business as usual, with the same old Fears and Frustrations
I went from the kitchen to the living room and saw my dog \u200b\u200bwith his tongue to the outside, like Dyer's dog in this painting of Bacon . I had seen the corner of my eye, say about three steps. Each of them was a possible explanation of what had just seen. The fourth step, I stopped. Going back to see Tropic Thunder on the DVD, but slowly turned on my heel and watched. I was curled up, tongue out, do but not the same language he had seen over the last thirteen years. It was a heavy tongue, like those that impressed me both as a child to go to the butcher with my mother. I always said I could eat anything, brains, guts, eyes, but never those languages \u200b\u200bnumb as I watched waiting GeoDucks communicate a single word amputated. But my dog \u200b\u200bwas there and got to try to spot any signs of life. There seemed to be moving, I checked visually ribs and not inflated and deflated as one might expect. It was ten seconds and then I panicked. I crossed the living room, walked briskly down the corridor (I thought of jogging, but I preferred walking to avoid creating suspicion, but is suspected to whom?) and locked myself in the room. I stood there in silence. Carver's book had already finished. I was going to reread some things Polleri Philip, died after a facet image of the open mouth of my dog, that independent language like a crab out of its shell, hovering over my head like a crazed moth spraying a jet plane all the gray dust. put His 'n' hers Pulp and took it away, thinking that if my dog \u200b\u200bwas dying, that song would be doomed to be forever associated with that death. Nothing else to do, I sat on my bed. Waiting. I realized that what really terrified me was not the death of my dog \u200b\u200b(let's face it, is thirteen and a brain tumor that generates few attacks every few worthy of Ian Curtis), but the fact that I who found his body . Then was there, waiting for the inevitable. He was with the light on my shelf with the door locked. I thought "now my mother will cry and will be official." They spent twelve, twenty minutes. There was no screaming. My mother was preparing dinner, so can they still had not come to see the body in the living room. "I have to say," and thought that two years ago I had buried the boxer of Mary. We were watching a E-true Hollywood Story on the life of someone who no one cared and the mother enters, stares at the floor and says "Max ?...". With only the question, no response or no response from Max, Maria and I knew he was already dead, who had died among us without any drama, as natural as the cough of someone sleeping. As soon as I realized the whole affair did with the coolness of a meat worker. I took the shovel, made a hole in the garden, took the body of the two legs, and covered it threw. Tamp the soil with their feet. The smoothed with a shovel. Were minutes later when all the dogs on the block began to howl. I am a man of science, and I would not chill express that Mary, looking at the sun hidden by clouds, knowing what I was thinking, and knowing that I knew she knew. He was silent and said "I was told that there is a trick to make all the dogs shut up." I asked what and she asked me to take out the shoes. I took them out without question and put the right above the left. At the same time put the dogs stopped howling. We said nothing, but never witnessed anything like that.
was not until five hours later that I realized what had happened. I saw the earth between my nails and suddenly everything had gone completely absurd, my notes, lists of records that I wanted to buy diagrammed in my head, a mine that was watching me or not-in-class, back in the 121 to my house.
was now in a similar situation, except that instead of taking the paddle, I could not do anything but being locked in the room, just waiting for the terrible thing was presented as an entomologist waiting for a butterfly leaves the cocoon. The association is not free, now that I think. He had read that Aristotle, that among the hundred thousand things he did, was an entomologist enviable "never wanted to deal with issues much butterflies, or rather, the subject of the metamorphosis of the butterfly crystals. The conclusion he drew a historian on the respestuoso silence of Aristotle, that the butterfly was one of the animals most associated with life, fullness, was not a new being regenerated, but the spirit of the body shedding. I also thought that quantum theory that if one throws sulfuric acid in a closed box with a cat inside before opening the box to see what results, the cat is both alive and dead simultaneously. Then I realized I was thinking of butterflies, boxes, and jacks for a second forget that not far from a bloody dog \u200b\u200bhad died in the living room. Yes, all these rodeos theoretical extinguished the possibility of my mother cry saying "Augustine, please, come."
And waited.
And did one and a half.
Then I heard the cry of my mother, but as they never could have imagined, completely calm, saying that the food was ready. I walked down the corridor with each step designed as if it were your last. We went to eat in the living room. We went to eat in the living room with a dead dog. For a moment I got the crazy that we would eat our own dog. But then came Blas and is standing on four legs, hoping to hock some of my sister's new boyfriend.
see it is almost like seeing a ghost. My chest is filled with air again.
My mother, "you put it the egg salad?
Me: "not so good."
This is a post that a lot of people hate to read, and who may not dare to do it, since it is based on that issue is so terrible that the revelation of the end of movies. It was from a conversation I had with Guzman, where we talked about the end of movies with explosions included. For Guzman was a mere excuse to talk to Dr. Strangelove, with that scene Cowboy riding a B-2 , while I remember that I started rambling twist of Zabriske Point and the end of Fight Club. But then the conversation started to be reprocessed in my head and ended with the final list of my eleven favorite movies, which, as usual, they synapse with the region of my cerebral cortex whose scientific name is "This may serve for a post" .
