Malick (1)

Badlands - Deci nu-l vazusem. Si cateva lucruri interesante. Primul lucru interesant. Malick era Malick inca de la inceput. Cadrele pe care si le gaseste in suburbiile americane in '73 sunt cam aceleasi care tot rasuna prin filmele lui pana la Tree of Life unde poate-si nimereste evanescenta aia pe care si-o tot cauta prin toate filmele cel mai bine. Curios de curajos totusi pentru un film de debut in '73, nu atat estetic cat ce face filmul cu totul. Filozofii oarecum brute ilustrate printr-un personaj in mintea caruia pare sa bata un vant je m'en fiche-ist puternic, ocazie cu care Malick pare sa-si bata cam toata pula de generatia rebela fara cauza prin asemanarile perpetue care i se atribuie lui Martin Sheen cu James Dean. Modul elegant brutal in care taie macaroana filfizonilor din toate unghiurile e destul de spectaculos. Cred ca totusi cel mai tare lucru la Badlands e halul soptit in care Malick face misto de societatea americana*, intr-asemenea masura incat trebuie chiar sa ciulesti urechile ca sa-l auzi, mai ales american fiind, imi imaginez. Si de fapt sunt pline forumuri de discutii despre filmele lui Malick cu americani incercand sa-i descifreze filmele variind de la "E un film foarte greu de inteles" la "... stai cred ca inteleg... cred ca... vrea sa zica ca... suntem foarte prosti... da... foarte interesant". Da' nah, cum am mai zis, e greu sa te uiti in oglinda.

Si chestia la care ma refer in particular e finalul ala, cu Martin Sheen prins, purtandu-se ca o vedeta, aproape da autografe, o armata in jurul lui si politisti toti curiosi da' tie ce muzica iti place sa asculti, zeule care esti? Si lui vantu-i bate-n freza cu nonsalanta pana la sfarsit, si politistu in elicopter ii zice ba Martin Sheen ba you're one heck of a guy si el e gen bai stiu, daca n-as fi prea cool sa ma doara m-ar durea de ce cool sunt. Si voice-over-ul peste cu Sissy Spacek zicand ca el si atipise atunci cand i s-a dat verdictu de scaun electric. Ca nah. Atat de cool e.

Oricum, atat de rare filmele astea americane din anii 70 si inainte care sa aiba un cap in spate si care sa se ia de societatea americana incat imi vine sa le colectionez. Si Malick o face cu o mana atat de usoara aici incat pesemne ca nici nu s-au prins.

*This post was brought to you buy: Hate America Inc.

Villeneuve (1)

Polytechnique (2009) - Pentru ca vreau sa vad toate filmele lui Dennis Villeneuve pentru ca omul are in mod evident ceva cinematografic in cap, indiferent de ce cum si despre ce face filme. Asta e un film alb-negru de 70 de minute despre university shooting-ul din 1989 Montreal, cand un dement trist s-a hotarat sa impuste femei ca-s feministe. Asa ca eram destul de curios cum abordeaza domnu Villeneuve ecranizarea unei astfel de intamplari.

Si o face vag memorialistic, vag cinematografic-jucaus, fute structura timpului in niste feluri vag reminiscente de Elephant. Respectiv incepe direct cu moneyshot-ul cand intra ala si incepe sa traga, dupa aia sare inapoi si apoi inainte si tot asa. Dar curiozitatea mea era mai degraba vizavi de ce cauta filmul asta totusi el, ca film, si ce vrea sa arate. Si se disimuleaza niste interes pentru varii personaje care sunt prinse-n mijlocul lucrurilor dar de fapt ce se imortalizeaza aici e un soi de mohorare. Filmul in sine este o bucata de tristete. Filmul e destul de suparat intr-un mod destul de matur si rezervat. Dincolo de artificiile structurale se intampla niste imagini destul de bantuitoare cu zapezi in alb-negru. Si, dincolo de melancolii nămetice, sunt vreo 3-4 cadre in film in care camera e rasturnata in varii feluri pentru ca pana la urma sa revina intr-o perspectiva normala. Asta e totusi destul de frumos si e maximum de intruziune estetica pe care si-o permite domnu in film. Pentru ca la sfarsit totusi sa fie un cadru de final un trav lung rasturnat pe un coridor lung de facultate care totusi nu-si revine in perspectiva normala. Si apoi se termina. Si lumea ramane cu susul in jos. Si apoi apare In Memoriam: ... ... etc Deci filmul destul de reusit in a-ti da oportunitatea de a contempla evenimentul si a simti apoi un soptit "mda... nasol"

Din punctul asta de vedere, al unui overview, e ceva mai matur si abil decat Elephant, pentru ca-ti da sansa de un oaresicare catharsis - ce-i drept, e si facut la 20 de ani dupa masacru. Elephant care a fost facut destul de in timp ce socul evenimentelor inca mai rasuna, pluteste mai degraba in absurditatea intamplarii si mocneste de niste nedreptate. Amandoua totusi foarte interesante la capitolul cum sa abordezi o aberatie de asemenea magnitudini.

e târziu

Cat e ceasu?

