"The problem, my friend, is that we evaluate people not by what they are but for their tastes."
"The issue , Augustine, is that you come riding with an obsessional neurosis from childhood."
"The issue , Augustine, is that you come riding with an obsessional neurosis from childhood."
With these two phrases of similar start my marathon culminated week, where I had a partial-note Psycholinguistics: Saussure is not summer reading, "a work The Idiots by Lars von Trier, from perspective of Deleuze and Guattari, and visits to a patient who lives on the outskirts of Montevideo.
The first talk was the result of a telephone conversation with a friend and the second occurred in my psychoanalytic session on Friday. Apparently different, the two end up talking about it. No turning
from my three years I have been collecting things. Chicanos In those early years, a friend of my father used to buy a Thunder Cat Ghostbusters or whenever he visited my house. Within a few years I had almost all the dolls in this series, confirming through a catalog that was on the back of the box from them. The first letter I learned may not have been the A of my name, but the X that marked the toys he already had. To that you were adding the Superfriends, GI Joe, that I'm very excited, "Ninja Turtles (always wanted to have the Tecnódromo , but Uruguay was not sold, and if it were, it would have been a kidney) The elegant Subbuteo and the insane Dragon Ball Z and the Masked Raider-result of the passage of my father for Japanese football. More pro
collectors often keep their action figures in their respective boxes and missing a lot of value to be extracted from them. However, I did not reach such extremes, playing well with them. A feature my particular fondness for toys was that, unlike my colleagues, whose rooms looked like a head full of Hiroshima and members of action figures, beyond giving him a tremendous use, very few have been broken everywhere in this time.
time ago my mother was talking to my girlfriend and talking about illness, death, old age, etc. ended by saying "to me what worries me is the mess would be if I died" . Is a comment that, beyond the tragic, is extremely funny, and certainly a nice postcard from the obsession with the order of my mother. As the powerhouse of the cause giving significant transforming energy reality, my mother designed a certain order in my increasingly long shelf, separating the dolls by category, size and requirements, the most feeble position used to be leaning against the wall, for obvious reasons. Some years later albums figures come, the Pepsi Cards, Dice Roll, discs and books, and eventually all those dolls went to a trunk, but somehow what remains of what is order, as reincarnated spirit persists in the various objects that parade in those shelves.
Undoubtedly, my greatest obsession is the discs, so far as to want to buy the Velvet Underground and Nico , when my sister and have it on your shelf next room, just a few meters from my room. No mere exhibitionist impulse, each disc contains behind his box of plastic or cardboard, encapsulated a moment, like those prehistoric mosquitoes solidified in amber, carrying in their DNA traces of a past time and place, inaccessible by other means . I take Radiohead Pablo Honey, and I remember the sunny days that ended up on my shelf, the bus journey from the cemetery of the diving (which had just witnessed the burial of my grandfather) to the Punta Carretas where I bought it with expectations that would collapse to the second or third listen. I take Daydream Nation, I remember the taste of Salsa Valentina Lays with the teenage angst late on a journey that trip was more than exile. I take the One to one and so on, and I remember the fierce competition between James and I to see who was buying it before, retention in customs which delayed the arrival of the disc, the Santiago side of me drooling while showed in his hands the portrait of Peter Dalton eating brains, without letting me even touch it. Volume vinyl Love songs for patriots, I remember the feeling of knowing you would get, and that Saturday morning that I found in the troughs of Ernesto, after a fateful part. And I remember even those other discs , of \u200b\u200bwhich not even like to bring to mention, also purchased in the most variables possible. Eight years ago he showed the 3:47 minutes of a track to a friend, put your tube against one of the speakers, sharing that finding as if it had struck oil after a bullet on the floor and today I find that hard watching from the shelf and I answer your look with a loving shame.
