Sinopse

Era um vez um certo e determinado grupo de senhores indivíduos. Os senhores indivíduos de sexo masculino chamavam-se todos Zebedeus (Zebedeu 1, Zebedeu 45, Zebedeu 69, Zebedeu Ateu, Zebedeu Romeu, Zebedeu Alfa Romeu, Zebedeu Dá Cá que é Meu, Zebedeu Toma Lá que Já Encheu, Zebedeu Olhó que Perdeu, Zebedeu Prometeu… e não cumpriu, Zebedeu Comeu… e não gostou). No meio de tanta crise de identidade, não era invulgar alguém gritar desesperado “O Zebedeu sou eu!”, perante os demais. Os senhores indivíduos de sexo feminino (ou senhoras indivíduas) não sofriam de um mal menor, e chamavam-se todas Doroteia (Doroteia 33, Doroteia Um Quarto para a Meia, Doroteia Floco de Aveia, Doroteia Volta e Meia e 3/4, Doroteia da Aldeia, Doroteia Pé de Meia, Doroteia Diarreia, Doroteia Dá e Recebe Tareia, Doroteia Chuta Prá Veia, Doroteia Gonorreia).

Estes senhores indivíduos (os masculinos e os femininos) viviam uma existência pacífica (bem, talvez não assim tão pacífica) a bordo do navio SS Ah e Tal e Coiso, numa rotina mecânica, emocional, existencial, musical, e quiçá provençal, que dava azo a certos e determinados episódios de teor quase a modos que cómico. O navio SS Ah e Tal e Coiso dirigia-se numa missão ultrasecreta para a ilha do Xéxé, que, como toda a gente sabe, é o lar do Grande Quéqué. E quem é este misterioso, magistral e maléfico Grande Quéqué? Que é como quem diz, e o Quéqué, quem é? Quem é o Quéqué? Ora bem, o Grande Quéqué, descendente de Noé, primo afastado do Tózé, grande apreciador de puré, era um homem de horizontes tão largos como as suas costas. Para além disso, rezava a lenda que tinha inventado uma receita especial de uma francesinha com ovo, capaz de resolver, no mínimo, dois em cada três problemas da humanidade. E se se acrescentasse o molho especial da casa por cima, ainda podia ser que resolvesse uma ou outra Crise. E era precisamente essa receita da francesinha com ovo, se possível com o molho especial da casa por cima, que buscava a expedição do SS Ah e Tal e Coiso. As coisas complicam-se, no entanto, quando, a meio da viagem, é descoberta uma clandestina a bordo, de nome Estrugilda.

Poderá Estrugilda integrar-se e sobreviver num ambiente fechado de Zebedeus e Doroteias? Que crises mecânicas, emocionais, existenciais, musicais, e quiçá provençais poderão advir do balançar do equilíbrio pré-existente? Chegará a expedição à ilha? Terá o Grande Quéqué a receita da francesinha com ovo, se possível com o molho especial da casa por cima? E a cura do acne, será descoberta? E os ursinhos de peluche gigantes, qual o seu papel no meio de toda esta história? Será o mesmo do das bolas de ping pong amarelas?

Independentemente do que possa acontecer, convêm lembrar que, se esta vida são dois dias, resta uma falsa questão extremamente importante: são esses dois dias o ontem e o hoje, ou o hoje e o amanhã? Ao menos todos temos o hoje em comum…

Morning Glory (2010)

