I never understood the Hollywood’s obsession with remakes. That includes self-remakes. What’s the point? In 1939, McCarey directed Love Affair starring Charles Boyer and Irene Dunne. According to Wikipedia, it was Cary Grant who convinced McCarey to remake it starring himself in Boyer’s role. Why did McCarey agree, is anyone’s guess. The result “was almost identical to the original on a scene-to-scene basis” — quite a change for a director known for his improvisational approach.
Back in 1957, Bosley Crowther wrote in The New York Times that “something goes wrong with the picture, after the couple get off the ship”. And he was right, if too polite: practically everything goes wrong after that point. Which is a shame, because I quite liked Cary Grant — Deborah Kerr interaction onboard the liner. Considering that the titular affair wasn’t really an affair, even though the rest of the passengers were convinced otherwise (it would be so much nicer if it was the other way around, but c’est la vie, et cetera), the authors could have developed the comedy of errors further or, better still, concluded it right after disembarkment. That would spare the viewers, who might have remembered how the original Love Affair ended anyway, one full hour of sheer embarrassment.
The last funny scene in the movie which I think better should have been simply the last.
For a really good McCarey film starring Grant, I recommend The Awful Truth.
A concert of La Banda Sinfónica Municipal de Las Palmas de Gran Canaria conducted by Teresa Hernández Vega. The programme included works by Alfred Reed, Satoshi Yagisawa, Giancarlo Castro D’Addona, Jesús Agomar and Moisés Moleiro.
8 November: «Calles con Arte» @ Calle Taliarte and Calle Guaires, La Isleta
A Saturday full of cultural activities, all just a block away from us. We went to see pole dance by No Limits Pole Dance Studios; tango dance by Abrazos en movimiento accompanied by Atorrantes Tango Club; Bollywood dance workshop with Lavina Saradangani; and «El coro de La Luz» by Chelys Odalis.
11 November: Taller de danzas folklóricas venezolanas @ Casa de Colón, Calle Colón, 1
The first event from the cycle «Américas» organised by Casa de Colón and produced by Tájara producciones: a Venezuelan dance workshop by the Asociación Cultural Cambur Pintón.
Mestizo feauturing Marcel Montcourt (cuatro venezolano), Danny Martínez (guitar), Óscar Sánchez (flute), Kiko González (percussion), Winter Sánchez (double bass) and Adrián Brito (vocals), plus a special guest Claudia Álamo (vocals).
14 November: «Américas» @ Plaza del Pilar Nuevo
With crowd-pleasers such as Libertango, Oblivion and Tico Tico, La Banda Sinfónica Municipal de Las Palmas de Gran Canaria conducted by Juan Roda Sapiña closed the cycle «Américas».
Featuring Guada Márquez, Ángel Ravelo, Luis Quintana, Sixto Armas, Esther Rodríguez, Helena González, Sylvie Hernández, Daniel Lamb, Cinzia Mare, Marta Bolaños, Cira Rodríguez, Tite Fernández, Misael Jordán and others. Presented by Tonono González and Nanda Santana.
27 November: «Una noche vieja» @ Biblioteca Pública Municipal Josefina de la Torre, Paseo de las Canteras
A very amateur comedy performed by Teatro Mínimo XXI. The audience was full of Rabbit’s friends-and-relations. Everybody was given a cup with twelve grapes, which was nice.
Can you think of any jazz album that has not one but two films dedicated to it? I can’t either. Unless it’s The Köln Concert, that is.
Köln 75 is a German drama focused on Vera Brandes, a (then 18-year-old) German producer who was responsible for the concert taking place at all. The film was actually shown in mainstream Spanish theatres, sometime in July, but it passed me by. Damn.
And Köln Tracks, aka Lost in Köln, is a French documentary tracking (or losing?) that notorious Bösendorfer piano played and hated by Mr Jarrett on 24 January 1975. It is supposed to be released about now.
So these are tributes that I didn’t see. What about The Köln Concert itself? I discovered it about 30 years ago, thanks to The Penguin Guide to Jazz which I used to borrow from the Leeds Central Library on a regular basis. The Guide gave the album four stars of four and said *:
This is perhaps Jarrett’s best and certainly his most popular record. ECM has been dining out or, to be fairer, recording others on the proceeds for over a decade†. Made in conditions of exceptional difficulty — not least an audibly unsatisfactory piano — Jarrett not for the first time makes a vurtue of adversity, carving out huge slabs of music with a rare intensity. His insturment does sound off-puttingly bad-tempered, but his concentration on the middle register throughout the performance has been a characteristic of his work throughout his carreer.
