http://artepolitica.com/al-plato/

http://artepolitica.com/el-largo-camino-entre-fundar-pagina-12-y-critica-no-jorge/

http://www.pagina12.com.ar/diario/contratapa/13-106897-2008-06-29.html

Una recorrida rápida del nuevo escenario “hot” de la política. Un lugar donde en sólo cien metros quedan expuestas todas las contradicciones argentinas.

Postales:

- Un grupo de militantes evangelistas (totalmente fuera de contexto) llevando carteles contra de la despenalización de las drogas, dándole a los bombos y vivando a Jesús. Mientras tanto,  un muchachón medio escondido entre las rejas los veía venir y se prendía un flor de “caño” matándose de risa.

- Un funcionario del gobierno que presentando un video sobre la obras en la cuenca del rio salado por varios miles de millones “para que vean que el gobierno quiere beneficiar al campo”, mientras definía la palabra “oligarcas”: “´oli´ pocos y ´garcas´, ustedes ya saben lo que significa”

- En una de las carpas de la JP se escuchaban las canciones de Bombita Rodríguez, mientras dos adolescentes coreaban a carcajadas “La sonrisa de mamá es como la de Perón”

- La mirada perpleja de dos turistas colombianos que me decían que le explique que significaba todo eso “en 3 palabras”

- El impresionante y pinkfloydiano toro inflable de De Angeli, y una constitucion en forma de pajaro muy bizarra.

- La camioneta brandeada y super cool con la foto de Castells y Nina pelozo, cerca de la carpa del campo

- Pese a lo que decían los medios, las carpas oficialistas eran más bien austeras, la del campo con mucha más producción

- En una de las carpas cubierta de imágenes de Evita, una chica neo rasta interpretaba un set de reggae/dub con letras combativas a máximo volumen

- Una de las carpas oficiales, vacía, con dos plasmas que repetían incansablemente imágenes de un discurso de Perón en calidad low-fi

- La gente hablando, tranquilamente, discutiendo ideas, intercambiando panfletos, en un clima extrañamente distendido de ambos lados. ¿Volvió la política?

- En las carpas peronistas, chocolate caliente para el que lo pidiera. En la otra no vi catering, pero seguramente había.

Ese es el caso de Munich, un excepcional film de Spielberg que hace los suyo para que el espectador salga del cine con el upite rebosante de dudas.

Debo confesar que yo estaba un tanto escéptico porque sus últimas producciones me parecían un poco lavadas. Pero debo decir que, esta vez, el director de E.T y Encuentros cercanos hizo un trabajo sólido, conmovedor, y profundo.

Lo que más rescato es cómo se jugó ideológicamente, en un relato que habrá ofendido a más de un fanático defensor del establisment neo-yanqui.

El guión expone todas las complejidades de una lucha tan polarizada como el enfrentamiento árabe/palestino-israelí. Lo mejor es que, increíblemente, Spielberg no se mete en la típica dualidad héroe-villano, sino que muestre las amplias zonas grises a las que se enfrentan los que tienen que matar para defender algún tipo de causa pseudo-mesiánica.

Y mejor que eso, Munich funciona como un tremendo manifiesto antibélico, que nos recuerda que tras millones de años de evolución el hombre ha aprendido muy poco. Se sigue tropezando con la piedra de su propio odio, una y otra vez.

Aparte de la profundidad ideológica, la factura técnica es impecable. La reconstrucción histórica es tan creible, que uno cree estar en los setentas.

Spielberg, volviste a figurar alto en mi ranking, sos groso!

Esta escena, que enfrenta al agente del Mossad con un militante palestino, contiene el diálogo más intrigante de la película

En Marte es al revés.

El cielo es rojizo y, cuando el sol se oculta, el cielo se vuelve celeste.

Esta foto tomada por uno de los robots enviados por la Nasa, muestran la conmovedora imagen del sol ocultándose en otro mundo. Un sol que se ve mucho más chico de como lo vemos nosotros.

A veces es bueno recordar que este no es el único planeta que tiene montañas, valles, amaneceres y atardeceres.

