Wednesday, February 26, 2020

Accadien






Comment savons-nous que nous lisons correctement les langues mortes comme le latin ou même les hiéroglyphes ?












posted by Pierre Radulescu at 5:43 AM 0 comments

Tuesday, February 04, 2020

The Neighbors' Window

Maria Dizzia in The Neighbors’ Window
(image source: Facebook page of the movie)
no copyright infringement intended







The Neighbors’ Window, 2019
Oscar®-Nominated Live Action Short Film
(video by Marshall Curry Productions)






Wolfgang Held
Director of Photography
(image source: movie site)
no copyright infringement intended





(Wolfgang Held)

posted by Pierre Radulescu at 3:13 AM 0 comments

Friday, April 13, 2018

React.Js

class Hello extends React.Component { render() { return

Hello world!

; } }

posted by Pierre Radulescu at 9:33 AM 0 comments

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

United - 90 Years in One Minute




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posted by Pierre Radulescu at 12:28 AM 0 comments

Monday, April 11, 2016

Pascal-Jean Rebillat photographies de Paris


Posted by Pascal-Jean Rebillat photographies on Wednesday, January 14, 2015

posted by Pierre Radulescu at 1:35 PM 0 comments

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

bla bla

París es teatro divertido y terrible
(Rubén Darío, El pájaro azul)
image source: Abduzeedo
no copyright infringement intended

There are some days when you feel a terrible need to be alone, just with your thoughts, nothing else. To enter a hole and vanish. A big city with overcrowded streets, a small café or bistro in some corner of that city (not too pretentious, definitely not whimsy, more toward the dive bar kind). Maybe some jazz band of unknowns without any hype, in the background. Maybe an antiquated phone booth in the room, or a pool table that nobody uses any more. Surrounded by anonymous faces like yours, other people in search of loneliness. A bartender mastering the art of being discreet. A cup of coffee, or a glass of wine, beer, whatever. You and your thoughts, alone. And the big city around.

Hopper has given the definitive picture of the place: his Nighthawks, somewhere in the Greenwich Village, a spot like any spot there, and like no other spot, that Village of the thirties or forties, with guys the kind of Bogart or James Dean among the regulars.

I'm writing these lines seated in a small Bucharest café. It's the Falon, on Decebal Boulevard, close to what in bygone times was Bariera Vergului. I'm coming here almost any Sunday, for an hour or two, enjoying the atmosphere. Sometimes an old friend of mine is joining, to ruminate old memories together. But now I'm alone and the memories of other places like this one are coming to my mind.

I remember my first day in Manhattan, wandering through SoHo. A small restaurant appeared suddenly in front of my eyes. It was on the corner of Prince and Thompson streets, and its name was Milady's. From outside it looked like the entrance to some place of no return. Was it inside the same universe that I knew, based on that carbon combining and recombining through all those chemical reactions that I had learned in school? Well,  it was my very first day, so everything around looked alien. I pushed on the doorknob and stepped in, very humbly. Actually it was a very nice place (with a pool table and all that stuff), and I would come back there several times in the following years. You could have there a  huge sandwich and fries, or some Eggs Benedict, you could drink beer at your liking, or anything you liked. I wrote once about the place, the lady serving at the bar was from Reykjavik, and she seemingly kind of enchanted me.  A sorceress? Only I was too scared, that happens when you are for the first day in Manhattan. That place is no more, as I heard. It went out of business, replaced by some stupid fancy thing.

Soon after discovering Milady's I found another pub in SoHo, this time on Spring Street between Greenwich and Washington streets, pretty close to the Hudson. It was the Ear Inn, a bar with a fabulous history spanned throughout more than 150 years, with the upstairs apartment being over the times a brothel, a smuggler's den, a doctor's office, a speakeasy during the Prohibition, and so on and so forth. Of course, I was totally unaware of all this when I entered for the first time. I advanced to the counter and ordered a glass of vodka (now I realize that I was by that time quite a regular vodka drinker, and I'm wondering whether I should be ashamed of that, or rather ashamed of giving up this noble habit; good question, with no easy answer). I came then several evenings in a row, and the bartender asked me where I was from. I said Romania, at which he mentioned immediately Budapest, the confusion that is generalized all over the place there. When it comes to Romania, all those people know only two names, Budapest and Dracula. But a very nice spot, I came once during the day, the saloon was empty, and I took the time to admire the setting. It had definitely some style.

The Campbell Apartment, well hidden inside the Grand Central Station building, that's a bar that deserves a visit, if you enjoy classy settings that seem to shelter also some skeletons, remained from old strange stories, à la Agatha Christie, à la Edgar Poe. Well, I visited it only once, I was with one of my sisters and she mentioned the possiblity of skeletons, laying in some huge timber closets standing along the walls. Actually a waiter came up and, very casually, opened one of those closests: it was full of Scotch and Bourbon bottles.

Maybe it's better to look for the places described by Joseph Mitchell in his New Yorker profiles. I did that and I discovered some. Sloppy Louie's is no more, but McSorley's is still there on the Seventh Street, behind the Cooper Union, You enter inside and get a bit of a feeling of the good old days. Good Beer, Raw Onion and No Ladies, that was the standard back in the nineteeth century: supposedly men couldn't drink in tranquilitty in the presence of the other sex. Those were the times. Now, of course, women are allowed, but it was necessary a court order for that, and it came only in 1970.

I succeeded to find also Minetta, the tavern that had provided shelter, back in the 1930s and 1940s, to Joe Gould, the famous eccentric pretending to know the seagull language and claimimg to have written no more no less than The Oral History of Our Time (an encyclopedia existing actually only in his troubled mind). But, I must say, I was deceived with this Minetta Tavern: too much hype, and nothing to remind of what had been before, of that spirit.

Well, New York City has many bars of all kind, for all kind of appetites and all kind of purses. One that I love is in Chelsea, on the Seventh Avenue cornering the Nineteenth Street. It's the Peter McManus Café. I discovered it by chance and I was immediately hooked, Everything there brought in my mind the atmosphere of The Time of Your Life, the play of Saroyan. I started to look around, to find Joe, the loafer with a good heart, and Kitty Duval, the streetwalker longing for a better life, and the Arab, that Eastern philosopher and harmonica player, and all the other guys.  Actually they were there, only with other names and other faces, talking casually and drinking lazily. I ordered a beer, a lady of indefinite age observed immediately that a beer is tasteless without a sip of something strong, I accepted the challenge and poured some Scotch. A guy of about forty or so, carrying a tag of Jew for Jesus, asked me if I was from Eastern Europe. I said yes, and he started a story about his ancestry. His grandma had come from Bessarabia and married a Bulgarian. His father was a Greek. It was quite complicated, but the guy liked to tell stories...