Brunomilan few months ago I wrote about the history first compiled, course by which almost everyone born in the eighties we ever. The fact that 90% of our teens' favorite musicians are going to have to go through their trials from Nuremberg to our twenty to twenty-five years is an almost scientific, but beyond that, as noted earlier, one does not may end up hating those records, since the tastes are supported by a scaffolding of their fanaticism dirty past.
In that post, as all we were getting the dirty laundry in the sun, I decided to search through tapes compiled some of my teens. At that time the Internet was seen as entirely a matter for pornocos, UFO hunters and fans of Command and Conquer, leaving the ability to go quite musical material out of the question. Beyond that there was Napster, discharges are used to pass the speed of 5k per second, and download a track of six megabytes was a task requiring much patience, to say the Buddhist ataraxia. For this reason, the method was the recordings made by friends, usually disintegrated in salads, with songs that at times overlapping, mingling with old recordings, or simply disintegrating. I was struck by the intensity of fear about the resurgence of the culture of single, circumstantially driven by the Internet and downloads frantic phone. If there was a time single-oriented, it was those years of the cassette in that a friend recorded a song you amputee from the rest of the disc, sometimes toiling directly from the radio, without even knowing the artist, much less the disk in question. I remember especially the case of a fellow Englishman to record a song Kiss unplugged approached the microphone of a tape recorder to the TV, putting rec and capturing three-quarters of that song she loved. Even in a part of Ace Freeley only be heard ringing and a dog barking Rottweiler that my friend used to walk (or walked it to him, considering the dimensions of the skinny hobbit.) Several of my music-loving proto-group Institute of liked this issue and made some few copies of that tape. Calco on tracing on tracing. It's funny to imagine what should be the end product of all this, possibly a grainy paste noise, with some recognizable verses and choruses scattered emerging as appendices. But yes, the true culture of the single was unconscious at its peak in those days, where consuming it all we could, in the most irresponsible, immediate and unorthodox that was within our grasp.
now review and at that tape and plastic rhizome meeting a few of these compilations, a predominantly romantic songs to listen at night, one with loose items Pearl Jam, one titled "bizarre collection of songs recorded by Oliver" , with some tracks from Marilyn Manson and Chopper (yes, Chopperrr), among many others like them let down (and that includes to certain bands unforgivable, I know, But we we're young and innocent )
The first talk was the result of a telephone conversation with a friend and the second occurred in my psychoanalytic session on Friday. Apparently different, the two end up talking about it. No turning
from my three years I have been collecting things. Chicanos In those early years, a friend of my father used to buy a Thunder Cat Ghostbusters or whenever he visited my house. Within a few years I had almost all the dolls in this series, confirming through a catalog that was on the back of the box from them. The first letter I learned may not have been the A of my name, but the X that marked the toys he already had. To that you were adding the Superfriends, GI Joe, that I'm very excited, "Ninja Turtles (always wanted to have the Tecnódromo , but Uruguay was not sold, and if it were, it would have been a kidney) The elegant Subbuteo and the insane Dragon Ball Z and the Masked Raider-result of the passage of my father for Japanese football. More pro
collectors often keep their action figures in their respective boxes and missing a lot of value to be extracted from them. However, I did not reach such extremes, playing well with them. A feature my particular fondness for toys was that, unlike my colleagues, whose rooms looked like a head full of Hiroshima and members of action figures, beyond giving him a tremendous use, very few have been broken everywhere in this time.
time ago my mother was talking to my girlfriend and talking about illness, death, old age, etc. ended by saying "to me what worries me is the mess would be if I died" . Is a comment that, beyond the tragic, is extremely funny, and certainly a nice postcard from the obsession with the order of my mother. As the powerhouse of the cause giving significant transforming energy reality, my mother designed a certain order in my increasingly long shelf, separating the dolls by category, size and requirements, the most feeble position used to be leaning against the wall, for obvious reasons. Some years later albums figures come, the Pepsi Cards, Dice Roll, discs and books, and eventually all those dolls went to a trunk, but somehow what remains of what is order, as reincarnated spirit persists in the various objects that parade in those shelves.
