Iron Man 2 (2010)

In a word: BOOOOORING!!!!!!!! Besides, it has an incredible bad screenplay, not because of the dialogues, but because it is full of plot holes and has absolutely no point. Ok, a summer blockbuster will never win Pulitzer prizes, but please... And may I just say that I loved the first Iron Man. It had all the ingredients, good action, a solid enough plot, an interesting villain, flowed easily and was comical, through the now popular ramblings discourses of the main characters (like Shia LaBoeuf's in Transformers). But the second instalment had very few of these. It was 1h40 minutes of boredom and 20 minutes of action that ended in a stupid way. Having no necessity in delivering a back-story for the main character, because it all came from the first movie, the plot had to be filled from the first minute. Tony Stark, the world loves him but he is dying because the gadget that is keeping him alive is also killing him. Poor fella. Besides, the government also wants his technology. Wherever have I heard that before? The baddie from the armament branch of the government is embodied by Sam Rockwell, the only funny guy in the picture. Great bad guy performance. In comes Mickey Rourke (nice performance though, with his Russian accent and evil cool looks). He gets Stark's blueprints because his father was a colleague of Stark's father in the 60s (and when the father dies he discovers said prints and swears revenge) and, as he is also very good with gadgets... what!, he builds himself an evil iron man! My, my... After an initial revelation of the bad guy (the only action for 1h40 min) Stark gets more depressed, gets drunk, stops fighting crime. Rockwell teams up with Rourke and the bad guys go after Stark, building various bad Iron Men. Meanwhile, Stark is rehabilitated by Samuel L. Jackson and Scarlett Johansen, two completely useless characters. The only point they have, and also the movie's only point, is to promote the 2012 movie "The Avengers", which will be a league of super heroes, Iron Man included, leaded by L. Jackson. Scarlett gets only one scene where she is useful, a cool fighting scene where she knocks off 10 bad guys, but then she gets to a computer, where she can disable the bad Iron Men (remote controlled by THAT computer) and DOESN'T. Didn't anyone think of that? Anyway, when we finally get to the showdown, finally get Downing Jr. and Cheadle (which replaced actor Terrence Howard who played Rhodes in the first movie) against Rourke, they both kill him in less than 30 seconds. Uau, what a great fight scene... Sorry about telling the plot, but really it is not worth watching this movie. Robert Downey Jr. is a good actor and was fantastic in the first movie, but here his comic ramblings appear only once or twice. The "serious" back story is lame, Gwyneth Paltrow being there or not is the same in terms of character, and the bad guys are given thin as possible excuses to appear. The new character of Scarlett is, as mentioned, irrelevant to the movie's progress and is just eye candy, which is a pity, because the character is very cool. Not even the action scenes save the day, because there are just two, the first one is good but is just to initially show Rourke's character, and the climatic one ends up in a stupid quick way. It seems the writers ran out of inspiration for this one. Only Sam Rockwell delivered. Bad sequel to a great first movie. Don't make more of these, please. Iron Man 2 had no imagination, so I don't want to think what a 3 would be like. And if they wanted to promote "The Avengers", well, buy a billboard, don't make a movie! Ah, almost forgot, how does Stark solve his health problem? He invents a new chemical element. Oh, if only life was that simple!

Tillie's Punctured Romance (1914)

Chaplin arrived in Hollywood in 1914, to work for Keystone studios under the direction of Mack Sennett. In less than a year he already had creative control of his productions, writing, staring and directing. But 1914 saw him do a series of 1 or 2 reel short-films, as well as this one, a 6 reeler (credited as the first ever full-length comedy), also Chaplin's first full length film and the last thing he ever done without himself directing. This 73 minute first ever comedy film in the history of cinema sees a Chaplin (without his tramp persona) as a no-good scoundrel (with a pencil moustache!), who seduces a very fat and very ugly mannish Marie Dressler (a known theatre actress at the time and who won a best actress Oscar in 1931). He convinces her to steal her rich father’s money and elope with him to the city. Once in the city, he ditches her for Keystone’s regular (and much prettier) Mabel Normand, and keeps the money too!, leaving Dressler poor and forced to get a job as a waitress. When an uncle of Dressler's supposedly dies and leaves her all his money, Chaplin goes again to seduce her and convinces her to marry him, and so they do. This constitutes the first four reels or so. The topic is dark, but it is always given lightly. Chaplin and Mabel feel remorse in a funny scene at a movie house when they are seated next to a cop, and Dressler only little seems to care what has happened to her. Even so, for forty minutes of film, the gags are few and average really... the eventual something hitting the face, Chaplin slipping up and walking funny, Dressler drunk. Few great comical moments. The movie gains stride in the last two reels, at the marriage party in the new mansion, when Mabel seeks to gain Chaplin back, he is not unwelcome to her advances, Dressler finds out the truth and runs mad with a loaded gun, and the uncle comes back not dead. This is trouble enough for a classical Keystone large chase scene through the house, upstairs, downstairs, in the ball room, in the garden, with everybody chasing and running away from everybody else. The glorious Keystone Cops obviously make an appearance also in the mad climatic chase. For the first comedy movie ever, it is not really that funny. Dressler is very much awkward, she may have been a great dramatic actress but just does not have the profile for silent comedies. Yet her contrast to small Chaplin is well achieved. Chaplin, off course, is as great as he is allowed to be, but one sees that he was not allowed much. His tramp is very much missed here. The story is interesting, but unable to become dark as it is a comedy. But for that, visual gags are very few, and only the chase scene is really worth watching. Even so, this movie is a piece of history, and for just 73 min it may be worth checking out, although there are other Keystone ventures much more delightful. One may excuse some lack of quality by saying that this is the first of the first, and even the great comedy skills of Keystone were not sharp enough yet, used as they were to the limited structure of the one or two reel formula.

The Man Who Haunted Himself (1970)

"The Man Who Haunted Himself" is a hidden gem with unfortunately a not so glowing ending. Let's go step by step. First of all, not being a very wide known movie, is heralded by Roger Moore himself as his favourite performance, and is also considered as one of his best acting roles. Roger Moore, (who by the way is my favourite actor), has been haunted during his all career by the critics as being a one-character-actor. I really don't think that's true. There is a small sect of actors which are so good that they have power enough to mould the role to themselves. John Wayne was one of those. When we saw a John Wayne movie we weren't seeing Uncle Ethan or Sean Thornton, but Wayne himself on this or that adventure. To a certain extent George Clooney is that nowadays. Roger Moore is that driven to the ultimate character; his Saint, Bond and Brett Sinclair are similar, but because Moore had charisma enough to make it so. Even so, everybody (including me!) is proved wrong after seeing Moore play Harold Pelham. What a performance! He has a depth, a powerful force and an intensity that many Bond fans wished his Bond had. But Moore didn't take Bond seriously. But Pelham he did. This movie, English to the bone in its production, cast and director (Basil Dearden), tells the story of Pelham, an English executive, always punctual, always safety first, always impeccably but monotonously dressed, but with marital problems, who one day has a car crash. This sequence shows that something twilight zonnish is happening, as all of a sudden the glare is Moore's eyes totality changes, the smile becomes wicked, he speeds up, he takes off his belt, he crashes... This sequence alone shows Moore's acting skills perfectly, just by his expression we know what is amiss. When he recovers from the hospital strange things start to happen. People talk to him of having met him before, or having been with him when he (and the audience) know he has been somewhere else. At work, with his wife, with his friends, he suddenly appears to always be at two places at the same time. Has he a double? Or is he schizophrenic? Is he Jekyll and Hide (because is other self is much more debonair, great pool player, seductive, etc)? Or his there a plot to drive him mad because of a secret project of his company and a merger with a bigger corporation? These last two hypothesis fade as the movie progresses and we really know there is a second Moore, although we never see him. The real Moore gets more and more paranoid, his eyes become almost insane, he sweats to know the truth, his voice fades, he runs like mad through the city after his other self... it is a brilliant piece of acting. And then, the confrontation, the climax, the truth... the disappointment. This story, the way it is build up, was gripping, and could have a number of possible endings. The chosen one, not straightforward but rather a philosophical-sort-of-60s-kind-of-ending seems very poor, almost illogical and incongruous. I find that very unfortunate, as I had enjoyed the movie very much until then. Moore gives a look at the sky, sort of resigned-aha-I-now-comprehend look, but the audience scratches the head. Also, what is with that beat music at the climatic scene... completely out of context! Anyway, it is a breakthrough movie which probably inspired many last-minute-twist movies of the 1990s and some really paranoid movies of the 1970s. Sir Roger Moore gives a brilliant performance, the supporting cast as well, but to explain a paranoid movie by a philosophical ending was just too much of a gamble. Not one for the books except by Moore's excellent piece of acting. On a funny trivia, interesting to note Moore's dialogue when discussing industrial espionage: "Espionage isn't all James Bond on Her Majesty's Secret Service. Industry goes in for it too, you know". An inkling of what was to come three years later?