Armed with this knowledge, I embarked on a search — and found the CD in the very same library. The concert didn’t disappoint. And the piano didn’t sound half that bad. Some years later, I bought my own copy directly from ECM, further contributing to the album’s bestselling status.
It so happened that on the 50th anniversary of the concert, Friday 24 January, I was listening to the Sólo Jazz programme of Spanish Radio Clásica. Curiously, the authors of this golden jubilee programme chose to play the concert in the following order: Part II c; Part I; Part II b. The result? I heard the old concert with new ears, and it was as beautiful.
I can understand why Jarrett himself is not a fan: a true artist rightfully refuses to be defined by a half-century-old LP as if he didn’t record anything decent since. But I am not Keith Jarrett. I love this “huge slab of music”. If the author wants to disown it, let him do it. I’d put it on the next Voyager Golden Record as an example of what an (anonymous) human musician can do.
In later editions, “for over a decade” was changed to “for two decades”; see e.g. The Penguin Guide to Jazz Recordings, 8th Ed. Penguin Books, London, 2006, p. 697.
Squeezed uneasily between Sheer Heart Attack (IMHO the best Queen album, period) and A Day at the Races (the first Queen album I heard in its entirety so I can’t be objective), A Night at the Opera is that proverbial “second part of the trilogy”: grandiose but ultimately disappointing. Besides, it has a fatal flaw, for a prog-rock record anyway: a hit song that everybody knows, to the detriment of the rest of the album. (You might recall I said the same about Machine Head, and I’ll say it again.) Luckily for those of us who still listen to rock albums in correct order, you can stop it right after Good Company. Try it.
The opener, Death on Two Legs, is a diss track par excellence. I loved it before I could understand the lyrics. (Now that I do understand it, I prefer Rata de dos patas.) I’m in Love with My Car is a great number by Taylor (is that the “open car” he was asking for in Tenement Funster, I wonder). ’39 is a space shanty all future astronauts should learn in kindergarten. The Prophet’s Song is an epic. Cheesy lyrics notwithstanding, You’re My Best Friend actually has got soul — check out the Astro Samurai cover for that soul dimension. The same could be said about Love of My Life, except this latter practically asks to be made fun of by a barbershop quartet. This Russian-language parody from the 1986 Soviet TV show «Весёлые ребята» does just that.
My favourites though are the three retro songs (they were retro already 50 years ago): Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon, Seaside Rendezvous and Good Company.
As for Bohemian Rhapsody, it fared really well for a single, so I think that’s how it should have stayed. Perhaps naming a 2018 biopic after it was not the best idea but it perfectly illustrates that by now — and this “now” has started long time ago — it’s more a cultural reference than a song. There are zillions of covers but for me the Father Noel Furlong’s version and that by Chirigota Los Quemasangre are the best.
The Eight Mountains is a long film of indescribable beauty that is worth every second. Consider it a 147-minute-long Song About a Friend. Watch it on a big screen with no distractions.
For many years after its initial release, the film was seen only on television in pan-and-scan prints, leading people to believe that DeForest Kelley has a small role near the end of the film. When Fox finally struck a new 35 mm CinemaScope print for a film festival in the 1990s, viewers were surprised to see that Kelley is in the film all the way through; he was just always off to one side and thus had been panned out of the frame.
The screening of Latin American documentary shorts organised by Asociación ProDocumentales Cine y TV and Casa de Colón. La Sombra de Don Roberto is probably the most powerful film of the lot but my favourite was Mini Cine Tupy.
El Tambor Mayor by Carlos Lamaitre (Bolivia, 1999)
Los Ojos de la Habana by Osvaldo Daicich (Argentina—Cuba, 2000)
Road Coffee by Ricardo Benet (Mexico, 1997/2000)
Mini Cine Tupy by Sergio Bloch (Brazil, 2003)
Comadronas, guardianas de la salud by Rafael Quinteros González (Guatemala, 2004)
PTT by Alicia Mata Tur (Venezuela, 2010)
La Sombra de Don Roberto by Juan Diego Spoerer and Håkan Engström (Chile—Sweden, 2006)
byCan Xue translated by Tyra Díez and Teresa I. Tejeda
I borrowed this book from the library without even knowing who Can Xue is. I just read the first paragraph of the first story that gave the collection its name and knew that I had to finish it. A few days later, I read that Can Xue was one of the favourites to win this year’s Nobel prize in literature. I didn’t read anything by the actual winner but I hate him already.