Undoubtedly, my greatest obsession is the discs, so far as to want to buy the Velvet Underground and Nico , when my sister and have it on your shelf next room, just a few meters from my room. No mere exhibitionist impulse, each disc contains behind his box of plastic or cardboard, encapsulated a moment, like those prehistoric mosquitoes solidified in amber, carrying in their DNA traces of a past time and place, inaccessible by other means . I take Radiohead Pablo Honey, and I remember the sunny days that ended up on my shelf, the bus journey from the cemetery of the diving (which had just witnessed the burial of my grandfather) to the Punta Carretas where I bought it with expectations that would collapse to the second or third listen. I take Daydream Nation, I remember the taste of Salsa Valentina Lays with the teenage angst late on a journey that trip was more than exile. I take the One to one and so on, and I remember the fierce competition between James and I to see who was buying it before, retention in customs which delayed the arrival of the disc, the Santiago side of me drooling while showed in his hands the portrait of Peter Dalton eating brains, without letting me even touch it. Volume vinyl Love songs for patriots, I remember the feeling of knowing you would get, and that Saturday morning that I found in the troughs of Ernesto, after a fateful part. And I remember even those other discs , of \u200b\u200bwhich not even like to bring to mention, also purchased in the most variables possible. Eight years ago he showed the 3:47 minutes of a track to a friend, put your tube against one of the speakers, sharing that finding as if it had struck oil after a bullet on the floor and today I find that hard watching from the shelf and I answer your look with a loving shame.
Brunomilan few months ago I wrote about the history first compiled, course by which almost everyone born in the eighties we ever. The fact that 90% of our teens' favorite musicians are going to have to go through their trials from Nuremberg to our twenty to twenty-five years is an almost scientific, but beyond that, as noted earlier, one does not may end up hating those records, since the tastes are supported by a scaffolding of their fanaticism dirty past.
In that post, as all we were getting the dirty laundry in the sun, I decided to search through tapes compiled some of my teens. At that time the Internet was seen as entirely a matter for pornocos, UFO hunters and fans of Command and Conquer, leaving the ability to go quite musical material out of the question. Beyond that there was Napster, discharges are used to pass the speed of 5k per second, and download a track of six megabytes was a task requiring much patience, to say the Buddhist ataraxia. For this reason, the method was the recordings made by friends, usually disintegrated in salads, with songs that at times overlapping, mingling with old recordings, or simply disintegrating. I was struck by the intensity of fear about the resurgence of the culture of single, circumstantially driven by the Internet and downloads frantic phone. If there was a time single-oriented, it was those years of the cassette in that a friend recorded a song you amputee from the rest of the disc, sometimes toiling directly from the radio, without even knowing the artist, much less the disk in question. I remember especially the case of a fellow Englishman to record a song Kiss unplugged approached the microphone of a tape recorder to the TV, putting rec and capturing three-quarters of that song she loved. Even in a part of Ace Freeley only be heard ringing and a dog barking Rottweiler that my friend used to walk (or walked it to him, considering the dimensions of the skinny hobbit.) Several of my music-loving proto-group Institute of liked this issue and made some few copies of that tape. Calco on tracing on tracing. It's funny to imagine what should be the end product of all this, possibly a grainy paste noise, with some recognizable verses and choruses scattered emerging as appendices. But yes, the true culture of the single was unconscious at its peak in those days, where consuming it all we could, in the most irresponsible, immediate and unorthodox that was within our grasp.
