martes, abril 21, 2009

El cine no es una cartera Armani

"Y corrimos el riesgo de abrir Arte Cinema (el nuevo complejo de cine del barrio de Constitución) porque uno es básicamente un ser contradictorio? La verdad: empezamos el proyecto hace tres años y estoy muy orgulloso de haberlo hecho porque, si bien el panorama es horrible, es bueno poder hacer algo para cambiar las cosas. Con José María y Miguel Angel Morales, Fernando Sokolowicz, Pablo Rovito y Diego Dubcovsky hemos cumplido un sueño fantástico, el de abrir una sala en una zona en que -contrariamente a lo que algunos piensan- es el lugar donde tenemos que ir, porque en Recoleta hay cines, en Palermo también. Y que haya zonas de la ciudad que fueron relegadas no significa que estén habitadas por personas que no tengan hábitos de consumo cultural, como los que viven de Rivadavia para el Norte. En la zona de Constitución donde está Arte Cinema, en los años 50 había cinco cines, y si bien el mundo cambió, tampoco tanto... El cine es un consumo cultural básico; no es una cartera Armani. Todos tienen derecho a tener una sala cerca de su casa. Y esas personas van poder ver la enorme cantidad de producciones que no habitan la cartelera porteña. Algunas pueden ser muy para cinéfilos, pero otras pueden ser muy entretenidas como las que hay ahora".

Daniel Burman

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lunes, abril 20, 2009

Barras y svásticas

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viernes, abril 17, 2009

una película de Daniel Burman

El Abrazo Partido, de Daniel Burman

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jueves, abril 16, 2009

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

For Lucy had her work cut out for her. The doors would be taken off their hinges; Rumpelmayer's men were coming. And then, thought Clarissa Dalloway, what a morning--fresh as if issued to children on a beach.

What a lark! What a plunge! For so it had always seemed to her, when, with a little squeak of the hinges, which she could hear now, she had burst open the French windows and plunged at Bourton into the open air. How fresh, how calm, stiller than this of course, the air was in the early morning; like the flap of a wave; the kiss of a wave; chill and sharp and yet (for a girl of eighteen as she then was) solemn, feeling as she did, standing there at the open window, that something awful was about to happen; looking at the flowers, at the trees with the smoke winding off them and the rooks rising, falling; standing and looking until Peter Walsh said, "Musing among the vegetables?"--was that it?--"I prefer men to cauliflowers"--was that it? He must have said it at breakfast one morning when she had gone out on to the terrace--Peter Walsh. He would be back from India one of these days, June or July, she forgot which, for his letters were awfully dull; it was his sayings one remembered; his eyes, his pocket-knife, his smile, his grumpiness and, when millions of things had utterly vanished--how strange it was!--a few sayings like this about cabbages.

She stiffened a little on the kerb, waiting for Durtnall's van to pass. A charming woman, Scrope Purvis thought her (knowing her as one does know people who live next door to one in Westminster); a touch of the bird about her, of the jay, blue-green, light, vivacious, though she was over fifty, and grown very white since her illness. There she perched, never seeing him, waiting to cross, very upright.