This compilation contains 10 stories originally published by Can Xue between 2010 and 2018; five translated by Tyra Díez and five by Teresa I. Tejeda. All these stories can be found in English translation by Karen Gernant and Chen Zeping in I Live in the Slums (Yale University Press, 2020), but I haven’t read that book. I can only hope the English versions are as good.
It’s a shame I don’t read Mandarin though because something is always lost in translation. Does the name of the village in La reina (Wang) refers to its most famous citizen, 女王 (Nǚwáng)? Is Mrs Wang of Catfish Pit also a royal? Even more intriguingly, is Xiao Ping of Catfish Pit the same girl as Xiao Ping of Venus?
Ah well. In words of Liane Moriarty, not all mysteries are meant to be solved.
旧居
Un señor mayor cogió una tetera y preguntó a Zhou Yizhen por el precio. Ella le contestó que no era la dueña de la tienda.
— Y si no eres la dueña, ¿qué haces aquí parada? — dijo en tono de reproche —. Ten el coraje de hacerte cargo. ¡Ja! He visto el precio, está pegado en el fondo de la tetera. Veintitrés yuanes.
Sacó el dinero, contó veintitrés yuanes, los puso sobre el mostrador y se dirigió hacia fuera farfullando aún enfadado: «No he visto nunca peor manera de hacer negocios que la tuya».
La antigua casa
沼泽地
Curiosamente, esta vez encontró el estudio fotográfico sin mayor complicación. Seguía siendo el edificio de ladrillo visto de tres plantas, aunque el cartel original «Fotografía de boda» había desaparecido de su fachada, así como su puerta principal. Era como si hubiera cambiado su orientación, y la entrada ya no diera a la callejuela. Ah Yuan se acercó al muro y pegó la oreja. No oyó nada. Una niña de once o doce años se le acercó.
— Eh, ¿qué haces? — le preguntó.
— ¿Sabes como puedo entrar? — le replicó a su vez, avergonzado.
— ¿Entrar? No se puede, este edificio no tiene puerta.
— ¿Y hay alguien dentro?
— Claro que hay alguien.
— Quiero decir, los que están dentro, ¿nunca salen?
— Y por qué tendrían que salir? No los he visto ni una vez. Puedes quedarte aquí esperando todo lo que quieras, pero será inútil.
El humedal
女王
Frente a ella estaba aquella mujer. Zhen no pudo evitar preguntar en voz baja:
— ¿Reina?
— Eso parece — se adivinaba cierto tono burlón en su voz.
— No pretendía importunarla.
— De todas formas, ya me has molestado. Has supuesto muy bien, no necesito que nadie venga a hacerme compañía. En cambio, sí me gusta aleccionar a los demás, es mi punto débil. Tu problema resulta muy fácil de solucionar, te voy a ayudar a resolverlo ahora mismo.
As long as I remember, I knew I was adopted. It never was a big deal for me. The official story I heard was that my biological parents died in a war inflicted by Father and he, out of guilt, took me to the palace. I’ll probably never learn the truth. In public, my adoptive parents did not treat me better or worse than the rest of my siblings. Well, Father didn’t show much affection toward either of his daughters. No doubt Mother loved all her children but, as she spent most of her time in the Women’s Wing, she developed much closer connection with us girls. And since it was only me who accompanied Mother to the Facility, our bond grew stronger.
𐘃
Mother never told me what I should do. She explained what I can do and what could be the consequences of that. I would not go so far as to say that there were no secrets between us. I can’t read Mother’s mind. She is very good at keeping her and others’ secrets. But I have many reasons to believe she has been most open with me. And I strived to return the openness.
As soon as I realised that my and Aster’s relationship is much bigger than that of brother and sister, I shared the news with Mother. She responded, darling, I knew it, but thanks for telling me.
Her reaction didn’t mean she didn’t care. Quite the opposite.
𐘰
One day she told me, Aster grew up without a father. I suppose you don’t want that for your child. So you two may want to talk through between yourselves whether it’s a good idea to start a family while Aster is in the Maze.
While Aster is in the Maze.
