tripu

Warning: moderate spoilers ahead (unless you’ve watched more than four mainstream American films in the past decade, that is!)

So there is this exuberant planet Gymkhana, one with whimsical gravity forces, flawless foliage with neon-like sap, and its own cute indigenous take on practically every terrestrial animal species, only much larger and colourful and maybe with an extra pair of legs or something.

Planet Gymkhana is inhabited by an ancient race: the descendants of a praiseworthy hybrid between Jar Jar Binks, a bunch of elves hailing from Middle Earth and the puny aliens from “Close Encounters of the Third Kind”, plus a dash of the Smurfs. The people of Gymkhana spend their days hunting, jumping, flying, diving and running around. That is how their planet got its name.

There come the baddies — easy to spot by their lack of feelings, the corporate greed they defend, the caliber of their biceps, or a combination of the above. Then there is a scientist, Ripley, who knows stuff and talks in science-speak and is far more sensible, if also too naïf for the toughness of the situation. Then there is the goodie, who also has strong biceps, is a bit stupid and takes great pride on not knowing a thing about planet Gymkhana, its native population or anything at all for that matter; but he is good. He is an American hero. They don’t say that in the film, but you can tell from the beginning.

The baddies want the money, the goodies have got feelings, you know the rest. Of course, the ignorant jarhead achieves tons more than the witty scientist with all her funny speak and her books (boys and girls: you get the moral of the story!). The goodies don’t have a chance to win (it’s the future and they’re shooting arrows, for Christ’s sake), but the planet is so cool that, man, the laws of physics rock around pages 68 and 114 of the screenplay, right there when they are most needed. And when, in spite of all that, their cause seems lost, good old deus ex machina does it.

The goodie just looks the girl in the eye and coughs and she feels all the screws coming loose in her body. She falls in love, then she rejects him very badly, then something happens and he’s great and she wants him again even more badly. There is the nice expendable soldier who is sensible and helps the goodies and dies at the end. You’ve got everything! There is even the younger, geeky scientist who is unable to strike a match but feels somehow threatened by the beefy main character, so he makes some lousy attempt at becoming the hero of the story (but he can’t because he ain’t on the frickin’ movie poster).

The story is also a metaphor of what’s going on in planet Earth. There are clear hints on the ideas of invasion, preemptive strikes and a military that refuses to learn anything from the culture they’re just about to anihilate; and even more explicit references to “fighting terror with terror” and a “shock and awe” operation (!).

In spite of it all, I quite liked “Avatar”. So I guess I should say something positive about it now.

“Avatar” in 3D is a feast for the senses — and a moving one, too. Just too much of cheap shamanism for me, and too many plastic bricks supporting a predictable script.

I found it extremely beautiful and evocative, and great fun to watch. James Cameron certainly hasn’t “reinvented cinema” (bah!) but this film might well be one of those fantasy/action/CGI films that stay in our memory forever, like “Terminator” and “The Matrix”.

Génesis es una novela corta de ficción científica de Bernard Beckett, un autor neozelandés poco conocido, publicada originalmente en 2006.

Un par de guerras mundiales (nuevas) y varias pandemias (pandemias de las de verdad, no de estas que hay ahora) han azotado el globo. Platón, un magnate metido a salvador de la raza humana, se recluye en el archipiélago que llaman «la República» y consigue mantener a su sociedad de diseño aislada del resto del mundo mediante la construcción de la Gran Valla Marina. La República parece ser el último estado a salvo en la Tierra. Los pocos zombis infectados que consiguen llegar por mar hasta la Gran Valla son eliminados. En la República, la humanidad se ha reorganizado y aparentemente ha conseguido un equilibrio pacífico. La Academia es el organismo que dirige esta sociedad.

En ese contexto, una joven opositora estudiante, Anaximandro (sic), discípula del filósofo Pericles, se presenta al riguroso examen de ingreso en la Academia. El tribunal está compuesto por tres funcionarios Examinadores que la interrogan acerca del tema en el que se ha especializado: la vida de Adán Forde, un personaje clave en la historia de la República. La novela arranca cuando Anaximandro (Anax para los amigos) se presenta ante el tribunal, y termina cuando lo hace el examen.