now review and at that tape and plastic rhizome meeting a few of these compilations, a predominantly romantic songs to listen at night, one with loose items Pearl Jam, one titled "bizarre collection of songs recorded by Oliver" , with some tracks from Marilyn Manson and Chopper (yes, Chopperrr), among many others like them let down (and that includes to certain bands unforgivable, I know, But we we're young and innocent )
Among many some listed on the reverse of that tape is a special that catches my attention: Live. Now that I think, that was a disconcertingly like original. Because it was not simply that I liked. Not that I had hung with Selling the drama, or some of those few hits they had in their hands as majugas in boiler. No, it was a true fan of the band. I put the cassette, listen to the issues and beyond the bare some uncomfortable falsetto and lyrical platitudes with many wave Krishnamurti for dummies, I acknowledge that, perhaps moved by a certain nostalgia, some how I still like his subjects. However, the really strange thing is that I never met anyone who liked the band. In eight years the closest thing to a fan I met was a faculty fellow in the guitar could interpret some of the Live issues, not remember where he learned. Live The issue is intriguing to find someone to be declared fan of them is strange place for someone whose favorite band is Nurse With Wound. As the latter belonging to an area reserved only for music lovers in intensive care, Live playing blind man's buff in that area of \u200b\u200btransition between maintream and indie, the vulgar and the refined, not good enough to enter the annals indisputable rock, nor bad enough to generate some kind of bizarre cult. Even not have a particular sound that identifies with the times, may be a band of the nineties as well as of the eighties. No, Live is in Sarajevo, an asymptotic place where there is no edge to fully tap anywhere, being the result be any by all sub-genres. And that, for fifteen years Augustine knew you spend countless nights of listening, it was very good.
One of the biggest fears for emerging music lovers that band was precisely that he loved became popular. Now that I think was not so much the fact that many people liked, but whom he liked. Something you would like a considerable number of people, except the axiom Beatles or the Rolling Stones, "was something suspicious, and that bulk of people was composed of rugby players or ex tarimeros, was the confirmation that the band had failed as candidate identity formation. But while things were maintained controlled and special sintiésemos us, there was nothing to fear, and certainly meet with someone who was a fan of Radiohead, The Cure, or the band that one would like to be a bond of brotherhood automatic.
I remember the first fan of Radiohead I met in my life. In my generation we were few who knew Radiohead, much less those who followed him as unconditionally as I do. Women, meanwhile, did not seem to like nothing specifically, and something like it used to be a band that liked their boyfriends, or any band on the radio that had a redundant and absurd incidence comparable to the wedding of Wanda Nara in the Argentine media. I had taken several days to draw a shirt entirely lined with letters, e logos iconographic imagery of the band. He had even made some caricatures of Thom Yorke and Johnny Greenwod in each of the sleeves that even at this stage I still look convincing. The place: The song party, a festival held annually in Los Marist bands Guns'N wannabes of Roses and Candle pig. It was the third version of Sweet Child o 'mine at night and some of my friends went to the bottom, while I was listening to the dull wannabe Slash, moved by the morbid mood to see how many times the blunder. At that time was a round zero with women, and beyond that there were some pretty cute gals few around me, the tradition seemed so inevitable failures and naturalized that I had neglected the issue of release. As I said, I was alone and watching how the band finished playing and asking for the time when I felt a fingernail to touch my shoulder. I turned to my side and then I saw. It was a rather pale chick with a black headband hair pushing her face and black-framed glasses. It had a flared coat, those that used synthetic padded seen in the attire of the Goths, but the girl did not have the distinctive makeup, or crosses, nor any baroque style. I had been watching how she moved her mouth, dropping late to the notion that I wanted to say something. I asked to speak louder. He went to say something in his ear. I remember her cheek touching mine, and the words shouted into my ear. Do you like Radiohead? I said yes, that if he was on my shirt, but she did not hear me, so this time I had to get close to his ear, which I liked even more because I could smell him as he spoke an almost imperceptible trace of perfume. He liked Radiohead, but line drives more brit pop, like The Bends . In those days I walked fascinated with the Kid but rave about the first two albums, including the Pablo Honey , it does not really convince me at all. In addition to Radiohead liked Led Zeppelin, The Beatles and some classical CDs that were in his old house. His parents were separated, and apparently