The Mind - frontal nudity of your true self

Hamlet  (The Wooster Group) 

Tonight I feel less than uninspired; paraphrasing Shakespeare, my life "is out of joint". Still, what better night to write about a tormented soul like Hamlet? So I try to put down a few words about the show I saw last night; actually it has not been a show, but a comprehensive life-questioning experience; for the "receptives", maybe a life changing one.

I went with misconceptions. I had read that it is a Postmodern Hamlet. Phew, I said to myself, another stupid Postmodern crazy stuff. A New-York-ish experimental stage-put of Hamlet linked to the Richard Burton 1964 one... Come again? I said: an unimaginative virtuoso show off!

Like an extremely dry wine, this play was not sweet but incredibly effective and necessarily not pleasant. The performance was very analytical, complex, without affect, absolutely no emotion permitted, clinical, stentorian, icy.  These cold means were instrumental for the spectator to experience the real flow of consciousness of characters, and especially of Hamlet. Indeed our minds are so cruel with ourselves and with others; so sharp in judgment. Our mind is playing incessantly an intricate, fragmented game. This sense of fragmentation is overwhelming in the show. Yes, a la Postmodernist deconstructivism, but also this fragmentation alludes to a very human process, I am referring to how we run from one thought to another without a self-evident and ready sense of purpose, how we construct in and from total chaos our arguments that lead to action. All these are ephemeral, along with us, all shadows! I am referring to the insanity, scariness of our minds and also to the dignified image of our sharp, relentless, powerful razor-minds (again). The futility of our thoughts given our finitude makes our minds that sharp and without pity for us and for others. Our mortality gives power to our mind. And vice versa, its power makes us think more intensely and with no compassion about death. They complement each other perfectly. This strong fuzziness of the play, replicating a real stream of consciousness, is also an un-escapable "feeling" for the reader of Shakespeare.

The New York group made me experience first and foremost the Anglo-Saxon ethos. We are lashed senselessly with hundreds of stimuli in order to provoke thinking on the edge, the edge of life. Discard the beautiful and comfortable "clothes" of every day life and leave your naked self to confront your unembellished judgment - frontal nudity of your true self.

In the end I want to make a few provincial meta-comments, cause we are really very far away from the center. In a Postmodern way, that is not to be blamed. However, I felt it like a huge handicap last night. We would never (I feel tonight) attain this kind of effectiveness and professionalism in theatre or in any other domain. Like I said, it is an undeniable difference in ethos and structure, but it stays also with the set standards. We would not think to set them that high; not that we would think them unreachable, but we would not have the concept of such high level. 

Don't read a self-help story (that is book?!) this week. Get money from friends and go to NY to see the play if you haven't in Bucharest last week! And if you get there, never leave.

A single man - a boring man

Primul film al lui Tom Ford ii seamana leit: batos, pedant, cu mult stil, hedonist, fara sa treaca de zona confortului desi are pretentii c-o face.

Se vrea povestea dramei pe care o traieste Colin Firth:  moartea partenerului de viata. De fapt primim o bijuterie stilistica si, ca orice bijuterie, ne pastreaza la suprafata. Privitorul e marcat de filigranul si minutia fiecarui detaliu si uita motivul anxietatii. Deci probabilitatea sa avem revelatia finititudinii si fragilitatii privind o bijuterie e zero. Initiativa fordiana e auto-anulanta, iar premisele gresite. Firth traieste intr-un cocon magnific (casa impecabila, haine impecabile, barbati bronzati impecabil cu pectorali sculptati etc, etc), dar e un univers al obiectelor frumoase si atat. Suna a gol. Frumosul, in starea lui cea mai de jos: dragutul, dragalasul, finutul, e rege. Confortul e valoarea suprema. Colin Firth ajunge sa ne amuze pana si in pregatirea sinuciderii. Lasa o nota despre cum sa-i fie legata cravata "pe ultimul drum": in nod Windsor. Nu-si gaseste pozitia cea mai confortabila in care sa-si traga un glont in cap. Tom Ford e ca o florareasa. Iubeste florile. Dar faptul ca traieste printre ele, inconjurat de frumosul pe care-l vinde, nu-i asigura atingerea vreunui nivel artistic oarecare. Comparatia cu florareasa nu e intamplatoare, Ford chiar are o sensibilitate tipic feminina, dar doar atat.

Firth si Julianne Moore sunt bineinteles foarte buni. Firth balanseaza intre apolinic si dionisiac, trece cu usurinta de la raceala si distanta, la o apropiere si caldura care-ti taie respiratia. Moore e grafica si retinuta sau foarte feminina si pasionala. Simti in fiecare gros plan cat de delicata si vulnerabila e.

A Single Man, ca idee si maniera, seamana mult cu The Hours, dar e de cateva ori mai slab.

