Efémeá… Efemeé… Efémeí!

Diz-se por aí que somos um bando de desgraçados que está à beira do colapso financeiro. Há quem diga que estamos num fosso, ou num buraco financeiro, mas a definição quer de fosso, quer de buraco, implica que o mesmo tenha um fundo. Mas, segundo que parece, a presente situação não tem um fundo. Nem um fundo perdido. Basicamente, não tem um fundo por onde se lhe pegue.

Não só não tem um fundo como não tem um fundamento. Tem um afundamento, da espécie “Titanic”, mas não tem um fundamento. Porque um fundamento implica alguma lógica, por pouca que seja, e o que se anda a passar por estes lados não tem lógica nenhuma. Claro está, todo o raciocínio lógico foi inventado por um grego. Nós seguimos a onda, ou melhor, o icebergue.

Na verdade diz que há para aí um fundo qualquer. Diz que sim. Mas não me acredito. Uma vez estava na praia e cavei o buraco mais fundo que consegui. Depois a minha mãe chamou-me para me ir embora e eu fiquei muito triste por não acabar o buraco. Só mais tarde me apercebi que um buraco meio acabado não deixa de ser um buraco. E um fundo bem fundo não deixa de ter um fundo. Portanto, para nos salvar desta desgraça, o fundo teria de não ter fundo, e o buraco teria de ser todo coberto, senão continuaria a ser um buraco! Possível? Talvez. Lusitanamente fazível? Bem…

Até há pouco tempo pensei que o FMI tinha alguma coisa a ver com o facebook. Uma espécie de FBI dos murais, um Federal Mural of Investigation. Afinal não. Afinal parece que emprestam dinheiro. Os portugueses já podem regozijar. Seguindo o exemplo do brilhante líder dessa instituição, todas as dívidas que estejam relacionadas com a prostituição e o abuso sexual serão cobertas pelo pacto de estabilidade. É uma boa notícia para o sindicado dos proxenetas portugueses, que já de algum tempo a esta parte se queixava de não estar a receber o 13º mês, nem subsídios de natal. Será uma época particularmente festiva para os de Bragança, que graças às suas meninas vão receber uma ajudinha extra, cortesia do director geral do FMI.

Nestes tempos em que já nada nos vale, a não ser talvez uma boa praga de gafanhotos, que directivas pode o povo português exigir dos seus governantes, ao invés do inverso habitual, que consiste nos governantes exigirem do povo português, enquanto ficam a tocar guitarra à sombra da bananeira e a chuchar no dedo, bananeira e guitarras essas importadas directamente de, respectivamente, Costa Rica e Inglaterra, com dinheiros públicos, e dedo esse obtido a um preço muito mais caro? Sugerem-se duas ou três trivialidades.

Primeiro, mais importante que tudo, eliminar a profissão de taxista e introduzir a de taxista/costureiro ou taxista/talhante. Já ninguém usa um telefone em que é preciso dar à manivela e cujo bocal está fixado na parede. Já ninguém usa o Spectrum como seu computador pessoal. Já ninguém usa o mIRC. Pior, já ninguém tem conta no hi5! Então porquê, com o tarifário ao nível em que está e com a evolução dos sistemas de transporte público, é que ainda é preciso táxis? Um taxista fica o dia inteiro a falar com os seus compatriotas nas paragens de táxis. Não produz, não trabalha. Não recebe nem dá, a não ser à língua. Fica 8 horas de um dia à conversa para fazer uma viagem de 10 minutos, com uma bandeirada de 5 euros. Portanto sugiro que seja erguido um pré-fabricado no local de cada paragem de táxis, para que os taxistas exerçam outra actividade enquanto esperam os seus solitários telefonemas. Um quiosque de produtos dietéticos? Um serviço de atendimento do IRS? Um call-centre da Optimus? Qualquer coisa, desde que contribuam para o país, no restante 90% do dia em que não estão a conduzir.

