30 antes dos 30: The Truman Show

Jim Carrey em The Truman Show (1998)

And you may find yourself 
Behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house
With a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself, well
How did I get here?

David Byrne podia ter escrito “Once in a Lifetime” para The Truman Show. Mas quase 20 anos separam a música (de 1980) do filme (de 1998).

As palavras do frontman dos Talking Heads são, contudo, certeiras e “Once in a Lifetime” acabou por ser escolhida para o trailer de The Truman Show, quase que a sugerir perguntas que o protagonista vai fazendo a si mesmo ao longo da história.

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Oprah: “Speaking your truth is the most powerful tool we all have”

75th Annual Golden Globe Awards - Press Room, Beverly Hills, USA - 07 Jan 2018

© Jordan Strauss/Invision/AP/REX/S @ Variety

In 1964, I was a little girl sitting on the linoleum floor of my mother’s house in Milwaukee watching Anne Bancroft present the Oscar for best actor at the 36th Academy Awards. She opened the envelope and said five words that literally made history: “The winner is Sidney Poitier.” Up to the stage came the most elegant man I had ever seen. I remember his tie was white, and of course his skin was black, and I had never seen a black man being celebrated like that. I tried many, many times to explain what a moment like that means to a little girl, a kid watching from the cheap seats as my mom came through the door bone tired from cleaning other people’s houses. But all I can do is quote and say that the explanation in Sidney’s performance in “Lilies of the Field”: “Amen, amen, amen, amen.”

In 1982, Sidney received the Cecil B. DeMille award right here at the Golden Globes and it is not lost on me that at this moment, there are some little girls watching as I become the first black woman to be given this same award. It is an honor — it is an honor and it is a privilege to share the evening with all of them and also with the incredible men and women who have inspired me, who challenged me, who sustained me and made my journey to this stage possible. Dennis Swanson who took a chance on me for “A.M. Chicago.” Quincy Jones who saw me on that show and said to Steven Spielberg, “Yes, she is Sophia in ‘The Color Purple.'” Gayle who has been the definition of what a friend is, and Stedman who has been my rock — just a few to name.

I want to thank the Hollywood Foreign Press Association because we all know the press is under siege these days. We also know it’s the insatiable dedication to uncovering the absolute truth that keeps us from turning a blind eye to corruption and to injustice. To tyrants and victims, and secrets and lies. I want to say that I value the press more than ever before as we try to navigate these complicated times, which brings me to this: what I know for sure is that speaking your truth is the most powerful tool we all have. And I’m especially proud and inspired by all the women who have felt strong enough and empowered enough to speak up and share their personal stories. Each of us in this room are celebrated because of the stories that we tell, and this year we became the story.

But it’s not just a story affecting the entertainment industry. It’s one that transcends any culture, geography, race, religion, politics, or workplace. So I want tonight to express gratitude to all the women who have endured years of abuse and assault because they, like my mother, had children to feed and bills to pay and dreams to pursue. They’re the women whose names we’ll never know. They are domestic workers and farm workers. They are working in factories and they work in restaurants and they’re in academia, engineering, medicine, and science. They’re part of the world of tech and politics and business. They’re our athletes in the Olympics and they’re our soldiers in the military.

And there’s someone else, Recy Taylor, a name I know and I think you should know, too. In 1944, Recy Taylor was a young wife and mother walking home from a church service she’d attended in Abbeville, Alabama, when she was abducted by six armed white men, raped, and left blindfolded by the side of the road coming home from church. They threatened to kill her if she ever told anyone, but her story was reported to the NAACP where a young worker by the name of Rosa Parks became the lead investigator on her case and together they sought justice. But justice wasn’t an option in the era of Jim Crow. The men who tried to destroy her were never persecuted. Recy Taylor died ten days ago, just shy of her 98th birthday. She lived as we all have lived, too many years in a culture broken by brutally powerful men. For too long, women have not been heard or believed if they dare speak the truth to the power of those men.


But their time is up.

Their time is up.

Their time is up. And I just hope — I just hope that Recy Taylor died knowing that her truth, like the truth of so many other women who were tormented in those years, and even now tormented, goes marching on. It was somewhere in Rosa Parks’ heart almost 11 years later, when she made the decision to stay seated on that bus in Montgomery, and it’s here with every woman who chooses to say, “Me too.” And every man — every man who chooses to listen.

In my career, what I’ve always tried my best to do, whether on television or through film, is to say something about how men and women really behave. To say how we experience shame, how we love and how we rage, how we fail, how we retreat, persevere and how we overcome. I’ve interviewed and portrayed people who’ve withstood some of the ugliest things life can throw at you, but the one quality all of them seem to share is an ability to maintain hope for a brighter morning, even during our darkest nights.

So I want all the girls watching here, now, to know that a new day is on the horizon! And when that new day finally dawns, it will be because of a lot of magnificent women, many of whom are right here in this room tonight, and some pretty phenomenal men, fighting hard to make sure that they become the leaders who take us to the time when nobody ever has to say “Me too” again.

