Blues, Ryan Adams

Blue Sky Blues.

When the Stars Go Blue.

Godard e a Coca-Cola I

Fotogramas : Bande à Part, de Godard,1964.

A beleza

Filo-Café: A Beleza, Sábado no Porto às 17h30, no Clube Literário do Porto. 2 de Junho.

Imaginassem as amendoeiras
que estamos em pleno outono.
Vestem-se como.

Púrpura, ouro,
estão perfeitas como estão:
erradas.

Pudesse um poema, um amor,
pudesse qualquer esperança
viver assim o engano:

beleza, beleza,
beleza,
mais nada.

Eucanaã Ferraz, Desassombro (2001).

Orson

Orson Welles - The One Man Band (1995)

A errância de Tacita Dean

 

Hoje folheando um livro, descobri o trabalho de Tacita Dean. O que chamou-me mais a atenção foi a Bubble House. Depois fiquei a saber que a história trágica de Donald Crowhurst foi o verdadeiro motivo para o filme Disappearance at sea e também para este livro. Por entre vários links, cheguei a conclusão que Tacita também é uma errante. Uma curiosidade: Dean esteve no Porto, na Casa de Serralves por causa de Boots.

Sans Soleil

We do not remember; we rewrite memory much as history is rewritten.

Chris Marker, em Sans Soleil.

relógio d´água

Ontem quando cheguei ao palácio de cristal, prestes a ser um projecto de  ”pavilhao atlântico” do norte com uma super sala para excelentes exibiçoes cinematográficas (a segunda parte está num cenário cinzento a fugir do rosa), faltavam sete minutos para a abertura da única entrada da feira do livro. Na 77a ediçao seria a minha segunda ida, em dois dias, sendo a responsável de tal errância certeira a conhecida relógio d’água. Meu espanto quando vejo vários ninhos de pessoas à porta. Mais espanto quando calculei a passagem de 16 minutos e a fila ainda continuva a ser um ramo comprido a flutar devagar. Entrando lá, passados 20 minutos, tal novidade para um feira de livro da minha parte, lembro-me que os autográfos ainda estao presentes com os seus autores. Vejo o programa e penso que nao pode ser bem por causa disso. Depois de uma observaçao aleatória pelas pessoas que aguardavam, comecei a ver frases dentro de livros à espera, cada rosto uma período a pautar um ritmo de escrita. Os livros podem mudar o destino das pessoas e as pessoas podem mudar o destino dos livros. Sempre há mistérios a desvendar. Este último deu-se às quatro da tarde e nao levava óculos à star wars. (Recebo todos os dias a newsletter da feira do livro à 01h01).

Aleksandra

 

Aleksandra, Sokurov, 2007.

THR: The European Film Academy lists you as one of the 100 best directors of world cinema. You have a reputation for making films of widely differing genres noted for their emotional impact. What drives you? What questions and themes do you still wish to address in film?

Sokurov: I want to plunge into the interior space of the soul of the person even more. My love of people is so great, my sympathy and grief are so strident, that I am afraid that will power is not enough. Like many people, I am surrounded by cynicism, hatred, bitterness and complexes. I am tired of the sense of dread that presses down upon me for the destiny of my native land, my compatriots. This anxiety destroys me and robs me of the calm so indispensable for concentration. Em The Hollywood Reporter, dia 24 2007.

fé no caos

(c) Pep Bonet, Morocco.