was a situation fraught with disputes and resentment. I had a boyfriend, or at least never brought him to mention, and had completed one year in San Juan, Lyceum of the keeper of the worst of his memories. I tried to follow the conversation, but ran on autopilot, giving the reason things do not even hear them at all, and trying to resume the theme of the band. The fact that Radiohead liked and would have recognized some of the logos on my shirt was a breathtakingly exciting fact, and I soon realized that I had hung up with that chick. The conversation itself lasted the repertoire of a band that I felt naturally or on stage. When the last song ended, she stood up saying that he had to find her friends. We said hello and saw how it was with that covered what was going on the knees, devising ways to get him someday, at another time, another place. It was then that I realized that we never passed the names. I had been so aware of their musical tastes I had forgotten his name. I look and ask, but this was going to be heavy or cumbersome. I remember back home, a duel of ten blocks in which ideábamos with my friends to find ways of making it. I lay unable to sleep and listening to The Bends , imaginándomela listening to that record it right then. It was in Fake Plastic Trees that lit the room. I pulled out of high school yearbooks, reviewing one by one class of 98 ', 99' and 2000 '. At his anonymity, his search was complicated, and at first glance there was not found. As I was paying almost found it like a diver without Wally striped, lost in the flood of hormones 3rd C. His hair was long and matted, more brown than the short, straight and covered with a headband that had been at that concert. His clothes were different, a thick green shirt, blue jeans with contrasting with the monochrome synthetic that night. It was there that I knew your name. I even get your phone, via a friend who told me she was with family problems and giving ketamine quite often, but between my ineffectiveness and lack of good excuses to call, I ended up forgetting his name.
Now write this and try to acordármelo and certainly could dispel doubt consult with only one directory, but then I realize that I prefer to leave well as Radiohead that girl I met my sixteen years.
Over time and with the opening of certain circles one gets to know people better suited to their tastes. The bulk of my friends high school students are characterized by a series of similar interests and inclinations, whether in music, film or literature. At the same time, the handicap is almost inevitable that someone is a chick that says you have posters of Axel in his room, or a faculty colleague who claims that her favorite author is, let 'Jorge Bucay ...
However, one is realizing that people with similar tastes, and above all with the opposite sex, although usually some extra balls for the relationship, is quite misleading in terms of sex or love.
Over time and with the opening of certain circles one gets to know people better suited to their tastes. The bulk of my friends high school students are characterized by a series of similar interests and inclinations, whether in music, film or literature. At the same time, the handicap is almost inevitable that someone is a chick that says you have posters of Axel in his room, or a faculty colleague who claims that her favorite author is, let 'Jorge Bucay ...
However, one is realizing that people with similar tastes, and above all with the opposite sex, although usually some extra balls for the relationship, is quite misleading in terms of sex or love.
sickly moment in my Cortazarian started dating a fan of Rayuela. It was the first faculty, none knew no one and we became friends automatically (just because we met had a copy of the book under his arm everywhere he was). The book was truly a bridge, plank that crossed the gap connecting the two apartments, the pebble that made us move boxes. Then we started dating. However, over time I realized that she was hanging with me, but I was hanging with the image she had of me. It was only after cutting with it I realized that we had engaged in both the book and its characters in the relationship did as an interpretation of Oliveira and La Maga with inauspicious results. I had to give me a few times the head against the wall to realize that seem more romantic than walking without me but knowing that this goes to meet , Oliveira is a very CRA to say, unless someone very optimistic We all know what happens to him in Chapter 56. Some effects
strangers who were not contraindications for culture is all that jive or cool indie autosuntenta that today, but based on filing its edges, be simplified to mere forms, gestures and poses. The concept is diluted in the logo, music myth or gossip, "and the indie self-referentiality becomes a mere nod, if not a tic-a product or product that tries to fill that grit emerging new judges in epidermiz the market (and if not, see the über-cute indie Juno). In short, the old story of an impulse packaged and sold in series ... nothing to panic. However, before you see the Warhol banana stretched by the ignorant boobs quinceañeras Name such as Lou Reed and John Cale, a fact that happened to me could possibly have been the beginning of the end.