For having lived in Westminster--how many years now? over twenty,--one feels even in the midst of the traffic, or waking at night, Clarissa was positive, a particular hush, or solemnity; an indescribable pause; a suspense (but that might be her heart, affected, they said, by influenza) before Big Ben strikes. There! Out it boomed. First a warning, musical; then the hour, irrevocable. The leaden circles dissolved in the air. Such fools we are, she thought, crossing Victoria Street. For Heaven only knows why one loves it so, how one sees it so, making it up, building it round one, tumbling it, creating it every moment afresh; but the veriest frumps, the most dejected of miseries sitting on doorsteps (drink their downfall) do the same; can't be dealt with, she felt positive, by Acts of Parliament for that very reason: they love life. In people's eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.
(Continúa)For it was the middle of June. The War was over, except for some one like Mrs. Foxcroft at the Embassy last night eating her heart out because that nice boy was killed and now the old Manor House must go to a cousin; or Lady Bexborough who opened a bazaar, they said, with the telegram in her hand, John, her favourite, killed; but it was over; thank Heaven--over. It was June. The King and Queen were at the Palace. And everywhere, though it was still so early, there was a beating, a stirring of galloping ponies, tapping of cricket bats; Lords, Ascot, Ranelagh and all the rest of it; wrapped in the soft mesh of the grey-blue morning air, which, as the day wore on, would unwind them, and set down on their lawns and pitches the bouncing ponies, whose forefeet just struck the ground and up they sprung, the whirling young men, and laughing girls in their transparent muslins who, even now, after dancing all night, were taking their absurd woolly dogs for a run; and even now, at this hour, discreet old dowagers were shooting out in their motor cars on errands of mystery; and the shopkeepers were fidgeting in their windows with their paste and diamonds, their lovely old sea-green brooches in eighteenth-century settings to tempt Americans (but one must economise, not buy things rashly for Elizabeth), and she, too, loving it as she did with an absurd and faithful passion, being part of it, since her people were courtiers once in the time of the Georges, she, too, was going that very night to kindle and illuminate; to give her party. But how strange, on entering the Park, the silence; the mist; the hum; the slow-swimming happy ducks; the pouched birds waddling; and who should be coming along with his back against the Government buildings, most appropriately, carrying a despatch box stamped with the Royal Arms, who but Hugh Whitbread; her old friend Hugh--the admirable Hugh!

"Good-morning to you, Clarissa!" said Hugh, rather extravagantly, for they had known each other as children. "Where are you off to?"

"I love walking in London," said Mrs. Dalloway. "Really it's better than walking in the country."

They had just come up--unfortunately--to see doctors. Other people came to see pictures; go to the opera; take their daughters out; the Whitbreads came "to see doctors." Times without number Clarissa had visited Evelyn Whitbread in a nursing home. Was Evelyn ill again? Evelyn was a good deal out of sorts, said Hugh, intimating by a kind of pout or swell of his very well-covered, manly, extremely handsome, perfectly upholstered body (he was almost too well dressed always, but presumably had to be, with his little job at Court) that his wife had some internal ailment, nothing serious, which, as an old friend, Clarissa Dalloway would quite understand without requiring him to specify. Ah yes, she did of course; what a nuisance; and felt very sisterly and oddly conscious at the same time of her hat. Not the right hat for the early morning, was that it? For Hugh always made her feel, as he bustled on, raising his hat rather extravagantly and assuring her that she might be a girl of eighteen, and of course he was coming to her party to-night, Evelyn absolutely insisted, only a little late he might be after the party at the Palace to which he had to take one of Jim's boys,--she always felt a little skimpy beside Hugh; schoolgirlish; but attached to him, partly from having known him always, but she did think him a good sort in his own way, though Richard was nearly driven mad by him, and as for Peter Walsh, he had never to this day forgiven her for liking him.

She could remember scene after scene at Bourton--Peter furious; Hugh not, of course, his match in any way, but still not a positive imbecile as Peter made out; not a mere barber's block. When his old mother wanted him to give up shooting or to take her to Bath he did it, without a word; he was really unselfish, and as for saying, as Peter did, that he had no heart, no brain, nothing but the manners and breeding of an English gentleman, that was only her dear Peter at his worst; and he could be intolerable; he could be impossible; but adorable to walk with on a morning like this.

(June had drawn out every leaf on the trees. The mothers of Pimlico gave suck to their young. Messages were passing from the Fleet to the Admiralty. Arlington Street and Piccadilly seemed to chafe the very air in the Park and lift its leaves hotly, brilliantly, on waves of that divine vitality which Clarissa loved. To dance, to ride, she had adored all that.)

Virginia Woolf: Mrs Dalloway

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viernes, abril 10, 2009

There are angels on the strets of Berlin.


Der himmel über Berlin, de Wim Wenders

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An unhappy alternative

Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by her communication.
"I have not the pleasure of understanding you," said he, when she had finished her speech. "Of what are you talking?"
"Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy."
"And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems an hopeless business."
"Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her marrying him."
"Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion."
Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the library.
"Come here, child," cried her father as she appeared. "I have sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?" Elizabeth replied that it was. "Very well—and this offer of marriage you have refused?"
"I have, sir."
"Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?"
"Yes, or I will never see her again."
"An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do."
Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning, but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed.
What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way? You promised me to insist upon her marrying him."
"My dear," replied her husband, "I have two small favours to request. First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the present occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be."