Well, I will stop here, not that I don't like stories, only this McManus deserves a tale of its own. I promise to come with one, pretty soon.

And here I am now, at Falon in Bucharest, thinking of all this, and of other places I visited, in Philly and in Baltimore for instance, thinking also at some imaginary bars, invented by some authors and movie directors that I love, and placed by them in Paris and in Istanbul, in Tokyo and in Hong Kong. Which is definetely another story. All in good time. For now what I'd recommend you would be this text by Andrew O'Hagan: A Love Letter to Drinking in Bars





(Andrew O'Hagan)

(New York, New York)

posted by Pierre Radulescu at 6:43 AM 0 comments

Saturday, August 09, 2014

Munca la negru


Humans and chimps: the difference is crystal-clear. Or is it not? Is it possible to imagine a way of educating a chimpanzee to get from him human behavior? One of the personages from La classe operaia va in paradiso mentions an article about the topic, from a magazine of popular science. It is true that the personage is an inmate of a mental health institution. But, on the other hand (at least as the movie seems to suggest), one reaches full wisdom only when put in such an asylum: far from our daily agitation, it is time to contemplate the great questions raised by humankind. By the way, one of Kafka's stories (Ein Bericht für eine Akademie) tackles just this subject: the transformation of a monkey into a human.

La classe operaia va in paradiso takes the universe of Kafka's story and turns it upside down: it is about the transformation of humans into chimpanzees, as the ultimate paradigm of Capitalist society. Behind all blah-blahs this is the only truth: higher and higher productivity demands chimp-like humans. Consequently the whole business process is organized to achieve this goal. Creativity and initiative are strongly discouraged as being just too human, so against productivity logic - that requires tasks as repetitive and simply stupid as possible. The production line is the answer.

Now, to make this succeed, you need to enforce in these humans-chimps the illusion of happiness: small apartments in  new projects, color tv, second hand cars, and huge megaphones on their route to the production line, repeating ad nauseam that this is the real happiness. Plus, as they still have their unions, you need to develop a give and take strategy with the union bosses.









(Italian Movies)

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scenes from Late Spring
(source: Midnight Eye, The World of Ozu)
no copyright infringement intended

...perhaps the archetypal Ozu story: a widowed college professor lives with his daughter; she is slightly past marrying ager; in order to prompt her into marriage, the father pretends he is remarrying, and the two partake a final trip together to Kyoto; when they return, she is married, leaving the father to live all alone in the family house (source: Midnight Eye, The World of Ozu)

Like everyone, I have my very personal list of most preferred movies that I would enjoy to watch any time again and again (well, that would be probably impossible, that again and again; but I always remind these movies with great joy). Late Spring occupies one of the first places in this list. And it has its particular story related to me (each of these very few movies has such a particular story - this one, of Late Spring, is perhaps the closest to what a story means).

I was watching Hou Hsiao-Hsien's Good Men, Good Women, and there was a scene with a young woman talking at the phone, visibly agitated, while on a TV in the opposite corner of the room was running a movie unknown for me - a young couple running their bikes, their faces covered by genuine enthusiasm, as all world had been theirs. The mood of the young woman talking at the phone, the mood of the young couple: a contrast built without emphasis, as en passant. The bike scene was from Late Spring. I didn't know anything about the film, or about the director. It was my first encounter. But what a great scene, a small gem keeping inside a whole universe!

Soon after that I found a monograph dedicated to Ozu, written by Donald Richie, a film historian who dedicated the most part of his life to study the Japanese cinematography.










(Yasujiro Ozu and Setsuko Hara)


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Tokyo Story (Tôkyô monogatari 東京物語), 1953
Japanese theatrical release poster
(source: wikipedia)
no copyright infringement intended








(Yasujiro Ozu and Setsuko Hara)


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http://www.tasteofcinema.com/2015/the-10-best-movies-influenced-by-marxist-philosophy/

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Matvei Pogrebinsky
(Матвeй Самoйлович Погребинский)
1895-1937
(image source: wiki)
no copyright infringement intended

Road to Life (made by Nikolai Ekk in 1931) is the first Soviet sound movie. The impression is of technology in transition: it keeps the characteristics of a mute film (like use of intertitles, or lasting the image on certain moments, to make it more emphatic). The voice comes over - a mute featuring sound. The mix is pretty well balanced and has a good dynamic. I enjoyed the intertitles very much, they're looking great, like a Constructivist manifesto, and add visual energy to the ensemble. And speaking about Constructivists, the movie generic is literally fantastic, suggesting (for me) the idea of a Tatlin Tower.

Nikolai Batalov plays in one of the leading roles. When it comes to the history of Soviet cinematography, everybody would mention another Batalov, Aleksey, with his long and fruitful career covering the second half of the twentieth century. But we should bring justice to his cognomen Nikolai (the two were unrelated), an eminent film actor of the 1920's. He covered a much shorter span, dying in 1937, due to a progressive form of tuberculosis. By then he was less than forty. Maybe here in Road to Life it was his greatest role. An unbelievably perfect match: a role like created for this actor, an actor like born for this role.

Well, there is a second actor in this movie who needs also to be mentioned, as he creates with Nikolai Batalov a formidable pair, with a replica at the same high level. It's Yvan (or Yuvan) Kyrlya. Born into a Mari peasant family, beginning his life as a farm laborer and herdsman, now and then begging to find ends meet, later becoming an actor and a poet, having the chance to be discovered by director Nikolai Ekk and receiving the role of Dandy Mustafa in Road to Life ... and then everything about him gets blurred. He published two or three books of poetry (in Mari language), in 1936 he played in a movie made by director Yevgeni Ivanov-Barkov ( I hardly found info about this movie, Наместник Будды - it seems that its release was forbidden by the Soviet censorship), in 1937 he started to play at the Mari State Drama Theater in Yoshkar-Ola, and finally he was sent to a prison camp, for "counter-revolutionary activity". He died in prison: a victim of Stalinist repression, like so many others in those years.

The personal story of this actor, Yvan Kyrlya, parallels the larger story told by the movie, and his tragic end is mirroring all that ultimately happened to the personages portrayed in the movie. It is the story of the myriad of orphans left by the Russian Civil War and the famine, wandering here and there without any status, the vagabonds of the streets, living from begging, theft, petty crime or prostitution. Massive raids were organized to get the street children and to place them in orphanages. The most determined were escaping to go back on the streets. For these recidivists large reeducation colonies have been built and the people interned there became the subject of a huge pedagogical experiment. The colonies were up to a point self-governing - communes of productive labor. Their organization was based on two mutual principles: the responsibility of each individual in front of the collective, and the authority of the collective over each individual. This meant that any inmate in the colony was to be controlled, judged, punished if necessary, by the collective. Ultimately this meant  reeducation through peer pressure and communalism, to the detriment of the natural right of the individual to remain just himself and to understand and decide on his own terms.

