Querem realmente discutir classicismo?
Tenham um mínimo de bons modos, sejam higiênicos e façam-se o favor.
(e, por uma vez pelo menos, vejam os filmes)
Assinar:
Postar comentários (Atom)
Querem realmente discutir classicismo?
Tenham um mínimo de bons modos, sejam higiênicos e façam-se o favor.
(e, por uma vez pelo menos, vejam os filmes)
3 comentários:
Incidentally, very recently I had this foolish idea – pathetic, silly if you wish – to reveal "The Tiger of Eschnapur" to a couple of friends, as it was shown on TV. My enthusiasm was not sufficient to convince them of what could be at stake, but these dear friends, total neophyte regarding cinema, willingly took part to this little experience. I did not take the trouble to make any preparatory introduction, full with trust in the miracle to come. No need to say it was a complete failure. Sarcastic laughs didn't take a long time to come. I faced up without blushing, holding back my tears and swallowing my anger. We didn't wait long to turn the TV off and skip it for something else.
Anger? Anger at what? With who? My friends? Myself, naïve enough to believe there are two pairs of eyes in the entire universe that are able to see the world as only one? Lang and this secret? Which damned secret?, so well buried that nobody can see it, except for a handful of fools, masturbating in front of dead images.
There is no secret. Just shit on the eyes – meaning no offence to anyone, especially to these friends, whose open mind has nothing to envy to many people I know. But they can't see. They don't know how to see. They would not even know how to start. And, actually, they don't care. Corrupted eyes, eager for pre-degisted formatted programs, with no appetite for the unknown. And yet, all is on the screen. Nothing to decipher with a secret code. No need to know twenty movies by Fritz Lang and get familiar with his secrets obsessions. All is on the screen. The face of Debra Paget coming trough the stones. Paul Hubschmid yelling at the sun. And don't talk me about lost innocence. There are only pure innocent hearts here below.
As a matter of fact, and rather paradoxically in our images world, there is no place and no time here where one could have the opportunity to learn how to read images – not even talking about movies. "Moonfleet", "Mon Cas" and "Street of Shame" should be compulsory in every single school as part of the regular programme.
Just pissing in the wind anyway. We can live with the divorce between so-called auteurists and audience. Leaving only one question: why the taste for beauty?
Quem escreveu isto, Bruno?
Maxime Renaudin.
Postar um comentário