Sunday, 01 January 2012
Saturday, 31 December 2011
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My thoughs on a couple of movies
Let’s start with the surprise: The Gate Boy, a film directed by Jeremiah Moreira Filho and released in 1977. It has too much explanatory dialogue, uneven cast, times when no one is quite sure what is in focus. An actor is weird, but comes in handy for the character, Sergio Reis a serious, almost somber, with strong inks Clint Eastwood of Strange Nameless (and in the end it becomes clear). Gave more willing to see the remake now, signed by the same director and starring Daniel. I followed one hour set in Paulinia. But the set is that boring, then do not count. The film will be on screens in March.
The review for the second time for The Human Question by Nicolas Klotz, left me with even more impressive that the film was largely overestimated in the past year(and the year before, when he shows the SP). It did not bother me either the employee Amalric drying with a tissue, but still think that a rave clown, Lou Casteland participation (which is a great actor), and both a mistake. First, because we deal with the commonplace par excellence (modern party that allows a crazy once in a while / and misunderstood musician turned recluse, with big hair and face eternalsad, in a monologue that seems to exist only to ennoble the film) , second because itreveals more and more simplistic in their tricks to catch the viewer, throwing hooksto be captured later. Interestingly, these findings they made me think the great moments even stronger, so the movie falls on the one hand, it strengthens the other.Still, I maintain, is almost a Zodiac by which he deceived the people out there. -
You have to have everything, right?
“You have to have everything, right?” Some people hate me (I carry the millstone faith), there are some who say they love me (I suspect), there are some who admire my work, there are others who think I do all that shit. To me, that's okay. If you like me, we’re friends. If you do not like me (or my work, for me it's the same thing, since we are the same shit), just sit at another table in the bar. To my knowledge, there are always several tables. And so we can drag our carcasses in the years that remain here. I'll still be the same, believing the same things, just because I'm a boring person with a di iron.
There is no other way. But sometimes you do a gig any and is very happy because it appears a guy who you really are a fan, and the guy can tune all the damn work. It happened yesterday when my friend (and idol - always make a point of saying that) Reinaldo Moraes wrote me talking about my book of poems (the same book that took Brum yesterday and did a song from one of the poems - beautiful music , Br - and we played yesterday for the first time in the gallery - with approval of the "Capeta"). This time I was really flattered. And fuck you. Thanks, Reinaldão.
Mary began to read his book of poems on the same day they bought it. I started to like it very well from the first poem I read. Do not read them all. I do other things, including several shitty, read other things, including a lot of shit, write other things, among them, for once, a lot of shit too. Way to go, among the things that we want to do and read and write and the things we have to do and read and write what is going to fucking life, supuesto. So a few days back here claws to read the whole book. We, me and him, without a lot to do, and we docked. Incredible as this book is lengthy, albeit thin. Each poem is a dense chapter of a life deliciously, anguish, comically riotous suicidal. Or ruled by rules of deities worshiped drunk at the corner bar (Bah, I have a lot of work to do, need to convert pdf to excel, lot’s of files, but I’ll finish this first).
And at the bar next to that. Assholes troublemakers, hooligans friends, girlfriends deadly whores-who-you-want-bitches, bluseiros and rockers in all tones and decibels, are the main faithful of this religion and alcohol that night celebrating his poems in a lyrical record very high - and I mean also very high, and above all, very low, the ground of life-as-it-should-not-be-but-is-doing-what? I've always been a reader of poetry, the crazy and behaved, and I am friends with many poets, much of the nuts who behaved, although able to admire the two and two, and I can say with his mouth full of beer foam and pure wonder that his book is MORE ABSOLUTE FUCKING DU, MY BROTHER!
I could spread here and talk for hours each poem. Or rather, could fa home hours with each poem, as if these new old friends what we do out there in 5 minutes of chat and booze, maybe it is the right night, the bar right, the right table. I wanted to take you to the grave some of these poems and to talk with them in the light of wildfire cemetery waiting for a fucking eternity past once and for all and nothing big to announce at last in all its splendor and traslucidez. But I will not have, I do not have a tomb to call my own. I will then incinerated in the Alpine village along with his poems, and will turn gray, me and them, and the ashes of what we will be blown away and maybe a particle of it into the eye of a beautiful girl on a sunny Saturday morning, and is then that we will be happy, very happy, and his poems EEU, floating swimming pool in the small tear in the eye of that girl, momentarily forgotten everything that was going to do, all the men who loved and will love in life.
Only for registered tro, has a poem in there, THEREFORE, it is an absolute gem in the entire Western opera, including Korean and probably part of the Chechen.
"There are people who really love / But then you want to get rid of love ..." Genial, say Camões, Pessoa and Sá de Miranda in unison. GENIAL!
Thanks, bum.
Friday, 30 December 2011
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Short Story
The old man entered the house and did not recognize the pictures on the wall. He had spent the afternoon stacking gallons of paint and was now trying to remember the colors of the plant pots at the front desk. He watched the pictures and did not recognize the people in the photos. He shouted: "Is anyone there?"
He did not remember that he lived with his daughter. He did not remember her daughter. She appeared in the doorway. Her smile lit up the face of the old, but he did not recognize. Just like the fact that a girl so beautiful to be outside his room displaying magnificent smile.
"All right, Father?"
He sat in his chair and looked questioningly at the pretty girl who called him FatherShe turned on the radio and took a sad song of the environment. The old man smiled and closed his eyes. If you thought the girl dancing with a beautiful early evening a few minutes before going to a party. He remembered the details. And thepretty girl was gaining another way, another body, the hair more wavy, slightly blueeye, but the smile was the same. The kind of smile that was worth a lifetime of sadness and misfortune.
The girl stared at his father and for a moment almost panicked, but was relievedwhen she saw him smiling with his eyes closed hugging her body and swinging that way that Ray Charles used to do when he was excited. She could not understandthat the father was off to somewhere where she could not enter. She could not understand that the father was not afraid. She had not been aware of the situation.And she felt helpless and unprotected, but almost happy. She knew she had taken everything away from his father, but could not take his ability to dream. And sometimes that's all a man needs. Sometimes that's all a man can have.