Much has been written, for better or worse, about these reeducation colonies and it is not the place here to discuss the matter. The first name that comes to mind is Makarenko, the author of the Pedagogical Poem, However he was not the unique responsible for this endeavor, there was a much larger structure under the authority of NKVD (which should say something about the whole thing).

I was expecting the movie to be based on the Pedagogical Poem and to be about the colony organized by Makarenko. And this was true for the remake, made in 1955 (and the subsequent TV series from 1969).



Фабрика людей
source: sarpust
no copyright infringement intended










А. С. Макаренко и Болшевская коммуна

Болшевская трудовая коммуна ОГПУ

Болшевская трудовая коммуна (или Трудовая коммуна ОГПУ № 1 им. Г. Г. Ягоды)

Сказка для беспризорников: Болшевская трудовая коммуна ОГПУ

Болшевская Трудовая Коммуна

Василий Маслов







(Nikolai Ekk)







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posted by Pierre Radulescu at 11:46 AM 0 comments

Friday, July 19, 2013

Câteva cuvinte despre dragoste

A story called The Elbox, by Jill Rapaport
(Duchamp et Moi and Other Stories, page 120)
(the story has no connection with the image above)
(the image is from Elbox computers the Oscar Schindler link...)
no copyright infringement intended


Bartleby-age edifice ... on that jetty of city...
(Duchamp et Moi and Other Stories, page 120)
(Wall Street etching illustrating Melville's Bartleby the Scrivener)
no copyright infringement intended


She had taken trains and buses and gone far into outlying sections
(Duchamp et Moi and Other Stories, page 120)
(http://mrsimpilot.com/gallery/nymta/orionp.html)
no copyright infringement intended



A woman in Hollis operated a shop from her home
(Duchamp et Moi and Other Stories, page 120)
(shop sign on Jamaica Avenue near Hollis Avenue)
no copyright infringement intended



Another meeting happened some blocks from Church
and McDonald Avenues
(Duchamp et Moi and Other Stories, page 121)
(Bangladeshi stores on McDonald Avenue near Church Avenue)
no copyright infringement intended



near the airport where a long ramp led past gardens of a stifled formality
(Duchamp et Moi and Other Stories, page 121)
(http://www.aaroads.com/guide.php?page=s0878ny)
no copyright infringement intended


(the agency) occupied the second floor corner office
of an old building on East Forty-Second Street
(Duchamp et Moi and Other Stories, page 122)
(Chrysler Building in Foreground with Chanin Building Behind It)
no copyright infringement intended





(Jill Rapaport)






A Gathering of the Tribes Revisited
no copyright infringement intended



Cineva pe care nu l-am văzut fericit niciodată. Nu avea noroc cu serviciul. Începea prin a se împrieteni cu şeful, apoi începea să se teamă de el. Şi atunci devenea sarcastic. Şeful îi răspundea cu aceeaşi monedă. Sau serviciul îşi muta deodată sediul undeva departe şi îi lua mai mult de două ore să ajungă la muncă. Şi tot aşa, mai mult de două ore la întoarcere. De câteva ori a pierdut serviciul şi i-a luat ceva timp să îşi găsească unul nou. Nişte vecini păreau a se ocupa de droguri şi îi era teamă de ei. Erau şi alţi vecini care făceau un zgomot îngrozitor toată noaptea. I-a rugat să fie mai atenţi, nici nu l-au băgat în seamă. Nu se căsătorise niciodată, se temea să nu îşi piardă independenţa. Însă avea o prietenă, de foarte mulţi ani, cu care se certa definitiv din două în trei săptămâni: o săptămână de separaţie definitivă, două săptămâni de împăcare. Despărţirea, cum zic, definitivă, de fiecare dată. Şi de fiecare dată îmi explica pentru ce se despărţise definitiv. De fiecare dată scria un eseu despre nostalgia pe care o simţi când rămâi definitiv singur. Mi-l citea. Adevărul e că suna superb, de fiecare dată. Dar ştiam că peste o săptămână va veni împăcarea.

Avea mare talent la scris, însă niciodată nu reuşise să îşi publice o carte. Intra în câte un grup de scriitori aspiranţi, organizaţi în jurul câte unui soi de guru, participa la întâlnirile lor, asta îi lua mult timp, după vreo doi ani era destul de vechi de acum în grup ca să fie sprijinit eventual să publice. În momentul acela se supăra pe ei şi rupea toate legăturile. Aşa fusese toată viaţa. Vreo două povestiri foarte scurte şi le-a publicat pe web. Le-am citit, cu mulţi ani în urmă. Mi s-au părut fabuloase. Avea talentul de a spune într-o propoziţie de câteva cuvinte ceea ce alţi scriitori ar fi putut să o spună bătând câmpii în vreo două sau trei pagini. Se resemnase. Îmi spunea că scrie pentru sertar. Odată am găsit într-un almanah literar un text de o pagină şi jumătate scris de el. Şi anii treceau.

Acum câteva luni mi-a spus că îi va apărea o carte, o culegere de povestiri. Prima carte. L-am încurajat. Procesul de publicare a cărţii a continuat. Cu toate problemele pe care trebuie să le înfrunţi când îţi publici o carte. Îmi era teamă că se va întâmpla ceva şi acum şi că publicarea cărţii va fi ratată. Dar cartea avansa. Între timp m-a anunţat că i se spusese că într-o lună va fi dat afară dela serviciu. Reducere de schemă. De data asta şeful nu a mai fost sarcastic, i-a zis că îi pare rău şi că îi va fi greu să se descurce fără el, dar că era hotărât totul de directorii cei mari. L-am întrebat un singur lucru, cum merge cu cartea. Mi-a zis că avansa, că încă mai avea o mini-recenzie să o primească şi nu venea. Şi nişte probleme cu desenul de pe copertă.

Şi deodată cartea a apărut. O colecţie de povestiri, o sută şaizeci şi şase de pagini. O publicase la o editură independentă, un soi de centru cultural care încerca să acopere totul, şi artă foarte modernă, şi poezie foarte rebelă, şi mici spectacole de stand-up foarte politice şi foarte radicale.

Bun, cartea apăruse. O văzusem şi pe Internet şi mi-am comandat un exemplar imediat, atât de excitat am fost. Doar îmi promisese că atunci când ne vom întâlni îmi va dărui cartea. Dar eram prea nerăbdător să o am cât mai repede.

Mi-a vorbit apoi de lansare. Sâmbăta care a trecut urma să fie lansarea cărţii. La sediul aceluiaşi centru cultural, aşezat undeva la marginea oraşului. A lansat invitaţii pe Facebook şi pe email.

Sâmbătă dimineaţa ploua năprasnic. Omul era la pământ.