Jane Austen: Pride and Prejudice

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martes, abril 07, 2009

Clowns aren’t anything new to drama

In defence of Jar Jar Binks

Bryan Young

Bryan has been wanting to defend the Star Wars prequel trilogy for a while. And where better to start, than Jar Jar Binks?

Published on Mar 19, 2009

I’ve been meaning to write some detailed essays explaining why the Star Wars prequels are, indeed, as excellent as I say they are. I’ve given a lot of thought to how to approach the systemic defense of the prequels and, like all great battle plans, I’m going to shore up the weakest spot first: Jar Jar Binks.

I understand a lot of you have a deep and festering outrage for so outward a clown being included in our beloved Star Wars movies. To tell the truth, I find Jar Jar just as obnoxious as you guys probably do. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like him and it certainly doesn’t mean that he doesn’t serve a specific and brilliant purpose to the added benefit of the Star Wars saga.

I’m not going to try to convince you guys to like Jar Jar Binks, but at the very least, I’d like you to agree that for the stories George Lucas planned to tell with him as a central character (The Phantom Menace and Attack Of The Clones), Jar Jar was a vital part of the story and fit in with the archetypes of story and myth that Lucas based ALL of the Star Wars movies on.

Jar Jar Binks is the clown of the Star Wars films. And it makes sense to have him feature prominently in the first act. Looking to Shakespeare’s The Merchant Of Venice, we see Lancelot the Clown featuring prominently in the early act of the play, providing useful commentary, lessons, and above all, laughs and largely disappearing later in the body of the work. Jar Jar works the same way, providing those laughs in the first movie, moving on to another purpose until disappearing completely by the middle of the saga. Clowns aren’t anything new to drama. They’ve appeared back as far as our history of theatre goes. Why should George Lucas be demonized for remaining consistent with his use of classic myth, drama, and archetype? Jar Jar is the sad bunny you help on the side of the road who gives you the magic beans to slay the dragon at the end of the journey.

As far as in The Phantom Menace, Jar Jar is supposed to be annoying, and funny to the kids. That's the point. We need to see past people for their annoyance and look at their inherent worth. Jar Jar saved the day and brought two nations of people together because just one person saw through the fog of annoyance. It’s a valuable lesson that would be well learned by those who seem to have the most hatred for Jar Jar.

That's one of the strongest morals to be learned in The Phantom Menace, and that's why I'll stand up for Jar Jar.

Because of his unifying nature in The Phantom Menace, he was promoted from clumsy annoyance to Senate representative in Attack Of The Clones. His role in the second episode of the Star Wars saga was particularly poignant for a number of reasons and explored how even the most well-meaning person can, by no fault of anything but his intention to do the right thing, be manipulated into perpetrating a great evil. In being made to feel that authorizing an army for the Chancellor was the right thing to do, he was complicit in the eventual destruction of the Republic.

This is an excellent lesson to be learned from Jar Jar in the Star Wars films, and it turned out to be disturbingly prescient. Six months after the release of Attack Of The Clones, the United States Congress unwittingly pulled a Jar Jar and gave George W. Bush the same war authority powers Palpatine was given and in another six months the United States would be embroiled in its longest, most senseless war to date.

My last point is this: You’ll always hear people say, “I hate Jar Jar,” and “Jar Jar annoyed me,” and, “Could someone please kill that obnoxious Gungan?” But think of this: how often do you hear people say, “I hated Jar Jar because he looked fake,” or, “I disliked Jar Jar because he didn’t interact with his environment well?” Not very often. The team at Industrial Light and Magic created the first all-CG character so convincingly that his physical presence was never the issue with fans, merely those choking on their own hubris.

Now, you can still hate Jar Jar if you want to, but I think it’s pretty clear that he worked for specific purposes in the films, whether you liked it or not. And if you can’t at least admit to this stuff, your inability to like the prequels has far more to do with a personal problem than with the actual films themselves.

Bryan Young is a regular contributor to Huffington Post and writes about Star Wars and other geekiness at Big Shiny Robot.