"Morning Glory" is a cute little "fluffy" movie, which tries to bring back a sort of a long lost chemistry of a fast-paced-journalistic-romantic-comedy, of which so great examples exist in the 1940s. Unfortunately, this is a movie that falls shy of everything it promises. The opportunities for a thoroughly amusing scene are seldom taken, the chemistry between the main characters seldom explored, and very little care is taken on character development. The story breezes through at a nice pace never digging deep into anything, and what is left is a saturday afternoon feature, which makes you smile, yes, which is light and amusing, off course, but little more. Rachel McAdams is a young workaholic producer of a New Jersey morning show, whose personal life is hindered by her dedication to her job. When she is fired, she doesn't lose heart (neither does the movie) and in two quick scenes lands a much better job, given to her by a zombie-like Jeff Goldblum, producing "Daybreak", a NY morning show which has very poor ratings and is on the brink of being canceled. The show is hosted by Diane Keaton and another chump, who is quickly fired by McAdams and replaced by Harrison Ford, a veteran journalist who thinks himself too good to be on a morning show. Basically the plot is all about McAdams, as she tries to improve the ratings of the show through unusual journalistic techniques (which, the few times they are shown, are very funny), as she finds love in Patrick Wilson's character (the first guy she meets at the studio), and as she has to fight against Ford's angry persona. Off course that the ratings improve eventually. Off course that her relationship with Wilson is put in peril because of her workaholism, but she will learn to see beyond that. Off course that Ford will eventually melt into a nicer person. Everything is textbook neat in this screenplay. The only thing that is missing is an interaction between Keaton and Ford. How do you make a film with these two giants (both very good with their comic timmings), and you only put them interacting 2 or 3 times? When they exchange a fast-near-insulting dialog as they present the show it's funny and almost brilliant, but it's very short lived. Instead, the movie only focuses on McAdams, or McAdams and Ford. Diane Keaton being there or not is almost irrelevant, although seeing her dance and sing with 50 Cent is, to say the least, unusual. Director Roger Michell (Notting Hill), goes back to the genre of the romantic comedy, but this time he scratches only the surface of it. The two acting giants fulfill their roles, but McAdams lingers behind, in a school-girl, all-american, performance that works for the more vulgar hollow scenes, but is not up to the demands of a multifaced character.

Detour (1945)

"Detour" is, quite simply, the most famous B-picture of all time. It's 64 minutes of low budget-cheap sets-unknown actors all wrapped up in a classic noir tale, led by the hand of director Edgar G. Ulmer (who had among others directed Karloff's "The Black Cat" in 1934). The films starts with a tramp entering a bar (Tom Neal). As he sits at the bar, he recalls, in flashback and voice over, the events that lead him from his NY job as a piano player in a pub, to that bar as a tramp. Aiming to follow his girlfriend to L.A., he hitchhikes across the States. But the wrong car picks him up, changing his fate forever. Edmund MacDonald, a no good crook, is driving, but after a while suddenly drops dead. Neal, afraid he will be accused of murder, buries MacDonald in a ditch and changes identity with him, getting his car and his suspicious money. But soon after, he picks up Vera (played brilliantly and neurotically by Ann Savage), a girl who, coincidently, knew MacDonald. So Vera blackmails Neal, and the tension between the two grows and grows, to disastrous results. "Detour" was made on a shoe string budget, and has a lot of tricks to disguise it (fog, shadows, darkness, claustrophobic apartments). Yet these features heighten its noir tension, aided by a fast paced screenplay and a tacky genre-specific dialog that makes you smile with delight. The second half hour belongs to the two main actors, as Savage gets more and more possessive and money obsessed, and Neal, until then an innocent by-standard, capitulates to his fate and throws himself to its mercy. Their interaction build-up is superb and mesmerizing. In the end, "Detour" has a moral, and that moral is of a destiny no-one can escape. If that car hadn't stopped, if I hadn't given her a ride... But the car did stop, and he did give her a ride, and everything goes wrong from there. An average Joe is corrupted, and his soul destroyed by chance, by fate. A classic tale about fate, death, in a depression-dark-road-side America. A well beloved movie, which has gained, with time, a very respectable status, much higher than its original creators intended at the time of its release, when it was just a fill up, before the main feature.

