segunda-feira, 31 de dezembro de 2018

As 226 melhores canções dos anos 90. (63)

Putas Lesbianas Feministas, me encantaaaaaaaaaaaan <3- Karla Solis

Me encanta cuando dices putas lesbianas tan rebel girl!!!- Nelson Sanchez Ramirez

Nelson Sanchez Ramirez Me encanta que te encante cuando dice putas lesbianas feministas- Erik ST

Erik ST me encanta que te encante que le encante cuando dice putas lesbianas feministas (◠‿◠) xD- FATIMA

Me encanta... mentira son 4 mogolicos- Zael

Me parece un acto para nada empodertante el hecho de denominarse puta, cuando sabemos que las mayorías de putas están explotadas casi siempre por un putero hombre- TODO SOBRE LA SEGUNDA GUERRA MUNDIAL

Mujeres...porqué habeis dejado de hacer piezas maestras de la música como ésta???? Ahora nos toca conformarnos con zorras como nicky minaj y sus secuaces- Nelson Sanchez Ramirez

Una canción de putas para putas- Antonio hernandez martinez

domingo, 30 de dezembro de 2018

Cinema estreado em salas comerciais no território da República Portuguesa durante o ano 2018. Nenhum destes filmes foi visto em sala, mas sim em: laptop de 17", IMac de 27", e Samsung LED de 48".

1. First Reformed, Paul Schrader
2. The 15:17 to Paris, Clint Eastwood
3. Que le diable nous emporte, Jean-Claude Brisseau
4. Phantom Thread, Paul Thomas Anderson
5. Happy End, Michael Haneke
6. Mission: Impossible-Fallout, Christopher McQuarrie
7. Loveless, Andrey Zvyagintsev
8. Frost, Sharunas Bartas
9. Death Wish, Eli Roth
10. Red Sparrow, Francis Lawrence
11. A Quiet Place, John Krasinski
12. The Wailing, Na Hong-jin
13. Western, Valeska Grisebach
14. Colombus, Kogonada
15. Ready Player One, Steven Spielberg

sábado, 29 de dezembro de 2018

What will it take to break the stranglehold of male domination in filmmaking? Despite the ever-increasing outcry, amplified by social media over the last few years, the work of women filmmakers continues to be overlooked, marginalized, erased. Of the many underlying causes, I would like to focus here on one: the enduring hold, on film culture, of auteurism. [...]

[One systemic force that has marginalized women's filmmaking] can be seen playing out in the widely embraced auteurist credo, most famously articulated by François Truffaut, that the worst film by an auteur is more interesting than the best film by a non-auteur. When translated into viewing and writing practices, this principle ended up having two important effects. First, it drastically narrowed the domain of work that merited serious writing and conversation, since the title of “auteur” was awarded stingily to only a few filmmakers—usually, men. Second, it trained the focus of criticism on an auteur’s entire oeuvre, returning to it time and again, tunneling ever deeper to explore the stylistic signature and themes of the films, no matter how “good” (or not) these films were deemed to be. Auteurism thus became an ingenious mechanism for ceaselessly multiplying discourse on a limited number of directors: a manspreading machine.

Recordar é viver.