Dar în pofida ploii năprasnice, au venit o grămadă de oameni. A fost un succes uriaş. Şi în seara aceea prietenul meu a fost prima oară în viata lui fericit. Doamne, cât de fericit a putut fi!


(Jill Rapaport)





Încerc o traducere (sau mai bine zis o adaptare) a unei poveşti care m-a fermecat. Pe scurt, iat-o:

La naşterea unui copil stelele nu sunt niciodată triste. Doar că unora dintre noii născuţi stelele le surâd (ştiu ele pentru ce), la alţii stelele râd de-a binelea şi în sfârşit este şi categoria copiilor la care stelele fac pe ele de râs.

Ce se va întâmpla mai departe cu aceşti copii din urmă? Depinde. Eu vă voi vorbi aici doar de acei copii care au ajuns să urască pe viaţă arta modernă pentru că părinţii lor i-au târât după ei în expoziţii toată ziua bună ziua.

Îi datorez lui Marcel Duchamp privilegiul (sau poate blestemul) de a nu fi fost dat afară pe viaţă din grupul celor care sunt admişi să intre prin saloane de pictură, să o frece pe la vernisaje şi să citească din când în când cronici artistice prin New Yorker sau prin Atlantic.

Bref, eram la New York şi aveam nouă ani, iar surioara mea mai mică avea şase. Tata şi mama ne-au luat cu ei la o retrospectivă Marcel Duchamp. Era pe undeva prin Manhattan, cred că pe strada 25 sau pe lângă Bryant Square, şi se bucura de participarea maestrului însuşi.

Surioara mea era foarte cuminte şi nu ieşea din cuvântul babacilor, eu însă nu puteam pricepe pentru ce trebuia sa merg la o expoziţie a unui artist de care habar nu aveam, în loc să stau acasă să mă joc.

Clădirea în care se afla expoziţia era un zgârie nori urât şi fără nici un dumnezeu. Singurul lucru care m-a impresionat a fost ascensorul: era într-adevăr ca lumea, strălucea din toate alămurile, butoanele, şi beculeţele.

Am intrat în sală, era la etajul şapte parcă. Maestrul era acolo, cred că avea de acum vreo şaptezeci şi ceva de ani. Arăta ca o mumie, sau dacă vreţi ca un zombie, sau dacă vreţi ca un cadavru să îl duci direct la facultatea de medicină la disecţie. Era descărnat şi străveziu. Ţinea o mână în buzunar, iar cu cealaltă mână fuma (se fuma în draci în anii ăia în NY).

În jurul lui se crease un cerc de admiratori, care se deplasa împreună cu el. Căci maestrul nu stătea locului. Se bălăbănea dela dreapta la stânga şi dela stânga la dreapta. Asa că şi cercul ţopăia continuu ba la dreapta, ba la stânga. Toţi cei din jurul lui căutau să îi prindă orice vorbă îi ieşea din gură, să îi prindă o privire către el sau ea. Şi stăteau pregătiţi, cu zambetul acela tâmp cu care stai şi când eşti fotografiat.

Tatăl meu era venit aici dela Paris. Accentul îi rămăsese acelaşi ca pe malul Senei şi pe mine mă pufnea râsul ori de câte ori deschidea gura. Iubea arta franceză modernă, pentru el dadaismul şi toate aiurelile apărute imediat după primul război erau ca o religie. Era de fapt originar din România, şi era in stare uneori să meargă până unde şi-a inţărcat dracul iapa numai să găseasca un magazin românesc prin Queens sau mai ştiu eu pe unde. Dela el am învăţat şi vreo trei cuvinte româneşti, fără să ştiu însă ce înseamnă nici până azi. Doar că sună naşpa: brânză de Brăila. Mama îl iubea şi de aceea înghiţea arta franceză modernă pe care de fapt nu o iubea (era şi ea pictoriţă), şi îndrăgea de dragul lui şi Franţa, chiar dacă nu prea era de acord cu felul francezilor de a fi. Era americancă. Sigur, americancă din New York, de stânga, tot tacâmul, plus câţiva ani petrecuţi la Paris, dar până la urmă americancă de-a noastră.

S-au îndreptat amândoi (şi surioara mea i-a însoţit) la bufetul organizat acolo. Puteai să te serveşti cu un sandviş cu salam sau caşcaval, cu o fructă şi cu un pahar de vin alb sau roşu.

Eu nu i-am însoţit, ci am început să mă uit la desenele de pe pereţi. Ce mama dracului reprezenta fiecare, asta nu reuşeam să înţeleg. Urâte şi fără cap şi coadă. Ce naiba fusese dadaismul ăsta la 1919 când apăruse? O aiureală din capul ălora de-l creaseră, sau o glumă de-a lor? Dacă fusese o glumă, era una proastă. Oricum, după atâţi ani, gluma sau ce dracu' o fi fost, era acum obiect de veneraţie. Ce chestie!

Şi nu ştiu cum m-am pomenit deodată chiar în faţa maestrului. Părinţii reveniseră şi ei, cu un sandviş în mână. M-am întors spre ei şi i-am întrebat ce găsiseră frumos în toate desenele astea fără noimă şi pentru ce cădea în fund toată lumea? Tatălui meu i-a căzut falca (nu dela asta i s-a tras). Mama a zâmbit în acelaşi timp mişcându-şi un umăr.  Îi ştiam gestul ăsta. Era felul ei de a da un răspuns evaziv. Cât despre Marcel Duchamp, ei bine, a facut o grimasă, ridicându-şi amândouă sprâncenele şi schiţând ceva ce putea semăna a zâmbet.

Nu ştiam cum să iau zâmbetul chinuit al lui Duchamp. Poate încerca să îşi reprime un pârţ. Poate era felul lui de a reacţiona la orice propoziţie spusă în engleză, el neştiind decât franceza.

Sau poate prinsese brusc drag de mine, copilul inocent care striga că împăratul e gol, sătul şi el de toţi pupincuriştii din jurul lui.

(Jill Rapaport)


Amadeus King of Spain
Vanity Fair Spy cartoon, 1872
(http://www.amazon.com/SPAIN-AMADEUS-Spain-Vanity-cartoon/dp/B008CPV68U)
no copyright infringement intended


Azi noapte tot soiul de gânduri îmi trecură din nou prin cap, cu viteza unui supersonic. Mă întorsesem acasă făcut praştie de prea multă bere. Fusese groasă. Unul din amici fusese chiar luat de gabori, pe urmă lăsat liber. Rămăsese în faţa clădirii poliţiei urlând că nu era un beţiv şi că oricum nu băuse nimic (că-l credea dracu'). Caraliii dădeau din mână, sictiriţi de plictiseală, du-te şi te culcă. Le spusese exasperat că ar trebui să se adune toţi şi să îl citească în cor pe Nietzsche (ceea ce dovedea că era făcut criţă, pentru că atunci când era treaz nu vorbea decât de Walter Benjamin şi de Şcoala dela Frankfurt).

