film de vazut.. revazut... revazut si revazut... din nou

... Miller's Crossing

2 bucati Coen
o bucata Byrne
o bucata Finney
se asezoneaza cu Thompson (that's the gun!)
se amesteca 114 minute la foc puternic si rezulta o seara de marti beton!!!

P.S. Daca portia nu a fost de ajuns... se trece la "Barton Fink"

filme de vazut... sau cine are 403 GB

... am vazut star trek. ultimul si pot sa zic, ca poti sa ai incredere in orice film care are pe coloana sonora 'Sabotage' a celor de la Beastie Boys... si in care apare Spock.
... cuprins de febra filmului m-am gandit sa ma mai uit o data la serial... primul, ala din '66 care are numai 3 serii, dar nu am gasit decat pachetul integral... cel cu deep space nine, enterprise, voyager, care are numai 403 GB.

mi-a zis sabAn, 'nu te uita!' da' io nuooooo!!!!

... asa k iti zic si eu: Nu te uita la 'AntiChrist'

... bine!?!... daca iti place Lars von Trier, esti invitatul meu! dar totusi mi se pare cam mare efortul pentru mesajul filmului. Pe bune, acum, inteleg ca femeia si-a lasat copilul sa moara dar totusi chiar ma intereseaza (?!!??!?!!) atata cinematografie pentru un subiect... neimportant pentru mine.
... am fost avertizat ca e de-o violenta extrema - si ce daca i-a dat cu tesla (butuc mai exact) in cu@#e!?! am mai vazut d'astea. Am fost avertizat ca uneori von Trier confunda pornografia cu arta si sincer nu cred ca o face.
... da', intradevar chestia cu tipa care isi taie pasarica e cam... nush cum sa-i zic(?!?!) dar bai,.. mie mi se rupe.. (la figurat)

... daca as avea un comentariu constructiv de facut, ar fi acela ca Lars von Trier s-a uitat la prea multe filme de-ale lui David Lynch si invers. Cine face horror sa ramana la horror si cine face... ce face Lynch :)) sa faca numai el. (Bine! stiu ca Trier face si altfel de filme dar ramane spooky in comparatie cu Lynch care e weird)

concluzia: nu am fost impresionat, nu am fost socat, nu m-a lasat masca, a fost inodor, incolor si insipid. Dezamagire! Dogville te-a pus in cap, asta te 'bruscheaza' gratuit si total inutil!

meseria se fura... cel mai bine din familie

... daca tati face filme bune s-o vezi pe fata:

Surveillance este un film din 2008 scris si regizat de Jennifer Chambers Lynch (DA, are treaba cu Lynch!!!) despre 2 agenti FBI care urmaresc un criminal in serie. Povestea incepe cu 3 martori, fiecare cu o alta poveste, care au supravietuit... acum supravietuirea e un termen relativ :)). Mai bine vezi filmu'. Bill Pulmann, Julia Ormond si Michael Ironside te vor delecta cu 97 de min de thriller, t(h)rash southern idiots... the thing is... not to take it to serious :))

film de vazut

..."Doubt" un 'remake' al unei piese de teatru premiata cu Pulitzer, cu Philip Seymour Hoffman (in rolul unui preot) si Meryl Streep (in rolul unei calugarite, in acelasi timp ocupand si functia de director al unei scoli parohiale). Plecand de la motto-ul "A avea dubii e uman", trecand prin diferenta intre generatii, se intercaleaza scurte 'invataminte' crestine si se ajunge la 'abuzarea' unui elev al scolii de catre Hofman, un preot tanar, recent sosit la parohia din Bronx, unde are loc actiunea. Trebuie mentionat ca anul este 1964 iar elevul in cauza este de culoare. Aceasta 'abuzare' de fapt, este suspiciunea calugaritei/maica stareta (zi-i cum vrei) Aloysius (Streep) si a maicii mai tinere James (interpretata de Amy James), in momentul cand Hoffman devine mai apropiat de Donald Miller primul elev de culoarea al scolii.
Performanta actorilor este la superlativ, Meryl Streep merita pe deplin un Oscar pentru acest rol si Hoffman ar fi trebuit sa primeasca macar nominalizarea (din pacate nu a primit-o). Mama copilului (jucata de Viola Davis) cu toate ca e o aparitie scurta este puternic conturata si simtita pe parcursul filmului... vorbesc de ceva de genul 5 minute care te 'bantuie' dupa acea. Conversatiile si schimurile de replici beligerante m-au facut sa-mi aduc aminte de "Numele trandafirului" al lui Umberto Eco. Cert este, ca gasesc "Doubt" mai reusit pentru ca pe de-o parte pare mai 'accesibil' publicului, dar si ca 'lasa' semne de intrebare (... sau dubii) pe tot parcursul vizionarii... si dupa.

film de vazut

...dupa ce l-am cautat multe luni la rand si am gasit numai versiunile alea cu "ai playerul gresit", in sfarsit am vazut si eu "Elegy": povestea unui profesor universitar, mai mult sau mai putin fustangiu, care se indragosteste de o studenta de-a sa. Crezand ca va fi doar o aventura fugitiva povestea se complica transformandu-se intr-o adevarata idila cu o doza bogata de fantezii... de tot felul.
...placut surprins, am fost de Ben Kingsley, care nu stiu cum face dar intre 4 filme oribile "tranteste" niste prestatii care iti aduc aminte de ce are un Oscar.
... daca ai cum sau timp sa-l vezi, merita toata atentia, cum si asteptarea mea de a-l vedea, a fost rasplatita. Filmul s-a lansat prin mai in Spania si la noi din cate stiu, ajunge cam intr-o luna, daca nu cumva ruleaza deja la unele cinematografe ca avanpremiera.
... Ben Kingsley, Penelope Cruz, Patricia Clarkson, Dennis Hopper, Peter Sarsgaard; regia: Isabel Coixet

The Most Dangerous Game

Filmul de mai jos este adaptarea cinematografica a nuvelei cu acelasi titlu, scrisa de Richard Connell.
Un vanator faimos (si fara scrupule) naufragiaza pe o insula unde-l intalneste pe contele Zaroff, de asemenea un avid vanator. Diferenta este de vanatul fiecaruia...

filmuletul are 62 de min... ceea ce e cam mult, dar daca sunteti un "movie-buff" ca mine, merita tot timpul. daca nu aveti rabdare mai jos e "transcrisa" si nuvela care dureaza cam 10 min s-o cititi.


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The Most Dangerous Game
by Richard Connell

"OFF THERE to the right--somewhere--is a large island," said Whitney." It's rather a mystery--"

"What island is it?" Rainsford asked.

"The old charts call it `Ship-Trap Island,"' Whitney replied." A suggestive name, isn't it? Sailors have a curious dread of the place. I don't know why. Some superstition--"

"Can't see it," remarked Rainsford, trying to peer through the dank tropical night that was palpable as it pressed its thick warm blackness in upon the yacht.

"You've good eyes," said Whitney, with a laugh," and I've seen you pick off a moose moving in the brown fall bush at four hundred yards, but even you can't see four miles or so through a moonless Caribbean night."

"Nor four yards," admitted Rainsford. "Ugh! It's like moist black velvet."

"It will be light enough in Rio," promised Whitney. "We should make it in a few days. I hope the jaguar guns have come from Purdey's. We should have some good hunting up the Amazon. Great sport, hunting."

"The best sport in the world," agreed Rainsford.

"For the hunter," amended Whitney. "Not for the jaguar."

"Don't talk rot, Whitney," said Rainsford. "You're a big-game hunter, not a philosopher. Who cares how a jaguar feels?"

"Perhaps the jaguar does," observed Whitney.

"Bah! They've no understanding."

"Even so, I rather think they understand one thing--fear. The fear of pain and the fear of death."

"Nonsense," laughed Rainsford. "This hot weather is making you soft, Whitney. Be a realist. The world is made up of two classes--the hunters and the huntees. Luckily, you and I are hunters. Do you think we've passed that island yet?"

"I can't tell in the dark. I hope so."

"Why? " asked Rainsford.

"The place has a reputation--a bad one."

"Cannibals?" suggested Rainsford.