Needless to say, here the list:
11-Sleepaway Camp (Robert Hiltzik, 1983) Sleepaway Camp
is one of those films that might appear in a sloppy grid television Friday the thirteenth, a background image on the television waving a pajama party where all the puberty are more interested to play the game of the bottle to feel real terror. The film is Fuler in many ways, and their 5 / 6 film is not separated much of the requirements of the slasher genre, except that instead of teenagers on the verge of adulthood, as is usually opt in most films, usually in order to show more boobs without hesitation here are conscientious-pubescent tweens, that beyond his age, or I would cease to be an old saying by age, are very horny and putean as sailors. Of course, murders begin to happen, almost all made in a framework that ensures the benefit of the doubt: no hacking full in the skull, here are drowning, people burned with boiling water basins, bullies eaten by bees, that is pretty ambiguous stuff. Only in the final straight it gets more fucked up, and almost as a rampage killer worthy of Malaysian amok, kills a significant number of children and animators. Well, so here is nothing unusual, but it all goes to shit, the shit recontra in the final. The film was centered on a boy and his cousin, a less self-conscious girl sexy thong Joey Ramone in trying to dodge all the bravado of other children in those Summer Camps cited as obsessively Yankees films. Beyond the rodent girl's appearance and personality chord, the situations are so kind and caring guy starts to court. When it begins to fall in love, everything goes downhill good because the kid ends up falling prey to the joke of an asshole that seems to suffer from uterine fever. It is here that the style Homeric falls fist of the gods on the camp, leading to the bloody feast had mentioned a few lines above. A few minutes of this terrible chain, we see that, beyond the anger, she invites the boy who courted her for a swim in the lake. That's where comes the moment completely Wtf the film, possibly one of the most bizarre to ever witnessed. One of the surviving leaders about the girl and sees that he is caressing the head of her lover. When they come a little more, they realize that it is exactly that: only the head. The guy says something to the girl and she gets up. A zoom is passing out face-a gesture terrifying, almost inhuman is carved on his face to the body. She is naked. When the camera comes to framing beyond the waist see. We see it.
A penis.
The child was a child.
That does not explain anything, does not justify anything about the film, the murders did not need no force and particularly men who were more astute than fierce-but works in a disturbingly effective. Everyone I know freaked out with that final, and the conclusion to be drawn is that its symbolic construct decays on the revelation that the killer is the one least expected, more or less, the nitrogen structure of any type film whodunnit - nor the fact of discovering that the child was not so. No, what is frightening is not any of it, is nothing metaphorical or metonymic, is just that: the penis. That penis loose, lost in a place where it should be. A party that morfa the whole, a hole gestalts that destroys black. The impact is almost omnipresent effective because it touches the very fiber of the core of any traumatic situation. A sudden invasion of reality with a symbolic system that can not constrict within your network. All in Sleepaway Camp are paralyzed, not what should be shocking narrative, "I say, I at least would impact me discover a murderer @ @ with the decapitated head of a child in her lap, but by a simple object, lost in a place where there should be.
10-Usual Suspects (Bryan Singer, 1995)
History of the twists coming a long time ago and possibly even beyond the remit The Cabinet of Dr. Caligary (it is envisaged that the whole story was a product of delirium admitted to a psychiatric hospital.) However, since the mid-nineties to our recent times the resource was trivialized, maligned, by taking it indiscriminately and often wrong. You already get to see the movie knowing that a minute of film, usually 4 / 5 of the film, the story will hit a turnaround that will leave everyone happy. The unexpected end, the magician pulls out another rabbit from the hat boring. And everybody's happy. I remember the end of Sixth sense. The development of the film was almost like an excuse for the final. It was the first time that the end was more publicized than the film itself, with all the risks that entails. Possibly the fact that everyone told me how amazing it was that twist, eventually disappoint, or anticipate what would happen. At that time I knew little of cinema, and beyond that I thought the final certainly inflated, not something that bothered me greatly. However, watching the rest of the films of Shyalaman I realized that soon became a one-trick- director. His films were teleological, but in a bad way of the word. Articulated were based on that, at the time of glare where we realize that the protagonist is a ghost, or where we realize that a nineteenth-century rural village is actually a kind of hypertrophied Amish community, existing today. The trouble with this type of ending is that we are plain lined. The director knows something we do not know and shows him at the end. He's playing with us. It is dedicated to kicking the ball into the corner flag to fit a backlash at the end. Would say, has purchased the judge. He is the judge. The twists, such as Darius told me once, "are meaningless as they arise and consistent with material offered to the viewer. It is conceivable the omniscience of the narrator, but in the case of this kind of late, resulting in an asymmetry that ends annoying, hypocritical, arrogant. Somehow I do not know how Usual Suspects submit or not to such imperatives. He had long wanted to see her, but feared that sad feeling bad witness the aging of the film, or is not up to his memory. However, the final works, and continues to impact how straightens the leg of Kevin Spacey as he leaves the interrogation room and the detective raelenti it falls into his cup of coffee.
