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| 6 September 11:00 - Sala Perla7 September 14:00 - Sala Pasinetti ORIZZONTI Nocturnos by Edgardo Cozarinsky - Argentina, 63' language: Spanish - s/t English, Italian Esteban Lamothe, Marta Lugos, Esmeralda Mitre, Jimena Anganuzzi Director’s Statement There are people of the day and people of the night… The night ones recognise each other. Their city is only theirs. While the others seek refuge in the dubious safety of home, they go out to confront themselves with that truth hidden by light and revealed by darkness. |
edgardo pisa fuerte... as usual. break a leg dear ed!
ibiza la blanca la très douce...
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on Ibiza, girlontape learned that:
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my grandmother was a louise brooks fan, just like me
No pictures have survived, but thanks to her History of Cinema class at Wellesley, in which she discovered pandora's box and was therefore struck with eternal louise fandom, girlontape took to wearing her hair just like this. She was 17, about the same age as her grandmother in this photo.
little shots of happiness
Waking up not knowing where you are then remembering: He loves me – it’s true. I can’t wait to see him again…
Stepping out late at night with the dogs, realizing the shadowy creature nosing about in the grass is a fox - a messenger from a wild and secret world - and thinking: How beautiful you are – how marvelous! Run away little one… be safe…
Going into your favorite church in Rome one evening, and they're chanting in a long slow wailing melody, so ancient and filled with yearning; and you’re drawn up, up, up towards the delicately flying angels.
Snoopy writing It Was A Dark And Stormy Night.
You’re standing under a tree in the middle of the afternoon, and someone starts playing the piano in a house nearby: it flows out the window like a stream, clear and swirling, flashing and flowing; and that bird in the branches, those crickets in the grass, you yourself, are the pebbles over which it flows and you think, like Nikolay Rostov listening to Natasha’s song: Will the lovers be united… will good triumph over evil? What are they compared to this…? The only thing that matters is this music… oh it’s marvelous… what marvelous things human beings are capable of, after all… I wish it would never end…!
You’re standing under a tree in the middle of the afternoon, and someone starts playing the piano in a house nearby: it flows out the window like a stream, clear and swirling, flashing and flowing; and that bird in the branches, those crickets in the grass, you yourself, are the pebbles over which it flows and you think, like Nikolay Rostov listening to Natasha’s song: Will the lovers be united… will good triumph over evil? What are they compared to this…? The only thing that matters is this music… oh it’s marvelous… what marvelous things human beings are capable of, after all… I wish it would never end…!
a tale of architects (post for Kat)
Sunday, long night out with Brian. I go pick him up at his restaurant on Prince Street, where I get cornered by an aging bald architect friend of a friend. He bores me to death while trying to touch me every chance he gets. Gross. I’m about to throw my beer in his face when Brian whisks me off to Lotus, where we squeeze into a booth with Patrice and his unpleasant Armani suit and his call girl entourage. He’s a wealthy Haitian who was probably a Tonton Macoute in his former life. He pours us champagne and tells me in his heavy French accent, “You are dangerous…give me your number before you leave.” Some gangster pal of his caresses my bare shoulders too many times. I tell him to back off so he complains to Patrice who scolds me along the lines of “This is my friend so-and-so.” I say that’s fine but he can’t touch me and Patrice gets visibly annoyed. Gross. Brian takes me to Bungalow 8 his members only club where he introduces me to James, a colorless version of another boy I still miss in spite of his pathetically clumsy lies. He gives me some of his low rent blow then invites me to his house. I say “I don’t need to get laid tonight” and he acts all scandalized and I tell him to stop being such a hypocrite. He asks for my number and I give it to him, no idea why.
Monday night, party at the Tribeca Grand. A weird mix of VIP lawyers, designers, hipster politicians, models, stockbrokers and a smattering of rock starlets. Nicollette introduces me to an architect friend of hers who says his boss Rem Koolhaas let him design the new Prada store. I find him zero attractive so I try to put him off with “I’m a Miu Miu girl” but he ends up hooking me with his conversation anyway. He invites me to Sway, where my favorite DJ, Baby Blu, is spinning. This makes me like him a little better so I accept. I’m pretty drunk and I immediately lose myself in the arms of a really hot lipstick lesbian and the architect goes nuts. He tries to break me off from my princess but there’s no way. He has no place left to go but out the door. However he calls Nicollette for my number and starts busting my balls. Finally I agree to let him take me out for the best sushi of the moment, which is at Blue Ribbon. Out of nowhere he asks if I want a boyfriend and tells me he’s looking for a relationship. Due to his silly questions I’m back to not liking him that much, but in the cab for mysterious reasons I kiss him & it turns me on. I agree to go to his apartment where he shows me his paintings, which are pretty damn good. Talent being an aphrodisiac, we end up in the sack. Once he has me pinned under his big heavy body he asks, “Aren’t you afraid of me? You’re very trusting.” I flash on my complicatedly murdered corpse starring in an episode of CSI New York. Get out now, before it’s too late? But no, by this time my brain has stopped functioning. He’s very good in bed. It’s a trap.