She said it almost casually, as if my lover’s freedom was simply a matter of time.
Then I realised that Mother was not hoping for a miracle to happen but actively searching the ways to achieve this objective. And counting on my help.
𐙀
As the Fates had it, the Athenian ship brought us the solution. The High Priestess, who at the time combined that post with her position as Head of Intelligence, was in cahoots from the start. To keep the status quo, you have to be open to change, she said. The stranger came to our land to change the status quo. Let’s put him in charge of the status quo.
The show must go on. One Monster in the Maze is quite enough for the purposes of the Programme.
And she was right.
𐙟
I am writing this as Aster and I are basking in the autumn sun on the desolate beach. He’s dozing off as I caress his African hair. After a stint on the continent, we moved again and now live in a fishing village on a small island far away from both Athens and our homeland. The people are friendly but not nosy; that suits us. Here we are known as The Foreigners and happy to be accepted as such. I keep in touch with Mother. She sends us letters every moon — mind you, separate ones for me and Aster. We read them aloud to each other and laugh. Recently she asked me, do you still play with your toy boy? A bit rich of her, considering.
𐘥
It’s true that sometimes I still act as an elder sister to Aster. In the past six years, I taught him to swim, to sail and to ride horses. So what? In his turn, he explained a lot of things to me, most of them hardly practical. Like probability theory. But he’s also shown me how to cook — which is great, because I always hated it. I wonder who he learned cooking from. Right now, he is into Italian cuisine and teaches me some simple dishes. He says, it’s the future.
Speaking of which: we don’t plan to have children yet. Aster spends a lot of time fishing, sometimes he’s away for several days. What he earns from selling his catch is enough for the two of us, but only just. For my part, I tried my luck giving private classes and discovered, to my consternation, that there’s no great demand for skills I can teach. There are no cities on this island. Maybe we’ll have to move once again. Wherever we go, it has to be next to the sea.
𐙡
I used to write a diary in Knossos. Not anymore. Here papyrus is scarce and expensive. Whatever we can get hold of, we use for writing letters. I scribble these notes on a scroll of washed papyrus that I bought at a flea market, still on the continent.
Conversely, the current resident of the Maze has taken to writing, I’m told. When he’s in a mood, he reads selected scrolls to Mother. He calls his work “memoirs”; according to Mother, it’s more like speculative fiction. She encourages him to publish it, under the stylus name of his choice and edited by herself. We’ll see. I, for one, would like to read it when it’s out. I even sent Mother my own suggestion for that name: Asteroid. Don’t you dare, she wrote back.
If our roles were reversed, I would reply with the same words. That Athenian and Aster have got absolutely nothing in common, apart from both being men.
𐘘
Why did I talk to him that night anyway? The High Priestess advised us just before dinner that there was enough intelligence gathered to confirm the identity of the spy. Yet I felt he deserved the benefit of doubt… until we talked. I saw it in his eyes. He stared at me as if saying, don’t worry, Princess, I’ll be back and I’ll take you. So I cut our conversation short and gave him the skein. By the way, it was Mother’s idea to make his route in the Maze as predictable as possible. In general, to replace his plan with ours. Him following the instructions confirmed what we already knew.
𐙷
What amazes me is that he bought into our plan hook, thread and sinker. He didn’t even bother to leave any wall marks after him, which was an obvious thing to do. Not that bright for a spy. Mother says, all these years he kept whingeing how I — that’s me — betrayed his trust. Some people got a nerve.
𐙈
Earlier this year, the High Priestess ruled out that the Athenian will ever be released, good behaviour notwithstanding. All evidence points to him being a serial killer and vigilante, also wanted by the authorities in Athens. So he’ll stay where he is. At least in the Maze he’s got a new identity... and the rest of his life. The Fourth Exercise is going ahead as planned.
𐙁
It’s funny how you try to get away from it all only to start bumping into people from the past. We met Dead while travelling in Italy. He told us the Island was getting too uncomfortable for him, without going into details. I strongly suspect it was Mother again who organised his escape, however Dead insisted that he had nobody to thank but himself. His latest contrivance supposedly allows one to whizz from the Island to the mainland in a matter of hours. In time, he said, it will revolutionise travel, but for now it’s too expensive to enter mass production. Aster nodded enthusiastically; I thought the old chap was losing his marbles.