09-My Best Friend (Werner Herzog)
The binomial Herzog-Kinski was a compound in their unions and separations generated more energy than the two uranium nuclei. You have read, studied, and even known relationships framed in a dynamic love and hate, but in the binary H / K language falls short, or at least have to rethink the idea of \u200b\u200bhate and love from their bases. Because let's be clear, we are talking about two people who came to plotting to kill the other, where even the threat to abandon the shoot Kinski Fitzcarraldo, Herzog forced him to end up with a shotgun on the other side of the camera. In such situations, one would think, "Well, here is over, "but then gave new encounters, new guilds, new movies where conflicts always appear at the edge of the physical, like two drugged moths fluttering around a lamp, knowing that they need is two inches shorter, two inches least, to die of a shock. And possibly the two bulbs and lamps were among them. Two dopplegängers, all that one was not what was the other, and their separation would never be the same, is not surprising that still the most memorable films Kinski and Herzog are the ones who were in partnership.
My best friend always pivots between the immense affection hatred and terror which generated Herzog Klaus Kinski. In the same documentary, almost puts it, rather than as a person, as a raw untamed force, a bull that you can use to plow but any time you can bury a goring, which is seen in the same communion with almost romantic nature that characterizes the work and thought of Herzog. The day she died
Kinski, Herzog said, in a sense, he felt a strange and unspeakable relief. The fate was sealed, no one can act, live as Kinski did and hope that your mind, body, skin, their cells, their mitochondria continue synthesizing enzymes for energy from the sixties. Once told me a former bullfighter banderilleros bulls do not bite the same show, bloody, agree, but for being the only way to prevent heart will explode in the full run. Likewise, Herzog might have been that banderillero that allowed at least at one time, Kinski was not just a candidate for a lobotomy operation, or a terrorist or a murderer for hire, or a beautiful suicide . And yet, in the last scene of the film, the German shows that intimate moment with a butterfly Kinski subiéndosele to different parts of the body. Kinski plays with her smiles and looks into the camera, and chiaroscuro of a beast that holding something so fragile as a mechanical clip taking a light bulb, makes it almost apax throughout the films of the two. Such
final one of the largest samples of film as an act of love.
08-The Night of the Living Dead (George Romero, 1968)
Possibly my favorite of the trilogy, George Romero, The night of the living dead is a finger in the ass to all narrative conventions and U.S. cinema. History, in general basis follows the instruction manual: the living dead as slow as persistent everywhere, terrified woman runs away to abandoned house, he meets other survivors and film that develops, huis clos during the siege of the makeshift shelter. Beyond that we are talking about George Romero, The night of the living dead be another film genre, if not for the final. The hopeful young couple dies, the girl dies early, the mother is killed by her daughter who cared for the zombie from the beginning of the film and the black to put the team on his shoulder from the start to survive after the zombie attack, dies of shooting a city police to crush the invasion improvised. Not only content with that, the end of the film presents images of everyday showing how guys are the undisputed hero of the film with hooks, butcher clueless like a dead deer on the road. His own death is so momentary, so lacking in pathos , accentuating the feeling of bitterness that have only Pyrrhic victories, these victories that hurt more than any defeat devastating or overwhelming. Because unlike Dawn of the Dead, where there is a small affirmation of life in a setting where everything is lost (the two protagonists escaping the mall, beyond that you realize that the world lost, and eventually they will suffer the same fate), The night of the living dead works exactly the opposite: the humanity won- least momentarily, "but that does not matter, we do not care , killed himself as the only moral hero of the film, that through which we feel part of that humanity.
Arguably the Romero film is one of the great jewels of human misanthropy (those shiny black pearls, shells waiting in bituminous and infected). Turning a deaf ear to the racist element that more than one could argue, in some circumstances more than one mentioned the similarity of certain scenes from the filming site of the hosts of the Ku Klux Klan in The Birth of a nation, stand apart from the fact the film in Pennsylvania, a state whose people are not exactly the Jefferson, the movie works in a completely misanthropic, not the invasion itself, but by the way the site is revealing the different forms of human intercourse in such circumstances where the life instinct comes to be the deadliest of all. Most major disaster movies in general always work as dramatic bows to showing that the ethos of humanity as a way to form bonds of brotherhood and reorganize in situations where you see one to a fully naked in front on the verge of existence. In this film does not happen, being the parent who systematically betrayed plans salvation of the black. The Atom family - the basis of the society we live , as they say all the defenders of the American way of life , and some antiquated nationalist-style, is shown as an Antarctic archipelago, an organization to Every men by Himself , where what happens beyond its borders does not matter. The parent insists constantly locked in the basement and leave the black out, and is in the same ostrich technique itself tends to be a trap, trap and no worse than one would tend to himself. The family as a concept itself implodes. The girl wakes up from his death and killed the mother, who practically comes to an end. The father, in a last access of sabotage is triggered by the black-as it should be, and down to the basement, only to die in the bed of her daughter. Eventually all the family raises and the black rate is not afraid when stamping out applied to each of them. In a symphony in four movements, roller passes on the myth of brotherhood, and family status.