Amanhã ou passado

Favorece o espírito este eixo atormentado de sinuosas glórias nunca passadas. Favorecem o espírito encaracolados caminhos que se enrolam segregando o sopro da beleza, o soro de uma realidade admoestada, o sono de uma poesia amedrontada que desliza sem nunca conhecer o dom do toque de uma fé ao rubro. Favorece o espírito a voluptuosidade da presença indígena da virgindade outonal nos contornos da pele ornada que se revela de mansinho. Favorece o espírito a eloquência graciosa que mímica a aura ardente celeste, que sorve o instinto montanhoso de uma perfuração delicada na savana encaixotada, na prisão esticada, perdida no tempo.

Amanhã ou passado, o momento dissolve-se, as esferas colidem, as gotas retrocedem no dorso apaixonado da criação. Amanhã ou passado, o meu corpo etéreo é eterno e eléctrico, os meus olhos vagueiam e sintetizam, os meus pés dançam ansiando derreter-se no solo e verter raízes, as minhas mãos faíscam nenúfares desenhados na escuridão. Amanhã ou passado, o rugido arranha o ar que me rodeia, estonteia a partícula que me segue, fumega-te violentamente contra a parede na histeria da comoção. Amanhã ou passado, não acredito no tempo, não confio no espaço, não tenho fé na realidade. Amanhã ou passado, a invisibilidade da semente transgride a lógica, a indivisibilidade da sensação apoquenta as marés de calor, a temeridade da palavra finge muralhas serpenteadas.

Sou distante do esguio corredor molhado e profundo. Sou distante do veludo aninhado no verso, do requinte faminto e sôfrego do aspirante ao sopro de vida. Sou distante do gladiador compacto, da lateral obtusa, da promiscuidade derradeira que sorri. Sou distante da brutalidade amorfa do suor da terra, repudio os minerais pálidos que bocejam e depois desabrocham. Sou distante da harpa pincelada, da sumptuosidade estrutural, do arrastar mecânico do ritmo. Sou distante do retrato que não envelhece, do conceito da pluralidade, do escoar do fluído nocturno, da batida sufocada na dicotomia da claridade. Sou distante do estímulo da personalidade, da integridade do sentimento.

Amanhã ou passado, mendigo as sombras da floresta, decomponho a veracidade, abraso o que nunca foi. Amanhã ou passado, rasgo as ondas do tempo, dedilho o molde imperfeito, acaricio a perfeição abotoada. Amanhã ou passado, as íris confluem, as faces envolvem-se, as palmas emocionam-se. Amanhã ou passado, o espelho revela-se e a personagem ascende, as garras apoderam-se dos conflitos, os ecos beijam exponencialmente o trautear da perfeição. Amanhã ou passado, a palma aberta penetra o ventre palpitante, o vento desenha o nome, os lábios repartem-se e partilham a sua inocência.

Amanhã ou passado, o andarilho erguido na crista da montanha ruge rusticamente a revelação amorosa, expele do coração os exércitos poéticos que sufocam a palavra sentida. Amanhã ou passado, a doce perfeição feminina favorece o espírito do ser distante com o brilho do segredo sussurrado. Amanhã ou passado, as máscaras arrancam-se, os espelhos despem-se, o ser indefeso posa solene perante a estátua derretida. Amanhã ou passado, estou aqui, precário no limbo do tempo, perdido no cosmos do teu olhar perene, vivendo na chama de ti. Amanhã ou passado, chamo por ti, grito, rujo, expludo, sufoco, erguido na vassalagem da emoção, e aguardo, ardendo, o retorno do eco. Amanhã ou passado, olho e não fujo, abro e sinto, sou e derreto, incendeio e sofro, vivo e aguardo… por ti.

Cyrano de Bergerac (1990)

In my humble point of view (and based only on my watching experience mind you), "Cyrano de Bergerac" is the best french movie of the last, what... 20 years or so. There had been adaptations of Cyrano's play before (notably Hollywood 1950's which won Jose Ferrer a best actor Oscar), but this one has one great advantage, it is in the original french. This means that the dialogues are kept straight from the play, and so the entire movie is in rhyming verse. Not only is this a delight to the ear (even if you don't understand french), but the poetry is given with such a passion by the actors (especially Depardieu's Bergerac, which dominates all the scenes) that every dialogue does not fail to move the viewer. "Cyrano" is one of the ultimate love stories (maybe not by chance it has one or two scenes that remind one of Romeo and Juliet... balcony scene anyone?). Cyrano is a loquacious and valiant character whose main physical feature is a huge nose. The first scene establishes well his speaking abilities and his fighting abilities has well. He is in love with his cousin (it is never explained in what degree are they cousins....), the beautiful Roxanne (Anne Brochet, who starts not so beautiful but gets more and more as the movie progresses, in my opinion), who one day confesses to him that she is in love with a young soldier, Christian. She has never spoken to him, but loves him by his looks. Cyrano finds that he his not well endowed for brains, and, fearing a broken heart of his beloved one, starts to write letters for her in Christian's name. Also, in the balcony scene, he speaks from behind the bushes posing as Christian. The war breaks and Christian and Roxanne marry that same night, without almost never having spoken face to face, and off go Cyrano and Christian to war. There, Cyrano is always faithful in his promise to Roxanne that "Christian" will write every day and he keeps the illusion for her no matter what. There it is, Cyrano helps another man to get the woman that he loves. Tragic, ironic, beautiful. His poems are some of the most delicate and passionate that ever graced the screen. Little by little, Roxanne loves more the soul of Christian than his looks, until she loves no more his looks but just his soul. In the climatic battle of the war, Christian can't handle it any more, and realizes that she really loves only Cyrano without knowing. The three characters clash amidst the explosions (Roxanne turns up at the battle field), in a climax which will leave many scars for years to come (the last scene takes place 14 years after the battle). Not wanting to reveal the ending I will just say that it is delicate and heartfelt, but unfortunately is probably the worse thing in the movie. Not because of the context, just simply because it threatens to end about 6 or 7 times. Depardieu makes his speech, he delivers perfect ending lines... he fumbles... he starts talking again... and again... and this is repeated for about 10 minutes. End the movie already! Forgetting this, the movie will move those (everybody!) who have loved unrequitedly in the shadows, those who lost love, those who search true love, those who seek the essence of love but can't stand that trashy Hollywood cliché. This is quality, this is beauty, this is poetry, with a great set design, costume (for which an oscar was won!), an unobtrusive direction, great acting, and, most of all, a completely magnificent performance by Gerard Depardieu. Although it is word-driven, director Jean-Paul Rappeneau has made every scene appealing and with rhythm, and even somewhat comical. Everyone has had a Cyrano moment in their lives, so, everyone will be touched by the magic this movie has to offer.