“After the gig was over they went back to the Delmonico and met Bob Dylan. This was a bit of a landmark event – because it was the first time they smoked pot! They’d already popped some pills in their Hamburg days, but Paul admitted that they were really just “hard scotch and coke men.” They got pissed on cheap wine and Dylan dimmed the lights and stuffed some blankets around the door frames to stop the smell getting out, and lit up. The Beatles had to sit there and admit they’d never even touched the stuff and Dylan thought they were taking the piss! (nota: taking the piss, tomar el pelo)

Dylan’s assistant, Al Aronowitz, remembered: “Bob hovered unsteadily while he tried to lift the grass from the bag with the fingertips of one hand so he could crush it into the leaf of rolling paper which he held in his other hand. Before we lit up, Bob and I explained that burning marijuana had a particularly strong and identifiable aroma, so we suggested that we all go into the bedroom and shut the door for privacy… With more than a dozen police in the corridor outside and reporters just down the hall, great caution was deemed necessary… we retired to the far end of the room near the front windows and rolled towels to seal the doors.

I told Ringo to ‘Inhale with a lot of oxygen,’ and to ‘Take a deep breath of air with smoke and hold it in your lungs for as long as you can.’ As Ringo kept taking his hits, Victor, Bob and I kept waiting for him to pass it onto John, who was sitting next to him, but The Beatles were, obviously, unacquainted with the rituals of pot-smoking… Pot-smokers are supposed to share their joints because it’s precious stuff. It’s illegal, expensive and not easy to get, so pot-smokers don’t waste any smoke. Letting the joint burn idly down is known as ‘bogarting’ a joint, in honour of the way Humphrey Bogart held a lit cigarette in his fingers until the ash would fall from its own weight. But anyway… I neglected to instruct Ringo about passing the joint on, and it was soon obvious that he was going to hold onto it as if he were smoking a regular cigarette. So I asked Victor to roll some more joints. Victor was an expert roller and his joints looked like regular cigarettes. Soon everybody was smoking his own joint as if it were a cigarette.”

“Soon,” said Al, “Ringo got the giggles. In no time at all, he was laughing hysterically. His laughing looked so funny that the rest of us started laughing hysterically at the way Ringo was laughing hysterically. Then, Ringo pointed at the way Brian was laughing, and we all started laughing hysterically at the way Brian was laughing. Certainly that night, we all laughed and that is why, from then on, whenever John wanted to smoke some pot, he would say to the others, ‘Come on, let’s have a larf!’”

Paul thought he had been blessed with amazing insights and asked Mal to take some notes. “We were all in hysterics,” he said. “Then Brian was pointing at himself and going, ‘Jew! Jew!’, and it was hilarious! We couldn’t believe that this was so funny. It may not seem the least bit significant to anyone else, but in our circle it was very liberating… he had this little butt, the tiniest little butt, so he looked like a tramp smoking a dog-end, which we had only ever done when we were poor before… and this, compared to Brian’s image… we were going, ‘Awwwwh!’ Fucking screaming laughing at him. It was hilarious. I remember Brian looking at himself in the mirror and getting the whole joke of all this.” “We did nothing but laugh all night,” said John. “Dylan kept answering our phone, and saying, ‘This is Beatlemania here.’ It was ridiculous. He has got the same sense of humour as we have, and our tastes in music, though not the same, crossed somewhere. He’s a little fellow. That surprises you at first because, from his singing, you somehow imagine him as a tall man. But he’s about Ringo’s height and very thin.”

“We all went back into the lounge and drank whatever but I don’t think anyone needed anything after that. That was it!“ said Paul. “I spent the whole evening running around trying to find a pencil and paper because when I went back in the bedroom later, I discovered the meaning of life. And I suddenly felt like a reporter, on behalf of my local newspaper in Liverpool. I wanted to tell my people what it was. I was the great discoverer, on this sea of pot, sailing this sea and I had discovered it. So I remember asking Mal for what seemed like years, ‘Have you got a pencil?’ But of course everyone was so stoned they couldn’t produce a pencil, let alone a combination of a paper and pencil, so it was I either had the pencil but I didn’t have the paper or I had the… I eventually found it and I wrote it down, and gave it to Mal for safekeeping… I’d been going through this thing of levels, during the evening. And at each level I’d meet all these people again. ‘Hahaha! It’s you!’ And then I’d metamorphose on to another level. Anyway, Mal gave me this little slip of paper the next morning, and written on it was, ‘There are seven levels!’ Actually it wasn’t bad. Not bad for an amateur. And we pissed ourselves laughing, I mean, ‘What the fuck’s that? What the fuck are the seven levels?’”

John remembered that after this night “we dropped drink, simple as that.”