Silêncio

Comédia

Para onde quer que olhemos hoje neste país, é sempre para uma fossa da ridículo que olhamos, disse Reger. Loucura das massas, catastrófica, disse ele. Todos são mais ou menos depressivos, sabe, e nós temos com a Hungria a mais elevada taxa de suicídios de toda a Europa. Pensei muitas vezes ir para a Suíça, mas a Suíça seria para mim ainda muito pior. Você não pode imaginar como eu gosto do nosso país, disse Reger, mas detesto profundamente este Estado actual; não quero, de futuro, ter nada a ver com este Estado, que tão asqueroso é, um dia e outro dia. Todas as pessoas que hoje neste Estado põem e dispõem, governados e governantes, têm caras horríveis, de um primitivismo idiota, o que se vê neste país em situação de bancarrota é apenas um monte de lixo de fisionomias assustadoras, disse ele. Tanto que nós pensamos e que falamos e julgamos que somos competentes e na verdade não somos, essa é a comédia, e quando perguntamos, como é que vai ser agora? é a tragédia, meu caro Atzbacher.

Thomas Bernhard in Antigos Mestres
tradução de José A. Palma Caetano, Assírio & Alvim

Un Chien Andalou

PROLOGUE

Once Upon a Time ...

A balcony at night.

A man is sharpening a razor by the balcony. The man looks at the sky through the window-panes and sees...

A light cloud moving toward the full moon.

Then a young woman's head, her eyes wide open. A razor blade moves toward one of the eyes.

The light cloud passes now across the moon.

The razor blade cuts through the eye of the young woman, slicing it.

End of Prologue.

 

EIGHT YEARS LATER

A deserted street. It is raining.

A character dressed in a dark-gray suit appears riding a bicycle. His head, back and loins are adorned in ruffles of white linen. A rectangular box with black and white diagonal stripes is secured to his chest by straps. The character pedals mechanically without holding the handlebars, with his hands resting on his knees.

The character is seen from the back down to the thighs in a medium shot, superimposed lengthwise on the street down which he is cycling with his back to the camera.

The character moves toward the camera until the striped box is seen in a close-up.

An ordinary room on the third floor on the same street. A young girl wearing a brightly colored dress is sitting in the middle of the room attentively reading a book. Suddenly she comes out of her reading with a start, listens with curiosity, freeing herself of the book by throwing it on a nearby couch. The book stays open with a reproduction of Vermeer's The Lacemaker on one of the pages facing up. The young woman is convinced now that something is in the offing: she, gets up, and, half turning, walks in quick steps toward the window.

The character we have mentioned before has just at this very moment stopped, below on the street. Without offering the least resistance, out of inertia, he lets himself come down with the bicycle into the gutter, in the midst of a mud heap.

Looking enraged and resentful, the young woman hurries down the stairs and out to the street.

Close-up of the character sprawling on the ground, expressionless, his position identical to that at the moment of his fall.

The young woman comes out of the house, and, throwing herself on the cyclist, she frantically kisses him on the mouth, the eyes and the nose. The rain gets heavier to the extent of blotting out the preceding scene.

Dissolve to the box whose diagonal stripes are superimposed on those of the rain. Hands equipped with a little key open the box, pulling out a tie wrapped in tissue paper. It must be taken into account that the rain, the box, the tissue paper and the tie should all exhibit these diagonal stripes, with their sizes alone varying.

The same room.

Standing by the bed, the young woman is looking at the clothing articles that had been worn by the character -- ruffles, box, and the stiff collar with the plain dark tie -- all laid out as though they were worn by a person lying on the bed. The young woman finally decides to pick up the collar, removing the plain tie in order to replace it with the striped one which she has just taken out of the box. She puts it back in the same place, and then sits down by the bed in the posture of a person watching over the dead.

(Note: The bed, that is to say, the bedspread and the pillow, are slightly rumpled and depressed as if a human body were really lying there).

The woman is aware that someone is standing behind her and turns around to see who it is. Without the least surprise, she sees the character who now is without any of his former accessory articles, looking very attentively at something in his right hand. His great absorption betrays quite a great deal of anxiety.