Am 24 de ani.

The fucking wastelands.

Nu am timp si rabdare. Trebuie s-o vad tot timpul. Trebuie s-o simt la marginile pielii, s-o vad si s-o ating tot timpul. Nu conteaza ca e iluzie. Nu conteaza ca e varianta ieftina. Imi trebuie. De fiecare data. Nu mai am timp. Nu pot sa stau sa aflu. In fata ochilor mei va sta doar ce voi chema. Pentru ca destul. Pentru ca gata. Pentru ca nu mai avem.

The fucking wastelands.

Nu mai am timp. O sa ma scald in lumina ei constant. E reala fix cat vreau eu sa fie reala. La fel ca toate lucrurile.

Dar spre deosebire de timp.

Da' s-a terminat. S-a terminat de cateva ori si se tot termina.

Si tot incepe de fiecare data. Deci cum reincepe? N-are sens niciodata. Si totusi se duce. Normal ca filozofii s-au blocat la timp. N-ai ce-i face. Faptul ca incepe de fiecare data. Nu poti decat sa i te inchini. Iata aceasta forta mai mare decat fortele. Nu e pentru cuvinte. Normal ca s-au blocat.

Ce mistere cosmice sa cauti? Iata, timpul. Si cu asta s-a terminat.

Si dupa aia incepe.

Uite-l cum se duce. Si de fiecare data aceeasi sansa. Si de fiecare data acelasi nu. Nu mai am timp.

Si nici macar nu stiu cat e ceasu. Atata lucru?

are we having fun?

Sometimes at odds with the value of being constantly present. It's really only a matter of whether or not you have a nice place to go to. Happiness as the drug of choice. You get high on your constant ability to choose to be happy. If done correctly, it can be the right kind of madness. Rarely done correctly. Mostly ostriches putting their heads in sand. Difficult to place blame though. Ultimately, as in Infinite Jest, "it is simply more pleasant to be happy than to be pissed off."

Difficult to make a case against pleasantness. But I think I know a guy or two that did. Only the idea is that you go through so much unpleasantness so as to achieve the right kind of madness.

Your madness.

The Drop

Jamie, from The XX, remixing Gil Scott-Heron's I'm New Here

The drop is not something particular to all the shitty music we hear nowadays. Beethoven had drops. Beethoven had sick drops. Dropped it like it's German. It just took about 30 minutes to get to it and you never knew where or when or how it came. They called it, Der Surprisen Droppen.

People don't like surprises nowadays though. Surprises are upsetting. So then you get the drop for sure. You get it when you want it, and you're sure you're gonna get it. Every time a victory. No room for disappointment. No time for disappointment.

I want it now and I want it the way I know I want it. I know me. I'm the guy who likes it how he likes it.

Do not stray from the certainty of The Drop.

Ode to dumbness

One should not go through life worrying that acquiring a vast amount of knowledge will deprive him of his fundamental stupidity. Do not worry. You are dumb. You will stay dumb. No amount of reading could ever correct the sheer force and magnitude that is your dumbness. If your dumbness was a mountain, mere men could not climb it.

So then what use in talking to it? Throwing words at hurricanes.

disparaturi (2)

Capitalism is turning into fascism. I don't know if it already was, or is. This is probably something that can be discussed and is discussed at infinite length in macro and micro terms. But I'm only really interested in the micro aspect. The relegation of personal responsibility by virtue of a higher authority that displaces or dissolves your own system of values. Thus your actions only exist as an extension of the manifestations of a higher power.

Azi am fost muist la munca. Am dat muie si trebuia sa ma simt prost da' m-a durut la pula. Ca nu e treaba mea. Si nici numele meu. Si nici viata mea.

The question of either playing the game, or contemplating it with disdain from afar. The value of engaging in discourse. Null? Only insofar as you forfeit hope. And hope is forfeited. In macro terms. What do, what do. On the other hand, the danger of liking the game too much. Another illusion. Another dream. The question of either being in the dream, or contemplating it with disdain from afar. The question of being alienated with a mask on, or being alienated in darkness.

Only one hope, that of ripples echoing into the distance finding similarly tuned ears and eyes and even then it doesn't really amount to all that much. Other than a beacon constantly emitting a distress signal, looping "There is a way, there is a way, there is a way". Only no one knows what that way is. And no one would tell you. No one could tell you anyway, all the one ways that exist are all custom-fitted to the one carrier. It is not transmittable by words. So then the beacon says "Search, search, search". Even if you don't find it, a life searching is better than a resolved complacency. What people admire in other people as a sort of dignified complacency.

Look at him. He is so calm and collected while shoving piles of shit down his throat from mentally inferior defecators that happen to be the assholes and not the swallowers by virtue of sheer chance. Only they will let you know, there is no such thing as chance, you have simply not worked hard enough. Look at the grace with which he perfectly places the feces into his oral cavity. Such dexterity. Such wonder. His mother takes great pride in his ability to ingest shit. Best in the county, my son is.

How funny then, that pride in distant disdain is just as bad as pride in shit eating.