Doua gagici mă fixară deodată cu nişte ochi obraznici pe care îi simţeam din întuneric. Îmi simţeam spiritul ucis. Mi se scurgea şiroaie, înainte şi înapoi, inundasem strada. Mai puteam să rezist oare?

Am încercat atunci să îmi închipui viitorul. Străzi largi, trecători prin munţi, catarge cu steaguri fâlfâind. Vorbe care arătau aşa cum sunau. Nu arăta urât un asemenea viitor. Dar nu era numai asta.

Urmăream în viitorul meu femei bătrâne, mulţumite cu ele însele. Bigudiuri, ziare de scandal, robie casnică. Rahat.

Femei tinere treceau înarmate, năşteau copii, mureau. Bărbaţii erau fie asasini, fie victime. Unii se ascundeau prin întunecimi, ferindu-se de asasini, dar si de victimele lor. Aveau câteva ţoale pe ei, de fapt cam erau în fundul gol şi îşi plimbau boarfele în valize vechi sau în cărucioare pentru butelii de aragaz.

Dar ce-mi păsa! Aveam odăi mari, livezi, râuri, munţi, oceane, valuri uriaşe pe care surfam, înainte şi înapoi, simţind plăcut răcoarea apei. Cerurile îmi erau enorme, zdrobind atmosfera, se oglindeau în nisipurile scânteind, în aleile de marmură, în vastitatea bubuitoare a oceanului.

Eram Regele Spaniei, înconjurat de granzi şi de invincibile armade.

Mâncai un sandviş cu unt uns pe el, o felie de salam şi una de castravete. Îi telefonai apoi maică-mi să o întreb daca e okay. Eşti bine? mă întrebă. Probabil ar trebui să te mai odihneşti. Mă uitai în jur. Camarazii mei de băutură dormeau toţi, care pe unde apucase, sforăind ca nişte nesimţiţi. M-am trântit şi eu lângă ei şi am inceput să sforăi. Regele Spaniei, ce pălăria lui Anatol!

(Jill Rapaport)






Era-ntr-o vara cand am simtit cum toate se-nchideau in mine. Cand am simtit ca sunt batran, muribund, terminat.

O vara marcata de semne tot atat de variate pe cat era femeia aia antediluviana vorbind la telefonul acela rosu deconectat dintr-o cabina de departe, pe care il tinea in mana.

Marcata de corecturi de texte noaptea, vreme perfecta, produse excelente prin magazinele de electronice.

Marcata de umbre prelungi, de soare-apune, de ziduri aurii, de Strada 14, de talciocul din fata bisericii.

Marcata de acel grafitti de pe zidul cafenelei: sunt beat, si ce-i cu asta?

Vara aceea a fost caracterizata si de grupul de femei pe care le-am zarit in Galaxy Dinner, cu machiajul gros si cu o miscare lenta a buzelor.

Era caracterizata de muzee si de patlagele rosii.

De plansul meu la inceput de august, cand mi-am dat seama ca in fiecare august incepeam sa plang si ca incepeam de fiecare data o depresiune pe care nu voiam sa o recunosc - pana in vara aceea.

Izolare, angoasa, un incident inexplicabil.

Legume crude, paralizie.

Vara in care maica-mea a facut o operatie la ochi si a inceput apoi sa citeasca fara a mai obosi repede.

Renuntarea la fumat, inceputul unei sanatati monahale care nu imi placea. Fara tigari ma simteam dezbracat, emasculat, vulnerabil.

Vara in care m-am intrebat daca merita sa mai continui sa traiesc.Poate, imi ziceam, trebuia sa ma reapuc de fumat, sa mor de cancer la gat sau la plamani, sa mor de orice boala, caci imi era insuportabil sa mor sanatos.

Vara in care am vazut Soimul Maltez, reprocesat color, si mi-am dat seama ca un film alb-negru nu era numai absenta culorii, ci mult mai muilt. Un film alb-negru era singurul film adevarat.

Vara in care nu ma puteam opri din visare, iar toate visele erau de rau augur. Vara in care am descoperit ca nu voiam de fapt decat neantul. Verbele a fi, a face, a avea, nu mai insemnau nimic. Sau poate de abia acum incepeau sa aiba un inteles.

Si am simtit ca vara aceea devenea lichida, si se scurgea din mine. Nasol momentul.

(Jill Rapaport)






In Bucuresti este o zi cu zapada viscolita, prima zi de iarna zdravana. S-a anuntat cod portocaliu pana duminica seara sau luni dimineata, si posibilitatea trecerii la cod rosu. Am iesit de dimineata sa fac cateva cumparaturi, a fost o incercare grea sa ajung la magazin, atent sa evit portiunile cu polei, atent sa rezist la vantul naprasnic, atent sa ocolesc portiunile in care viscolul a aruncat un strat gros de zapada, si atent fireste la masini. Am avut apoi la cumparaturi o serie de mici ghinioane, probleme la un bancomat, le-am rezolvat, breteaua dela pantaloni tot desfacandu-se in spate, unde nu aveam cum sa ajung sa o pun la loc, am rugat un alt cumparator, omul a fost dragut si m-a ajutat, dupa doua minute, breteaua s-a desfacut din nou, am rugat alt cumparator, intamplator avea o singura mana, m-a ajutat si el, apoi sacosele mi s-au rupt, am rezolvat-o si pe asta, apoi drumul inapoi prin viscol, asta a fost experienta mea de dimineata.

Acum am gasit pe Facebook o mica bijuterie pusa acolo de rim, un mic articol din blogul doamnei Silvia Colfescu, o doamna distinsa care vorbeste cu dragoste si mestesug despre Bucuresti. Articolul ei este intitulat Delicii de iarna:

București, 25 ianuarie 2014, viscol, Fetească neagră rosé de Murfatlar, brânză Brie, pâine prăjită, nuci, flori de gheață pe geam, parfum de mandarine, Don Giovanni, șuierul vântului în luminator, garoafe roșii, zăpadă până la genunchi pe terasă, mere, cărți, un câine lup și un câine-al nimănui se joacă nebunește în zăpadă drept în mijlocul străzii, iarnă, iarnă, iarnă...

Si o imagine superba: dar mai bine va dau adresa:


Cum zic, rim a adus pe Facebook aceasta mica bujuterie. Si mi-am amintit de o alta zi de demult in care tot asa, Bucurestiul intra deodata in iarna naprasnica.