The woman approaches and looks in turn at what he has in his hand. Close-up of the hand, the middle of which is teeming with ants swarming out of a black hole. None of these falls off.

Dissolve to the armpit hair of a young woman sprawled on the sand of a sunny beach. Dissolve to a sea urchin whose spines ripple slightly. Dissolve to the head of another young woman in a powerful overhead shot framed by an iris. The iris opens to reveal the young woman surrounded by a throng of people who are trying to break through a police barrier.

At the center of this circle, the young woman, holding a stick, attempts to pick up a severed hand with painted fingernails that is lying on the ground. A policeman comes up to her, sharply reprimanding her; he bends down and picks up the hand which he carefully wraps up and puts in the box that was carried by the cyclist. He hands it all to the young woman, saluting her in a military fashion while she thanks him.

As the policeman hands her the box, she must appear to be carried away by an extraordinary emotion that isolates her completely from everything around her. It is as though she were enthralled by the echoes of distant religious music; perhaps music she heard in her earliest childhood.

Their curiosity satisfied, the bystanders begin to disperse in all directions.

This scene will have been seen by the characters whom we have left in the room on the third floor. They are seen through the window panes of the balcony from which may be seen the end of the scene described above. When the policeman hands the box over to the young woman, the two characters on the balcony appear to also be overcome to the point of tears by the same emotion. Their heads sway as though following the rhythm of this impalpable music.

The man looks at the young woman and makes a gesture as though he were saying: "Did you see? Hadn't I told you so?" She looks down again at the young woman on the street who is now all alone and, as if pinned down to the spot, in a state of utter restraint. Cars pass all around her at breathtaking speeds. Suddenly she is run over by one of the cars and is left there horribly mutilated.

It is then that, with the decisiveness of a man fully knowing his rights, the man goes over to his companion, and, having gazed lasciviously straight into her eyes, he grabs her breasts through her dress. Closeup of the lustful hands over the breasts. These are bared as the dress disappears. A terrible expression of almost mortal anguish spreads over the man's face, and a blood-streaked dribble runs out of his mouth dripping on the young woman's bare breasts.

The breasts disappear to be transformed into thighs which the man continues to palpate. His expression has changed. His eyes sparkle with malice and lust. His wide open mouth now closes down as if tightened up by a sphincter.

The young woman moves back toward the middle of the room, followed by the man who is still in the same posture.

Suddenly, she makes a forceful motion, breaking his hold on her, freeing herself from his amorous advances.

The man's mouth tightens with anger.

She realizes that a disagreeable or violent scene is about to take place. She moves back, step by step, until she reaches the corner of the room, where she takes up a position behind a small table.

Assuming the gestures of the melodrama villain, the man looks around for something or other. He sees at his feet the end of a rope and picks it up with his right hand. His left hand gropes about too and gets hold of an identical rope.

Glued to the wall the young woman watches with horror her attacker's stratagem.

The latter advances toward her dragging with great effort that which is attached behind to the ropes.

We see passing before our eyes on the screen: first, a cork, then a melon, then two Brothers of Christian Schools, and finally two magnificent grand pianos. The pianos are loaded with the rotting carcasses of two donkeys, their feet, tails, hindquarters and excrement spilling out of the piano-cases. As one of the pianos passes in front of the camera lens, a large donkey's head is seen pressing the keyboard.

Pulling with great difficulty this burden, the man desperately strains toward the young woman, knocking over chairs, tables, a floor lamp, etc., etc. The donkey's hind-quarters get caught in everything. A lamp hanging from the ceiling is jostled by a stripped bone, and continues rocking until the end of the scene.

When the man is about to reach the young woman, she dodges him with a leap and escapes. Her attacker lets go of the ropes and begins pursuing her. The young woman opens a communicating door and vanishes into the next room, but not quickly enough to be able to lock the door behind her. The man's hand having made it past the joint, is held captive, caught at the wrist.

Inside the other room, pressing the door harder and harder, the young woman looks at the hand which wrenches in pain in slow motion as the ants reappear and swarm over the door.

