segunda-feira, 29 de junho de 2009

MADE IN U.S.A.




VER NO YOUTUBE EM HD : MADE IN U.S.A.
GODARD (1966)

Je vous salue

G O D A R D .
( ¿ como cabe assim o mundo em tão curtas : )



Je vous salue Marie, Godard, 1985

SUR L'ORIGINE


De L'Origine du XXI Siècle
( 2000)



Je vous salue, Sarajevo.
(1993)



Une Catastrophe.
(2008)




Sobre Hoje.
João Lopes (http://sound--vision.blogspot.com)

"Foi uma sessão preciosa, de redescoberta da obra videográfica de Jean-Luc Godard — na Cinemateca (dia 29, 21h30), foi possível ver três títulos raros: De l'Origine du XXIè Siècle, divagação breve e trágica sobre as marcas da violência no século XX, trabalho encomendado pelo Festival de Cannes para a respectiva abertura no ano 2000; outra encomenda, The Old Place, neste caso do MOMA, em 1999, retratando as imagens e imaginações das suas colecções; enfim, uma absoluta revelação: Réportage Amateur (2006), sobre a preparação da exposição "Collages de France", para o Centro Pompidou.
Por desentendimento entre Godard e a direcção do Pompi-dou, "Collages" nunca se concretizou, dando origem a uma expo-sição "alternativa" — de nome Voyage(s) en utopie, Jean-Luc Godard, 1946-2006 —, embora conservando o espírito do projecto inicial, projecto que pressupunha uma certa lógica "tradicional", com várias salas temáticas, do mito ao real, passando pela câmara, traçando uma espécie de fábula trágica sobre os desígnios, apoteoses e agonias da história do cinema.
Não deixa de ser irónico que Réportage Amateur explicite essa faceta amadora da sua execução, com Godard a explicar a maqueta da exposição a alguém que maneja a câmara e com ele dialoga (por certo, Anne-Marie Miéville). De facto, a ideia de que o cinema é uma máquina de registo pessoal e privado — pour moi, como se escreve na abertura de De l'Origine du XXIè Siècle — é algo presente nos mais diversos momentos da obra godardiana, desde o retrato sociológico da prostituição em Viver a Sua Vida (1962) até à revisitação de Sarajevo, em Nossa Música (2004), passando pelo inventário urbanístico da região parisiense, em Deux ou Trois Choses Que Je Sais d'Elle (1967).
Mais ainda: tendo nós a noção iconográfica (cristã?) de que a apresentação de uma visão pessoal do mundo passa pela imagem do rosto do seu autor, Réportage Amateur é um filme sem rostos (a não ser os do cinema, da fotografia e da pintura), com as mãos de Godard a mostrar a maqueta, utilizando como auxiliar um simples indicador/batuta — o que, entenda-se, não nos impede de visitar as paisagens fascinantes de um pensamento em acção."

Poema da Terra Adubada


The Southerner, Renoir, 1945

Poema da Terra Adubada
António Gedeão, in 'Linhas de Força'

Por detrás das árvores não se escondem faunos, não.
Por detrás das árvores escondem-se os soldados
com granadas de mão.

As árvores são belas com os troncos dourados.
São boas e largas para esconder soldados.

Não é o vento que rumoreja nas folhas,
não é o vento, não.
São os corpos dos soldados rastejando no chão.

O brilho súbito não é do limbo das folhas verdes reluzentes.
É das lâminas das facas que os soldados apertam entre os dentes.

As rubras flores vermelhas não são papoilas, não.
É o sangue dos soldados que está vertido no chão.

Não são vespas, nem besoiros, nem pássaros a assobiar.
São os silvos das balas cortando a espessura do ar.

Depois os lavradores
rasgarão a terra com a lâmina aguda dos arados,
e a terra dará vinho e pão e flores
adubada com os corpos dos soldados.

I no longer recognised myself in my own existence.



Take Care Of Yourself, instalação de SOPHIE CALLE



''Les Dormeurs" de SOPHIE CALLE

domingo, 28 de junho de 2009

It sounds like a plan.


Terra Estrangeira
WALTER SALLES E DANIELLA THOMAS



1 de JULHO: CINEMA AO AR LIVRE (GULBENKIAN)

O jovem amor de rua

na Itália de MAMMA ROMA (1962, Pasolini)


Dois amantes felizes não têm fim nem morte,
nascem e morrem tanta vez enquanto vivem,
são eternos como é a natureza.
(Pablo Neruda)


sábado, 27 de junho de 2009

Belezas.

Talley Beatty in "STUDY IN CHOREOGRAPHY FOR CAMERA",  MAYA DEREN (1945)



Bailarina
EXTRACTO DE "LIMITE"
DE MÁRIO PEIXOTO




EXTRACTO DE "OS MUTANTES"
DE TERESA VILLAVERDE




"STUDY IN CHOREOGRAPHY FOR CAMERA",
DE MAYA DEREN (1945)

The becoming of man is the history of the exhaustion of his possibilities.