Fame (1980)

"Fame", the original quintessential school of performing arts movie, which originated thousands of imitators, a most famous TV series (from 1982 to 1987) and, most recently, a remake. First of all, this is an Alan Parker film, and, as such, it is a down-to-earth social study. But, even so, its target audience is young, so it does not have the emotional depth of the Parker films. Furthermore, it condenses 4 years of school in little over two hours, and has many characters, so it is quite difficult handling it all and still be profound. The movie ends up being a general overview, which the subsequent TV series explored beautifully in more close-up. Basically, the movie follows one class of students of New York's school of performing arts, from the auditions, to each year, to finally their first integration in the professional world. We get to know them, their teachers, their relations, their passions and their problems in a series of disconnected scenes that shows us that time is passing and that they are evolving. It is a particular fine editing job which enables us to pass from year to year, to character to character, and give a coherent link between everything, from drama class, to ballet dancers, to singers, etc. Almost everything is condensed here, young pregnancy, parent trouble, drug problems, fear of acceptance, rebellion (oh Leroy, Leroy), social clash, etc, etc, the makings of every TV show for youth, which off course the subsequent series explored. If you remember the series you will see that every storyline this movie follows had an episode, or a set of episodes, dedicated to it. So, in the end, seeing "Fame" by itself results in somewhat a small disappointment,because much is said in little time, and although being captivating and endearing, you get a feeling that something is missing. So, the TV series is the perfect complement to this movie. A few years before MTV appeared, Parker created two or three scenes that are perfect videoclips (to the sound of "Fame" or "Hot Lunch Jam"), which give the movie a lot of rhythm. We know the characters and we love them, they are captivating... but unfortunately probably it is so because I know the series from my youth. The ending is also too abrupt, it ends with the school's graduation performance, and leaves no inkling as to the future of the graduates... In the end, "Fame" ends up being one of the ultimate youngsters-want-to-make-it-in-show-biz movies. In 2 hours you get the whole low down on everything there is to know about that, with a perfect equilibrium between cinematic quality and youth appeal, but with the setback of having too much material and being unable to get deep enough with each character. Complement the movie with the series and then you really get something special.

Suna no onna (1964)

Having just finished seeing for the first time "Suna no onna", or "Woman in the dunes" in its English title, I am still almost out of breath, completely overwhelmed by the beautiful thing I have just watched. It is very difficult to describe this movie. Some may call it dull, lengthy (but I don't think ever boring), some may call it arty or philosophical or metaphorical, some may call it erotic, some an insightful dive on human emotions or strikingly beautiful in terms of imagery. It can be all these things but only one thing I think can be consensual: this movie is a masterpiece. It is brilliant, and certainly amongst the chosen few of the greatest films of all time. The film starts with beautiful images of a sea of endless sand. A professor is catching bugs for his collection. He dwells a lot on the beautiful seaside scenery and realizes he missed the last bus. A few villagers tell him that he can spend the night in a nearby house. This is a very particular house. It is located on a canyon amidst the dunes and the only access is through a lowered ladder from above. He descends. The house is occupied by a young widow, who spends the entire day preventing the sand from consuming the house. The next morning the man realizes he was tricked by the villagers. He tries to climb the cliff of sand but can't. The villagers had put him there to work, to clean and dig the sand. They send food down every week. He can't escape. This is the set-up. The real movie starts as he and the woman have to live together in this confined maddening space, with sand everywhere, in their house, in their skins, in their minds. The woman is conformed to this existence, but he isn’t and tries several times to escape. There is an erotic tension between them and much happens, but sex is never really specifically shown (60s japanese movie...). And all the while they fight against nature. If they refuse to work, the sand conquers their house and their souls, and the villagers don't send food nor water. They get more and more paranoid, and eventually nature starts to win over them, at the same time as they reveal their true nature to each other... This film is a brilliant study of human nature and existentialism in a confined space, delivered in an almost fantasy-like fashion and through a striking black-and-white photography. Director Hiroshi Teshigahara did a brilliant job. When pushed to the edge, man cannot escape himself and can never defeat the power of nature. The sand has a hypnotic power and, as it slides, so it shatters the nerves of human emotions. In 2 and a half hours, the movie takes its time in showing this descent into the pit. The ending is tragic, ironic, but somewhat predictable. Yet it is the underlying message (to each its own interpretation, I have mine) and the powerful images that make this movie unforgettable. An incredible piece of work, which will strike the hearts of the more sensitive moviegoers. Recommend it to those passionate for passionate cinema, for those who are moved by balletic pieces of work where the essence of the soul clashes with the essence of nature.

The Shape of FEUP to Come

No final de 2010 a Escola Superior de Educação (ESE) foi demolida e os seus cursos passaram a funcionar dentro das instalações da FEUP. Nos ex-terrenos da ESE foram erguidos o novo heliporto da FEUP, a sua terceira cantina, o seu quinto parque de estacionamento, o Feupláxia (um shopping completo com Holmes Place) e um recinto para a prática do desporto favorito do feupiano: o não fazer nada… com estilo, e de preferência à sombra. Como toda a gente sabe um feupiano é um certo e determinado indivíduo que de quando em quando até tem umas ideias porreiras (pá), mas que o resto do tempo parece que sofre daquela doença que resulta do acasalamento da mosca tsé-tsé com o fermento do álcool.

Este incidente não foi o primeiro. Já no longínquo ano de 2009 a Faculdade de Ciências da Nutrição foi expulsa dos seus famosos barracões pelos marmanjos moletes de medicina e, enquanto aguardava a construção da sua própria faculdade (algo que só foi completo em 2017 e que acabou por servir apenas para as aulas práticas de Estruturas de Betão 2 do curso de Eng. Civil), foi generosamente instalada na FEUP, para nunca mais sair. Nesse mesmo ano, já funcionava também na FEUP o curso de Ciências da Informação, a meias com a Faculdade de Letras, o mestrado de Jornalismo em multimédia, entre outros.

A FEUP, segundo relatam as crónicas da época, era um bicho. Um bicho que não se saciava com meio milhar de marmelos que dia sim, dia mais ou menos, por ela marinavam com o queixo ao léu, depois de alguns anos antes terem andado aos pulinhos amaricados aquando do descobrimento de que lá tinham sido admitidos. No final de 2012 a FEUP já tinha expandido para o dobro do seu tamanho de 2010, e já detinha não só as supracitadas faculdades a funcionar no seu seio, meros anexos sentados a um canto com orelhas de burro, mas outras faculdades menores, como a de Arquitectura, a de Economia e a de Belas Artes. No primeiro trimestre de 2013 a FEUP piscava o olho a Dentária. E quando a FEUP pisca o olho o Mundo treme, sufoca e desmaia de comoção. Diz um escritor famoso da época que a FEUP nessa mesma altura coçava a barba. E quando a FEUP coça a barba, o Mundo tem que ir tomar banho. E assim foi, e antes de 2013 acabar, quer a Faculdade de Desporto quer as Piscinas Municipais e do Fluvial eram já parte integrante da FEUP.

