Um louco pedaço do mundo actual, tão surreal que se torna real. Loucamente bonito e triste. Nesta confusão trituradora, absurda, não é nada fácil redescobrir consistentemente a eterna beleza à nossa volta. Somos o niilismo da Marina Abramovich 'wanabe' e os arrependimentos de Jep Gambardella.
Leve pincelada de memória de uma família peculiar, liderada por um pai especial, médico pouco ortodoxo, numa Colômbia perturbada. Tradução medíocre para português.
29 Não é a morte que leva aqueles que amamos. Pelo contrário, guarda-os e fixa-os na sua juventude adorável. Não é a morte que dissolve o amor, mas a vida.
187 A morte de um recém-nascido, ou de um velhoh dói menos. Há como que uma curva crescente no valor da vida humana, e o pico, creio eu, situa-se entre os quinze e os trinta anos, depois, a curva começa, lentamente, a descer outra vez, até que, aos 100 anos, coincide com a do feto. Aí, estamo-nos a borrifar.
Texto de Mário Benedetti
Com Ivo Canelas e Pedro Gil
Videasta - João Gambino
São Luiz
Intenso e inteligente.
Contida e focada violência para se sentir a valer quando explode. Somos salpicados pela água, pela dor e pela intrigante captura e execução final de um dos protagonistas, não soubemos bem qual. Belo
Kristina Grozeva e Petar Valchanov, 2016
Stefan Denolyubov como Tzanko Petrov e Margita Gosheva como Julia Staykova
Belo e poderoso. A injusta pobreza através dos tempos, repetida. A riqueza de espírito corrompida pela pobreza de alma. A prepotência do dinheiro e do poder a sobrepor-se, desrespeituosos, a um objecto sem valor, apenas vaso de emoção e significado. Acho que não a matou.
Neil Burguer, 2006
Com Edward Norton, Jessica Biel
Falta profundidade a este filme agradável de Domingo. A enorme metáfora que encerra, a ilusão do palco aplicada à vida, não é, convenhamos, surpreendente.
Vívido episódio de acção, amor e morte. Os básicos blocos para construir uma guerra. Homenageia touradas e pinta a tragédia da guerra, por maior que seja a nobreza dos seus participantes. Robert Jordan é um herói condenado à morte repleto de vida, tal como o mundo à sua volta. Hemingway consegue parar o tempo, fazê-lo descorrer muito lentamente e quase colocar-nos lá, na carne daquelas pessoas.
P54 Robert Jordan pushed the cup toward him. It was a milky yellow now with the water and he hoped the gypsy would not take more than a swallow. There was very little of it left and one cup of it took the place of the evening papers, of all the old evenings in cafes, of all the chestnut trees that would be in bloom now in this month, of the great slow horses of the outer boulevards, of bookshops, of kiosks, and of galleries, of the Parc Montsouris, of the Stade Buffalo, of the Butte Chaumont, of the Guarantee Trust Company and the Ile de la Cite, of Foyot's old hotel, and of being able to read and relax in the evening; of all the things he had enjoyed and forgotten and that came back to him when he tasted that opaque, bitter, tongue-numbing, brain-warming, stomach-warming, idea changing liquid alchemy.The gypsy made a face and handed the cup back. 'It smells of anis but it is bitter as gall,' he said. 'It is better to be sick than have that medicine.' 'That's the wormwood,' Robert Jordan told them. 'In this, the real absinthe, there is wormwood. It's supposed to rot your brain out but I don't believe it. It only changes the ideas. You should pour water into it very slowly, a few drops at the time. But I poured it into the water.' 'What are you saying?' Pablo said angrily, feeling the mockery. 'Explaining the medicine,' Robert Jordan told him and grinned. 'I bought it in Madrid. It was the last bottle and it's lasted me three weeks.' He took a big swallow of it and felt it coasting over his tongue in delicate anesthesia. He looked at Pablo and grinned again." p89 We ate in pavilions on the sand. Pastries made of cooked and shredded fish and red and green peppers and small nuts like grains of rice. Pastries delicate and flaky and the fish of a richness that was incredible. Prawns fresh from the sea sprinkled with lime juice. They were pink and sweet and there were four bites to a prawn. Of those we ate many. (...) All the time drinking a white wine, cold, light and good at thirty centimos the bottle. And for an end; melon. That is the home of the melon. p141 They trusted you on understanding the language completely and speaking it idiomatically and having a knowledge of the different places. A spaniard was only really loyal to his village in the end.
First Spain of course, then his own tribe, then his province, then his village, his family and finally his trade. If you knew Spanish he was prejudiced in your favor, if you knew his province it was that much better, but if you knew his village and his trade you were in as far as any foreigner ever could be.
p136 In Madrid I wanted to buy some books, to go to the Florida Hotel and get a room and to have a hot bath, he thought. I was going to send Luis the porter out for a bottle of absinthe if he could locate on at the Mantequerías Leonesas or at any of the places off the Gran Via and I was going to lie in bed and read after the bath and drink a couple of absinthes and then I was going to call up Gaylord's and see if I could come up there and eat.
243. You felt, in spite of all bureaucracy and inefficiency and party strife something that was like the feeling you expected to have and did not have when you made your first communion. It was a feeling of consecration to a duty toward all of the oppressed of the world which would be as difficult and embarrassing to speak about as religious experience and yet it was authentic as the feeling you had when you heard Bach, or stood in Charters Cathedral at León and saw the light coming through the great windows; or when you saw Mantegna and Greco and Brueghel in the Prado. It gave you a part in something that you could believe in wholly and completely and in which you felt an absolute brotherhood with the others who were engaged in it.
Dying was nothing and he had no picture of it nor fear of it in his mind. But living was a field of grain blowing in the wind on the side of a hill. Living was a hawk in the sky. Living was an earthen jar of water in the dust of the threshing with the grain flailed out and the chaff blowing.
447 Golz watched the planes with his hard proud eyes that knew how things could be and how they would be instead and said, proud of how they could be, believing in how they could be, even if they never were, ' Bon. Nous ferons notre petit possible' and hung up.
449 Today is only one day in all the days that will ever be. But what will happen in all the other days that ever come can depend on what you do today.
