o melhor monólogo que o mamet alguma vez escreveu?

...all train compartments smell vaguely of shit. It gets so you don't mind it. That's the worst thing that I can confess. You know how long it took me to get there? A long time. When you die you're going to regret the things you don't do. You think you're queer...? I'm going to tell you something: we're all queer. You think that you're a thief? So what? You get befuddled by a middle-class morality...? Get shut of it. Shut it out. You cheated on your wife...? You did it, live with it. You fuck little girls, so be it. There's an absolute morality? May be. And then what? If you think there is, then be that thing. Bad people go to hell? I don't think so. If you think that, act that way. A hell exists on earth? Yes. I won't live in it. That's me. You ever take a dump made you feel you'd just slept for twelve hours...? Or a piss...? A great meal fades in reflection. Everything else gains. You know why? 'Cause it's only food. This shit we eat, it keeps us going. But it's only food. The great fucks that you may have had. What do you remember about them? I don't know. For me, I'm saying, what is is, it's probably not the orgasm. Some broads, forearms on your neck, something her eyes did. There was a sound she made...or, me, lying, in the, I'll tell you: me lying in bed; the next day she brought me café au lait. She gives me a cigarette, my balls feel like concrete. Eh? What I'm saying, what is our life? It's looking forward or it's looking back. And that's our life. That's it. Where is the moment? And what is it that we're afraid of? Loss. What else? The bank closes. We get sick, my wife died on a plane, the stock market collapsed...the house burnt down...what of these happen...? None on 'em. We worry anyway. What does this mean? I'm not secure. How can I be secure? Through amassing wealth beyond all measure? No. And what's beyond all measure? That's a sickness. That's a trap. There is no measure. Only greed. How can we act? The right way, we would say, to deal with this: "There is a one-in-a-million chance that so and so will happen...Fuck it, it won't happen to me..." No. We know that's not the right way I think. We say the correct way to deal with this is "There is a one-in-so-and-so chance this will happen...God protect me. I am powerless, let it not happen to me..." But no to that. I say. There's something else. What is it? "If it happens, AS IT MAY for that is not within our powers, I will deal with it, just as I do today with what draws my concern today." I say this is how we must act. I do those things which seem correct to me today. I trust myself. And if security concerns me, I do that which today I think will make me secure. And every day I do that, when that day arrives that I need a reserve, [a] odds are that I have it, and [b] the true reserve that I have is the strength that I have of acting each day without fear. According to the dictates of my mind. Stocks, bonds, objects of art, real estate. Now: what are they? An opportunity. To what? To make money? Perhaps. To lose money? Perhaps. To "indulge" and to "learn" about ourselves? Perhaps. So fucking what? What isn't? They're an opportunity. That's all. They're an event. A guy comes up to you, you make a call, you send in a brochure, it doesn't matter, "There're these properties I'd like for you to see." What does it mean? What you want it to mean. Money? If that's what it signifies to you. Security? Comfort? All it is is THINGS THAT HAPPEN TO YOU. That's all it is. How are they different? Some poor newly married guy gets run down by a cab. Some busboy wins the lottery. All it is, it's a carnival. What's special...what draws us? We're all different. We're not the same. We are not the same. Hmmm. It's been a long day. What are you drinking? Well, let's have a couple more. My name is Richard Roma, what's yours? James. I'm glad to meet you. I'm glad to meet you, James. I want to show you something. It might mean nothing to you...and it might not. I don't know. I don't know anymore. What is that? Florida. Glengarry Highlands. Florida. "Florida. Bullshit." And maybe that's true; and that's what I said: but look here: what is this? This is a piece of land. Listen to what I'm going to tell you now.

as palavras

- And we have Theresa on the line.

- The day will come for you, Barry. And there will be a reckoning, an adding up and a totaling. Those who turned away will be turned upon. And I don't care what your story is, Barry. You are responsible, and there will be no confusion at your trial. It will be short, and necks will crack. The whips will strip your back bare to the bone, and your children will cry for you... as they are slaughtered before your eyes. You... The Jews will hang high over the streets. You will be buried in piles. You dig your own holes. I am here merely to tell you that the day will come. It will.

