Tuesday 27 May 2008

Sydney Pollack dies.


Thanks to him I've watched so many times this beautiful film called Out of Africa. Rest in peace!
A small summary from The Guardian:

Director Sydney Pollack dies at 73.

Pollack always struck me as one of the last, best representatives of the Hollywood studio system - an old-school film-maker.

Pollack significantly plumped for Robert Redford - kicking off a fruitful collaboration that stretched from Jeremiah Johnson to The Way We Were to Three Days of the Condor before culminating in 1986's Oscar-winning Out of Africa. The handsome embodiment of Hollywood glamour, Redford proved the perfect front for a Pollack production.

For all that, one could argue that his most challenging, interesting films were made outside the Redford aegis. The Swimmer was a cold-eyed, compelling study of suburban affluenza and one of the great underrated films of the 60s. They Shoot Horses, Don't They? is as a devastating tale of the American Depression. Tootsie was one of the smartest, funniest comedies of the 1980s.

At the same time as his films were turning blandly anonymous (The Firm, Sabrina, The Interpreter), he discovered a vibrant sideline as a character actor (eg. dissembling father figure in last year's Michael Clayton)
Pollack's last film as a director was a heartfelt, personal study of the architect Frank Gehry.

Sydney Pollack was an intelligent, versatile and often brilliant film-maker. Cinema is poorer without him.

Xan Brooks (The Guardian)


Two vids I've found in youtube of Out of Africa: the film trailer and the excellent Flight over Africa scene:



Thursday 22 May 2008

Poetic Recital.

This evening I've been to a Poetic Recital held in the Centre de Cultura Contemporània Octubre in València. Every last Thursday of each month (this month has been the next to the last) there is a literary activity called Escriptors al Terrat (Writers at the flat roof) in which two writers, one younger, one older talk about their work. Today two poets: Ramon Guillem and a young woman poet, Àngels Gregori (22), have read some of their poems in Catalan. It's been a pleasure!




From Guillem's book Solatge de sols (1999):


TARDA IMPREVISTA:


L´amor és una tarda imprevista,
una taronja del color de les natges,
un trau on es posa el clavell de la vida.

Aigua callada
que una nit de lluna morta
de la pedra brolla i s´escampa,
fluix secret que nodreix
l´arrel de tenebra dels arbres,
corrent d´esperma que amara la terra.



From Angels' last book LLibre de les Brandàlies:


ACLARIMENT:

I faria un poema
com faria l’amor a un cos prohibit:
amb l’ànsia de saber
que només cal l’imprescindible.
Faria un poema
escrit amb sang menstrual,
o amb tinta de tauró, que perdurara.
I escriuria poemes, llavors,
com faria les coses que més m’agraden,
que fer poemes és també
fer l’amor amb el llenguatge,
que escriure versos és també
violar els límits de la pàgina,
i que les paraules, com les putes,
s’assemblen totes una mica.

VI:


Sempre hi plou, a sobre del meu cap.
L’hivern m’ha dut la freda sorpresa de la solitud,
la de les artèries histèriques.
I és un malson, t’ho jure, veure’m al mirall.
Cada dia més lletja, més sola,
més malalta, més boja encara,
talment una granota lluny de l’aigua.
M’he cansat de mi mateixa,
allà on vaig, sempre m’hi trobe,
perduda i fora d’enlloc.
I sóc com un ravioli
que s’ha quedat l’últim per menjar,
ell sol, pobre ravioli,
al fons del roig del plat.

Sempre hi plou, a sobre del meu cap.
L’hivern m’ha dut l’espasme del temps,
la tuberculosi als ossos, el desfici als llavis.
I de tant d’estripar minuts al dia
m’han sortit padastres als dits
per fer-me companyia.



AVÍS:

Al diccionari,
les paraules que existeixen s’hi troben,
i les que no hi són,
s’inventen.

Sunday 18 May 2008

Billie Holiday.




She is in my list. This woman is one of my favourite singers. What a lovely wrecked voice and song!

Two years before her death, in late 1957, she had one final burst of glory, when she sang "Fine and Mellow" (composed in 1939) on The Sound of Jazz telecast while joined by tenor saxophonist Lester Young (who stole the show with an emotional chorus) and other members of all-star band seen here: Ben Webster, Coleman Hawkins, Gerry Mulligan, Roy Eldridge, Don Cheatham, Vic Dickenson, Danny Barker, Mit Hinton, Mal Waldrom.... Reunited after many years, introduced by Robert Herridge (producer/host of CBS' "The Sound of Jazz"), this is perhaps the single most famous "live jazz" performance in TV history. We shall not see them again.