"Hardly. Even cannibals wouldn't live in such a God-forsaken place. But it's gotten into sailor lore, somehow. Didn't you notice that the crew's nerves seemed a bit jumpy today?"

"They were a bit strange, now you mention it. Even Captain Nielsen--"

"Yes, even that tough-minded old Swede, who'd go up to the devil himself and ask him for a light. Those fishy blue eyes held a look I never saw there before. All I could get out of him was `This place has an evil name among seafaring men, sir.' Then he said to me, very gravely, `Don't you feel anything?'--as if the air about us was actually poisonous. Now, you mustn't laugh when I tell you this--I did feel something like a sudden chill.

"There was no breeze. The sea was as flat as a plate-glass window. We were drawing near the island then. What I felt was a--a mental chill; a sort of sudden dread."

"Pure imagination," said Rainsford.

"One superstitious sailor can taint the whole ship's company with his fear."

"Maybe. But sometimes I think sailors have an extra sense that tells them when they are in danger. Sometimes I think evil is a tangible thing--with wave lengths, just as sound and light have. An evil place can, so to speak, broadcast vibrations of evil. Anyhow, I'm glad we're getting out of this zone. Well, I think I'll turn in now, Rainsford."

"I'm not sleepy," said Rainsford. "I'm going to smoke another pipe up on the afterdeck."

"Good night, then, Rainsford. See you at breakfast."

"Right. Good night, Whitney."

There was no sound in the night as Rainsford sat there but the muffled throb of the engine that drove the yacht swiftly through the darkness, and the swish and ripple of the wash of the propeller.

Rainsford, reclining in a steamer chair, indolently puffed on his favorite brier. The sensuous drowsiness of the night was on him." It's so dark," he thought, "that I could sleep without closing my eyes; the night would be my eyelids--"

An abrupt sound startled him. Off to the right he heard it, and his ears, expert in such matters, could not be mistaken. Again he heard the sound, and again. Somewhere, off in the blackness, someone had fired a gun three times.

Rainsford sprang up and moved quickly to the rail, mystified. He strained his eyes in the direction from which the reports had come, but it was like trying to see through a blanket. He leaped upon the rail and balanced himself there, to get greater elevation; his pipe, striking a rope, was knocked from his mouth. He lunged for it; a short, hoarse cry came from his lips as he realized he had reached too far and had lost his balance. The cry was pinched off short as the blood-warm waters of the Caribbean Sea dosed over his head.

He struggled up to the surface and tried to cry out, but the wash from the speeding yacht slapped him in the face and the salt water in his open mouth made him gag and strangle. Desperately he struck out with strong strokes after the receding lights of the yacht, but he stopped before he had swum fifty feet. A certain coolheadedness had come to him; it was not the first time he had been in a tight place. There was a chance that his cries could be heard by someone aboard the yacht, but that chance was slender and grew more slender as the yacht raced on. He wrestled himself out of his clothes and shouted with all his power. The lights of the yacht became faint and ever-vanishing fireflies; then they were blotted out entirely by the night.

Rainsford remembered the shots. They had come from the right, and doggedly he swam in that direction, swimming with slow, deliberate strokes, conserving his strength. For a seemingly endless time he fought the sea. He began to count his strokes; he could do possibly a hundred more and then--

Rainsford heard a sound. It came out of the darkness, a high screaming sound, the sound of an animal in an extremity of anguish and terror.

He did not recognize the animal that made the sound; he did not try to; with fresh vitality he swam toward the sound. He heard it again; then it was cut short by another noise, crisp, staccato.

"Pistol shot," muttered Rainsford, swimming on.

Ten minutes of determined effort brought another sound to his ears--the most welcome he had ever heard--the muttering and growling of the sea breaking on a rocky shore. He was almost on the rocks before he saw them; on a night less calm he would have been shattered against them. With his remaining strength he dragged himself from the swirling waters. Jagged crags appeared to jut up into the opaqueness; he forced himself upward, hand over hand. Gasping, his hands raw, he reached a flat place at the top. Dense jungle came down to the very edge of the cliffs. What perils that tangle of trees and underbrush might hold for him did not concern Rainsford just then. All he knew was that he was safe from his enemy, the sea, and that utter weariness was on him. He flung himself down at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep of his life.

When he opened his eyes he knew from the position of the sun that it was late in the afternoon. Sleep had given him new vigor; a sharp hunger was picking at him. He looked about him, almost cheerfully.

"Where there are pistol shots, there are men. Where there are men, there is food," he thought. But what kind of men, he wondered, in so forbidding a place? An unbroken front of snarled and ragged jungle fringed the shore.

He saw no sign of a trail through the closely knit web of weeds and trees; it was easier to go along the shore, and Rainsford floundered along by the water. Not far from where he landed, he stopped.

Some wounded thing--by the evidence, a large animal--had thrashed about in the underbrush; the jungle weeds were crushed down and the moss was lacerated; one patch of weeds was stained crimson. A small, glittering object not far away caught Rainsford's eye and he picked it up. It was an empty cartridge.

"A twenty-two," he remarked. "That's odd. It must have been a fairly large animal too. The hunter had his nerve with him to tackle it with a light gun. It's clear that the brute put up a fight. I suppose the first three shots I heard was when the hunter flushed his quarry and wounded it. The last shot was when he trailed it here and finished it."

He examined the ground closely and found what he had hoped to find--the print of hunting boots. They pointed along the cliff in the direction he had been going. Eagerly he hurried along, now slipping on a rotten log or a loose stone, but making headway; night was beginning to settle down on the island.

Bleak darkness was blacking out the sea and jungle when Rainsford sighted the lights. He came upon them as he turned a crook in the coast line; and his first thought was that be had come upon a village, for there were many lights. But as he forged along he saw to his great astonishment that all the lights were in one enormous building--a lofty structure with pointed towers plunging upward into the gloom. His eyes made out the shadowy outlines of a palatial chateau; it was set on a high bluff, and on three sides of it cliffs dived down to where the sea licked greedy lips in the shadows.

"Mirage," thought Rainsford. But it was no mirage, he found, when he opened the tall spiked iron gate. The stone steps were real enough; the massive door with a leering gargoyle for a knocker was real enough; yet above it all hung an air of unreality.

He lifted the knocker, and it creaked up stiffly, as if it had never before been used. He let it fall, and it startled him with its booming loudness. He thought he heard steps within; the door remained closed. Again Rainsford lifted the heavy knocker, and let it fall. The door opened then--opened as suddenly as if it were on a spring--and Rainsford stood blinking in the river of glaring gold light that poured out. The first thing Rainsford's eyes discerned was the largest man Rainsford had ever seen--a gigantic creature, solidly made and black bearded to the waist. In his hand the man held a long-barreled revolver, and he was pointing it straight at Rainsford's heart.

Out of the snarl of beard two small eyes regarded Rainsford.

"Don't be alarmed," said Rainsford, with a smile which he hoped was disarming. "I'm no robber. I fell off a yacht. My name is Sanger Rainsford of New York City."

The menacing look in the eyes did not change. The revolver pointing as rigidly as if the giant were a statue. He gave no sign that he understood Rainsford's words, or that he had even heard them. He was dressed in uniform--a black uniform trimmed with gray astrakhan.

"I'm Sanger Rainsford of New York," Rainsford began again. "I fell off a yacht. I am hungry."

The man's only answer was to raise with his thumb the hammer of his revolver. Then Rainsford saw the man's free hand go to his forehead in a military salute, and he saw him click his heels together and stand at attention. Another man was coming down the broad marble steps, an erect, slender man in evening clothes. He advanced to Rainsford and held out his hand.

In a cultivated voice marked by a slight accent that gave it added precision and deliberateness, he said, "It is a very great pleasure and honor to welcome Mr. Sanger Rainsford, the celebrated hunter, to my home."

Automatically Rainsford shook the man's hand.

"I've read your book about hunting snow leopards in Tibet, you see," explained the man. "I am General Zaroff."