- Believe it or not, you make perfect sense to me. I should hang. I'm a hypocrite. I ask for sincerity, and I lie. I denounce the system as I embrace it. I want money and power and prestige. I want ratings and success. I don't give a damn about you or the world. That's the truth. For this, I could say I'm sorry, but I won't. Why should I? I mean, who the hell are you anyways, you audience? You're on me every night like a pack of wolves,'cause you can't stand facing what you are and what you've made. Yes, the world is a terrible place. Yes, cancer and garbage disposals will get you. Yes, a war is coming. Yes, the world is shot to hell, and you're all goners. Everything's screwed up, and you like it that way, don't you? You're fascinated by the gory details. You're mesmerized by your own fear. You revel in floods, car accidents. Unstoppable diseases. You're happiest when others are in pain. That's where I come in, isn't it? I'm here to lead you by the hands through the dark forest... of your own hatred and anger and humiliation. I'm providing a public service. You're so scared. You're like a little child under the covers. You're afraid of the bogeyman, but you can't live without him. Your fear, your own lives, have become your entertainment. Next month, millions of people are gonna be listening to this show, and you'll have nothing to talk about! Marvelous technology is at our disposal. Instead of reaching up to new heights, we're gonna see how far down we can go. How deep into the muck we can immerse ourselves. What do you wanna talk about, hmm? Baseball scores? Your pet? Orgasms? You're pathetic. I despise each and every one of you. You got nothing, absolutely nothing. No brains, no power, no future. No hope. No God. The only thing you believe in is me. What are you if you don't have me? I'm not afraid, see? I come in every night, make my case, make my point, say what I believe in! I tell you what you are. I have to. I have no choice. You frighten me. I come here every night, tear into you, I abuse you, I insult you, and you just keep coming back for more. What's wrong with you? Why do you keep calling? I don't wanna hear it anymore. Stop talking! Go away! You're a bunch of yellow-bellied, spineless, bigoted, quivering, drunken, insomniatic, paranoid, disgusting, perverted, voyeuristic, little obscene phone callers. That's what you are. Well, to hell with you. I don't need your fear and your stupidity. You don't get it. It's wasted on you. Burros before swine. If one person out there had any idea... of what I'm talking about... Fred, you're on Night Talk.

- Yes. You see, Barry, I know it's depressing that so many people don't understand you're just joking.

- Jackie, you're on Night Talk.

- Hello. I've been listening for years, and I find you a warm and intelligent...

- Arnold.

- What you were saying before about loneliness, I'm an electrical engineer...

- Lucy.

- My mother is from Waco and wants to know if you went to high school...

- Larry.

- Why do people insist on calling homosexuals normal?

- Ralph!

- I'm in my house. I'm at home, which is where you should be, Barry. Hey, I'm not far away. You could come over if you want. We're the same kind of people. I have beer, soup. I'm here. Come over later. I'll wait.

Silence. Barry cries.

- Barry, there's 60 seconds left in the show. This is dead air, Barry. Dead air.

- I guess we're stuck with each other. This is Barry Champlaign.

o aluguer de automóveis

A aventura do Eduardo Pitta lembra tanto este diálogo do Seinfeld...

Agent: I'm sorry, we have no mid-size available at the moment.

Jerry: I don't understand, I made a reservation, do you have my reservation?

Agent: Yes, we do, unfortunately we ran out of cars.

Jerry: But the reservation keeps the car here. That's why you have the reservation.

Agent: I know why we have reservations.

Jerry: I don't think you do. If you did, I'd have a car. See, you know how to take the reservation, you just don't know how to *hold* the reservation and that's really the most important part of the reservation, the holding. Anybody can just take them.

Agent: Let me, uh, speak with my supervisor.

The agent goes into an office with a window in the door so she can be seen speaking with someone.

Jerry: Uh, here we go. The supervisor. You know what she's saying over there?

Elaine: What?