𐚩
In other news, Mother’s long-time dream has come true: she has opened the School of Pharmacy which boasts world-famous lecturers and where she herself teaches twice a week. There were rumours that the Chair of Toxicology was offered to a certain Medea. Mother didn’t confirm or deny that. She maintains that the selection process is still ongoing and strictly confidential. For now they occupy the old Facility but tarting next academic year they’ll move to the purpose-built premises on the waterfront. I’m so happy for her.
𐙹
Isn’t it strange that these days I think about Mother much more than when I lived in the palace? No, it’s only natural. Back then I was thinking about Aster most of the time. Now I don’t have to.
I never ask about Father, and she never volunteers any information about him. In this, Mother and I didn’t change: we continue blocking him from our minds. I heard from the other sources that he might suffer early-onset dementia. I’m determined not to care.
𐘦
In her last letter Mother said, Ari, you made your own choice. You could have chosen any free man you wanted. But Aster, he didn’t know any better, or any worse. His only choice has been you. There’s no reason why one should stay with another forever. Now that he is free, he might fall in love with another woman. And you may discover that you don’t want to live with him any more. It’s fine by me. If I were faithful to my husband, there wouldn’t be Aster.
I still did not read this one to him. Should I?
I think I should. There’s also this part that clearly is for the two of us:
I am fed up with you lot addressing me as “Mother” as if there were no other purpose in my life. Stop it. From now on, call me Pasi.
Isn’t it curious how, 50 years later*, the only Mark IV studio album still manages to divide Purple fans. Is it, or is not, DP? Why it shouldn’t be DP? Come Taste the Band could (or should) be called pioneering for being the first album in Purple discography not to feature Ritchie Blackmore. It’s not Machine Head, and thanks for that. It did not spawn any stadium hits à laSmoke on the Water — ditto.
I myself didn’t quite dig CTTB upon first hearing, some time in early ’80s. The fact that I heard the atrocious Last Concert in Japan first must have contributed to my initial prejudice towards Tommy Bolin. But why? Poor Tommy couldn’t even play on Last Concert in Japan, not with two hands anyway. Forget it. On CTTB, Bolin shines through and through. Re-listening it now, I realise how ahead of the time this record was.
The title is, of course, a portmanteau of the famous Cabaret lyrics. My favourite tracks are Gettin’ Tighter, This Time Around/Owed to ‘G’ and You Keep On Moving. The 35th Anniversary Edition (why not 30th or 36th, I wonder?) does not provide much in terms of extra material. The second CD (2010 Kevin Shirley Remix) is a refreshing alternative worth listening to... before you go back to enjoy the “original” version, in this case, CD1 (i.e. 2010 Digital Remaster). If I owned a turntable, a space to house it, and £105 to spare, I’d go for the real thing, not least because of its gorgeous cover art.
*
Wikipedia says, in the same article, that the album was released on 10 October 1975 and on 7 November 1975. This cannot be right. According to the BPI database, Come Taste the Band was certified silver on 01.11.1975, six days before its release on 07.11.1975.
Name: Asterion, son of Pasiphaë Age: 24 years Last routine examination: five moons ago; no illness reported (as per the patient’s medical record). Chief complaint: that he is restrained. Other complaints: the continental breakfast portion size. Description: the patient is disoriented (not knowing where he is) and confused about his own identity. Shows aggressive-suicidal behaviour. Talks about himself variously in first (“I’m a <illegible> hero”), third (“Have to destroy the Minotaur”, “Death to the Minotaur”, etc.), and both first and third person (“I’ll show him”). Uses formal titles for his close relatives (the Queen, the Princess) while can describe their appearance in greater than necessary detail. In spite of spending most of his life in the Maze, apparently unable to find his way around, e.g. to the bathroom. Paradoxically, immediately recognised me as his doctor (false memory) with the words “You’re late again, <illegible> quack”. Tachycardia. Diagnosis: acute psychosis. Immediate treatment: Her Majesty Pharmacy™ Herbal Sedative no. 21, orally, 1 dose with a cup of Valerian infusion. Follow-up: continue with a daily dose of Herbal Sedative no. 21 for two weeks. Plenty of rest and <illegible>. 24-hour surveillance nurse attention. Weekly music therapy sessions (optional; flute is not recommended). Avoid alcohol and spicy food. Double portion of continental breakfast. Revision: in two weeks’ time from today. In case of emergency, call me in. Date: <illegible> Signed: <illegible>
Note 1: the patient’s regular doctor could not be reached at the time of episode as she was off to a Mediterranean cruise. This report was completed by the Emergency Physician who was given access to the patient’s medical records under oath of non-disclosure.
