Se alguém encontrar por aí o Marty é favor dizer-lhe que agradecia uma boleia no DeLoren até 2069...

the blessing of loosing...

“Benjamin, we’re meant to lose the people we love. How else 

would we know how important they are to us?” 

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

...

Benjamin Button: I was thinking how nothing lasts, and what a                                 shame that is.

Daisy: Some things last.

C'est ça que c'est bon...

Agosto é o mês do Verão por excelência, das férias, do descanso, da troca dos dias pelas noites, das jantaradas ao ar livre, da sangria e do peixe grelhado. Agosto é o mês dos amigos, dos reencontros. E Agosto é também o mês do Natal, da família, para todos aqueles que regressam à sua pátria, à sua casa, após um ano de trabalho lá fora. Desde sempre me habituei a ver chegar esta malta. Barulhenta, alegre, sedenta de convívio, de pessoas, da portugalidade. Chegam à terra nos seus bólides último modelo, muitas vezes quitado para dar bem nas vistas. Ostentam o orgulho de ser português, o símbolo da federação, a bandeira nacional, o cachecol da selecção, o terço de Fátima, são acessórios auto tão banais como os pneus. As indumentárias denunciam a proveniência. O boné estrategicamente colocado de lado, os fatos de treino de marca, de preferência na cor branca, a bolsa a tiracolo, a camisola do benfas, agora substituída pela do FCP. Eles desportivos, elas demasiado arranjadas e maquilhadas, como se as ruas da aldeia fosse um prolongar dos Campos Elísios, despertando a libido dos rapazes da aldeia que fantasiam com a muito romanceada libertinagem francesa. A aldeia engalana-se para os receber, fazem-se bailaricos, romarias, pagam-se promessas. Mas os outrora filhos da aldeia são agora os avecs. Oscilam entre a condição de emigrante e imigrante. 

Isto a propósito do filme A Gaiola Dourada ou La Caje Dorée, - sim porque Agosto é também o mês em que desenferrujamos o francês - ah oui ein! Uma sátira genial à condição dos portugueses em França, à geração dos meus pais que teve de sair do seu país para sustentar a família (um pouco como está a acontecer agora, com a minha geração). Podemos gozar com a sua forma de falar, com a aculturação, com a adoração a símbolos de um Portugal já passado, com a necessidade de ostentar o seu sucesso em forma de grandes casas e carros alemães. Mas não podemos esquecer a força de trabalho que são, o respeito como profissionais que granjeiam nos países que os acolhe, a divulgação da cultura portuguesa, o engrandecimento da Diáspora portuguesa, a importância que têm para a nossa economia. Somos um povo emigrante, está-nos no sangue, está cravado no nosso ADN. No passado demos novos mundos ao mundo, hoje damos ao mundo muito de nós, do ser português.

Que mais dizer sobre o filme? O argumento é excelente na sua simplicidade. A Rita Blanco está soberba, Joaquim de Almeida finalmente no papel de um português, a banda sonora é fenomenal - outra coisa não se esperaria de Rodrigo Leão. Quanto ao Rúben Alves, o realizador, muito jeitoso este avec... Putain...

Homens que me causam arrepios #3

 

Al Pacino

Voglio a credere...

"Ma perché devi fare anche tu come tutti gli altri, eh? Perché ti dai tanto da fare per stare male? Ma te lo devo dire io che non c’è nessuna libertà nello stare da soli? Che la vera libertà sta nell’essere in due?”

...

 

...“io credo nella felicità”.

 

 

Nanni Moretti, La messa è finita

Átame!

 

 

...

"Everything will be all right in the end..."

 

  

 Recentemente vi este filme, tenho por hábito ver filmes em viagens... assim, chego sempre ao destino sem dar conta e geralmente um pouco mais enriquecida!  Nas minhas viagens mensais de comboio geralmente vejo dois... mas este, "The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel" , foi no avião, na viagem de ida para o Rio, (onde aliás vi três)... na altura, lembro-me de ter pensado "isto não pode ser por acaso"... sempre tive dois destinos como tidos em grande, grande consideração, um deles era o Brasil e o outro a India, um deles era a "virada do ano em Copacabana" o outro é o Holi, que este ano começa, hoje! (e se o primeiro já foi cumprido, o segundo também o há-de ser, só não vai ser este ano...)  

