sábado, septiembre 25, 2010
miércoles, septiembre 22, 2010
Casanova di Fellini - sequenza tagliata
GENIAL escena que, sin palabras, nos cuenta mas sobre la idea de homosexualidad latente en Casanova que todo un tratado de psicoanalisis. INCREIBILMENTE, la escena fue cortada por el mismo Fellini, y no está en la pelicula!
FEDERICO FELLINI'S CASANOVA - (DONALD SUTHERLAND) - CHEZ DUBOIS
La corte di Parma, fra´Francesi e Spagnoli!
Fellini's Casanova- The Dancing Doll
Una Obra Maestra adentro de otra Obra maestra.... FELLINI: CASANOVA.
EL TOPO. Jodorowsky habla:
How do you remember John Lennon?
He was a very nice person. And he gave me the money to make The Holy Mountain, through Allen Klein and Apple. He didn't want anyone to know about it, he did it anonymously. He was a fantastic person, and he really liked what I was doing. One day with John Lennon, he invited me to take tea . . . but, later, when I was shooting Holy Mountain, a Rolling Stone journalist came to interview me on the set. And we were eating and he asked to me — not as part of the interview — "What do you think about the short films John Lennon made?" And I said, "Listen, I don't like that. To see three hundred asses walking, or a fly going from one part of the body to another for half an hour, that's not a movie for me." Bueno. They published that and John and Yoko Ono both got angry. And then I sent them flowers, I said, "I never wanted to suggest . . ." But that was it broken. Our history was broken there. I've never told this story, but I am sorry about it. But it was the journalist, so, what can you do? But, still: if you ask me do I like their short pictures, I say . . . No! They are awful! I don't like them. What can I do?
He was a very nice person. And he gave me the money to make The Holy Mountain, through Allen Klein and Apple. He didn't want anyone to know about it, he did it anonymously. He was a fantastic person, and he really liked what I was doing. One day with John Lennon, he invited me to take tea . . . but, later, when I was shooting Holy Mountain, a Rolling Stone journalist came to interview me on the set. And we were eating and he asked to me — not as part of the interview — "What do you think about the short films John Lennon made?" And I said, "Listen, I don't like that. To see three hundred asses walking, or a fly going from one part of the body to another for half an hour, that's not a movie for me." Bueno. They published that and John and Yoko Ono both got angry. And then I sent them flowers, I said, "I never wanted to suggest . . ." But that was it broken. Our history was broken there. I've never told this story, but I am sorry about it. But it was the journalist, so, what can you do? But, still: if you ask me do I like their short pictures, I say . . . No! They are awful! I don't like them. What can I do?
In Sintonia con Federico... assolutamente!
"Perfect. I love journalists who don't talk much.
I'm reluctant to give interviews because I believe we should avoid them and I'm trying to hold to this sane decision. But in certain cases I end up by accepting, because there are friends who insist I do interviews. Then there's the curiosity of meeting somebody new. Also it's flattering; so out of an indecent vanity and a shameless desire to prattle about myself, I consent.
I've given a lot of interviews; so, I don't trust what I say. I repeat myself. I try to remember what I've already said and what I still haven't said. For fear of repeating something I've already said, I invent other things."
You told me in one of our conversations that you’ve always had a latent envy for anyone who expresses, even in a primitive way, a conviction, a creed, a dogma. You, who don’t want to take refuge in any rigid system of convictions or ideologies, what’s your "center," your "pivot"? The cinema?
"Do you mean "when do I feel at home"? "
Yes.
"You ask a question that’s not so simple to answer. I think my pivot point is finding myself in a nowhere in which I recognize myself. Said that way, it can seem like romantic complacency, shamelessly poetic.
No, no, I understand your answer very well. I’ve written about the nowhere. It’s a perception I know well precisely because I believe that creative people are acquainted with it. That is, people who have refused the comfort of certainties, of dogmatic, ideological constructions.
A less esoteric and less presumptuous center is my work, when I’m seized, when I have an identity, am caught up by what I’m doing. As in driving a nail, putting up a wall on a set, putting a wig on an actress’s head, seeing that the makeup is just right; when I’m on the go, obsessed in filming in the midst of a group of people who look at me with the respect due to age and, maybe, also with a little worry and amusement.
I lend my body, my common sense, or talent to something that is a stream, a stream that invites me, obliges me, forces me to personify myself in so many things, persons, thoughts, attitudes. And there, just at the moment in which I’m not there — since I’m in so many places taken up by so many details — is, I believe, my pivot point.
I believe that for me this is happiness — to lose one’s memory, to forget the self, the part you call yourself, which is really just a superstructure. This is the part you forget in order to be inhabited by an energy that borrows your body and your nervous system. "
I'm reluctant to give interviews because I believe we should avoid them and I'm trying to hold to this sane decision. But in certain cases I end up by accepting, because there are friends who insist I do interviews. Then there's the curiosity of meeting somebody new. Also it's flattering; so out of an indecent vanity and a shameless desire to prattle about myself, I consent.
I've given a lot of interviews; so, I don't trust what I say. I repeat myself. I try to remember what I've already said and what I still haven't said. For fear of repeating something I've already said, I invent other things."
You told me in one of our conversations that you’ve always had a latent envy for anyone who expresses, even in a primitive way, a conviction, a creed, a dogma. You, who don’t want to take refuge in any rigid system of convictions or ideologies, what’s your "center," your "pivot"? The cinema?
"Do you mean "when do I feel at home"? "
Yes.
"You ask a question that’s not so simple to answer. I think my pivot point is finding myself in a nowhere in which I recognize myself. Said that way, it can seem like romantic complacency, shamelessly poetic.
No, no, I understand your answer very well. I’ve written about the nowhere. It’s a perception I know well precisely because I believe that creative people are acquainted with it. That is, people who have refused the comfort of certainties, of dogmatic, ideological constructions.
A less esoteric and less presumptuous center is my work, when I’m seized, when I have an identity, am caught up by what I’m doing. As in driving a nail, putting up a wall on a set, putting a wig on an actress’s head, seeing that the makeup is just right; when I’m on the go, obsessed in filming in the midst of a group of people who look at me with the respect due to age and, maybe, also with a little worry and amusement.
I lend my body, my common sense, or talent to something that is a stream, a stream that invites me, obliges me, forces me to personify myself in so many things, persons, thoughts, attitudes. And there, just at the moment in which I’m not there — since I’m in so many places taken up by so many details — is, I believe, my pivot point.
I believe that for me this is happiness — to lose one’s memory, to forget the self, the part you call yourself, which is really just a superstructure. This is the part you forget in order to be inhabited by an energy that borrows your body and your nervous system. "
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