On Tuesday James calls, I barely remember him. He invites me for a drink at Balthazar. I agree for want of a better plan and besides, I love that place. James is sitting at the bar with his posse, all slaves at the same literary agency. They ask me stupid questions like “Are you an actress?” I am clearly the object of some hidden plot hatched in their sinister male minds but I don’t give a toss so I dig in to the oysters, which at Balthazar are amazing. “Harlan is on his way, he wants to see you,” says James casually, adding that he introduced us at Bungalow 8. It doesn’t ring a bell. A boy arrives & I'm still clueless, but he is utterly glam: wild black hair, very cool suit. Nick Cave from way back, minus the heroin. He turns out to be an architect. He sits next to me and the posse of agents drops off my radar. Then they disappear for real and Harlan loads me onto his huge shiny black BMW and takes me to Missy Elliott’s birthday party at Lot 61, where he plies me with his super deluxe cocaine. Now we’re talking. We make out passionately in every corner in between long heady discussions about everything under the sun. He asks for my number and I'm glad to give it up. He starts taking me out to fabulous events all over town. The nights we don’t see each other he calls me for long intimate bedtime chats. His strategy and everything about him, impeccable. I start to feel comfortable, wanted and happy. Another trap.
Thank god I gave my number to the chick from Sway. She’s no architect, but she does happen to be the perfect toy.
Monday night, party at the Tribeca Grand. A weird mix of VIP lawyers, designers, hipster politicians, models, stockbrokers and a smattering of rock starlets. Nicollette introduces me to an architect friend of hers who says his boss Rem Koolhaas let him design the new Prada store. I find him zero attractive so I try to put him off with “I’m a Miu Miu girl” but he ends up hooking me with his conversation anyway. He invites me to Sway, where my favorite DJ, Baby Blu, is spinning. This makes me like him a little better so I accept. I’m pretty drunk and I immediately lose myself in the arms of a really hot lipstick lesbian and the architect goes nuts. He tries to break me off from my princess but there’s no way. He has no place left to go but out the door. However he calls Nicollette for my number and starts busting my balls. Finally I agree to let him take me out for the best sushi of the moment, which is at Blue Ribbon. Out of nowhere he asks if I want a boyfriend and tells me he’s looking for a relationship. Due to his silly questions I’m back to not liking him that much, but in the cab for mysterious reasons I kiss him & it turns me on. I agree to go to his apartment where he shows me his paintings, which are pretty damn good. Talent being an aphrodisiac, we end up in the sack. Once he has me pinned under his big heavy body he asks, “Aren’t you afraid of me? You’re very trusting.” I flash on my complicatedly murdered corpse starring in an episode of CSI New York. Get out now, before it’s too late? But no, by this time my brain has stopped functioning. He’s very good in bed. It’s a trap.
On Tuesday James calls, I barely remember him. He invites me for a drink at Balthazar. I agree for want of a better plan and besides, I love that place. James is sitting at the bar with his posse, all slaves at the same literary agency. They ask me stupid questions like “Are you an actress?” I am clearly the object of some hidden plot hatched in their sinister male minds but I don’t give a toss so I dig in to the oysters, which at Balthazar are amazing. “Harlan is on his way, he wants to see you,” says James casually, adding that he introduced us at Bungalow 8. It doesn’t ring a bell. A boy arrives & I'm still clueless, but he is utterly glam: wild black hair, very cool suit. Nick Cave from way back, minus the heroin. He turns out to be an architect. He sits next to me and the posse of agents drops off my radar. Then they disappear for real and Harlan loads me onto his huge shiny black BMW and takes me to Missy Elliott’s birthday party at Lot 61, where he plies me with his super deluxe cocaine. Now we’re talking. We make out passionately in every corner in between long heady discussions about everything under the sun. He asks for my number and I'm glad to give it up. He starts taking me out to fabulous events all over town. The nights we don’t see each other he calls me for long intimate bedtime chats. His strategy and everything about him, impeccable. I start to feel comfortable, wanted and happy. Another trap.