La historia mezcla varios temas, y lo que los une a todos es un tono filosófico y metafísico sobre el devenir de la humanidad, la evolución, la tecnología y la sociedad, que a mí me ha parecido interesante. Durante su examen, Anax recrea con detalle un test de Turing (aunque no se le da ese nombre) que resulta bastante entretenido; una batalla intelectual (pero también emocional) entre Adán Forde y una máquina, a base de lógica aplastante y puyazos resentidos hombre-máquina. También se menciona el experimento de la habitación china.

Se puede considerar una novela en tiempo real: el examen de ingreso de Anax en la Academia dura cinco horas (con descansos), y el libro se lee más o menos en ese tiempo (quizá con descansos). Son 158 páginas de letra gorda. Y quien no sea tan lento como yo leyendo literatura seguramente tardará bastante menos.

No está mal la novelita. Te mantiene enganchado y se resuelve con sorpresa, aunque también con simpleza, y además toca de refilón temas que podrían dar más de sí: el apocalipsis, una sociedad de vigilancia y control y además estratificada (“Nineteen eighty-four” meets “Brave new world”), la IA, la esencia del Hombre y de la conciencia… Lo de reciclar nombres de filósofos e instituciones de la Grecia clásica en este contexto futurista no termino de entenderlo bien; supongo que son alegorías e ironías jugosas, pero como estoy pegado en Grecia, me lo pierdo.

Como nota curiosa, en este libro la traductora, Gemma Rovira Ortega, propone la primera traducción al español que yo haya visto del acrónimo inglés SNAFU: «SINOMEPATO» :¬)

Aviso que el artículo de la Wikipedia (en inglés) cuenta la trama con espóilers y lo desvela todo.

Sigo con mi racha de leer libros regalados o prestados (este me lo pasó mi tío). Y al igual que me pasa cada vez que me pongo con libros pendientes, me pregunto dónde está el equilibrio entre leer lo que los demás te recomiendan o proporcionan y lo que a ti realmente te apetece. A raíz de eso, tres preguntas al aire relativas a the pila:

1. ¿Os medio forzáis a leer los libros que os regalan o prestan, aunque algunos os interesen sólo regular?
2. En caso afirmativo, ¿dais abasto para leer esos, más los que vosotros elegís?
3. Y finalmente, ¿aplicáis algún algoritmo para decidir el próximo libro a leer de entre los regalados? En otras palabras, ¿FIFO o LIFO?

a friend of mine (a book-lover, one of the most admirable bookworms I know) gave this book to me as a present last year. We both love London, we both prefer to read English books in English, and she knows me well enough to anticipate that I would like this novel by Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere.

I confess I hadn’t read anything by Neil Gaiman before, but the name sounded familiar to me. And, as in so many other occasions, once you find out a little bit on the interwebs and mention the name to a friend or two and let your friends talk to you about the guy, you end up wondering how it’s possible that you didn’t know him.

I reckon most of the (three) readers of this blog don’t need an introduction, but let me just say that Gaiman is known for his writing of the acclaimed comic book series Sandman, and for other novels such as American Gods. Although you would be forgiven to think that his actual job is to collect impressive awards (Hugo and Nebula among many others). Even if you’re not familiar with his books, you may have watched some of his work: he wrote Coraline, upon which the screenplay for the eponymous film was based, and, most importantly, he wrote the screenplay of a little marvel that was too quickly forgotten: Beowulf. Oh, and he also wrote the dialogues for the version of Princess Mononoke that was screened in English-speaking countries. He has a blog since 2001, he is on Twitter, he possesses a beautiful, beautiful private library, and yet another library (you can zoom in to read every title on the shelves), he has given some long interviews and, to top it all, he is definitely much better than Chuck Norris.