Note 2: for the two weeks, the patient was kept at the Facility, then transferred back to the Maze after the medical revision.
What I find irritating in a performer: (1) asking the audience to sing with, or instead of, them (90% of cantautores do it); (2) explaining what their songs are about; (3) wearing a hat on stage. LQ does all this and it is annoying. I liked Ángel Ravelo’s sax (he didn’t ask the crowd to play any with him).
9 October: MASDANZA Showcase I @ Sala Gabriel Rodó, Paseo Principe de Asturias
The Big Bang Vintage Festival this year was not free. We discovered this on Sunday when the security guy told us that the concert was “a private event” and we were meant to purchase tickets. The prices were €50 (a four-day pass) and €20 (a one-day pass). We were not ready to pay €20 per person for just one concert, and, judging by the applauses, it didn’t look like there was great attendance. Timur and I stayed outside the bus station to listen for the fist few songs. The sound quality wasn’t impressive either.
This concert was part of the 22nd (!) Festival Tensamba — why haven’t I heard of it before? With Camila Masiso (vocals, percussion) and Carol Benigno (accordion).
And exhibitions:
25 September — 24 October: «Caminar la forma» @ Centro Cultural CICCA, Alameda de Colon, 1
Ishiguro’s second novel is not a follow-up, but is in a similar vein to A Pale View of Hills. The narrator, a retired painter Ono, could be considered a development of Ogata-San. The title, as I just learned, is based on the literal translation of Ukiyo-e, “picture of the floating world”. Once again, the characters seem to be permanently embarrassed about practically everything.
This childlike aspect of Shintaro has frequently been a source of entertainment for Mrs Kawakami, who has a somewhat wicked side to her. One night recently, for instance, during a rainstorm, Shintaro had come running into the little bar and begun squeezing his cap out over the doormat.
‘Really, Shintaro-san!’ Mrs Kawakami had shouted at him. ‘What terrible manners!’
At this, Shintaro had looked up in great distress, as though indeed he had committed an outrageous offence. He had then begun to apologize profusely, thus leading Mrs Kawakami on further.
‘I’ve never seen such manners, Shintaro-san. You seem to have no respect for me at all.’
‘Now stop this, Obasan,’ I had appealed to her after a while. ‘That’s enough, tell him you’re just joking.’
‘Joking? I’m hardly joking. The height of bad manners.’
And so it had gone on, until Shintaro had become quite pitiful to watch. But then again, on other occasions, Shintaro will be convinced he is being teased when in fact he is being spoken to quite earnestly. There was the time he had put Mrs Kawakami in difficulties by declaring cheerfully of a general who had just been executed as a war criminal: ‘I’ve always admired that man since I was a boy. I wonder what he’s up to now. Retired, no doubt.’
Some new customers had been present that night and had looked at him disapprovingly. When Mrs Kawakami, concerned for her trade, had gone to him and told him quietly of the general’s fate, Shintaro had burst out laughing.
‘Really, Obasan,’ he had said loudly. ‘Some of your jokes are quite extreme.’
From the report of 𐄍, Senior Lieutenant of the Secret Service, responsible for the operation of detention
There was no difficulty in identifying the subject among the passengers disembarked from the Athenian ship, for he was considerably older than his companions. His behaviour also differed from that of the rest of the party. If the younger men and women were showing signs of anxiety and fear, the subject was smiling, joking and even trying to flirt with Her Majesty and the princesses who were all present at the farewell dinner.
The following morning, before entering the Maze, the subject bribed the guard to let him smuggle a bladed weapon*. As the guard immediately informed his superiors, the agents were keeping an eye on the subject at all times ready to disarm him. At the same time, they were under strict orders not to harm him in any way.
Once in the Maze, the subject deployed a so-called “thread”, likely as a tracking device. The analysis has shown that the thread was identical to those on sale in the Ariadne Wools shop, one of the tourist traps of Amnisos. The thread had snapped approximately half-way to the central chamber which could be explained by the poor quality of the wool. This occurrence, when discovered, caused the subject to panic and run back towards the entrance; in reality, by repeatedly taking wrong turns, he was moving in the opposite direction.