Jerry: Hey Marge, you see those two people over there? They think I'm talking to you, so you pretend like you're talking to me, okay now you start talking.

Elaine: Oh, you mean like this? So it looks like I'm saying something but I'm not really saying anything at all?

Jerry: Now you say something else and they won't yell at me 'cause they thought I was checking with you.

Elaine: Okay, that's it. I think that's enough, see you later.

The agent returns.

Agent: I'm sorry, my supervisor says there's nothing we can do.

Jerry: Yeah, it looked as if you were in a real conversation over there.

Agent: But we do have a compact if you would like that.

Jerry: Fine.

Agent: Alright. We have a blue Ford Escort for you Mr. Seinfeld. Would you like insurance?

Jerry: Yeah, you better give me the insurance, because I am gonna beat the hell out of this car.

Porque é que a Ani Difranco é porreira

Porque escreve letras como esta:

yes,
us people are just poems
we're 90% metaphor
with a leanness of meaning
approaching hyper-distillation
and once upon a time
we were moonshine
rushing down the throat of a giraffe
yes, rushing down the long hallway
despite what the p.a. announcement says
yes, rushing down the long stairs
with the whiskey of eternity
fermented and distilled
to eighteen minutes
burning down our throats
down the hall
down the stairs
in a building so tall
that it will always be there
yes, it's part of a pair
there on the bow of noah's ark
the most prestigious couple
just kickin back parked
against a perfectly blue sky
on a morning beatific
in its indian summer breeze
on the day that america
fell to its knees
after strutting around for a century
without saying thank you
or please

and the shock was subsonic
and the smoke was deafening
between the setup and the punch line
cuz we were all on time for work that day
we all boarded that plane for to fly
and then while the fires were raging
we all climbed up on the windowsill
and then we all held hands
and jumped into the sky

and every borough looked up when it heard the first blast
and then every dumb action movie was summarily surpassed
and the exodus uptown by foot and motorcar
looked more like war than anything i've seen so far
so far
so far
so fierce and ingenious
a poetic specter so far gone
that every jackass newscaster was struck dumb and stumbling
over 'oh my god' and 'this is unbelievable' and on and on
and i'll tell you what, while we're at it
you can keep the pentagon
keep the propaganda
keep each and every tv
that's been trying to convince me
to participate
in some prep school punk's plan to perpetuate retribution
perpetuate retribution
even as the blue toxic smoke of our lesson in retribution
is still hanging in the air
and there's ash on our shoes
and there's ash in our hair
and there's a fine silt on every mantle
from hell's kitchen to brooklyn
and the streets are full of stories
sudden twists and near misses
and soon every open bar is crammed to the rafters
with tales of narrowly averted disasters
and the whiskey is flowin
like never before
as all over the country
folks just shake their heads
and pour

so here's a toast to all the folks who live in palestine
afghanistan
iraq

el salvador

here's a toast to the folks living on the pine ridge reservation
under the stone cold gaze of mt. rushmore

here's a toast to all those nurses and doctors
who daily provide women with a choice
who stand down a threat the size of oklahoma city
just to listen to a young woman's voice

here's a toast to all the folks on death row right now
awaiting the executioner's guillotine
who are shackled there with dread and can only escape into their heads
to find peace in the form of a dream

cuz take away our playstations
and we are a third world nation
under the thumb of some blue blood royal son
who stole the oval office and that phony election
i mean
it don't take a weatherman
to look around and see the weather
jeb said he'd deliver florida, folks
and boy did he ever

and we hold these truths to be self evident:
#1 george w. bush is not president
#2 america is not a true democracy
#3 the media is not fooling me
cuz i am a poem heeding hyper-distillation
i've got no room for a lie so verbose
i'm looking out over my whole human family
and i'm raising my glass in a toast