Enough said about Mr Gaiman and his enormous talent.

Thirteen years ago Gaiman wrote Nevewhere, a TV series for the BBC. A bit later, and not feeling entirely happy with the many bits that he had to alter or prune during the shooting of the series, he would rework the screenplay and publish it as a 370-page novel. You can watch the whole series (six episodes) on YouTube (but I recommend you to save it for after you read the book).

But I mentioned London. What does London have to do with this story?

This fantasy novel is set in two Londons: London Above (the one you’ve seen: Big Ben, black cabs, bad weather, noisy tourists, gorgeous parks); and London Below (a magical, dark place under the surface where the disenfranchised fall; a world linked to London overground by tunnels and sewers, abandoned tube stations and hidden doors).

You will make the most of the novel only if you have lived in the city, or if you know the city at least a bit. There are lots of references to real areas, streets and landmarks, and underground lines and stations: Trafalgar Sq, Tate Modern, the City, Battersea, Centre Point, the ubiquitous off-licences and the curry houses… When the characters walk in London Above, you can follow them from Leicester Sq through Soho (“where the tawdry and the chic sit side by side, to the benefit of both”) and Old Compton St. And when they walk from Brewer St to Piccadilly, they stop to stare for a moment at the articles on display at the Vintage Magazine Shop. I have wandered around that shop quite a few times.

There are also nice references to the names of tube stations. There is an Earl, with his court, in Earl’s Court. There are black friars. Knightsbridge is actually a misspelling of the Night’s Bridge. One of the main characters is called Islington, and it is an Angel. We get to know one of the Seven Sisters. And so forth.

I was already enjoying all these references and word plays, when I read this about Richard Mayhew, the protagonist: “Richard’s offices were on the third floor of a big, old, rather draughty building, just off the Strand”. I stopped and re-read that sentence twice. During my last year in London, I worked at 80 Strand — my company was renting half of the third floor of a very large, old building on the Strand. But wait, I thought; it could be any of the other big, old buildings on that side of the road, or even on the other side. Then, towards the end of the story, Richard “walked over to the window, and sipped his tea, staring out at the dirty brown river” and I could discard all the buildings on the North side of the Strand. I could picture Richard perfectly, taking a break from work to stare at the Thames and the South Bank from that privileged position, as I myself had done so many times.

Gaiman writes concise, elegant and accurate. Also tender and funny. I had to laugh out loud a few times when I was reading it, specially with Mr Croup and Mr Vandemar.

It seems to me that Neil Gaiman would be perfectly capable of telling the same story indulging in a profusion of details and stretching some dramatic effects, but that he actually writes too well to fall into that trap. Of course, being a fantasy novel, the characters are not realistic, and there is magic, and sometimes a thin smell of deus ex machina floating around. Because of that, I think that you can’t engage with the story fully, on the same level you would with a historic novel, for instance. But it is interesting to note that Richard, the young Scot working in London who falls through the cracks to London Below, provides a useful counterpoint: he is sceptic and ironic about what is happening to him, he is easily scared, weak, wants to go back home. That makes him the more likeable to the reader, who can easily relate to him.

I wished there were better descriptions of the places in London Below, because sometimes I wasn’t sure what places looked like, the shape and size of tunnels, buildings, bridges and roads. I don’t even know if there is a sky above London Below or not; sometimes Richard and his companions walk in a direction that doesn’t seem plausible, and they end up in places you wouldn’t expect. Some features of London appear also in London Below (Harrods, the HMS Belfast), but because the “topology” of the “double city” is not clear, I didn’t understand if those landmarks are mirrored, or if the inhabitants of London Below come up to London Above and take them at night. It is a bit Escherian, I guess. But that might be on purpose.