Regalado no cosmos do verdejante fumo

Regalado no cosmos do verdejante fumo
Empoeirado pelo ciclo de calor outonal
Cristalizando no cume sorridente ao relento
Lendo o sorriso aureolo do tempo
Desenhando ecos no redor de sardas floridas
Emprestando almas a polegares levantados
Conquistado pelo cultivo de folhas molhadas
Ruminando luzes perdidas nas caudas da noite
Colorindo linhas através de ruas em espiral
Sufocando portas abertas, desejos dissolvidos
Salpicado pela arte lacrimonial da memória
Erguendo glória em caudais sedentos desenfreados
Espumando em correntes derretidas de areal colado
Iludindo através de crinas afagadas de prazer
Engolindo castelos afogados pelos nenúfares escolhidos
Comovido pelo olhar do beijo da voz na escada
Procriado pelo arco-íris de contrastes promíscuos
Diluído pelas cataratas penetrantes de risadas infinitas
Sorvendo doçuras nas sílabas subtis de cada história
Regalado no cosmos do verdejante fumo
Beijando o amor em cada folha desenhada na vida

L'histoire d'Adèle H. (1975)

"L'histoire d'Adèle H." is yet another compelling and interesting achievement by french master François Truffaut. Away from his best 60s achievements, but yet ridding high on international fame after his well received and Oscar-winner for best foreign picture in 1973 "La nuit americaine", Truffaut chose another very personal story based on true events and on a diary left behind by the main protagonist (as he had done in "L'Enfant sauvage" in 1970). Adéle Hugo is the daughter of famous french writer Victor Hugo, who follows her former lover Lt Albert Pinson (played by Bruce Robinson, who would become the writer of "The Killing fields" - 1984 - and the director of "Withnail and I", 1987), to Halifax, in Nova Scotia. Madly in love with him, she confronts him there, to find that he has no further interest in her whatsoever. Relentlessly she tries to win back his affections, through money or using schemes such as proclaiming their (inexistent) marriage or pretending to be pregnant. All the while, her letters to her father and her diary, which are read out loud by her for the audience's sake, show her fantasies, her desires, her alternate reality as she wished it to be, but that never comes true. Ultimately, she descends into a spiral of madness, and ends up penniless roaming the streets, lost and insane. The climax comes when she doesn't even recognize Pinson any more. The movie may have the fault of having a very thin story line which is a repetition of the same theme: unrequited love that leads into madness. Yet this allows for a magnificent study of the killing of a soul through desperation and obsession. Truffaut never had an inkling for very dramatic climaxes and his movies often present even tones, but the structure of the picture is great, and the little episodes show a tormented soul, always in the shade of a famous and genious father, who lives for love, for this love, and which goes to increasing desperate measures to gaine it, from the innocent lie, to the convincing herself of another truth, to more depraved states of degradation, all of which slowly construct a personality on the brink of madness, which inevitably comes. Adele is off course played by Isabelle Adjani, in her first movie (Truffaut had spotted her on a TV-film). Her performance is near-perfect and the way she captivates the audience to her plight is masterful. Her love obsession, her descent into the abyss of madness is incredibly portrayed. Her losing the Oscar to Louise Fletcher (on "One flew over the cuckoo's nest") is very debatable indeed. A focused character study which rides almost solely on the performance of Adjani, and the way her "madness" is constructed and displayed, without lifting the movie's tone, nor making any moral judgements, in a supposed attempt of a true account of the diary and letters of Adele H.