 

Oprah’s Cecil B. de Mille Award acceptance speech at the 2018 Golden Globes

The Barn

The Barn © Filipa Moreno

Vale de Carvão não aparece facilmente nos mapas. Não está nos GPS mais avançados. Não se encontra perguntando. Só com uma longa lista de direcções rudimentares (“vira depois daquelas caixas de correio”, “logo a seguir a uma pequena subida”), conseguimos encontrar o The Barn, já a noite tinha caído por ali.

O Pete e a Teresa estavam à nossa espera, com uma garrafa de vinho e algumas uvas produzidas ali mesmo. Ali: numa localidade chamada Santo António das Areias, dentro do Parque Natural da Serra de São Mamede, onde o Vale de Carvão fica apenas a alguns passos a pé da vizinha Espanha. Ali se construiu esta cabana rústica (“charme rústico”, como se fosse uma categoria de pesquisa) de portas envidraçadas, rodeadas de videiras.

The Barn aquece só de olhar: é forrado a madeiras e tecidos quentes. Está recheado de pormenores atenciosos e, acredito, memórias vividas. Somos sempre acompanhados pelos badalos das ovelhas vizinhas e, ocasionalmente, o cair de um dióspiro maduro no chão rompe um pequeno-almoço soalheiro e tranquilo – esborracha-se no chão, para curiosidade do gato que nos visita, sempre com sede de mimo. Cozinhámos num verdadeiro forno a lenha, que o Pete concordou em acender para nós, apesar da temperatura de quase Verão, e enchemos o espaço daquele cheiro a casa.

Fomos deitando olho às informações de incêndios e, durante quatro dias, foram quase sempre 11 a arder no distrito. Tapámos os ouvidos a tudo o resto, ao barulho da cidade, às buzinas, às campainhas, às notificações. Ficámos ali, a ler ao sol, a percorrer algumas cordas de guitarra, a conversar e a rir (…) entre um e outro copo de vinho.

The Barn

30 antes dos 30: Fight Club

Fight Club (1999)

No regresso à lista dos 30 antes dos 30, calhou, desta vez, Fight Club.

Para começo de conversa, é preciso dizer que o marketing deste filme anda errado desde o início. Portanto, desde 1999 que o Fight Club aparece com a carinha do Brad Pitt a fazer de porta de entrada. Até percebo o motivo, ou não fossem aqueles os anos áureos do rapaz. Mas este filme não é Brad Pitt (apesar de estar bem, sim). Este filme é Edward Norton.

Edward Norton tinha acabado de dar ao mundo American History X (1998). Aí, surge como um neonazi obstinado, que oscila entre a obrigação de cuidar da família e o vórtex que é o seu grupo de skinheads, até alcançar o arrependimento final. A suástica tatuada no peito é inesquecível, como também o é a cabeça rapada naquela personagem ajoelhada no chão, com um esgar estampado no rosto. Os braços estão musculados e o olhar é confiante.

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Napoli, ti voglio bene

Campi Flegrei. No sentido literal, uma terra em chamas. Ali perto, Nápoles (a cidade) é mais ponto de passagem para a costa e as ilhas do que destino final de tantos e tantos visitantes.

Foi o da viagem número dois. Uma cidade que é berço da pizza e pouco mais. Uma cidade que recebe e mastiga os turistas porque, afinal, também o faz com os locais. A eles, endurece-lhes a pele. Se lhes descobrem umas ruínas romanas nas bases das casas, não aceitam desertar.

A nós, quase nos repele – irremediavelmente, se decidirmos acordar noutro poiso na manhã seguinte. A Nápoles da pizza original (a da Sorbillo), dos cafés expresso tirados a ferver, dos Maradonas homenageados em cada esquina e dos presépios pintados à mão em centenas e centenas de peças.

A Nápoles dos pizzaiolos, das obras que parecem durar há anos, dos napolitanos franzinos mas enamorados.

A Nápoles da Spritz e dos homens que cantam a todo o momento, como se a vida napolitana custasse menos a viver por ser cantada.

A Nápoles dos altares, dos metros impossíveis de tomar e dos pedintes que se estendem pelas ruas, como há décadas já não se vê por cá.

A Nápoles do Vesúvio magistral, em constante pano de fundo. A Nápoles dos 414 degraus, de Sant’Elmo ao Bairro Espanhol. Essa Nápoles dos corajosos que correram, eles mesmos, com os nazis.

A Nápoles do manjericão plantado às portas de casa. A Nápoles dos limoncellos tragados em fins de tarde, em fins de praças cheias de gentes que não compreendem Nápoles.

A Nápoles dos vendedores de parmigiano, que encantam entre um tesoro e outro amore.

A Nápoles das saudades de quem tudo quer levar para partilhar em casa e a das saudades que deixa.

Napoli, you motherfucner*, és um osso duro de roer. Ma ti voglio bene.