The characters I liked the most are Mr Croup and Mr Vandemar, a couple of sadistic assassins, two refined torturers, funny psychopaths. They fit in the archetype of the short, cunning, talkative guy and his huge, violent dumb companion. Mr Croup loves words and talks in the manner of an old-fashioned gentleman, although his ideas are less candid (“The police? Alas, we cannot claim that felicity. A career in law and order, although indubitably enticing, was not inscribed on the cards Dame Fortuna dealt my brother and me.”). Mr Vandemar eats anything that has, or that once had, flesh or fur, and is immune to the suffering of the others. You have to love them from the first pages. Today I skipped through the first episode on YouTube because I was curious about how these two guys had been portrayed originally on TV. I recommend you not to do that until you’ve read the book — the image of them that gradually appears in your mind as you read the novel is probably far scarier and more complex than the image they have on screen (and that’s a good thing about the brief descriptions, I guess).

Definitely recommended (although, as I said, part of the appeal depends on knowing London and some of its layers).

There are things in this world which purpose or destiny is easy for anyone to distil: wheels, coal, surgeons, fear — you know what they are for. And there are other things that just are, and their utility rejects comprehension. Love, ageing, civil servants. Man.

If one were forced to classify art in general, and films in particular, into one of these two categories, I guess the second bucket would clank loud.

What do you watch films for? Forget right now about documentaries, cheap scary movies and light-hearted irrelevant comedies: documentaries serve the same purpose as magazines, and the latter two are a ride in the amusement park. What do you watch films for?

Why would you pay to watch a film so clumsy (or so honest) that spares all the polite ellipses, and instead lets you watch with eyes wide open, like a rabbit helplessly startled by the lights of the car that is just about to run over it? Why would you pay for a film with just two actors in it, barely three or four locations and a plot that can be summarised in two sentences? Why would you watch a film so skilfully conceived and crafted to make you suffer for two hours, both mentally and physically? And, most importantly, why would you pay for a cinematic gadfly to rip up your own shameful human nature into pieces and then hold them to your face?

For me, the red thread running through Dancer in the dark, Dogville and this film is how lovingly the writer rejoices at the display of evil and cruelty. It is as if he were shouting at us that it is our Nature to be evil, to inflict pain to others and to ourselves, and to enjoy it as the beasts we are.

The photography reminded me a lot of the work of Chris Cunningham: dark and foggy atmospheres, shallow depth of field, cold palettes and a disturbing attention to textures and detail. The super slow motion scenes are a marvel, and probably Chris Tookey was referring to them when he mentioned those ‘few images of startling beauty’.

If you suspect that films have a purpose and a reason on their own, even if you can’t name it; if you believe there is a point in safely experiencing a brief but realistic jewel of hatred, remorse and agonising pain, go watch Lars von Trier’s Antichrist.

If, on the other hand, you think only a mentally ill person or a masochist could enjoy that, or if the trailer made you hesitate for a moment, spare yourself the ordeal.

Believe me, I was not wearing my Japanophile’s hat when I entered the cinema. I did a conscious effort to look at the screen in the same way I thought my friends were going to look at it. I didn’t nudge them and whispered the toponyms that, who knows why, are lacking in the story. I tried to see pachinko, love hotels and women-only carriages as if it were the first time. A story in Tokyo… What an exotic country, wonder what it’ll be like. So far away, isn’t it? Must be an amazing culture. Well, let’s see.

Still, Isabel Coixet‘s Map of the sounds of Tokyo fails to tell an engaging story; it is rather boring. If her intention was to leave spectators ‘craving for sex and sushi’ (sex and ramen, at any rate), it didn’t work for me.

As UnGatoNipón pointed out, dialogues are poor in general, and sometimes plainly silly. Long still shot. Silence. ‘Do you want a strawberry mochi?’ ‘No.’ Silence. ‘I can go and buy some, it’s no problem.’ ‘No.’ Long silence. If that is supposed to capture some profound, centuries-old Japanese introspective philosophy, I don’t get it.