Lunch Break (autor desconhecido)






OS AMORES DE ASTREE E CELADON

ERIC ROHMER (2007)




Ancient shepherds wearing tunics and ribbons, in the pastures, along the banks of the river; the flow of the water, the wind in the trees, light and shadow at play in the undergrowth - the free coexistence of these elements for Eric Rohmer’s adaptation of Honoré d’Urfé’s Astrée is an incredible surprise...
By Arnaud Macé
ncient shepherds wearing tunics and ribbons, in the pastures, along the banks of the river; the flow of the water, the wind in the trees, light and shadow at play in the undergrowth - the free coexistence of these elements for Eric Rohmer’s adaptation of Honoré d’Urfé’s Astrée is an incredible surprise: for those interested first and foremost in issues of accomplishment and legacy - is Rohmer perfecting here a body work began in the fifties? Is he preparing for his heirs? - let us say that these are the wrong questions. The film we’re dealing with is like a dawning, and we’ve yet to explore the depth of the upheaval that made this act of freedom possible.
When he adapted Chrétien de Troyes (Perceval le Gallois, 1978), the filmmaker explained through the rigor of is realism why he chose to have his knights move within studio sets inspired from imaginary landscapes of the times, with its odd trees through which no wind is blowing. It wasn’t that the knights had never passed through real forests: it was rather that such an event is forever out of reach to the photographic recording.

The same rigor applied to the two recent historical films. The reality of street life in 1936 appeared solely through newsreels of the time or a painting done by the heroine of Triple Agent (2003). The people of the revolution moved only through ghostly sets made from period prints (L’Anglaise et le Duc, 2001): it wasn’t, as some believed, that Rohmer was bidding farewell to Rossellini, refusing to let the camera run through busy streets, draining History of its boisterous population for the purpose of reactionary means. Rohmer simply refused to create an illusion of a reality that cinema would never be able to shoot, or never again. He had to rely on existing archives, whether they be on film for the most recent era, painterly traces or other means of testimony for more distant times.

Among those other possible solutions, there is one that Rohmer continues to favor, after Perceval: literature, how it transmits the imagination of men from the past, and thus, closer and closer, makes contact with the reality that produced it. An account of the experience of the times of Urfé is offered to us: it is wise to accept this perspective, even in its anachronism. Just as the artificial set of Perceval, borne of ancient representations, was the most realistic choice, the arbitrary nature of the representation of antiquity by Urfé serves to remind us that we will not find better expedients in order to reach this lost reality. In fact Rohmer extends his relationship to reality’s paradoxical logic by mixing contemporary anachronisms to those committed by Urfé: for instance one hears a modern trumpet alongside the instruments of the ancient shepherds. We follow the chronicle of the imagination and its unhindered echoes through the centuries.



This time however, Rohmer crosses the line forbidden in Perceval. Cinema could authorize itself to make a documentary recording of men and horses inscribed with a stylized set reminding us every second of a reality forever lost for the camera. First reprimand in the opening titles: the author warns us that he was unable to shoot in the Forez which inspired Urfé, a region nowadays invaded by roads, urban development and industrialization. The first shots confirm the scandal: Semyre, Céladon’s rival, ancient shepherd who emerged from the pastoral imagination of a writer from the early 17th century, comes down a hill as green as lawn near a lake in Cergy-Pontoise; he winds through the trees rustling with the wind as we often see in this early 21st century, and accosts, as we still encounter young women at times in numerous places these days, Astrée (Stéphanie Crayencour), a beautiful blonde sulking away from the festivities whose melodies resonate in the valley. The text and its subject’s antiquity finds itself, right in the opening shots, nibbled by Rohmer’s prosaic method: an inexorable way of leveling everything, of shooting men and trees, letting the former tell us tales and the latter to rustle in the wind, while never letting them hope they can take us for a ride. Rohmer lets us profit without ceremony from the often-mannered spectacle of the morals of the living. We couldn’t suspect however that such a prose could conquer new worlds, even the invisible ones, which were previously forbidden to him. The camera we follow without any fuss to Clermont-Ferrand or to Cherbourg invites us to follow it in regions that his realism used to forbid. Such boldness suggests some guarantees, for example a tale with a crystalline logic. Within the element of literature, Rohmer knows where to find narrative purity. Here, as with Kleist in the past (La Marquise d’O, 1976), the issue is to set up two-sided stories. Three descents and three climbs give this one its breathing.

