Excuse Me, Sr

Excuse me, Sr, are you a cop? Pardon me, I've noticed your badge. I see you're traffic officer. Monterrey Traffic Department. You must feel extremely powerful, no? Important, maybe? Yes.

I see you don't feel like talking.

Remember that night? It was nearly 12:15am. Gray Toyota. Broken light. How do the transit regulations work? How does a person driving a car with a broken light ends up becoming, along lots of punches, into a drug dealer?

Do you know Kafka?

Of course not. How could you know him? Excuse me, Sr. I didn't intend to offend you. You only know about cowboy magazines, or joke books, maybe.

Do you know what happens to a person when, one night, after finishing his thesis... I'm sorry, do you know what a thesis is? No, of course not. A thesis is a final document that many universities require in order for someone to graduate. Graduate! From architecture, in this case.

Well, do you know what happens to a person after that, being punched and accused to be a drug dealer, and exposed to the media by a negligible being who feels powerful for being dressed with a uniform made out of second hand fabrics?

Did you listen? Kafka again.

Well it's good that a person like you is used to Kafkian processes. Your -how should I call it?- Expertise... would help you understand that a person in that scenery, exposed in the media, unfairly accused... a person like that looses much more than his family, title, or his reputation.

A person like that looses something unfixable in his essence. I don't know what it is. I just know that something disappears. A person like that has nothing to loose. A person like that transforms.

I'm gonna to take the blindfold off your eyes. Your sight's gonna take a while in getting used to the light. It's just a matter of seconds. Before that, however, I want you to bring to your mind the last memory you've got of your children.

Excuse me, Sr, can you see now?

Look at them... your kids.

I suppose those pieces of meat, guts, organs, and hair don't look a lot like the image you had in your little head. Do they?

Kafka!

In A Beautiful Pilgrimage

So yes. I saw her crossing the street and I immediately started chasing her.

There was no reason. Why do we insist on finding reasons for everything? I've always thought they're useless. Something that's completely logic and reasonable for someone (such abstract words!); could seem the most primitive, sickening, and dark thing to somebody else. I don't waste my time looking for reasons for what impulsively comes out from my heart. (does it exist?)

I chased her. Because I just felt like it.

I followed her along main avenues (I felt judged by the multitudes), along commercial streets (is it that people won't conceive anything else to do on weekends but consume?), along narrow and claustrophobic alleys (much better, now we have something in common), I followed her at a safe distance. And she kept walking, non-stop, without turning around, like if she had her eyes fixed in something that I couldn't guess.

And yes, I tried to guess: I imagined her arriving the kinder garden to pick her kids; or meeting her husband and have an improvised kiss in the middle of the street that would remind me to Doisneau; or even better, that she arrived to leave her kids at home with her husband, said goodbye, met with her young, beautiful, dominant lover, and had an improvised kiss in the middle of the street that would remind me to Doisneau.

Nothing, no husband, no kids, no lovers, no improvised kisses. Just her and her solitude ahead; I and she before me. Is it that she pursued her destiny? And I? I don't know. Three hours of quick walking make anyone tired, even a walk-junkie as myself.

But she kept walking at that fast pace. She, with her short dress that showed that sweet cellulite of a mature woman, of a woman who has lived, who has world, and above all who walks a fucking lot. She with her high heel shoes that made her show off that beautiful calf, as the lyrics of that Bronco song said. And I with those callosities that gave me the cramps like small electric discharges. Five hours and she wouldn't stop.

But, how could one let someone like her escape?! I saw her when she came out of that lingerie shop. I, who love, who fantasize with the women who enter a lingerie shop uninhibitedly and take their time picking thongs, hoses, garters, bras. Those women who raise the items towards the light, look at them, and imagine themselves wearing them. And while they do that, I, with my wrinkled cigarette, almost smoking the filter, imagine them.

I imagine their lives, their tastes... I think that a woman's underwear says a lot about her. I imagine everything about them before they decide to enter the shop. I imagine and never guess. But this time was magical. I did it, I saw the lost look of this beautiful forty-year-old and I imagined her in underwear.

I had that image in my head, mixing with the smoke of the tobacco and filter of my cigarette. And while the image focused, she picked those items which revealed before my fantasy. She chose everything that I imagined and put it in the bag.

How to let someone like that go away?

I don't know... it's been a day and a half, and I keep walking. She's still there, before me, at the same distance.

She walks and walks, and I follow and follow. The view of that human woman, without perfections, makes an eternity of pilgrimage worth it.

Visits

Is there anything true about reincarnation? I don't know. What I know about the concept is that one way or another, many societies/cultures/religions in history have theorized about it. I know the inherent kindness of the Buddhism, whose followers firmly believe in the cyclic journey of the soul until it reaches the state of purity and climax: the nirvana. I know that the concept has been part of innumerable film premises throughout the young cinematographic history.

I know that the majority of the new generation have grown and have been growing with an obsession for the alternativeness and for the need of differentiation. In that obsession, the resistance to certain religion is strongly attached. The atheism has become a fashion. It has become just that of which lots of atheists ran from.

I know I'm catholic from education and from family. I know that I've set up my own personal Jesus in which I want to believe. I couldn't care less about the church, the priests, and any human and institution who thinks that has the hand in religious aspects and imposes rules, interpretations, symbolisms, etc. And I want to believe there's something beyond; that in the death, like the Scorsesian Christ says: “Is not a door which closes. It is a door which opens.”

I have schizophrenic chats with my dear departed. I talk to them and try to imagine what would they answer. But maybe I'm not imagining! I believe there's something stuck in the Mexican collective subconscious that relates strongly with death. And this goes much more farther that the stereotype.

I've heard all kinds of ghost stories. When I was little I had the obsession of listening this kind of tales and then stayed up all night. Now I beg for those sleep hours lost. But those hours of insomnia where no lost time. Those where hours in which I imagined what I've had heard, in images. They where also hours of reflexion and premature analysis. Many of the stories that worried me the most and disturbed me where the ones that had to do with visits of my dead relatives.

A few weeks ago, I was walking to my apartment. The noise of the city has become overwhelming considering the great amount of stories and characters moving and acting inside my head. It was then when it happened; something I see as someone's visit. Or at least I want to relate it with someone's visit. I was walking a block away from my destiny, when a jogging woman with her dog crossed my way. The dog was a white boxer with a black stain on its right eye. I starred at the dog 'cause I simply can't ignore those animals. When they turned to their sidewalk and I kept going straight, that dog turned its head and saw me. And when we were looking at each other, the dog didn't look to the front anymore. It kept looking at me and I did the same. The dog didn't jog with its owner anymore, he just looked at me, and you could see nostalgia in its look. Those things that you just feel. And that way we walked for a whole block, it kept ignoring the jogging, and I stayed fascinated by the experience.

I have a picture which I wanted to publish here, but I didn't find it. In this picture I appear incarnated in a 4-year-old boy next to a hallway to the patio of a middle-class house. I appeared with a smile that I haven't seen on me in any other picture until now: because those were the times in which the emotions flowed without filters. And behind me, with a nostalgic and heavy look, watching me, was El Pirata, my fisrt dog: a white boxer with a black stain on its right eye.

I think that if someone had taken my picture a few weeks ago, while that happened, I would've repeated that pure and genuine smile.

I Want My Scalps!

Let's start at the beginning. This movie is something that should be called by now a Tarantino Flick. Yes, it is a sub-genre, and many people who are not Tarantino could try to make a Tarantino Flick. This categorization, brings some heavy baggage along.

What to expect?

Many things could come to mind: a good story, excellent dialogue (already called Tarantinesque in the academic jargon), compelling characters, winks to film itself, an incredible combination of score or soundtrack with images, chapter division, among others. Even though all those things come to mind, the only thing you are certain about a Tarantino film is that it will be genuinely entertaining.

Tarantino makes films with the spectator in his head. He sets out to make the greatest movie he would like to watch. In the case of Inglourious Basterds, he succeeded. He brings us, as the advertising materials bragged, his own vision of the Second World War. In this movie, he chose a context and specific characters, and used them as part of his completely fictional film.

