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The trumpet and drop the jar

Friday I went by car to pick up my son, back from a minor operation to the foot.
It is not my habit to turn to Milan by car, too much traffic, too many bottlenecks - limited traffic zones, change of directions, road closures for work on the metro - I prefer to move with the media, unless it should go in places ill-served or in special cases like the one on Friday.
The proof of what I say is very simple: I own this car since 2004 and I've done 23,000 km. This means that, with rounding, I traveled about 3,300 miles a year, of which two thirds and one third on holiday, that is 1,100 kilometers, less than nine per day in the city.
When I go to make the cut at Renault, the mechanics laugh and tease me because he did not believe that so little progress in seven years, then watch the odometer and quickly become serious. "So true!" I say thinking I wanted to take the piss. Why
this rigamarole to kilometers, holidays and city? Simple, because even though it runs a little way and I happen to use the car and not once every ten to fifteen days, it always ends up that I find policeman, a policeman, the Highway Patrol and even the financial police that stops me. Yet I have never had a face like a thug or pimp, and much less to shady drug dealer. Indeed. My problem has always been to have the good-natured face, not by Vallanzasca. Maybe it is just that. Better to stop one that almost certainly will not give problems, instead of someone else who might pull out a knife and it all ends in disgust.
I think I'm one of the people, in relation to mileage, can boast the highest percentage of checks by the police.

Generally I do not care that much because, knowing that this is my destiny, they are up to ninety-nine times out of a hundred. Exactly, there is always one per cent that will ruin your life.
So Friday I go to get C. in Via Mauro Macchi. I make a piece of Corso Buenos Aires, and when I turn into Via Boscovich, I find it blocked by a tripod. Refurbishment of the pavements and road closed at the corner of Buenos Aires. How likely is it to find it would be closed within a year? I'd be up trecentossessantacinque. three hundred sixty-six if it was a leap year.
Patience, I will turn to the right a couple of bars later, in Casati, then will turn right again until you cross Via Boscovich. While
played on a Casati, just around the corner, I see two fighters, but I do not even shit to smear and then they are so quiet, more than anything else I would lose time. From Via Casati
right turn into via Lecco, mistake and then instead of continuing to Via Benedetto Marcello, turn right on Via San Gregorio. I'm tempted to do five or six feet in reverse to return via Benedetto Marcello, then I say: "No, let it be, is full of watchful waiting only that, how do they catch even the slightest shit now." Rearrange my lap, so it takes ... I'm back in Buenos Aires, I'm going to turn into Via Casati, but firefighters, who had not moved from the corner, this time I spotted and stop me. "And you thought! - I say to myself - it turns out that these do make me late. "
"We favor the license and the registration certificate, please?". At least they're polite, I think.
"Oh, but here's a big problem," says one. I know what the problem is. This is the revision. I was convinced to have to do this year, but I like a worm that gnawed at me for a while ', and now I'm sure he was right.
"I have to breach them, indeed, knows that you could not even move. It can only use the car to go to an authorized ". One hundred and sixty euro.
Usually there are two types of drivers: those who pray and begin to invent a thousand excuses, whine, do funny, fall from the clouds and those who pay and stop.
I, proud and touchy, I never humiliated anyone to pray. Never have I seen a policeman before tearing a fine not to sob stories, so do not make comedy look fine to me as if I were a man which does neither hot nor cold, and this is probably the only decent response from give to those who take a percentage of the misfortunes of others. What could care
brigades that I am unemployed, or who uses the car every two weeks, or it's going to take my son who can not walk?
Exactly, nothing.

PS: Contrary to all expectations, from Brescia drew. Would be in the studio tomorrow afternoon. Needless to say, the small lamp of hope which was about to go off was slightly brightened. It is not that shines like a beacon in the night, rather like a lantern in a mountain hut while it's dark outside and snowing.

I hope that Brescia is one of those people who are blinded by lights and cotillons , for my study - as is common practice throughout most of Europe - is in harmony with my apartment. Do not build in a corner room, but a large room well furnished with everything that can be used to work. It also the rest of the house is distinct from the study by an antechamber and a separate entrance.