127 Hours (2010)

When commenting this picture one must be careful. Based on the real life story of Aron Ralston, and his unfortunate events of 2003, if one criticizes the story, may well be criticizing his real life choices. The audience does not know exactly what really happened, what Ralston said it happened and what Danny Boyle invented for entertainment purposes. Ralson has stated that the movie is very accurate, so one must believe. Yet, this being so, and the movie being a straightforward tale of survival with a good rhythm, there are some elements that really don't seem to fit. And these elements are so close to Danny Boyle's usual style of filmmaking, that one cannot help but think that he has fallen on the mistake of inserting them, because, after all, it's HIS movie, and so messing with an equilibrium that a film should have but doesn't. Boyle, of course, was never that fabulous a filmmaker as anyone thinks of him know. After "Shallow Grave" (1994 - for me his best) and "Trainspotting" (1995 - for the rest of the world his best), he fell into a series of flops and little talked about movies, until Slumdog in 2008 hailed him as a master director, a title he never truly deserved. "127 Hours" shows the same MTV-editing-split-screen-fast-forward-image-sources-soundtrack-style that Slumdog had, as it presents Ralston (James Franco in a tour de force which may on the other hand be his own personality) preparing for his weekend voyage to the canyons. Quickly he packs, bicycles and climbs. The first 20 minutes are basically the trailer. He meets two girls, shows them a secret lake, proves he lives life to the fullest, says goodbye to them and then, alone, falls and gets his arm stuck in a rock. Character develoment? None. Just travel log filmaking with hot girls in the mixture. But after he gets stuck the movie becomes very interesting. A thing that intrigued me was how you could sustain one hour of film basically showing someone stuck in the same place. Other recent survival movies, such as "Touching the void" (2003), about 2 climbers stuck in a snowy cave, had action, movement, and continuous events that happened. Here no. He is stuck and that's that. But Boyle handled it brilliantly, giving time to each detail - the sun, the water, the trying to break free, the food, the first thoughts of arm-cutting, etc, etc. These are interposed with Franco's private thoughts, expressed by him talking to his never-ending-battery-camera (although supposedly these tapes really were made), and also with a series of quick flashbacks (like sudden memories of 30 seconds - a good device instead of melodramatic reminiscences), and some "dreams", or illusions, he starts having as his body succumbs. Although I enjoyed this part, Boyle's style made me confused. We can have reflective moments with tender music and despair acting, or moments when Boyle's fast pace heavy-music style kicks in. For example, when he starts to get thirsty, we see a series of made up "commercials" with techno-music. These moments, at least for me, dehumanized him, made him a product of a pop culture, a TV-hero trying to be sold, a tear-jerking-baz lurhman movie desperately seeking attention. Yet the other moments, the gritty real intense moments, were much more well capture, because they neither exploited the suffering, nor used it to cheat the audiences' emotions. So why this contrast? I don't know. In the end, he has to use desperate measures to survive, and the images may shock more sensitive viewers. Off course that most of the audience knows the outcome, and maybe that's why it's not shown as a climax, but rather just another part of the drama. All in all, as surviving movies go, this was yet another well delivered story (you can't go wrong with these movies), which had a strong performance at it's core, but which had a repeated (almost worn out) style of filmmaking by its director, which, although fit for the first part of the movie, it certainly didn't seem to be so at more critical moments. For those who get thrills by these kinds of stories, but little more. It's not an all inspiring story. It's a series of facts with a hint of humanity, that only comes when he gets delusional through the flashbacks and dream-like sequences. Fortunatly, at the end, this movie didn't make a hero out of Ralson. It just made him human. And that's the best thing a movie like this can offer.

Rango (2011)

