Posts Tagged ‘Fellini’

“Mi ricordo, si, io mi ricordo”


Dear Cinema, It has been a really long time since you scratched my itch. The past six-seven months my itches were itching very much beyond your possibilities to scratch ’em. Now my itching is yours to scratch again. End itch theme!!!!

The truth is I ran out of words and reasons to write about you and I don’t even have a reason for this. Do you think reading too much of Albert Camus lately has anything to do with it?

First let me tell you about a painting because this made me grab the pen again. There is a painting in Canada I bumped into accidentally. Right at the first glance I felt that usual yet unfamiliar shock when I could feel the galloping synapses connecting, the endorphins producing, the mechanism of pleasure awakening. The sensation was increased by the last synapse that connected me to a movie. Of course, when something you instantly fall in love with reminds you of something else you love is the most common and perverted of all pleasures. Nevertheless is a pleasure worth to remember.

There is a scene in Amarcord by Fellini when the whole village sails out to sea, on little boats, at night, to get a glimpse of a majestic cruise ship. When the ship arrives the poor villagers are so happy and awestruck they’re actually feeling like taking part of the extravagant life on the deck.

Fellini shoots the scene allowing the big body of the ship to take over the screen. What’s left free is filled with a little night sky and the mesmerized, enthusiastic villagers.

Now, seeing this little painting made me feel like I believe those characters might have felt seeing SS REX. I perceived this painted ship detail with all my senses. Thank you, painter!

hulla

The art of painting using a still, flat, colored image to catch the attention of our brain, can produce a more memorable effect then the movies. Movies are desperately trying to impress us with 3D, 4D, amazing sound effects, odors and kinetic theater chairs. I fully understand now the big disappointment some have felt when the movies started talking or when colors invaded the silver screen. The receiver’s imagination was gradually put to rest.

But, I know, being a king and a beggar belonging both in an art gallery and an amusement park is your main and most fascinating feature. Even though lately you failed to rapture me don’t get me wrong Cinema, I still love you more than I love your closest rival, Theatre. And there were some good moments between us this months too. About those, some other time.

Cheers!

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Stardust Memories -Woody Allen


The artist sits in front of a white canvas, an empty piece of paper, a silent musical instrument. What to fill it with? Where do all those colours, sounds, words come from?

We have the sweating artists, who have the skills and not always the idea and they torment themselves in front of the empty surface. Then we have the artists with the ideas but not the skills to transform them in a work of art. Then there are some persons with love for art, with an extraordinary brain activity and probably with hearts broken too many times.

Well, these are the artists that cannot be anything else, but artists. They pour their life into their work and the result gives them back their life anew. It sounds like therapy.

What is the inner source of a work of art, which is just a surface open to the most hilarious misinterpretations? It may not be very important, maybe the hilarious interpretations are more interesting than the initial idea.

But here we have in Stardust Memories an ars poetica and it seems like Woody Allen’s whole process of creating and living is disclosed. It could be quite embarrassing to face the artist in such a cruel light. Woody Allen is merciless to himself but merciful to us, he keeps our smile active although his heart and brains are bleeding. The director gives us the inner sources off all his creation.

Haunting memories of past relations, misplaced feelings pour over the artist while he is confronting the world admiring his work. It really sounds like any other Woody Allen movie. But this time the hell of creation and dealing with personal problems blend in an almost nightmarish universe. There is a big resemblance between this confession and Fellini´s 8½. There is definitely no copying. In Fellini`s work we can feel the artist´s light heart towards all his haunting characters and ideas. This gives him the power not to make a comedy out of his confession. Allen cannot confess without being ironic and this is a proof of him being much more miserable.

A perfect work of art comes out of a perfect quest for equilibrium, comes out of perfect mistakes, and perfect illusions. Artistically he wants to take the express train, in life he accepts the cheapest one, he loathes as an artist and he calls that “not a compromise but getting lucky”. Oh, how much illusion in this too, and he knows it; the suffering will never end, but he also knows that his art will see him through the day.

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