30.9.08
Bebés y políticos
Por algún blog suelto en internet encontré un post con muchas fotos de Obama posando con niños durante la campaña. Aparecía besando bebés con frases de apoyo tipo Vote 4 Obama escritas en su frente, sonriéndole a nenes que lo miraban con admiración, con sus hijas acompañándolo, y me di cuenta mientras las iba viendo de que todo eso me generaba mucha simpatía y hacía que Obama me cayera bien. Nunca me puse a pensar por qué es tan importante para los candidatos hacer ese teatro para ganar popularidad cuando en realidad poco tiene que ver su capacidad de gobierno con el que le caigan bien los chicos (y viceversa). Pero después me acordé de Air Force One, una película en la que el Presidente de Estados Unidos de América es un family man perfecto, con una nena hermosa y una mujer que lo apoya en todo, que en un momento de la trama se ve forzado a decidir entre dejar que el terrorista que secuestró el avión mate a su hija o tomar una decisión política dañina para su país. Y el tipo elige salvar a su hija. Ni siquiera le da tiempo a que el villano termine su conteo mientras le apunta a la nena con un arma: al “Two”, el hombre-más-poderoso-del-mundo, con lágrimas en los ojos, le dice que ok, que le da lo que él quiere, pero que deje a su familia tranquila. Es un momento que emociona de verdad en la película, porque aparece el padre -con quien más nos identificamos porque es como nosotros- antes que el líder político, que es un ideal (por lo menos desde la mirada norteamericana). Claro, todo sería de una ideología pro-yanqui insoportable si no fuera porque el presidente es Harrison Ford –o sea que es Indiana Jones también–, con lo cual automáticamente creemos en su honestidad y hombría de bien, y porque el villano, que es un terrorista ruso que exige la liberación de un general comunista, le dice un par de verdades a Mr. President en la cara y explica su ideología de manera clara y con argumentos válidos sin que la película se burle de él cuando lo hace. Además, lo interpreta Gary Oldman, que en términos de cool, rankea bien alto, casi al mismo nivel que Harrison.
O sea que sí, que quizás entiendo por qué los candidatos tienen que salir a besar niños en la frente antes de las elecciones. Porque aun sabiendo que todo ese circo es prefabricado, pensado desde los miles de asesores de imagen, hay algo en esa conexión básica y honesta con los chicos que nos causa ternura y nos hace pensar que estamos frente a un ser humano que no va a dudar en poner a sus personas amadas por delante de su país, y que eso mismo es lo que va a hacer que también tome las mejores decisiones políticas, porque, como en Air Force One, esos personajes son los que ganan al final. Son los buenos de la historia. Es una utopía, un lindo cuento de Hollywood. No existe, pero nos gusta que nos lo cuenten.
Y sí, a mí me encantaría tener de presidente a Harrison Ford.
28.9.08
A pig on a cage
Volví a escuchar después de mucho tiempo este poema musical de Radiohead, del album OK Computer. La melodía del piano que intenta inmiscuirse en medio de la voz hipnótica de robot me produce una tristeza enorme.
Fitter happier
Fitter, happier, more productive,
comfortable,
not drinking too much,
regular exercise at the gym
(3 days a week),
getting on better with your associate employee contemporaries ,
at ease,
eating well
(no more microwave dinners and saturated fats),
a patient better driver,
a safer car
(baby smiling in back seat),
sleeping well
(no bad dreams),
no paranoia,
careful to all animals
(never washing spiders down the plughole),
keep in contact with old friends
(enjoy a drink now and then),
will frequently check credit at
(moral) bank (hole in the wall),
favors for favors,
fond but not in love,
charity standing orders,
on Sundays ring road supermarket
(no killing moths or putting boiling water on the ants),
car wash
(also on Sundays),
no longer afraid of the dark or midday shadows
nothing so ridiculously teenage and desperate,
nothing so childish - at a better pace,
slower and more calculated,
no chance of escape,
now self-employed,
concerned (but powerless),
an empowered and informed member of society
(pragmatism not idealism),
will not cry in public,
less chance of illness,
tires that grip in the wet
(shot of baby strapped in back seat),
a good memory,
still cries at a good film,
still kisses with saliva,
no longer empty and frantic
like a cat
tied to a stick,
that's driven into
frozen winter shit
(the ability to laugh at weakness),
calm,
fitter,
healthier and more productive
a pig
in a cage
on antibiotics.