Inglourious Basterds is a movie about a group of jewish-american soldiers known as "The basterds", lead by Lt. Aldo Raine (an exquisite caricature played by Brad Pitt), that are chosen to kill nazis and "gather 100 nazi scalps per soldier", in occupied France.

I'm not getting into much detail about the plot and subplot because that would mean to ruin the surprise factor. With the basic premise of the film, and what has been seen in the trailers, one can imagine a whole adrenalin rush throughout the film. The truth is that it doesn't happen. The movie has long dialogue secuences very much in the style of its director, and the locations, generally, can be counted with the hands' fingers. It's not a war movie, I insist, it's a Tarantino Flick.

Inglourious Basterds is a movie that with its two and a half hours length, left me wanting more. You are left wanting more Basterds, more Nazis, more Brad Pitt, and more Cristoph Waltz (WOW), more brutality, more scalps, more.

Another thing, and this is me playing the prophet without credit, but I think the movie has scenes which in a few decades will be classics.

"I think this might just be my masterpiece..." With all due respect, Mr. Tarantino, I don't think so, but there's no doubt you do have style. A lot.

Oxide

It hit me today. Since april 2007 (approximately) I haven't directed any project. I haven't been away from the production environment, from the set, from the headaches, from the adrenaline. But it's not the same. Definitely. Today that I'm 100% into inspiration and writing, into creation in paper, I feel that need to direct.

I feel that strong need, as if it was heroine (I haven't tried it but "Take the best orgasm you've ever had, multiply it times a million, and you're not even close..." sounds like it's good) to have my fix; to organize a work group, my crew; to go through the script with the writer and actors; to spend long hours writing and rewriting my shotlist, because the story I saw in my head at 10pm is not the same as the story I see at 1am; to have my Iñaki's cocktail (coca-cola and redbull) in the morning and drink coffee all day; to talk with my actors during the shoot, with no other directing tool but my instinct; to see from the viewfinder or the videoassist monitor how all that I imagined comes to life before my eyes... alive, completely organic.

Today it hit me. It's not cool at all. In a couple of weeks I might shoot an experimental short film with a friend, a writer, but it's not the same. That need to experiment, definitely comes from a different, much more different place. Today I heard about a friend that went into production of a short film. Just a couple of weeks ago, he told me about this idea. And now, he already did it. That was a powerful catalyst. And now I feel more needy than ever. I have many words that scream for a metamorphosis. They want to be images, and I have denied that right to them. At the moment I feel comfortable with the workload of my next term, I'll gather a group of actors, a decent cinematographer, a great colorist, and I'll get back to work.

My technique needs to be polished, and my instinct need to mature.

I feel rusty.

Let The Right One In

I have no idea why did it took me so long to watch this movie, which I consider is among the best movies of 2008 and the present year. A friend had been insisting me to see it. He handed it to me and, for one reason or another, I never saw it. Months later I'm in Vancouver and I don't find the CD in which he burnt the movie. I decided to buy it. I'm now happy as hell to have seen it in original DVD format with a home theater and a decent monitor. Joe, my recommendation now is that you buy the movie so you can watch it in a decent format.

"Let The Right One In" is an excellent film that pushes you inside its world and hypnotizes you. This is achieved thanks to its effective atmospheres, great acting, its semi-slow pace, and obviously, the incredible story that is told. It's a story that doesn't compromise with anything and has no self-censorship. It's a story that grabs you, shakes you, and at the end, you still feel it... tearing your insides.

The movie tells the story of Oskar, a 12-year-old boy, victim of the abuses of his school “friends”. Oskar dreams about having the courage to defend himself. He dreams about killing that what bothers him. And between his fantasies and his games and his loneliness, one night he meets Eli. Eli is a vampire girl. They fall in love, but they do like only a kid can love: purely.

The movie is grim and also points in philosophical questions of “vampirism”. It's not that easy for a person who really has a variant in his/her essence to present him/herself before society. Like Roger Ebert said, "it's very easy to go around with your pose of goth kid, but things get hard when you have marks of fangs on your neck to show-off.”

The director of the movie didn't risk at all in telling the essence of the story. He didn't go for the cheap scare, the gratuitous blood spurt, or the extremely macabre takes. He decided to show the drama of the struggle and the impotence of the kid who has no arguments to defend himself, and finds a ray of light in a vampire girl. And he achieves it. The movie scares when it has to, but it does because you already have on you all the emotional baggage that those kids project.

We've been Oskar or Eli in a given moment. Or they are those kids which we, from our desks at school, saw them being bothered. Or they are those kids which we bothered. That connects you to the protagonists, and when you get scared, you really do, because you have seen that. You've lived that. The outsider or the misfit themes are related to all of us.

No Rejection (A Teaser)

Thomas threw the joint away, got up, took the dead rat besides Terry and walked away. Terry got up, his ten years of age on his back, and followed his old master.

Thomas put the rat in rectangular piece of wood near an old oak. He took his old knife from his old jeans and started skinning the animal. It was a medium-sized rat, enough for him and Terry to have a good lunch. He got the peeled skin and placed it carefully in a thin branch of the big tree. Terry, with his ever glowing eyes, looked patiently while his master did his part of the job.

Terry was not the only one who hunted. But in the mornings, he had this valuable habit of proactively rushing to the bush and bring out something to eat. Sometimes he would bring a snake, a skunk, an opossum, and if they were really lucky, even a boar. This time of the year, though, a rat or a wild rabbit were the most common dishes.

Just as the days were beautiful, the nights could not get any better. Dark nights with a clear moon and a splendid, spectacular, roof of constellations were common in the summer. Coyotes howling at the emptiness, at the inexorable wilderness, would be, when they were spiritually tuned, the intros to a 60’s song that Thomas would start singing. The song for the night: Lou Reed’s Perfect Day.

Thomas would sit there, in a rusted rocking chair, near the old cabin. There he was, caressing Terry, enjoying the day’s blessings and living life and not regretting anything, and loving and protecting each other. Night is still night anywhere you go.

Terry was gone. Was it that late? He got up, and started whistling Terry’s tune. No dog could be seen. He went inside the cabin and took a pair of old, weary binoculars. No Terry at sight. Thomas then went to the well.

He started the ascension process. He was almost done when he heard a high-pitched bark and felt a strong push from behind. The bucket went down, and he turned around. Terry was home. And he brought no animal. An extremely emaciated, blue-grayish, severed head was just at Terry’s paws. The face lacked any reminiscence of humanity. Lips all gone, yellow, rotting teeth, a dried up tongue, two holes where a nose should be, and empty eye sockets.


...

True Fucking Blood

Let’s leave something clear from the beginning. I don’t watch many TV series. In fact, I don’t think I can tolerate watching series on TV. I always buy them on DVD and most of the times I start watching the series when there are already two or three seasons in that format. There are only two cases in which I bought the first season without the second one was yet on the market. And those two cases are product of the enormous respect and admiration that I have for one series in particular: Six Feet Under. Those two cases are Dexter, who is brought to life by an excellent Michael C. Hall (David in SFU); and True Blood, new series by the creator of SFU, Alan Ball. Both series are excellent in almost any aspect that deserves revision.

Dexter was nominated to the Emmy, as expected. True Blood, on the other side, was totally ignored (with some exceptions in minor nominations).

I really don’t understand why. I’m not going to compare it con the other series nominated because I simply don’t know them. But I think that any person, sober or in drugs, can recognize the great quality of material that HBO gives us week after week. HBO is already a warranty of greatly manufactures series, no inhibitions, and excellent stories. Some examples: The Sopranos, Rome, Six Feet Under, Entourage. And with True Blood they didn’t get off key at all. In fact, with no fear to make a mistake and trusting in the great capacity of Alan Ball, they have risked themselves with a proposal that will elevate the standards of their future offers.

What makes True Blood so brilliant? Everything… with no exaggerations. Technically it is impeccable, but is the story itself, its thematic, and the beings that give it life, what really makes this series something very special.