Limite

Em sua seqüência de abertura, Limite (1931, de Mário Peixoto) parece um filme sem fim, interminável. Sob uma primeira impressão, gera a sensação de infinitude, onde uma imagem se sucede a outra, e a outra, e a banda sonora contribui para uma situação, paradoxalmente, permanente. O que, inicialmente, nos coloca em conflito dentro de um jogo onde a matéria não dialoga, semanticamente, com o significado, pois, no decorrer de quase dez minutos, a imagem que nos chega é a de uma realidade em seu estágio terminal, prestes a desaparecer ou, literalmente, naufragar a qualquer instante: a imagem e a realidade de sujeitos à deriva – um homem e duas mulheres, visivelmente, resultantes de um naufrágio, perdidos na imensidão do mar como náufragos, e, conseqüentemente, presos aos limites e restrição espacial de um barco. Assim, a sensação do objeto interminável toma conta da percepção não só no plano da materialidade fílmica, o que, a princípio, muito colabora o encadeamento de planos, a partir da fusão de imagens, arbitrariamente, relacionadas – abutres sobre uma montanha, certamente, devorando alguma carniça, dão lugar ao rosto de uma mulher com braços de um homem algemados por sobre seus ombros e, depois, apenas as mãos algemadas para, em seguida, os olhos fixos de uma mulher em direção a câmera ou ao infinito preenchem todo o quadro.

Por diversos motivos, Limite é um filme tomado por uma aura mítica que, desde sempre, o torna unânime, absoluto e quase intocável. Portanto, indissociável das representações dos que o viram algum dia e, também, dos que nunca chegaram a ver suas imagens, constituindo-se num daqueles casos não tão raros na história do cinema:“amado por todos e visto por poucos” .

por Marcos A. Felipe

Assim não vale. Agora fiquei com vontade de ver.

Patti Smith, mais que twelve

(c) Patti Smith’s The Traveler’s Bed (2006). “A Pythagorean Traveler, An Exhibition by Patti Smith“, em Robert Miller Gallery.

Patti Smith finalmente chega-nos com o seu Twelve. São poucos os artistas com um caminho mais longo que dois álbuns que não atalham para covers das suas músicas, dos seus cantores de eleição. Alguns, a meu ver, conseguem mostrar verdadeiramente o quanto algumas músicas os marcaram, outros ficam aquém, e os outros conseguem mostrar realmente o quanto gostam e mais : ganham outra pele nova. Patti com a sua liberdade de sensibilidade a explodir sempre na sua voz e nos gestos que podemos imaginar quando as canta, remata logo com um “are you experienced?” fora da ordem do normal, fabuloso. Patti não precisava de nos explicar, com pequenos textos a colar-se ao registo poético, que gosta muito destas músicas. 

Soul Kitchen was like wandering a back room and Jim Morrison murmuring “pick a card”.

Well, the clock says it’s time to close now
I guess I’d better go now
I’d really like to stay here all night
The cars crawl past all stuffed with eyes
Street lights share their hollow glow
Your brain seems bruised with numb surprise
Still one place to go
Still one place to go
Let me sleep all night in your soul kitchen
Warm my mind near your gentle stove
Turn me out and I’ll wander baby
Stumblin’ in the neon groves
Well, your fingers weave quick minarets
Speak in secret alphabets
I light another cigarette
Learn to forget, learn to forget
Learn to forget, learn to forget
Let me sleep all night in your soul kitchen
Warm my mind near your gentle stove
Turn me out and I’ll wander baby
Stumblin’ in the neon groves
Well the clock says it’s time to close now
I know I have to go now
I really want to stay here
All night, all night, all night

The South Bank Show

Dedicado ao Francis Bacon, via UbuWeb.

Homo Sacer

Continental Philosophy disponibilizou Homo Sacer, de Agamben. Os videos também são imperdíveis. Um site a seguir.