Segundo, criar um sistema de emparelhamento de famílias. O conceito é simples, juntar uma família rica com uma pobre, e fazer permutas de montantes a partir de determinados valores. Imaginemos que um desgraçado ganha 3.000 euros por mês e outro ainda mais desgraçado ganha apenas 600. O que ganha 3.000 passa a receber 2.900 e o que ganha 600 passa a receber 700. Uma pequena ajuda que nem faria mossa no desgraçado nº1 e que faria toda a diferença para o desgraçado nº2. E quem sabe, os desgraçados até podiam ficar amigos, e ir tomar umas cervejas na sexta à noite. Sim, eu sei que isto nunca iria resultar. Os ricos iriam aldrabar nos rendimentos para dar menos, os pobres iriam aldrabar nos rendimentos para receber mais. E se esta permuta ocorre-se entre, imaginemos, quem recebe mais de 1.500 e quem recebe menos de 650, iríamos ver os contratos todos a espetarem-se mesmo à beirinha destes valores, por mera coincidência… Mas um tipo pode sonhar com a utopia, não pode?

Terceiro, acabar com os licenciados em gestão de engenharia de marketing de body building da Bio Seiva do instituto universitário ISCTAPTEC XONÉ ¾. Empurra-se quem não sabe ler até ao 5º ano de escolaridade. Empurra-se quem não sabe quem foi o primeiro rei de Portugal até ao 7º. Empurra-se quem não sabe fazer uma conta de dividir até ao 10º. Empurra-se quem chumba nos exames nacionais para a faculdade, através de algum percentil de quotas de directivas de estatísticas de ah e tal e coiso. E os desgraçados nºs 3, 47, 68 e 1000243, que deviam ser padeiros, pedreiros, marceneiros e merceeiros, aparecem na televisão a manifestarem-se, a dizer que são licenciados e que não têm emprego. Com todo o respeito pelos verdadeiros desempregados, repugna-me ver estas reportagens, nas quais a um cantinho algum jovem sussurra qual o seu curso e onde o tirou… E depois ‘vão vir’ médicos do Chile e de Espanha, porque o emprego neste país chega para todos, e portanto porque não dar uma mãozinha aos estrangeiros…

Quarto, quando o Obama vier cá a Portugal, levem-no a almoçar ao ‘Churrasqueira Avenida’ ou ao ‘Retiro da Francesinha’, em vez de oferecerem um almoço de estado que custará no mínimo umas 100 vezes mais por pessoa. E aqueles canapés de maracujá servidos em Belém não se comparam com umas boas asinhas de frango, a um décimo do preço, servidas ali no tasco da esquina. E para deslocação, o homem bem que pode andar a pé, ou de trotineta, ou numa prancha de surf, já que é do Hawaii. Agora de tanque? Que chega depois de se ir embora? Também podemos vender o tanque aos líbios, e aí já poderemos pagar salários a mais uns quantos. As mesmas recomendações dos jantares e das deslocações são feitas a todos os políticos em campanha. Quereis estimular a economia? Comei nos tascos!

Na realidade podia ficar aqui a fazer recomendações até depois de amanhã. Quem estiver interessado nas minhas brilhantes sugestões, não hesite em me contactar. Responderei com todo o ar da minha graça. Se a graça me faltar, responderei somente com o ar. E com o ar que me resta, avanço directamente para a última recomendação de todas. Quem me conhece sabe que sou completamente apolítico. Só quero fazer rir, expressar-me literariamente e dizer o que penso com um toque de ironia. Pois… sou desses, sou esquisito. E mais que esquisito, sou bronco. Não sei (e isto é verdade, há testemunhas que o provam), qual o partido político de A ou de B, e se estão à direita ou à esquerda (à minha direita ou à tua direita, à minha esquerda ou à tua esquerda?). Não faço ideia de que partido é o prezado Sô Socras. Não voto ou voto em branco. Não acredito no sistema e é tudo igual para mim esteja quem lá estiver. Nunca notei diferença. Bem, para falar verdade, se algum dia estiver lá o Dom Duarte, talvez se note uma ligeira diferença. Mas uma coisa eu sei. E sei-o porque tenho olhos na cara, ouvidos… também na cara, e dois dedos na (ou melhor de) testa. E o que eu sei é que a rambóia é muito bonita até alguém perder um olho. Ou uma perna. Ou pior. Ou não. Porque pior que perder uma perna não há. Imaginem que queriam andar ao pé-coxinho. Não podiam! Pensai nestas palavras sábias e fazei o favor de ler com muita, muita atenção a mensagem dos nossos ‘sponsors’, que se segue:

“Fazei o favor de não reeleger o pascôncio que nos levou a esta situação desesperada. Chamem-lhe Sô Socras. Chame-lhe Sô Socas. Chamem-lhe Clotilde. Chame-lhe o que quiserem. Só não o chamem outra vez. Obrigado. O país agradece.”