The series is based on a novel saga called The Southern Vampire Chronicles, and it’s located in the town of Bon Temps, Louisiana. The vampires have “come out of the coffin” and are trying to mix in with society. This is possible thanks to the development and comercialization of the synthetic blood called TruBlood, with which the vampires ensure their good nutrition without risk for the society.

Among the society, there are three sides: the pro-vampires, the anti-vampires, and the neutral. There are vampires that respect society, while there are others who can’t let go off the organic food. As part of the society there’s also a new “drug” that is in vogue: V, vampire’s blood.

In this context, the series follows the fates of Sookie Stackhouse, a waitress with the capacity to hear people’s thoughts. She gets to know Bill Compton, a vampire interested in mixing in with society. Sookie has a fascination towards these beings which increases in Bill when she discovers that she cannot listen to what he thinks.

The story itself sounds very well-worn. It is, no doubt. Many people actually compares True Blood with the vomitive Twilight (it was a real effort to put those two titles in the same line). The similarities are there, no question. Nevertheless, its thematic line is what makes this series something that connects with the audience. Obviously, and like in every story, there exists a subtext much greater than what is seen on the surface. True Blood is a story with vampires, lovers, villains, heroes, sex, drugs. But it is a story about prejudices, phobias, minorities, and polarities.

The vampires are a materialization of those subjects that we as a society have encrypted in a collective consciousness and before which there is an immediate reaction. That is what makes the true identification possible of the audience with the story that develops in that town. The series, chapter by chapter, feels urgent.

This story falls over the shoulders of its characters. Each and every one of them is of the best that I’ve seen on film or TV. Alan Ball is just a master storyteller. But the most important thing is that every one of the characters that appear in this series is a real person, vampire or human. A sensation of multidimensionality, deepness, and authenticity exists in every person that appears in the story. Everyone has their stories, their obsessions, their fantasies, and the most important: all of them are imperfect.

This last quality is something that identifies us with them, and makes them all matter to us. The imperfection of the man is something that attracts us, traps us, and obsesses us, because at the end of the line we see ourselves reflected. It is through those imperfect beings that our own internal struggles, as an audience, are made relevant and recognized. Also, it is through the struggle of each character for being better (because none of the characters is passive), that our personal battles make sense.

If you suffer of my same problem (not tolerating the suspense week after week, between season and season), definitely wait for the seasons 2 and 3 on DVD to be on the market. Really. I can’t emphasize enough in this point. If any “ACTII-series” like Lost or Prison Break causes you problems at the end of each chapter, True Blood leaves you with a sensation of emptiness and need few times seen. The series itself is a movie of 10 ½ hours. Just like that, with no exaggerations. Each chapter starts where the last one ended. And each chapter ends in what is known as cliffhangers (those moments of “cut to commercial” that make you dribble to see what’s next), very effective and powerful cliffhangers.

True Blood is, without doubt, a jewel of TV. It is necessary, very fun, and very compelling. Why it was not nominated to the Emmy? I don’t want to speak more than enough; I would have to know the other series to see if they are in the same level. I don’t think so.
And no, I don’t agree… it has nothing to do with the “movie-I-shall-not-name”. It’s everything that SHIT couldn’t be.

Entre Caderas, Corazones y Divagaciones

So, I won't translate this specific post because it is too personal a message to have something lost in translation. You can, if interested, tell google to translate this... hopefully it'll make sense.
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No tengo idea por qué no puedo sacar suficientes palabras. Es más, no importa si son suficientes o no, pero sí tienen que ser relevantes... no tienen que ser relevantes, tienen que ser urgentes... ¡¿tampoco?! Quizás emotivas... no, eso implica precondicionarte, y eso implica deshonestidad... tienen que ser entrañables... pero mi entraña y tu entraña son diferentes... pero se complementan... te tienen que llegar al corazón... ¡¡¡Carajo!!! Puedo escribir para cine, puedo escribir para televisión, puedo escribir divagaciones, pero nada que te llegue al corazón. ¡No es justo! Quiero regalarte una canción, o mínimo un grito con algo de sentido... no puedo... ¿Cómo llegar a un corazón ingeniero? Es muy complicado para mi corazón caótico.

Aunque... calma... creo que lo escucho... late al ritmo de unas hermosas caderas; se exalta al oír la palabra Gaby; y creo que está algo robotizado... automatizado para bombear sangre extra ante tu presencia. Te metiste en mi sistema y lo modificaste irreversiblemente... ingeniero tenías que ser.

El título que hoy te dan es simplemente una certificación redundante a tu capacidad.

Lo único que no lograrás es hacer que mi corazón hable en código binario... lo siento, preciosa... los ingenieros no son tan chingo10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010
10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101000000000000011
111111111111

...

System Error

...

Gaby.exe needed

...

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¡Felicidades en tu graduación, cabrona! Estoy orgullosísimo de tí.



"Es una mujer bonita, la que anduve pretendiendo,
la seguí por ocho meses, y apenas me está queriendo.

Chaparra de mi amor,
no me hagas sufrir ya tanto"

-Ramón Ayala

________________________________________________

Why?

I don’t know how it started. I love porn, like any normal guy. I used to hear things about it being addictive, and that there were this “porn-addiction therapists”. I never got it. Ridiculous, childish, stupid. Another fucking invention to bring paranoia.

Why mess around with sex? It is the most perfect relationship humans can aspire to. That bond, the sudden change of atmosphere it produces. Moods, context, crisis, depression, and the now famous “stress”. All those concepts are minimized almost to the point of extinction if you have a partner. A guy or woman that wishes to share a sexual encounter with you. It is perfect. Rosanna was perfect.

I love sex. Its infinite, hedonistic, magical, and animal values. When both souls share that moment, a strange scent fills the air. And those souls are naked, really naked. They stand side by side: human, vulnerable, and fragile. But sometimes, to some people, sex becomes something infinitely sick, hedonistically nasty, magically perverted, and devolutionary animal. Rosanna embraced sex.

I never understood the almost inherent repulsion to sex and sweat and flesh. People start giving other names to original, beautiful words. “Your thing”; “your private part”. Makes me sick. Penis, vagina, anus, breasts, semen, clitoris. People are constantly trying to dismantle, to castrate all these beautiful, noble words. Suddenly everything related to the coital act becomes dirty, shameful, and overwhelmingly evil. Rosanna was overwhelmed by my appetite.

I love sex, real sex. And real sex introduced its beautiful cousin to me. Her name: amateur pornography. I don’t know when I got into this. I’ve always been attracted to voyeurism. There’s some magnetism when it comes to open windows, open doors. I have to look inside. I’m not the kind of person that will repress any instinctive emotion or action. If they exist, there is a reason. There must be a reason. I’ve followed my gut and my instincts my whole life, and I don’t regret it. Rosanna was my whole life, and I regret it.

Someone enters your life, and something changes. Something primal, deep. I feel that it is a permanent, irreversible change. You leave a door or a window opened and the intruder, voyeurist, peeks in, and enters. But it was fine with me. And Rossana seemed to be ok with me. She seemed happy. Many women spend their days complaining about a fucked up sexual life. It is ridiculous. More ridiculous is a sexual free spirit like Rosanna to betray her essence. The fucking intruder came in, fucked you, and suddenly left. Just like that.

Now I remember. I don’t know why I couldn’t bring another woman to bed, ever again. Everybody looked at me really weird. I felt an outcast, a misfit, a leper. I never had any trouble seducing women. That was, I can say, my only real natural ability. I had the power to lure, to seduce, to entice. And Rossana left, and I guess my powers couldn’t stand the fact of losing her. They vanished.

And since then, every night, I would see myself alone, defeated in bed. And I would start jerking off. And my penis would stay flaccid. I would concentrate on her image, on those nights. But there was no contact, with no flesh there is no blood, and with no blood there is no hard on.

One day there she was, in my favorite bar. She never went there! Why the fuck would she come here!? Rossana’s right hand met a male hand that was not mine. The male hand made its way delicately, up her arm to her shoulder, then to the neck, and dived all along her back to her ass. That ass I had caressed, kissed, and adored just a couple of months back.

