único filme da mini-mostra em comemoração aos 30 anos da queda do muro de berlim que vi. norma que montou, esse foi o último dia/filme de 3. baseado num livro de mesmo nome, que ela disse gostar muito. sobre a juventude de um grupo de amigos nos tempos seguintes à queda do muro, em leipzig (norma estudou lá, acho que é de lá também). muita doideira, carros roubados, direção alcoolizada, destruição de coisas. uns se envolvem com drogas, um vendendo e outro se viciando (esse morre). o principalzinho fica preso por uns meses, intencionalmente, pra ver se melhorava as coisas pra mãe e pra vida. apanhou feio de uma gangue (skinheads?) de gente otária, só porque gostava da namoradinha de um. "Sternchen", estrelinha. reconheci várias coisas em alemão, mas não dava pra anotar tudo. quem sabe assistindo de novo. mas a música tema é muito boa!
paprika (2006)
vi de novo com talita pra poder fazer review. um aparelho que pode ver os sonhos das pessoas, controlar, sei lá. paprika é essa mulher que consegue entrar nos sonhos, conversar, fazer qualquer coisa. depois de um tempo de filme dá pra entender que ela é a cientista séria da empresa que fabrica esse aparelho, mas ainda não sei por que ela tem essa capacidade extra. um dos caras que trabalhava no negócio rouba ele e usa pra criar um sonho/delírio coletivo absurdo. difícil dizer o sentido das coisas nesse filme. o gordão que gosta da mulher (paprika) também cai no sono infinito nesse sonho doido. a cidade toda um caos. no fim é o velho nojento diretor da empresa que tá tramando coisa, usa outro cientista do grupo pra conseguir as coisas, cena agoniante dele arrancando a "roupa" de paprika da mulher, rasgando a pele dela pregada como borboleta numa mesa. tudo muito surreal. gosto da trilha sonora, pra variar. massa e confuso os encontros virtuais (?) do policial com paprika no barzinho. e no fim ele perseguindo a si próprio, suicídio ou ele matando o amigo, etc.
esses dois moram na mesma rua, um de frente pro outro, em prédios. paula trabalha um bocado, tem uma filha criança e um filho menorzinho. não tem marido, não sei por quê. um dia sai pra curtir de noite e vê paul no clube. acho que ele tá com a mulher e dança com ela, ou com outra pessoa, e um velho feio com paula. mas no final, indo embora, o próprio velho troca e eles saem juntos. ficam de amor e sexo e se vêem de vez em quando. paula toda dramática, emocionada num concerto de cordas, aplaudindo antes de terminar e tudo. numa vez prepara toda uma recepção pra paul na casa dela, junta camas, enche de comida... nojentinho aquela mistura de comida e sexo, mas é breve. alguma coisa sobre a família dela ser meio doidinha, ter coisa de barco, sei lá. o filho pequeno morre atropelado, se não me engano. em algum momento ela engravida e o médico diz que ela pode morrer se tiver o filho, mas ela não se importa. por quê, véi? sério que precisa de uma criança no romance? claro que ela morre e o cara fica com os filhos que sobraram, né. o ator que faz paul é ulrich velho em dark!
einheit spd-kpd (1946)
sei lá, alguma coisa sobre a união dessas duas coisas na alemanha. dois partidos, um comunista e outro socialista. curtinho, uns 15 minutos, vi errado esperando que fosse die mauer.
die mauer (1990)
sobre a queda do muro de berlim. foi o segundo filme da mini-mostra. umas movimentações ao redor do muro, gente levando pedaço de recordação (aquela história de que tio jr. tem um, mas nunca se sabe da veracidade). turistas virando o ano novo lá. gente subindo de um jeito confuso, como se fosse só um degrauzão num pedaço. e as máquinas tirando as placas inteiras, como que já pensando em botar em museu. interessante, doido de pensar. ficou 30 anos de pé, né.
pelo que eu entendi é um documentário sobre um tal festival da juventude da alemanha soviética que aconteceu nesse ano em berlim oriental. angela davis tava lá, jovem, altona né. falou em alemão no microfone. mensagens de incentivo e inspiração, felicidade pelo socialismo e sei lá. um bocado de apresentações musicais, gente com cara de hippie, falas anti-imperialistas. reconheci frases como "Frieden für alle", "Solidarität mit dem Vietnamesischen Volk", "Revolutionares Völke der Welt", "Die Jugend der DDR grüßt" e "Die Jugend der Welt". umas músicas/gritos tipo "Wir, wir, wir! Und zusammen!" e "Solidarität / Das ist unser Lied". num momentinho breve, em que se via a multidão filmada de cima, achei uma bandeira do brasil dançando lá no meio.