Praying for time

George Michael esteve ontem pela primeira vez a actuar em Portugal . A nostalgia dos meus tempos em que ouvia na rádio ou nas cassetes as suas músicas foi a nota definitiva para não perder o concerto. Coleccionei os seus álbuns até parar em canções “from the last century”. Vi a sua imagem de “Faith” a ser queimada em “Listen Without Prejudice” e esperei por “Older”(muito preso às sonoridades do jazz, o mais perfeito que ele fez, a meu ver). De um artista completo, só se pode esperar o profissionalismo de querer vestir as canções mais próximas do osso da emoção das suas letras, assim não podia deixar de ser com George, que sempre garimpou a perfeição. Foi com nostalgia mesmo ( e prestes a somar mais um ano), olhei pelo retrovisor e pensei que só faria sentido eu estar lá também naquele estádio. Não me lembro de ter estado num concerto onde sentisse uma geração tão de perto e tão junta, foi algo estranho. Pode também parecer estranho gostar de George Michael, quando se gosta de rock puro e duro, ou quando se gosta de tantas sonoridades díspares. No entanto, quando se gosta ,primeiro de tudo, a música, e quando a música é bem feita, as prateleiras não interessam muito. Como era de supor a sua crítica declarada ao Bush e Tony Blair foi cantada em alto tom. As plumas não entraram na festa. Nos seus pés rolou sempre uma série de jogos cruzados de luzes e cores,de imagens (de john lennon a marilyn monroe). E numa das músicas (que não me recordo agora o nome), por uns instantes fizemos parte da película de um rolo fotográfico. Músicas dos anos 80 e dos anos 90, as mais roladas, e também uma “paciência” e uma celebração ao amor. Ontem cantei do início até ao fim, a música que, para mim, continua a ser a mais conseguida do George : Praying For Time. Uma música de 1990 que continua a ser muito actual em 2007. No decorrer do “Praying for Time” muitos sóis nasceram e morreram, ficando sempre o horizonte do mar por final, como se tratasse de uma linha de esperança.

These are the days of the open hand
They might just be the last
Look around now
These are the days of the beggars and the choosers

This is the year of the hungry man
Whose place is in the past
Hand in hand with ignorance
And legitimate excuses

The rich declare themselves poor
And most of us are not sure
If we have too much
But we’ll take our chances
‘Cause God’s stopped keeping score
I guess somewhere along the way
He must have let us all out to play
Turned his back and all God’s children
Crept out the back door

And it’s hard to love, there’s so much to hate
Hanging on to hope
When there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above say it’s much too much too late
Well maybe we should all be praying for time

These are the days of the empty hand
Oh, you hold on to what you can
And charity is a coat you wear twice a year

This is the year of the guilty man
Your television takes a stand
And you find that what was over there is over here

So you scream from behind your door
Say what’s mine is mine and not yours
I may have too much but I’ll take my chances
‘Cause God’s stopped keeping score
And you cling to the things they sold you
Did you cover your eyes when they told you
That he can’t come back
‘Cause he has no children to come back for

It’s hard to love there’s so much to hate
Hanging on to hope when there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above say it’s much too late
So maybe we should all be praying for time

Rossellini

Por causa de uma retrospectiva iniciada neste mês e dedicada ao cinema do Roberto Rossellini, em BFI, Isabella foi entrevista pela Guardian, para uma enorme e interessante conversa ao redor do cinema.

GA: Rome, Open City, which people here have just been watching, is probably your father’s most famous film and was hugely influential, starting off the neo-realist movement. Do you think we have any idea of what a revelation it must have been at the time, because it must have been extraordinary?

IR: Well I think that you have to think that cinema came from magic shows, and still today it has a little bit of the soul that “we are going to impress you; there’s going to be colour, there are going to be special effects” and much more so in the 40s when Hollywood had its moment of great triumph, of fantasy, of entertainment and romance. My father was using film as a tool of knowledge, of revelation, even a tool to just show what was happening in Italy. My father always said that he didn’t sit down with Visconti and say, “Let’s invent this new art form called neo-realism”; they just did the film that they could do and the urge to tell the world what they had seen was the urge; it was an artistic urge, it was really a cry to humanity: “This is what war is; this is what we went through.” And that was very impactful because it was the voice of the enemy speaking. Italy was fascist and neo-realism had this redeeming quality: the Italians were finally seen as not just fascists but as human beings.

GA: It’s funny because Federico Fellini said that when Rome: Open City was made, the condition that Rome was in, it was very difficult to even get the film together, to get the stock. And Fellini wrote that neo-realism was a necessity of the situation that film was shot it. But for your father, it seems to have been more than that; it seems to have been very much a choice, not so much human realism as a quest for the truth. I think it’s quite strange that with later films a lot of people felt he was abandoning the tenets of neo-realism and going into something else, but some people, and I think they were right, said: “No, he was still making films about the truth, but it was a different sort of truth.”