Billie's visual reaction to L. Young's moving solo remains as eloquent as anything she ever sang; a touching finale to their historic musical partnership.

Billie's voice wasn't the biggest or even the best, hers was small which became the biggest one when she put all her emotional intensinty into the words she sang. As someone said, she delivers the hell out of a tune.
Her voice can make my heart ache. It is an experience not easily duplicated by strength of voice, tone, or precision; it is deeper than technique!

Here Lester is speaking to Billie with his horn and it is heart breaking. Her face
goes from ecstasy to bitterness to pain, as does her wrecked voice. The emotions come from their sounds. There you have jazz or blues.

She is in my list. This woman is one of my favourite singers. What a lovely wrecked voice and song!

Two years before her death, in late 1957, she had one final burst of glory, when she sang "Fine and Mellow" (composed in 1939) on The Sound of Jazz telecast while joined by tenor saxophonist Lester Young (who stole the show with an emotional chorus) and other members of all-star band seen here: Ben Webster, Coleman Hawkins, Gerry Mulligan, Roy Eldridge, Don Cheatham, Vic Dickenson, Danny Barker, Mit Hinton, Mal Waldrom.... Reunited after many years, introduced by Robert Herridge (producer/host of CBS' "The Sound of Jazz"), this is perhaps the single most famous "live jazz" performance in TV history. We shall not see them again.

Billie's visual reaction to L. Young's moving solo remains as eloquent as anything she ever sang; a touching finale to their historic musical partnership.

Billie's voice wasn't the biggest or even the best, hers was small which became the biggest one when she put all her emotional intensinty into the words she sang. As someone said, she delivers the hell out of a tune.
Her voice can make my heart ache. It is an experience not easily duplicated by strength of voice, tone, or precision; it is deeper than technique!

Here Lester is speaking to Billie with his horn and it is heart breaking. Her face
goes from ecstasy to bitterness to pain, as does her wrecked voice. The emotions come from their sounds. There you have jazz or blues.

Tuesday 13 May 2008

Irena Sendler.



This is my personal tribute to Irena Sendler, an exceptional woman with an amazing, very interesting and moving life. The best of human beings. Rest in peace!

(I've summarized it from timesonline):

When Germany invaded Poland in 1939 Irena Sendler had no doubt how to respond. “I saw the Polish nation drowning. And those in most difficult position were the Jews. And among them those most vulnerable were the children. So I had to help.”

Sendler, a social care nurse for the Warsaw city council, spent the next four years risking her life in the Warsaw ghetto, delivering essential supplies and, when the true purposes of Nazi policy became apparent, smuggling out as many children as she could.

She saved many hundreds of lives — perhaps as many as 2,500. Even under torture and sentence of death, she refused to reveal the whereabouts of the rescued children to the Nazi occupiers, and after escaping captivity went back to the underground, making sure that those she had hidden survived the war.

She was born in Warsaw in 1910, the only child of Dr Stanislaw Krzyzanowski who had a reputation as the only doctor who would treat Jewish patients during typhoid epidemics; Irena, unusually for a Catholic child, was allowed to play with Jewish children and said that her father taught her “that if you see a person drowning, you must jump into the water to save them, whether you can swim or not”.

She became a social worker, caring for poor Jewish families in Warsaw. Under German occupation, conditions for the city’s 400,000 Jews deteriorated rapidly, and Sendler, defying Nazi orders, began bringing them supplies, despite the risk to their (herself and some colleagues) own health and the horrors they witnessed.

Starving children, abandoned corpses and SS officers using skulls for target practice — “I saw all this and a million other things that a human eye should never have to see,” she later said, “and it has stayed with me for every second of every day that God has granted me to live.”

In the summer of 1942 deportations from the ghetto to Treblinka death camp began. Sendler joined Zegota, the Polish organisation set up to help Jews, and began getting children out. “We would go to the ghetto every day and try to get as many children as possible because the situation would worsen every day.”

Smuggling them out was risky, because any Pole caught helping Jews was sentenced to death. Sendler used false documents, hid small children, sedated, in sacks and boxes — even coffins — and sent older ones out through the sewers or basement passageways. One mechanic took a baby out in his toolbox. Others went through a courthouse which had one entrance in the ghetto and another on the “Aryan side”.