The subject was apprehended in the central chamber of the facility where a group of operatives, myself included, were waiting for him. The subject was interrogated in situ whereby he grew agitated and aggressive. He did not provide any meaningful answer to the interviewer’s questions, instead interrupting this latter with questions of his own. After asking repeatedly where he could find “the monitor”, the subject was shown a mirror. The subject remained in a state of shock for several hours, until the Emergency Physician arrived (the Patient Visit Report is attached).
*
The cash obtained thus was fully accounted for and transferred to the Treasury, as is the standard practice for funds raised through controlled bribery activity.
I went to see the closing screening of this year’s Ibértigo, expecting to see a bit of comedy. Well Wikipedia says “dystopian black comedy-drama”, surely it must have some comedy in it?
Not really. There was not a single moment that made me laugh. So it doesn’t count.
Even so, Zafari was well worth watching. The film’s setting — the apartment block, its swimming pool and a neighboouring zoo — is a microcosm of an unnamed Latin American country clearly inspired by the director’s motherland, Venezuela. Things ain’t going well and the arrival of Zafari the hippo doesn’t help... Prepare to be disturbed, but — the only spoiler I’ll give you — there is a glimpse of hope, if not exactly an happy end, for the protagonist. Starring Daniela Ramírez, Francisco Denis and Samantha Castillo.
I read the programme of this year’s Ibértigo and decided to watch the two films whose one-line summaries sounded least depressing. I think I made the right choice.
Devenir Rosa
a film by Valeri Hernani
A Peruvian short is a poignant dialogue between generations, that of Valeri and her grandmother Rosa.
Not much happens in this documentary set in Laredo, Texas (not to be confused with real Laredo), and thank goodness for that. Two teenage friends enjoy “doing nothing together”, they know it’s not gonna last, and it’s beautiful.
These youngsters were the crème de la crème of the new generation of Athenians. Not only rich but well educated, excelling in sports and arts and, let’s admit it, good-looking. Yet it seemed that, by sheepishly accepting their destiny, all of them lost the will to fight. Throughout the journey, the mood on the ship was positively funereal. I tried to cheer them up, but to no avail. On top of that, I heard words like “jerk” and “nuts” behind my back. What a bunch of losers.
After a few days in this disagreeable company, I was almost happy when we landed at Amnisos. In the port, we were met by a group of local dignitaries and a unit of royal guards. After a short welcome speech by one of the former, we were escorted directly to the royal palace. There we were in for a pleasant surprise. Yet another welcome speech — this time, by His Majesty the King himself — was followed by a sumptuous meal. Last supper, they called it jokingly. I, for one, didn’t get the joke.
One thing that irritated me in the beginning was that they sat down the boys, including me, separately from girls. The reason for that became clear when I realised that watching over the girls were two attractive female guards. Nice touch. The King was somewhat grumpy — as if the whole sacrifice thing was not his idea — and excused himself early, just after starters. As a consequence, the atmosphere in the banquet hall had visibly improved. The princesses were charming and chatty. One of them, who looked and behaved fairly different from her sisters, approached the boys’ table. She found friendly words for everyone and then, without hesitation, asked me to follow her. I took it as an order and gladly obliged.
To my disappointment, we didn’t go very far, just to the corner farthest from the tables. The princess and I had a brief conversation, of which later. Then she gave me a quick hug, a rather perfunctory one I thought, and urged me to return to my companions. Which I fully intended to do but was intercepted halfway by Her Majesty the Queen. Surprise surprise, she also wanted to talk to me.
I have to say that the women’s fashion here is extraordinary. In particular, the Queen’s attire as she wore that evening would make most Athenians blush. That includes me.
She led me to another corner and then, through a stoa, or a gallery, or a portico — one of those things there, I never remember which is which — to a small, tastefully decorated room.
Her Majesty told me, in so many words, to stay away from the princesses because there is no future in this sort of relationship. On the other hand, she added, if there is any interest at all in intelligent after-dinner conversations and possibly more, she could clear her schedule up to early hours of tomorrow.
“Alas, my friend, I can’t offer you much, apart from a night that you’ll remember till the end of your days.”
That’s what she said.
Call me picky but, in the light of my imminent slaughter, I wasn’t particularly taken by the offer. I mumbled something along the lines of me being tired after the sea trip and that I have to get up early, thanked her for the honour and rushed back to the dining room.