O objectivo era simples. Transformar a Universidade do Porto na FEUP, e todos os outros cursos meros afiliados no seu interior. As razões para tal diluíram-se nos anais da história e ainda hoje permanecem vagas. Várias escolas de pensamento defendem uma de tês opções para justificar a premente necessidade de converter todo o estudante universitário num feupiano: (i) porque sim, só para satisfazer a curiosidade de saber se efectivamente isso iria servir de alguma coisa para o Mundo; (ii) porque dois alunos da FEUP mandaram um e-mail dinâmico que originou uma reacção em cadeira e, (iii) a opção mais consensual, para haver o mínimo de decência no que se refere a barracas da queima. Notórias são as palavras de Pacman, ex-Da Weasel, ministro da educação em 2016, numa cimeira internacional no Cartaxo que debatia se os professores de liceu deviam usar máscaras de gás e colete anti-bala, ou somente armas de defesa pessoal na ordem das Uzi ou das M-16: “A FEUP pode não saber onde se meter, mas os outros só se sabem meter na FEUP”.

No terminar da década, apenas dois redutos rebeldes ainda resistiam à magnificente omnipresença da FEUP no panorama universitário portuense. Um deles era o curso de Ciências da Educação da Faculdade de Psicologia, não por qualquer mérito de defesa próprio, mas simplesmente porque a FEUP não os queria para nada. E o outro a Faculdade de Direito, que, para além de ter sido extinta em 2019 após a abolição da advocacia, arrastava três recursos no tribunal internacional de Haia devido a uma cláusula numa adenda a uma nota de rodapé num apêndice de um anexo de uma segunda via de um relatório complementar que especificava que a sua faculdade não podia ser tomada por bichos. Crê-se que a cláusula foi criada como resultado da praga de ratos de 2015, ou da enorme presença de restaurantes chineses que assolou as imediações da FDUP nesse mesmo ano, ou então como auto-prevenção contra os seus próprios alunos.

A FEUP entrou na época de 20 no auge do seu esplendor. O reconhecimento nacional era inegável, o europeu foi facilmente adquirido após mais uma vitória no europeu de futebol de robôs, e o mundial foi finalmente obtido em 2022 quando Macaulay Culkin, então presidente dos Estados Unidos, foi finalmente presenteado com o Honoris Causa da FEUP.

Contudo, esta glória provou ser efémera. Todos os grandes impérios acabam por ruir, mais cedo ou mais tarde, e nunca devido a ameaças exteriores. A FEUP, tal como o Império Romano, tal como o governo português, encontrou o seu fim, não por fora, mas por dentro. Ninguém faria prever que numa manhã particularmente solarenga da Queima das Fitas de 2024, nessa mesma noite em que Suri, o filho do Tom Cruise e Katie Holmes, era cabeça de cartaz em dueto com o (ainda) pequeno Saul (Suri e Saul, o nome do acto), ocorreria a maior revolta da história portuguesa. A revolta das empregadas da limpeza.

Os primeiros sintomas que culminaram nesta revolta iniciaram-se quase vinte anos antes, quando sentiram a sua imagem denegrida numa certa e determinada peça de teatro de 2006, na qual um ainda jovem engenheiro civil se vestia de uma delas, dançava mal e porcamente, falava à Porto e dizia piadas secas do género “olha que lindos, olha que amores, p’ra mim o mais bonito é o do meio”, referindo-se a dois limpa vidros. Desde então os incidentes acumularam-se, como a sujeira infinita das casas de banho, a contínua falta de estímulo literário (já que se lhes era dada a hipótese de ler no trabalho, ao menos que as pessoas escrevessem coisas de jeito nas paredes), a impossibilidade de conversarem à vontade porque alguém vinha sempre pedir alguma coisa, e, pior que tudo, a falta de toques pimba nos telemóveis, visto os ditos toques terem sido abolidos igualmente, numa tentativa desesperada de erradicar os ABBA do recinto da FEUP.

Precipitou a revolta no famoso dia a decisão polémica de atribuir segways às senhoras da secretaria, para quando precisassem de se deslocar à casa de banho ou (sacrilégio!) a qualquer arquivo ou armário para buscar uma informação. Já em Janeiro de 2010 os seguranças passaram a andar de segway. Em 2015 foram os professores que tomaram o hábito. Alguns alunos mais avantajados financeiramente seguiram-se. Até as empregadas da cantina tinham uma. Foi demais para as empregadas da limpeza. Exigiam uma segway. Tinham de ter uma segway! O sindicato exigia uma segway! Uma mão no volante, a outra na vassoura. Deslocação rápida para focos de interesse. Possibilidade de não gastar a sandalinha. Os contornos de um sonho perfeito.

A revolta foi rápida e impiedosa, liderada por uma empregada da qual hoje apenas sabemos o nome de código: Madonna. Muito se pode conseguir boicotando o sistema sanitário de uma universidade. As vozes esganiçadas e as vassouras fizeram o resto. Após a revolta a grande base da engenharia mudou de rumo e perdeu-se para sempre. O departamento de química começou a produzir em exclusivo detergentes, o de mecânica passou a investigar modelos de tapetes rolantes e segways para um trabalho mais confortável, o de civil experimentou com pavimentação anti-sujidade, o de informática foi abolido porque, e passa-se a citar, “ai eu de computadores não percebo nada”, e o de electrotécnica, mais particularmente o laboratório de robótica, fez esforços céleres para criar um robô de limpeza, o Arnilda3000, inovador por conseguir aquilo que desde sempre a vulgar empregada sempre desejou: falar (muito), limpar (pouco) e cheirar mal ao mesmo tempo.

Após anos e anos de supremacia das empregadas da limpeza, e tendo-se atingido a perfeição e a liderança mundial na área de, utilizando o termo correcto, “profissionais de engenharia de prevenção higiénica e controlo de qualidade ambiental localizada”, os blocos ainda activos da FEUP foram transferidos para novas instalações no ex-estádio do Bessa, e a antiga faculdade tomou novas funções que ainda hoje detém. Nomeadamente, a FEUP é agora um lar para a recuperação física e psicológica de empregadas da limpeza reformadas. Bastião da profissão a nível mundial, a FEUP recebe anualmente milhares de turistas-empregados-da-limpeza de todo o Mundo, que a ela vêm para entrar em contacto com o seu eu e prestar homenagem aos mártires da revolta. Nela podem admirar o grande monumento à revolução (uma vassoura a esmagar uma segway), e o Museu da limpeza, que funciona no antigo INEGI. A biblioteca da FEUP tornou-se local de referência para a arte da prevenção higiénica.

Hoje a FEUP representa a sanidade esterilizada num mundo insano. Os seus princípios seculares praticamente mantêm-se: formar grandes mentes, propagar conhecimento, inspirar. Estes transformaram-se em formar grandes dentes, (para dar à língua), apagar conhecimento (das portas dos WC), aspirar. É suficientemente parecido.