Era cu multi ani in urma, eram tanar, si lucram la IDEB, intreprinderea de electricitate. Aveam lucrari in tot orasul, unde erau statii electrice, puncte de alimentare, sau posturi de transformare. Ca tanar inginer, aveam in subordine trei echipe si mergeam la punctele lor de lucru in fiecare zi. Visam sa ajung odata sa lucrez in domeniul calculatoarelor, si deseori in drumurile mele, asezat in tramvai sau troleibuz, citeam dintr-o carte de Fortran, era scrisa de Petre Dimo.

In ziua aceea, era o vineri, fusesem la o lucare care era la o statie eletrica de pe Calea Grivitei, langa Cimitirul Sfanta Vineri. Plecasem de acolo sa ma intorc la sediu. pe Calea Serban Voda. Am luat un troleibuz care s-a oprit la Gara de Nord. Din cauza zapezii neasteptate nu mai mergea mai departe. Am intrat in gara, si am vazut ca trenurile aveau fireste intarzieri mari. Am intrat in retaurant sa beau o bere, oricum nu mai aveam cum sa ajung in capul celalt al orasului la sediu.

Mesele erau toate ocupate. Am vazut o masa la care era un scaun liber. Am cerut voie si m-am asezat. Erau o doamna si un domn in etate, si o femeie tanara. Am crezut ca sunt impreuna. Spre mirarea mea, doamna si domnul au platit si au plecat.

Imediat a venit un tanar de varsta mea, a cerut voie si s-a asezat. Era foarte volubil si foarte simpatic. Urma sa plece cu trenul, nu stia ce avea sa se intample pe drum si cat de multe ore va petrece in tren, asa ca si-a zis sa fie mancat. A comandat o friptura si o bere. Eu comandasem o bere.

Femeia dela masa avea in fata ei doua sticle de bere, una inceputa. Osptarul trecea si o intreba daca vrea sa palteasca. Ea amana.

A inceput sa ne explice situatia ei, mai mult prin jumatati de fraze si sugestii. Am inteles repede ca fusese agatata de un barbat care o adusese aici, comandase doua beri, bause putin dintr-una din sticle, apoi ii spusese ca se duce la closet, si nu mai aparuse.

In momentul in care tanarul de langa mine, volubilul, a inteles situatia, si-a inhatat farfuria cu friptura si berea si s-a mutat la alta masa, intr-o veselie.

Situatia femeii era din ce in ce mai penibila. Ospatarul venea si o tot intreba, ea tot amana. De fapt nu aevea bani destui sa plateasca doua beri.

Evident ca eram foarte incurcat si nu stiam cum sa procedez. Pe de o parte nu aveam nici o umbra de simpatie pentru femeie, pe de alta parte intelegeam ca femeia isi cauta un fraier sa o scoata din belea, pe de alta parte, nu se facea sa nu o ajut.

Dupa ce mi-am terminat berea, am cerut plata. I-am zis ospatarului ca vreau sa ii platesc sticla de bere. Femeia a inceput sa planga. Cu un amestec de mila si dezgust, i-am zis omului ca platesc si alea doua beri. Femeia s-a ridicat si a tasnit afara.

Cu trecerea anilor, meditand la intamplarea aceea, mi-am dat seama ca am procedat corect. Evident ca femeia "isi cauta un fraier", dar situatia ei era mai importanta decat mandria mea. Evident ca era o femeie de doi bani, dar iarasi, asta nu avea importanta. Evident ca ospatarul putea el sa ii spuna sa se duca dracului si sa achite el, din baccisul pe care il lua dela toti. Si evident ca eram foarte tanar si cam fraier. Ar fi trebuit sa ii spun femeii dela incpeut ca achit eu si ca ea poate sa plece.


Prima zi cu multa zapada de acum multi ani. Mi-am amintit de ea, in prima zi de zapada multa de acum. Si citind bijuteria adusa pe Facebook de rim, caruia ii multumesc inca odata.




Eram in clasa cincea sau a sasea, in vacanta de vara, intr-o tabara de pionieri. Intr-o seara ni s-a adus un film. Era italienesc si se numea Maine va fi prea tarziu. Se petrecea tot intr-o tabara de vacanta, cu baieti si fete cam de varsta noastra. Treceau si ei prin aceleasi curiozitati, intrebari si incercari prin care treceam si noi. Cum ramane o femeie gravida? Cineva (din film) vazuse un alt film in care un barbat saruta o femeie. In scena urmatoare femeia aparea cu un copil in brate. Deci daca voiam sa avem si noi un copil, parea simplu: trebuia sa o sarutam pe una din fete. Excitant. Fetele din film pareau insa a fi mai mature decat baietii (ca intotdeauna). Intrebarea lor era, daca poti sa ramai gravida stand pe closet dupa o alta fata care a ramas deja gravida. Mai bine sufli in iaurt, ce sa zic. Ca si baietii si fetele din film, si noi aveam sa descoperim adevarul incetul cu incetul, ca si ei aveam sa ne batem joc de cei care ni se pareau indragostiti, ca si ei aveam sa cautam sa le facem poante proaste fetelor care de fapt ne placeau, iar fetele aveau si ele sa faca la fel. Ca si ei aveam sa traim farmecul primei iubiri, frumos si copilareste. Si uneori nu chiar copilareste.

La varsta aceea nu puteam sa inteleg filmul decat instinctual. Era de fapt un film pentru adulti. Cum sa reactionezi ca parinte sau profesor fata de impulsurile erotice ale copiilor. Cel mai simplu parea sa impui o disciplina ferma si sa nu permiti nimic. Este insa bine? Uite ca vrei nu vrei, viata sexuala a copiilor evolueaza, intrebarile pe care tu nu le permiti, ca si tentatiile pe care tu le reprimi, exista. Copiii astia sunt fiinte umane, nu roboti. Ei trebuie pregatiti, cu tact, dar cu curaj si responsabilitate. Nu trebuie lasat pe maine. Maine va fi prea tarziu. Si cum procedam daca in pofida tuturor restrictiilor noastre un baiat si o fata calca totusi pe bec? Ii condamnam, ii exmatriculam, ii supunem oprobiului public? Sau ramanem alaturi de ei, pentru a-i ajuta sa se reecchilibreze?

Sigur, de atunci si pana acum lucrurile s-au schimbat mult. Emanciparea sexuala a mers atat de departe incat unuia din eroii filmului acestuia facut in 1950 i s-ar parea ca a ajuns pe alta planeta.

Filmul acesta mi-a ramas in minte atat de multi ani pentru rolul interpretat de Vittorio De Sica. Aveam sa il vad dupa aceea in multe filme, si m-a impresionat in Generalul della Rovere. Aveam sa vad filme regizate de el, iar Hotii de biciclete (pe care l-am vazut foarte tarziu, acum cativa ani) este extraordinar. Printre altele si pentru talentul lui De Sica de a conduce jocul copilului din film.