If ever a single person was living proof that intelligence is a meaningless quality without modest common sense, it was Susan Sontag who died last week. The reverential tone of the obituaries served to confirm that self-proclaimed intellectuals, no matter how deluded or preposterous, exert a strange, intimidating power over non-intellectuals – especially if they employ that infuriating literary device, the epigram.
Beware the epigramista. Beneath the veneer of apparent profundity of the epigram's internal contradiction, there is usually a deep well of meaninglessness, from which other intellectuals can extract similarly worthless academic baubles. The foremost proponent of the apparently profound but actually worthless epigram was Oscar Wilde – as in "All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his."
Haw haw haw. Dashed good, that, what? Only it isn't. It's flummery coated with a cheap and not very clever glitter. And such epigrams were what Sontag specialised in. Interpretation, she said, was "the revenge of the intellect upon art. Even more. It is the revenge of the intellect upon the world".
Can't you hear the well-informed, mannerly discussions between all those New England professors with their bow-ties and tweed suits and rimless spectacles? But would that someone had treated Sontag in life as Dr Johnson had disposed of Bishop Berkeley's contention that objects only exist because we see them: kicking a stone till he bounced off it, he snarled, "I refute it thus."
I ran into her once, and my abject failure to give her the Johnson refutation haunts me still. Indeed, it might well be my greatest single delinquency, in a far from blameless life. It was in Sarajevo, during the siege in 1993, and she had arrived to stage a Bosnian version of Waiting for Godot. If memory serves – and possibly it doesn't, no doubt clouded by guilt that I failed to put the wretched woman over my knee and give her a sound spanking – she had each of Beckett's characters played by a Bosnian Muslim, a Bosnian Serb, and a Bosnian Croat.
By my personal reckoning, the performance lasted as long as the siege itself. It was mesmerisingly precious and hideously self-indulgent. As inexcusable as the pretentious twaddle she had mounted on-stage were her manners off it. I have occasionally seen egregious examples of de haut en bas, but I have never seen anything as degrading and insufferable as her conduct towards the Sarajevans. And as far as I could judge, she never listened to any of them, but only uttered lordly pronouncements as she held court in the Sarajevo Holiday Inn, while outside scores daily died.
Meanwhile she ostentatiously disdained us hacks even as she sedulously courted us. It was a grotesque performance. My real mistake was not radioing her co-ordinates to the Serb artillery, reporting that they marked the location of Bosnian heavy armour. My own life would have been a cheap price to pay.
All right, so she read 10 books a day: but a brilliant intellect can often be the companion to a truly asinine personality – so step forward, Susan Sontag, and take a bow. Admittedly, the vainglorious silliness that was her most salient characteristic did not lead her to embrace the Marxism of so many similarly silly Cambridge intellectuals. But it did cause her to emulate within American public life the role of "intellectuals" in France: insufferably self-important and posturing creatures like Barthes, Foucault, Derrida. They were best characterised in the immortal words of that truly great English philosopher, Terry-Thomas: "What an absolute sharr."
But wretched, credulous, self-hating American academia wanted to fawn on an intellectual whom popular culture could celebrate, and it chose Sontag and her vapid aphorisms. "The camera makes everyone a tourist in other people's reality, and eventually in one's own;" or: "What pornography is really about, ultimately, isn't sex but death;" or: "Sanity is a cosy lie;" or: "Good health is the passing delusion of the doomed."
Well, actually, the last one is mine. We can all do this kind of poser-cleverness, but we'll never find our way into any dictionaries of quotation because one has to have a certain academic status before one's pseudo-sage declarations come to be exalted as "sayings". Yet Susan Sontag, the ridiculous heroine of US campus culture, couldn't even count to three: "The two pioneering forces of modern sensibility are Jewish seriousness and homosexual aestheticism and irony."
What's it to be, Susie babe? Jewish seriousness? Homosexual aestheticism? Or homosexual irony? But hey, what about Jewish irony? Or Jewish aestheticism? Or homosexual seriousness?
Such bilge can only exist in Englitish, the impenetrable campus-dialect in which English literature is analysed, discussed and then buried. Susie's gone now, but no doubt some other tongue will soon be babbling comparable Englitish gibberish in her stead. Meanwhile, I am left with the melancholy reflection, that yes, once I had my chance – and I bloody well blew it.

quinta-feira, 20 de dezembro de 2018

As 226 melhores canções dos anos 90. (56)

I’m not the only one who views Manhattan as a less blatant version of Trump’s “Make America great [i.e., white] again” — it was the late Allan Sekula who first pointed out to me how the absence of people of color on the streets of New York was part of what made it all seem so dreamy and romantic

quarta-feira, 19 de dezembro de 2018

As 226 melhores canções dos anos 90. (55)

O Joelho de Nicole.

Pedimos desculpas ao shôr Rosenbaum, mas entre os 16:20 e os 17:00 minutos toda a nossa atenção esteve desviada para as pernas da Nicole Brenez. Claramente, a nossa maior revelação cinematográfica do ano. Mais escandaleira surpreendente que esta só se viermos a gostar de um filme dos cinco cavaleiros do apocalipse fílmico (Desplechin-Assayas-Dumont-Honoré-Hansen-Love). Nicole, deitamo-nos aos teus pés e não te faças rogada em utilizar-nos para o teu bel-prazer. Chicotadas, borrar-nos em cima, estaladas, ou, ainda mais extremo, mostrar-nos um qualquer filme do teu top 10 anual. 

domingo, 16 de dezembro de 2018

O sabor do vinho

The past, hey no shit, it's an open invitation to wine abuse.

Bleeding Edge, Pynchon

quinta-feira, 13 de dezembro de 2018

As 226 melhores canções dos anos 90. (51)

Para respirar um pouco por entre o abafo de tanta punheta e brocharia ao Jean-Luc, caralho que até enjoa. 1966.

IN CINEMA GODARD presently represents formal pseudofreedom and the pseudocritique of manners and values — the two inseparable manifestations of all fake, coopted modern art. Everyone does everything to present him as a misunderstood and unappreciated artist, shockingly audacious and unjustly despised; and everyone praises him, from Elle magazine to Aragon-the-Senile. Despite the absence of any real critiques of Godard, we see developing a sort of analogy to the famous theory of the increase of resistances in socialist regimes: the more Godard is hailed as a brilliant leader of modern art, the more people rush to his defense against incredible plots. Repetitions of the same clumsy stupidities in his films are automatically seen as breathtaking innovations. They are beyond any attempt at explanation; his admirers consume them as confusedly and arbitrarily as Godard produced them, because they recognize in them the consistent expression of a subjectivity. This is true, but it is a subjectivity on the level of a concierge educated by the mass media. Godard’s “critiques” never go beyond the innocuous humor typical of nightclub comics or Mad magazine. His flaunted culture is largely the same as that of his audience, which has read exactly the same pages in the same drugstore paperbacks. The two most famous lines from the most read poem of the most overrated Spanish poet (“Terrible five o’clock in the afternoon — the blood, I don’t want to see it” in Pierrot-le-Fou) — this is the key to Godard’s method. The most famous renegade of modern art, Aragon, in Les Lettres Françaises (9 September 1965), has rendered an homage to his younger colleague which, coming from such an expert, is perfectly fitting: “Art today is Jean-Luc Godard . . . of a superhuman beauty . . . of a constantly sublime beauty. . . . There is no precedent to Godard except Lautréamont. . . . This child of genius.” Even the most naïve can scarcely be taken in after such a testimonial from such a source.

