What Happens If You Have Herpes And Dont Treat It

Moulin Rouge! (Luhrmann, Baz, 2001) Tomas


Some movies saved our lives.

not love them because we showed the penultimate fight of man against God, or to be part of collective fetish movie buff, or for belonging to one of the greats. No. We love some tapes because we caught her by the shoulders, pushed us against life, we took to the streets to fight.

As I began writing about the latest "Moulin Rouge!" (The first version of John Houston , has its pluses and minuses), one is tempted to start a backfire on what fabulous daring aesthetic or formal. But not today. Not tonight. Today we do not want to prove to anyone how much I know about movies (that is, how much I'm wrong with my criticism) and I discuss the despair of the artist. This night will not talk about Bergman, Kiarostami or , or Von Trier .

Tonight I confess that I have re-entered again in the old Moulin, dear reader, friend lectriz. Tonight I would like to take an absinthe with you, talk about freedom, love, beauty and all those other issues that never try in this blog because usually I'm too busy agonizing and desangustiándome as so that (just for a second) you can see me fucking down from the pulpit on which pontifical. Not a question of self-mutilation to offer a bit of entertainment. It's just that Oblivion Andújar is teaching me to your blog (jassitup, Take a eye) there is another way of writing for the world. Tonight

not want to be a doctor or a scientist or anything like it. Surrender. Tonight I want to be what I am really (an amateur theater director, a tad maudlin) to return to Moulin, where I have always been well received and where, year after year, I have learned to grow up and fight my concept of passion. Of freedom. Love. Always escape forward, refusing absolutely to convictions, sending to hell's own truths, writing plays. Write

plays as the company tests them, write more and more scenes, complete texts of traps, tricks, escape to the theater, to be again the old musician Sithar, steal the girl to the Duke, return to the theater and write in the theater, looking askance if the moon rises over Paris and you have to jump to the roof to dance. Tune, of course. Absinthe drink, always drink more absinthe, drinking absinthe with green eyes. Falling in love with Nicole Kidman (this is not particularly difficult), and yet understand that love has an expiration date. It may not be a terrible disease, but is simply a mix of mortgages, bills payable, obnoxious children, expensive cars, jobs psychotic. But (alas) now Nicole Kidman is still , and then the theater shaking and your story (which you write, rehearse the actors) is folded in half and all becomes equal. But nothing is the same, dammit.

Everything is tragedy in "Moulin Rouge." Prostitutes envious that whisper in the corners, the strange Zidler proclaiming that the show must go on, top hats who fall into the void as suicide bombers. The poor Lautrec singing "Nature Boy" (a song that sounded in my novel "Izar" in one bar of Freedom 8). Everything is tragedy and yet there are so many true in every frame, there is a weird force in all that seems to get that film is film and not a pen for reheating.

The guys in my company are assembling a musical ("Artists") which is my Moulin Rouge Moulin Rouge without. I get excited when sitting in the back row of seats, we watch dance, putting so much effort that they seem to defy the madness. The text is crap compared to the choreography they are building. They are doing real spectacle. They have much more merit than the moth-eaten shows of the Gran Vía of talking on the post of Pandur. Are they, are young and beautiful, and Moulin Rouge are building my leaving the skin on stage.

start by saying that some films saved our lives.

Today I have seen her dancing on stage, I've seen everything up from scratch, I have been pushed back inside the Moulin. And hell, let me confess that I felt free, I felt alive. Tomorrow

again be very pedantic and very cocky. Again pontificating about films. But today I felt, for the first time in many years, such as Christian in Moulin Rouge, saying: "This will be our secret song, a song that, no matter what happens, always remember that we love. "

Violet Dark Red Hair Colour

Pandur and other demons

I miss Tomas Pandur . Maybe I should start by saying that. Not even a month ago I went to her latest show (" One hundred minutes "at the Centro Cultural de la Villa) and I feel a little orphan. When Tomas Pandur gets off the stage to me I feel a sadness and a remoteness that has no limits. It's kind so far occur the day to stop projecting "Saraband" in theaters in Madrid (still risk for her in the Little Film Studio), or what will happen the day that Jose Luis Alvin stop doing columns.
In my last article on Pandur strong emphasis on subversion in the provocation, in habitual vomiting. It is a way of approaching tremendísima playwright. I myself fell into the topic of topic and let myself be carried away by passion and violence after watching "Hell" categorically and wonderful work. Now, a month after "One hundred minutes," the work just digested (sometimes I think my guess about it is never exhausted), one would speak of Pandur as desperate man, as a theatrical sadness without limit. Perhaps it was the Bosnian war (on which so often floor lecture here) or maybe it was a necessity to have criminal histories. Pandur
just causes fear to not be heard. Many say they have invented a new theatrical language, which I seem to be true (the front is the front, and has been making art since he wore diapers Pandur), and many say they are just doing a half-tame theater way between the Cremaster Cycle by Matthew Barney and video screenings of La Fura Dels Baus . I think that Pandur is building something great, a sort of collage / theater compulsively use the soundtracks of the films of Kubrick and authentic manga out of the scenic moments. A woman dressed as a bride who cries when listening to a phone in "Hell." A man breaks to mourn in the middle of the introductory dinner "One hundred minutes." Scenic moments. Ten seconds, one minute, a short fragment inserted into the work and getting the viewer to experience the real passion. Pandur spinning those moments with unsurpassed mastery. It is capable of filling a coherent narrative without too much work (as the adaptation of Dostoyevsky is, at least, intriguing) based on those little "emotional shock", is able to take the very center of your pain. Something that very few artists are capable of doing.
Gossips say that you are working on an adaptation of "Wings of Desire" in the company of Nacho Duato . Certainly, to become true, Pandur dramatically exceed (or even embarrassing) Wenders film . I walk through the streets of Madrid looking to see your name again on posters, in search of a new breath theatrical smash of a fucking time music library from the Gran Via