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The Magic Flute (Tröllflöjten, 1974)


Building celebrations Year Mozart "(last year was the" Year Sartre, "and absolutely did not work at all except for a couple of reissues dandruff and a congress of reheated), Fnac has decided to release on DVD adaptation of "The Magic Flute Ingmar Bergman that directed in 1974 for Swedish television.
always welcome anyone to take this little gem market, albeit at a relatively abusive and totally stripped of extras. Get closer with subtitles in Castilian (the translation is not particularly bad) to this vibrant production and it seems a luxury unquestionable and unwavering.
"The Magic Flute" is one of the most pampered and consistent production of Bergman. Made just before having to go into exile for a messy problem with the Swedish authorities (the fruit of which film was "The Serpent's Egg", by the way), the director was a Mozart with a capital, probably the best production on the gifted genius who has seen the cinema next to the always wonderful "Amadeus" by Milos Forman . Achieved mainly load the vast majority of its own tracks at the expense of authorial embrace wholeheartedly and with passion the original work, keeping roughly the narrative structure, character and coherence of the original text Masonic.
In "The Magic Flute" is set Bergman usual tension, but nevertheless get the game, madness, the spirit (the "forces", he said Strindberg). It's great to see how the text actually develops its own failed succeeding where works such as "These women! "or" A lesson of love. "inch One color measured at a distance from the actual text of the most healthy and awake (the insertion of posters / signs that highlight the text of the actors or take on life in the interior of the scenes are a prank Bergman even more realistic), and a quality really interesting interpretations configure some of the highlights of this release.
have to spend an evening with this movie, even if just to know in a way aesthetically unpayable the recesses of one of the most fascinating operas in history. probably not change anyone's life or impact on the viewer with strength of, say, "Person" or "Hour of the Wolf." But it is a unique cinematic experience available to everyone.

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Night Lost in Los Angeles

There is a moment in the boulevard to the east of the city where the Cadillacs of the great glories skid tarmac by a dream. Pretty girls who wanted to devote himself to film work served stale popcorn in theaters outside the city or dishwashers in the kitchen of the Hotel Savoy. Some, most, ended up making soft-porn movies to go through the Rialto Cinema in New York after felarle fears of a fat guy in an office in the suburbs. You know what I mean. The glory is a bad joke in this city, almost at all. Tonight

Nicholas Ray has had too much bourbon and is vomiting relentlessly dirty in the toilets of a reach us after the playing cards with Robert Aldrich. In a room on the fourth floor, Bette Davis crying while a white telephone throws against the wallpaper of the room. Now is not making dollars in box office. It's a damn beautiful woman, desperate, a woman with a broken heart I could hardly differ from the Rialto girls but for the size of your wardrobe. In the third shelf, endless rows of snow-white shoes on in a row.

I fell in love with a waitress in a small den that was the bottom of a smelly alley that did not stop raining. The girl in question had a poster of Bogart and I said:

- You see, Aaron? The types of cancer to actually have the shoes and are able to drink till you drop round and the next morning, take their children to school.

They say that when the ex-wife Bogart died during the filming of "The African Queen", he and John Houston stuck as sober farewell the next day was absolutely impossible to make a damn decision that deserved worthwhile. Bogart was a glorious rate, and when he left the circus (in a pine box, died with his boots on, as Anders Ek, another glorious that no one remembers) in Los Angeles there was not a fucking type that would not provide for him. Nor any woman who does not love him.

I wanted to escape from Los Angeles to Faro Island (with stops in Stockholm and Uppsala) but I was told that there were no tickets, the airport was full of leaks, there was a pauper with a saxophone covers of Stan Getz the airport entrance and might be better to think of something else.

I'm sitting at Sunset Boulevard and I know that I do not expect anywhere.

almost better that way.