read this outside (joseph kendrick)
li duas vezes, a segunda traduzindo (revisão de talita). planos de alguma hora fazer uma versão em português. mas na verdade nem tudo é bom: tem uma página inteira sobre steve roggenbuck e outra sobre durianriders, e atualmente os dois foram acusados de abuso ou coisa pior. bom as partes sobre a vida de joseph, como a viagem de bicicleta em que acampou na floresta. excesso de falação sobre lil b the based god, mas engraçado. difícil entender se a tradução devia ser informal ou não muito, porque joseph faz umas frases tão bem feitinhas... caça-palavras que na verdade tem os opostos das palavras que ele coloca na lista de encontrar, que são coisas ruins. não esperava que todos os livros que ele recomenda no "further reading" teriam traduções em português. coisa de budismo e mindfullness. coisa de anotar sonho pra ter sonho lúcido, uns melhores momentos também. tô voltando a anotar, deu uma reanimada.
1984 (george orwell)
demorei pra ler por causa da faculdade e da vida, mas puta merda, que livro bom. já tinha certas espectativas por ser o que é, mas superou demais, nunca que eu poderia esperar qualquer coisa daquilo. tudo muito perfeito, bem pensado, meticulosamente planejado. é o extremo da distopia; não tem como qualquer outra coisa ser mais absurdamente completo do que 1984. anotei tanta citação que deu quase outro livro, mas por elas dá pra ter uma noção do que é essa história. o livro de o'brien, véi, come pode. o fim é muito bom também. acho que não vou esquecer de nada desse livro. foi massa ler em inglês também, bem tranquilo, gostei bastante do ritmo.
"Don't you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it. (...) Every year fewer and fewer words, and the range of consciousness always a little smaller. Even now, of course, there's no reason or excuse for committing thoughtcrime. It's merely a question of self-discipline, reality-control. But in the end there won't be any need for that. The Revolution will be complete when the language is perfect. (...)"
"Even the literature of the Party will change. Even the slogans will change. How could you have a slogan like 'freedom is slavery' when the concept of freedom has been abolished? The whole climate of thought will be different. In fact there will be no thought, as we understand it now. Orthodoxy means not thinking—not needing to think. Orthodoxy is unconsciousness."
Quickly, with an occasional crackle of twigs, they threaded their way back to the clearing. When they were once inside the ring of saplings she turned and faced him. They were both breathing fast, but the smile had reappeared round the corners of her mouth. She stook looking at him for an instant, then felt at the zipper of her overalls. And, yes! It was almost as in his dream. Almost as swiftly as he had imagined it, she had torn her clothes off, and when she flung them aside it was with that same magnificent gesture by which a whole civilization seemed to be annihilated. (...)
"Listen. The more men you've had, the more I love you. Do you understand that?"
"Yes, perfectly."
"I hate purity. I hate goodness. I don't want any virtue to exist anywhere. I want everyone to be corrupt to the bones.""Well, then, I ought to suit you, dear. I'm corrupt to the bones.""You like doing this? I don't mean simply me; I mean the thing in itself?""I adore it."That was above all what he wanted to hear. Not merely the love of one person, but the animal instinct, the simple undifferentiated desire: that was the force that would tear the Party to pieces.
(...) In the old days, he thought, a man looked at a girl's body and saw that it was desirable, and that was the end of the story. But you could not have pure love or lust nowadays. No emotion was pure, because everything was mixed up with fear and hatred. Their embrace had been a battle, the climax a victory. It was a blow struck against the Party. It was a political act.