Lectie de caracter

-Elisabeth Leonskaja la Ateneu pe 8 aprilie, concertele nr. 1&2 pentru pian si orchestra de Brahms-

Am mers pentru nume si pentru ca (aproape) a fost  pupila/prietena lui Sviatoslav Richter. Doamna Leonskaja a interpretat muzica sferelor foarte retinut, introspectiv fara sa fie autista, foarte serios, neliric. Deloc hedonista, deloc post-moderna. N-a facut parada de o expresivitate exagerata si facila.

La final n-am putut sa strig "bravo!". Cred ca n-avea nevoie si nu-si dorea. Prin arta ei ne spunea: abtineti-va de la expresia bruta, nu va exteriorizati, exhibati, la limita exhibiotionati placerea, fie ea si brahmsiana. E vulgar. Interiorizati si sublimati intr-un alt sens starile. Fata ei spunea acelasi lucru. Seamana cu Charlotte Rampling, cu pometi proeminenti, mandibula de asemenea, ochi albastri reci si ucigatori, parul drept dar cu un anumit volum. Toate proportiile erau sculpturale.

Ca la orice concert mare, n-a fost bis. O sala intreaga a plecat acasa transfigurata de Brahms. Cine spune ca arta mare nu creeaza caractere s-a razgandit pe 8 aprilie.

Ces nymphes, je les veux perpetuer

Primul spectacol la opera: L'apres-midi d'un faune...am mers cu scoala prin clasa a cincea...am plecat inca "assoupi(e) de sommeils touffus", dar revelatia era f aproape.
Probabil profa care ne-a dus nu stia nici poemul lui Mallarme, nici muzica lui Debussy si nici interpretarea controversata a lui Nijinski...sau poate n-o creditez suficient...poate intr-un elan de o poezie neobisnuita unei profe de bio a incercat sa ne ofere o lectie/explicatie subversiva/sublimata artistic si nu din registrul familiar ei...ar fi mai interesant daca a fost asa...if so, plecaciuni!

Shakespeare - A Sonnet

Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,
When I against myself with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?
Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with present moan?
What merit do I in myself respect,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;
Those that can see thou lovest, and I am blind.

(Sonnet #149)

 What an incredible combination of frank, up-front approach (very Anglo-Saxon) and poetry!

Night cruising for my joy and pleasure on YouTube

Feeling so fucking depleted tonight...maximum I can do is sit in front of my desktop and stare. I guess tiredness can be a substitute for ganja. I'm inept, zero brain activity.

YouTube is a decent companion when you're dead, couldn't ask for more, couldn't cope with more. Introducing:

1. Moondog, a minimalist composer, from the same music family as Philip Glass. You probably know this remixed by Mr. Scruff. It was written by Moondog in memoriam Charlie "Bird" Parker
   
2. A great mash-up Radiohead + Dave Brubeck (Take five)
3. And one from out of space from Kid Koala, a Dixieland style song remixed: Mind-blowing...That's if you have a mind to blow away tonight.
   

Sex fara orgasm

Restaurant - hotel Christina

Arata bine pozele dar nu m-au impresionat nici gustul, nici locul in sine. Ce sa mai: bucatarie fusion!! Of-of, mai-mai!

Bucatarul e un chef din Mauritius, Verdish Purdassee. Arata f. sic, mai ca ziceai ca e mascota locului, nu bucatarul.

Meniu:

• antreu: creveti 3 traditii Nota: 2 din 5
  
• supa de fructe de mare bouillabaise - am inteles de la un amic ca e originara din Marsilia, unde se pregateste cu peste. Era initial o mancare a saracilor, acum e aproape o delicatesa. Nota 2 din 5
  
• platou de peste si fructe de mare (poza din stanga): somon, creveti, scoici, calamar, andive, orez, mazare, ceapa verde si broccoli. Nota 3 din 5
  
• desert: briosa de ciocolata cu miez de ciocolata calda (vezi poza). Nota 2 din 5
• vinuri: Sarba, Sauvignon blanc, Feteasca alba si Riesling, toate de la Crama Girboiu. Nota 2.5 din 5

Locul mi s-a parut la fel de insipid ca si mancarea: peretii albi de spital si mobilierul verde praz, alb sau roz. Nota pentru atmosfera: 2 din 5

Cz: no vibe, restaurant pt snobi

P.S. (adica later edit :) )
1. am uitat sa va povestesc ca muzica a fost incredibila, cel putin la inceput: 3-4 melodii de la Bjork. Primul loc public in care aud Bjork.
2. m-am simtit ca la nunta. Felurile de mancare veneau dupa o ora de asteptare. Daca vedeti cate feluri au fost veti ajunge la cz corecta ca am stat acolo de la 7 seara la 24:00, ca antreul a venit dupa 2h :)))