Right away, she turns her head toward the middle of the new room, which is identical to the previous one, but on which the lighting confers a different look; the young woman sees...

A man sprawled on the bed who is the one and the same man whose hand is still caught in the door. Wearing the ruffles with the box resting on his chest he does not make the least movement but lies there, his eyes wide open, his superstitious expression seeming to say: "Something really extraordinary is now about to happen!"

ABOUT THREE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING

A new character is seen from the back on the landing; he has just stopped by the entrance door to the apartment. He rings the bell of the apartment where the events are taking place. We don't see the bell nor the electric hammer, but in their place, over the door, there are two holes through which pass two hands shaking a silver cocktail shaker. Their action is instantaneous, as in ordinary films when a doorbell button is being pressed.

The man lying on the bed gives a start.

The young woman goes and opens the door.

The newcomer goes directly to the bed and imperiously orders the man to get up. The man complies so grudgingly that the other is obliged to grab him by the ruffles and force him to his feet.

Having torn off the ruffles one by one, the newcomer throws them out of the window. The box follows the same route and so do the straps which the man tries in vain to save from the catastrophe. And this leads the newcomer to punish the man by making him go and stand with his face to one of the walls.

The newcomer will have done all this with his back completely turned to the camera. He turns around now for the first time in order to go and look for something on the other side of the room.

The sub-title says:

SIXTEEN YEARS BEFORE

At this point the photography becomes hazy. The newcomer moves in slow motion and we set that his features are identical to those of the other; they are one and the same person, but for the fact that the newcomer looks younger and more doleful, as the other must have been years before.

The newcomer goes toward the back of the room with the camera tracking back and keeping him in medium close-up.

The school desk toward which our individual is heading enters the frame. There are two books on the school desk, as well as various school objects, whose position and moral meaning are to be carefully determined.

The newcomer picks up the two books and turns to go and join the other man. At this point everything goes back to normal, the fuzziness and slow motion having disappeared.

Having come up to the man, the newcomer directs him to hold out his arms in a cruciform position, places a book in each hand, and orders him to remain so as a punishment.

The punished character's expression has now become keen and treacherous. He turns to face the newcomer. The books he has been holding turn into revolvers.

The newcomer looks at him with tenderness, an expression that becomes more pronounced with each passing moment.

The other, threatening the newcomer with his guns and forcing him to put his hands up, does not heed the latter's compliance and fires both revolvers at him. Medium close-up of the newcomer falling down fatally wounded, his features contorted in agony (the photography's fuzziness is resumed and the newcomer's fall is in slow motion, in a way that is more pronounced than previously).

We see in the distance the wounded man falling; this, however, happens no longer inside the room but in a park. Seated next to him is a motionless woman with bare shoulders, who is seen from behind leaning slightly forward. As he falls the wounded man attempts to seize and stroke her shoulders; one of his hands is turned shaking toward himself; the other brushes against the skin of the naked shoulders. Finally he falls to the ground.

View from afar. A few passers-by and several park-keepers rush over to help. They pick him up in their arms and bear him away through the woods.

Let the passionate lame man play a role here.

And we are back at the same room. A door, the one in which the hand had been caught, now opens slowly. The young woman we already know appears. She closes the door behind her and stares very attentively at the wall against which the murderer had stood.

The man is no longer there. The wall is bare, without any furniture or decoration. The young woman makes a gesture of vexation and impatience.

The wall is seen again; in the middle of it there is a small black spot.

Seen much closer, this small spot appears to be a death's-head moth.

Close-up of the moth.

The death's head on the moth's wings fills the whole screen.

The man who was wearing ruffles comes suddenly into view in a medium shot bringing his hand swiftly to his mouth as though he were losing his teeth.

The young woman looks at him disdainfully.

When the man takes away his hand, we see that his mouth has disappeared.

The young woman seems to be saying to him: "Well, and what next?" and then she touches up her lips with a lipstick.

We see again the man's head. Hair begins to sprout where his mouth had been.

Having caught sight of this, the young woman stifles a cry and swiftly examines her armpit which is completely depilated. She scornfully sticks out her tongue at him, throws a shawl over her shoulders, and, opening the door near her, goes into the adjacent room which is a wide beach.