Céladon (Andy Gillet lends him an elegant and opportune androgyny) appears at the festivities with another woman than Astrée, in order to deceive their respective parents who are opposed to the young couple’s feelings, because an ancient quarrel. A feigned love protects from the reality of attachment. And what if reality crossed into the deception? It is this doubt that Semyre used in order to trouble Astrée’s heart. It’s also the question that makes its ways throughout the film, and confers it, as in each Rohmerian tale, a capricious moral. Losing his love to the trappings of appearances, Astrée will find it once more by giving in to them, her error possibly being the site of the greatest truth and the greatest joy. These are the questions the spectator reflects on as he follows Rohmer who, defying what he forbade himself, offers impossible images of ancient shepherds whose hair is lifted by today’s wind, a the foot of real trees on the banks of real rivers. First descent then: Céladon is dancing with another shepherdess who steals a kiss from him and the counter-shot where Astrée who made her way down to the celebration, is observing the scene, reveals nothing of her lover’s resistance to the kiss. Returning to the top of the hills, we find Céladon learning from his beloved that he is forbidden to ever appear before her again. Unable to be seen by virtue of appearances. Céladon sprints down the hill to throw himself in the river.

We walked with nymphs: the camera now follows goddesses, with their chariot in the shape of a ship, with their long white translucent robes in which the wind likes to play. From then on the film will not cease to warmly greet, in the heart of the strongest appearances, those emerging from the realm of the invisible. After the creatures of the past and of literature, why should we forbid deities? The queen of nymphs, Galatée, warned through an omen, is on her way with her followers, to recover in a meander Céladon’s body, which they secretly bring back to the castle, and to life. Galatée, enticed with the shepherd, refuses to let him go; one of her followers, Léonide (Cécile Cassel, a mischievous and clever divine being), dresses up the young shepherd as a woman in order to remove him from the castle and bring to the forest that separates the two realms. Céladon settles there since he cannot appear before Astrée’s eyes; on the counsel of Adamas, the druid and Léonide’s uncle, he builds from the sacred wood an altar to the goddess from whom his beautiful shepherdess received her name.

Third descent: the shepherds go to the druid for the mistletoe celebration. On the way there they sleep in the forest. Come morning Céladon finds them spread over the ground like a cluster of small animals: it is one of the scenes in which the simplicity of the shepherds recalls the grace of the little monks in Rossellini’s Fioretti. Dressed up as a young woman druid by Adamas, who apparently comes from a family where they love to disguise themselves, Céladon joins the celebration. Appearing before the eyes of one who doesn’t yet know, through the use of a disguise: this the most shakespearian stratagem leads to the film’s final ascension, an intense line whose jubilation feeds off the woken dream offered the young lovers through the protection of appearances.



Astrée becomes infatuated with the young druid whose company she never ceases to seek. Not having solved the mystery of this odd resemblance gives Astrée the pleasure to confide herself, unaware, to the joy of a spectacle he had banished from her sight; the spectators experience a similar emotion, on two occasions. First when they now who is hiding under the disguise of the young druid - the face and voice of Céladon seem so much those of a young woman that they take on, intermittently, to our eyes as well, the appearance of a real woman. Secondly because they as well are lulled by the pleasure of seeing real wind blowing to real trees, appearances which the realist rigor of the previous films had prevented them from enjoying.

A strange atmosphere lingers in the druid’s house while an irresistible attraction grows between the two young women. The arrival of new participants to the celebration requires that all young women share the same room. They help each other undress, Astrée’s shirt knows only how to fall and reveal a breast. As they awake, still she offers this breast to the morning light. In this happiness of the early day, Astrée doesn’t realize that the kisses and caresses she shares with her young druid are moving beyond what form of reciprocal tenderness is tolerated even amongst the freest of the shepherdesses. This frenzy, which will seal the end of Céladon’s disguised appearance, reveals the truth to Astrée: the resemblance that bound her to the young woman druid was not a deceit, it brings her Céladon back from the dead.

Shakespeare again: Rohmer, as we know, is very familiar with A Winter’s Tale; which ends with Hermione’s miraculous return to life, as the statue comes to life. He gives here a radical new reading of this: it is the appearances themselves, the face itself of Céladon which hid him from Astrée’s eyes, and the passage from death to life is achieved without changing any of this, without altering the surface of things, in the carefree pleasure of seeing desire move through naked young bodies. Speak of death and the return of the dead among us without leaving the simplest appearance, locate the invisible at the surface of the visible: we understand the sovereign strength of filmmaking having reached this form of simplicity, at the cost of letting images once banished return as combustible energy in order to give a new life to ghosts - the shepherds who drowned, like the works and the worlds the past has swallowed up. A few filmmakers have taught us that we could walk with the dead, while remaining at the most prosaic surface of things, without undoing or tearing it. Rohmer, through the grace of the metamorphosis of his art, is now a member of that group.

Boris Savelev









No fim do Cinema.

Não houve nem paz nem luto.


WEEKEND
(GODARD, 1967)



Woman in Car: Are you in a film or in reality?
Joesph Balsam: In a film.
Man in Car: In a film? You lie too much.







BRÍGIDA MENDES.







sexta-feira, 26 de junho de 2009

Barroquismo 2000.

A admiração e mesmo o êxtase diante do barroco é uma perspectiva moderníssima. 
Eduardo Lourenço



Bom fim-de-semana.



Fotos de Gaeta

quinta-feira, 25 de junho de 2009

O close-up serve a atenção.


La Sindrome di Stendhal, Dario Argento, 1996