Rainsford's first impression was that the man was singularly handsome; his second was that there was an original, almost bizarre quality about the general's face. He was a tall man past middle age, for his hair was a vivid white; but his thick eyebrows and pointed military mustache were as black as the night from which Rainsford had come. His eyes, too, were black and very bright. He had high cheekbones, a sharpcut nose, a spare, dark face--the face of a man used to giving orders, the face of an aristocrat. Turning to the giant in uniform, the general made a sign. The giant put away his pistol, saluted, withdrew.

"Ivan is an incredibly strong fellow," remarked the general, "but he has the misfortune to be deaf and dumb. A simple fellow, but, I'm afraid, like all his race, a bit of a savage."

"Is he Russian?"

"He is a Cossack," said the general, and his smile showed red lips and pointed teeth. "So am I."

"Come," he said, "we shouldn't be chatting here. We can talk later. Now you want clothes, food, rest. You shall have them. This is a most-restful spot."

Ivan had reappeared, and the general spoke to him with lips that moved but gave forth no sound.

"Follow Ivan, if you please, Mr. Rainsford," said the general. "I was about to have my dinner when you came. I'll wait for you. You'll find that my clothes will fit you, I think."

It was to a huge, beam-ceilinged bedroom with a canopied bed big enough for six men that Rainsford followed the silent giant. Ivan laid out an evening suit, and Rainsford, as he put it on, noticed that it came from a London tailor who ordinarily cut and sewed for none below the rank of duke.

The dining room to which Ivan conducted him was in many ways remarkable. There was a medieval magnificence about it; it suggested a baronial hall of feudal times with its oaken panels, its high ceiling, its vast refectory tables where twoscore men could sit down to eat. About the hall were mounted heads of many animals--lions, tigers, elephants, moose, bears; larger or more perfect specimens Rainsford had never seen. At the great table the general was sitting, alone.

"You'll have a cocktail, Mr. Rainsford," he suggested. The cocktail was surpassingly good; and, Rainsford noted, the table apointments were of the finest--the linen, the crystal, the silver, the china.

They were eating borsch, the rich, red soup with whipped cream so dear to Russian palates. Half apologetically General Zaroff said, "We do our best to preserve the amenities of civilization here. Please forgive any lapses. We are well off the beaten track, you know. Do you think the champagne has suffered from its long ocean trip?"

"Not in the least," declared Rainsford. He was finding the general a most thoughtful and affable host, a true cosmopolite. But there was one small trait of .the general's that made Rainsford uncomfortable. Whenever he looked up from his plate he found the general studying him, appraising him narrowly.

"Perhaps," said General Zaroff, "you were surprised that I recognized your name. You see, I read all books on hunting published in English, French, and Russian. I have but one passion in my life, Mr. Rainsford, and it is the hunt."

"You have some wonderful heads here," said Rainsford as he ate a particularly well-cooked filet mignon. " That Cape buffalo is the largest I ever saw."

"Oh, that fellow. Yes, he was a monster."

"Did he charge you?"

"Hurled me against a tree," said the general. "Fractured my skull. But I got the brute."

"I've always thought," said Rainsford, "that the Cape buffalo is the most dangerous of all big game."

For a moment the general did not reply; he was smiling his curious red-lipped smile. Then he said slowly, "No. You are wrong, sir. The Cape buffalo is not the most dangerous big game." He sipped his wine. "Here in my preserve on this island," he said in the same slow tone, "I hunt more dangerous game."

Rainsford expressed his surprise. "Is there big game on this island?"

The general nodded. "The biggest."

"Really?"

"Oh, it isn't here naturally, of course. I have to stock the island."

"What have you imported, general?" Rainsford asked. "Tigers?"

The general smiled. "No," he said. "Hunting tigers ceased to interest me some years ago. I exhausted their possibilities, you see. No thrill left in tigers, no real danger. I live for danger, Mr. Rainsford."

The general took from his pocket a gold cigarette case and offered his guest a long black cigarette with a silver tip; it was perfumed and gave off a smell like incense.

"We will have some capital hunting, you and I," said the general. "I shall be most glad to have your society."

"But what game--" began Rainsford.

"I'll tell you," said the general. "You will be amused, I know. I think I may say, in all modesty, that I have done a rare thing. I have invented a new sensation. May I pour you another glass of port?"

"Thank you, general."

The general filled both glasses, and said, "God makes some men poets. Some He makes kings, some beggars. Me He made a hunter. My hand was made for the trigger, my father said. He was a very rich man with a quarter of a million acres in the Crimea, and he was an ardent sportsman. When I was only five years old he gave me a little gun, specially made in Moscow for me, to shoot sparrows with. When I shot some of his prize turkeys with it, he did not punish me; he complimented me on my marksmanship. I killed my first bear in the Caucasus when I was ten. My whole life has been one prolonged hunt. I went into the army--it was expected of noblemen's sons--and for a time commanded a division of Cossack cavalry, but my real interest was always the hunt. I have hunted every kind of game in every land. It would be impossible for me to tell you how many animals I have killed."

The general puffed at his cigarette.

"After the debacle in Russia I left the country, for it was imprudent for an officer of the Czar to stay there. Many noble Russians lost everything. I, luckily, had invested heavily in American securities, so I shall never have to open a tearoom in Monte Carlo or drive a taxi in Paris. Naturally, I continued to hunt--grizzliest in your Rockies, crocodiles in the Ganges, rhinoceroses in East Africa. It was in Africa that the Cape buffalo hit me and laid me up for six months. As soon as I recovered I started for the Amazon to hunt jaguars, for I had heard they were unusually cunning. They weren't." The Cossack sighed. "They were no match at all for a hunter with his wits about him, and a high-powered rifle. I was bitterly disappointed. I was lying in my tent with a splitting headache one night when a terrible thought pushed its way into my mind. Hunting was beginning to bore me! And hunting, remember, had been my life. I have heard that in America businessmen often go to pieces when they give up the business that has been their life."

"Yes, that's so," said Rainsford.

The general smiled. "I had no wish to go to pieces," he said. "I must do something. Now, mine is an analytical mind, Mr. Rainsford. Doubtless that is why I enjoy the problems of the chase."

"No doubt, General Zaroff."

"So," continued the general, "I asked myself why the hunt no longer fascinated me. You are much younger than I am, Mr. Rainsford, and have not hunted as much, but you perhaps can guess the answer."

"What was it?"

"Simply this: hunting had ceased to be what you call `a sporting proposition.' It had become too easy. I always got my quarry. Always. There is no greater bore than perfection."

The general lit a fresh cigarette.

"No animal had a chance with me any more. That is no boast; it is a mathematical certainty. The animal had nothing but his legs and his instinct. Instinct is no match for reason. When I thought of this it was a tragic moment for me, I can tell you."

Rainsford leaned across the table, absorbed in what his host was saying.

"It came to me as an inspiration what I must do," the general went on.

"And that was?"

The general smiled the quiet smile of one who has faced an obstacle and surmounted it with success. "I had to invent a new animal to hunt," he said.

"A new animal? You're joking." "Not at all," said the general. "I never joke about hunting. I needed a new animal. I found one. So I bought this island built this house, and here I do my hunting. The island is perfect for my purposes--there are jungles with a maze of traits in them, hills, swamps--"

"But the animal, General Zaroff?"

"Oh," said the general, "it supplies me with the most exciting hunting in the world. No other hunting compares with it for an instant. Every day I hunt, and I never grow bored now, for I have a quarry with which I can match my wits."

Rainsford's bewilderment showed in his face.

"I wanted the ideal animal to hunt," explained the general. "So I said, `What are the attributes of an ideal quarry?' And the answer was, of course, `It must have courage, cunning, and, above all, it must be able to reason."'

"But no animal can reason," objected Rainsford.

"My dear fellow," said the general, "there is one that can."

"But you can't mean--" gasped Rainsford.

"And why not?"

"I can't believe you are serious, General Zaroff. This is a grisly joke."

"Why should I not be serious? I am speaking of hunting."

"Hunting? Great Guns, General Zaroff, what you speak of is murder."

The general laughed with entire good nature. He regarded Rainsford quizzically. "I refuse to believe that so modern and civilized a young man as you seem to be harbors romantic ideas about the value of human life. Surely your experiences in the war--"

"Did not make me condone cold-blooded murder," finished Rainsford stiffly.