Simple Men (1992)

"Simple Men" is a fine example that a low-budget independent movie can be not just underground, art-house or for a chosen few enlightened, but a very quality movie indeed. I love this movie, it has a purity and a simplicity that is rare, and one knows that because it is from Hal Hartley, because it is independent, because it does not have major stars, it didn't get the attention it deserved worldwide. Unfortunately there are many movies in this situation. I just happen to be lucky to have found this one. Two brother team up to search for their father. One (Robert John Burke, in an introspective performance) has just committed a great robbery but has been double crossed by his partners, and needs to flee town. The other has dropped from college. Their father is an ex-baseball player that has supposedly become a sort of terrorist rebel, and may have killed a few people some years ago. But this is not relevant. The brothers set off on a motorbike. They encounter one or two particular characters and then, when their bike breaks down, they end up in an out-of-season guest-house, run by Karen Sillas (beautiful!) a woman with a past. The rest of the movie they just hang out there. Karen's Romanian friend may know where their father is, Karen's ex-husband has just been released from jail and is a threat, Karen and Burke obviously fall in love, and through all this time the ghost of the police hot on their trail and the ghost of their father are always present. Like many non-mainstream movies, the dialogues are melancholic pieces of poetry, about life, about love, about simple people and simple men. All the supporting characters are also exquisite in their averageness. Beautiful the completely unnecessary scene where a gas station worker without nothing to do picks up an electric guitar and jams "Greensleeves". Scenes like this are what give the movie its passion. Ultimately they have to deal with themselves, with the past and with the future, facing their father, facing the consequences of life. Burke has to choose between escape from the police or stay with the woman that he loves... "Simple men" is a low-budget profound, sometimes rather slow, movie, with references from Goddard to Fritz Lang, which shows life simply, where the most important things are not said, but felt. The technical aspects may be crude, but the emotions are not. A pearl from Hal Hartley that, according to allmovie, is the "leader of the 1990s American independent filmmaking movement". If all independent movies were like "Simple men" then they would easily break up mainstream.

Thank You For Smoking (2005)

Humm?! A satirical movie about a spokesman for a tobacco company? Oh boy! Is it an anti-smoking flick, a character study or just a plain mockery without taking much sides? Well, Jason Reitman's first outing as a writer/director for the big screen is a mixture of these three aspects. It tells the story of Nick Naylor, a man whose job is to speak on behalf of the tobacco companies, defending them against journalists, politicians, etc, and promoting smoking. He is played by Aaron Eckhart, who has proven to have the attractiveness of a leading man of a long lost Hollywood age. The movie has a Coen-brothers sort of humour, the characters have each their own particularities, as Eckhart deals with his ex-wife and son, with the general public, with the anti-tobacco politician (William H Macy), his boss (a great JK Simmons), his boss's boss (Robert Duval), a Hollywood producer, the old marlboro man who is dying of cancer, his two friends, of the same profession and representatives of guns and alcohol (the MOD squad...great joke), and finally a hot young journalist (Katie Holmes), who either is falling for him or is just looking for a story. Eckhart smooth talks his way through all these situations, until half-way across the movie things start to go wrong, and the tobacco companies seem in a bad jam... Can Eckhart talk his way out of its predicament when he is called to a public hearing? Well, satirical is the word, the movie does not give any moral lesson (but no one is ever seen smoking!), and Eckhart's personal dilemmas with his son, friends, and about his job are not taken much seriously. The peculiar characters and the interesting scenes give rhythm to the movie. One may probe deeper and say that it is all a metaphor against corporative America and smoking, but really, for me, I think they are just making fun of it for the hell of it all. Good casting, amusing performances, and a movie full of a very intelligent wit. It shoots in a lot of different directions and characters, and sometimes these become a little lost in the movie, and the ending seemed a little poor in comparison, but anyway, its 90 minutes are worth checking out. Writer/director Jason Reitman is promising great things, with small gentle movies with wit and a little extra more. Juno (2007) and Up in the Air (2009) have proven that Reitman is making his own kind of genre. No masterpieces, mind you, but very interesting movies indeed.

Dial M for Murder (1954)

My first statement may be controversial: Dial M is the best Hitchcock film. Well... at least it is my favorite. Caught in the middle of one of Hitchcock's best runs and the first one of the short-lived Grace Kelly era, Dial M is a masterful technical enthralling hypnotic movie, but completely straightforward, without the voyeurism of "Rear Window" (also 1954), "Vertigo" (1958) or "Psycho" (1960). Hitchcock had tackled confined spaces before without making them boring, notably on "Lifeboat" (1944), where all the action was placed in a small boat, and on "Rope" (1948), the almost single take masterpiece. Based on a theater play, 95% of the action of Dial M takes places in one room, but I don't think a single angle is repeated twice, so it never becomes dull and the eye discovers every detail of the division. The plot is simple. Ray Milland is married to Grace Kelly who in turn is having an affair with Robert Cummings. Milland hires Anthony Dawson to kill his wife so that he can have her money. When in the struggle Kelly kills him instead, Milland toys with the police so that she is accused of murder and sent to the gallows. Will he succeed or will the police inspector (a marvelous so-British performance by John Williams) and Cummings find the truth in time when all evidences point to Kelly? The movie is a winner because of two things. First, throughout, the dialogue is superb, and, although the theater-like scenes are long, they are completely mesmerizing, and you hang on the edge of your seat waiting for the characters to know what the spectator already does. And second, the most fabulous thing for me, is the "death seduction" scene, when Milland convinces Dawson to kill his wife. The scene is more or less 25 minutes long, from 10 minutes of film to just pass the half hour. Milland (who 10 years earlier had won his best actor oscar for "The Lost Weekend") gives his greatest performance ever. He is a viper snake, he entices Dawson to his trap with a silk voice, but the malice in his eyes is shinning through. He is maquiavelic to the fullest with a Jocker frightening deceitful smile. It is one of the best scenes I have ever seen. Kelly, on the other hand, playing the dumb wife, seems a little lost, but she is confined to the role. In the end, it is Milland and William's movie, and their battle of wits until the climatic, nerve-breaking, ending. A cinematic masterpiece with Hitchcok's excellent use of space, showing the makings of a devilish evil mind once again, before he explored more deeper disturbances of the soul in subsequent movies. Never seen the 1998 remake "A Perfect Murder" with Michael Douglas, Gwyneth Paltrow and Viggo Mortenson, directed by Andrew Davis. And honestly, I don't want to... ever. And, by the way, this masterpiece was shot in 3D, so no, James Cameron didn't invent that!

Para um poeta

Escala a cordilheira de degraus
Salpica-te de mansinho na piscina do palco
E funde-te na escuridão do silêncio
Sorrateiramente saboreando sombras de amorfos pigmeus da arte
Pacientemente aguardando para explodir em genialidade
Quando a cortina alada se afastar e te puxar
Quando olhos luminosos te penetrarem da plateia
E ergueres a voz para conquistar, para declamar
Pequenos pedaços de futuro
Pequenas gotas de vida

Le dernier métro (1980)

Truffaut had already explored the behind the scenes of cinema in 1973's "La nuit americaine". Here, he explores the backstage of the theatre, with a nuance, it is set in nazi-occupied Paris. One of his last films, "Le Dernier Métro" is an uneven study of various characters that revolve around the production of a play, amidst the persecution of Jews, homosexuals, etc. Gérard Depardieu (probably the best performance) is a womanising actor who earns a part in the new play. He hides something, clearly he is of the resistance, something that is easily seen because everytime he talks to a certain friend a sinister tension music is heard. The theatre is managed by Catherine Deneuve, who is also the leading lady of the play, and whose husband, a Jew, supposedly fled to south America, but is really hiding in the cellar and secretly directing the play. There is a critic, who is also an agent for the germans and anti-semitist who always hangs around and the costume designer is a lesbian. The movie flows slowly as they prepare the play. Depardieu tries to go to bed with all the woman, Deneuve at night goes to the cellar to her husband, who is getting more and more paranoid for being locked up and becomes obsessed with the play, the critic (Jean Poiret) tries to take over the theatre and increase the hate for Jews in Paris with his radio broadcasts and newspaper articles. And this goes on and on with little news until the opening of the play. The allied forces come, Deneuve falls in love with Depardieu... It is a characters study more than anything else, but the comic-news-real-type ending and beginning parts deny all this and give the impression that maybe Truffaut was just fooling around all the time. The nazi regime is taken too lightly, and the sparks between the characters don't get deep enough to grip the spectator. It balances precariously in a middle term without really knowing where to go. A box office success, it does not seem to me one of Truffaut's finest efforts (which for him means the movie is "just" good, not great!), although it certainly has its moments, specially in the acting, which is probably the movie's best feature, as it could not fail to be, in a movie about the stage.

