até 22 de Abril.
É verdade que fiquei irritada com o Daniel Blaufuks depois de ter visto o documentário Um Pouco Mais Pequeno que o Indiana. Mas também é verdade que acabo de me reconciliar com o seu trabalho. A pequena exposição de fotografias a preto e branco, tiradas em Tânger, que está em exibição no CCB é qualquer coisa de extraordinário. Até 22 de Abril.
21 março 2007
20 março 2007
Grandes filmes
A propósito da crítica de Jorge Mourinha em relação ao The Good Shepherd, há um parágrafo que não me sai da cabeça – Foi uma longa viagem para pôr o projecto de pé, para se debater com a indiferença de uma crítica displicente para com o filme, com o desinteresse do público, com a injustíssima ausência dos Óscares. Sejamos realistas: não é um grande filme, e não é só Coppola que nos vem à cabeça – há algo da desmesura de Oliver Stone nos seus tempos áureos, no desafio louco de entrecruzar o público e o privado, a Grande História e as pequenas histórias.
Assinaria por baixo se não fosse esta curta frase: Sejamos realistas: não é um grande filme. O que falta então a The Good Shepherd para ser um grande filme? O que querem os críticos? Não sei, não compreendo e, mais uma vez, prefiro ignorá-los. Robert De Niro surpreende com uma realização irrepreensível, sem movimentos de câmara excessivos. Nada falha ao longo de 167 minutos de uma segurança inabalável, entre flashbacks e flashforwards, reconstituições históricas, silêncios e mortes.
Recordo-me de que, aqui há bem pouco tempo, os críticos aplaudiram The Black Dahlia e nem levaram em conta as sucessivas incoerências de Brian De Palma. Pelo contrário, compararam-no quase automaticamente a obras-primas como Double Indemnity ou Out of the Past. Ora bem, eis que hoje acordei a pensar em The Good Shepherd e no quanto gostei dele. Para quem me conhece, há certos pormenores que facilmente me conquistam. Não é todos os dias que vejo a Angelina Jolie a abdicar do seu lado carnal para se transformar numa espécie de mártir mal-amada. Também não é todos os dias que reencontro Joe Pesci, John Turturro e William Hurt. Mas garanto que não foi só o elenco que me subjugou.
Na minha relação com o cinema, ando sempre à procura de películas que questionem os limites do cinema, que é como quem diz, os limites da vida. E confesso que me senti agradecida com a personagem de Matt Damon. (Permitam-me a ressalva: a minha relação com o cinema está longe de ser consequente. Houve alturas em que só a presença de Matt Damon em “coisas” como o Good Will Hunting era suficiente para me afastar do ecrã.) Um homem que nunca pôde planear a sua vida, um homem que nunca pôde tomar decisões, um homem que nunca teve controlo sobre si. E que, no entanto, sempre agiu de acordo com um cerradíssimo código moral, representando assim o estereótipo da rectidão, desde o caminho que percorre até à impecabilidade dos seus fatos, cabelo e óculos. É o tal Bom Pastor que tudo sacrifica em prol de um bem maior. Haverá homens assim? De repente, ocorrem-me o Montgomery Clift do I Confess e o David Strathairn do Good Night, and Good Luck. Grandes filmes, tal como The Good Shepherd.
Assinaria por baixo se não fosse esta curta frase: Sejamos realistas: não é um grande filme. O que falta então a The Good Shepherd para ser um grande filme? O que querem os críticos? Não sei, não compreendo e, mais uma vez, prefiro ignorá-los. Robert De Niro surpreende com uma realização irrepreensível, sem movimentos de câmara excessivos. Nada falha ao longo de 167 minutos de uma segurança inabalável, entre flashbacks e flashforwards, reconstituições históricas, silêncios e mortes.
Recordo-me de que, aqui há bem pouco tempo, os críticos aplaudiram The Black Dahlia e nem levaram em conta as sucessivas incoerências de Brian De Palma. Pelo contrário, compararam-no quase automaticamente a obras-primas como Double Indemnity ou Out of the Past. Ora bem, eis que hoje acordei a pensar em The Good Shepherd e no quanto gostei dele. Para quem me conhece, há certos pormenores que facilmente me conquistam. Não é todos os dias que vejo a Angelina Jolie a abdicar do seu lado carnal para se transformar numa espécie de mártir mal-amada. Também não é todos os dias que reencontro Joe Pesci, John Turturro e William Hurt. Mas garanto que não foi só o elenco que me subjugou.
Na minha relação com o cinema, ando sempre à procura de películas que questionem os limites do cinema, que é como quem diz, os limites da vida. E confesso que me senti agradecida com a personagem de Matt Damon. (Permitam-me a ressalva: a minha relação com o cinema está longe de ser consequente. Houve alturas em que só a presença de Matt Damon em “coisas” como o Good Will Hunting era suficiente para me afastar do ecrã.) Um homem que nunca pôde planear a sua vida, um homem que nunca pôde tomar decisões, um homem que nunca teve controlo sobre si. E que, no entanto, sempre agiu de acordo com um cerradíssimo código moral, representando assim o estereótipo da rectidão, desde o caminho que percorre até à impecabilidade dos seus fatos, cabelo e óculos. É o tal Bom Pastor que tudo sacrifica em prol de um bem maior. Haverá homens assim? De repente, ocorrem-me o Montgomery Clift do I Confess e o David Strathairn do Good Night, and Good Luck. Grandes filmes, tal como The Good Shepherd.