A third character is waiting for her near the water's edge. They greet each other very amiably, and meander together down the waterline.

A shot of their legs and the waves breaking at their feet.

The camera follows them in a dolly shot. The waves gently wash ashore at their feet, first, the straps, then the striped box followed by the ruffles, and finally the bicycle. This shot continues a moment longer without anything else being washed ashore.

They continue their walk on the beach, little by little fading from view, while in the sky appear the words:

IN THE SPRING

Everything has changed.

We see now a desert without end. We see the man and the young woman in the center, sunk in sand up to their chests, blinded, their clothes in tatters, devoured by the sun and by swarms of insects.

 

 

Original Shooting Script by Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí

Translated by Haim Finkelstein

 

 

I’m afraid of americans

Johnny’s in america, low-tech’s at the
Wheel
No-one needs anyone, they don’t even
Just pretend
Johnny’s in america

I’m afraid of americans
I’m afraid of the world
I’m afraid I can’t help it
I’m afraid I can’t
Johnny’s in america

Johnny wants a brain, johnny wants to
Suck on a coke
Johnny wants a woman, johnny wants
To think of a joke
Johnny’s in america

I’m afraid of americans
I’m afraid of the world
I’m afraid I can’t help it
I’m afraid I can’t
Johnny’s in america

Johnny’s in america, johnny looks up at
The stars
Johnny combs his hair and johnny
Wants pussy and cars
Johnny’s in america

I’m afraid of americans
I’m afraid of the world
I’m afraid I can’t help it
I’m afraid I can’t
Johnny’s in america

God is an american
I’m afraid of americans
I’m afraid of the world

I’m afraid I can’t help it

I’m afraid I can’t

I’m afraid of americans
I’m afraid of the words
I’m afraid I can’t help it
I’m afraid I can’t
Johnny’s in america
Johnny’s in america

David Bowie

The man who sold the world

We passed upon the stair, we spoke of was and when
Although I wasn’t there, he said I was his friend
Which came as some surprise I spoke into his eyes
I thought you died alone, a long long time ago

Oh no, not me
I never lost control
You’re face to face
With the man who sold the world

I laughed and shook his hand, and made my way back home
I searched for form and land, for years and years I roamed
I gazed a gazely stare at all the millions here
We must have died along, a long long time ago

Who knows? not me
We never lost control
You’re face to face
With the man who sold the world

Who knows? not me
We never lost control
You’re face to face
With the man who sold the world

David Bowie

Heroes

I, I will be king
And you, you will be queen
Though nothing will drive them away
We can beat them, just for one day
We can be Heroes, just for one day

And you, you can be mean
And I, I'll drink all the time
'Cause we're lovers, and that is a fact
Yes we're lovers, and that is that

Though nothing, will keep us together
We could steal time,
just for one day
We can be Heroes, for ever and ever
What d'you say?

I, I wish you could swim
Like the dolphins, like dolphins can swim
Though nothing,
nothing will keep us together
We can beat them, for ever and ever
Oh we can be Heroes,
just for one day

I, I will be king
And you, you will be queen
Though nothing will drive them away
We can be Heroes, just for one day
We can be us, just for one day

I, I can remember (I remember)
Standing, by the wall (by the wall)
And the guns shot above our heads
(over our heads)
And we kissed,
as though nothing could fall
(nothing could fall)
And the shame was on the other side
Oh we can beat them, for ever and ever
Then we could be Heroes,
just for one day

We can be Heroes
We can be Heroes
We can be Heroes
Just for one day
We can be Heroes

We're nothing, and nothing will help us
Maybe we're lying,
then you better not stay
But we could be safer,
just for one day

Oh-oh-oh-ohh, oh-oh-oh-ohh,
just for one day

David Bowie

Wild is the Wind

Love me, love me, love me, love me, say you do
Let me fly away with you
For my love is like the wind, and wild is the wind
Wild is the wind
Give me more than one caress, satisfy this hungriness
Let the wind blow through your heart
For wild is the wind, wild is the wind

You touch me, I hear the sound of mandolins
You kiss me
With your kiss my life begins
You’re spring to me, all things to me
Don’t you know, you’re life itself!