I was there just drinking my pain away. But I never had the balls to get up and talk to her. The beer cans became all kinds of weird words and symbols. The couple, Rossana and the guy of the hand, left. I paid and followed them.

They were touching each other as they walked. The motherfucker would not keep his hands to himself. But he didn’t know her, he didn’t know where she liked to be touched. I knew.

I watched the paint peeling off the walls, the roof, my skin started peeling off my body. Waves of cockroaches started invading the house, slowly first, massively later. I got used to share everything with them. Yeah I was not alone...

(TO BE CONTINUED)

Latex

And after a devil-sized drinking reunion, just in the middle of Downtown Vancouver, I saw them again. A reunion that, according to me was not going to happen, because of my weakness and lack of sleep. It was a Friday after school. All week long I had been surviving with the help of coffee and in a constant state of zombiefication which I still don’t understand. I really didn’t have great amounts of work, there was simply something inside me that made my movements weak and clumsy, and my walking slow and confused. There were moments in which I simply stayed lost in a white, blue, green, or black limb of my laptop’s screen.

Ok, after that devil-sized drinking reunion just in the middle of Downtown Vancouver, I saw them again. And I say devil-sized because it really was. In fact, every drinking reunion in Vancouver on Friday is, irremediably, devil-sized. If the responsibilities end at 4 p.m. or earlier, at that time we are in the most-voted bar asking for the first pitcher. That night we started a bit before 4 p.m. in one of the cheapest bars of the area. There were all kinds of chats. That we’re so fucked; That we all need to sleep; That we should go to Vancouver Island next weekend; That there are some motherfucker friends with black vibes; That I am a socialist and that if I inspired my look in Che Guevara. They’re writers but oh, they sure talk.

Well, after that devil-sized drinking reunion in the middle of Downtown Vancouver I saw them again. I’ve already seen them a few weeks ago. It was Saturday or Sunday, there’s no other way. But in a Saturday or Sunday I realized that Vancouver was a city of condoms. Just like that. There were condoms everywhere. There was a pink one stuck on a fence by the Waterfront; There was a yellow one thrown on the street on the way to a pizza place that sells 2 slices and a coke for $3.50. There were many others thrown all around in Gastown, transparent, rotten, fresh. They were everywhere, like Saba in Y Tu Mamá También. But there was one that got my attention. It was in Melville St. It was a condom in an intense yellow color that looked as if it was just dumped on the sidewalk, with the ring bending towards the street, dripping semen. The semen strained by a small crack in the pavement. For me, it was like an image taken from The Wall.

Then, after that devil-sized drinking reunion in the middle of Downtown Vancouver I saw them again. There they revealed before me, in a road parallel to mine. Everybody walking around Downtown, stepping on them, kicking them, dragging them along, and suppressing them. They were there, but they didn’t move. People moved them. They didn’t let them establish their condomistic colony. Among those streets under construction, the condoms were victims of uncountable abuses.

But, when turning left on Melville, I had no choice but to stop and admire. From a crack in the pavement, close to the sidewalk, came a thin green stem that ended in a strange flower. On top of the flower was, clean, with no bothers, a condom in an intense yellow color.

The Fucking Stupid Piece Of Shit Twilight

There are many things I don't understand. Many of the movies that get produced are shit, I know that. And complaining is no good because, unfortunately, many of those movies are a box office success. Then the Hollywood machinery adapts to this, and start producing pieces of shit because... they work money wise and it makes for a good business. It's the same story as with the mexican TV industry: telenovelas (soap operas) and reality shows. Enough about that. I don't want to start a diarrhea-like post on that subject matter. I don't have the energy to fill out pages and pages about it. Let us continue then:

Twilight. Without exaggeration, I think it is one of the worst movies I've ever seen through the 25 years I've walked the earth (and I've seen my share of excrementous films). I really think that pieces-of-shit-movies like: 13 Ghosts, Pearl Harbor, Jackass 1 & 2, Spider Man 3, among other pseudo-films, have metamorphed into real gems when compared with the twilightian shit. I pushed myself to watching it all the way to the end for two reasons: one, there are times when you just can take shit over shit, and there is this thing that is born within you, this thing that asks for more and more. The second reason is that I was reading a fragment of the screenplay and I found very interesting the way it was written: in a TV series format. But it sucks. And I knew that since the very first scene. I will vomit now, and I'll try to be brief:

The story sucks. There is this very interesting and kick ass concept in the film, but it is very subtle and was not used well: the explanation of the existance of fantastical creatures through legends of native americans. But this was used just as an ornament and personally, it was the best part of the movie. The story itself is a veeery gayish, weak, artificial, and with no depth, tale of love between a human girl and a vamp¡&3. It is a teen movie with vamp¡&35. And like most of the teen movies, it's a crap, and does not add anything art wise. And it's fucking lame.

The cinematography is very flat, and does not take advantage of the photogenic rural landscape of the US northwest. Mediocrily, at best, it creates the atmosphere for the different locations, but simply in a very by-the-book and conformist plane.

The Special Effects. I just can't believe this piece of shit was produced in the year 2008. The effects I see on the X-Files show seem very vanguardist compared to the ones used in twilight.

The directing of the film is simply and plainly bad. It is not mediocre, don't try to help it, it is bad. I don't wanna know, so I don't get a heart attack, how much did this movie cost. But I suppose it had a big budget. And the film feels as its screenplay: as TV series (a bad one, because there are many good ones). Exaggeration in the use of close shots, annoying and monotonous performances, boring and basic scene blocking, are the ingredients that this director whose name I rather not mention, combines in the film.

The performances of all actors of the film are flat and weak. But the two leading actors are the worst. The fucking bitch, the one that is a human and wants to fuck the vamp¡&3 , sucks big time. Her performance is worthy of the shitty US film The Unborn (2009). Her acting is very monotonous (I dare you all to find a different emotion than the one she conveys at the beginning of the film), is boring as hell, and does not create the least amount of empathy. For all I care, I wish the werewolves raped her, I wish her father dumped her to the streets, and that the shitty blonde vamp¡&3 got her, sucked her blood, and threw her in Point Pleasant so the Mothman can have her as his meal. (And please, I wish she never gets to Vancouver...).

The shitty pseudo vamp¡&3 that now wets every pubescent and teen vaginas everytime he appears on TV or the web is, without any doubt, the worst vamp¡&3 in history. I have seen abominations such as John Carpenter's Vampires, or From Dusk Till Dawn 2 & 3, but I've never seen a version of this interesting creature, as excrementous, corny, artificial, and stupid, as the sex symbol's performance. In every shot he appears, the fucker acts as if he were in a fucking clothing tv ad, or something worse. His acting, never the less, is very ad hoc to what his bitch human lover performs.

Where the fuck did the real vampires go? It was very sad for me to see how the people behind this film completely destroyed the vampire concept. Fucking metrosexual, boring, corny, artificial, and flat vamp¡&35... Why the fuck do these people attack a traditional concept that is worthy of respect?

What else can I say? twilight is a piece of shit that I am very happy I didn't watch at the theatre. And I'm very glad, I say it openly, that I downloaded it. Yes, I have to watch out for my economy, and acting against my principles, and giving a great demonstration of how I am not a man of my word, I have started to download movies, but I swear to buy every single one I have downloaded. And twilight was the one that introduced me to the new, and not so presumable world of illegal film downloads. Do not watch this film, and if you do, I hope you agree with me. If you disagree, then great... that's why movies are made, so everyone can see something different in them. But if you disagree, even if I respect your opinion, do not dare to give me any recommendation about what film to see.

And I'm a man of my word.

Weekends (Or Cheap Plagiarism Of A Spanish Song)

Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays,
At night, always at night,
That precious, neon light,
I try and try, and always fail.

In I go, out I’m not, rush,
It’s not a drug, it’s another kind,
It may be fate, may be my mind,
Out no more, I now just hush.

I’d love to say I’m sober,
It might not be the right word,
Or it might be, well it might not,
I’m here now, please don’t bother.