Who needs a ring to Rousseau and Pangloss when you have zombies?
07-He (Luis Buñuel, 1953)
In terms of quantity, possibly Luis Buñuel is the director with best finishes in the history of cinema. Each of your shots is an encrypted message, the riddle of the Sphinx claiming the eyes of those trying to solve. Buñuel's technique is varied, sometimes resorting to symbolism (sheep entering the chapel The Exterminating Angel), sometimes with sudden bursts of violence that is beyond all language (the explosion in That Obscure Object of Desire , or the sudden revolt and police repression in The Phantom of Liberty , which is not nothing but the unflinching gaze of animals in a zoo to witness that), or, and this is my favorite resource, to introduce a element floating, almost invisible which is like a wandering free neutron nuclear transforming the entire composition of the film. The last scene of Belle de Jour could not be more ambiguous. The husband who seemed completely paralyzed rises without surprise that we could provide in Catherine Deneuve, and heard, coming from nowhere, almost like a collective hallucination, the bells of the carriage, which begins the film-scene release of mud and excrement at the frigid beauty of the heroine at the beginning of the film. These bells are barely audible that free neutron fission addressing imminent, as a paper boat going up stream into a storm drain.
Of all the films of Buñuel, everyone cites a wide range of films, is one of those principles on which it is almost impossible to define the essential work of his career, but almost nobody talks about The (1953) . Possibly the reason is that it is not strange enough film for people looking to pack the perfect Buñuel and references surreal fetishes, generally considered a minor work, a serialized melodrama with which the Aragonese trying get some tickets in his pocket. However, its apparent normality The is a strange film, I would say one of the most Buñuel enigmatic. The story is so personal about it buñuelescos, Francisco Galvan, a devout churchman who falls for Gloria Milalta in a religious rite curiously erotic. She is on couples seduce her but ends up achieving, making possibly his wife. From there, he developed the famous amour fou Buñuel's filmography, becoming increasingly paranoid, jealous, ever closer to the edge of mental breakdown. Beyond the recognizable references and the obsession with religion and sex, the film would be a more melodrama, the kind that abound in bookstores and movie if not for the final. At the height of his jealousy, the actor lost control of himself and begins to destroy that Orson Welles in Citizen Kane everything in its path. It is here that clings to an absurd act like the rites incurred by people in the prodrome to a worsening of psychosis to avoid the eventual collapse of his world. The guy starts a stair railing and starts pounding, constantly listening to the clang of the crash. That's where he was arrested and interned in a monastery. A temporal ellipsis shows that his wife has a new partner and will find his health to the monastery. The pastor says he is much better than new found tranquility under the wing of the Lord. In the last scene we see the pastor talking to a lot quieter Fernando, watching the couple on the horizon is lost. When we think that this is a happy ending, round, listen lost in the air, the clang of that absurd final act of the protagonist. This sound is a noticeable crack in the end we could be comforted us the outcome. Not just from ambiguity makes us think about what a sound that expresses, but is, at some point, a finding suspected of leading-new pair of Gloria is indeed the first person who deposited his uncontrollable jealousy. True as a paranoia noseológica entity can not be revoked by the real confirmation of their suspicions, rather being determined by the closed system and assertive with which the person interprets the world-for that is closest to reality, to say Indeed, the paranoia is crazy razonante. However, the last sound, discrete and lost in the wilderness, we leave the ball in our court, and we generated a small shiver the question us about who ultimately believe.
06-Dogville (Lars von Trier, 2003) Lars von Trier
is an evil bastard. That and everyone knows it. His films have something toxic, consistent osmosis fucking misanthropic to be getting through the pores. You could say that every time I see a Trier film, I feel a little worse person, and that's something interesting, something that very few directors have managed to do, Harmony Corine, for short times; Soddondz, in a slightly more obvious, but equally intense, Herzog, but in a more poetic and screened, perhaps Buñuel, as always ascribing to the land of religion and morality.