Dar daca va fi sa aleg vreodata pentru ce film nu-l voi putea uita niciodata pe Vittorio De Sica, asta este, Maine va fi prea tarziu (Domani è troppo tardi). Nu voi putea niciodata sa uit nobletea si demnitatea profesorului de stiinte naturale care stie sa vorbeasca elevilor lui cu multa distinctie si cu multa determinare despre marile secrete ale vietii, care stie sa il mustre pe baiut dupa ce acesta greseste cu o fata, care stie sa o mangaie pe fata care a gresit si sa ii spuna ca nu trebuie sa ii fie rusine.

Iar daca toate acestea au pentru mine un chip si poarta un nume, este Vittorio De Sica.

Am gasit doar cateva fragmente de film pe youTube. Si am redescoperit o fata frumoasa, jucand minunat puritatea unei fete care descopera dragostea. Pier Angeli, asta era actrita, avea atunci 18 ani si era primul ei rol. Avea sa plece dupa unul sau doi ani la Hollywood si sa mai faca alte filme. Va fi iubita lui James Dean, si nu ii va supravietui foarte mult. A murit si ea prematur, victima a unui exces de barbiturice.



L'amore più bello (L'uomo dai calzoni corti), 1958
German poster of the movie
(http://www.zvab.com/buch-suchen/autor/filmheft--progress-film-programm)
no copyright infringement intended

(click here for the Romanian version)

Do you remember the children playing in the Italian movies of the fifties? We were their age, the generation of Baby boomers, and they raised up together with us, to be today as old as we are.

Edoardo Nevola, born in Rome in 1948, was one of these bambini dei filmi degli anni '50.

When L'amore più bello (known also as L'uomo dai calzoni corti) came out in 1958, Edoardo Nevola was already known from some previous films, like Il ferroviere. A movie made by Pietro Germi in 1956. I didn't have the chance to watch it. The director was also playing in the main role: a train engineer defeated by life, seeking refuge in alcohol. His son (Edoardo Nevola), innocent and faithful presence, would determine the father to give up drunkenness. That's melodrama, you'd say, and of course it is, only the Neorealists didn't fear melodrama. And beginning with Ladri di biciclette (that one with another child actor, Enzo Staiola), Italian filmmakers had learned the lesson of putting the main hero and his child in counterpoint. The child who believes in his father, who stands by him always, who cannot believe that his father could have any weaknesses - and when witnessing such a weakness, taking it with dignity, standing further by his father.

L'uomo dai calzoni corti: I watched it long time ago, a few years after its release. This time the personage played by Edoardo Nevola has no father, like in Il ferroviere, only mother, and she has abandoned him. He is raised in an orphanage in Sicily. When being told that his mother lives in Naples, the kid decides to go after her. He runs away from the orphanage and a chain of picaresque situations follows. The kid arrives at Naples to find out that his mother has moved to Milan. He is heading to Milan and will meet on his way all kind of people. An old puppeteer (Eduardo de Filippo) convinces the boy to stay with him and be of help at the puppet theater (it happens that the show is about a remorseful mother that has abandoned her child).  He will leave after some time, to go on with his journey. A family of American tourists finds the kid on the road and offers him a new jacket and hat, a thief (Memmo Carotenuto) steals them from the boy, later on they meet again and the thief gets a liking for the kid and decides to take care of him. The police will arrest the thief after some time and the kid is again alone. A truck driver (Francisco Rabal) picks him up and brings the kid home. They don't have children, the driver and his wife, would it be this bambino the chance of their life? The kid will find the force to leave them, and go further to find his mother.

No, his mother doesnt't live in Milan anymore, she moved to Venice. The kid arrives at Venice and eventually he is in front of the mother. Her first reaction is to close him the door. She is now married and has a daughter, the kid is for her closed history. And the boy takes the blow with great dignity, as maybe children only know how to do it.

The mother (Alida Valli, I've seen her only in this movie, she was indeed a great beauty) will come to her senses and invite the kid inside. Only he is now reticent and notices that they have their big worries at home. The husband comes from work in the evening, very tired and grumbling on anything. The mother is telling him about the boy and that she intends to leave with him. If the boy was able to cross Italy to come to her, she will stand by him now. Are you crazy? asks the husband who hadn't known anything about the child till then.

The kid hears the discussion and leaves alone to go to the police and surrender as an orphanage run out. But now it's the husband running after him and taking him back. From now on he will have a father and a mother.



Of course, the whole is a too big melodrama, of course, the theme from Cuore is used here and thickened a lot, but, beyond all this, the boy is so genuine, so convinced and so convincing, that makes you fully immerse in his story.

Also this movie has an interesting structure, the main theme replicating now and then in the various episodes that take place (like in the puppet show, and not only: in another part of the movie, a girl runs away from home with her lover - maybe such was the mother's story, too). And also it's a splendid road movie, a picaresque tableau of Italy of the fifties, at the peak of Neorealism, country and movies together.

-------

Here is another movie with Edoardo Nevola, from 1959: La Cento Chilometri.





Every year a marathon is organized in Rome and the winner has been for a long time the illustrious athlete Tocacelli (Massimo Girotti). His child is always near him, running on a bicycle, giving him water with sugar when need is, giving him a towel to wipe the sweat, and generally taking care of the runner. It's as simple as that, the kid is his father coach! (Or so he believes, but he's very determined). There is a whole world around them, a young runner who meets during the race his love from high school, an old and fat lawyer (Mario Carotenuto) who came to the marathon to show himself that he can do it, there is also an athlete whose pregnant wife goes into labor during this time, and there are many, many others, each one with a bit of a story.

Well, eventually Tocacelli has to give up, he is too exhausted to continue the race. There is an end for the athletic performance, as it is for everything. He has to explain this to the kid, who follows him in tears. They will have time enough from now on to make the tour of Rome by streetcar, enjoying the sight. And he, the father, will be allowed now to have a cigarette sometimes, isn't it? Do you think I didn't know that you were smoking also until now, hidden from me in the toilet?

So in the end the marathon has a new winner, who will find out that his wife has just given birth to a few twins. How many, you'll ask. You'll get the answer in the movie.





(Italian Movies)



posted by Pierre Radulescu at 1:57 PM 0 comments

Friday, June 07, 2013

Munca in progres


(image by Kelley Leos on Prezzi)
no copyright infringement intended








(image by Maricarmen Juarez on Prezi player)
no copyright infringement intended




A queer thing about those waters: there are no
Birds there, or hardly any.
I did not miss them, I do not remember
Missing them, or thinking it uncanny.

The beach so-called was a blinding splinter of limestone,
A quarry outraged by hulls.
We took pleasure in that: the emptiness, the hardness
Of the light, the silence, and the water’s stillness.

But this was the setting for one of our murderous scenes.
This hurt, and goes on hurting:
The venomous soft jelly, the undersides.
We could stand the world if it were hard all over.




(Donald Davie)

.................................................