In trying, oh! In trying,
Great moments I’ve wasted,
If I could just not regret it,
Peace I might be finding.

So bring out the show,
Flesh and sweat and lights and magic,
No remorse nor guilt nor logic,
There’s no point in feeling low.
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20-line(¿?) poem for Style class at VFS.

That Stench

I wasn’t sure of what had to be done. There she was, lying hopeless, vulnerable, like a gutted pig. Blood all over, and that stench. It was a mix of the smell of humidity, butcher shop, and that of the inside of a forgotten, old fridge. I’ve always been appealed to the most exotic aromas. The most unpopular of them all. The most underestimated. I love to smell the old, leather-covered books; the fresh paint over cement; the smell of a skunk at the distance in the road, where it mixes with the unpolluted air, and the scent of herbs, and trees, and loneliness; the smell of my bed: virginal, dusty, old. It smells like my evolution. The dead layers of my skin now inhabit its surface. The other I’s.

Who was I? I know my bed stores my many lives. But I can’t recall any complete episode of my life. I just recall specific actions, frozen situations. I recall things just as photographs. Who was I at ten? What were my goals? What smells did I like back then? What did I like back then? I remember the exact moment in which, impulsively, I grabbed that girl Karla’s ass in the middle of the class. I was 17. What a beautiful ass. I remember every single detail about it. The wrinkles in her skirt, the way it adhered to her body so I could see that perfect shape. It was a squared skirt. Red, black, and white. It looks just like this one. Only that this one is a little larger. Karla used to wear short skirts. She knew anybody would kill to have her. Karla didn’t use a pink backpack either. And Karla had breasts. And Karla didn’t have braces. And Karla was beautiful. She looked like she would smell deliciously.

I can only imagine she would smell like this room. Sweet, strange, misunderstood. She could smell differently now. But I don’t think so. She was beautiful. The most beautiful of all humans must smell like this. A smell that has the power to inspire, to fulfill, to complete. Could it also have the power to redeem? To surprise? A smell like the one I’m inhaling, tasting, and feeling in this precise moment. A smell that could be described as a mix of skunk at the distance with unpolluted air, old books, fresh paint, loneliness, humidity, butcher shop, and the smell of the inside of a forgotten, old fridge.
_____________________________

VFS assignment for "Style" class.

Don't Save Yourself

I heard that Mario Benedetti died. Then I let myself honor him by posting one of his poems. Personally, it is very important and meaningful. It was given to me attached in a mail by my ex-boss at RT&A, when I said good bye. I think it is a very brilliant, versatile poem.

I don´t declare myself an avid reader of Benedetti´s work. But, I hope to get to know him much more.

______________________________________________________

Don't Save Yourself
By Mario Benedetti

Don’t remain immobile
At the edge of the road
Don’t freeze the joy
Don’t love with reluctance
Don’t save yourself now
or ever
Don’t save yourself
Don’t fill with calm
Don’t reserve in the world
Only a secure place
Don’t let your eyelids fall
Heavily as judgments
Don’t speak without lips
Don’t sleep without sleepiness
Don’t imagine yourself without blood
Don’t judge yourself without time.

But if
in spite of everything
You can’t help it,
And you freeze the joy,
And you love with reluctance,
And you save yourself now,
And you fill with calm
And you reserve in the world
Only a calm place,
And you let fall your eyelids
Heavily as judgments,
And you speak without lips,
And you sleep without sleepiness,
And you imagine yourself without blood,
And you judge yourself without time,
And you remain immobile
At the edge of the road,
And you save yourself,
Then
Don’t stay with me.

______________________________________________________

I hope you loved it and were pushed (like I was) to go deeper into the literature of one of the greatest latin american writers.

When The Music´s Over

Is there anything sadder than the ominous fade out of a song? That´s why Elvis is the king. He knew how to take us from a melodic climax to an acute sadness, and then to another climax, a miraculous one, with his Suspicious Minds. There is also the sudden, abrupt silence of a song. Is there a more hostile and hopeless thing? Of course we´re talking about good music, whatever it means to each person. Anyways, it feels like we lost our ticket to the dreamy world, to the oasis, to the blue bus, to the yellow submarine, to the highway 61.

There are just a few things than can really take us to a state of mind as agitated, primal, stupid, angry, vulnerable, eloquent, articulated, rusty, visceral, lucid, as complete. In drugs, there are uppers, downers and hallucinogens. In music the possibilities are infinite.

But if a song ends, just to let another equally stimulating song start, then everything´s fine. If an album takes its natural journey between the different trails, even though it does not follow the yellow brick road, but still takes us to the land of Oz, then everything´s fine. But when that album is over, that feeling of emptiness returns. And then you urgently need another fix.

Then the ipods came. And with them, music becomes a partner, sometimes an anonymous one, but partner whatsoever. And you get hooked up to its company, as never before. Those overrated, in vogue, great gadgets, give you the opportunity to have a tangible soundtrack of your life. The soundtrack of your life, your walk, your razzle, your fuck, your dinner, your writing. The soundtrack of your essence. And suddenly, before your eyes in disbelief, Vancouver´s Robson St. becomes a Nashville street when “Cocaine Blues” starts; it turns into a street from Madrid when the first, furious notes of “Yo Me Bajo En Atocha” can be heard; and it even becomes a traditional street of Monterrey´s downtown when the subtle, urgent, and intoxicating sounds of “Las Tres Tumbas” fill your ears.

When the music´s over… turn off the lights. The Armageddon is not a global fire, nor a great drought, nor a Texas-sized meteorite striking the Earth. It is silence.

_____________________________________

Original date of composition: Monday May 4, 2009.
10:28PM

I Don´t Regret Yesterday

I´ve heard that the night is pure magic, and that a goblin invites you to a dreamworld.

A creature beyond good and evil. Maybe it´s the spirit of the great loners. The spirit of the Allan Poes, the Van Goghs, the Sabatos, the Travis Bickles... It´s an entity I haven´t met nor seen yet. But it´s there. I can sense it. I know it is by my side when I fall asleep. I know he runs away from those beasts of cement, glass, and metal that stand out there, and comes to seek shelter by my side. Those beasts that watch every single step you take inside their territory. Those beasts that transform you. You stop contemplating, and start being contemplated. They are jealous and they are spiteful. And they are magnificent and they are terrible. Maybe the goblin feeds from them. Little by little. Just like a parasite, he goes deep inside the guts of each beast and starts eating their insides.

Yes. The goblin does not run from them. It uses them.

The goblin, a noble loner, gives me company when the dusk starts its round. It leaves me alone, wandering, rambling, and fighting throughout the day. And then, when night falls, it is all magic. And the goblin really invites me to dream.

And the next day the wanderings, the ramblings, and the fighting come back. Again, you are being observed by the beasts of cement, glass, and metal. You give them the chance to feel they rule everything. You realize, in that moment, that someone´s on your side.

And internally, you start smiling. And the green lights are all on. And the best jam for that specific moment of your day, starts playing. And the goblin, alone, works in your favor. And you´ve got the memory of last night´s dreams as undeniable evidence.

And you feel so strong that you think nothing can touch you.

_______________________________________________________________

Actual date of composition: Thursdat April 30 2009
10:50PM

Arrival, Acceptance, Income

A strange landscape filled my visual field. A mixing of rivers, piles of earth, mountains with snowed tops and the Pacific extending towards Japan, Alaska, and a whole lot of other exotic places. Afterwards, the panoramic view ended to open the way to a pack of trees and pines approaching ferociously to the left in first plane. Some shy houses showed themselves too. But the velocity was constant. Stomping.

Immigration. I have no way to prove that I can sustain myself in Canada for a year. They warned me about it during the process. I knew that was one of the things the Canadian government worried about the most. Letter of Acceptance, Proof of Income. How difficult was it to remember both things? For an asshole who had already seen himself filmmaking in Canada, trying to figure out if Halle Berry would take him to bed even if she was drunk, who saw himself building something in another country… A lot.

