monsters vs. aliens, de rob letterman e conrad vernon

(cena de monsters vs. aliens. uma das melhores do filme, quando B.O.B. se apaixona por uma gelatina)


monsters vs. aliens não foi nem será, certamente, o melhor filme de animação feito pela dreamworks. muito pelo contrário, está uns furos abaixo de shrek e da idade do gelo. mas, que importa? é divertido e, pelo menos, vê-se são francisco numa outra perspectiva.

jorge vicente



(incrível como o extra-terrestre me faz lembrar o ET de marte ataca).

poema

(pintura de charles chaplin, "young woman with a dove", circa 1860)


(ao antónio ramos rosa)

o pássaro pousado no parapeito da minha janela
é aquela substância penumbrosa, que evoca o
silêncio e o remete para um lugar indecifrável,

que não nos resta senão conhecer,
com aquele conhecimento feito de
figuras de estilo, herméticas e fechadas.

o pássaro pousado é uno com a paisagem
que o transfigura, um excesso da criação,
um espaço entre sons, entre dois versos
que escrevo no intervalo dos dedos.

o pássaro pousado é a manifestação mais
plena da sagrada escritura do corpo.

jorge vicente

hierofania dos dedos

(fotografia de arno r. minkkinen, "self-portrait, banks, oregon", 2005)


aquele que escreve no limiar do fogo vive apenas na certeza das mãos. são elas que dizem da hierofania maior: a que parte do rosto e descende à altura dos dedos, como se o homem-outro fosse uma extensão do rosto e das pétalas salientes da pele.

aquele que diz é apenas quem diz. e quem pronuncia as três verdades do som: o om, a sílaba, a palavra. verso algum poderá existir que não aspire ao ventre das mulheres.

jorge vicente

"hurricane" (bob dylan / jacques levy)

(fotografia de dieter appelt, "aus statische vibration 2", s/d)


"Pistol shots ring out in the barroom night
Enter patty valentine from the upper hall.
She sees the bartender in a pool of blood,
Cries out, my god, they killed them all!
Here comes the story of the hurricane,
The man the authorities came to blame
For somethin that he never done.
Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been
The champion of the world.

Three bodies lyin there does patty see
And another man named bello, movin around mysteriously.
I didnt do it, he says, and he throws up his hands
I was only robbin the register, I hope you understand.
I saw them leavin, he says, and he stops
One of us had better call up the cops.
And so patty calls the cops
And they arrive on the scene with their red lights flashin
In the hot new jersey night.

Meanwhile, far away in another part of town
Rubin carter and a couple of friends are drivin around.
Number one contender for the middleweight crown
Had no idea what kinda shit was about to go down
When a cop pulled him over to the side of the road
Just like the time before and the time before that.
In paterson thats just the way things go.
If youre black you might as well not show up on the street
less you wanna draw the heat.

Alfred bello had a partner and he had a rap for the cops.
Him and arthur dexter bradley were just out prowlin around
He said, I saw two men runnin out, they looked like middleweights
They jumped into a white car with out-of-state plates.
And miss patty valentine just nodded her head.
Cop said, wait a minute, boys, this ones not dead
So they took him to the infirmary
And though this man could hardly see
They told him that he could identify the guilty men.

Four in the mornin and they haul rubin in,
Take him to the hospital and they bring him upstairs.
The wounded man looks up through his one dyin eye
Says, whad you bring him in here for? he aint the guy!
Yes, heres the story of the hurricane,
The man the authorities came to blame
For somethin that he never done.
Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been
The champion of the world.

Four months later, the ghettos are in flame,
Rubins in south america, fightin for his name
While arthur dexter bradleys still in the robbery game
And the cops are puttin the screws to him, lookin for somebody to blame.
Remember that murder that happened in a bar?
Remember you said you saw the getaway car?
You think youd like to play ball with the law?
Think it might-a been that fighter that you saw runnin that night?
Dont forget that you are white.

Arthur dexter bradley said, Im really not sure.
Cops said, a poor boy like you could use a break
We got you for the motel job and were talkin to your friend bello
Now you dont wanta have to go back to jail, be a nice fellow.
Youll be doin society a favor.
That sonofabitch is brave and gettin braver.
We want to put his ass in stir
We want to pin this triple murder on him
He aint no gentleman jim.

Rubin could take a man out with just one punch
But he never did like to talk about it all that much.
Its my work, hed say, and I do it for pay
And when its over Id just as soon go on my way
Up to some paradise
Where the trout streams flow and the air is nice
And ride a horse along a trail.
But then they took him to the jailhouse
Where they try to turn a man into a mouse.