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lunes, abril 06, 2009

It's in Belgium

Ray: After I killed him, I dropped the gun in the Thames, washed the residue off me hands in the bathroom of a Burger King, and walked home to await instructions. Shortly thereafter the instructions came through - "Get the fuck out of London, you dumb fucks. Get to Bruges." I didn't even know where Bruges fucking was.
Ray: It's in Belgium.

In Bruges (2008)

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viernes, abril 03, 2009

vampire love story


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jueves, abril 02, 2009

Mucho tiempo he estado acostándome temprano

Mucho tiempo he estado acostándome temprano. A veces apenas había apagado la bujía, cerrábanse mis ojos tan presto, que ni tiempo tenía para decirme: «Ya me duermo» . Y media hora después despertábame la idea de que ya era hora de ir a buscar el sueño; quería dejar el libro, que se me figuraba tener aún entre las manos, y apagar de un soplo la luz; durante mi sueño no había cesado de reflexionar sobre lo recién leído, pero era muy particular el tono que tomaban esas reflexiones, porque me parecía que yo pasaba a convertirme en el tema de la obra, en una iglesia, en un cuarteto, en la rivalidad de Francisco I y Carlos V. Esta figuración me duraba aún unos segundos después de haberme despertado: no repugnaba a mi razón, pero gravitaba como unas escamas sobre mis ojos sin dejarlos darse cuenta de que la vela ya no estaba encendida. Y luego comenzaba a hacérseme ininteligible, lo mismo que después de la metempsicosis pierden su sentido, los pensamientos de una vida anterior; el asunto del libro se desprendía de mi personalidad y yo ya quedaba libre de adaptarme o no a él; en seguida recobraba la visión, todo extrañado de encontrar en torno mío una oscuridad suave y descansada para mis ojos, y aun más quizá para mi espíritu, al cual se aparecía esta oscuridad como una cosa sin causa, incomprensible, verdaderamente oscura. Me preguntaba qué hora sería; oía el silbar de los trenes que, más o menos en la lejanía, y señalando las distancias, como el canto de un pájaro en el bosque, me describía la extensión de los campos desiertos, por donde un viandante marcha de prisa hacía la estación cercana; y el caminito que recorre se va a grabar en su , recuerdo por la excitación que le dan los lugares nuevos, los actos desusados, la charla reciente, los adioses de la despedida que le acompañan aún en el silencio de la noche, y la dulzura próxima del retorno.

Apoyaba blandamente mis mejillas en las hermosas mejillas de la almohada, tan llenas y tan frescas, que son como las mejillas mismas de nuestra niñez. Encendía una cerilla para mirar el reloj. Pronto serían las doce. Este es el momento en que el enfermo que tuvo que salir de viaje y acostarse en una fonda desconocida, se despierta, sobrecogido por un dolor, y siente alegría al ver una rayita de luz por debajo de la puerta. ¡Qué gozo! Es de día ya. Dentro de un momento los criados se levantarán, podrá llamar, vendrán a darle alivio. Y la esperanza de ser confortado le da valor para sufrir. Sí, ya le parece que oye pasos, pasos que se acercan, que después se van alejando. La rayita de luz que asomaba por debajo de la puerta ya no existe. Es medianoche: acaban de apagar el gas, se marchó el último criado, y habrá que estarse la noche enteró sufriendo sin remedio.

Me volvía a dormir, y a veces ya no me despertaba más que por breves instantes, lo suficiente para oír los chasquidos orgánicos de la madera de los muebles, para abrir los ojos y mirar al calidoscopio de la oscuridad, para saborear, gracias a un momentáneo resplandor de conciencia, el sueño en que estaban sumidos los muebles, la alcoba, el todo aquel del que yo no era más que una ínfima parte, el todo a cuya insensibilidad volvía yo muy pronto a sumarme. Otras veces, al dormirme, había retrocedido sin esfuerzo a una época para siempre acabada de mi vida primitiva, me había encontrado nuevamente con uno de mis miedos de niño, como aquel de que mi tío me tirara de los bucles, y que se disipó .fecha que para mí señala una nueva era. el día que me los cortaron. Este acontecimiento había yo olvidado durante el sueño, y volvía a mi recuerdo tan pronto como acertaba a despertarme para escapar de las manos de mi tío: pero, por vía de precaución, me envolvía la cabeza con la almohada antes de tornar al mundo de los sueños.


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