Thank god I gave my number to the chick from Sway. She’s no architect, but she does happen to be the perfect toy.
New York 2000
death to ladyboy
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| here's a preview from KITCHEN FLOOR, the debut album of our band DEATH TO LADYBOY track 1 Yesterday she cried on the kitchen floor Today she asked would I be her boyfriend It's a man's job but a woman's got to do it track 2 I come alone & think of you You come with her & think of me Same same old same old story: The hero always returns in act three Saying I’m a good man, I just happened to act badly Merciful lady, please forgive me For tomorrow I marry And I need you to think well of mededicated to Amy Winehouse stay tuned © death to ladyboy productions 2011 |
we cheated ourselves, like we knew we would
EXT. RANDOM BAR SOMEWHERE IN TRASTEVERE - NIGHTKAT
(gazing sadly at her iphone)
Why isn't he calling?
STEF
Because he loves you, and the girl from last night, and the one he's meeting tomorrow...
KAT
But it was so good! He can't possibly feel the same way about anyone else.
STEF
I'm sure he's thinking of you in the final throes.
KAT
OMG! Look over there.
STEF
You mean the ladyboy?
KAT
Those hands... that skin...
STEF
That beard - yuck!
KAT
I want him.
STEF
Soon you'll be crying for him on the kitchen floor.
KAT
These Bloody Marys are so strong.
STEF
But not stronger that us.
KAT
I feel like Amy died when we were in the Pantheon.
STEF
While we were looking up at the sky through the circle in the ceiling -
KAT
And all the tourists disappeared.
STEF
I know. I felt it too.
color or b&w? that is the question
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he left no time to regret, kept his dick wet with his same old safe bet me and my head high and my tears dry get on without my guy amy |
amores perros cap. 7
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| laika & stef by kat EXT. PARK DAY - Laika throws herself slavishly at the feet of a ridiculously handsome, tall, dark, blue-eyed stranger with a piercing. STEF Funny...usually she hates men. STRANGER Really? I think she's the perfect dog. STEF Do you have any tattoos? Suddenly, our heroine feels that life has hit a different groove. |
lucian freud... always an inspiration
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| benefits supervisor sleeping, by lucian freud (1922-2011) "My work is purely autobiographical. It is about myself and my surroundings. I work from people that interest me and that I care about, in rooms that I know." |
the world's greatest film of the world's greatest novel
Filmmaking is like war: it requires guts, teamwork, complex logistics, grueling physical labor, and fanatical dedication. They differ only in their end results... although some films, like Fitzcarraldo, have been known to exact the ultimate sacrifice.
As far as combat sequences on film, the only two who stayed with me were Apocalypse Now and the opening of Gladiator... until I saw Sergei Bondarchuk's 1968 version of War and Peace: seven years in the making, 120 000 extras, 35 000 costumes, no special FX or CGI bullshit... just glorious vision & talent on a mass scale. As far as I'm concerned, it blows Coppola and Ridley Scott right out of the water. What is this thing, which Tolstoy called the Russian soul? Something far greater than the sum of its parts.
"It was a vibrant scene, astonishing in its splendor, but what struck Pierre most forcibly was the battlefield itself, borodino. The ground was overhung by the kind of mist that seeps down and thins out to let the bright sun come shimmering through, revealing the landscape and painting it in magical colours. Gunsmoke wreathed its way in, and the intermingling smoke and mist was everywhere shot through with lightning-flashes of early morning sunlight glinting on water, dew and bayonets in the hands of soldiers swarming through Borodino.
Through the mist you could make things out: a white church here, there the roofs of shacks in Borodino, with fitful glimpses of great masses of men...and the whole scene was writhing, because of the mist and smoke drifting across the entire landscape. All across the misty hollows, from copse and meadow puffs of smoke curled up out of thin air, either singly or in clusters, sporadically or in big, rapid bursts, weaving together on high then swelling, billowing out, seeping away and merging together all over the landscape. It was this swirling gunsmoke, with the ensuing bangs, that gave the whole spectacle its special beauty."
"Prince Andrey's regiment was among the reserves. All his energy, like every soldier's, was instinctively concentrated on distracting himself from the horror of his situation. He paced the meadow, dragging his feet and rustling through the grass, and he watched the dust thickening on his boots.