All of rubins cards were marked in advance
The trial was a pig-circus, he never had a chance.
The judge made rubins witnesses drunkards from the slums
To the white folks who watched he was a revolutionary bum
And to the black folks he was just a crazy nigger.
No one doubted that he pulled the trigger.
And though they could not produce the gun,
The d.a. said he was the one who did the deed
And the all-white jury agreed.

Rubin carter was falsely tried.
The crime was murder one, guess who testified?
Bello and bradley and they both baldly lied
And the newspapers, they all went along for the ride.
How can the life of such a man
Be in the palm of some fools hand?
To see him obviously framed
Couldnt help but make me feel ashamed to live in a land
Where justice is a game.

Now all the criminals in their coats and their ties
Are free to drink martinis and watch the sun rise
While rubin sits like buddha in a ten-foot cell
An innocent man in a living hell.
Thats the story of the hurricane,
But it wont be over till they clear his name
And give him back the time hes done.
Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been
The champion of the world." (1)

bob dylan


(1) retirado do cd de bob dylan, desire (1976)

lao tse

(fotografia de arno r. minkkinen, "self-portrait, beach pond, ct", 1974)


"Aquele que conhece os outros homens, é avisado.
Aquele que se conhece a si próprio, é iluminado.
Aquele que vence os homens é forte.
Aquele que se vence a si próprio, é poderoso.
Aquele que se basta a si próprio, é rico.
Aquele que segue o seu caminho com energia, tem força de vontade.
Aquele que se mantém no seu lugar, tem uma vida longa.
Aquele que morre sem desaparecer, adquire a imortalidade." (1)

lao tse


(1) Lao-Tse apud ISHI - Karma e Reencarnação. Carcavelos: Angelorum, 2003. ISBN 972-8680-73-2. pg. 9.

joão botelho, a corte do norte

(ana moreira numa cena d'a corte do norte)


talvez um dos maiores pecados do cinema português seja refugiar-se no velho cinema de autor, intelectual, artístico, com uma bela fotografia, mas sem personagens que nos cativem, sem aquele toque humano que caracterizou o magnífico trabalho de bruno de almeida, the lovebirds. talvez seja isso ou talvez seja apenas birra do público que teima em dizer mal do cinema português apenas porque não o percebe ou não faz por perceber. todos os argumentos são válidos e todos são falaciosos, depende do ponto de vista de cada um.

quanto a mim, o maior pecado d'a corte do norte resume-se a uma só palavra: teatro. muito do cinema de autor português (e aqui incluo, obviamente, manoel de oliveira) é demasiado teatral, com falas retiradas de excertos de livros, poemas, frases que pouca gente usa no dia-a-dia, a rejeição do falar comum, quotidiano. (excepção: a caixa) claro que isso não tem mal nenhum, mas retira um pouco da emoção ao filme, transforma-o numa obra literária e não num filme propriamente dito. contudo, não deixa de ser um filme interessante: agustina bessa-luís é uma excelente construtora de palavras, uma poetisa; a madeira é um sítio magnífico e ana moreira tem um dos olhares mais fortes do cinema português. contudo, neste filme não prende como prendeu em transe, de teresa villaverde. é o que eu digo: olhar, emoção, personagens de carne e osso a entoar pele em todos os poros.

jorge vicente



(trailer d'a corte do norte)

philip pullman again

(fotografia de arno r. minkkinen, "ivalo, finland", 1995)


"«This is what'll happen,» she said, «and it's true, perfectly true. When you go out of here, all the particles that make you up will loosen and float apart, just like your daemons did. If you've seen people dying, you know what that looks like. But your daemons en't just nothing now; they're part of everything. All the atoms that were them, they've gone into the air and the wind and the trees and the earth and all the living things. They'll never vanish. They're just part of everything. And that's exactly what'll happen to you, I swear to you, I promise on my honour. You'll drift apart, it's true, but you'll be out in the open, part of everything alive again.»" (1)

philip pullman


(1) PULLMAN, Philip - The Amber Spyglass. London: Scholastic Press, 2001. ISBN 0-439-99414-4. pg. 335.

philip pullman

(pintura de george sand, "une rivière dans une vallée, des moutons sur les hauteurs et des bergers", s/d)


"Then she told them all about the great battle between the Oxford townies and the clay-burners.

First she described the Claybeds, making sure she got in everything she could remember, the wide ochre-coloured washing pits, the dragline, the kilns like great brick beehives. She told them about the willow trees along the river's edge, with their leaves all silvery underneath; and she told how when the sun shone for more than a couple of days, the clay began to split up into great handsome plates, with deep cracks between, and how it felt to squish your fingers into the cracks and slowly lever up a dried plate of mud, trying to keep it as big as you could without breaking it. Underneath it was still wet, ideal for throwing at people.