Like something made on purpose, the line was relatively short. The thing I wanted the most at the moment was time to think what the fuck I could say if they asked me for my proof of income. There was no such a thing. Yes, it existed. But I had too much time. Enough time to reach several possible answers; getting to believe that none of them would work; imagining myself returning to Monterrey with the word SHAME written all over my face and telling my family and friends: “I’ll be leaving ‘til June… they sent me back”, and so later getting drunk; finding myself suddenly beating the shit out of the fucking korean guy with shit-stinking breath that was just behind my back; seeing myself just like that inside a VFS classroom with a bunch of three-year-younger-than-me guys, at least, beating my ass off and me screaming back at them: “We’ll see each other faces in a Mexican studying program, bunch of fucking pussies!”

Proof of income. It came back with immeasurable force. With a force coming from the big claustrophobic room with a line that now seemed eternal to me. Since I got to the line until now, I had walked just a few human spaces, at the most. I’ll be in this line of semi-open-eyed guys for at least another hour and a half. And I have nothing against them, but the fucking korean guy behind me was not the best introduction to oriental people. Proof of income. My fingers started wetting the blessed Letter of Acceptance which I did bring. Fucking shit.

Minutes. Hour and a half. Proof of income. Two hours. Two hours and a half. “Next please”. Oh fuck. Which were the posible answers?! Shit, I wish I could go back with the fucking korean guy with flatulence-stinking breath! “So, why Canada?”,asked the Asian-African-French-weird man who was like an Alfonso Zayas region one. “Well, why not… right?” Stupid. Stupid. Fuck. “Mmm, what are you studying?, replied Alfonso-Pierre-Zayas-Lee-Murphy. “Writing for Film and TV at VFS.” “What is VFS.” Shit. “Anyway, do you have your L-E-T-T-E-R—O-F—A-C-C-E-P-T-A-N-C-E-!-!” Slowly, without taking off my steady look from the unclassifiable guy in front of me, I took out the Letter of Acceptance. “There ya go…” “It’s OK, just wanted to make sure you had it…”

STOMP.
STOMP.
STOMP.

“Welcome to Canada, Mr. Méndez, hope you enjoy Vancouver.”

Outside that place of hell, a great fucking day was receiving me. A taxi driver who was angry with the whole world took me to my apartment. The more I entered the city, the more I realized that everything had been worth it. About the shopping, I better not talk. Tomorrow I’ll give this city the chance to amend. Shit. “Welcome to Canada, Mr. Méndez…” I even believe it, no shit.

___________________________________________________

Actual date of composition: Wednesday April 22 2009
11:30PM

Intermission

And after the burning sun, the mountains, the cabrito, the INDIO beers, the Camel Natural Flavor, the sewer smell, the many homonym cities, the street entrepreneurs, the circus people from the road junctions, the third-world north side and the elitist south side, the roasted corn smell, the double morality, and the streets named after supposed heroes and clowns of our history…

After the bajo sexto guitar, the accordion, the long-living and unlikely bohemian cantinas, the women that entice but don´t act, the women that act but don´t entice, the women that are not women, the hostile and hard accent, the foreigner´s hate, the non-walkable city, the churches every three blocks, the fuckers, the yuppies, the punks, the misfits, the arid landscape, the assassinations, the rain-caused traffic accidents, the micro homes for large families and the macro homes for pretentious couples…

After many days, weeks, and a couple of months, nesting the trip, the experience, the challenge of exile. Now here I am, halfway through the journey, in a place neither pure anglo-saxon nor Spanish-speaking… Missing the burning sun, the street entrepreneurs, the INDIO beers, the arid landscape, the streets named after the heroes and clowns, the double moral, the Camel Natural Flavor, the foreigner´s hate… … …

The Bodies

Yeshua bar Yosef
Maria
Yose
Mariamne e Mara
Yehuda bar Yeshua

5 names that sound strongly and cause sensations in the believers and not believers. One tomb that was discovered while making the foundation for an apartment building. A material foundation that makes the spiritual foundation tremble.

Jesus son of Joseph
Mary
Joseph (Yose was a tender diminutive for the Yosef’s)
Mary (in Greek) Master
Judas son of Jesus

5 ossuaries, among others, discovered in a family tomb in Jerusalem in 1980. The tomb dates from the 1st century. The Christians say that the names are very common for the Hebrew people. The scientists and historians say that they are, in fact, common, but what’s not common is the combination of all those names in one same family tomb.

It can be possible. It can also not be. It can end with the faith of many. It also may make it stronger. The documentary “The Lost Tomb of Jesus” is important because it’s not for fanatics nor skeptics, it’s for everyone; it’s urgent because we live in a generation in which we have to fight in order to find things that take out the rests of the amazement capacity that we might have; it’s interesting because the testimonies that come from everywhere feel solid and valid.

Of Mariamne e Mara, I rather not say anything. Dan Brown and Hollywood already took care of her vulgar humiliation.

As of me, I’ve always preferred the feet-on-the-ground Jesus. I get along better with Willem Dafoe in “The Last Temptation of Christ” than with “the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” The bible is too suspicious (which makes it no less interesting) and messed up by ecclesiastic authorities, as to be considered word of the Lord and even less, the irrevocable proof of the historic Jesus.

Anyway, I’ve already configured my “Personal Jesus”.

Gran Torino

¿Qué los trae por acá, cabrones?

No tienen vida. Han dejado todo anhelo. Han dejado toda ilusión en el camino. Sí, seguramente. Pinche gente sin ambición. Eso es lo que ha hecho de este país una mierda. Pero ya que están por acá, les hablaré de una película. Sí, de una película, culeros... al que le guste, bien. Al que no, vaya muchísimo a la chingada. Pinches ignorantes, incultos de mierda.

Gran Torino es la película. Igual es el título de ésta entrada. Es una película que no tiene madre (punto)

Clint Eastwood... sí, el cabrón del que ya he hablado en mi poco prolífico bloggeo. ¿Ya se van a poner a críticar, cabrones? Déjense de chingaderas y sigan leyendo, o rúmbenle, me da igual. Bueno, ese pinche anciano lo hizo de nuevo. Pinche película (su segunda del 2008, aunque aquí nos hayan llegado ambas ya empezado el 2009) es de lo mejor que he visto en un buen rato. De nuevo nos enseña que el clasicismo, la economía de estilo, el simple lanzarse a contar una historia es lo que importa y lo que hace la diferencia. El vejete ese hace películas que resultan ser muy originales de tan clásicas que son. Es el viaje de lo circular. Ese viaje en el que uno, entre más busque estar alejado de su opuesto, se convierte en él. Clint Eastwood es simplemente eso. En una generación en la que lo tarantinesco, lo MTV style, entre otras maneras rebuscadas y "originales" de hacer cine han invadido las salas de exhibición, éste viejo les mienta la madre y hace cine de acuerdo a su edad.

Sí, ya sé que se nota lo subjetivo en mi pinche redacción chafa. Ya sé que se nota que mamo al pinche viejo. Si tienen algún pedo, rúmbenle... desde cuándo les dije que se largaran si querían y aquí siguen.

Para los tercos que siguen conmigo, continuemos. La película trata sobre un malhumorado, tradicionalista y racista veterano de guerra (Clint Eastwood) que no tiene buena relación con su propia familia y que, sin embargo, entabla amistad con sus vecinos imigrantes. Me vale madres lo chafo y débil que sea mi sinópsis. ¿Quieren que les cuente toda la historia? Vayan a verla y luego nos partimos la madre en verborreas, como diría un compa verborreador.

En serio, bola de palomeros, efecteros, tarantineros, antiwesterneros, anticlinteastwooderos. Vayan a ver éste film. Sin lugar a dudas les parecerá interesante, a lo menos. Creo, sin temor a equivocarme, -y aunque sé que los Oscares no tienen una buena reputación (aún así... los sigo viendo)- que ni "Duda" ni el pendejo de "Benjamín Botones" tienen nada que hacer al lado de ésta obra maestra.