Trier is not only known for being sadistic with his characters, but also with his actors. Björk decided to retire permanently performance after participation in the equally traumatic traumatic Dancing in the dark, and so did Nicole Kidman, which had to be left to time to Manderlay, strangely giving the nail, as the personification by different actors of the same character gives another depth to the notion of Christian parable of what will be the triptych United States, land of opportunity -. By all accounts, the Danish shut for a month to its players in a giant hangar where he shot his films, experimenting with them as if they were white rats in his own labyrinth of Skinner. The ideal perverse
to stage the play ground where the desire and guilt is not only in dealing with the same actors, but with the same audience. Jiminy Cricket is a syphilitic, speaking to the ear with a cleft lip, eaten by pustules, telling you how things could be otherwise. In this sense, the effect is achieved in all Dogville. Nicole Kidman is a mysterious woman, sought refuge in a small village in the stalking of a mafia organization. At first, with some resistance, the people accept it, but gradually the position of having her as a fly on the back, about to close his fist, ended up taking a different path. Because a touch can become a choke with one hand opening and closing, measurement issues, more or less newton of force against a soft object. In the end the poor Kidman will be the subject of so much violence, abuse and rape would feel intimidated at the very Coca Sarli. Humiliate women, the children throw things. It has become a pariah, worse than a pariah, like those women Nazi collaborators in the restoration of liberty in France were forced to walk with their skulls shaved, with obscenities and spitting all over town. And Kidman is particular is not atoning for a sin-as might be said of these French women, "is treated as by the mere possibility that is offered to the people. mutilate you, not because I want to, but because I can . It is here that the explosion of his own perverse enjoyment, people stepping on the stick. Kidman will deliver to the Mafia, only to find out who is the daughter of the main boss. The situation changes completely and Kidman have the ability to retaliate in a timely manner. And that's where the expertise of Lars von Trier. We want to take revenge, we want people to swallow this shit like a real monster Leviathan. Revenge is a dish best eaten raw and nobody was really interested in offering their own cheek, when you can grab the other's face and to peel his own cheek with a knife as if you were doing with the skin of an apple. I must admit that I celebrated every shot, every house burned down, methodically shot each child, the scene that Kidman told a lady who kill their children each time for every cry, and only after everything that happened, like someone wakes up in the basement of 18 automotive after a party with a two whores Burmese and sticky with a strange feeling in your ass, you realize the hangover fault of their own excesses. And you know, beyond the screen, as at the end of Manderlay, where the main character is discovered to become what they never wanted to be, what he fought against it, " while we are seeing the destroyed hotel room when we woke up, sitting in his leather chair is, Lars von Trier, sipping whiskey, laughing softly.
05-Mulholland Drive (David Lynch, 2001) again
The Benito told me about the first time I saw Eraserhead Bukowski. As we all know, Bukowski was never a big fan of film, but that in one of those days alcohol daily, on television tuned first feature film by David Lynch. Bukowski says she saw that movie from beginning to end, never knowing where I was going really but that was one of those rare cases where everything fit. It all made sense, beyond that he knew what it was. Unlike Eraserhead, which itself is great, perhaps more than the movie I'm talking about, "that feeling happened to me with the end of Mulholland Drive . The film is, while one of the best starts to remember (not so much the car crash scene, but what comes afterwards, the type of speaking with her psychologist in a diner about a dream I had), a final closing all perfect, but do not know what closes, possibly because a closure constructed as an Ouroboros. After the blue-haired woman whispering "Silence" the screen fades to black, and there always end up looking at me with the person I'm watching the movie. The terror of the scene of the old, in contrast to that end languid, smoky and mysterious is the same litmus test that allowed me to prove to certain people. Almost at the same time seeing him with someone if the person is left hanging in the end, it forms a kind of brotherhood, you end up making more friends with the person, even though I know from much earlier (as the case the fine , who introduced the world lynch, to their benefit or to his grief, who knows), at the same time if the person in question does not hang, burn a bridge, ends up breaking something that's unlikely to come back to join in the same way as before.
04-Zero of Conduct (Jean Vigo, 1933)
The first time I saw a film of Jean Vigo was two years ago at the record store, bookstore Virus. Of course, at that time knew it was Jean Vigo-nor, indeed, who was Jean Vigo, and certainly did not know until a few months ago. I never get to know the owner of Virus, but I always believed (or wanted to believe) who was a former punk trying to shed, not because of money but for something deeper and difficult to map, for many of their belongings from a life I wanted to leave behind. As soon as I discovered this oasis lost in a dark recess of Mercedes Street, I became a regular patron of the place. Trying to talk to the guy, rip off some of that past that I liked to fill with overlapping scenes invented by me, but never got to know him thoroughly. I did not know what his name was "never given a chance to ask," and I ended up baptizing in the name of your site, because, after all, he and his local was for me an indivisible entity. Everything is so he bought me an odd fault, as if he were removing a body, or any bone in his body. More than anything, I found it strange how I sold a record of Jesus Lizard, or an issue of Zap Comics inconseguible as if they were 200 grams of Lyon spring. A couple of times this is true, not just a lyric to beautify my post, you got to pay more than what he asked for pity that I was the way it was stripped of everything that ever came to be in a leather bag full of battles lost in a messy room that was once theirs, or at the home of a girlfriend forgotten, lying in those cardboard boxes full of CDs, books and questions that we all know. But still, one day, after spending holidays in a resort in the Gold Coast, I went through and that Virus had become a filthy blue kiosk run by an ugly woman, with posters of Nevada, and Yerba Canarias Quini blinding windows in a few months ago have learned to Please Kill Me and a biography of Siouxie and the Banshees. Now I try to reorder the images and I cleared. I do remember was the last day I saw Virus. I had realized it was coming too late for a class and decided to visit the place to ask him to set aside a number of molecules (a fanzine style harder than the year printed on Solymar 1992). When I entered, the mustachioed was watching a film on your computer with another veteran. They were quite concentrated in white film and black, with aristocrats sunbathing on a beach similar to those pictures from the beach Pocitos beginning of the century. I was watching a bit and the guys I said it was a nice documentary, and it was very bad temper. Looked at the piers, high-class women climbing the skirts to jump a puddle and every so often replicated laughing "what the son of a bitch, that che vibe." I was totally strange, I only saw the corner of my eye were images of high society, palm silent, eyepieces, dogs pitucos lifting the leg. And began another class and I said goodbye to them. When I heard the door shut again, "what the son of a bitch." Then came the summer and when I returned I found that I did not kiosk that the value of stone.