The Tree of Life (2011)

"The Tree of Life" is not a film. It's a work of art. And as all works of art, it is not entirely understood by anyone except the artist himself, it is not for all hearts (especially for those of a mainstream audience), and produces different reactions and interpretations. It is not that the general public will not understand it, it is just that they will not allow themselves to understand it, because this is not an ordinary cinematic experience, and one that most people do not seek when going to the movies. Yesterday I saw a couple walk out in mid-performance. For myself, I was in awe. Terrence Mallick has been my favorite director for as long as I can remember, coming only second to the great Charles Chaplin in my cinematic adoration. Not yet born when he burst into the american scene with "Badlands" (1973) and "Days of Heaven" (1978, one of my top 5 favorite movies of all time), I have eagerly anticipated seeing "The Thin Red Line" in 1998 (the best war picture of all time, which was his comeback after retiring for teaching philosophy), and "The New World" in 2005. For the last 6 years I have waited and waited for a new Mallick. And here it is, and it's nothing like I have ever imagined. Mallick's films have common elements. Voice off narration, ethereal editing style, hand-held camerawork, relation between man and nature. And all these I expected, and all this appeared right from the start, setting two different scenarios. One in 1950s suburban America, where Brad Pitt raises his 3 sons with an iron fist, trying to make "man" out of them. The other, in the present, where Sean Penn, the last surviving son, is reminiscing about his upbringing. Saying that this is the story is an understatement. Mallick's films are all about emotions, and thoughts, and marvelous photography. Yet suddenly, 15 minutes into the film, all this stops. And then all that Mallick aims is finally revealed. An intoxicating (and for most unbearable) 30 minute sequence shows us the origins of the world. In comparison, "2001"'s the Dawn of Man is nothing. Compelete with the Big Bang and CGI dinosaurs, Mallick shows his audience that this particular piece of art is about life, the meaning of life. True that the movie will eventually lead up to the 10 year old Sean Penn, and eventually dwell there for almost it's entire duration, only skipping to the old Sean Penn right in the end. But focusing on one life, and on one single event, the coming of age of this character, Mallick has given us the most brilliant study ever on life, it's beauty, it's struggles, it's poetry, it's magnificence, in communion with nature, and it's most important value: love. Do not seek for a coherent storyline. Do not seek for thrills nor forced emotions. You will get feelings, tons of feelings, through the magnificent imagery. Every single shot is a work of art. Every single shot is a painting of the greatest beauty. True that Mallick seems to test the patience of his audience. Specially the beginning and end scenes seem to be stretched as far as it's humanely possible to bare. True that the artistic values have completly run down any entretainment ones. But who can argue with beauty? I get the felling that the film could have been immortal had it portrayed the entire life of that young boy, instead of freezing when he is about 10. But this is probably 68 year old Mallick's labor of love, maybe reminiscing on his own memories. This is his philosopher's view on what is life. This is true beauty on screen. "Days of Heaven" is the most beautiful movie ever shot. "The Thin Red Line" is the greatest war movie. Now Mallick completes a trilogy of cinematic beauty. "The Tree of Life" is a compendium of life, the greatest work ever on that subject. The Palm D'Or was inevitable. The Oscars will probably elude. To see "Tree of Life" you have to be free from what you think a movie should be like, and you should shut your brain from entretainment. Just stretch out with your feelings, and you'll begin to grasp a little of what it has to offer. True this is Mallick's most bold and unaccessible work to date, but it can also be one of the most gratifying. Half a day has gone by, and I still think about the movie constantly. I hope the feeling lasts. And Terry... come back soon.

Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides (2011)

The franchise is back. New director, new story arc, new main character. Yes, most forget, but the first 3 movies were not about Captain Jack Sparrow (Johnny Depp). He was a “side” character, which, for being the fantastic creation which he was, gained more and more screen time as the movies progressed. Keira and Bloom’s story was completely worn out by the very inferior third film, and perhaps it was for the best that they both declined to participate. But the fourth film has a very particular peculiarity. It is based on a pirate novel called “On Stranger Tides”. Disney’s producers basically bought the novel, filmed it, and devised a way to get Sparrow in it as the main character as much time as possible. So, although marvelous director Rob Marshal has made the most coherent and wholesome movie of the franchise, it is a movie that lacks the swashbuckling extravaganzas of the first two and has a lot less excitement, and a lot less entertainment values. Pirates 4 is structured as a book. Each scene is a set piece (where Marshal brilliantly displays his talents). Each scene has a lot of value and leads the movie into different directions, building up characters. Each scene pushes a little the story forward. But as a whole the movie fails to deliver. The buildup is slow. The climax is soft and quickly gone. The ending comes almost unnoticed. Pirates 4 is a book put on screen. It may have Depp at his best, amusing and delightful. It has. It may have pirate ships, explosions and supernatural things. It has. Individually all the little things seem to be there. But as a whole one asks in the end “is that it”? This is a story that works well on the page, because the reader reads it slowly and imagines what is going on. On screen, and although the 3D was fabulous, there are a lot of things flying around but none which come together in the end. Basically, Geoffrey Rush (for the British), Penelope Cruz, for the Spaniards, Black Beard for the hell of it, and Sparrow for himself, all fight against each other to reach the fountain of youth. That’s it. This is the plot. They all sail to it and then there is a show down. For a good show down in terms of everlasting life see “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade”. For a bad showdown in terms of everlasting life see Pirates 4. As I said, it entertained scene by scene, and Sparrow is yet not boring to watch again and again. But as a whole this had the dynamics of a novel, not of a film. A 3D blockbuster should hold no bars. This is what you get if you use the director of “Memoirs of a Gueisha”. Filmmaking quality, regardless of the story. But quality is not what a pirate movie should have the most. And spicing up the story wouldn’t hurt either.

The Broadway Melody (1929)

1929 was the first year ever of talking pictures, and “The Broadway Melody” was the first ever all-talking film to come out of the massive MGM studios. It also won the second ever Best Picture Oscar, being the first sound film ever to do so (“Wings”, the year before, was a silent picture). But, although it was a smash hit when it came out (the first ever true musical), it now looks a lot dated. Shortly after, movies like 42nd street, The Golddiggers, all Bugsy Berkley extravaganzas, the Fred and Ginger films, and the whole bunch of sequels to Broadway Melody itself, raised up the bar of the musical to spectacular heights (never again seen to this day), so Broadway Melody of 1929 seems very shy and poor in comparison. Like all these films, and “The Jazz Singer” before, the film sets itself in show business, and uses that as an excuse to present musical numbers as part of the shows/rehearsals the main actors are in. But here there are very few routines, about 4 in a 100 minute movie, all with little flair and little greatness. Even so, one has to think that sound was still on its experimental stage, and the camera was still a heavy thing to carry around and move. For what it presents, it may take a lot of credit, being a ground breaking film. The song and dance routines are squeezed among a simple plot, which basically repeats itself during the whole course of the movie. Two sisters, Queenie and Hank (Anita Page and Bessie Love), who had it made in the small towns, come to Broadway to seek their luck. They don’t have to fight for it much however, because Hank is engaged to a big star, Eddie (Charlie King), who gets them into his show, even though their audition sucks (not due to their talents!). Once in, the film divides itself between the rehearsals and this love triangle. Once he sees Queenie, Eddie falls in love with her (and so does everybody else). Because she sees Eddie’s advances and fears to hurt her sister, Queenie decides to capitulate to the womanizer producer, which in turn causes her a lot of discussions with Hank. The fact that Queenie can’t tell her sister why she is with a no good man is the “drama” of the picture. Eddie, the main singer, is one of the lousiest characters I have ever seen, but the movie treats him as the nice guy! Engaged to one sister, he tries to make love to another. Then, he is portrayed as a good person because he fights to get Queenie away from the bad producer, although he fails completely, including losing a fist fight. When Hank discovers the truth, and when she tells Eddie that she does not love him, that she was just fooling around, he BELIEVES HER, and only then goes running straight to Queenie. Once they marry, he has his eye on another girl already! How is this guy the hero! How can the movie consider him as the romantic lead and consider all this matter of fact? Sexist behaviors of the 1920s? And poor little Hank, the more talented of the sisters, sees Queenie, because of her looks, rise on Broadway, get Eddie and get the fame, while she ends the movie going back to the small towns, with little hope of returning or ever making it big. Where is the moral here? It’s an odd plot! The movie has some awkward acting, singing and dancing, a consequence of its vintage. Only Bessie Love shines. Anyway, and despite the little songs and this chauvinistic plot, this is a hallmark film. Hell, it’s the first musical ever, a genre which would produce some of the finest pieces of filmmaking in history, and gods like Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly, Ginger Rogers and all the Jacques Demy’s films!