A Night at the Opera (1935)

If "A Night at the Opera" is not the greatest comedy of all time, well... then it's pretty darn close. The Marx Brothers first movies were a series of zany, crazy visual gags with a thin as possible story just to justify moving from one gag to the next. But when they moved to MGM in 1935, they were given by Thalberg something that they never had: a quality studio team working for them. Opera is then a film with a strong and feasible story behind it, which ultimately gives the gags more coherence and makes the movie much more enjoyable. Furthermore, it was directed by Sam Wood, who shortly would do uncredited work for "The Good Earth", "Wizard of Oz" and "Gone with the Wind", and go on to direct two sublime masterpieces: "Goodbye Mr. Chips" (1939) and "Kings Row" (1942), for me two movie in the top 20 or 30 of all time. "A Night at the Opera" is classic Marx Brothers, even so. Groucho has never been better as the wisecracker who is courting Margaret Drummond, a patron of the opera, for her millions. This gives the excuse for some opera and backstage scenes, where Harpo and Chico are stage-hands. The bad guy is the opera's lead singer, who is in love with the girl, also lead singer, who by her turn loves the good guy, Baroni (played by Allan Jones), a choir singer waiting for a break. The good-guy-romantic-lead was for the first time not played by the 4th Marx Brother, Zeppo, who couldn't act and was not funny, so his absence is also an asset to the picture. Little more to say, the plot is all there, simple and unobtrusive. They go to America for the new opera season, which gives rise to great transatlantic ship scenes. Once on the other side of the Atlantic they plan to give Baroni a singing chance on the opening night and all hell breaks loose. Also to note that Sig Ruman, who plays the german-accent-owner of the opera company is superb, as a constant victim of the plots of the Marx brothers. The favourite comic scenes are so much that one can stay here forever describing them. The contract signing scene ("the party of the first part should be known on this contract as the party of the first part"), the aviators speech ("we were flying halfway across the Atlantic and guess what, we had forgotten the airplane"), the hiding from the police scene in the bedroom, and mostly, the room scene in the boat, where about 30 people fill a tiny little room... Hilarious. Favourite line: "Don't worry, that's on every contract, that's what they call a Sanity Clause" "Aha, you canta folla me [italian accent], there aint no Santy Clauss". The Marx Brothers never repeated the success of this movie in their subsequent career. "A Night a the Opera" still remains their milestone, hilarious from start to finish. If you don't know the Marx Brothers and their screen personas, this is the best way to start. If you do, I guarantee this will beat all their other movies. At times is just sheer comic perfection. And it is backed by a great cast and a solid enough plot. I can only add that this is the first and only movie I saw twice in less than 24 hours. I saw it for the first time on a Friday night many years ago, and saw it again the very next Saturday morning. I just had to. And from then on, many times have I seen it again...

Estrugilda, a Insubmissa

Estrugilda nasceu em Botabaixo de Cima, no distrito da Guarda, numa casa que não cumpria o PDM mas que foi erguida na mesma porque a mãe de Estrugilda, um belo dia em que não deram o programa da Fátima Lopes por causa do Natal dos Hospitais, cozinhou um saboroso bolo que fez as delícias da família do presidente da junta.

Estrugilda teve uma infância complicada. Não bastava ser filha de retornados da Suíça, como até aos 4 anos de idade pensou que o seu nome era Issi. Foi só quando entrou para a escola e a professora lhe começou a chamar Estrugilda que se apercebeu que afinal a mãe dizia “vem ici”. Mas os seus traumas de infância não se ficaram por aqui. O pai na construção civil na Irlanda e a mãe na prostituição fizeram com que Estrugilda fosse “oferecida” a uma família rica que não podia ter filhos. O Coronel Bodega (missões no Afeganistão zero, missões no Iraque zero, missões em Timor zero, desfiles no dia de Portugal quatro milhões seiscentos e setenta e nove mil quatrocentos e dois) criou Estrugilda com todos os confortos que uma criança portuguesa de 6 anos pode desejar (Wii, telemóvel, ver o Twilight no cinema), até ao belo dia em que a mãe, agora drogada, decidiu que tinha de reaver a criança. E assim o tribunal ordenou, até 2 meses depois quando a mãe, após uma rave, voltou a dar Estrugilda a Bodega. Escusado será dizer que isto se repetiu até a criança ter 14 anos, com o tribunal sempre a devolver, de cada vez, a criança à mãe biológica, porque não há nada como uma boa seringa quando comparada com uma Wii, nem como o amor de mãe biológica, metade do tempo “high”, e um pai que trouxe os tiques irlandeses da violência e da bebida, quando comparados com uma mãe adoptiva afectiva e presente, e um pai militar cujo único defeito é ter um bigode ridículo.

Mas Estrugilda sobreviveu, como só as crianças sabem fazer, e lentamente chegou ao liceu. Com 16 anos duas coisas aconteceram. Primeiro, sabe-se lá por alma de quem, a professora pediu-lhe, com veemência, que parasse de mexer no telemóvel. Mal sabia a professora que Estrugilda comunicava com o seu pai militar sobre um assunto de extrema urgência: a cera para o bigode tinha acabado, e era necessário Estrugilda passar pela loja de conveniência a caminho de casa, não fosse o bigode ficar flácido no treino, logo nesse dia em que os miúdos da C+S de Cova da Moura iam assistir, visto ser o dia das profissões. Contudo a professora não foi razoável e tirou-lhe o instrumento. Estrugilda retorquiu com educação; “Cara professora, lamento mas necessito de comunicar com o meu padrasto num assunto delicado, se não se importar dê-me o telemóvel por uns segundos, eu envio a dita mensagem, e depois pode usufruir dele como lhe aprouver, ou pressione em ‘enviar’ você mesma”. Mas, devido às buzinadelas de uns feirantes que estavam em greve apenas o pedaço “dá-me o telemóvel” foi ouvido, e para piorar as coisas, ao levantar-se para se chegar mais perto da professora, tropeçou na mochila e, numa tentativa de equilíbrio, esticou a mão para a frente e acabou por lhe dar uma estalada. O desfecho foi triste.

A segunda coisa foi conhecer o Nelson Michael, fã incondicional do Bruno Alves, mas com uma alma tão doce como a do Michael Carreira. O Nelson gostava da rambóia, o seu gosto adocicado pelas estirpes dos “Morangos com Açúcar”, e almejava ser o Marco do Big Brother. Infelizmente, nas aulas de educação sexual em que o preservativo foi leccionado, Nelson estava em casa, devido à dispensa por 7 dias por ter assoado o nariz durante a histeria da gripe A.