For two years I have been looking this movie Nice. As the searching, I realized that was not looking for the movie, but a virus, the restaurant and the person who existed through it. Like most things in life, I found my way to Nice at the time I stopped looking for her. In the video image is a DVD with all the films of Jean Vigo (bah, "all", remember that early tuberculosis killed him enabled him to record only four films) and I rented it wanting to see Zero behavior. It came with a movie extra. When I put it, was one of those magical moments that were like a brief nod, and a letter from someone important to find forgotten in a book. It was then that I realized that yes, Virus and his friend were right Nice way a film is very bad vibes. After seeing this film and conduct Zero, one thing is clear: Vigo is the most widely recognized surrealist filmmaker (not in the strict sense surreal ), but technically it is the brightest of all. The raelenti, appearances and disappearances of partial objects, films back mounting psychological and fades, all carried out as may have been only perform Jean Cocteau, and a much more subtle and organic. Zero behavior itself is a swan song to the youth rebellion, in which, after naive spirit, is something completely revolutionary, a sly smile of sharp teeth, red lips do not know if blood or lipstick. The film was a remake free by Lindsay Anderson, If ... , which included a performance by Malcolm McDowell, and anarchic fucking before its incarnation in Alex de Large. The end of If ... is one of those special moments where one can not fix what you are watching. In an institution of old aristocratic roots, Party prepares to courses. McDowell, his friend and a woman that you never know if it is real or a ghost of his own rebellious spirit was up to the roof of the institution and start strafing and dropping bombs all parents, priests, teachers and former members who leave school . This final is a No! dehilachar screamed until the vocal cords, an act of radical negation so that no more than that: the giving of full against a wall to hear the harmony of breaking bones. McDowell & Co know that they are going to save, but just does not matter, will continue shooting until you run out of bullets (would not it be just as thought Eric and Dylan, just before becoming a favorite cake Morning magazines that talk about how bad it is youth?). However, the most interesting thing happens when checked the two films in question. Unlike the bloody end of If ... , Unruly encoded from a dialect seems child's death to the authority relocated as a symbolic act, the hoisting of the black flag with skull and cross bones, " as it were, with veiled versions of stories for children, and yet, as with any story, which ultimately are alternative packaging to talk about sex and death, "the content and to reach a bend in its most violent rebellion contemporary. Zero behavior is completely amoral film, with an irony worthy of Mark E. incendiary Smith where authority figures are reduced to dwarf bearded, the body of teachers and parents turned into obscene mannequins with authentic sacrilegious acts, playing on the edge homoeroticism and nudity in children. It is a sweet poison, an amusement park with razor blades in their slides. Finally, a movie that could only shoot the son of a famous anarchist mysteriously committed suicide in prison. Zero
behavior with that final so cute and yet so fucking is ultimately the punk film from greilmarcusiano as the term. And this is what I would like to discuss a Virus, but it should be embodied in another person in another room, selling records no one will know what they are, in some other Mercedes invisible world.
03-Aguirre, the Wrath of God (Werner Herzog, 1972)
When we reach the sea, build a great boat. We'll pluck the north and Trinidad to the English colony. From there we will sail ... and we will remove Mexico to Cortes. What greater betrayal. Then all of New Spain is in our hands and will stage the history ... as a play ... I, the wrath of God, I will marry my own daughter, and she will found the purest dynasty. Together ... we will reign throughout the continent. Resist ... I am the wrath of God ... Who's with me? Only
writing is enough to chill the blood. But seeing Klaus Kinski, because nobody, absolutely nobody who was not Kinski could have starred this movie-ride down the river, completely immersed in his latest megalomaniacal delirium, while the monkeys invade a boat where all are possibly dead, is the final more epic and tragic history film.
I was once told of a particularly violent boarding school in the colony Echepare walked with a stick, hitting everything that you stand in his way, saying it was the cock of God. I do not know if you saw the movie, but is the spitting image of what is Klaus Kinski in the film. People often associate the madness with things completely foreign to us, but we usually talk about ourselves more than our normal. In Aguirre ... The final works metonymically clicked, because he plays this little fiber, that kraken that we stayed within our heart, and you would see in a fit of anger, survival after a car accident, or through a caligulense marquera day. Power as the ultimate drug, not an invasion of the law, but a more-than-de-la-law as the last delusion that we face the same God, is not new, and is already in the Greek myths and as Colonel Kurtz from Apocalypse Now , or Tony Montana merquera and exaggerated the remake of Scarface , or Frank-n-Furter in The Rocky Horror Picture show, but also in John of Leyden, Gilles Rais, Hitler, Ceacescu, Stalin, including me, when I grab one of those strange nights.