When I was in school first went to get me a photo card required for early classes. After reluctantly battling with a photographer who wanted to be Mapplethorpe, got within a five copies of the one I had liked and I went over to the box. There was a queue of about four people, and I soon noticed a very summery blonde who stood before me. I had a Hawaiian, a muscular and a white skirt to the ankles, with some few of those that are flown on the fine line between hippies of cool and dirty. Her hair was straight, falling straight to the shoulders tattooed bikini white for a intransigent. Thus, in one of those is a ponytail and neck in that sector both Onetti haunted him, that little piece of neck where the hair is not hair, I see the symbol of
Einsturzende Neubauten!
That was disconcerting. All ideas that had made me the woman I was shattered. I tried to hold back for a few minutes, but inevitably ended up giving to my ecstasy of emotion, hormones and snobbery. I went, and from behind I said "What a great
Blixa Bargeld ...
La tipa I said" WHAT? " as if I had said a compliment wave with that ass shit I invite you to my house in German.
The talk afterwards was very different from the exciting fusion of souls that I had imagined having you in several minutes to explain that which her neck was not a tribal pattern, and its Floripa tattoo artist must have been a great guy wave.
Epilogue:
had rented shell, greatly doubt it was good in the face of such gil that appears on the cover of the DVD. In any case, had rented a little to catch up on how the film now Uruguayan, and a little to prosecute in a civil way my sadistic instincts. Estrenábamos DVD player and we got the stove to protect us from cold. Mary had worked ten hours, and the likelihood of them being low in the course of the film was more than possible. Without much ado we set play.
The music you hear quite low, and in offices in predominantly pale colors. Peter is preparing for an important job interview. Then appeared Camarotta, which apparently was the protagonist's coworker. The story had run its normal course, except for one thing: not heard dialogue. No, not a word. Every so often listened to music, a passing car, the voice of the protagonist, but all that happened between the characters was seen as see a couple arguing in the front apartment, with no idea of \u200b\u200bwhat specifically is being talked about . It was about five minutes that Mary drew attention to how rare it was that however much you see the lips moving, not registered any dialogue. Academicism taking some of the trunk, I said to Mary that was really an interesting movement to propose dumb and open dialogue, in which the viewer fill in guestalts in his opinion, consolidating many versions of the film as a spectator. Each one could mentally create dialogue history, and so would end up as a metaguión co-written by the thousands (?) Of viewers would see the film at the cinema or at home. Mary endured a few more minutes of talks dumb, and eventually wound up wondering if he was sure if there was any problem with the cables, or TV. With self-demarcated replied that in any case, were the ideas of the director, and that something interesting had it all. Maria snorted and ended up sleeping a few minutes. I was focused on sculpting go fictions were created between those empty spaces and dumb. However, about twenty minutes I started to realize that I was uncomfortable. Understand the intransigence of the principal modern interior, but after a certain time, the task of filling started to be exhausting. It was there that I came out of that scene and go to the menu section where you could choose the audio format. Then I realized that the film had been all the time in 5.1 format, where DVD new device could only record 2.0. I made this small adjustment, and then heard for the first time in the movie the voice of Gonzalo Cammarota. Literally flushed, reboviné and began to see the film from zero, discovering the real dialogue that my snobbishness guestalts and tried to cover.
The film turned out to be not very good, but not as bad as me foreshadowed. Mary woke up just when they were the credits. I wondered what had become of the film and decide not to tell you about the little gag technology, saying that about forty minutes just displayed the dialogues. Mary says "plunger", and before I could invent a defense or excuse cinematográdica rambling, closes his eyes, saying a few words pasty entredormida I can not decode. It is here that seeing her asleep, curled up on the couch I realize that things how are you remind me why I'm ennoviado with it.