here's to our last drink of fossil fuels
let us vow to get off of this sauce
shoo away the swarms of commuter planes
and find that train ticket we lost
cuz once upon a time the line followed the river
and peeked into all the backyards
and the laundry was waving
the graffiti was teasing us
from brick walls and bridges
we were rolling over ridges
through valleys
under stars
i dream of touring like duke ellington
in my own railroad car
i dream of waiting on the tall blonde wooden benches
in a grand station aglow with grace
and then standing out on the platform
and feeling the air on my face

give back the night its distant whistle
give the darkness back its soul
give the big oil companies the finger finally
and relearn how to rock-n-roll
yes, the lessons are all around us and a change is waiting there
so it's time to pick through the rubble, clean the streets
and clear the air
get our government to pull its big dick out of the sand
of someone else's desert
put it back in its pants
and quit the hypocritical chants of
freedom forever

cuz when one lone phone rang
in two thousand and one
at ten after nine
on nine one one
which is the number we all called
when that lone phone rang right off the wall
right off our desk and down the long hall
down the long stairs
in a building so tall
that the whole world turned
just to watch it fall


and while we're at it
remember the first time around?
the bomb?
the ryder truck?
the parking garage?
the princess that didn't even feel the pea?
remember joking around in our apartment on avenue D?

can you imagine how many paper coffee cups would have to change their design
following a fantastical reversal of the new york skyline?!

it was a joke, of course
it was a joke
at the time
and that was just a few years ago
so let the record show
that the FBI was all over that case
that the plot was obvious and in everybody's face
and scoping that scene
religiously
the CIA
or is it KGB?
committing countless crimes against humanity
with this kind of eventuality
as its excuse
for abuse after expensive abuse
and it didn't have a clue
look, another window to see through
way up here
on the 104th floor
look
another key
another door
10% literal
90% metaphor
3000 some poems disguised as people
on an almost too perfect day
should be more than pawns
in some asshole's passion play
so now it's your job
and it's my job
to make it that way
to make sure they didn't die in vain
sshhhhhh....
baby listen
hear the train?

A erva

Digam lá se não é provavelmente a cena anti-Bush mais subversiva que já viram...

ANDY
Fuck... well, ah... I'm not going to Iraq to fight in some bullshit war about oil-money.

DOUG
'Bullshit war'? What about 9-11? Didn't Iran hide the terrorists?

ANDY
We're fighting a war in IRAQ, Doug. And neither country had anything to do with blowing up the World Trade Center.

DOUG
Well... They both have sand.

ANDY
Bush invaded a sovereign nation in defiance of the UN. He's a war criminal and now I'm suppossed to be one of his disposable thugs with a fucking target on my head in the middle of the desert, waiting to be blown up by a car bomb, rigged by a 12 year old who loved 'Friends' and Metallica until one of our missles blew up his house?! I don't think so.

DOUG
They had weapons of mass destruction!

ANDY
THERE WHERE NO WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION!

DOUG
No? Well, whatever. Look, I got a lot of shit to do...

ANDY
You name me one thing you have to do that's more important than the corporate takeover of our democracy.

DOUG
I gotta take a shit.

ANDY
You gotta help me, man.

DOUG
I will. I will. I'm gonna put one of those yellow ribbon-stickers on my car. For you.

ANDY
How can you be so blindly pro-Bush?

DOUG
I like his wife Laura. Used to buy weed from here at SMU. Good shit! Good shit...

entro no jogo

SEAN
You've never been out of Boston.

WILL
No.

SEAN
So if I asked you about art you could give me the skinny on every art book ever written...Michelangelo? You know a lot about him I bet. Life's work, criticisms, political aspirations. But you couldn't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling. And if I asked you about women I'm sure you could give me a syllabus of your personal favorites, and maybe you've been laid a few times too. But you couldn't tell me how it feels to wake up next to a woman and be truly happy. If I asked you about war you could refer me to a bevy of fictional and non-fictional material, but you've never been in one. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap and watched him draw his last breath, looking to you for help. And if I asked you about love I'd get a sonnet, but you've never looked at a woman and been truly vulnerable. Known that someone could kill you with a look. That someone could rescue you from grief. That God had put an angel on Earth just for you. And you wouldn't know how it felt to be her angel. To have the love be there for her forever. Through anything, through cancer. You wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in a hospital room for two months holding her hand and not leaving because the doctors could see in your eyes that the term "visiting hours" didn't apply to you. And you wouldn't know about real loss, because that only occurs when you lose something you love more than yourself, and you've never dared to love anything that much. I look at you and I don't see an intelligent confident man, I don't see a peer, and I don't see my equal. I see a boy. Nobody could possibly understand you, right Will? Yet you presume to know so much about me because of a painting you saw. You must know everything about me. You're an orphan, right?

