I haven’t read the best-selling novel by Fernando Aramburu, and so far did not have any intention to do it. Nor did I watch its TV adaptation. But when I saw this book in the library, I fell in love with the drawings and thought, I’ll give it a chance.
Almodóvaresque in the beginning, the second half firmly in Tarantino territory, this black comedy starring Maribel Verdú (Y tu mamá también, El laberinto del fauno) provided a welcome relief after two rather boring quarter-final games on the telly. Lazy Saturday.
Every June, our city celebrates the anniversary of its foundation in 1478. The programme of Fiestas fundacionales this year was very impressive and we were lucky to attend many cultural events. Unfortunately, there were no fireworks in Las Canteras on San Juan Night; that’ll have to wait till 2022.
Starting 26th June, the face mask is not obligatory outdoors any longer, provided the safety distance, etc. etc. Looking forward to open-air concerts next month!
Until today, I had no clue who was Dani Karavan (1930—2021), although I must have been inside his creation, Straße der Menschenrechte (the Way of Human Rights) in Nuremberg. Now that I know about Passatges in Catalonia, I’d love to see it too.
This film follows Mr. Karavan on a journey to revisit his works in Israel and Europe. And man, he gets angry. The concept of wabi-sabi is clearly lost on Dani: in his view, all his masterpieces should last till the end of times. (Also, people must remember him forever, or at least that’s what he tells Wim Wenders, of all people.) But how could it be if their state of maintenance is, according to Dani, simply appalling?
Funny, touching, inspiring, a joy to watch and the first documentary in years that is not too long.
I really wanted to like this film. So I went to the screening and a colloquium organised by Filmoteca Canaria and featuring the very Tchinda Andrade, whose name became an affectionate word to refer to queer people on São Vicente. Perhaps I was expecting too much. I didn’t stay for colloquium though.
I mean, it’s not bad. It’s just during these 94 minutes not much happens. During the run-up to Carnival, Elvis Tolentino is busy designing and making the dresses. Tchinda Andrade sells her homemade street food, coxinhas de Tchinda. The third protagonist, Edinha Pitanga, does nothing apart from smoking, chatting, and dancing samba in the end. There’s no plot, no development, no drama. Also, for a change, no misery and no violence. Is this enough for a documentary? I’m not sure. For all I know, it could have been a promo commissioned by Cape Verdean tourist board to position São Vicente as LGBTQ+ friendly destination. Which, again, is not a bad thing. And you can’t go wrong with the music of Cesária Évora.
I can’t pretend I understood everything in this film — in the best Spanish tradition, “todos hablan a la vez”. And I mean, todos y todas. So not a fiction then. A group of friends (at least, some of them appear to be friends) come together in an apartment to have a dinner. Just a dinner. Well aware that they are filmed — the cameramen are walking among them — but acting as if they were not. So not a documentary either. What is it?
It is an experiment. The actors were given some minimal description of their characters. No script and full freedom to improvise. It could have gone worse or better, more or less funny, more or less believable. (The awkward silence at the beginning of the third part, La Fiesta, seems to be genuine.) What’s important, it can’t be repeated. Ever.
Watching La Última Cena, you become acutely aware that it couldn’t have been filmed now. In the end it is revealed that the film was shot in December 2019, just three months before the lockdown started. And, while I personally don’t miss all these hello-goodbye kisses, I do appreciate the movie’s (probably unintentional at the time of making) nostalgic vibe.
It’s the story of my life. I first saw this book in the library, at the new books stand by the entrance. Even browsed through it, thinking that I might fancy to read it. Then went to another floor briefly. Sure enough, when I came back, it was gone.
I never saw it again at the new books stand (well, that was a couple of years ago, so it’s not new anymore) and I forgot the name of the author. So, one day I waded into the physics section and... found it. Now that I know the name, I can tell you: it was next to other books by Rovelli.
I could have swallowed it in one evening but I somehow managed to prolong the pleasure for almost a week. Even if you hated physics in school — especially if you hated physics in school — I promise, you’ll enjoy this book. And if you are still in school: the same. Till now, I had no clue who Rovelli the scientist is — one of the founders of loop quantum gravity theory, of which he talks in Grains of space, that’s who, but this fact is almost tangential to the way Rovelli tells the story. To write about complex stuff in such an easy language is a gift, and the author is not afraid to use it. According to Wikipedia, Seven Brief Lessons on Physics was translated into 42 languages, which makes it the most translated Italian book after Pinocchio. I read it in Spanish. I suppose the original is as a joy to read.
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