And she described the smells around the place: the smoke from the kilns, the rotten-leaf-mould smell of the river when the wind was in the south-west, the warm smell of the baking potatoes the clay-burners used to eat; and the sound of the water slipping slickly over the sluices and into the washing-pits; and the slow thick suck as you tried to pull your foot out of the ground; and the heavy wet slap of the gate-paddles in the clay-thick water." (1)

philip pullman



(1) PULLMAN, Philip - The Amber Spyglass. London: Scholastic Press, 2001. ISBN 0-439-99414-4. pg. 330.

bernie s. siegel, amor, medicina e milagres

é muito raro encontrarmos na actividade médica médicos que se disponham a aceitar, a propôr um modo alternativo de contacto com o doente, a abrirem o seu coração, a se entregarem de corpo e alma à tarefa maior da medicina: cuidar. muitos se preocupam em curar, curar, curar mesmo que essa cura se resuma a índices estatísticos de aproveitamento. não raro ouvimos: "esse caso é muito interessante", "vê lá bem este caso", etc. um doente não é um caso, tem nome próprio e respira como todos nós, tem uma família a quem ama, gosta de ver o sol nascer e pôr-se todos os dias. é um ser humano integral, com as suas fortalezas e limitações, com o seu modo de encarar o mundo. uma medicina que não integre isso tudo nunca poderá curar seja o que for, apenas adiar o inevitável.

os milagres acontecem quando amamos. e quando deixamos que o nosso coração actue. a prática de bernie siegel é mesmo isso: uma prática de deixarmos que criemos os nossos próprios milagres, amando, vivendo, rindo, chorando e expondo as nossas fragilidades. é engraçado como as coisas são: um dos meus "mestres", rolando toro, diz que o nosso corpo tem um inconsciente vital, que o impele para a vida e que é a mente, os nossos preconceitos, as nossas couraças que nos impedem de viver a verdadeira vida. essa impulsão é que transforma algumas pessoas em grandes lutadoras, em pessoas que vencem qualquer tipo de batalha, de doença, de amor, de trabalho. essa impulsão que nos faz viver até aos cem anos, como dizia bernie.

leiam esse livro: amor, medicina e milagres. é tudo o mais que tenho para dizer.

jorge vicente

ben charles edwards, the town that boars me

uma grande surpresa, confesso. estava a pesquisar a biografia de sophie ellis bextor, uma cantora de dance pop do reino unido quando li que esta participou, no ano passado, numa curta metragem do fotógrafo ben charles edwards. pesquisei o filme, convencido de que não o ia encontrar, mesmo no youtube. felizmente, encontrei-o e foi uma agradável surpresa, se bem que o filme não seja o filme ideal para todas as pessoas: amantes de cinema mainstream, hollywoodesco, de pipocas última geração, guardai-vos:

este filme é um musical surrealista na linha do mítico (ou não) rocky horror picture show: kitsch, divertido, ousado, com óbvias referências à cultura pop. a ver.

The Town That Boars Me


jorge vicente

philip pullman e o hades

(gravura de gustave doré para a divina comédia, parte 1: inferno de dante alighieri. trabalho de 1861-1868)


"«Are we dead now?» Will said to the boatman.

«Makes no difference,» he said. «There's some that came here never believing they were dead. They insisted all the way that they were alive, it was a mistake, someone would have to pay; made no difference. There's others who longed to be dead when they were alive, poor souls; lives full of pain or misery; killed themselves for a chance of a blessed rest, and found that nothing had changed except for the worse, and this time there was no escape; you can't make yourself alive again. And there's been others so frail and sickly, little infants, sometimes, that they're scarcely born into the living before they come down to the dead. I've rowed this boat with a little crying baby on my lap many, many times, that never knew the difference between up there and down here. And old folk too, the rich ones are the worst, snarling and savage and cursing me, railing and screaming: what did I think I was? Hadn't they gathered and saved all the gold they could garner? Wouldn't I take some now, to put them back ashore? They'd have the law on me, they had powerful friends, they knew the Pope and the King of this and the Duke of that, they were in a position to see I was punished and chastised... But they knew what the truth was in the end: the only position they were in was in my boat going to the land of the dead, and as for those kings and popes, they'd be in here too, in their turn, sooner than they wanted. I let 'em cry and rave; they can't hurt me; they fall silent in the end.

«So if you don't know whether you're dead or not, and the little girl swears blind she'll come out again to the living, I say nothing to contradict you. What you are, you'll know soon enough.»" (1)

phillip pullman



(1) PULLMAN, Philip - The Amber Spyglass. London: Scholastic Press, 2001. ISBN 0-439-99414-4. pg. 301, 302.

kung fu panda, de mark osborne e john stevenson

(imagem do filme kung fu panda, de mark osborne e john stevenson)


e se, do alto dos céus, caísse um animal gigante que vos fizesse repensar o modo como praticam artes marciais? como reagiriam?

jorge vicente