Will nods quietly.

SEAN (cont'd)
Do you think I would presume to know the first thing about who you are because I read "Oliver Twist?" And I don't buy the argument that you don't want to be here, because I think you like all the attention you're getting. Personally, I don't care. There's nothing you can tell me that I can't read somewhere else. Unless we talk about your life. But you won't do that. Maybe you're afraid of what you might say.

o tri

Hoje foi o dia de poder dizer que já vi os três filmes que mais me interessaram nos últimos tempos: depois de There Will Be Blood e de No Country for Old Men, o tri foi com I'm Not There. E dou veredictos. O primeiro é aquele que mais vontade tenho de rever. O segundo foi pacato visto e inquietante reflectido. O terceiro é muito mais um filme de Dylan do que o demasiado lambe-botas Masked and Anonymous, de que já falei aqui. É necessário conhecer algo da vida do cantor antes de partir para isto (o documentário do Scorsese é o melhor; uma data de citações reais são repescadas por Haynes), mas a multiplicação dos actores, se não fosse por mais nada, vale por uma coisa: o reconhecimento de que Dylan não é uma pessoa, mas todas as referências e influências que arrastou consigo enquanto ia afirmando a sua autoria. É o melhor: afinal, se há coisa que o homem fez ao longo do tempo foi dizer que ele não importa muito fora da criação.

o balanço

Como sou anarca, lento de raciocínio e, acima de tudo, atrasado crónico em consumos, não me importo muito com a data de embalagem do que me passou pela cabeça. Aqui falo do que mais me deu para pensar no ano de 2007.

Foi este ano que, quanto a mim, os blogs de mp3 superaram definitivamente o p2p como fonte de música. Só assim para ter descoberto o muito bom Goodbye Brains, de Coley. Outras bandas deram-se ao luxo de oferecer as suas próprias músicas. Os Radiohead foram uma delas, mas bem melhor do que o In Rainbows foi o Do Schopenhauer até à Lapa ou vendo cama tripartida + colchão de látex, dos Isabelle Chase Otelo Saraiva de Carvalho, que só podem ser felicitados por este ano terem começado a colocar as obras em ficheiros únicos. Ainda assim, o disco mais espantoso que ouvi em 2007 é de 1975. Chama-se Estudando o Samba e é do Tom Zé.

2007 também foi o ano em que descobri podcasts que me convenceram definitivamente: o Sound Opinions, o SMtv, o Fresh Air, o All Songs Considered e, no vídeo, o Charlie Rose e a Boing Boing TV.

Na comédia, vi tudo o que consegui dos Flight of the Conchords e do Zach Galifianakis. Fiquei também com vontade de ver mais Dan Mintz do que os poucos vídeos online que encontrei.

As séries de eleição foram a Entourage, o Dexter (ainda só vi um episódio da segunda temporada e não me agradou, mas a ver vamos) e a Californication - e, fale-se bem ou mal do ER, não esqueci o episódio de que falei aqui.

Foi um prazer rever o Living In Oblivion, esse belíssimo exemplo de como nos anos 90 se sabia fazer cinema com pouco mais do que um décor. Bug mostrou que o veterano Friedkin já tinha a lição aprendida. Juntamente com Swimming To Cambodia (ver finalmente Spalding Gray foi iluminador) e Glengarry Glen Ross, serviram para eu compreender que, ao contrário do que duas velhas belgas uma vez me quiseram impingir, estou-me bem a cagar para guerrilhas entre o cinema e o teatro. Masked and Anonymous é um exercício perturbante de delírio à volta da personagem Bob Dylan - será bom para contrapor ao esperado I'm Not There - e Guy foi magistral em 1997 a tratar questões de 2007 (a vigilância, a privacidade, o voyeurismo do público). Por fim, Zach Galifianakis Live At The Purple Onion! é um grande filme de stand-up. Vejam, está disponível online.

