Can I Join The Army With Narcolepsy

the voice that went out

I find it hard to explain my relationship with Carmelo Bene. I keep telling myself that sooner or later I'll write something serious and documented, instead of scattered notes that I have dedicated over the years, but every time I'm always forced putting it off. A bit 'for my personal idiosyncrasy to the written thesis, a bit' because I'm not sure that a cunning little or big he would be pleased. The teaching of CB was so vast and deep that even I do not know exactly where to start. Take notes, I rivedrei interviews, performances, films, readings, again read his written work, published by Bompiani in this volume brilliantly insane and absurd come under the heading Classic. But why Carmelo Bene? What has made so important, what did he say? It 'was an artist who paid with their blood an artist's life, which mixed blood with the earth, and created its sand, its color, lymph which drew lines heretical and dirtied our certainties. He had no predecessors - some say Artaud, but it is a comparison that holds only in part - but many underlying reasons, music, literature, painting, and especially philosophy. Carmelo Bene's work rightfully belongs to a purely philosophical cultural context, where the realm of the idea, or quell'inconfessato Kantian noumenon is that Plato is to be said and the scaffolding of his work. For me it was and is a master of arts, communication and thought.

This whole premise is to say that I saw his first feature film, Our Lady of the Turks, from the book of the same name, also by CB once again was able crippled. The more I grow, the more I realize that this film is not film, and denial of a perfect machine image has a palette of colors and virtually inexhaustible meanings. Inside Our Lady is an inner world in constant turmoil, a constant tidal wave of senses and thoughts, a mirror of the mind and at the same time the our mind. It 'a work that goes beyond the provocative, or rather is inscribed in the category of provocative in the etymological sense: who look at is called the open, can not be. The flood of calls and evocations most learned almost frightening: the intellectual universe of the artist pours into a kaleidoscope of edgy and irritating. But beautiful. Here, I find no other word: there is beauty in every frame, no art, suffering, inability to speak and understand urgency. The first feature is a mechanism of CB exaggerated, crazy, compressed, which overflows from the image and overflows in a region difficult to define. The attempt to go beyond the cinema, CB, is a final attempt, stillborn great perhaps for this reason: Our Lady remains a point of arrival and a separate in artistic beniano, an atoll stormy, against the world, against life.

Why Do I Feel Fluttering In My Upper Ab

Hi, Oscar!

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.