quarta-feira, 12 de dezembro de 2018

As 226 melhores canções dos anos 90. (50)

Taxi Driver. Texto incompleto, esquecido, hoje recordado, escrito algures em 2017.

Aborrecido, deitado na cama de barriga para cima. Eis quando me lembrei do Travis Bickle e pesquisei “the days go by” no YouTube do telefone, tendo este exibido resultados intitulados “the days go on”. A diferença é, sem dúvida, importante; o primeiro caso poderia referir-se a um dia que passa sem que nada de importante ocorra, enquanto que o segundo se refere ao trágico facto de que depois do fim de um dia, outro começa. Não fiquei satisfeito com o formato do telemóvel, o que finalmente me fez levantar, mexer no DVD do “Taxi Driver”, voltar a arrumá-lo, ligar o computador e sacar um ficheiro full hd de uma versão remasterizada em 4K, que viria a demonstrar ser possível perceber todas as especificidades do sinal facial do De Niro. Embora tenha visto o filme mais de dez vezes, já não o via agora há alguns anos (e também só uma vez o vi em sala, numa cópia pobre, programado para o ciclo denominado “Chama-me um Táxi” da Cinemateca – isto vi eu agora na folha de sala que está dentro do DVD, pois sempre me tinha lembrado desse glorioso ciclo como “Filmes de Táxi”, juntamente com o ciclo “Filmes de Soutien”, dois dos momentos altos dessa casa que todos muito estimamos). O filme começa com um genérico altamente estilizado, de que gosto, principalmente pela banda sonora do Bernard Herrmann, também por logo aí carregar nas cores que pintarão o filme: o vermelho (décors, guarda-roupa, luzes e, claro, o sangue), pontuado por verdes (neons da rua e casaco de Travis) e amarelos (táxi e algum guarda-roupa) – as cores do semáforo. O filme começa com um De Niro aborrecido, que decide procurar trabalho como taxista, de modo a poder ocupar as longas noites de insónia. E logo aquele momento pelo qual me apaixonei definitivamente pelo De Niro – o sorriso que nasce no seu rosto enquanto diz que a sua carta de condução está “clean, like my conscience. O genérico, a panorâmica de 360 graus quando Travis sai da garagem de táxis, o jump cut aquando da saída de Travis do táxi para entrar no escritório da candidatura de Paladine – tudo sinais que hoje me surgem como marcas demasiado fortes de um cinema que se queria ele próprio moderno (e que ainda hoje continua a ser louvado noutros lados; ou em todo o lado), Scorsese com certeza espectador de todos os cinemas novos que tinham despontado na década anterior. Não gosto menos do filme por isso, porque o que verdadeiramente sempre fascinou neste filme é a dimensão humana, de enorme complexidade, de Travis Bickle – e o ponto de vista distanciado de Scorsese sobre o mesmo. Incapaz de perceber a sua desadaptação do mundo, Travis tanto convida a mulher que lhe desperta interesse para um filme pornográfico, como sente que deveria livrar uma menina de 12 anos – “Sweet Iris – da prostituição. Aproveito aqui, porque não, para sublinhar algo que nunca me pareceu louvado o suficiente: a interpretação espantosa da Cybill Shepherd, que com as suas brincadeiras parvas, a sua sobranceria, os seus meio-sorrisos, nos dá, com a ajuda de Scorsese claro, tudo o que Travis vai verbalizar antes de a convidar para lanchar (e que lhe desperta interesse, pela “novidade”). “She could have had anything she wanted”, diz orgulhosamente Travis, outro sinal do desfasamento deste, agora infantil, num excelente e discreto pedaço de escrita, num filme na maior parte do tempo com uma escrita bem mais carregada como são bom exemplo os monólogos de Travis, alguns repetidos por toda gente nos últimos quarenta anos.

quarta-feira, 5 de dezembro de 2018


Nesse tempo havia um fundo do British Film Institute para financiamento de filmes experimentais, que apoiava primeiras obras. Então escrevi um argumento, tinha um aliado no júri e que foi importante para o que o filme fosse financiado. 


As 226 melhores canções dos anos 90. (45)

1989-1998. Há meros 20 anos.

Em toda a série, ir ao cinema é ainda uma actividade social de relevo, importante na vida de pessoas comuns. No penúltimo episódio, ao fundo, o cartaz de "Lone Star", de John Sayles.

1998. Há meros 20 anos.