Estrugilda, tal Lorelai, engravidou em tenra idade. Mas nada a demoveu da sua demanda por uma vida feliz, inspirada pelas páginas da “Maria” e pelo “Jornal Nacional”. Desistiu da escola, arranjou um emprego e teve a criança, a bela Viviana Sofia Michael. Claro que o parto de Viviana foi todo ele envolto de comicidade trágica. Botabaixo de Cima não é propriamente o local onde exista uma maternidade. Existe um barracão que está aberto das 11h às 13h, onde dois médicos espanhóis se pavoneiam um par de horas e ainda tiram pausas a meio para café e cigarros. Para além do mais, nos dias em que joga o glorioso, é declarada tolerância de ponto, não só no dia, mas na véspera e no subsequente. Como toda a gente sabe, há três ocasiões em que as pessoas não ficam doentes: à tarde, à noite, e nos dias em que joga o glorioso. Eis senão portanto que, quando Viviana começou a espernear na barriguita, Nelson e Estrugilda se fizeram à estrada. Valha-nos que a auto-estrada era nova, visto que ligar Botabaixo de Cima com Botabaixo de Baixo por auto-estrada era uma prioridade deste país a par do TGV e do novo aeroporto. O problema foi que quando se acabou a gasolina a meio, o bebé teve que nascer ali mesmo, ao quilómetro 24, e o próximo carro a passar demorou mais de 48 horas a aparecer. Parece que a ligar Botabaixo de Cima e de Baixo há também uma scut, uma estrada-nacional, uma auto-estrada sem portagens, e uma auto-estrada com portagens, para além do secular caminho de bois.

Mas Estrugilda nunca se deixou abater. Prosseguiu, de cabeça erguida. Qual crise, quais problemas financeiros, quais gestores a receber prémios que míseros 10% do valor podiam alimentar os pobres de Portugal durante 2 anos. Quando existe o “amore”, tudo é conquistado. Alguém tentou comprar a TVI? Isso que tem? Estrugilda no dia seguinte tentou comprar uma garrafa de vinho na drogaria e também não a deixaram. Podia já ter um filho e trabalhar na indústria do calçado, mas ainda não tinha 18 anos! O primeiro-ministro não é licenciado? Isso que tem? Ela também não, e ambos viviam felizes. O Manuel Alegre vai-se candidatar à presidência da república? E depois? Estrugilda também é presidente do clube do jogo da malha lá do bairro. As pessoas não devem ser julgadas pelas aparências, mas pela veracidade do seu coração.

Alguns anos mais tarde a fábrica de calçado fechou e mudou-se para Taiwan. Claro que quando isto acontece é muito fácil culpar os empresários. “Ah, querem é meter ao bolso, querem é mão-de-obra barata, querem, querem, querem!”. Nunca pensaram que são seres humanos, com necessidades, com filhos para criar. Quem diz que o indivíduo não se apaixonou por uma Taiwanesa e vendeu tudo para ir atrás dela? Quem diz que o seu sonho de criança sempre foi viver em Taiwan e mal poupou dinheiro suficiente mudou-se para lá? Quem diz que o coitado não sofre de uma doença incurável que só pode ser apaziguada por um mosquito que só existe em Taiwan? As pessoas são muito fáceis a fazer assumpções. Greves, insultos, vigílias e telejornais cheios de escândalo ruminante, enquanto o coitado só queria ir para Taiwan ter com o irmão gémeo separado à nascença….

E Estrugilda prosseguiu, certa e segura, a sua vida, apesar de todas estas intempéries. Quatro filhos, um divórcio, o subsídio de desemprego a entrar todos os meses ali certinho, e uma vida pacata passada à conversa à porta do Lidl sempre foram a noção de felicidade para muitos. Nunca se queixou, nunca se resignou. Mulher de coragem, amante da novela, perdia uma batida do coração sempre que ouvia a palavra “Tony”, e a vida continuava, na sua efemeridade cíclica, desbravando as suas surpresas e os seus momentos cativantes, tal como mais um espectáculo do LaFéria. Nada como haver um homem que nos ensina o quão fácil é a vida. É só pegar num espectáculo já existente, traduzir as músicas a cuspo, ver o DVD do espectáculo inglês e copiar passo a passo a coreografia e painel a painel o cenário, pôr um disco a tocar (para não cometer o sacrilégio de ter uma orquestra num fosso à frente do palco), fazer playback (para não cometer o sacrilégio maior de forçar a voz delicada das marionetes que pelo palco desfilam) e depois pôr um cartaz onde apenas se lê “um espectáculo de LaFéria”. É que assim de repente uma pessoa sem ser de bem até pode pensar que foi o LaFeira quem escreveu o Feiticeiro de Oz, ou o Violino no Telhado, ou o Música no Coração. Deduzo que a frase “ripanço de LaFéria” era capaz de infringir qualquer regra de copyright, daí não ter sido usada. E Estrugilda, tal como muitos portugueses, aprendeu bem esta lição, e fez dela um mote de vida.

Muito sobre Estrugilda podia este narrador ainda contar, mas carece de tempo e talento. Mas devo mencionar um momento importante da sua vida. Estrugilda resignou-se à sua existência desempregada e em crise na glória portuguesa sem um único queixume. Viveria assim e continuaria a viver, não tivesse acontecido algo que a abalou profundamente. Um belo dia solarengo ligou a televisão e ouviu que “I gotta a feeeling” dos Black Eyed Peas, era o hino oficial da selecção para o Mundial. Mudou de canal, comprou o jornal, foi à internet, numa tentativa desesperada de desmentir esta notícia. Não, era mesmo verdade. Não, não conseguia suportar tal coisa. Podia ser desempregada. Podia não ter dinheiro ao fim do mês. Podia viver num país de gente pacata sem imaginação e classe política corrupta. Podia viver num país onde não se consegue pagar um subsídio a quem não tem de comer, mas milhões a quem gere bem os que já tem, onde não se consegue dar uma casa de jeito a quem mora em barracos, mas que dá subsídios de residência milionários a quem está no parlamento europeu e só lá vai de 15 em 15 dias e fica em casa de amigos e guarda esse dinheiro para uso próprio, por exemplo para comprar um mata-ratos. Podia viver num país onde a justiça prende o polícia que mata o ladrão e deixa ir em liberdade o ladrão que mata o polícia. Podia viver num país que consegue perder contra a Grécia em Lisboa depois de a UEFA ter feito tudo para ganharmos a merda do Europeu. Podia viver num país onde não se consegue fazer um filme de jeito e em que a nossa glória literária é um marmelo que nem sequer mora cá. Podia viver num país onde há pedófilos e falcatruas e ruindade a dar com o pau. Podia viver num país em que os gato fedorento conseguem fazer um anúncio novo à MEO todas as semanas, mas já não fazem um programa novo há meses. Podia viver num país onde a música do Pingo Doce toca mais vezes que o hino nacional. Podia viver num país que se baba todo com uma desgraça natural e que me fez ter vergonha de ter a mesma nacionalidade que a classe jornalística. Podia viver num país onde os seguranças dos shoppings andam de segway. Mas não, definitivamente NÃO, podia viver num país onde a música oficial da selecção é o “I Gotta Feeling”.