And what with the dubbing. If it is usually just criminal the way most foreign films are butched and re-interpreted here in Spain (Spain hasn’t had a head of government who was fluent in any other language but Spanish for decades; certainly not during the current democratic period) the case with Map of the sounds of Tokyo, being it a Spanish film, is especially sad. The character of David is a Spaniard who has been living in Tokyo for two years and whose Japanese is, as he admits, not good. He’s supposed to speak in English with the Japanese characters. All that is dubbed into Spanish in the version that is being shown in Spanish cinemas, but from time to time there are words or common expressions that are spoken in Japanese.

Not only that, but it seems that the producers didn’t bother editing the subtitles appropriately: when David tells his colleague that Midori’s father called him baka (stupid) once, Sergi López is pronouncing the word in Spanish, and at the same time we read it in a subtitle in Spanish, which is quite confusing. Although I suspect that is a timing issue, and that subtitle is supposed to appear when the Japanese character repeats the word in Japanese.

What is even worse is that, as anyone who ever has had to move around Japan using English knows, communication in English with the Japanese is, more often than not, quite difficult. If, as it is claimed, Tokyo is a necessary protagonist in the story, i.e. if the same tale wouldn’t be conceivable in Lisbon or in Jakarta, you can’t avoid the issue of communication altogether.

The writer makes an attempt at disentangling clichés about Japan and the Japanese, but it seems to me that she only skims the surface, sometimes rather explicitly. David tells Ryu that in essence the Japanese are no different from his own people; and at the beginning, Midori’s father expresses his disgust about the flamboyant evening that has to be arranged to please his foreign business partners. But Coixet falls short of tackling those issues, and her Tokyoites appear as silent, shy, lonely ghosts with an unfathomable interest for the weirdest activities.

The worst thing about the movie is that it’s very slow, and so quiet. To me, Tokyo is a city of words, both written and spoken. It is a loud city. It is what Paul Waley calls ‘Tokyo as textual city’. I think that is why this representation of Tokyo doesn’t look realistic at all.

The scene when Bill Murray sings More than this at the karaoke… Sorry — I mean, the scene when Sergi López sings Enjoy the silence at the karaoke doesn’t convey any melancholy, and for me it was ridiculous.

To me, the first scene in the love hotel was everything but exciting. Maybe the others were a bit more evocative. Sex scenes were brave and sincere, that I must admit.

From the soundtrack, only One dove by Antony & the Johnsons makes the cut for me.

Bonus: if you really want a tender, funny, surprising film that leaves you craving for ramen and sex, go and watch Tampopo (1985). Here, an appetizer for the ramen part of it; here, something about the sex… and also food.

Compré este libro hace cuatro años en la Cuesta Moyano de Madrid (los entrañables puestos de libros de la calle Claudio Moyano, justo por debajo del Jardín Botánico, cerca de Atocha). Ahora me he propuesto compensar un poco que durante el último año no he leído prácticamente nada. Mentira: sí que he leído, y bastante; pero solo artículos de revistas, pasajes de libros de texto, libros recomendados en la uni y cosas así. Todo en inglés y bastante monotemático, y casi todo por obligación (o no; según se mire).

«Radio 3: rescate de un recuerdo» no es, como yo esperaba, una crónica rigurosa, o al menos detallada, de los 30 años de historia de Radio 3 de Radio Nacional de España. Más bien es un recuento desordenado, ligero y subjetivo del espíritu de los inicios y de algunas anécdotas ligadas a la emisora.

Para empezar, y antes de entrar en el fondo, la forma es muy frágil: el autor, Mariano Francisco Sánchez Fernández (que colaboró con varios programas en Radio 3 hace años) no parece un buen escritor. El libro da la impresión de haberse escrito con prisas, y en vista de los resultados me huelo que el editor decidió ahorrarse el corrector de pruebas. Erratas y faltas de ortografía a tutiplén («visagra» por «bisagra», «you don’t below» por «you don’t belong», etc.) y una puntuación totalmente desastrosa que hace que la lectura no fluya cómodamente. Parece mentira que este hombre haya colaborado con tantos periódicos, radios y televisiones, con esa forma tan simplona y poco clara de escribir que tiene. La última frase del libro es (y con esto no destripo nada): «¿que (sic) más voy a decir?». Pues eso; mejor no digas nada más.