What do I think or I hope? If part of those people who do not understand a thing, do not even understand what I do. If the hope it will open into something more, I can only know tomorrow.

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Lucky man

"I'm lucky," I keep repeating myself.

C. is a perfect child, as good as the bread, perhaps not excelled in school, but he plays the electric guitar as I dreamed of playing at his age.

E. is a force of nature: as stubborn as me, often bold, with an intelligence so quick that sometimes surprise me.

I'm lucky, I repeat. I am married to the same woman for twenty-two, thirty-three and I know we love each other with an almost morbid.
I'm lucky I still have enough hair to go from not peeled, as happens with my childhood friends, or as my father, one of the last survivors of the seventies who wore a simple carry-over.
I'm lucky, at least a week I have a bronchitis that does not want to go and last night I slept three hours. But I do not have to go to work and I can lounge around between computers and TV.
I'm lucky, in these years I could give everyone a peaceful and comfortable life and have never had need to get up before dawn to clean a street or mixing cement.
I'm lucky, so lucky to suffer for the job makes me feel that there is almost laughable.

You expect too much luck sooner or later you must return. With interest.

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No moral

There was this guy, call Fabio C. - Thirty years ago almost all were named Fabio, Claudio and Roberto. Only in my class, Fabio had four. - Low, large head curly hair that made it even more cumbersome, always place, "a boy perbenino," my mother would say. Too, we thought of the company. And company does not intend to gang, gang or something. Those pathetic assemblages now take only the dregs of the districts.
To join the company were not necessary ridiculous and unfortunate rites of initiation that mimic reality, moral and cultural well below even our dysfunctional reality. To join the company enough to be friends with someone who was already there and it does not matter if you were not cool, SGAM or not you had a Cagiva. You wanted to get the barrels? Well. Did not give a damn? Okay same. Did you visit them only occasionally? No problem, who's there. No raids, no bullies peers, only a quiet suburban life, motor, music, girls, guitars and lots of cold winter.
The proof of this was Fabio C. and others like him. Boys "to the postman" who mingled with other kids completely different social class, taste or cultural level.
But it was an almost automatic that the good guys were the target of jokes at times atrocious. Fabio C., for example, had a bright blue Garelli Gulp single speed, which probably kept clean and polished as his mother kept clean and polish the floors of the house. Sometimes, she appeared in the company, for scolding or delays ridiculous for not having already done their homework. It looked like a gnome: round like an apple, dall'andatura rocking and a head of blond curls that I strongly suspect be a wig.

short, Fabio C. was a maniac of his scooter. Also equipped with paper towels, cleaning now a slightly dull chrome, now in the rearview mirror, now the footrest of a few grains of dirt ground. Probably this is one day, his accomplice a distraction, someone has stuck a used condom on the throttle. You know something terrible, but it is also a kind of retaliation, a lesson in life, detailing the range of values \u200b\u200bdown to earth. The reaction of Fabio C. was the most predictable one might expect from a guy like him to suck immense disgust, nausea, and if it had not been in front of several girls, he probably would also tears. I still remember the tissue paper that she cleaned the knob better if someone had asked for the case of alcohol, sniffing repeatedly accelerating to go home with your thumb and forefinger, being careful to keep fingers well apart, with your little finger raised to 'as if it were unlikely to drink a cup of tea at my grandmother's birthday party.
The moral of all this? None.

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SMS RECEIVED FROM HEAVEN BY PROFESSOR . FORLI 'testimony

addition to by mail, sometimes the professor sends us by text message, the messages it receives from Serena, below we write someone. 01/18/2011 17:54 hours: carrying a suitcase is not too heavy WHO SHOULD NOT FACE A JOURNEY FROM TOO MANY SEASONS. Serena 24.12.2010 14:24 hours do not fit MANY THINGS WHY 'WE THE SMOOTH TOO. Serena 28.10.2010 15:23 hours every aspect of the created can 'pass on his love. 04/08/2010 16:06 hours Serena NOT REPEAT THE PARROT THAT 'THAT HAS NOT HEARD. Serena

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Hereafter

Clint Eastwood is a great director. It is because it has directed films like Mystic River, Million Dollar Baby, Gran Torino. It is because it has been questioned about the human condition, with a clear style, sharp, merciless. And it is, again, because he managed to build a second career that had already celebrated as an actor, he could no longer be said that had only two expressions: with and without hat.