'Look out!' yelled a terrified soldier as a grenade came over like a little bird zooming down with whirring wings on the look-out for a landing place, and plopped down with a dull thud a few paces away from Prince Andrey. The smoking shell was spinning like a top, near a clump of wormwood growing in the ditch between meadow and field.
'Is this death then?' Prince Andrey wondered, and he was swept with a new sense of longing as he gazed down at the grass, the wormwood and the spiral of smoke swirling up from the spinning ball. 'I can't die. I don't want to die. I love life. I love this grass, the earth, the air...'" tolstoy
As far as combat sequences on film, the only two who stayed with me were Apocalypse Now and the opening of Gladiator... until I saw Sergei Bondarchuk's 1968 version of War and Peace: seven years in the making, 120 000 extras, 35 000 costumes, no special FX or CGI bullshit... just glorious vision & talent on a mass scale. As far as I'm concerned, it blows Coppola and Ridley Scott right out of the water. What is this thing, which Tolstoy called the Russian soul? Something far greater than the sum of its parts.
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| detail from the Borodino Panorama by Franz Roubaud (1856-1928) - thank you wikicommons |
"It was a vibrant scene, astonishing in its splendor, but what struck Pierre most forcibly was the battlefield itself, borodino. The ground was overhung by the kind of mist that seeps down and thins out to let the bright sun come shimmering through, revealing the landscape and painting it in magical colours. Gunsmoke wreathed its way in, and the intermingling smoke and mist was everywhere shot through with lightning-flashes of early morning sunlight glinting on water, dew and bayonets in the hands of soldiers swarming through Borodino.
Through the mist you could make things out: a white church here, there the roofs of shacks in Borodino, with fitful glimpses of great masses of men...and the whole scene was writhing, because of the mist and smoke drifting across the entire landscape. All across the misty hollows, from copse and meadow puffs of smoke curled up out of thin air, either singly or in clusters, sporadically or in big, rapid bursts, weaving together on high then swelling, billowing out, seeping away and merging together all over the landscape. It was this swirling gunsmoke, with the ensuing bangs, that gave the whole spectacle its special beauty."
"Prince Andrey's regiment was among the reserves. All his energy, like every soldier's, was instinctively concentrated on distracting himself from the horror of his situation. He paced the meadow, dragging his feet and rustling through the grass, and he watched the dust thickening on his boots.
'Look out!' yelled a terrified soldier as a grenade came over like a little bird zooming down with whirring wings on the look-out for a landing place, and plopped down with a dull thud a few paces away from Prince Andrey. The smoking shell was spinning like a top, near a clump of wormwood growing in the ditch between meadow and field.
'Is this death then?' Prince Andrey wondered, and he was swept with a new sense of longing as he gazed down at the grass, the wormwood and the spiral of smoke swirling up from the spinning ball. 'I can't die. I don't want to die. I love life. I love this grass, the earth, the air...'" tolstoy
internauti contro la censura
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Non sarà una vigilia tranquilla per l'Agcom: sarà, piuttosto, "La Notte della Rete". Il 5 luglio, a 24 ore dall'approvazione della Delibera definita "ammazza-Internet" dai blogger italiani, artisti, esponenti della rete, leader politici, cittadini e utenti del web si troveranno a Roma per una no-stop contro il provvedimento. Martedì 5 luglio dalle 17.30 alle 21 alla Domus Talenti a Roma ( via delle Quattro Fontane, 113 ) partecipa anche tu alla nostra mobilitazione. Fai sentire la tua voce! Fra i presenti già confermati: Olivero Beha, Pippo Civati, Antonio Di Pietro, Dario Fo, Giovanbattista Frontera, Alessandro Gilioli, Peter Gomez, Beppe Giulietti, Flavio Granata, Giulia Innocenzi, Gianfranco Mascia, Roberto Natale, Flavia Perina, Marco Pierani, il Piotta, Enzo Raisi, Franca Rame, Fulvio Sarzana, Marco Scialdone, Guido Scorza, Mario Staderini, Vincenzo Vita, Vittorio Zambardino. Come fare:
"Primo interesse di un autore dovrebbe essere quello della diffusione di massa del suo prodotto, non di recintarlo. Così come è interesse di tutti difendere il copyright e il lavoro creativo dalla pirateria alla luce delle nuove tecnologie. Ma questo non può essere fatto al di fuori da una normativa europea e sovranazionale. Soprattutto non può essere accettata la censura. E gli autori dovrebbero essere in prima fila nel respingere qualsiasi tentativo di repressione della creatività. La delibera dell’Agcom prevede la possibilità che possa essere la stessa Agcom a inibire gli accessi ai siti e chiuderli...." (continua) |
memorie selettive
Conversazione via blog:
Uno qualunque: “Sai io e te ci conosciamo.”