IR: I think it’s hard to define truth, but he used film as an instrument of knowledge, as a way to understand. My father used to say that you could only access culture before cinema by learning to read and write, but that once cinema was invented, knowledge was available to anybody. He always said to me that film was as important as the discovery of fire for the primitive man. And so he wanted to use this medium in its fullest potential. And that is true throughout his films. When he did neo-realism and it became so successful people wanted him to keep on doing films about the war in Italy and he felt that that was not the reality that was in front of him any more and he wasn’t interested, and he was seeking for another revelation; something else to communicate. And I think it became quite clear at the end of his life, when he made historical biographies like Louis XIV. His dream came true: he thought that people could get a lot of information about Louis XIV, Pascal, Jesus, Socrates etc in an hour. His next project, that he was unable to realise, was a film on science. He wanted to simplify science and make it accessible to everyone through pictures. And throughout my childhood he sent me out to out to fish sea urchins, because it was easy to catch them and then get sperm and eggs and mix them and photograph what was happening. He was experimenting at home with the simplest way to do science; all this was done in our kitchen. Today you would have the National Geographic helping you, but this was a long time ago and Italy was too poor.

La Jetée, Sans Soleil

 

Está previsto para Junho a saída de  La Jetée e Sans Soleil , de Chris Marker, pela Criterion. It almost seems dangerous to put these two pictures by the elusive French filmmaker Chris Marker on a single disc: this is an exploding world in one compact package. Sem dúvida.

De ouro

 

Fotograma : Limite, Mário Peixoto.

Para quem gosta de cinema, não pode deixar de acompanhar as bobines da Sela de Prata.

As personas de Tori Amos

 

Tori Amos está de volta com American Doll Posse. São cinco posses, cinco personas : “Pip”, “Santa”, “Isabel”, “Clyde”, e “Tori”. Cada vestido leva uma etiqueta marcada com a mitologia grega. Neste momento ouço a fotógrafa Isabel cantar Almost Rosey:

Just a minute of your time
Yes I’ve been known to delude myself
so let me put those rose
colored glasses to the test

Now is this real enough for you
‘cause blondes here don’t jump out of cakes
If that never impressed you much
come board this lunatic express

Just why do they say
Have a nice day anyway
We both know they wouldn’t mind
If I just curled up and died
Let’s not give that one a try
Chin up put on a pair of these roseys
Raise those blinds
Chin up a happy mask was never
Your best disguise
Chin up put on a pair of these roseys
In no time you will feel almost fine
Almost rosey

Now some girls here will huddle with
No not footballers that are rich
but will confide in small white sticks
He bats as The Virginian Slim

Then I tried once to comply
with an authority that would
Subsidize my wild side
But at this altar was sacrificed

Yes you can laugh a femme fatale
in a bride’s dress now married to
The effortlessness of the cracks
That lie now in between the facts

Now about when violet died
The cause still unidentified
She thought her love would be enough
But you can’t seduce seduction

Her tentacles of endless want
Reach through my corridors
and tempt me to taste of her power
I sober with the witching hour

And when I hear of one more bomb
Yes we have all been robbed of song
and nightingales who throw their arms up
When is enough enough?

Picture Haikus

Para o André (que escolheu para título do seu blogue (finalmente!) um dos meus filmes), os haikus em fotografias do cineasta.

Wim Wenders, Pictures from the Surface of the Earth,
Wall In Paris, Texas.

Lounge Painting # 2, Gila Bend, Arizona.

I don’t know
how long it’s been
since anyone has sat down
on those chairs.
They didn’t seem to miss people much.
They were involved
in deep conversation
amongst themselves.

Wim Wenders defende lugares.

In a million years, when no one will be around any more to even remember us faintly, some of these places will. Places have memories. They remember everything. It’s engraved in stone. It’s deeper than the deepest waters. Their memories are like sand dunes, wandering on and on.
I guess that’s why I take pictures of places: I don’t want to take them for granted. I want to urge them not to forget us!