I came over this photo by chance, browsing the web in a very undisciplined way, and my own memories of Somerville and Davis Square woke up immediately. I wasn't there too often, actually no more than three times.

First time it was in October 2002. I had been that morning to the INS in Boston, spending several hours there, and I came then to Somerville, to the Social Security office that was located on Elm Street, in the proximity of the square.

I was pretty new in America and actually that was the very day of starting my path to immigration. I remember I entered in a small deli or something in Davis Square and the seller, he was an old guy, noticed my accent and asked me where I was from. I told him I had come from Romania and that I had decided to remain in America and start a new life. Oh, it will be hard, he said, you'll need a lot of courage. He told me that he had come from Italy, thirty years back.

I wasn't alone, all my family was accompanying me, including my granddaughter Bianca (the other one, Daria, was not yet born).  Actually Bianca was only two years old.


Rosebud - we just got word that this old troubadour is empty
(posted in Facebook by Dirty Old Boston)
no copyright infringement intended




Diesel Café
image by Catherine Vitagliano
(http://www.diesel-cafe.com/diesel-gallery/)
no copyright infringement intended

There was also a coffee house there in Davis Square, it was a very interesting spot, good for students and older guys still students in spirit, looking kind of a student club, or kind of a studio for a poor artist. I was there several times, when I stayed first time at my son. Then I moved to NY, then to DC area, when I found my job. When I moved back to my son, to prepare my return to Romania, I was once at Davis Square again. The old coffee house was no more. There was a Starbucks instead.



(New England)


-----------------------------------------------

O carte pe care am gasit-o absolut intamplator, la mall, cu un numar mic de pagini (140) si un pret modic. Evident in traducere romaneasca.

Sara Antonelli este profesor de literatura americana la o universitate din Roma (Universita di Roma Tre) si raspunde de programele culturale ale Centrului de Studii Americane din Roma. Este o carte in care este prezentata foarte condensat evolutia Statelor Unite incepand cu anii 60 pana in zilele noastre, in paralel cu evolutia culturii americane. O perioada in care s-au intamplat multe si in care societatea americana s-a schimbat in mod dramatic, schimbari reflectate de evolutia la fel de dramatica a culturii americane. O privire retrospectiva mai intai asupra anilor cincizeci - aparent ultimul deceniu de echilibru in viata societatii americane (vezi de exemplu romanul Pastorala Americana scris de Philip Roth), dar in care au aparut germenii transformarilor revolutionare de mai tarziu (generatia Beat a acelor ani, romanul lor emblematic On the Road al lui Jack Kerouac). Si aici o scurta poveste la care revin in final. Apoi anii 60 si tot ce a urmat. Kennedy si Noua Frontiera, Johnson si The Great Society pe de o parte, Vietnamul pe de alta, New Left, Black Power, Manifestatiile dela Chicago, etc, Nixon, incercand sa se bazeze pe un consens al "Americii Tacute", pacea dela Paris, deschiderea spre China si URSS, esuarea in afacerea Watergate, epoca lui Carter, apoi Reagan, si tot ce a urmat. Transformari dramatice, reflectate cum zic fidel de transformarile dramatice din cultura, postmodernismul ca expresie a societatii postindustriale si cu diparitia brutala a vechii societati industriale (crearea unei societati a autostrazilor, fizice si informatice, care leaga intre ele centre urbane in decadere, odata cu decaderea industriei - reflectare in pop art, in minimalism, si asa mai departe). Toate astea prezentate foarte condensat, dar consistent. Iti trebuie in orice caz sa ai guts ca sa citesti cartea asta in care dela o pagina la alta te lovesti de beat generation si Kerouac, de off-off-Broadway si Woodstock, de Black Panthers si Malcolm X, de procesul dela Chicago, de Watergate, mai tarziu de Rauschenberg, Warhol si Jasper Johns, de Al Gore si proiectul autostrazii informationale si de atatea altele care s-au intamplat. Am citit azi aproape jumatate din carte. Numarul personalitatilor si evenimentelor la care se face referire e mult mai mare.

Si in fine, intorcandu-ma la "scurta poveste". In octombrie 1951 finala campionatului de baseball a opus doua echipe new-yorkeze, Dodgers si Giants, fiecare cu masele lor de suporteri inflacarati. Peste cativa ani, fiecare din aceste doua cluburi au fost cumparate de "moguli" care le-au mutat foarte departe de New York, iar finala din 1951 avea sa fie memorata cu nostalgie, expresie a unui timp apus in care suporteri si jucatori alcatuiau o comunitate superba de mod de viata si de idealuri. Un film facut in 1995 (Blue in the Face) avea sa povesteasca despre aceste timpuri fericite care se terminasera de mult. Ei bine, in 1997, Don DeLillo reia acest eveniment in roamnul sau Underworld si il citeste in cheie diferita: data finalei din 1951 a fost si data in care sovieticii au facut al doilea test nuclear. Acelasi eveniment inteles diferit: pe de o parte nostalgia unui timp "pastoral" (revin aici la romanul Pastorala Americana), pe de alta parte decelarea in acel timp "pastoral" a ceea ce era "inceputul sfarsitului". Insist asupra acestei dihotomii pentru ca vorbim zilele acestea despre cum il citeste (si cum il intelege) fiecare epoca pe Hamlet (sau Jocul de-a vacanta al lui Sebastian).


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Dai Sixties a Bush Jr.: La Cultura USA Contemporanea, a book that I found absolutely by chance at the mall, in a pile of many other books, completely unrelated each other in content or style or category of targeted readers or anything else, while sharing the same sizes (100 - 150 pages) and price. The author, Sara Antonelli, is teaching Anglo-American literature at Università degli Studi Roma Tre and is in charge with the cultural programs at the American Studies Center in Rome.

A book about the evolution of American society starting with the 1960's and going toward our days, and in parallel the evolution of American culture: fifty years of dramatic changes that completely reshaped everything there. All this presented in a very condensed form while nothing is left aside, and you need guts to read the book, as paragraph after paragraph is filled with consistent information. The way the changes in society and culture are paralleled and put in sync is remarkable, perhaps the main merit of this book. I was particularly impressed by the way Post-Modern Art and Post-Industrial Society were traced together in the book: a civilization of superb highways linking failed cities, a network of global knowledge versus lost local businesses and opportunities.

Well, to talk consistently in only about 140 pages about Kerouac and Beat Generation, New Frontier, Great Society and Vietnam, New Left, and The Feminine Mystique, off-off-Broadway and Woodstock, Black Power and Black Panther, Watergate, Reaganomics, Minimalism and Pop Art, Information Superhighway and so many other things, that's challenging for the reader, while rewarding if you keep the pace. And I did my best to keep the pace.


(A Life in Books)

posted by Pierre Radulescu at 2:32 AM 0 comments