02-Blow Up (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1966)
Swinging london, Cortázar, Blow- , Jane Birkin on tits, Stroll on, Jimmy Page lost out there and Jeff Beck smashing a guitar to an audience that more than age is a cool still life, Photographer rolling on the set with its models, negatives, the body lost, the couple arguing at the beginning of the film, the Park and unsolvable mystery. Thomas faces the unspeakable mystery (a mystery that is both substantive and verb, a mystery that goes from the point and is approaching the ontological). The body was there, I saw the photo, but when he went to look, is not there. Head down and walking route a group of mimes winding through the park area at full speed and get to play a game of tennis. Thomas, not much else to do, is close to the fence to watch the game. No ball, but everyone seems to see it, turn their head at every stroke of racket, going from one field to another of the opponents makeup. One of the mimes "catch" the ball too hard and shoots over the court. The camera-and this is a picture is worth ten films of Antonioni's wannabes - follows the path of the ball, even when reflecting a small rebound hits the grass. The mimes are left watching Thomas and asked with gestures if it could return the ball. Thomas doubt a second, look, look at the floor and think again. It then walks over and picks up the invisible ball and throws it to the pampering. Unlike those who say that Antonioni's films nothing happens in the end often spend a lot, even if everything happens to another frequency, such as those indistinguishable sounds that can make you bleed your ears to a dog. Nobody knows what it really means the explosion again and again repeated at the end of Zabriske point, and nobody really knows what that role is floating in a bin bored at the end of the eclipse . But it works. The end of Blow Up is the only one that could exist for such an epistemological thriller. In the end, and also including Blow- , Cortázar's story which inspired the methane-the work is a Platonic drama on knowledge, the way one can know something, the knowledge that they everything just to be seen from shadow play. The film in some ways has ordered a lot of things that originally were in perfect harmony with its spalling. If the raw material base of film is time (because the film timeless, governing the time sequence of images, is just pure photography, although there Chris Marker shits me this theory), the assembly is not other than the last and most effective attempt to control and package what we had always taken it quite impossible to control. And the camera (and screen also) completed resulting in a polarized glass reassuring that separates us from the world in its true nature.
The end of Blow Up works not only for Thomas, who ends up assuming the irreducible mystery of life, but against ourselves. Without twisting things much, Blow Up is an end of the magic lantern metacinematográfico we see as children, confusing the projections with reality. And Thomas, one at the end of each film, whether when rising from the seat or when incorporated in the bed in his underwear rummaging through the last bits of food that makes it interesting in the morning, for a moment and returns also lowers the magic bullet, realizing that momentary spell that made us feel fear, warm, happy or runny ourselves with mere moving frame prints on a wall.
01-City Lights (Charles Chaplin, 1931)
As Zizek says in Enjoy your symptom, in the history of film, City Lights is perhaps the starkest example of a film that goes all to his final scene, where the full extent of a mere celluloid extended bridge, a necessary trip to the last coup de grace. City Lights is the story of a homeless man and a blind girl who is mistaken for a rich man. From a series of mishaps, Chaplin is not only confused by the blind as a rich, but also by a wealthy patron, that every time you fart is treated like an honored guest (but when you leave your drunkenness has no idea who he is.) In this game of shadows, Chaplin does the rich man to fund a blind eye operation, move that ends up costing the freedom, being accused of theft and jailed. Spend some time and the girl's eye surgery was a success, not only recovering of sight, but also becoming a florist in the event where he worked. However, beyond the time spent, always hopes that benefactor, anticipating their meeting, and disappointed systematically-with every rich man who appears at the florist, you do not know what his face, but aims to recognize his voice. It is there that comes the final scene. Chaplin has just left prison is completely awkward walking down the street and passing by the window of the florist, greets the woman was in love. She treats him kindly, but with that mean love, bordering with pity, that desperate to have complimentary women who know they are fine with some of us. Chaplin is not going to say anything, he is willing to see everything behind the window, keep walking, happy with his small victory anonymously. But she goes to him and he is giving away a flower, and then to thank him where to take her hands the girl says "You?" Chaplin nods and asks, "Can you see now?" And the woman replied "Yes, I can see." We see Chaplin's face, those eyes are so thrilling that shit scared as excited, those eyes that more than one of us must have had at some point (with different results), and then there is a fade to black and movie ends.