But for Sendler, the hardest part was persuading parents to part with their children. Though the parents knew the children would die if they stayed, Sendler could offer no guarantee that they would be any safer if they left. She later described “infernal scenes. Father agreed but mother didn’t. Grandmother cuddled the child most tenderly and, weeping bitterly, said ‘I won’t give away my grandchild at any price’. We sometimes had to leave such unfortunate families without taking their children from them. I went there the next day and often found that everyone had been taken to the Umschlagsplatz railway siding for transport to death camps.”

Once the children were out, Sendler used her network to find them homes in Polish families, orphanages and convents. To help them blend in, the children were taught Christian prayers and given new identities. Sendler kept a careful list of their real identities in the hope that they could at some point be reunited with their families. But in October 1943, alerted by an informer, 11 German officers arrived to arrest Sendler. She had no time to dispose of the list and gave it to a colleague, who hid it in her underwear while the soldiers ripped Sendler’s house apart. Sendler was taken to the notorious Pawiak prison, where she was methodically tortured and beaten, leaving her permanently scarred. She never revealed the names of the children or of her underground colleagues.

Officially, she was executed in early 1944. But in fact, Zegota had bribed a German guard to let her escape from death row.

Even after this ordeal Sendler continued her work, going back underground with a new identity, bringing supplies and medicine to the hidden children, and moving them on when suspicions were aroused.

After the liberation Sendler retrieved the list of names from where she had buried it during the Warsaw uprising of 1944, in jam jars under an apple tree in a friend’s garden. She helped Jewish organisations to trace those few children whose families had survived the Holocaust. But even these reunions were painful, for the children had to be uprooted from their homes yet again. Many of the rest were eventually sent to Palestine.

Sendler herself received little recognition immediately after the war. The communist regime which came to power in Poland had little use for the sufferings of the Jews, nor for non-communist war heroes. In a still often anti-Semitic climate, those who had rescued Jews were targets of suspicion or contempt.

Her work was, however, known to Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust Martyrs’ and Heroes’ Remembrance Authority, which recognised her as Righteous Among the Nations in 1965. A tree was planted in her honour, but she was not allowed to visit Israel until 1983.

In recent years she had become increasingly well known in her homeland, and she was awarded the country’s highest decoration, the Order of the White Eagle, by President Kwasniewski in 2003. A biography appeared in Poland and Germany in 2006. Last year the Polish senate passed a unanimous resolution honouring her for “the rescue of the most defenseless victims of the Nazi ideology: the Jewish children”.

She wrote in response: “Every child saved with my help and the help of all the wonderful secret messengers, who today are no longer living, is the justification of my existence on this Earth, and not a title to glory.” She was too ill to attend, and this statement was read out by Elzbieta Ficowska, who was smuggled out of the ghetto in 1942, at the age of 6 months.

Sendler described her actions as “a normal thing to do” and refused always to think of herself as a hero. “That term irritates me greatly. The opposite is true — I continue to have qualms of conscience that I did so little. I could have done more. This regret will follow me to my death.”


She was born on February 15, 1910. She died on May 12, 2007, aged 98. REST IN PEACE, Irena!

Sunday 11 May 2008

Fly me to the Moon: Frank Sinatra & Diana Krall.



I adore this song. I've found some information on the wiki. I've summarized it down here:

(It was written by Bart Howard in 1954.It was first recorded in 1954. The original singer of "Fly Me to the Moon", Felicia Sanders, recorded the song in 1959.

Frank Sinatra recorded the song on his 1964 album It Might as Well Be Swing. This became the rendition that many people identified the song with. Sinatra's recording was played by the astronauts of Apollo 10, on their lunar mission).

Many singers had sung it. Here two of them. The gorgeous voice ot The Voice itself, Frank, Mr. Sinatra and
that wonderful lovely jazzy voice, Ms Diana Krall's version playing the piano- wow, I adore her!!!-, both on behalf of them.

Sinatra's ( pics and lyrics):




Ms Krall's live version accompanied by John Clayton:


Saturday 10 May 2008

Slideshow.

I've just added a Slideshow at the sidebar on the top left. It's Picasa stuff. As I can see it is all about flowers and leaves. It is very beautiful, isn't it? I like it.

slide

Friday 9 May 2008

How Blue Can You Get is a classic B.B. King song. Excellent video footage of B.B. King's perfomance live in Sing Sing Prison in 1972.