Laughter shook the general. "How extraordinarily droll you are!" he said. "One does not expect nowadays to find a young man of the educated class, even in America, with such a naive, and, if I may say so, mid-Victorian point of view. It's like finding a snuffbox in a limousine. Ah, well, doubtless you had Puritan ancestors. So many Americans appear to have had. I'll wager you'll forget your notions when you go hunting with me. You've a genuine new thrill in store for you, Mr. Rainsford."

"Thank you, I'm a hunter, not a murderer."

"Dear me," said the general, quite unruffled, "again that unpleasant word. But I think I can show you that your scruples are quite ill founded."

"Yes?"

"Life is for the strong, to be lived by the strong, and, if needs be, taken by the strong. The weak of the world were put here to give the strong pleasure. I am strong. Why should I not use my gift? If I wish to hunt, why should I not? I hunt the scum of the earth: sailors from tramp ships--lassars, blacks, Chinese, whites, mongrels--a thoroughbred horse or hound is worth more than a score of them."

"But they are men," said Rainsford hotly.

"Precisely," said the general. "That is why I use them. It gives me pleasure. They can reason, after a fashion. So they are dangerous."

"But where do you get them?"

The general's left eyelid fluttered down in a wink. "This island is called Ship Trap," he answered. "Sometimes an angry god of the high seas sends them to me. Sometimes, when Providence is not so kind, I help Providence a bit. Come to the window with me."

Rainsford went to the window and looked out toward the sea.

"Watch! Out there!" exclaimed the general, pointing into the night. Rainsford's eyes saw only blackness, and then, as the general pressed a button, far out to sea Rainsford saw the flash of lights.

The general chuckled. "They indicate a channel," he said, "where there's none; giant rocks with razor edges crouch like a sea monster with wide-open jaws. They can crush a ship as easily as I crush this nut." He dropped a walnut on the hardwood floor and brought his heel grinding down on it. "Oh, yes," he said, casually, as if in answer to a question, "I have electricity. We try to be civilized here."

"Civilized? And you shoot down men?"

A trace of anger was in the general's black eyes, but it was there for but a second; and he said, in his most pleasant manner, "Dear me, what a righteous young man you are! I assure you I do not do the thing you suggest. That would be barbarous. I treat these visitors with every consideration. They get plenty of good food and exercise. They get into splendid physical condition. You shall see for yourself tomorrow."

"What do you mean?"

"We'll visit my training school," smiled the general. "It's in the cellar. I have about a dozen pupils down there now. They're from the Spanish bark San Lucar that had the bad luck to go on the rocks out there. A very inferior lot, I regret to say. Poor specimens and more accustomed to the deck than to the jungle." He raised his hand, and Ivan, who served as waiter, brought thick Turkish coffee. Rainsford, with an effort, held his tongue in check.

"It's a game, you see," pursued the general blandly. "I suggest to one of them that we go hunting. I give him a supply of food and an excellent hunting knife. I give him three hours' start. I am to follow, armed only with a pistol of the smallest caliber and range. If my quarry eludes me for three whole days, he wins the game. If I find him "--the general smiled--" he loses."

"Suppose he refuses to be hunted?"

"Oh," said the general, "I give him his option, of course. He need not play that game if he doesn't wish to. If he does not wish to hunt, I turn him over to Ivan. Ivan once had the honor of serving as official knouter to the Great White Czar, and he has his own ideas of sport. Invariably, Mr. Rainsford, invariably they choose the hunt."

"And if they win?"

The smile on the general's face widened. "To date I have not lost," he said. Then he added, hastily: "I don't wish you to think me a braggart, Mr. Rainsford. Many of them afford only the most elementary sort of problem. Occasionally I strike a tartar. One almost did win. I eventually had to use the dogs."

"The dogs?"

"This way, please. I'll show you."

The general steered Rainsford to a window. The lights from the windows sent a flickering illumination that made grotesque patterns on the courtyard below, and Rainsford could see moving about there a dozen or so huge black shapes; as they turned toward him, their eyes glittered greenly.

"A rather good lot, I think," observed the general. "They are let out at seven every night. If anyone should try to get into my house--or out of it--something extremely regrettable would occur to him." He hummed a snatch of song from the Folies Bergere.

"And now," said the general, "I want to show you my new collection of heads. Will you come with me to the library?"

"I hope," said Rainsford, "that you will excuse me tonight, General Zaroff. I'm really not feeling well."

"Ah, indeed?" the general inquired solicitously. "Well, I suppose that's only natural, after your long swim. You need a good, restful night's sleep. Tomorrow you'll feel like a new man, I'll wager. Then we'll hunt, eh? I've one rather promising prospect--" Rainsford was hurrying from the room.

"Sorry you can't go with me tonight," called the general. "I expect rather fair sport--a big, strong, black. He looks resourceful--Well, good night, Mr. Rainsford; I hope you have a good night's rest."

The bed was good, and the pajamas of the softest silk, and he was tired in every fiber of his being, but nevertheless Rainsford could not quiet his brain with the opiate of sleep. He lay, eyes wide open. Once he thought he heard stealthy steps in the corridor outside his room. He sought to throw open the door; it would not open. He went to the window and looked out. His room was high up in one of the towers. The lights of the chateau were out now, and it was dark and silent; but there was a fragment of sallow moon, and by its wan light he could see, dimly, the courtyard. There, weaving in and out in the pattern of shadow, were black, noiseless forms; the hounds heard him at the window and looked up, expectantly, with their green eyes. Rainsford went back to the bed and lay down. By many methods he tried to put himself to sleep. He had achieved a doze when, just as morning began to come, he heard, far off in the jungle, the faint report of a pistol.

General Zaroff did not appear until luncheon. He was dressed faultlessly in the tweeds of a country squire. He was solicitous about the state of Rainsford's health.

"As for me," sighed the general, "I do not feel so well. I am worried, Mr. Rainsford. Last night I detected traces of my old complaint."

To Rainsford's questioning glance the general said, "Ennui. Boredom."

Then, taking a second helping of crêpes Suzette, the general explained: "The hunting was not good last night. The fellow lost his head. He made a straight trail that offered no problems at all. That's the trouble with these sailors; they have dull brains to begin with, and they do not know how to get about in the woods. They do excessively stupid and obvious things. It's most annoying. Will you have another glass of Chablis, Mr. Rainsford?"

"General," said Rainsford firmly, "I wish to leave this island at once."

The general raised his thickets of eyebrows; he seemed hurt. "But, my dear fellow," the general protested, "you've only just come. You've had no hunting--"

"I wish to go today," said Rainsford. He saw the dead black eyes of the general on him, studying him. General Zaroff's face suddenly brightened.

He filled Rainsford's glass with venerable Chablis from a dusty bottle.

"Tonight," said the general, "we will hunt--you and I."

Rainsford shook his head. "No, general," he said. "I will not hunt."

The general shrugged his shoulders and delicately ate a hothouse grape. "As you wish, my friend," he said. "The choice rests entirely with you. But may I not venture to suggest that you will find my idea of sport more diverting than Ivan's?"

He nodded toward the corner to where the giant stood, scowling, his thick arms crossed on his hogshead of chest.

"You don't mean--" cried Rainsford.

"My dear fellow," said the general, "have I not told you I always mean what I say about hunting? This is really an inspiration. I drink to a foeman worthy of my steel--at last." The general raised his glass, but Rainsford sat staring at him.

"You'll find this game worth playing," the general said enthusiastically." Your brain against mine. Your woodcraft against mine. Your strength and stamina against mine. Outdoor chess! And the stake is not without value, eh?"

"And if I win--" began Rainsford huskily.

"I'll cheerfully acknowledge myself defeat if I do not find you by midnight of the third day," said General Zaroff. "My sloop will place you on the mainland near a town." The general read what Rainsford was thinking.

"Oh, you can trust me," said the Cossack. "I will give you my word as a gentleman and a sportsman. Of course you, in turn, must agree to say nothing of your visit here."

"I'll agree to nothing of the kind," said Rainsford.