She began to enlarge upon the subject. With Julia, everything came back to her own sexuality. As soon as this was touched upon in any way she was capable of great acuteness. Unlike Winston, she had grasped the inner meaning of the Party's sexual puritanism. It was not merely that the sex instinct created a world of its own which was outside the Party's control and which therefore had to be destroyed if possible. What was more important was that sexual privation induced hysteria, which was desirable because it could be transformed into war fever and leader worship. The way she put it was: "When you make love you're using up energy; and afterwards you feel happy and don't give a damn for anything. They can't bear you to feel like that. They want you to be bursting with energy all the time. All this marching up and down and cheering and waving flags is simply sex gone sour. If you're happy inside yourself, why should you get excited about Big Brother and the Three-Year Plans and the Two Minutes Hate and all the rest of their bloody rot?" That was very true, he thought. There was a direct, intimate connection between chastity and political orthodoxy. For how could the fear, the hatred, and the lunatic credulity which the Party needed in its members be kept at the right pitch except by bottling down some powerful instinct and using it as a driving force? The sex impulse was dangerous to the Party, and the Party had turned it to account. They had played a similar trick with the instinct of parenthood. The family could not actually be abolished, and, indeed, people were encouraged to be fond of their children in almost the old-fashioned way. The children, on the other hand, were sistematically turned against their parents and taught to spy on them and report their deviations. The family had become in effect an extension of the Thought Police. It was a device by means of which everyone could be surrounded night and day by informers who knew him intimately.
(...) From the moment when the machine first made its appearance it was clear to all thinking people that the need for human drudgery, and therefore to a great extent for human inequality, had disappeared. If the machine were used deliberately for that end, hunger, overwork, dirt, illiteracy, and disease could be eliminated within a few generations. And in fact, without being used for any such purpose, but by a sort of automatic process—by producing wealth which it was sometimes impossible not to distribute—the machine did raise the living standards of the average human being very greatly over a period of about fifty years at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries.But it was also clear that an all-round increase in wealth threatened the destruction—indeed, in some sense was the destruction—of a hierarchical society. In a world in which everyone worked short hours, had enough to eat, lived in a house with a bathroom and a refrigerator, and possessed a motorcar or even an airplane, the most obvious and perhaps the most important form of inequality would already have disappeared. If it once became general, wealth would confer no distinction. It was possible, no doubt, to imagine a society in which wealth, in the sense of personal possessions and luxuries, should be evenly distributed, while power remained in the hands of a small privileged caste. But in practice such a society could not long remain stable. For if leisure and security were enjoyed by all alike, the great mass of human beings who are normally stupefied by poverty would become literate and would learn to think for themselves; and when once they had done this, they would sooner or later realize that the privileged minority had no function, and they would sweep it away. In the long run, a hierarchical society was only possible on a basis of poverty and ignorance.
(...) And at the same time the consciousness of being at war, and therefore in danger, makes the handing-over of all power to a small caste seem the natural, unavoidable condition of survival.War, it will be seen, not only accomplishes the necessary destruction, but accomplishes it in a psychologically acceptable way. In principle it would be quite simple to waste the surplus labor of the world by building temples and pyramids, by digging holes and filling them up again, or even by producing vast quantities of good and then setting fire to them. But this would provide only the economic and not the emotional basis for a hierarchical society. (...)
(...) The problem is the same for all three superstates. It is absolutely necessary to their structure that there should be no contact with foreigners except, to a limited extent, with war prisoners and colored slaves. Even the official ally of the moment is always regarded with the darkest suspicion. War prisoners apart, the average citizen of Oceania never sets eyes on a citizen of either Eurasia or Eastasia, and he is forbidden the knowledge of foreign languages. If he were allowed contact with foreigners he would discover that they are creatures similar to himself and that most of what he has been told about them is lies. The sealed world in which he lives would be broken, and the fear, hatred, and self-righteousness on which his morale depends might evaporate. It is therefore realized on all sides that however often Persia, or Egypt, or Java, or Ceylon may change hands, the main frontiers must never be crossed by anything except bombs.
(...) The best books, he perceived, are those that tell you what you know already. (...)
In principle, membership in these three groups is not hereditary. The child of Inner Party parents is in theory not born into the Inner Party. Admission to either branch of the Party is by examination, taken at the age of sixteen. Nor is there any racial discrimination, or any marked domination of one province by another. Jews, Negroes, South Americans of pure Indian blood are to be found in the highest ranks of the Party, and the administrator of any area are always drawn from the inhabitants of that area. In no part of Oceania do the inhabitants have the feeling that they are a colonial population ruled from a distant capital. Oceania has no capital, and its titular head is a person whose whereabouts nobody knows. Except that English is its chief lingua franca and Newspeak its official language, it is not centralized in any way. Its rulers are not held together by blood ties but by adherence to a common doctrine. (...)