Estrugilda partiu no dia seguinte para a Suíça, fazendo o percurso inverso de seus pais. Ao menos na Suíça continuaria a ter o seu glorioso no Verão, e o seu Tony Carreira o ano todo. Quem tem glorioso e Tony Carreira não precisa de mais nada. Quem tem glorioso e Tony Carreira tem a essência de uma nação no peito, tem o sabor de Portugal nos lábios. Quem tem glorioso e Tony Carreira é feliz. E Estrugilda é feliz, e continuará a ser, nas paisagens helvéticas…

The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus (2009)

"Parnassus" is an incredible visually vivid movie with a story that, despite not being confusing, it takes too many turns and wrappings around itself that, when it finally comes, it appears somewhat lame. Off course that we know this to be the film that Heath Ledger was making at the time of his death two years ago, and that production was shut down for months while it was re-written, to accommodate Ledger's scenes, which can justify some story unbalances. We know also that this is a Terry Gilliam film, and, as such, it will never be straightforward and will depend on a lot of visual imagination. Dr. Parnassus (Christopher Plummer), an immortal monk with special powers, and the Devil (a captivating wicked performance by Tom Waits) have been at it for centuries. After some lost bets, Parnassus is now on modern day London, poor and forgotten, with a very special vaudeville act, with his daughter, a stage-man and a midget (Verne Troyer of Mini-Me fame), in which there is a mirror that leads to a land of magical imagination. And then comes Ledger, a man supposedly with amnesia who is hiding something, smooth talker, attractive, that may or may not be an agent for the devil, and by whom Parnassus' daughter falls in love. Parnassus and the Devil make a new wager for 5 souls and the plot thickens... Ledger was not the James Dean, River Phoenix he was made out to be, but he was getting close. He slowly progressed, his first performances were average, in Brockeback he was the only thing worth watching that crappy movie for, and in Dark Knight, well, that was a whole new ball game. But I dare say that his performance here was better than Jocker's. He is completely mesmerizing, specially when he is trying to mesmerise the female show audience. When he crosses the mirror to the fantasy world, cleverly he changes form, to become Jude Law, Colin Farrell and Johnny Deep. But there are also scenes outside the mirror where he wears a mask, and that lead the entire theatre to whisper whether that was Ledger or not, a distraction welcomed to some lengthy scenes. Tom Waits is a scene stealer, but the girl, Lily Cole, is definitely the most beautiful young actress to appear in the last few years. And she can act too. Gilliam delivers a movie which gains much more by the fantasy sequences and the plots of the Devil, than by really for its base story and the background of Ledger's character, that when revealed appears shy of the spectacle presented. Yet the movie has a great set design and is a treat to the eye. Not a masterpiece but recommend it anyway, as a good way to spend a Saturday night, witnessing Ledger's talent one last time, and enjoying truthfully 3 things, Waits performance, Cole's exotic beauty and Gilliam's masterful knowledge of scene composition.

All Quiet on the Western Front (1930)

"All Quiet On the Western Front" is a bold movie for various reasons. It is one of the first epic war movies of all time, it came out on the first years of the talkies (there is a silent version of the film that was shot simultaneously for theatres not yet equipped with sound), and tells the whole story from the German point of view, something that just a few years latter would be sacrilegious. This won the third ever Oscar for best picture, and also for director, a great achievement of Lewis Milestone. It follows, for the first time in cinema probably, a story-line that has become classical in the war genre. The young soldiers enlisting, the training with a yelling sergeant, the going to war, the loss of innocence and the discovery of the horrors of war, etc, etc. It is clearly an anti-war film, and it does not hesitate to show the privations of soldiers, starving, dying, loosing hope, amidst the scenery of the European first-world-war trenches. Off course that being a thirties movie, do not expect Saving private ryan stuff. Most of the scenes are in the trenches, in barracks, in the forests, at night, in the camp, with much talk and very little action. Only once, in an amazing scene, even more so considering when it was made, we see a big push in no-man's land, and the ensuing battle. It is the only time when the British and french soldiers are shown. Even so, and even though the wounds are never shown, the horrors are felt, and in scenes at the hospital, or when the main character goes on leave back home completely the opposite man which had left, the message passes powerfully through the camera to the spectator. Yet towards the end it tends on lagging a bit, there are completely futile scenes (as the courting of French girls by the soldiers), but the climatic (and incredible beautiful) ending scene in the trenches brings the massage back again to full stride. I read somewhere that on purpose Milestone left music out during the movie for greater tension. This works well in battle and on the ending, but on the average scenes back home or when the soldiers hang out you feel that something is missing. All in all, "All quiet" marked the beginning of a genre, and even today it can be seen as a powerful anti-war tool, at the same time as it shows us (as far as the production code of the 30s allowed them) the horrors of the first world war, and the loss of innocence, very vividly and sometimes claustrophobically.

The Mist (2007)

"The Mist" has gained a reputation as a bad movie with the stupidest ending in film history. Even so, I had to see it, as this was the 4th film of Frank Darabont, which, at least for me, had done 3 masterpieces: The Shawshank Redemption (1994), The Green Mile (1999) and The Majestic (2001). Well, having just finished seeing it I have to say, yes, it is a bad movie (not that it is bad as a movie, but just plain idiotic as a concept) and yes, it has definitely the stupidest ending in film history. It is based on a Stephen King novel (as were Shawshank and Green Mile, Darabont is a personal friend of the writer), but really there are some books that should never be adapted. I have never read this novel, but I imagine that a lot is always left for imagination, but all of that is lost when you present images, and, in this case, it becomes perfectly stupid. Imagine a typical American town, where an army base is located, being one average day covered by a strange mist. Trees are torn, some people get hurt, and the occupants of a supermarket, where our hero is, barricade themselves there against the strange threat. When someone tries to get out they are killed. Moments of tension pass, they wait, they argue, and once in a while there are attacks. They are being attacked by some sort of strange bugs, big, Alien-like, shooting acid, enormous strength. Yet (first stupid thing), despite they can tear man apart and shoot acid, and kill everyone who steps out of the supermarket, they don't think of getting in. Only once they try, some small bugs that are killed after an heroic fight. Hello?! These guys shoot acid! If they want to kill humans why don't they just break the glass doors and kill them? Are they playing with the humans or what? Ridiculous. Then, being in a closed space, off course everybody goes a little paranoid. But off all the possibilities that could be explored, only a religious fanatic prophesying the apocalypse divides the group. And then we get the fanatics, who demand live sacrifices to appease the beast and go totally crazy, and the few "normal" ones, who are trying to find a way to get out. More of the same for one hour, people get killed (by the aliens and by the conflicts between the people in the supermarket), we find out more or less where the aliens came from, from the soldier that is also in the supermarket, and then (hallelujah) the "normal" group decides to take a break for it. Where others were totally slaughtered before, they go (with the classical casualty), to the parking lot, pick up the car amidst the mist and just drive away. They see how the world has become. They see a lot of the strange creatures, and, again stupidly, none of these attack them once they are in the car. Uau, you can shoot acid and rip a man apart, but you can't penetrate them glasses and them car doors. Boy, how they make them strong these days. And then they drive, lost in the mist, and ran out of gas... 5 minutes left to the end of the movie... And then, stupidest ending ever! Nothing more to add, without "spoiling" it. I also don't want to make you too curious, because I don't want you to see the film! I never tell the story of a movie with such detail, but in this case I felt I had to just to show how ridiculous the whole concept is on film. In terms of directing. photography, special effects, acting, etc, I have nothing to say, pleasant, doesn't interfere. But who is noticing that with such a stupid concept. The dialogue is not bad either, a little on the cliche side, but not bad, but again who is noticing that with such a stupid concept. And that ending... my God! What were Darabont and King thinking?! One may take some moral out of it, but frankly, one is too busy almost laughing at the stupidity of it all to think about it. I have said stupid a lot of times in this review, and I know that horror movies sometimes take some liberties, which sometimes work. But in here was not the case. Rrrr. I still shiver at the thought of it. I hope that Darabont comes back with a 5th movie, with all the glory of the past 3.