Source Code (2011)

Very much like Duncan Jones' first movie (Moon, 2009), "Source Code" derives from a very interesting sci-fi concept but as the movie unfolds one gets the feeling the most wasn't made of it, and that the little odds and ends don't exactly click together at the end. Yet where "Moon" was an artistic, almost poetic, labor of love, "Source Code" is much more on blockbuster mode, and that’s why it fails in being as pure and as good as the first. It doesn’t lose any time to get you inside the action, and is complete with on cue suspense/action music and characters who know exactly what is going on but who don't explain the plot from the start just for the audiences' sake (the same as “Moon”). Because of this it is deprived of real tension and suspense, or rather has a fake tension that’s not really there, but nonetheless is full of a gripping claustrophobic atmosphere, which comes from its succession of 8 minute sequences. Jake Gyllenhaal wakes up on a train on a body which is not his own. After 8 minutes the train is blown to bits by a huge bomb. Instead of dying, Gyllenhaal, a US soldier who was in Afghanistan, wakes up in what appears to be his craft, in which he is stuck. Dazed and confused, his only connection to the outside is through a monitor, in which Vera Farmiga and Jeffrey Wright explain to him that he is in the Source Code, a secret government program which enables him to relieve the last 8 minutes of a man’s life. They explain furthermore that the bombing happened that same morning and they need him to go back again and again to the train, relieving the 8 minutes over and over again, until he finds the bomber, least he strikes back that very same day. It’s not time travel, it’s just a sort of Matrix where the last memories of everybody who died are implanted. But is it really so? As Gyllenhall is sent back again and again to the train, events unfold, not really to find the bomber (that’s is done easily, it just takes time because he goes after a lot of red herrings), but for Gyllenhall to find exactly where he is, what has happened to him, what is the true secret of the source code, and how can he save Michelle Monaghan, a passenger on the train with whom he falls in love. At first the movie makes no sense. Then, when the secret of the source code is explained, it starts making a lot of sense. And then, probably the one single time in movie history, the final twist takes the whole sense the movie had away and destroys its beauty completely. Despite its unrealistic premise, “Source Code” is a sci-fi film who had the ingredients to be, not brilliant, but at least very interesting. But the finding of the bomber is so stupidly simple that he could have done in the first five minutes of film. He just didn’t because, well, the movie had to take 2 hours. Also, the plot could be explained by Vera Farmiga in the first 5 minutes. She just doesn’t for the same reason, and Gyllenhall spends and hour going to the train 8 minutes at the time before they decide to tell him the truth. These are artificial tricks to give suspense to a movie that don’t go down well, at least to me. But all this could be acceptable if the personal problems of Gyllenhall (where he is exactly in the real world, and how can he save the passengers of the train in a reality that doesn’t exist), which take all the screen time, were brilliantly handled. They were, until the final twist. Hollywood ending? Well, give me the independent ending anytime, such as “Moon” had. “Source Code” is entertaining, has an interesting premise, and Gyllenhall and Monaghan shine in their roles. But in the end is just another blockbuster, where all is quickly explained with no sense to give it an all’s well that end’s well ending, completely out of tune to what the movie was building up for.