The alteration of the past is necessary for two reasons, one of which is subsidiary and, so to speak, precautionary. The subsidiary reason is that the Party member, like the proletarian, tolerates present-day conditions partly because he has no standards of comparison. He must be cut off from the past, just as he must be cut off from foreign countries, because it is necessary for him to believe that he is better off than his ancestors and that the average level of material comfort is constantly rising. But by far the more important reason for the readjustment of the past is the need to safeguard the infallibility of the Party. It is not merely that speeches, statistics, and records of every kind must be constantly brought up to dat in order to show that the predictions of the Party were in all cases right. It is also that no change of doctrine or in political alignment can ever be admitted. For to change one's mind, or even one's policy, is a confession of weakness. (...)
The mutability of the past is the central tenet of Ingsoc. Past events, it is argued, have no objective existence, but survive only in written records and in human memories. The past is whatever the records and the memories agree upon. And since the Party is in full control of all records, and in equally in full control of the minds of its members, it follows that the past is whatever the Party chooses to make it. It also follows that though the past is alterable, it never has been altered in any specific instance. For when it has been re-created in whatever shape is needed at the moment, then this new version is the past, and no different past can ever have existed. This holds good even when, as often happens, the same event has to be altered out of recognition several times in the course of a year. At all times the Party is in possession of absolute truth, and clearly the absolute can never have been different from what it is now. It will be seen that the control of the past depends above all on the training of memory. To make sure that all written records agree with the orthodoxy of the moment is merely a mechanical act. But it is also necessary to remember that events happened in the desired manner. And if it is necessary to rearrange one's memories or to tamper with written records, then it is necessary to forget that one has done so. The trick of doing this can be learned like any other mental technique. It is learned by the majority of Party members, and certainly by all who are intelligent as well as orthodox. In Oldspeak it is called, quite frankly, "reality control." In Newspeak it is called doublethink, although doublethink comprises much else as well.
"But how can you stop people remembering things?" cried Winston, again momentarily forgetting the dial. "It is involuntary. It is outside oneself. How can you control memory? You have not controlled mine!"
O'Brien's manner grew stern again. He laid his hand on the dial. "On the contrary," he said, "you have not controlled it. That is what has brought you here. You are here because you have failed in humility, in self-discipline. You would not make the act of submission which is the price of sanity. You preferred to be a lunatic, a minority of one. Only the disciplined mind can see reality, Winston. You believe that reality is something objective, external, existing in its own right. You also believe that the nature of reality is self-evident. When you delude yourself into thinking that you see something, you assume that everyone else sees the same thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external. Reality exists in the human minds, and nowhere else. Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and in any case soon perishes; only in the mind of the Party, which is collective and immortal. Whatever the Party holds to be truth is truth. It is impossible to see reality except by looking through the eyes of the Party. That is the fact that you have got to relearn, Winston. It needs an act of self-destruction, an effort of the will. You must humble yourself before you can become sane."
O'Brien smiled slightly. "You are a flaw in the pattern, Winston. You are a stain that must be wiped out. Did I not tell you just now that we are different from the persecutors of the past? We are not content with negative obedience, not even with the most abject submission. When finally you surrender to us, it must be of your own free will. We do not destroy the heretic because he resists us; so long as he resists us we never destroy him. We convert him, we capture his inner mind, we reshape him. We burn all evil and all illusion out of him; we bring him over to our side, not in appearance, but genuinely, heart and soul. We make him one of ourselves before we kill him. It is intolerable to us that an erroneous thought should exist anywhere in the world, however secret and powerless it may be. Even in the instant of death we cannot permit any deviation. In the old days the heretic walked to the stake still a heretic, proclaiming his heresy, exulting it. Even the victim of the Russian purges could carry rebellion locked up in his skull as he walked down the passage waiting for the bullet. But we make the brain perfect before we blow it out. The command of the old despotisms was 'Thou shalt not.' The command of the totalitarians was 'Thou shalt.' Our command is 'Thou art.' No one whom we bring to this place ever stands out against us. Everyone is washed clean. (...)
hamoni (monge han)
dá pra ler no perfil dele. sobre a avó coreana, quando ela tava morrendo. fala de como ela era o centro da família, dos impasses pelas línguas diferentes, do quanto se sentiu enxergado na última vez que se olharam. ele tem essa coisa de desenhar três olhos, só um aberto, e quando a pessoa tá morrendo os outros abrem; interessante, queria saber se tem alguma crença envolvida ou é só artístico. bem bonito o quadrinho, triste. curtinho.