 



"Everything will be all right in the end... if it's not all right then it's not yet the end."

 The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

P.S. Em 2014, o Holi é no 17 de março (segunda-feira)...

       Em 2015, o Holi é no 6 de Março (sexta-feira)...

      Em 2016, o Holi é no 23 de Março (quarta-feira)...

      and so on...

 
 

Descubra as diferenças...

Anne Hathaway in Prada  & Tiffanys, simples assim.

Com quase 60 anos de diferença a Audrey Hepburn (ganhou o Oscar em 1954) ainda continua a ser uma fonte de inspiração. Muitas foram as vozes contra o look da Anne Hathaway, pois aos olhos de alguns foi fraco e insosso. Eu gosto. Não é para todas, só para algumas... e aí está a diferença.

Words I need today...

"Fight and you may die. Run and you will live at least awhile. 

And dying in your bed many years from now, would you be willing to trade all the days from this day to that for one chance, just one chance, to come back here as young men and tell our enemies that they may take our lives but they will never take our freedom!"

                                                                        William Wallace, Braveheart

(just looking for the strength)

Movies & Poetry IX.

Briget Jones Diary

 

&

 

John Keats

To Autumn

 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 
  Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
  With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 
  And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 
    To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 
  With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
Until they think warm days will never cease,
    For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 
  Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 
  Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 
  Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
    Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
  Steady thy laden head across a brook; 
  Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
    Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 
  Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 
  And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
  Among the river sallows, borne aloft
    Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 
  Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
  The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, 
    And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Movies & Poetry VIII.

 

Sense and Sensibility

 

&

 

Hartley Coleridge

 

 

Sonnet VII

 

Is love a fancy, or a feeling? No.
It is immortal as immaculate Truth,
'Tis not a blossom shed as soon as youth,
Drops from the stem of life—for it will grow,
In barren regions, where no waters flow,
Nor rays of promise cheats the pensive gloom.
A darkling fire, faint hovering o'er a tomb,
That but itself and darkness nought doth show,
It is my love's being yet it cannot die,
Nor will it change, though all be changed beside;
Though fairest beauty be no longer fair,
Though vows be false, and faith itself deny,
Though sharp enjoyment be a suicide,
And hope a spectre in a ruin bare.

Love Phobia...

- Where do you see yourself 10 years from now?

 

- I'll probably be married.

 

- Married?

 

- Yeh.

   With a handsome banker.

 

- But I don't want to be a banker.

 

- Are you saying you're handsome?

 

- Well... But why a banker?

 

- So we can rob the bank together and buy a Russian spaceship.

I'm going to use that to get off this planet ... because this isn't where I belong.

Movies & Poetry VII.

Blade Runner

 

&

 

William Blake

 

The Tiger

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Movies & Poetry VI.

 

Citizen Kane

 

&

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Kubla Khan (Or a Vision in a Dream)

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw;
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

 



Movies & Poetry V.

Million Dollar Baby

 

&

 

W. B. Yeats

 

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Movies & Poetry IV.

Dead Poets Society

&

Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack,
      the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
      While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart!
      O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
      O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up- for you the flag is flung- for
      you the bugle trills, 
                                  
         For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths- for you the shores
             a-crowding,
          For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
             Here Captain! dear father!
               This arm beneath your head!
                 It is some dream that on the deck,
                   You've fallen cold and dead.

          My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
          My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
          The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
          From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
               Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
                 But I with mournful tread,
                   Walk the deck my Captain lies,
                     Fallen cold and dead.

Better than porn....

O novo filme do Ridley Scott - "The Counselor" tem:



O loiro Brad Pitt



O latino Javier Bardem

O ruivo Michael Fassbender

Bendito sejas, caro Ridley....

Movies & Poetry III.

 

Apocalypse Now



&

 

Mistah Kurtz—he dead.

      A penny for the Old Guy

      I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

 

(...)

 

T. S. Eliot

Movies & Poetry II.

The Piano

&

There is a silence where hath been no sound, 
There is a silence where no sound may be, 
In the cold grave—under the deep deep sea, 
Or in wide desert where no life is found, 
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound; 
No voice is hush'd—no life treads silently, 
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free. 
That never spoke, over the idle ground: 
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls 
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been, 
Though the dun fox, or wild hyæna, calls, 
And owls, that flit continually between, 
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,— 
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.

Thomas Hood