Wednesday 7 May 2008

Tram, Munich 2003.



I love trams. In fact that's why I chose the name for the blog. I took the pic during my fantastic holiday to Munich, Bavaria in January, 2003.

Today's a month since my best friend died.

A month ago my best friend died. He remains in my memory stronger than ever. As time goes by he's more deeply-rooted in my heart and he'll always be. Love him so much!

A prayer and some flowers to you my dear companion. White daisies to thank you for the happiness you brought to me while in life down here. God bless you!





MY OWN PERSONAL JESUS
SOMEONE TO HEAR MY PRAYERS.

Personal Jesus. Depeche Mode.

I need to know a personal Jesus exists for me out there inside me. Depeche Mode sings it:



YOUR OWN PERSONAL JESUS
SOMEONE TO HEAR YOUR PRAYERS
SOMEONE WHO CARES
YOUR OWN PERSONAL JESUS
SOMEONE TO HEAR YOUR PRAYERS
SOMEONE WHO´S THERE.

Saturday 3 May 2008

Clara.

I wrote this short tale some days ago. I've tried to take care of every single word to get a good story. The picture which accompanies it is mine too.


Clara:




Clara is seventy. She looks her age. Probably more. In the evenings, she sits opposite the birds’ cage in the park while she watches parents and grandparents accompanying the children feeding the locked birds. Clara’s got white hair and sunken eyes. Some days, she brings a book to while away the time, sometimes she forgets it and she amuses herself making up her own stories whose characters are people she finds at the park. Today she has left Emily Dickinson’s collection of poems next to the prescriptions on the table at the hall. Poor old woman’s head!

-Pauline, viens ici!

This French words attracts the old woman’s attention. A young woman showing slender legs, calls a girl about eight or nine years old who is running away from the caged birds.

Clara remembers she was the same age and every evening…

When coming back from school, the first thing she did was to throw, brusquely, her schoolbag on the sofa, kiss her mum and run fast like a flash of lightning to the corner bar. She put the coin through the slot and shook her fingers resolutely and with extreme virulence made the ball beat in a wonderful feast of light and sound. She loved playing flipper. It made her crazy. It was the best moment of the day.

-Et alors, la petite espagnole, elle dit rien? C'est pas bien ça, eh non!
-Bonjour, Monsieur Moulin.
-C'est mieux comme ça. Maintenant c'est une mademoiselle. Bonjour, ma chèrie.

Then when the ball got into the hole, Clara ran to the man and gave him three kisses on his cheek. Mr. Moulin was the nicest French man she ever knew. When they arrived at Paris, he had made them feel welcome; he had been very warm-hearted, helped her parents a lot. Thanks to him, her mother could find her first jobs as a cleaner and he gave his father a hand when the paperwork for the renting. Mr. Moulin held them in great esteem.

The evening she was remembering, he was offering him a fanta that Clara was drinking in a hurry. She left the glass on the bar and came back to the flipper machine to keep on playing. There were still four balls left. In that place she was the happiest girl on Earth. She felt so safe. Mr. Moulin near her, her parents and her older sister some metres away down the street. Everything was allright. At school there were not problems any more. When she arrived she found some difficulties, especially, with the language. Three years ago she hardly spoke any French but soon she learnt it and now she could be the first of the class if it had not been because of this dumb of Antoinette…

-Clara, my child. Let’s go home, your mother’s got your sandwich ready.
-I haven’t finished yet. There’s one ball left.

-Toi, Con d'espagnol, laisse la petite.
-Salut, François.
-Tu veux un Ricard? Ouais ou Ouais?

Her father nodded his head.

-Dad, give me a franc.
-No.
-Please, while you finish your Ricard.

Her father gave it to her, as he always did. Meanwhile both men were talking, Clara played another game. It was difficult to her to get to know how Mr. Moulin was able to understand her father. Definitely he had the best of his intentions since in the three years they were living in Paris, his father’s French was not improving at all. Anyway, he was still as charming as always. Her father was the most charming man in the world. He was so handsome and now more than ever with his thin moustache like Clark Gable.

-Hello, madam. Don’t you think birds shouldn’t live locked up in cages, that hey should be free, shouldn’t they? - A girl with green eyes was asking her while pulling her skirt.

Clara is seventy years old. Today’s her birthday.