No profundizaré en detalles técnicos ni estéticos, porque están de más. Es una gran historia y no hay más, se chingó. Lo único malo de ésta pinche película se llama Cinepolis VIP Galerías Valle Oriente. Pinche cine tercermundista... y ya sé, cabrones, que somos de tercer mundo. Ya sé. Pero no la chinguen. Ganan un chingo de billete. Por la culpa, -entre otros- de las exhibidoras y su pinche agandallamiento de la lana en taquilla, es que no tenemos industria del cine en México. Y con todo y eso no pueden contratar a un proyeccionista que sepa su jale. ¡No la chinguen! No vi el final. Faltaban escasos 10 minutos para el final. Estábamos rumbo al clímax. Se trata de una película que no tiene los clásicos ups and downs. Se trata de un constante cúmulo... se va llenando... va cuajando... y todo lleva a su clímax único. Exacto. Clímax puro.

La película está chingonsísima simplemente porque tanto su director como su protagonista es un pinche MAESTRO. Le guste a quien le guste y chingue a su madre al que no.

Y voy diciéndolo de una vez, por más enfermo que parezca, que si el pinche Eastwood no se muere pronto (espero realmente que no), puede quitarle a Scorsese su trono de el "cineasta americano (perdón... gringo) más importante en la historia".

Pinche culero. No quiero que se muera. Tampoco quiero que deje de hacer películas. Pero que le baje de huevos. Con Scorsese no se mete. Porque al chile, aunque ustedes, hijos de la chingada, puedan estarme juzgando por "lameculos" no puede alguien de repente.............................................
.........................................................................................................................................................................
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.....¿Verdad que se siente ogete?


Pinche Cinépolis VIP Galerías Valle Oriente.

Pero llegará el día en que Walt Kowalski venga a incendiar todo ese pseudo-exhibidor de mierda.

Mierda...creo que me ha poseído...
...

...

Y Al Final...

No sé que más platicarte cabrón. Ya recordamos todo... ya reímos juntos... espero que te hayas reído. ¿Qué más da de qué platiquemos? ¿Es que acaso necesitamos platicar? Cuántos silencios pasamos juntos, ¿te acuerdas? Horas y horas frente a la tv apagada; frente a las manoseadas fotos que habíamos visto unos minutos antes; acostados, solamente mirando el techo. O mirándonos. Pero el silencio. Qué raro, ¿no? Yo avisé a toda tu familia de este suceso. Avisé a toda mi familia. Y no vino nadie. Bueno, la verdad es que escoger el miércoles no fue buena idea. Pero pues ya... ya se hizo y ahora simplemente a vivirlo. Porque lo estás viviendo, ¿verdad? Lo estás sintiendo. Sí. Seguramente lo sientes. Te ves hermoso, eh. Simplemente eres perfecto. ¿Te acuerdas de la vez que mis sobrinas se peleaban porque cada una pensaba que su respectivo novio era más guapo que el de la otra? ¿Te acuerdas? Y que les dije ya no se peleen cabronas... el más chulo es poncho. ¿Te acuerdas de sus caras? Qué curioso. Y eso que eran las... ¿cómo les llaman? A esas personas, ´mbre... esas personas que les vale madre... que aceptan más cosas... open mainds... ¿verdad? Sí, así les llaman. Se suponía que para el año 2000 iban a haber naves que volaban en vez de carros, y robotinas, y cosas de esas... ¿te acuerdas de los supersónicos? Andaban muy mal. Si hoy por hoy, 2009, no existe ni siquiera la tolerancia... qué chingaos iban a existir naves y robotinas. Pero ¿para qué queremos robotinas, no? ¿A poco no te acuerdas de cuando trapeabas? y que sigilosamente yo esperaba a que terminaras las escaleras para subir corriendo por ellas echando a perder todo tu esfuerzo. Lo hacía porque sabía que te encabronaba realmente. Y sabía que unos simples gritos no bastaban. Me tenías que perseguir y enfrentarme. Tener contacto. Me tocabas. Y luego se te quitaba lo enojado. Me abrazabas. Y ese rojo en tu cara. Ese rojo coraje se convertía súbitamente en rojo sexo. ¿Te acuerdas? Qué cosas, ¿no? El contacto. Putamadre. Lo que lograba el tacto. El sentirnos.

¿Y ahora?

Tu gris no puede cambiar. Es gris y ya.

¡Maldito cristal que nos separa!

Quítenlo.

Necesito tocarlo.

Puedo cambiarle el gris. Sé que puedo cambiarle el gris.

¡Quítenlo!

____________

"Y al final,
te ataré con todas mis fuerzas,
mis brazos serán cuerdas
al bailar éste vals..."

- Enrique Bunbury

____________

Dedicado a:

MAMUTH
q.e.p.d.

y

ELÍAS

Y Jamás Flaqueó

Entré por el acceso G de la siempre inédita Arena Monterrey a eso de las 9:15pm. Pinche Bunbury. Y yo que tiré a león aquella cosa de la "puntualidad". ¿Existe la puntualidad en los conciertos de rock? ¿De cuándo a acá? Sepalamadre, la neta no me considero conciertero. Pero el hombre delgado ya estaba en chinga cante y cante y rockeaba... y rockeaba fuerte con su "Señorita Hermafrodita". 5 minutos me tomó chingarme ese cigarro de preludio que siempre me echo. 5 minutos que significaban ver el intro y escuchar su versión rocker de "El Club De Los Imposibles". Y todo por respetuoso de la ley antitabaco. Venga la anarquía tabaquista, dijo mi compa al encender un camel dentro de aquel templo Bunburiano. Venga pues.

Y entre cigarro y cigarro sin que nadie nos molestara, escuchamos grandes himnos. Pero Bunbury en su performance y producción había dejado de lado lo burlesque, lo cabaretero a lo que después de jabs, ganchos, uppers y volados, nos había dejado totalmente noqueados y sorprendidos de todos esos ritmos y arreglos inéditos para muchos. Regresó al rock. Pero ojo, Bunbury no se está repitiendo, pues después de Héroes, fueron contadas (por no atreverme a decir nulas) las casiones en que nos recetó rocanrol puro. En esta ocasión y con motivo de su nuevo disco "Hellville De Luxe" nos asaltó rocanroleando. Realmente nos sorprendió. Y mucha gente que anhelaba escuchar algo siquiera similar a "Héroes del Silencio" en el Bunbury como ente independiente, ahora sentía nostalgia por el cabaret. Otros, como nosotros, nunca extrañamos nada porque al final de cuentas nunca esperamos algo en particular. No sabemos con qué saldrá en su siguiente disco, presentación o proyecto.

Poca elocuencia. Una versión de "El Extranjero" tipo Plaza de Mayo. Monterreginos y Monterreginas (¿?). Ninguna canción de "Héroes del Silencio" (más que "Apuesta por el Rock And Roll"). Un simbólico "caballito para todos". Cerrar el concierto con "El Tiempo de las Cerezas" y no con "Y al Final". 9,000 humanos, según cifras oficiales.

Todo esto fue parte de un concierto que quedará grabado tanto en el mismo Bunbury como en los 9,000 cabrones que ahí estuvimos. Fueron los restos del naufragio. Y es que insisto: este cabrón trae el viaje Dylaniano de jamás repetirse.

Bunbury se presentó con su nueva banda de rock. Lejos se ven los días en que el buen "Huracán Ambulante" lo acompañaba con esos exóticos sonidos que te hechizaban. Lejanos se ven también los movimientos de cadera, las plumas, los flamingos, el mariachi Domínguez, el performance bunbury-meets-the-rocky-horror-picture-show.

Pero eso es parte del viaje. Creo que Bunbury siempre ha estado en constante cambio. En constante movimiento. En constante exploración. Es extranjero. Es infinito. Y todo está tan lejos de la tristeza que casi la toca. Todo eso es parte del viaje a ninguna parte del hombre delgado que no flaqueará jamás. Hasta ahora lo ha cumplido.

Que tenga suertecita.

