Atalanta Filmes

 

Fotograma de Fronteira de Amanhecer.

Os filmes da Atalanta Filmes acabaram por ser a minha sala de cinema. Perdi Do outro Lado, de Fatih Akin na tela, mas graças a prontidão da Atalanta filmes, já tive a possibilidade de vê-lo. E ainda bem que não o deixaram para trás, no escuro, sem volta a dar. O mesmo vai acontecer em breve com Quatro Noites com Anna , de Jerzy Fedorowicz que também perdi na sala de cinema) e Febre Tropical de Apichatpong Weerasethakul. E já está em dvd Fronteira do Amanhecer, de Philippe Garrel. Bem Haja! para a Atalanta Filmes!

Ikiru

Para mim, o melhor filme do ano também é um filme de 1952. Ikiru, de Kurosawa é o filme que perdi nos últimos anos. Há uma tónica muito triste, apesar de Kurosawa não carregar a tristeza que tem Mizoguchi ou Naruse, que se foca na história de um burocrata que vive anos enterrado ao fundo de uma mesa com um muro de papéis. Um quotidiano de “nãos” passa para um “sim”  na sua vida, quando descobre que tem cancro. Nos últimos dias haverá uma luta por um sentido.No final, ele vai descobrir e a sua felicidade será uma toada muito triste cantada num parque. Não há explicações, não há moralismos, não há ensinamentos,somente uma canção.Compaixão, graça e generosidade. No ano passado descobri um dos meus filmes.

Self-analysis of a filmmaker

Summer with Monika, 1953. Photo: Louis Huch, (c) Svensk Filmindustri.

My grandmother had a very large old flat in Uppsala. I had a pinafore with a pocket in the front and sat under the dining table “listening” to the sunshine that came in through the gigantic windows. The sunlight moved about all the time, the bells of the cathedral went dingdong and the sunlight moved about and “sounded” in a special way. It was a day when winter was giving way to spring and I was five years old. In the next flat the piano was being played, waltzes, nothing but waltzes, and on the wall hung a large picture of Venice. As the sunlight moved across the picture, the water in the canal began to flow, the doves flew up from the square, gesticulating people were engaged in inaudible conversation. The bells were not those of Uppsala Cathedral but came from the very picture itself, as did the piano music. There was something very remarkable about that picture of Venice. Almost as marvelous as the sunlight in Grandmother’s drawing room, which was not the usual kind of sunlight but had a special ring about it. But perhaps this was due to the many bells … or the heavy furniture, which, in my fantasy, conversed in a never-ending whisper. [The Ingmar Bergman Archives. Excerpt from the essay by Ingmar Bergman]

Estas 597 páginas sobre toda a filmografia de Bergman é uma perdição para quem admira o cineasta.

o tempo

I found my dogs pretty nervous tonight; they were playing with the sea as I had never seen them before. Listening to Radio Hong Kong later on I understood: today was the first day of the lunar new year, and for the first time in sixty years the sign of the dog met the sign of water.

Out there, eleven thousand miles away, a single shadow remains immobile in the midst of the long moving shadows that the January light throws over the ground of Tokyo: the shadow of the Asakusa bonze.

For also in Japan the year of the dog is beginning. Temples are filled with visitors who come to toss down their coins and to pray—For also in Japan the year of the dog is beginning. Temples are filled with visitors who come to toss down their coins and to pray—Japanese style—a prayer which slips into life without interrupting it.

Fotograma e texto de Sans Soleil, de Chris Marker.

a memória, a zona e o sonho

He wrote me: I will have spent my life trying to understand the function of remembering, which is not the opposite of forgetting, but rather its lining. We do not remember, we rewrite memory much as history is rewritten. How can one remember thirst?

He showed me the clashes of the sixties treated by his synthesizer: pictures that are less deceptive he says—with the conviction of a fanatic—than those you see on television. At least they proclaim themselves to be what they are: images, not the portable and compact form of an already inaccessible reality. Hayao calls his machine’s world the ‘zone,’ an homage to Tarkovsky.

One day he writes to me: description of a dream. More and more my dreams find their settings in the department stores of Tokyo, the subterranean tunnels that extend them and run parallel to the city. A face appears, disappears… a trace is found, is lost. All the folklore of dreams is so much in its place that the next day when I am awake I realize that I continue to seek in the basement labyrinth the presence concealed the night before. I begin to wonder if those dreams are really mine, or if they are part of a totality, of a gigantic collective dream of which the entire city may be the projection. It might suffice to pick up any one of the telephones that are lying around to hear a familiar voice, or the beating of a heart, Sei Shonagon’s for example.

