Am auzit de multi ani de La Cena (cel din Rosetti), dar nu m-a impins niciodata curiozitatea sa-l incerc. Aseara, prin hazard, am ajuns la ei la masa. Si cum de bine ma pot abtine sa zic, dar de rau niciodata:
Decor: cu mult mai putin kitsch decat te-ai astepta.
Servire: oribila, personificata intr-un nene lesinat imbracat in blugi. Tipul statea cocotat pe o mobila aducandu-si aminte raar sa serveasca monosilabic.
Mancare: ok, dar la fel de blazata ca servirea; overpriced in raport cu calitatea.
sâmbătă, 26 martie 2011
duminică, 20 martie 2011
marți, 18 ianuarie 2011
marți, 20 iulie 2010
Metroul si deodorantul (exercitiu de imaginatie)
Printre regulile de circulat cu metroul ar trebui sa se introduca si: "Obligatoriu un dus pe zi si folosirea unui deodorant".
Din pacate aplicarea (enforcement) unei astfel de reguli apartine utopiei. Cum sa suporte un cost in plus nespalatii care utilizeaza metroul? Produc o externalitate negativa si un stimulent negativ (disincentive) pt decent mirositori, deci ar trebui sa suporte un cost in plus. Conform teoriei clasice.
Dar cum s-ar aplica asta? Sa controleze paznicii axilele calatorilor? S-ar putea introduce niste detectoare, un fel de porti care sa nu permita trecerea urat mirositorilor. De fapt i-as lasa sa treaca, doar ca in momentul in care senzorul ar detecta un miros peste limita admisa, l-as face sa emita niste semnale luminoase. Fara sunet, ca sa nu stresam nevinovatii. Rusinea de a fi detectat ca urat mirositor ar tr sa functioneze destul de bine ca stimulent pt utilizarea sapunului si deo-roll-ului.
Conform altei scoli, oamenii vor ajunge la un compromis mutual avantajos prin negociere si o retea de stimulente, nu printr-un cost suplimentar indus celui care produce externalitati nedorite. Exista o finalitate pragmatica la contextul asta? Ce as putea sa-i ofer nespalatului ca sa-l conving sa se spele, ceva care sa valoreze pt noi cam cat neplacerea mirosului urat, iar pt el sa valoreze suficient cat sa-l faca sa se spele. Nu-mi dau seama. Am o crampa la imaginatie.
Alte idei...
Din pacate aplicarea (enforcement) unei astfel de reguli apartine utopiei. Cum sa suporte un cost in plus nespalatii care utilizeaza metroul? Produc o externalitate negativa si un stimulent negativ (disincentive) pt decent mirositori, deci ar trebui sa suporte un cost in plus. Conform teoriei clasice.
Dar cum s-ar aplica asta? Sa controleze paznicii axilele calatorilor? S-ar putea introduce niste detectoare, un fel de porti care sa nu permita trecerea urat mirositorilor. De fapt i-as lasa sa treaca, doar ca in momentul in care senzorul ar detecta un miros peste limita admisa, l-as face sa emita niste semnale luminoase. Fara sunet, ca sa nu stresam nevinovatii. Rusinea de a fi detectat ca urat mirositor ar tr sa functioneze destul de bine ca stimulent pt utilizarea sapunului si deo-roll-ului.
Conform altei scoli, oamenii vor ajunge la un compromis mutual avantajos prin negociere si o retea de stimulente, nu printr-un cost suplimentar indus celui care produce externalitati nedorite. Exista o finalitate pragmatica la contextul asta? Ce as putea sa-i ofer nespalatului ca sa-l conving sa se spele, ceva care sa valoreze pt noi cam cat neplacerea mirosului urat, iar pt el sa valoreze suficient cat sa-l faca sa se spele. Nu-mi dau seama. Am o crampa la imaginatie.
Alte idei...
marți, 11 mai 2010
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.
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.
duminică, 25 aprilie 2010
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.
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.
vineri, 16 aprilie 2010
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.
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.
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