Una Luz Silenciosa Se Asoma Por El Lake Tahoe Del No-Japón, En El Que No Hay Temporada De Patos Ni Mucho Menos Batallas En El Cielo...

Fernando Eimbcke sorprendió a muchos (incluyéndome) con su ópera prima "Temporada de Patos". Una película que trataba sobre muchas cosas y a la vez sobre absolutamente nada. El estilo minimalista de Eimbcke quedó marcado desde dicha película. Planos sobrios, edición muy ligera y hasta cierto punto plana, actuaciones sorpresivamente buenas, y un ritmo y tono muy efectivos, son elementos que nos recetó en su momento éste director.

En el 2004, cuando se exhibió el film, voces de gente importante en la cinematografía mexicana y mundial, como Del Toro y Cuarón, no dudaron en alabar la manufactura y narrativa de esta cinta. Poco tiempo después, la película confirmó su buen recibimiento por la comunidad cinematográfica nacional al llevarse 11 arieles incluyendo mejor película, dirección, guión, actor y actriz, entre otros.

Ahora nos llega su segunda, y personalmente anhelada, película: "Lake Tahoe". El film sigue el mismo camino ya trazado por su antecesora: minimalista; de ritmo lento; edición sencilla, nada rebuscada; y actuaciones decentes. Pero es imposible dejar de sentir cómo Eimbcke pretendió estirar todos los elementos de su estilo. Llevarlos más allá. Y ese "ir más allá" significa irremediablemente el hacerle guiños al cine del mexicano favorito de los franceses: Carlos Reygadas.

"Lake Tahoe" cuenta la historia de un joven quien al salir a pasear en el coche de su papá, choca. Toda la película narra las vivencias por las que pasa este joven para arreglar el coche sin que sus padres se enteren. Vivencias pintorescas por las que nunca hubiera pasado de no haber ocurrido el accidente. Y un accidente que deja de ser menos casualidad y mucho más una causalidad. Todo esto en una narrativa, como ya se dijo, menos Eimbckeniana y más Reygadesca.

Y es que, aunque Fernando Eimbcke haya desarrollado desde su primera película una historia en la que sus elementos se mezclan de manera básica pero coherente y efectiva, nunca dejaron lo "convencional". Nunca se sintió una película avant-garde. Es decir, su valor y originalidad estaban más en el fondo (temática muy íntima y cotidiana) que en la forma. Y de todas maneras, ni fondo ni forma, rayaban en lo vanguardista. "Lake Tahoe" intenta cuajar las mismas fortalezas en el fondo y ser cine de vanguardia en su formalismo. Ninguna de las dos cosas se logra.

"Lake Tahoe" es una película que intenta consagrar esos momentos cotidianos y "sin relevancia" en el imaginario del espectador de la misma manera que "Temporada de Patos" lo logró años atrás. El ritmo es lento porque así pasa la vida en un pueblo. También es lento porque en el interior del protagonista hay demonios por exorcizar. Y cuando los demonios te invaden las entrañas, la vida es todo, menos rápida.

Esta operación de personaje + contexto = ritmo lento, es la fórmula que le ha valido a Reygadas sus 3 largometrajes con presencia en Cannes. A esta mezcla se le agrega una variable que no sabría como incluirla matemáticamente (se aceptan tips por parte de ingenieros, economistas, o cualquier persona que se viaje con los números). Esta variable son los actores y su trabajo. En el cine de Reygadas las actuaciones son hasta cierto punto acartonadas, planas. Pero eso le da al espectador la oportunidad de no dejarse seducir por nada que pueda distraerlo del TODO. Eso mismo lo intenta Eimbcke en su película. Pero fracasa.

La belleza y extrañeza de los personajes de Reygadas recae en el hecho de que no son personas conocidas, o mejor dicho, son netamente no-actores. Eimbcke tiene como protagonista a Diego Cataño, moko, el protagonista de su ópera prima. Simplemente, esto rompe. Está forzando a un actor casi casi a no-actuar. Fracasa.

La película es interesante y tiene algunas fortalezas. Como en todas las obras, el mejor juez es el espectador, no ningún crítico mediocre ni mucho menos un blogger amateur. Sin embargo es imposible no reconocer esos guiños a otro cine que está más allá del bien y del mal. Y se quedan simplemente en eso: guiños.

Por Mi Duda, Por Mi Gran Duda.

Estaba en la butaca del cine y durante poco más de hora y media no pude dejar de preguntarme si todo iba a dar un giro repentino, muy Shyamalanesco. Pero no, no hubo tal giro. No hubo ningún "I see dead people" o ningún "Sister, I am your father". Y aquella película sobre una duda siguió avanzando con su ritmo semilento pero sólido y retador.

Después de hora y media de ver una gran actuación de Meryl Streep y Philip Seymour Hoffman; de sentirme trasladado hacia mi época de secundaria religiosa (en serio, aunque la película se lleva acabo en 1964, realmente me sentí trasladado... ¡Salud, por la evolución!); de tener una teoría, luego otra; de ver incontables dutch angles cada que algo se volvía turbio; de tratar de acordarme si había visto una sola actuación mediocre o floja de Hoffman (Streep no cuenta, pinche señora agandalla-nominaciones); después de todo esto siempre me quedé con una gran e imborrable duda: ¿hubiera sido mejor dejar esa historia en su matriz original, el teatro, o le viene bien ser llevada al celuloide?

Teatro o cine, "Doubt" es una historia, y muy bien planteada. Obviamente John Patrick Shanley, trasladó bien su propia obra de teatro al cine. No se siente "teatro filmado". Viene con un lenguaje cinematográfico poderoso y efectivo, aunque insisto: abusa de los malditos dutch angles. De todas maneras. No puedo dejar de sentir una incomodidad sabiendo que alguien que escribió algo para teatro de repente decida trasladarlo al cine. Repito, no tengo nada en contra de las adaptaciones, incluso de (algunos) remakes. No es lo mismo que Burton decida llevar al cine un musical de Broadway en el que él no tuvo nada que ver, a esto. Hay algo muy siniestro en el que un mismo creador modifique su propia obra que con tanto corazón pensó para cierto medio. No puedo dejar de verlo como una forma de manipulación genética de un padre hacia su hijo. O lo que es peor: el no poder sacar algo netamente original para llevarlo al cine. Apoyarse en una obra que ya le funcionó en un medio diferente y caer en un estado de confort creativo.

Hace unos años tuve la suerte de toparme con una película koreana llamada "Oldboy". No la he superado. Persona con la que platicaba de cine, persona a la que se la recomendaba ampliamente. Pasaron unos meses, nunca la conseguí a la venta. Pasaron otros cuantos, y caminando por una tienda gringa donde según esto se hace la mejor compra, me topo con un inmejorable estuche metálico color óxido. Era un Collector´s Edition DVD Set de esa película tan inquietantemente chingona. 4 DVDs. El cómic en el que se basa la película. Un libro de notas de producción. Positivos originales del film. No dudé en, como buen consumista y cerdo capitalista que soy, comprarla. Se me hizo muy raro encontrármela en una tienda gringa dónde ni si quiera su propia cinematografía independiente es valorada. Regreso a mi país. No veo la película…
Un par de días después imdb me anuncia que "Oldboy" está planeada para el 2011 (me parece, no tengo fresca la fecha... la bloqueé) made in hollywood pero por el mismo director koreano que hizo la original. Que bendita mierda.

Es una sensación parecida la que tengo con John Patrick Shanley y su “Doubt”. Parecida, no igual. El niño viejo merece mis respetos muchísimo más –por lo tanto, me importa muchísimo más lo que hagan con ella- que la duda que tenga el buen juan patricio.

Al final de cuentas no puedo dejar de pensar en toda la gente religiosa (léase autoridades religiosas, no necesariamente fieles) con la que me topé en mi vida tan cinematográfica y pensar: “estos cabrones creen que su vida es una obra de teatro interminable”.
PD: No se molesten en corroborar el remake de "Oldboy". Lleva rato que desapareció como proyecto. Pero juro que en algún momento de obscuridad, aparecía programado. Lo juro. No me hagan dudar.