Fotogramas e texto de Sans Soleil, de Chris Marker.

Sans Soleil, Chris Marker

The first image he told me about was of three children on a road in Iceland, in 1965. He said that for him it was the image of happiness and also that he had tried several times to link it to other images, but it never worked. He wrote me: one day I’ll have to put it all alone at the beginning of a film with a long piece of black leader; if they don’t see happiness in the picture, at least they’ll see the black.

He used to write me from Africa. He contrasted African time to European time, and also to Asian time. He said that in the 19th century mankind had come to terms with space, and that the great question of the 20th was the coexistence of different concepts of time. By the way, did you know that there are emus in the Île de France?

He wrote me that in the suburbs of Tokyo there is a temple consecrated to cats. I wish I could convey to you the simplicity—the lack of affectation—of this couple who had come to place an inscribed wooden slat in the cat cemetery so their cat Tora would be protected. No she wasn’t dead, only run away. But on the day of her death no one would know how to pray for her, how to intercede with death so that he would call her by her right name. So they had to come there, both of them, under the rain, to perform the rite that would repair the web of time where it had been broken.

He told me the story of the dog Hachiko. A dog waited every day for his master at the station. The master died, and the dog didn’t know it, and he continued to wait all his life. People were moved and brought him food. After his death a statue was erected in his honor, in front of which sushi and rice cakes are still placed so that the faithful soul of Hachiko will never go hungry.

A

“A tua voz, os teus olhos,
as tuas mãos,os teus lábios.


O nosso silêncio, as nossas palavras.
A luz que desaparece,
a luz que regressa.
Um único sorriso para os dois.


Por precisar de saber,
vi a noite criar o dia,
sem que mudássemos de aparência.
Ó bem amado por todos
e bem amado por um.
Em silêncio, a tua boca
prometeu ser feliz.


“Afasta-te, afasta-te”, diz o ódio.
“Aproxima-te mais”, diz o amor.


Pelas nossas carícias,
saímos da infância.
Vejo cada vez melhor
a forma humana.


Como um dialógo entre amantes,
o coração só tem uma boca.
Tudo é ao acaso.
Todas as palavras são espontâneas.


Os sentimentos à deriva.
Os homens vagueiam pela cidade.
O olhar, a palavra,
e o facto de eu te amar.
Tudo está em movimento.
Basta avançar para viver,
seguir em frente, em direcção
a tudo o que amamos.
Ia na tua direcção.


Seguia sem parar em direcção à luz.
Se sorris, é para melhor me envolveres.
Os teus braços luminosos
entreabrem o nevoeiro.”

Palavras de Paul Éluard, em Alphaville, Godard.

Do futuro

Entrevista muito interessante feita ao Manoel de Oliveira, pelo jornal Diário de Notícias, no dia 31 de Agosto de 2008.

Mas acha que o mundo não tem muito futuro?

Futuro há-de ter, mas toda a matéria é para morrer. Eu estive no México para receber uma medalha e soube que era de prata. E, curiosamente, perguntei :”Então, aqui, a medalha é de prata? Isto é um segundo prémio?” E disseram-me:”Não, este é o prémio mais de topo, a prata foi descoberta aqui no México. “Então fui ver os maias e havia lá um texto que dizia o seguinte, entre outras coisas : “Semeia para colheres, colhe para comeres, come para viveres”. Isto parece simples, mas é profundíssimo, e foi preciso  a recente falta de milho para as pessoas ficarem todas aflitas porque não podiam comer dinheiro.

Também gostei da entrevista que foi feita à Ana Teresa Pereira, pelo Jornal de Letras. Destacaria vários pontos, mas gostei quando ela diz que uma vez num dos seus textos para o jornal fez uma citação de um livro do Borges, que não existe. Haverá algo mais borgeseano?

A ronda da noite

Quantas pessoas foram ver A Ronda da Noite, de Peter Greenway, no cinema do Bom Sucesso (Porto)?

Na minha sessão, só estava eu e mais outra pessoa.

Conclusão, ouvi dizer que a Cinemateca tem data prevista para o Porto. E parece que o telhado da Casa da Artes vai ter outro tecto de estrelas.