We, on this blog, we talked about it in laudatory terms (for Gran Torino, in fact), so we had the idea to create another site, similar to "Before I look at you," and dedicated only to beautiful film, in which we used in place of Kevin as a unit of the Clint (project came to naught because, as noted, is much more interesting to write bad reviews than good).

is why regret to note that Eastwood, despite a golden moment of his career, he stumbles. It brings together a film banal, empty, trite. Hereafter, in fact, despite the usual praise criticume run, is a work that says nothing, absolutely nothing, the issue that should speak. That is not, as you might think from the title, Beyond the much-vaunted, life after death, etc., but rather the relationship of humans with this possibility. The whole film, in fact, revolves around the issue, but never reaches the desired bottom line, it being sadly - and unusually - anchored to the surface of the story.

three characters involved: a psychic (Matt Damon, quite credible) that hates to communicate with the dead, a journalist (Cecile De France) which carries the Hereafter during the famous Tsunami of 2004, then waking up in shock, and a boy (Frankie McLaren) who loses her twin brother and is desperate to get back in touch with him. Eventually, all will meet, in a move to Kieslowsky (the mold operation is decidedly European rhythms, and situations) that closes the story, and also the hopes of the audience.

Why, is it clear, we will remember this film for only the first ten, impressive, minutes, in which the computer is rebuilt the fury freak wave that shook Thailand, as if to reveal the inside, through fiction, because hundreds of television news had failed to live again: the gutted houses and vegetation destroyed, the bodies at the mercy of the current together with pieces of normalcy lost (as Cecile De France is in a coma under water, his eyes wide set a teddy bear). It was also the case for the Normandy landings of Saving Private Ryan (twenty minutes visceral monster before pistolotto an honest anti-war), or always in the Spielberg, the attack of the tripod in the War of the Worlds, a fictional one on September 11 handful of shots, that water shall be added later in yet another challenge with the aliens.

broken promises, cinema to lose. You do not understand why, for the sensitive, feel the spirits of the dead is a conviction, rather than a gift that pushed to give up fame as a medium for simple existence as a laborer, or what dark fascination leads the reporter to write afterlife instead of a book essay on Mitterrand agreed with his publisher. Nor do we share enough of the obsessive drive that moves the child above, orphaned brother (and mother-toxic, have come into a service center), desperately looking for him everywhere, wearing a hat, even venendone saved in key deus ex machina, an attack on the underground (London, 2005: There is some attention to current). And there is quite indifferent, ultimately, the same happy ending, with the baby finally makes contact with the deceased through the medium, rewarding him with the address of the journalist, the only one to have had similar experiences to her and therefore, there is suggested, can fall in love.

story is, on balance, loneliness, misunderstanding and desperate attempts to express themselves. But without the necessary pain that should accompany it. And with a whole series of captions avoidable: the jumble of charlatans known by the child in his wanderings, ouija expert Dr. Hereafter, that gives the journalist the material for the book, the long series of Italian cooking school attended by Damon to tow cook with fat and opera in the background. In addition, with the hole disappears, the original script where De France boyfriend with her at the hotel a few minutes before the tsunami, and after except for some unexplained miracle.

The afterlife is represented in harmlessly, with a kind of dark background on which to stand, diaphanous, the figures of the dead was not the central issue is sufficiently stereotyped.

bad.

INFORMATION

Hereafter

The sentence: "It 's even worse than Invictus, Mammamia"

Sconsigliatissimo: to anyone looking for a movie about death to anyone looking for a film about life, to anyone looking for a film by Clint Eastwood.

Rating: KKK

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By popular demand: the Tourist

It was not what I wanted to write, it seemed too trivial and obvious . Above all, I was not disappointed so much. But there is no friend, acquaintance or stranger on the street do not stop me and tell me: "The tourist sucks". So, it seems almost inevitable talk about it. Evil, of course. Why, I mean: maybe not so bad, but not beautiful. And with a lot of ideas that would be a shame neglect.

Patti clear, though: this is not a review, but a simple comment. Why do not you write a request here (if not signed and colleague, and also even), but for the mission. If not, what service book is?

