The real cinema, I am convinced, is not in the Oscar ceremony. There are only damazze balance on their heels, actors with heavy makeup, glycerine tears, that cinema is only a survey of American (okay, well done Colin Firth, it means that his Oscar draws the scandal given to Cage in '96 ), which share major pie in a blaze of papier-mâché and nonsense. The film must have a sense if he wants to risk something, to be played on the skin. Otherwise it is not art, it is a spot. There are two Iranian directors, Mohammad Jafar Panahi and Rasulov, who were sentenced to six years' imprisonment and twenty interdiction Art (not longer be able to make films), a violent and uncivilized regime. In all honesty I think the most noteworthy aspect of the question this film, not the golden prize of a group of stars from the world outside, confined in a parallel universe - the U.S. - more and more self-referential and increasingly inclined to give him awards. I believe, with equal honesty, that the infernal machine of the statues can not be regarded as culture, but an awful and hypocritical business of manufacturing, in a machine-movement that now survives in itself, devoid of original content, a thousand miles away from change a world in turmoil. It is also impossible to compare the hardships and difficulties of realization of independent filmmakers, who often risk their skin in no metaphorical sense, with the mob of American advertising, lying in human skin armchairs, surrounded by stars of plastic, stories and amorazzi now all that junk that makes most American film parody of himself that he was.
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