"Oh," said the general, "in that case--But why discuss that now? Three days hence we can discuss it over a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, unless--"

The general sipped his wine.

Then a businesslike air animated him. "Ivan," he said to Rainsford, "will supply you with hunting clothes, food, a knife. I suggest you wear moccasins; they leave a poorer trail. I suggest, too, that you avoid the big swamp in the southeast corner of the island. We call it Death Swamp. There's quicksand there. One foolish fellow tried it. The deplorable part of it was that Lazarus followed him. You can imagine my feelings, Mr. Rainsford. I loved Lazarus; he was the finest hound in my pack. Well, I must beg you to excuse me now. I always' take a siesta after lunch. You'll hardly have time for a nap, I fear. You'll want to start, no doubt. I shall not follow till dusk. Hunting at night is so much more exciting than by day, don't you think? Au revoir, Mr. Rainsford, au revoir." General Zaroff, with a deep, courtly bow, strolled from the room.

From another door came Ivan. Under one arm he carried khaki hunting clothes, a haversack of food, a leather sheath containing a long-bladed hunting knife; his right hand rested on a cocked revolver thrust in the crimson sash about his waist.

Rainsford had fought his way through the bush for two hours. "I must keep my nerve. I must keep my nerve," he said through tight teeth.

He had not been entirely clearheaded when the chateau gates snapped shut behind him. His whole idea at first was to put distance between himself and General Zaroff; and, to this end, he had plunged along, spurred on by the sharp rowers of something very like panic. Now he had got a grip on himself, had stopped, and was taking stock of himself and the situation. He saw that straight flight was futile; inevitably it would bring him face to face with the sea. He was in a picture with a frame of water, and his operations, clearly, must take place within that frame.

"I'll give him a trail to follow," muttered Rainsford, and he struck off from the rude path he had been following into the trackless wilderness. He executed a series of intricate loops; he doubled on his trail again and again, recalling all the lore of the fox hunt, and all the dodges of the fox. Night found him leg-weary, with hands and face lashed by the branches, on a thickly wooded ridge. He knew it would be insane to blunder on through the dark, even if he had the strength. His need for rest was imperative and he thought, "I have played the fox, now I must play the cat of the fable." A big tree with a thick trunk and outspread branches was near by, and, taking care to leave not the slightest mark, he climbed up into the crotch, and, stretching out on one of the broad limbs, after a fashion, rested. Rest brought him new confidence and almost a feeling of security. Even so zealous a hunter as General Zaroff could not trace him there, he told himself; only the devil himself could follow that complicated trail through the jungle after dark. But perhaps the general was a devil--

An apprehensive night crawled slowly by like a wounded snake and sleep did not visit Rainsford, although the silence of a dead world was on the jungle. Toward morning when a dingy gray was varnishing the sky, the cry of some startled bird focused Rainsford's attention in that direction. Something was coming through the bush, coming slowly, carefully, coming by the same winding way Rainsford had come. He flattened himself down on the limb and, through a screen of leaves almost as thick as tapestry, he watched. . . . That which was approaching was a man.

It was General Zaroff. He made his way along with his eyes fixed in utmost concentration on the ground before him. He paused, almost beneath the tree, dropped to his knees and studied the ground. Rainsford's impulse was to hurl himself down like a panther, but he saw that the general's right hand held something metallic--a small automatic pistol.

The hunter shook his head several times, as if he were puzzled. Then he straightened up and took from his case one of his black cigarettes; its pungent incenselike smoke floated up to Rainsford's nostrils.

Rainsford held his breath. The general's eyes had left the ground and were traveling inch by inch up the tree. Rainsford froze there, every muscle tensed for a spring. But the sharp eyes of the hunter stopped before they reached the limb where Rainsford lay; a smile spread over his brown face. Very deliberately he blew a smoke ring into the air; then he turned his back on the tree and walked carelessly away, back along the trail he had come. The swish of the underbrush against his hunting boots grew fainter and fainter.

The pent-up air burst hotly from Rainsford's lungs. His first thought made him feel sick and numb. The general could follow a trail through the woods at night; he could follow an extremely difficult trail; he must have uncanny powers; only by the merest chance had the Cossack failed to see his quarry.

Rainsford's second thought was even more terrible. It sent a shudder of cold horror through his whole being. Why had the general smiled? Why had he turned back?

Rainsford did not want to believe what his reason told him was true, but the truth was as evident as the sun that had by now pushed through the morning mists. The general was playing with him! The general was saving him for another day's sport! The Cossack was the cat; he was the mouse. Then it was that Rainsford knew the full meaning of terror.

"I will not lose my nerve. I will not."

He slid down from the tree, and struck off again into the woods. His face was set and he forced the machinery of his mind to function. Three hundred yards from his hiding place he stopped where a huge dead tree leaned precariously on a smaller, living one. Throwing off his sack of food, Rainsford took his knife from its sheath and began to work with all his energy.

The job was finished at last, and he threw himself down behind a fallen log a hundred feet away. He did not have to wait long. The cat was coming again to play with the mouse.

Following the trail with the sureness of a bloodhound came General Zaroff. Nothing escaped those searching black eyes, no crushed blade of grass, no bent twig, no mark, no matter how faint, in the moss. So intent was the Cossack on his stalking that he was upon the thing Rainsford had made before he saw it. His foot touched the protruding bough that was the trigger. Even as he touched it, the general sensed his danger and leaped back with the agility of an ape. But he was not quite quick enough; the dead tree, delicately adjusted to rest on the cut living one, crashed down and struck the general a glancing blow on the shoulder as it fell; but for his alertness, he must have been smashed beneath it. He staggered, but he did not fall; nor did he drop his revolver. He stood there, rubbing his injured shoulder, and Rainsford, with fear again gripping his heart, heard the general's mocking laugh ring through the jungle.

"Rainsford," called the general, "if you are within sound of my voice, as I suppose you are, let me congratulate you. Not many men know how to make a Malay mancatcher. Luckily for me I, too, have hunted in Malacca. You are proving interesting, Mr. Rainsford. I am going now to have my wound dressed; it's only a slight one. But I shall be back. I shall be back."

When the general, nursing his bruised shoulder, had gone, Rainsford took up his flight again. It was flight now, a desperate, hopeless flight, that carried him on for some hours. Dusk came, then darkness, and still he pressed on. The ground grew softer under his moccasins; the vegetation grew ranker, denser; insects bit him savagely.

Then, as he stepped forward, his foot sank into the ooze. He tried to wrench it back, but the muck sucked viciously at his foot as if it were a giant leech. With a violent effort, he tore his feet loose. He knew where he was now. Death Swamp and its quicksand.

His hands were tight closed as if his nerve were something tangible that someone in the darkness was trying to tear from his grip. The softness of the earth had given him an idea. He stepped back from the quicksand a dozen feet or so and, like some huge prehistoric beaver, he began to dig.

Rainsford had dug himself in in France when a second's delay meant death. That had been a placid pastime compared to his digging now. The pit grew deeper; when it was above his shoulders, he climbed out and from some hard saplings cut stakes and sharpened them to a fine point. These stakes he planted in the bottom of the pit with the points sticking up. With flying fingers he wove a rough carpet of weeds and branches and with it he covered the mouth of the pit. Then, wet with sweat and aching with tiredness, he crouched behind the stump of a lightning-charred tree.

He knew his pursuer was coming; he heard the padding sound of feet on the soft earth, and the night breeze brought him the perfume of the general's cigarette. It seemed to Rainsford that the general was coming with unusual swiftness; he was not feeling his way along, foot by foot. Rainsford, crouching there, could not see the general, nor could he see the pit. He lived a year in a minute. Then he felt an impulse to cry aloud with joy, for he heard the sharp crackle of the breaking branches as the cover of the pit gave way; he heard the sharp scream of pain as the pointed stakes found their mark. He leaped up from his place of concealment. Then he cowered back. Three feet from the pit a man was standing, with an electric torch in his hand.

"You've done well, Rainsford," the voice of the general called. "Your Burmese tiger pit has claimed one of my best dogs. Again you score. I think, Mr. Rainsford, Ill see what you can do against my whole pack. I'm going home for a rest now. Thank you for a most amusing evening."