"Rango" is a solid entertaining movie which will definitely appeal to all publics. Maybe because it is so, there appears to be a missing link here and there as the screenplay tries to be funny, moralizing, witty, profound and a homage to a lost genre, all at the same time, but the end result is one of the most mature CGI films to appear recently. The first animated film of ILM, responsible for so many advances in special effects technology in the last 20-25 years, and directed by Gore Verbinski (of Pirates of the Caribbean, also in his first animated movie), "Rango" does not seem like other animated features in terms of image and camera use. Some shots seem almost like a real chameleon was in front of the camera, and humans and human objects are only slightly shown, very realistically. Johnny Depp proves that he has a vocal range outside his usual mumbling, and is very amusing as Rango. Rango is a house broken chameleon with stage aspirations, who lives a lonely existence in a cage. In a classic turn, he falls out of the car of his owners, and is left alone in the Mojave desert. A strange traveler points him to an isolated town, and the modern western kicks in. This part is full of the cliches of the genre, but these are cleverly weaved into the story, so they were (at least to me) bearable. The town lives in fear, there is little water (someone is stealing it), and the "Mayor" (Ned Beatty), rules the town, buying all the ranches that go bankrupt, with some land-development scheme up his sleeve. His wheel-chair character has been seen countless times, for example in "Once Upon a Time in the West". Clumsy but with a big mouth and a capacity to improvise, Rango eventually becomes the sheriff of the town by sheer accident, and, infatuated with a female farmer, Beans (Isla Fisher), he vows to find the water robber, at the same time as he follows his own egotistic purposes. These will melt as the adventure goes along, when a higher family moral is achieved, the supposed antagonists become allies, and the real bad guys (including a snake voiced by Bill Nighty) are caught. Along the way, a lot of action, a lot of amusing (I will not say funny) sequences, western-style (the saloon, the ride, the duel) and a lot of monologues for Deep to ramble in exquisite delight. There is a nod at environmental issues but the real nod is at the western, as a lost art of filmaking. In that, "Rango" is special, a gem, despite its box-office-mass-appeal. But don't be fooled by The Spirit of the West, the voice it's NOT Clint Eastwood's (although you have to see it written to believe). The best of the movie is the narrators. Like a greek choir, 4 mexican owls with respective instruments and clothes to match narrate the story with infinite laughing material. A great touch. All in all, "Rango" convinces. It is both a film to watch with the whole family, but also probes a little deeper in terms of meaning. Fans of the western will find it's story predictable, but the whole concept to create an animated movie like this is original enough to deserve attention.

Discurso do Rei (vai nu) Parvo-Rasca (ou Rasca-Parvo)

Caros Concidadãos e Concidadãs

Estamos a passar por uma crise gravíssima, e a culpa, por muito que nos possa custar, também é nossa, também é de nós concidadãos e concidadãs.

Nós, como todos deverão indubitavelmente saber, se alguma vez olharam ao espelho, somos Portugueses. E como toda a gente sabe só há dois tipos de Portugueses: os Portugueses cá dentro, e os Portugueses lá fora. E ambos, os Portugueses cá dentro e os Portugueses lá fora, são vítimas da mesma situação desesperada. Para começar, ambos são Portugueses… sendo que a diferença reside em que uns o são cá dentro, e outros o são lá fora. E os Portugueses cá dentro o são por que vivem cá dentro. E os Portugueses lá fora o são porque vivem lá fora. Claro que os Portugueses cá dentro podem passar a ser Portugueses lá fora, bastará para isso que se transladem de cá de dentro para lá para fora. E aparentemente os Portugueses lá fora serão Portugueses lá fora até ao momento em que deixarem de estar lá fora e passarem a estar cá dentro, altura na qual passarão a ser Portugueses cá dentro, em nada diferentes a todos os outros Portugueses cá dentro, excepto aqueles Portugueses cá dentro que entretanto decidam ir lá para fora, e que passem, portanto, a ser Portugueses lá fora, diferentes então dos Portugueses lá fora que passaram a ser Portugueses cá dentro. E se um Português lá fora incomoda muita gente, como se está a ver em Nova Iorque, um Português cá dentro incomoda muito mais. Claro que se um Português cá dentro passar a ser um Português lá fora, levará consigo a sua veia incomodativa. E se um Português lá fora passar a ser um Português cá dentro, os odores da pátria refrescarão os sentidos aguçados da sua mesquinhez.

Em segundo lugar, ambos, os Portugueses cá dentro e os Portugueses lá fora, sabem falar português, o que não abona muito ao seu estado de graça. Há Portugueses cá dentro que falam como Portugueses lá fora, e ninguém os percebe. Há Portugueses lá fora que falam como Portugueses cá dentro, e ainda se percebem menos. Há Portugueses lá fora que falam como Portugueses lá fora, e só se percebe uma palavra quando lá vai jogar o Glorioso (mas é só mesmo uma!). Há Portugueses cá dentro que falam como Portugueses cá dentro, e o mesmo fenómeno acontece. Contudo parece não haver Portugueses, cá dentro ou lá fora, que falem como Portugueses (cá dentro ou lá fora), o que parece deveras estranho.