Today, with the film seamstress neurosis, probably would not have supported an end as well. However, the end can not operate in a more poetic and who cares what happens later, in or out of our TV, because that moment at least is ours, and there is no system us what we can snatch. Chaplin decided to cut the film at that moment of absolute undecidability, resorting to a complete purification of one of the best and easiest to remember dialogues romantic in the annals of film history. Women can see, but is much more than what allows an operation for glaucoma. It's that time least of the relationships in which one first sees someone, not for what it represents, if not for the undecidability of what is, that moment where two people are naked, with their cool, their favorite bands or directors, his reputation for bad or good lovers, their ability to be liked their in-laws, your friends, your winks and dark circles, their mattresses and their trips, their neighborhoods and their schools, their name and their nicknames, like creased pants on the ground.
not remember a movie scene or my own life that so perfectly captures that moment. Now, seeing it back, my fanaticism for this end begins to acquire a different hue. Again and again the face of Chaplin, and then I realize that what fascinates me because it's my own private notion of love that I like to have barbed wire, to observe it as a grazing animal into a reserve for endangered creatures. Certza comes: I'm watching that scene for the same reasons they did tell Lou Reed from the first kiss, it all goes downhill. And it scares me to know that I never know what will happen next, because there is nothing that interests me more than the story, rodeos through which one merges with another, the small stories that itself has an anticipation or remembering something that might happen or has happened. And I begin to wonder if everything will go well so if the rest of my stories are going to end up like City Lights, with that last word and the fade to black, the black cast and the curtain is brought down and reopen it, to project new City Lights in a theater that has a single chair with my name embroidered in gold on crimson velvet, like those movies Arteplex passing the same movie over and over again. And the most fucked up is that while I think all of this, the only thing that worries me is getting a little pop, because it begins to function again. Epilogue
written a Friday two months ago
not attempted to close the door. I say, good, I have to go and take the latch almost without recognizing it as a blind man looking for his stick in his eternal darkness. I closed the door. I could not do it fast, I had to do slowly, watching every inch of her disappearing with her legs spread, his eyes fixed on the ground. The door closed, and then I realized that all this really was happening.
Lugano Way for a portrait in his hand. It was our frames . It was his portraits . There were times when lying in bed I stared at the ceiling and looked askance at the safe doing certain activities, sweeping hairs remaining on the floor, rearranging some books, be reflected while watching a spot on the mirror. And always ended in the portrait. I pretended to listen to music, or as if counting the ceiling water stains, but looked askance at the take the picture frames, cleaning the glass and watching us both with a smile, that shook like a tight neck button to unbutton point. He said nothing more, was seeing the portrait, me with my German Campra, she with a fluffy coat, and he spent a flannel, put it back in his desk and spoke to me like that, that was a small gesture small hobby imperceptible, like a dog hides a bone thinking that no one noticed. And for some reason I was the idiot and did not say anything about that. It was our frames . It was his portraits . And now I'm walking Lugano. Friday, three o'clock. I am a bastard. I'm a murderer. I'm a murderer with a rusty razor, with the moon shining on its edge. I'm a murderer with a portrait, with the moon shining on its edge. I love pigeons. I know where I die from blood lead levels in graveyards hidden in abandoned houses and cathedrals. I'm a gravedigger gray walls. Lugano way and I know that I will not return. When you return, if they come back, the street will have moved to a place where the climate and time zones are different. I walk down the cobbled street, turn on my heels, not to find her, but to say goodbye the jacaranda trees that rise to 19 April. I do not wear glasses, again stole copper cables, the purple of the jacaranda not be seen in the dark. Road and the height of Aiguá can smell the floripón and lady of the night. Always went out there to buy beer at Devoto. And also there we walked to Ramon. And there was a horrible graffiti from a band that she felt horrible and I also seemed horrible, but not admitted it, just to annoy her a bit. And then another street, and 185 I realize that beyond all still happening out there. Road a few blocks, I think what balls were banging to finish walking through the meadow, Friday at three o'clock, with a portrait in his hand, like a madman who escaped through a window not closed. Suarez came and called Ezekiel. Is at a party, invited me to go and try to tell what happened. My voice cracks, between surprise, Ezekiel tells me to go to the bar where it is, but I can not get words out. The feed, but out of order, chipped, or broken. Short and have a taxi with its winking red flag with a swollen eye. Get in the car and the walrus with his butt out of his two enormous tusks tells me "you say, master." I try to say something, but nothing comes out. Spend twenty seconds, take a breath and handing me the achievement eyes forearm say something. I think, like that car accident victims who have to think about every step they take expensive guardrail caught in physiotherapy, and say "Po-cytes. I try to look outside but the Prado me blind. Think of all the times I spent there. I digress calculations: how many liters of beer took together / how many dollars we spend in the video of Willy / how many times I passed by the canary's kiosk to buy condoms. I think about it and look down. In the black leather rests face down the portrait. Do babies should sleep on your back or stomach? Is it just for the promise from heaven to bury the dead on his back? Why do you always sleep on the right side in bed? Su-bed. Keep his forehead pressed against the window. Walrus laughs, while pulling ashes from his window looks back and says "hey, tell her something to that blonde is watching you." I look to my right, and a Peugeot a very pretty blonde looks at me with surprise face of slow, so to see a boa constrictor devouring a mouse. I look for a second. It's pretty, it's true. Under the gaze, I rinse my eyes with my forearm and I tell the Walrus "I have nothing to say." The guy understood and said, looking in the mirror, "Well, then give it a couple of horns and resolve the issue. " Fin honks and the car takes a sharp curve. The car takes a dark path. Perhaps we will leave anytime Garibaldi. I take off my sneakers, I put the right over left, but the dogs are barking.
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