Li pouquíssimas coisas que me tivessem deixado a pensar nelas, o que não deixa de ser estranho, pois foi de certeza na Amazon que gastei mais dinheiro a comprar mais livros por menos dinheiro (acho que me compreendem). Ficaram-me o Wilt (o Sharpe é querido por estas bandas) e o Como Falar dos Livros que Não Lemos?, para além da descoberta de Daniil Harms, que me aumentou muito o interesse nas micronarrativas.

A Matéria do Tempo terminou, o que é uma pena - era um fascinante blog que nada tinha de narcísico. Não é normal. Também defunta, a curiosa experiência do diário de um quiosque, que, da Praça 8 de Maio da Figueira da Foz, mostrava ao mundo que bastam 6 metros quadrados para haver assunto. Mas também houve muitos blogs vivos, como o de Julian Gough, autor de Divine Comedy (o melhor ensaio que li em 2007 e que tive a oportunidade de traduzir para o PFtv Blog); o Frescas e Boas, do João Tomé, olho atento ao que se vai fazendo de comédia, televisão e cinema, tal como o excelente André Santos, a quem ainda não percebi se gosta realmente do Dexter ou não; o No Centro do Arco, do poeta João Rasteiro, antigo companheiro da Oficina de Poesia e que ainda não tinha mencionado aqui; a ana de amsterdam e o Womenage a Trois, que me deram a sensação de os ter descoberto com atraso; o dias felizes, do Rui Manuel Amaral, mais um rastilho para o bichinho da micronarrativa, cujas histórias não raras vezes me serviam para respirar durante o dia. Por qualquer razão que não sei explicar, acho que o Tiago Galvão, o Miguel Marques (o mesmo que entrou em antologias dos Jovens Criadores comigo, presumirei bem?), o Lourenço Bray e o manuel a. domingos seriam gajos excelentes com quem formar um Fight Club - e digo isto no melhor dos sentidos. No cinema, dois sobreviventes da defunta Premiere, o Deuxieme e o Dias de Criswell, salvaram a honra da casa, e o Diário de Blindness, o blog da rodagem do que será o primeiro grande filme americano inspirado num romance português, foi referência. Errol Morris, um enorme documentarista, também começou a blogar para o New York Times, com textos espaçados, reflectidos, fascinantes. Na fotografia, pareceu-me que a Joana Linda está a aguentar bem o novo espaço dela, o que só é bom para todos nós (e ainda melhor para o Miguel Marques). Já o Bandeira ao Vento é porventura o blog de humor português de que menos se fala, o que não se compreende. Os Não Tens Piada (curioso título) e A Dupla Personalidade fizeram a melhor colaboração do ano e as notícias e o blog do site Dead Frog foram uma ferramenta essencial de trabalho. Na literatura, o Blogtailors e o Bibliotecário de Babel ressaltaram, e é curioso reparar como parece que vieram para o online algumas presenças que parecem estar a ficar sem lugar na imprensa escrita. O Augusto M. Seabra foi notório - será também o caso do Jornal de Letras?

Para acabar com isto tudo, fiquem com o vídeo/canção em que de certeza mais carreguei no "play" durante 2007 e aproveitem para recordar a Jane Fonda a envergonhar o Colbert e a Marine a ser surpreendida.

o filme: I'm not there

Eu disse que isto ia ser muito bom, mas não pensei que até a antecipação pudesse ser tão boa...

o filme: I'm Not There

Ainda a pensar no bom que isto vai ser, também repararam neste plano do trailer e pensaram no bom que isto vai ser?

o filme: i'm not there

Isto vai ser bom. Vai ser mesmo muito bom.