Like the leaf clings to the tree,
Oh, my darling, cling to me
For we’re like creatures of the wind, wild is the wind
Wild is the wind

You touch me, I hear the sound of mandolins
You kiss me
With your kiss my life begins
You’re spring to me, all things to me
Don’t you know, you’re life itself!

Like the leaf clings to the tree,
Oh, my darling, cling to me
For we’re like creatures in the wind, and wild is the wind

Wild is the wind
Wild is the wind
Wild is the wind
Wild is the wind

David Bowie

Absolute Beginners

I've nothing much to offer
There's nothing much to take
I'm an absolute beginner
And I'm absolutely sane
As long as we're together
The rest can go to hell
I absolutely love you
But we're absolute beginners
With eyes completely open
But nervous all the same

If our love song
Could fly over mountains
Could laugh at the ocean
Just like the films
There's no reason
To feel all the hard times
To lay down the hard lines
It's absolutely true

David Bowie

Ashes to Ashes

Do you remember a guy that's been
in such an early song
i heard a rumour from ground control
oh no, don't say it's true
they got a message from the action man
i'm happy hope you're happy too
i've loved all i've needed love
sordid details following

the shrieking of nothing is killing
just pictures of jap girls in synthesis
and i ain't got no money and and i ain't got no hair
but i'm hoping to kick but the planet is glowing aglow aglow
ashes to ashes funk to funky
we know major tom's a junky
strung out on heaven's high
hitting an all time low
time and again i tell myself
i'll stay clean tonight
but the little green wheels are following me
oh no not again
i'm stuck with a valuable friend
i'm happy hope you're happy too
one flash of light
but no smoking pistol
i've never done good things
i've never done bad things
i never did anything out of the blue
want an axe to break the ice
want to come down right now

David Bowie

ou quando a música nos salva do entorpecimento diário....

Nuance

"Politics is the great generalizer," Leo told me, "and literature the great particularizer, and not only are they in an inverse relationship to each other—they are in an antagonistic relationship. To politics, literature is decadent, soft, irrelevant, boring, wrongheaded, dull, something that makes no sense and that really oughtn't to be. Why? Because the particularizing impulse is literature. How can you be an artist and renounce the nuance? But how can you be a politician and allow the nuance? As an artist the nuance is your task. Your task is not to simplify. Even should you choose to write in the simplest way, à la Hemingway, the task remains to impart the nuance, to elucidate the complication, to imply the contradiction. Not to erase the contradiction, not to deny the contradiction, but to see where, within the contradiction, lies the tormented human being. To allow for the chaos, to let it in. You must let it in. Otherwise you produce propaganda, if not for a political party, a political movement, then stupid propaganda for life itself—for life as it might itself prefer to be publicized. During the first five, six years of the Russian Revolution the revolutionaries cried, 'Free love, there will be free love!' But once they were in power, they couldn't permit it. Because what is free love? Chaos. And they didn't want chaos. That isn't why they made their glorious revolution. They wanted something carefully disciplined, organized, contained, predictable scientifically, if possible. Free love disturbs the organization, their social and political and cultural machine. Art also disturbs the organization. Literature disturbs the organization. Not because it is blatantly for or against, or even subtly for or against. It disturbs the organization because it is not general. The intrinsic nature of the particular is to be particular, and the intrinsic nature of particularity is to fail to conform. Generalizing suffering: there is Communism. Particularizing suffering: there is literature. In that polarity is the antagonism. Keeping the particular alive in a simplifying, generalizing world— that's where the battle is joined. You do not have to write to legitimize Communism, and you do not have to write to legitimize capitalism. You are out of both. If you are a writer, you are as unallied to the one as you are to the other. Yes, you see differences, and of course you see that this shit is a little better than that shit, or that that shit is a little better than this shit. Maybe much better. But you see the shit. You are not a government clerk. You are not a militant. You are not a believer.

Philip Roth, in I Married a Comunist