Em terceiro lugar, ambos, os Portugueses cá dentro e os Portugueses lá fora, têm orgulho de ser Portugueses, cá dentro e lá fora, especialmente quando um Brasileiro lá fora está cá dentro. Os Portugueses lá fora, que como toda a gente sabe estavam cá dentro antes de irem lá para fora (excepto se forem de segunda geração, e nesse caso já estavam lá fora quando deram conta que eram Portugueses lá fora lá fora, coitados) – os Portugueses lá fora, dizia eu, abanam a bandeirinha lá fora e lá dentro (de casa) com muito orgulho, lá fora e lá dentro (do restaurante) com muita fome, e lá fora e lá dentro (do treino de Verão do Glorioso) com muita fome e muito orgulho ao mesmo tempo. Ao menos a fome podem saciar, se levarem o franguinho assado lá dentro (da lancheira). Os Portugueses cá dentro, que como toda a gente sabe estão cá dentro até já não aguentarem mais e darem às-de-vila-diogo (passando a ser Portugueses lá fora dando às-de-vila-ainda-bem-que-me-livrei-desta-merda-deixa-me-dançar-o-vira-e-fazer-a-dança-da-chuva-e-deixar-uma-moeda-em-todos-os-santos-santinhos) – os Portugueses cá dentro, dizia eu, também gostam de abanar a bandeirinha, geralmente para limpar o traseiro ou assoar o nariz, embora também se aperaltem e cantem de alto quando um brasileiro lá fora se torna Português cá dentro e diz aos Portugueses cá dentro que têm de se tornar Brasileiros lá fora, ou qualquer coisa do género, algo que, se pensarmos bem, nem é mau de todo.

Em quarto lugar, ambos, os Portugueses cá dentro e os Portugueses lá fora, têm de lidar com Portugueses no seu dia-a-dia, o que atesta à sua hercúlea capacidade de socialização, a sua infinita paciência e a sua indomável força de espírito. Ambos, os Portugueses lá fora e os Portugueses cá dentro, ainda se conseguem misturar com uns estrangeiros (excepto se os Portugueses lá fora estiverem lá fora no Luxemburgo, o que faz deles os Portugueses vá para fora cá dentro), mas existe um inato magnetismo na condição lusófona. Por muito que se tente ir lá para fora, cá para dentro, ou lá para fora cá dentro, mais cedo ou mais tarde um descendente de Camões se nos depara, e a maior parte das vezes mais vale duplicar o exemplo do pai fundador da língua, e meter uma pala nos dois olhos.

Em quinto, e último lugar, ambos, os Portugueses cá dentro e os Portugueses lá fora estão fartos desta paneleirice. Ambos os três, os Portugueses cá dentro, os Portugueses lá fora, e os Portugueses vá para fora cá dentro, já têm suficientes problemas em serem Portugueses, em falarem Português, em terem orgulho de Portugal, e em terem de conviver com a clara gema da fina flor portuguesa no desenrolar do seu constante devir, sem precisarem de mais rascas ou parvas escaganifobéticas mariquices.

E a culpa é nossa caros concidadãos e concidadãs. É nossa porque aturamos esta verborreia lusófona de indivíduos que se apegam a palavras e expressões feitas, que perdem tempo a comentar palavras e expressões feitas de outros indivíduos, e que se indignam, que cantam, que marcham, que votam por sms nos “Homens da Luta”, que lêem o Sol, que lêem o Destak, que respondem a crónicas do Destak (sem dúvida a pior valência de todas), e que me enchem a caixa de correio com todas as suas baboseiras de palavras e expressões feitas. Em vez de irem trabalhar, lutar, reivindicar, poupar, salvar (o willy, o billy, ou quem quiserem, dentro ou fora), metem-se a opinar. Odeio pessoas que opinam. Onde é que já se viu perder preciosos tempos de vida a escrever textos a ressabiar? Odeio ressabiadores. Se algum dia vir um dou-lhe uma cacetada mesmo nas nalgas. E a imaginação desta gente é tão parca que têm constantemente de reciclar as palavras que os outros inventaram do alto do seu formoso espírito criativo? Leio mais um texto com as palavras “parvo” ou “rasca” e vomito. Leio mais um texto com as palavras “parvo” ou “rasca” no título e imigro para os Barbados. Onde é que já se viu escrever textos com as palavras “parvo” ou “rasca”. Odeio pessoas que escrevem textos com as palavras “parvo” ou “rasca”. Se algum dia souber de alguém que escreve textos com as palavras “parvo” ou “rasca” chamo o meu Tio Joaquim e vou lá dar-lhe uma tareia das antigas. E que fique claro que quem dá a tareia sou eu. O Tio Joaquim é só para me segurar as calças.