At daybreak Rainsford, lying near the swamp, was awakened by a sound that made him know that he had new things to learn about fear. It was a distant sound, faint and wavering, but he knew it. It was the baying of a pack of hounds.

Rainsford knew he could do one of two things. He could stay where he was and wait. That was suicide. He could flee. That was postponing the inevitable. For a moment he stood there, thinking. An idea that held a wild chance came to him, and, tightening his belt, he headed away from the swamp.

The baying of the hounds drew nearer, then still nearer, nearer, ever nearer. On a ridge Rainsford climbed a tree. Down a watercourse, not a quarter of a mile away, he could see the bush moving. Straining his eyes, he saw the lean figure of General Zaroff; just ahead of him Rainsford made out another figure whose wide shoulders surged through the tall jungle weeds; it was the giant Ivan, and he seemed pulled forward by some unseen force; Rainsford knew that Ivan must be holding the pack in leash.

They would be on him any minute now. His mind worked frantically. He thought of a native trick he had learned in Uganda. He slid down the tree. He caught hold of a springy young sapling and to it he fastened his hunting knife, with the blade pointing down the trail; with a bit of wild grapevine he tied back the sapling. Then he ran for his life. The hounds raised their voices as they hit the fresh scent. Rainsford knew now how an animal at bay feels.

He had to stop to get his breath. The baying of the hounds stopped abruptly, and Rainsford's heart stopped too. They must have reached the knife.

He shinned excitedly up a tree and looked back. His pursuers had stopped. But the hope that was in Rainsford's brain when he climbed died, for he saw in the shallow valley that General Zaroff was still on his feet. But Ivan was not. The knife, driven by the recoil of the springing tree, had not wholly failed.

Rainsford had hardly tumbled to the ground when the pack took up the cry again.

"Nerve, nerve, nerve!" he panted, as he dashed along. A blue gap showed between the trees dead ahead. Ever nearer drew the hounds. Rainsford forced himself on toward that gap. He reached it. It was the shore of the sea. Across a cove he could see the gloomy gray stone of the chateau. Twenty feet below him the sea rumbled and hissed. Rainsford hesitated. He heard the hounds. Then he leaped far out into the sea. . . .

When the general and his pack reached the place by the sea, the Cossack stopped. For some minutes he stood regarding the blue-green expanse of water. He shrugged his shoulders. Then be sat down, took a drink of brandy from a silver flask, lit a cigarette, and hummed a bit from Madame Butterfly.

General Zaroff had an exceedingly good dinner in his great paneled dining hall that evening. With it he had a bottle of Pol Roger and half a bottle of Chambertin. Two slight annoyances kept him from perfect enjoyment. One was the thought that it would be difficult to replace Ivan; the other was that his quarry had escaped him; of course, the American hadn't played the game--so thought the general as he tasted his after-dinner liqueur. In his library he read, to soothe himself, from the works of Marcus Aurelius. At ten he went up to his bedroom. He was deliciously tired, he said to himself, as he locked himself in. There was a little moonlight, so, before turning on his light, he went to the window and looked down at the courtyard. He could see the great hounds, and he called, "Better luck another time," to them. Then he switched on the light.

A man, who had been hiding in the curtains of the bed, was standing there.

"Rainsford!" screamed the general. "How in God's name did you get here?"

"Swam," said Rainsford. "I found it quicker than walking through the jungle."

The general sucked in his breath and smiled. "I congratulate you," he said. "You have won the game."

Rainsford did not smile. "I am still a beast at bay," he said, in a low, hoarse voice. "Get ready, General Zaroff."

The general made one of his deepest bows. "I see," he said. "Splendid! One of us is to furnish a repast for the hounds. The other will sleep in this very excellent bed. On guard, Rainsford." . . .

He had never slept in a better bed, Rainsford decided.

filme de iunie

A trecut mult timp de cand nu am mai vazut un film misto, dar nu am avut timp! Si totusi... printre examene si proiecte, mi-am "permis" (de fapt acum le-am gasit) vizionarea a cateva"
Definitely Maybe - cu Ryan Reynolds in rolul unui tata divortat care trebuie sa-i explice copilului (lui) cum s-a ajuns acolo si de ce. Acum, pentru ca si eu am fost intr-o situatie asemenatoare... a copilului :)) nu a tatalui, pot sa zic, ca a meritat toata asteptarea mea de a gasi acest film. Foarte bine facut, foarte bine scris si foarte bine interpretat. Daca il gasesti sau ai optiunea sa-l vezi la cinema, fa-o!! it's worth every penny! (+Ryan Reynolds mi se pare k joaca in filme din ce in ce mai misto 'so not-"Van Wilder" ' si in acelasi timp umbla cu Scarlett Johansson)
Stop-loss - Ryan Phillippe se intoarce din Vietnam.... aaa... nu.... din Afganistan impreuna cu trupa lui de soc.... aka camarazi de arme, toti cu mintea ciuruita si psihicu tandari si cand vrea sa se retraga din razboi/sa iasa la pensie/lasat la vatra, armata ii baga in fata un ordin "stop-loss", ceea ce inseamna ca ciuciu... adica nu si e nevoit sa se intoarca la razboi. Si de aici "se naste dilema" (replica a la Timpuri Noi - Stere), ce sa faca? cum sa faca? La sfarsit/ In concluzie adevarul doare, dar ca sa vezi de ce, mai bine vezi filmu'.
The Oxford Murders - pustiu ala mic din Lordu inelelor.... Frodo...aaa.. Elijah Wood numai poate sa filmeze in America asa k s-a mutat pe platourile din UK de data asta in rolul unui matemacian in devenire, originar din Arizona, care vrea sa faca totul (ca orice american din Arizona). Cu timpul (adica vreo 2 zile) in jurul lui se intampla tot felul de evenimente ciudate (morti, nu asa de multi) si alaturi de John Hurt, mentorul lui, incearca sa descopere "who did it". "Weeeeell, it's not the butler."
Filmu' e bunicel, nu e grozav dar merita mentionat.
In Bruges - Colin Farrell, Ralph Fiennes si Brendan Gleeson sunt 3 asasini cu probleme. Farrell si Gleeson sunt trimisi de Fiennes in Belgia "for sightseeing". "Little did they know" ca Fiennes are alt plan. bine, k sa mai completez la intriga, Farrel si cu Gleeson sunt trimisi sub pretextul ca ultima lor "misiune" a iesit prost si trebuie sa dispara pentro vreme. Sincer, ultima lor misiune a iesit foarte prost si de fapt cam si despre asta este si toata intriga.
Alte cronici la acest film, spun ca este o comedie neagra si au dreptate partial daaaar.... mai bine vezi tu insuti.

film de duminica

"The Jane Austen Book Club" - 6 californieni descopera scrierile lui Jane Austen si ajung sa-si interpuna vietile in locul personajelor scriitoarei mai sus mentionate. Cand stau si ma gandesc k niste consumatori de starbucks, ebay si mickey d fac asta ma bufneste rasu' si zic: "U can't be serious?!"... but yes, they are!!!
deci, in concluzie si ca prin urmare daca vrea cineva sa vada filmu' pt Maria Bello, va fi pe deplin satisfacut. In rest este vorba de o gramada de americani care vor sa para intelectuali si nu reusesc.