La letra es devastadora.
16.9.08
Le cochon danseur
No me acuerdo cómo fue que encontré este corto de 1907 de Pathé, pero por algún motivo hoy me vino la imagen del cerdito danzarín en mi cabeza y lo vi de nuevo:
Una película de David Lynch me da menos miedo. Fucking. Creepy.
Una película de David Lynch me da menos miedo. Fucking. Creepy.
The Road
I haven't read a book in two months. I used to read one per week a few years ago. I can't concentrate, I get sleepy in the bus, I don't have time because of my stupid job, my eyes are tired, an excuse is an excuse is an excuse. I haven't stopped buying them though; I have this uncontrollable urge to get new books all the time, even when I know I’m not going to read them. It’s more about owning them, making them mine and knowing that they’ll be waiting for me in my bookshelf whenever I’m ready for them; there’s something very soothing and reassuring about that feeling. I also love the book as an object itself, regardless of what’s inside. I love its smell and texture, how heavy it feels in my hands. I began to read four of all the novels I bought these last two months, but I couldn’t fall in love with any of them right from the start, in those first pages where you get the feeling that whatever you are reading is about to take you to another dimension, away from the noise of the people in the bus, the walls of your room, the walls of your world.
Last book I completely fell in love with was Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. That’s the one I read two months ago and now I’m thinking that there might be a reason why I haven’t been able to continue with my regular reading habits after it. The Road has a subtle yet strong aftertaste; its mood lingers for quite a while once you finished it, making it very difficult to move on to the next fictional universe to settle yourself in. In a post-apocalyptic world, a Man and a Boy -with capital letters because they are the humanity in its entirety-, father and son, try to survive. That’s all they do throughout the story: they walk along the empty road trying to reach the sea, putting up with freezing temperatures, trying to find food where there is none left, escaping from the frightening bad guys and comforting each other in the middle of the cruel, inhuman reality that surrounds them. McCarthy tells all of this in a very matter-of-fact, almost detached writing style, and manages to makes us feel the desperation of the characters in little gestures, in mundane, short dialogues that remind of the ones Vladimir and Estragon have in Waiting for Godot, except here it is clear from the very beginning that there is no Godot to wait for. McCarthy describes that dystopia without a fancy reassuring science-fiction genre-like explanation as to how the world ended that way; he does it in whispers, making the bleakness that much more unbearable, precisely because of the acceptance to it, the submission to it. There’s no solution in the horizon. It feels natural then that the dialogues have no quotation marks or that there are very long sentences without commas: they seem like a useless extra effort the narrator (or the characters) can’t afford, a luxury not to be taken into account in such hard conditions. And that’s why the truly alluring aspect of McCarthy’s narrative is that every now and then, in the middle of a description, a dialogue or a character’s train of thought, he'll produce a phrase that is sheer poetic beauty, and he does so in a very understated way, as if he didn't want to make a big deal out of it. Those moments are long-lasting because they are rare; because, like the food or shelter the Man and the Boy can eventually find, they show that, in spite of the ashes and dirt all around, the beauty that is left in the world will still get you and move you. The Road is a hopeful novel in the cruelest way possible.
And since the last paragraph of the book is painfully, breathtakingly beautiful, it is only logical that I haven’t been able to get away from it and go to a new created world where I could settle for a while. I’m still quite comfortable here:
"Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current, where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived, all things were older than man, and they hummed of mystery."
Viggo Mortensen is The Man is in the upcoming movie. Best casting decision ever, basically.
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