Ide para as ruas protestar. Ide comer chamuças. Ide ver o novo filme de Justin Bieber. Fazei pela vida. Tomai o exemplo daquela boa gente do terceiro mundo que um belo dia se lembrou de revolucionar-se e revolucionou-se. Agora escrever? É a mesma coisa que estar parado e dizer que sim com a cabeça feito burrinho. Aquela gente do terceiro Mundo nem escrever sabe. Nem ler. Nem como se cozinha uma boa chamuça. Mas lá que se revolucionaram, revolucionaram-se. Deixai a escrita para os parvos rascas que o sabem fazer. Deixai as frases feitas para quem se apropria delas e as transforma em frases não feitas. Deixai a palavra para quem sabe o que ela significa, para quem faz um uso digno dela.

Não quero ler mais uma palavra sobre esta mariquice. Não quero estar no meio de mais um acéfalo debate de expressões feitas. Não quero ver mais marrecos e badamecos a azucrinarem a língua de Camões e de Pessoa com heróicos discursos e insultos inusitados. Enquanto escrevem, falam, palram e coçam o sovaco, a revolução passa-vos ai lado.

Caros concidadãos e concidadãs, eu não quero ser parvo. Eu não quero ser rasca. Eu não sou desse grupinho. Dou um soco no focinho a todos aqueles que me identifiquem como tal. Mas quero sair à rua e contemplar as fachadas deste belo país de quarto mundo. Sou Português, falo português e tenho orgulho de ser português. E quando eu berro os Zebedeus por esse mundo fora tremem. E quando eu escrevo desfaço montanhas. Mas esta não é a altura para berrar, nem para escrever. Só os parvos-rascas (ou os rascas-parvos), cá dentro ou lá fora, o fazem. Só os parvos-rascas (ou os rascas-parvos), cá dentro ou lá fora, ficam sentados nas suas casinhas a perder tempo a escrever cartas para o Destak e a cantar músiquinhas da treta.

Esta é a altura para agir. Ajam. E um bem aja a todos vós.

Jeux interdits (1952)

How do you make a fabulous movie extremely deep with the simplest ever story-line? The answer is, of course, in the post-war french cinema, and further still in René Clément's "Jeux Interdits". Set in 1940, it starts with german bombing to a caravan of french families running to the countryside. Little Brigitte Fossey (only 6 years old at the time) sees her parents be killed and, left alone, she is found by another youngster, Georges Poujouly, that takes her to his farm. The movie shows everyday sequences of war-time-small-farm-life, as the family of Poujouly struggles to make a living, quarrels with the neighbors, goes to church, bury the dead of war and are threatened everyday by german war planes. Yet, beneath this average facade, the relationship between the two children grows, as they are bound by a growing fascination with death. It all starts when Fossey's dog dies and they both bury him. Then a bug dies and they bury him also. Soon after Poujouly is killing little animals in order to increase their secret graveyard in the mill. And Fossey demands him to find crosses, so Poujouly starts to steal them from church and the cemetery, which causes him a lot of trouble. In the end, they are bound by their secret, until the inevitable climax. With this mesmerizing simple tale, whose ending is left open, Clement sees the effects of war through the eyes of children, as their innocent games metaphor the deadly games the adults are playing around them. Both are entrapped in their little universe, little noting the collapse around them, but in their tiny bubble what grows is the same, the fascinations are the same, the affection which unites them forever is the same, and their struggles against the adults is the same, the same parallel to an insane world at war. When one knows that this was initially to be a short film, but was extended to it's 80 min duration, then it can be understood the simplicity of the scenes, and some background scenes which divert the attention from the main story. This is a very short simple movie, with a powerful message between the lines, which conveys the simplicity of children and how their minds escape, amidst the horrors they witness. Most surprising of all is Fossey's performance. For a 6 year old, she gives a display seldom seen in much older, more experienced, and more famous actresses. Quite remarkable!