So, we said: The tourist. First, it is a spy story, retro, glamorous players. Perfect for the 50s, not too modernized by the cast. It works in so far as all the films of this type. And the box office aside, sorry to the spectators certainly more Italians (Venetians in particular) because, as usual, uses to plunder the location, without worrying too much verisimilitude, as would be the case, half a century ago, any scene with cardboard.

Here, the cartoon. There's a lot in this film, beginning with the restaurants who have never sold as a specialty typical Venetian risotto scampi and champagne? And if you can agree that to chew rice and peas to Angelina Jolie is the ultimate in chic, yet no one has asked the director Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck (which looks amazing, has directed a masterpiece like The Lives of Others) of set his shooting in the lagoon. And again, the trains. A recurring nightmare of the entire first part of the operation. Before we hear a threatening voice that, at a station empty, the speaker of an unlikely local raves coming from Domodossola, then pretends he is the canard that, looking out the window just before arriving in Venice, you can see the dazzling Tuscan countryside (at a guess, a cinematic device to avoid to resume and Dolo Mirano).

On the other hand, assist the actors. Johnny Depp, who has accumulated two strangely tennis balls instead of the cheekbones (but is not botox, only grassume), and the above mentioned Mrs Pitt, here at home in the part of those who should not ask, do not exceed, should not interpret. Ah, maybe too thin (but probably to make it complementary all'imbolsito protagonist).

There is also, though not worth the excitement, a band of Italian actor, hardcover properly for the occasion. Marcorè blacks in the role of concierge-click, Christian De Sica in to corrupt inspector (a sort of neo-realism to the contrary) and, of course Nino Frassica in clothes detective, at least in the dubbing is performed in an absolute gem: with Depp on a ledge in escape from the bad, the calls with the manner of "Those of the Night", "No butt." And Hollywood is served.

The rest: surely some Italian actor not known to me (not even ask me to forward them through the maze of our Pallosa film) and a few holes in screenwriting segnalatomi post: a boat riddled with bullets that miraculously repairs itself in the next scene, Angelina down on deck after dark and leaves soon after, in the bright dawn of Venice, and the highlight, but I remembered that I, too, that the supersonic travel Giudecca-airport by boat in thirty seconds scarce. Stuff to teleport.

You say, and history? Well, you saw the movie, no need to spoil the plot reveals that the mysterious man who directs the moves of Jolie is actually Johnny Depp, who is then the same person she met apparently by train and goes to Venice , which is love, et cetera. The trick is to understand at least half an hour ahead of the closing credits, and does wonderfully with the useless part.

As for Kevin, however, you have to wipe a few days. There's Clint Eastwood in the halls.

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(Flavia)

Today we wish to witness the continued presence of Serena. Sunday night we were looking for documents, we have looked everywhere but to no avail, so I said "Serena, help me find the documents are important, they serve to Daddy "and ... after a while I went to see in a box (there was just left Pier) and the documents were LI 'IN BELLA VISTA. Yesterday's parents were Pier Serena is a great demonstration with them. In the living room at home mending an electrical machine (those cars that use the children) because it did not work, suddenly the car started nervously and alone, is playing fast and it's gone, my in-laws have looked everywhere but to no avail, the machine was not found. In the evening after searches in vain, my mother-in-law said to Serena "Serena, if you're playing with the toy car go ahead, but then plays what you want hole to find his grandfather, you know that my grandfather is like a child and the toy car she likes so much. " They went to sleep without finding the toy car. This morning, got up and the toy car was in the living room in a magazine. AND THEY WERE ALSO SEE THEM '. GRANDE SERENA, BUT NOT ONLY YOU ARE SURE THAT YOUR SONS AND DAUGHTERS ALSO DAMAGE BUT NOT unequivocal sign you notice.

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E 'for some time that not publish letters we receive, REMEDY NOW. AS YOU CAN READ MORE THAN THE MESSAGE OF SERENA, YOU ARE OTHER messages, this message has in the envelope, we want to REPEATED WITHOUT PROFIT, WE SEND THE PROFESSOR. THANKS PROF. THANKS FOR ALL THE TRUE HEART.