P.S. Acum serios, Maria Bello joaca bine + k mai are antecedente dinastea in care joaca un rol consacrat, una din "Surorile" lui Cehov

filme de sf summit

Feast Of Love - Morgan Freeman, Greg Kinnear - mai multe povesti paralele care se intersecteaza sii... evident despre dragoste si kkturi asemanatoare
2 Days in Paris - July Deply, Adam Goldberg - tre' sa'l vedeti pentru dialog.... foarte misto, really smart
Hero Wanted - Cuba Gooding Jr, Ray Liotta - baiat de treaba care se schimba... dar mai bine te uiti la el. Faza cu "de ce au spart banca" e misto rau
Cleaner - Samuel L. Jackson, Ed Harris - deci nu stiam k exista astfel de meserii.Pe scurt un tip tre' sa curete dupa o crima si cand vine sa vb cu proprietaru' casei, ala nu stia despre ce e vb
The Lives Of Others - Stasi, RDG, RFG, microfoane si Oscar pt film strain. Merita din plin
Jumper - Hayden Christensen, Samuel L. Jackson - Tipu principal e space jumper ca un fel de Star Trek in prezent, sare din loc in loc... ideea e misto, filmu' nu chiar asa.
The Brave One - Jodie Foster, Terence Howard - Un cuplu si-o incaseaza in Central Park, el moare, ea sta in coma vreo 3 sapt si cand se trezeste isi ia un pistol de frica si'l descarca in mai multi tipi... tipi rai. Terence Howard joaca mai bine ca Foster.
The Bucket List - Morgan Freeman, Jack Nicholson - nice duo, great acting, not the greatest dar merita vizionat. cei doi mai au 6 luni de trait si isi fac o lista cu "what to do before u kick the bucket".
Secondhand Lions - Michael Caine, Robert Duvall - nu mi-a placut. nu te uita la el (decat daca nu ai ce sa vezi)
The Dead Girl - o pierdere de timp. mai multe povesti care se intersecteaza si se unesc si curu.
An Ideal Husband - cartea e mai misto
Run Fatboy Run - Simon Pegg - tipu' joaca grozav. un tip mai plinut se inscrie intr-un maraton ca sa-i demonstreze fostei sotii ca poate sa faca si el ceva pana la capat.
Big Nothing - Simon Pegg, David Schwimmer - heist goes funny!!! comedie neagra... uita-te!!!
Shaun Of The Dead - Simon Pegg - parodie la ... ghici?
Love And Other Disaster - oribil... gramada de poponari si nefututi
We Own The Night - Mark Wahlberg, Joaquin Phoenix, Robert Duvall - 2 frati, unu politist, altu patron de club si brusc apar rusii. Great acting, directing and so on!
Black Book - total waste of time
Open Range - Kevin Costner, Robert Duvall - western expirat
Day Zero - va dau doar tagline-ul : Drafted... 30 Days to Report For Duty. What would you do? * Elijah Wood joaca misto
Reservation Road - un copil e lovit de o masina si soferul fuge de la locul accidentului. Tatal luand-o razna si afland ca cel vinovat nu va primi o pedeapsa prea mare angajeaza un avocat ca sa-l gaseasca si sa construiasca un caz impotriva faptasului. Ghici cine e avocatu?
Stranger Than Fiction - un tip aude o voce care descrie tot ce face... la asta ma uit acum


iar in incheiere, pentru k am vazut prea multe filme in aceasta vacanta:

ce filme am mai vazut

Cassandra's Dream - Woody Allen devine din ce in ce mai placut... pt mine (mai am o intrare despre el cu privire la "Match Point", un film de care imi aduc aminte si acum cu placere).
Povestea a doi frati cu probleme financiare (nu chiar asa de serioase) dar care se baga in tot felul de afaceri (unu e cartofor, iar altul traieste cu visul construirii unui hotel+k are o prietena cu anumite pretentii la "intretinere"). Treptat cei doi se afunda din ce in ce mai mult in datorii, dar noroc k au un unchi dispus sa-i ajute, pana cand si unchiul (doctor de succes, cu numeroase clinici worldwide) le cere si el un favor... "take care of someone" acesta fiind sub investigatie (fiscala parca). Pentru deznodamant, sugerez sa vedeti filmu'. Distributia e misto: Ewan McGregor, Colin Farrell, Tom Wilkinson.
Si daca nu am zis-o de 100 de ori o mai zic odata. Mi se pare ca Woody Allen a ajuns la o "maturitate" cinematografica in care dialogul este pastrat la un anumit esential si numai necesita o alterare artistica "a la Allen" ci doar lasa cinematografia clasica, personajele mediocre (dpdv existential), dialogul simplu fara conversatii retorice sau glume (negre sau altfel) sa-si faca treaba si poti sa te pui in locul personajelor lui foarte usor. Si cel mai si cel mult imi place k subiectele sale sunt vechi de cand lumea dar le reda intr-un mod simplu, usor de inteles dar care te lasa pe ganduri dupa aia. Vorbesc de dragoste, ura, constiinta, familie, idealuri in viata si nu in ultimul rand banii.

Cashback - Un tip se desparte de prietena lui si dupa aia ii pare rau, El vrea sa se cu ea, ea deja si-a gasit pe altcineva. Devine insomniac si k sa nu piarda timpul uitandu-se la pereti, se angajeaza la un supermarket (evident in tura de noapte). De completat ca e student la arte si fiind un tip cu imaginatie... de aici toata actiunea filmului: fantezii prin raioane de carne, numai dilii de colegi si tot asa.

The Bank Job - Jason Statham revine ca bank-robber. Tre' sa jefuie o banca in care sunt tinute pozele cuiva din familia regala, intr-o ipostaza indecenta iar ce mai gaseste pe acolo e al lui si al colegilor lui (unu' dimtre ei e porn* :)) ). Filmul nu m-a impresionat cu nimic... dap, absolut nimic.


Goya's Ghosts - Cu Javier Bardem (care nu e Goya), Natalie Portman (nici ea nu e Goya), Randy Quaid (nici el nu e Goya) si Stellan Skarsgard el e Goya!!!,... ala rau din "Ronin", tata lu' Orlando Bloom din "Pirates of the....", profu' de mate din "Good Will Hunting", capitanu' Tupolev din "The Hunt FOr The REd October" care sincer io il iau ca rol secundar in acest film. Muza lui e lovita de Inchizitie. Torquemada e mort de ceva timp deci si Inchizitia e pe sfarsite in film dar este reprezentata de Javier care se bucura de Natalie in.... cum sa-i zic??!!... parnaie si asta mica face un copil... si m-am plictisit sa tot scriu... mai uita-te si tu la filme si zi-mi si mie.

Love In The Time Of Cholera

Daca filmul a fost asa de misto, cartea trebuie sa fie de 100 de ori mai misto!!!
Javier Bardem a jucat grozav! Subiectu e beton iar dialogurile sunt splendide, mai ales catre sfarsitul filmului. Si mai zic odata: cartea trebuie citita... incet si cu atentie!

sex, drugs and rock'n'roll, la urgenta si banii

Pentru cei care nu citesc "Esquire", ar trebui s-o faceti. Interviul acestei luni e cu Piersic jr. Nu e ceva impresionant sau care sa merite mentionat din el dar m-a facut sa-mi aduc aminte de "sex, drugs and rock'n'roll", care s-a jucat pentru ceva timp la Green Hours, care a luat si premiu Uniter. Toata lumea a laudat piesa asa k m-am hotarat sa o caut pe net sa vad daca gasesc scene din ea si am gasit vreo 90 de min (am inteles k are vreo 2 ore). Un one-man show:un business-man, un "rockstar", un petrecaret cu "caterinca", un ecologist, un casanova, etc, toate in interpretarea lu' Piersic Jr... (poate d'aia e one-man show:)) ) siii.... da frate... tipu joaca foarte misto, adica nu in sensu' in care interpreteaza niste caractere complicate (sau complexe?) dar o face foarte bine + k este greu sa tii publicul atent, mai exact pe faza, timp de 120+ de min.
Ce ma intriga pe mine, e k pe tipu' asta nu-l vad decat kestii dinastea de underground, nu k as vrea sa-l vad la tv, cum a fost cu serialul "La urgenta" (parca asa se numea), in cadrul careia a recunoscut k la facut bani, dar as vrea sa vad cevaaa?!?!... altfel decat underground sau nu in experimente gen "Fix aLert" sau "Eminescu vs Eminem" la care nu am avut rabdare sa ma uit si pana in ziua de azi tot mai incerc k sa vad "ce-a vrut sa spuna poetul"
Si daca tot am vazut sex, drug... asaa..., m-am gandit sa caut pe net sa vad ce mai face sau daca joaca in vreo piesa, k sa-l vad "laiv". Si asa (am voie sa incep propozitia cu o conjunctie k e creatie proprie... s-o numim "liceenta poetica") am ajuns la "Bani", ultimul proiect al lui, din 2008, un lungmetraj din scurtmetraje caaaAaare se da moka... dap... intra aici si poti sa-l ai si tu. Tema... evident: banii. Ironic si amuzant k toate scurtmetrajele au trebuit sa fie facute fara bani si numai intr-un anumit mod, adica no flashback scenes, editare minima, no sgi si tot felu de faze de genu asta. De fapt a fost un concurs in care au intrat vreo 50 de filme si au fost alese 12 (interviu aici)