Das indische Grabmal (1959)

On November 11th last I saw "Der Tiger von Eschnapur" (1959), the first part of master-director Fritz Lang's indian (so-called) "epic", very late in his, at that point, completely declining career. Back then I wrote (full review here: http://williammichaelmoore.blogspot.com/2010/11/der-tiger-von-eschnapur-1959.html) ""Der Tiger von Eschnapur" is the perfect example that a bad screenplay and bad acting can be filmed in an extraordinary beautiful way. The movie has a slow screenplay, with little thrills, little interest, little appeal, but everything is lavish about it, the colour is intense and beautiful, the cinematography excels, the set and costume design are fabulous, and the directing top notch. Yet all this cannot hide the fact that the movie, as a story, has very little to offer". Furthermore I wrote "The movie reminded me of those action/exotic adventures of the 30s, such as "The Mummy", "Tarzan" or "King Kong", where the screenplay was lame but it was a slow build up to the real surprise, twist or horror the movie would show. But here, in the 1950s, or to audiences today, this does not work. The lame dialog becomes lamer, and there is really nothing the screenplay is building up to. No tension, no clever thing, no surprise". Well... all this (and worse!) can be said of the second part, "The Indian Tomb", or, in it's original "Das indische Grabmal". The first movie ended in a way that left little interest to anyone to see the second (hence the 3 and a half month interval), and the second, after a 5 minute recap, picked up from there with the same slow pace, the same lame story, but the same beautiful shots, scenarios and clothes. Basically the lovers are caught again, Paul Hubschmid is supposedly killed (who in the audience can believe that the main actor dies at 20 min into the film???), and Debra Paget is brought back to the palace to marry the Maharadjaj. Little is seen of either of them for a long time, as the sister and respective husband of Hubschmid (who had arrived at the end of the first film), verbally represent the tention of "where are they? are they dead? are they alive? we have to save them?" for at least 10 unnecessary scenes. Also, the conspirators of the first film again are back to take the Maharadjaj off the throne. But further plot development is inexistent, and in the end all these stories merge in a "climatic" assault on the palace. Again this is nothing, and little of interest happens for 100 minutes. Again the story struggled with a lost romanticism and drama which only belonged to overblown silent movies. Again the thread looses itself in emptiness(the 2 main characters really have each a couple of lines here as the whole plot revolves around them and not on them). Again the climax does not exist. Again the only interesting thing of the movie, is, as in the first, a dance by Debra Paget, where she shows her incredible body as she charms a very very fake snake. Speaking of fake things, the leper scene is unbelievable, and how can you stab a person if it's clearly seen that the knife DOES NOT TOUCH NOR ENTER THE SKIN?? Maybe the american version (which reduces the 2 films to a single one of 90 minutes called "Journey to the Lost City") is bearable. If it's not at least it's shorter! This one, as the first, is just a flop. One can belive that it's made by Lang because of the beautiful technical aspects. But the story is just plain bad, and all scenes inevitably are: person walks in a room, has a conversation standing still, person leaves the room. And if the conversation is as boring as hell, and when "action scenes" come that have no tension whatsoever, what can you do? It may be a beautifully shot film, but it just isn't watchable as a story. Poor Lang. At least he had 40 years of masterpieces behind him... Don't see any of these movies. And if you do, see the first. At least it has Luciana Paluzzi, whose character unfortunately died in the first one. Well.. they could have raised her from the dead instead of doing whatever they do here... that at least would make the movie a little interesting...