Stef: “Ma và?”
“Si, ci siamo conosciuti al compleanno di Gastón.”
“Cioè eravamo nella fila del bagno e gentilmente mi hai fatto passare?”
“No no. Tu eri accanto al caminetto. Portavi una maglietta Joan Jett, e nella mano destra tenevi un bicchiere di vino. I tuoi capelli erano selvaggi. Io mangiavo delle noccioline…abbiamo parlato a lungo.”
“Ma dai. Al compleanno di Gastón ci vado tutti gli anni, e di te non ricordo assolutamente niente.”
Ho pensato: Che presuntuoso…muori groupie di merda!
E l’ho sputtanato sul blog, salvo che l’altro giorno è successa la stessa cosa, peró a me.
Stef: “Allora Tommaso... ti sei sbarazzato di quella pazza isterica?”
Tommaso: “Quale?”
“La stalker. Il giorno che ci siamo conosciuti non parlavi d’altro.”
“Oddio non riesco a fare mente locale.”
“Ma si. Sei venuto al bar, ci hai letto gli sms che quella ti mandava a raffica. Poi siamo andati un attimo a casa tua.”
“A casa mia??”
“Si, e poi siamo andati ai martedí critici. Pioveva, allora mi hai portato in macchina. Mi hai raccontato di tua figlia e mi hai regalato un libro di Epicuro…”
“Mi dispiace non ricordo assolutamente nulla.”
Ho pensato: Fortuna che Tommaso non ha un blog ma si dedica a cose serie tipo scrivere romanzi...speriamo che si dimentichi anche di questa conversazione peró!
kim does gun hill road
Kim writes: I am writing to ask you to support gun hill road, an independent film on which I was privileged to have served as Script Supervisor.
It was written and directed by the very talented Rashad Ernesto Green and stars Judy Reyes (Scrubs) and Esai Morales (La Bamba, NYPD Blue, and more) as well as a host of other excellent actors.
It opens August 5, 2011 in NY and LA.
ich bin ein new yorker
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| actually, i've never stopped being a new yorker... but today i'm most especially proud to be one |
funny/cry/happy
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Strangely, I’m living in the most unhip location - city, neighborhood - in my adult life ever; equally strangely, I’m loving it. Germán calls it our suburban Olympus because we’re up on a hill, from which we can see the dome of St. Peter’s floating out there in the distance. Also a bend in the river, a train station, various fields rolling away, and even an abandoned farmhouse. Elinor Carucci says it’s hard to take a happy picture, to which I would add, it’s hard to take pictures once you’ve crossed beyond a certain threshold of unhappiness. Also when you have a day job. I love my job, but still. I mentioned this to Germán the other day, and he said, As soon as Christian and I are done exploring Europe we’re moving to a farm in Norway, and when we do, you can come live there rent-free forever. You can just spend all your time taking pictures and playing with the dogs. And I so love it that I have a friend willing to make me such a promise, meanwhile Laika has joined us here, reconstituting the same old borderline dysfunctional family as ever was, minus Milo, who’s still missing in Argentina, and whom we yearn for like an amputated limb: Charly commandeers Laika’s pink ball, Laika harasses the cats, the cats wish for her untimely death; and I marvel helplessly at them every day, all of which reminds me of the Chinese 99 cent store sign on West 23rd Street, which is possibly the best New York sign ever, and which reads FUNNY/CRY/HAPPY. |
j'entends rugir les plaisirs de la vie (negresses vertes)
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| self-portrait at ekwata, gabon 1992 While I couldn’t find my iconic negresses vertes album, for whatever reason I still remember the moment I bought it in a record store in Kenmore Square in the middle of winter in another life a zillion years ago. My favorite track on that album, of course, is their glorious gypsy-punk-rai hymn to summer, which perfectly describes the way that I’m feeling right here right now. It goes like: Voilà l'été, j'aperçois le soleil Les nuages filent et le ciel s'éclaircit J'entends rugir les plaisirs de la vie Les filles sont belles et les dieux sont ravis |
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