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Once the lights went up, people dispersed and silence gave way to the laughter, love and comradeship which makes Brazilians the most beautiful people in the world. People weren’t jazzed by the violence, like Americans watching Django Unchained, safely feeling they deserved that. At any moment, the impoverished could literally take over the city of Rio and all those educated, middle-class kids who were sitting in the theater. Travelers like to romanticize the favelas, but I tell you there is nothing romantic and everything terrifying about the pain, poverty and gangster lifestyle of these places. It needed a vehicle to propel it, and cinema history to buffer its bluntness about the murders happening only a block away from the theater. This film about film seemed nervously afraid of the vulnerability it exposed about the culture. The Scorsese-esque approach, the stylized gangsters, and the nod to Goodfellas’ structure entertained me as much as the message. What this film was about to say needed to be said right now for Brazilians and the world to understand. I’d never felt that before in a theater, ever, the kind of thing that gives you goosebumps. This film, this time, was important to these people. She nudged me amidst the confusion (there’s always some wonderfully beautiful confusion in Rio), and said, “I’ll whisper to you what they’re saying.” I looked her right in the eye and said, “I don’t want you to.” You see, she didn’t know that side of me yet. The air was thick with buzz and heavy with anticipation, almost fear. Sun-soaked and Caipirinha-driven, Carolina and I sat in an enormous theater packed with young C ariocas. It happened again in Brazil, and not just anywhere in Brazil, but in Rio de Janeiro. Most of the time I don’t like to think because then I think about how fucked-up everything is, but sometimes I allow myself.
Room in rome english subtitles movie#
I like to be able to watch a movie and not be entertained by it. The lack of understanding lays bare technique and uplifts the art. You hear more sound and less of the intent of the words people say.
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You ride the dolly as it moves towards them. You see the actor’s commitment, or lack thereof. And that’s the other thing about my fetish: You see things. I mean, I’ve read it’s about the social elite, entitlement, etc., but I saw an actors’ exercise. To this day, I have no idea what The Idiots is about. Like Eisenstein’s dialectic theory of editing where two images joined by a cut equals a third unseen image that exists in the mind.Īnd it was cool! No social cues. The childlike naïveté of wondering what was around the bend. Giving myself the freedom of “getting it” and just letting it happen. The images washed over my eyes, the sounds were more specific, and the experience… well, it was more an experience. I mean, I got the part about the explicit pornographic sex, but that’s about it. I remember having the distinct and pointed feeling of knowing nothing about what was going on. I was on lockdown at the Four Seasons when I broke away one night and watched Lars von Trier’s The Idiots in Danish with French subtitles. Let’s just say, he insisted on having a character named “Sambo,” despite my strong objections. I had a new job with an abusive, megalomaniacal millionaire who had flown me there, first class, to write a script for him starring, in his mind, Johnny Depp. My fetish for watching films and not understanding dialogue makes perfect sense now…. It all started with massive ear infections, three surgeries and a childhood of ear pain. I’ve always had a fascination with Pasolini’s murder and with his uniquely neorealist, metaphysical tales, and I also love a handful of Ferrara’s movies, so this seemed the perfect setting in which to watch this film. Apparently Ferrara lives in Rome now I had no idea, having lost track of him some time ago. Neither of us speaks Italian, but I have this fetish for watching foreign films in foreign lands, without English subtitles. While on a trip to Rome this past September, my wife Carolina and I set off among the ruins to watch Pasolini by Abel Ferrara.