The first porn movie I saw, without knowing more, without even knowing what was really pornography, was Deep Throat . I was twelve and I thought that having seen the 
As promised the weight of the cassette, it contained some few films, including one about a spa sexual initiation, another of voyeurism and hang gliding (¿!) and some videos of Dr. Ruth, plus eighty capillary than the previous. Harry Reems was another that was quite dark, one in which again was a doctor - a psychiatrist here, will know what kept him so deeply entrenched in that role, "attending a psychotic with a past full of rape, filmed by a camera fascinated by the dark and fucking textures. Even poor inmate was sodomized, but not long-fucked by a nurse, obviously a veteran lesbian, and the end of the film was as open as dark, leaving the final scene of rape in the protagonist dies as a staging of his own mental disintegration, or a macabre fact actually happens. 
As I said, there are movies better than Deep Throat, as the super arty Behind the green door "Mitchell brothers film where coreaografía melts, orgies and psychedelia, with the particular beauty of Marilyn Chambers, "the Faustian The Devil in Miss. Jones Damiano -another-or The opening of misty beethoven -my favorite among all of them, a sort of My Fair Lady-budget porn, and some truly funny scenes. Even, it is wrong to believe that the first porn film Deep Throat is actually being Mona a precedent exhibited in San Francisco. John Waters, type idol if any, states that the porn industry began properly in the documentary Pornography in Denmark, a film which showed penetration, but due to be covered in a veil of artistry , had escaped the censorship neurotic land of the free. Even going further back, several authors believe that the true props on the basis of which the porn industry are the films of Russ Meyer (an old dear, who had a full roster of Cokes Sarlis willing to swim and jump and jump and jump until available on it) and the clandestine stag movies, movies about ten minutes consisted simply of a person being filmed while having sex with another-in fact, recently came to light one of these videos played no more and nothing less that Marilyn Monroe, but apparently a überonani disbursed a few bucks to get the material and not share with anyone. of stag movies took themselves chart, and Meyer, his pace and willingness to humor is funny to see a movie this guy who always reminded me of Hitchcock, because his mind in their dialogue and behavior to those of a porno movie, though barely showing any boob. The genealogical research really can be extended to wherever you want and can pass through the female orgasm Machatý Ecstasy, the statue's feet kissed by that girl in 
Many people are strange, but the most excruciatingly erotic film that I was faced is Silence of Bergman. In the film, sensuality remains tense, so tense that seems to fourth string bass, strap on the verge of exploding on the face. I remember seeing that movie as part of a fucking sexual abstinence, so dismissed the true extent of the eroticism of the film. However, I saw again this year, and really, for reasons that are not easy to define, the film gives you back as half, and Gunnel Lindblom is a bomb, a chick that takes you from the beginning of the belt and passes you the muzzle for your own mishaps. (Come to think, away from the old obsessed with death and guilt, the Bergman-making honor to his name, really goes beyond sexuality, with films like Summer with Monica, Youth, divine treasure, or Person -with the narrative of sexual encounter not to be covered in pictures achieves a completely unexpected effect, for good measure, the Ralat 
nineties and 2000, things is filled with glitter, the AVN become an institution and the launch pornstars best sellers, but much of the mystique is lost. It is striking how while in the eighties and seventies porn condensed all the style and audacity of the time-no shakes hairs than those of the models of the eighties, and one would just look at the clothes of John Holmes in his character Johnny Wadd to know who is seventy-on of the ninety-two thousand are few elements typical of the decade, like the clothes, which, when present, more than clothes look material props. Even the music is lost, and while in the seventies folk song or album had really beautiful "I'm not kidding, glue a listen to some scenes of some porn movies of that time and then I say," at this time there is usually no music, and when there is almost a radio on with a hip hop song, which obviously not part of the original score, and against which most of the time were not even paid the rights to its use. 
One of the clearest determinants of the decline stylistic No-economic-porn is the same lack of male actors relevant. Virtually no actor that stands out, and men tend to be reduced to panting sweaty machines, often mere talking penises, partial objects into and out of camera. Beyond the impoverished 