While I was away, the ambience had changed once again. The boys at my table, probably affected by wine consumption, perked up and were engaged in a lively discussion. Meanwhile, the girls were singing. I noticed one of the princesses at their table joining in the chorus. On the contrary, I was overcome by anxiety. I couldn’t wait for the dinner to end. The Queen returned to her place and from time to time was making fleeting eye contact with me, all the while adjusting her décolleté, but I was too distracted even to acknowledge the royal glances. Now I understand how rude it was of me.
My mind was flying back to the conversation with the princess. She asked some pretty neutral, I’d say innocent, questions such as “How was the sea journey?” or “Did you like the main course?”. Thank gods she didn’t inquire about my family. I had a distinct impression that all this chit-chat was for somebody else’s ears. And then, as she was hugging me, she discreetly slipped something soft in my belt pouch and whispered: “It’s your fate”.
The banquet was over shortly after midnight. I dreaded that we’ll have to sleep in some godawful shared dormitory, like we did on the ship. It was a relief when they brought me to my sleeping quarters, in a separate wing of the palace. At last, a private bedroom, even though for one night only and with an armed guard outside.
When I was completely sure in my privacy, I inspected the contents of my pouch. It included a ball of shiny silky thread (what the underground?) and a small papyrus scroll. A message! As I was scrolling (pun intended) through it, my heart started to beat with joy. The letter contained instructions how to reach the centre of the Maze and get back — with the help of the thread. Her plan was as genius as it was simple, why didn’t I think of it myself? I was kind of planning to use breadcrumbs for the same purpose, except I forgot to do anything about it, like to save a roll or two at the dinner. The thread is so much more reliable — and tidier.
The letter concluded with the line:
Good luck, xoxo Ari
Gods, so that was her name! During our short rendez-vous, she didn’t introduce herself, and why should she? Neither did the Queen. Nor did I, for that matter.
So I take it that Ari wants me to succeed and get back from my mission. Maybe we have a future after all? Good thing I didn’t hang after dinner with her nymphomaniac mother.
I was so excited with new hope, I thought I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I was wrong.
I was woken to a gentle but persistent knocking on the door.
“Who’s there?” I shouted, momentarily forgetting that I was not in my home.
The guard half-opened the door.
“Would you care for some breakfast, sir?”
“Pardon me?”
“The thing is, you were randomly selected to be the first of your party to enter the Maze. By tradition, the person about to be sacrificed is given a choice: room service or to join their companions in the canteen for buffet.”
“Er... Give me a moment. Too much information to digest.”
Somehow the first part of the guard’s message was what I was foreseeing all along; I didn’t believe for a moment my selection was random but hey, it could play into my hands.
“Of course, sir. I hope it doesn’t take too long though. The kitchen is not open all morning, you know. Give me a shout when you are ready.”
With these words, he tossed me a papyrus scroll and closed the door behind him. Another letter? My heart began to pound again. With hands shaking, I unwound the scroll.
“Dear sacrificee #1”, it read (the number ‘1’ had been written in by a different hand). “We hope you enjoyed your stay at the Royal Palace. Your opinion matters to us. We would be grateful if you could provide feedback on your guest experience by completing the anonymous questionnaire (attached). Thank you for your visit, and we wish you every success for the future, whether or not —”
Furious, I crumpled the papyrus up and hurled it in the corner of the bedroom.
“Room service!” I yelled.
“Minoan or continental?” readily asked the guard from behind the door.
“Bring them both.”
We went to see this film thanks to Timur. I never thought I would emphatise with any character played by Leonardo DiCaprio, ever. I’m glad I was wrong. In the role of a stoner ex-revolutionary, DiCaprio is simply great. So it Benicio del Toro as sensei St. Carlos. And Sean Penn makes a very convincing villain. But the best thing about One Battle After Another is its comedy side. The names like Chicken Licken Frozen Food Farm, Sisters of the Brave Beaver, Chupacabra Hills and Christmas Adventurers Club made my day.
Loosely based on the 1990 novel Vineland by Thomas Pynchon, the film is unmistakeably about now. Like, right now. I write this as millions of Americans take to the streets in “No Kings” rallies. My inner pessimist says, too little, too late. My inner optimist says, maybe not all is lost. ¡Viva la revolución!
This animation tells the stories of Valeria, Tanit and Shaila, three migrant women from different parts of the world. A Spanish-Panamanian co-production, directed by the Canarian David Baute and featuring the original song by Rubén Blades.