El libro está organizado en entrevistas a unos pocos protagonistas de Radio 3: Ramón Trecet, Diego A. Manrique, Jesús Ordovás, Beatriz Pécker, Federico Volpini, Carlos Galilea, Juan Pablo Silvestre, Iñaki Peña y alguno más. El autor transcribe párrafos completos de estas entrevistas entre sus propias reflexiones, pero no los edita convenientemente, ni se queda sólo con la enjundia. Así, las declaraciones de los personajes están llenas de puentes, lugares comunes y ocurrencias a la ligera, de las que uno suelta en cualquier conversación distendida, pero que no deberían aparecer en negro sobre blanco. Además, en distintos capítulos se hace referencia a la misma anécdota o al mismo evento, como si el autor se hubiese olvidado de que ya lo había mencionado antes.

No sabemos cuáles fueron las preguntas que se hicieron (solo leemos respuestas, a modo de monólogo), pero es fácil deducirlas. Algunas preguntas tienen poco interés en relación al tema (Radio 3) y algunos de los entrevistados contestan como contestaría tu cuñado listillo, más o menos. Por ejemplo, varios comentan acerca de la «crisis de las discográficas», «internet» y «la piratería»; pero emplear una o dos páginas por capítulo en transcribir el tipo de comentarios vagos y poco informados que cualquiera haría en 2004 con una cerveza en la mano, pues es un poco timo para el lector.

El tono que impregna el libro es el de que Radio 3 fue un experimento excepcional hecho con cuatro duros, un espacio sorprendente de innovación y libertad en plena transición política en el que se reflejaron e impulsaron las minorías y la cultura, algo que milagrosamente los sucesivos gobiernos dejaron vivir y donde se encontraron un grupo de profesionales enormes, que hicieron una radio muy innovadora y ganaron una audiencia pequeña, pero fiel. Como fan declarado de Radio 3, suscribo casi todo eso. Pero a veces da la impresión de que se cae un poco en la nostalgia y en el «Radio 3 ya no es lo que era».

En mi opinión, lo más interesante es percatarse de cómo era Radio 3 en sus inicios, a principios de los 80, y comparar aquella situación con los medios de comunicación actuales. Es desolador. El programa «Caravana de hormigas», por ejemplo, era transgresor a un nivel que hoy parece impensable. En «Caravana de hormigas» llamaban «rata» a Txiqui Benegas (entonces en el gobierno), tenían una sección llamada «voy a por ti, Barrionuevo», celebraron la muerte de Luis Buñuel para poner de manifiesto el simplismo que hizo a Buñuel un héroe de la izquierda mientras que Dalí fue considerado, a la ligera, un fascista. Para atraer atención sobre las muertes de emigrantes en el Estrecho de Gibraltar, daban el parte de muertos como si fuesen los números en un cartón de bingo.

Iñaki Peña dedica varias páginas a contar la historia de aquella proposición no de ley que finalmente restituyó «Trébede» después de que fuese suspendido por el gobierno de Aznar cuando se mostró tan crítico con el chapapote, el Plan Hidrológico Nacional y la Guerra de Irak. Yo recuerdo con especial cariño las historias surrealistas, terroríficas, estimulantes, sensuales de Carlos Faraco y su equipo a primera hora de la mañana en «El despertatroz», hace diez u once años.

La verdad es que da un poco de pena pensar que esas críticas no son ni imaginables hoy. Maldita corrección política.

Por cierto, la mayoría de los presentadores entrevistados señalan que, contrariamente a lo que se podría esperar, hubo menos intentos de control desde el poder con la UCD y el PP que con el gobierno del PSOE.

No pongo la editorial ni el número de páginas, que para eso están la fotico y Google. Tampoco le doy puntuación, como hacen los que saben, pero creo que queda claro que no lo recomiendo.