12 março 2007
My song
A long, long time ago...
I can still remember
How that music used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And, maybe, they’d be happy for a while.
But February made me shiver
With every paper I’d deliver.
Bad news on the doorstep;
I couldn’t take one more step.
I can’t remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride,
But something touched me deep inside
The day the music died.
So bye-bye, miss american pie.
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."
Did you write the book of love,
And do you have faith in God above,
If the Bible tells you so?
Do you believe in rock ’n roll,
Can music save your mortal soul,
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?
Well, I know that you’re in love with him
`cause I saw you dancin’ in the gym.
You both kicked off your shoes.
Man, I dig those rhythm and blues.
I was a lonely teenage broncin’ buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck,
But I knew I was out of luck
The day the music died.
I started singin’,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."
Now for ten years we’ve been on our own
And moss grows fat on a rollin’ stone,
But that’s not how it used to be.
When the jester sang for the king and queen,
In a coat he borrowed from james dean
And a voice that came from you and me,
Oh, and while the king was looking down,
The jester stole his thorny crown.
The courtroom was adjourned;
No verdict was returned.
And while Lennon read a book on Marx,
The quartet practiced in the park,
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died.
We were singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."
Helter skelter in a summer swelter.
The birds flew off with a fallout shelter,
Eight miles high and falling fast.
It landed foul on the grass.
The players tried for a forward pass,
With the jester on the sidelines in a cast.
Now the half-time air was sweet perfume
While the sergeants played a marching tune.
We all got up to dance,
Oh, but we never got the chance!
`cause the players tried to take the field;
The marching band refused to yield.
Do you recall what was revealed
The day the music died?
We started singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."
Oh, and there we were all in one place,
A generation lost in space
With no time left to start again.
So come on: Jack be nimble, Jack be quick!
Jack flash sat on a candlestick
Cause fire is the devil’s only friend.
Oh, and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage.
No angel born in hell
Could break that satan’s spell.
And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrificial rite,
I saw satan laughing with delight
The day the music died
He was singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."
I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news,
But she just smiled and turned away.
I went down to the sacred store
Where I’d heard the music years before,
But the man there said the music wouldn’t play.
And in the streets: the children screamed,
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed.
But not a word was spoken;
The church bells all were broken.
And the three men I admire most:
The father, son, and the holy ghost,
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died.
And they were singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."
They were singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die."
I can still remember
How that music used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And, maybe, they’d be happy for a while.
But February made me shiver
With every paper I’d deliver.
Bad news on the doorstep;
I couldn’t take one more step.
I can’t remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride,
But something touched me deep inside
The day the music died.
So bye-bye, miss american pie.
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."
Did you write the book of love,
And do you have faith in God above,
If the Bible tells you so?
Do you believe in rock ’n roll,
Can music save your mortal soul,
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?
Well, I know that you’re in love with him
`cause I saw you dancin’ in the gym.
You both kicked off your shoes.
Man, I dig those rhythm and blues.
I was a lonely teenage broncin’ buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck,
But I knew I was out of luck
The day the music died.
I started singin’,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."
Now for ten years we’ve been on our own
And moss grows fat on a rollin’ stone,
But that’s not how it used to be.
When the jester sang for the king and queen,
In a coat he borrowed from james dean
And a voice that came from you and me,
Oh, and while the king was looking down,
The jester stole his thorny crown.
The courtroom was adjourned;
No verdict was returned.
And while Lennon read a book on Marx,
The quartet practiced in the park,
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died.
We were singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."
Helter skelter in a summer swelter.
The birds flew off with a fallout shelter,
Eight miles high and falling fast.
It landed foul on the grass.
The players tried for a forward pass,
With the jester on the sidelines in a cast.
Now the half-time air was sweet perfume
While the sergeants played a marching tune.
We all got up to dance,
Oh, but we never got the chance!
`cause the players tried to take the field;
The marching band refused to yield.
Do you recall what was revealed
The day the music died?
We started singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."
Oh, and there we were all in one place,
A generation lost in space
With no time left to start again.
So come on: Jack be nimble, Jack be quick!
Jack flash sat on a candlestick
Cause fire is the devil’s only friend.
Oh, and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage.
No angel born in hell
Could break that satan’s spell.
And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrificial rite,
I saw satan laughing with delight
The day the music died
He was singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."
I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news,
But she just smiled and turned away.
I went down to the sacred store
Where I’d heard the music years before,
But the man there said the music wouldn’t play.
And in the streets: the children screamed,
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed.
But not a word was spoken;
The church bells all were broken.
And the three men I admire most:
The father, son, and the holy ghost,
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died.
And they were singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."
They were singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die."
Don McLean - American Pie
11 março 2007
Pormenores de uma viagem – II
Há uma expressão que pode definir Londres: museus gratuitos. A isto é que eu chamo qualidade de vida. Uma pessoa acorda num sábado de manhã e vai direitinha até à Tate Modern. Uma vez lá, pode pasmar o tempo que quiser em frente a isto ou mesmo em frente a isto que deve ser das montagens mais fantásticas a que já assisti. Christian Marclay é definitivamente um nome a não esquecer.
06 março 2007
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