Dar m-am abatut de la subiect asa k m-am plictist de atata scris asa k o sa trec la concluzie: As vrea sa-l vad pe Piersic Jr in ceva mai comercial si totusi ceva inteligent, ceva care sa aiba un subiect interesant dar sa nu ma faca sa ma gandesc dupa aia la ce-am vazut, as vrea sa vad ceva in care sa ma impresioneze sau sa-mi placa si nu aiba un tag "underground" pentru care sa caut si sa caut si sa... gata! Noapte buna

Kubrick

Am vazut de curand un documentar despre Stanley Kubrick, "A Life In Pictures". Narat de Tom Cruise si cu numeroase interventii din partea familiei, prietenilor siii... aici e faza cea mai misto , "colegi de munca" gen Martin Scorsese, Woody Allen, Steven Spielberg. Mi-a placut sa vad un documentar cu o asemenea tema in care "colegii" de mai sus, comenteaza si descriu filmele unuia de-al lor si o fac in asa fel incat sa intelegi ceva, sa vezi ce le-a placut, ce i-a inspirat, ce ar fi facut altfel
Acum, Woody Allen, care la americani e "mama si tata" lor in materie de filme, pe mine nu pot sa zic ca ma impresioneaza. Adica nu ma intelegeti gresit, am vazut o gramada de filme de-ale lui dar dupa toate nu am ramas decat cu unu, care este tocmai total opus de stilul lui :"Match Point". Dupa toate filmele cu vorbarie, umorul sec, scene simple si teme dezvoltate din idei nu prea complexe sau complicate(?).... (cred k asta e si misto la Woody Allen, ca este un bun observator si hazul de necaz care apare din aceste situatii este inimitabil si inconfundabil) toate se termina la Match Point unde cinematografia, muzica din fundal iau locul conversatiilor inteligente si .... daca pot sa zic asa "te fac sa simti filmu". Mie cel putin mi-a placut asa de mult incat as putea zice ca l-as pune pe lista cu cele mai bune 100 de filme ale mele
Martin Scorsese... ce mai!!! e mama si tata lor "in my book" nu o sa stau sa-l descriu decat ca sa fac diferenta intre el si Woody Allen. Daca Woody Allen urmareste o idee si o scoate in evidenta cu ajutorul conversatiilor, Scorsese le arata prin detalii, foloseste mai multe personaje decat Allen, foloseste decoruri mai complicate, studiate si rastudiate.
Iar Spielberg e cu "think big", SGI and "all that other FX stuff", totusi E.T. si Jurassic Park o sa raman in istorie.

Si ca sa inchei, acum ma gandesc mai bine, Stanley Kubrick, a facut cate ceva din toate, adica temele filmelor au fost reluate... nu reluate... incercate de regizorii sus mentionati.


P.S. Daca nu stiti ce a facut Stanley Kubrick poate ce urmeaza va va suna cunoscut:

A Clockwork Orange (1971), 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Full Metal Jacket (1987),Barry Lyndon (1975), Eyes Wide Shut (1999), Killer's Kiss (1955), si cel mai si cel mai misto Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)

tarantino

In sfarsit am avut rabdare sa vad "Death Proof", adica jumatea lu' Tarantino din "Grindhouse" si am ajuns la concluzia americanilor sau cel putin jumate din ea. adica tarantino nu e un geniu "but he does some God damn good movies". Nu ma intelegeti gresit, subiectu' nu e cine stie ce personajele nu sunt cele mai inteligente (cu siguranta violente) daaaar felul in care isi spune povestile e grozav, ideea si povestea este asa de bine conturata si gandita incat pare k a descoperit "cinematografia" .... faza e k nu e asa ci foloseste retete care au avut succes in trecut si le face mai bine si te si anunta cum o sa fie.In plus stilul filmelor este cel cu care a copilaritsi din care a selectat tot ce e mai misto... nu mai BUN, ceea ce e mai misto. In toate filmele o sa stii ce o sa se intample dar vrei sa vezi cum se ajunge acolo. Si ceea ce imi place cel mai si cel mai mult este coloana sonora... pt cei care nu stiu, tipu' isi alege singur melodiile. Nu este film de Tarantino la care sa nu caut muzica si sa-mi ramana unele melodii in cap si sa le fredonez cateva luni.

PS in Death Proof am vazut una din cele mai misto cascadorii "of all times". U got to see it!

My Blueberry Nights

Exista unele filme care ar trebui sa le vezi vara sau la sfarsitul primaverii, odata cu astenie aferenta. Cel putin asa as vrea sa vad eu filmu asta. Nu e cel mai cel mai, dar ca debut pentru Norah Jones este mai mult decat satisfacator. Mai apar Jude Law, Rachel Weisz si Natalie Portman care nici ele nu pot sa zic ca impresioneaza dar sunt placute si dau farmec filmului. Bine, k sa ne intelegem, Norah Jones, trece printr-o criza (un cuvant dur as putea spune, dar ma grabesc)
si parcurge o calatorie prin America in care cunoaste o gramada de caractere.

Care-i treaba cu Blueberry???... It's all about the pie.

Mie mi-a placut!

Filme de weekend

Weekend dragut, as putea zice. Am iesit la o bere cu baietii, am fost in club, am vb cu niste prieteni de care nu am mai auzit de ceva timp. Mi-a placut. Iar filmele... au venit la momentul oportun. Nu au fost cele mai reusite pentru k ceea ce vroiam sa vad am gasit mai tarziu, adica duminica noapte.
am inceput cu "Awake", un film din 2007 cu Hayden Christensen si Jessica Alba despre anesthesia awarness dar care evolueaza spre... teoria conspiratiei... mai exact tipu' k de, el e actorul principal aude (si evident simte, asta e partea naspa) ce fac doctorii in timpu operatiei si aici devine interesant. Am continuat cu "The Nanny Diaries", un fel de Bridget Jones meets... Mary Poppins. Nu va sfatuiesc sa-l vedeti decat in asteptarea download-arii unui alt film. Singura chestie care mi-a placut au fost fundul si picioarele lui Scarlett Johansson.


Duuupa aia, am vazut "Shattered Glass" din 2003, tot cu Hayden Christensen, in care joaca rolul unui ziarist care-si inventeaza majoritatea articolelor. It was nice, dar se putea si mai bine.



Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii, here comes the good part... Donnie Darko, viziuni cu iepurasi, adolescenti frustrati si nefututi, parinti in suc propriu si profi cu exces de zel... sau fara. Distributia e grozava: Jake Gyllenhaal (Broeback Mt, Jarhead, etc) si cu sor'sa Mary, Drew Barrymore (no introduction needed), Noah Wyle (doftoru din ER), Patrick Swayze and... more. Povestea e misto, ideea e interesanta si de actualitate... pentru americani dar nu si pentru noi. Cred k este un film supraestimat dar nu o pierdere de timp.

"I'm not there" este un documentar/film despre Bob Dylan in interpretarea lui Richard Gere, Heath Ledger, Christian Bale, Richard Gere, Marcus Carl Franklin siiiii... Cate Blanchett. Yup, that woman is a pretty darn good man. Tre' sa-l vedeti sau daca nu cautati-l pe cel al lui Scorsese: "No Direction Home: Bob Dylan" care este mai la obiect si mai subiectiv :)))))... e facut din povesti zise de prieteni si persoane care-l cunosc pe bob dylan, interviuri si filmari cu el.
Si filmu pe care il caut de 2 luni si insfarsit l-am gasit: "My Blueberry Nights" cu Jude Law si Norah Jones si pe care nu am avut timp sa-l vad pentru ca..... scriu pe blog. Hai PA!

P.S. Pentru mai multe detalii mergeti la www.imdb.com