Cineteca chronicles
We took a taxi, tonight, because my afternoon wanderings left me sleeping longer than expected. I don't take my own advice, but rather, flag a taxi on the street. I let the first car pass, not liking the look of the driver. Why? she asks and I explain that in this part of the city and so close I know exactly where I am going, and how to get there, and if there is any deviation, I am ready for quick action. Three things I do to ensure a safe ride: examine the well-kemptness of the car itself, then the eyes of the driver (you can tell quite a bit by looking into someones eyes... whether they avert them or not, what is behind) and immediately make friendly conversation.
He is a sweet gentle man who asks us how Mexico is treating us, if the men have been behaving themselves. He lamented the loss of the art of the "piropo fino". We agreed. Being accompanied by such a lovely creature as I am, I thought that perhaps all the cat calls were directed at her. Walking alone in the afternoon, I confirmed that indeed, either one of us at any given time can elicit that under the breath whisper of "mamacita" or whatever else it is that I don't really want to know, and I wonder if it is just that they have no filter. In fact, together, I think we might just be a bit more intimidating than alone. I know walking home in the dark I felt entirely safe in her company, relaxed in a way that I would never dare to do alone in the city at night. I know it has more to do with my own sensation of vulnerability than any real differential in threat level or statistical likelihood of actually being assaulted by strangers (as we know, most rapes, murders and mutilations of women are committed by an intimate male in their lives).
For the first five minutes neither of us can talk, because of the sheer emotional weight that the film had lain upon us. We silently climbed the stairs to cross Avenida Universidad. Tonight it was a sight to see, for inexplicable motives, traffic extended for miles in only one direction, and from the bridge to the left there was a sea of white headlights, and to the right a doppler-like wave of red taillights. The tears were dried, but my stomach, no, my solar plexus just ached from the film.
Water (2005 Canada) written and directed by Deepa Mehta (filmed in Sri Lanka, but set in India 1938). I was quite literally too moved for words. The little girl who plays the 7-year-old widow, abandoned by her family, as was (is) tradition according to sacred texts, to suffer her widowhood excluded from society, was superb. Heartbreaking, gorgeous, Metha's use of color and her attention to facial gesture to express deep emotional content are astounding, and the tragedy of the fate of the widows, young and old, the hypocrisy of purity, and class, were exposed in such a way that it was impossible not to shed tears of sheer rage, impotency and sympathy, all at once. I
He is a sweet gentle man who asks us how Mexico is treating us, if the men have been behaving themselves. He lamented the loss of the art of the "piropo fino". We agreed. Being accompanied by such a lovely creature as I am, I thought that perhaps all the cat calls were directed at her. Walking alone in the afternoon, I confirmed that indeed, either one of us at any given time can elicit that under the breath whisper of "mamacita" or whatever else it is that I don't really want to know, and I wonder if it is just that they have no filter. In fact, together, I think we might just be a bit more intimidating than alone. I know walking home in the dark I felt entirely safe in her company, relaxed in a way that I would never dare to do alone in the city at night. I know it has more to do with my own sensation of vulnerability than any real differential in threat level or statistical likelihood of actually being assaulted by strangers (as we know, most rapes, murders and mutilations of women are committed by an intimate male in their lives).
For the first five minutes neither of us can talk, because of the sheer emotional weight that the film had lain upon us. We silently climbed the stairs to cross Avenida Universidad. Tonight it was a sight to see, for inexplicable motives, traffic extended for miles in only one direction, and from the bridge to the left there was a sea of white headlights, and to the right a doppler-like wave of red taillights. The tears were dried, but my stomach, no, my solar plexus just ached from the film.
Water (2005 Canada) written and directed by Deepa Mehta (filmed in Sri Lanka, but set in India 1938). I was quite literally too moved for words. The little girl who plays the 7-year-old widow, abandoned by her family, as was (is) tradition according to sacred texts, to suffer her widowhood excluded from society, was superb. Heartbreaking, gorgeous, Metha's use of color and her attention to facial gesture to express deep emotional content are astounding, and the tragedy of the fate of the widows, young and old, the hypocrisy of purity, and class, were exposed in such a way that it was impossible not to shed tears of sheer rage, impotency and sympathy, all at once. I
posted by ilana at 8:29 p.m.
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