terça-feira, 30 de abril de 2013

Vinte Mil Léguas Submarinas (Júlio Verne)

domingo, 28 de abril de 2013

por trinta dinheiros francisco vaz brasil

por trinta dinheiros
francisco vaz brasil

e a mãe declarou:
“estou sem braços
sem pernas,
sem cabeça, sem nada...
levaram tudo de mim.”

o pai e a irmã, mudos, paralisados
-  estupefatos, desfeitos sobre o sofá

este é um quadro tétrico
pintado em uma casa
em são bernardo do campo – são paulo;

e, na parte da frente da casa, 
funciona o consultório
de uma dentista, 47, 
que atendia a uma cliente
e foi surpreendida por quatro facínoras
e obrigada a entregar seu cartão bancário
aos bandidos...

dois foram ao banco;
e dois ficaram ameaçando as vítimas;

lá, na conta, disponíveis,
apenas trinta dinheiros...

e eles voltaram,
com o diabo no couro, enlouquecidos
e, em represália, os fedepês...

jogaram a dentista no sofá
e a incendiaram com álcool,
sem dó, nem piedade...
- covardes, cachorros, monstros!!!

e, se foram
com os trinta dinheiros...
sem serem incomodados

- a dentista era...
arrimo de família...

tristeza, revolta
e,  muitos porquês
invadem o peito
dos brasileiros...

e a segurança?
e a segurança?
- que segurança?

a constituição revogou
o direito à vida!
- toda a propriedade
doravante poderá ser invadida;
os bens e a vida dos seres
poderão ser retirados,
sem prévio aviso,
por bandidos, ladrões e assassinos cruéis!

sem direito à segurança,
consultórios, pequenas lojas e quiosques,
se quiserem continuar atuando,
terão que contratar sua segurança

- porque o estado é inapto, inerme
incompetente, corrupto e alienado
e até seu superior tribunal federal
não terá mais poderes (será Dr. Teori?)

que conste nos autos que:
- condeno o estado de São Paulo
a pagar pensão vitalícia à família
da dentista assassinada,
com a devida assistência médico-social.

está na hora
de os governantes
e políticos, donos de  trustes e cartéis,
tomarem vergonha na cara.
Afinal recebem uma fortuna
para apenas ficarem brincando
de ir às plenárias e falarem um monte
de merda ao povo que os elegeu!

Dê-se ciência e Cumpra-se!

sábado, 27 de abril de 2013

Tribeca Diary: 'The Kill Team' by Joel Arnold

Tribeca Diary: 'The Kill Team'
by Joel Arnold

April 24, 2013

Writer Joel Arnold is surveying the scene at the Tribeca Film Festival, which runs in New York City through April 28. He'll be filing occasional dispatches for Monkey See.
At Tribeca over the weekend, I was initially reluctant to seek out The Kill Team, a documentary focused on American soldiers charged in the 2010 murders of three Afghan civilians — this, after a week when senseless violence felt especially close to home.
I was eventually persuaded to see it, though, because it posed a question about someone trying to do good when he became witness to such violence: How could a military whistle-blower morally right enough to report the murder of innocents also be wrong enough to be charged with the same crimes?
The Kill Team
  • Director: Dan Krauss
  • Genre: Documentary
  • Running Time: 79 minutes
Not rated; violent images, intense scenes and language
It's not the only question, or even the most relevant one, when civilians die in cold blood, but it's the question that drives this uneasy and essential exploration of mission drift, dehumanization and abdicated responsibility.
Spc. Adam Winfield is the film's primary subject, a skinny kid from Florida with a big heart and dreams — since he was young — of following his dad's example and joining the Army. That's one version of Adam, anyway, but one that appears only in photographs and in the tearful accounts of Adam's parents, Emma and Christopher.
Facing military trial for his actions in May 2010 and charged with the premeditated murder of Mullah Adahdad, an unarmed Afghan, the Adam onscreen is consumed with anxiety, his face grayed from sleepless nights. He flatly admits to his depression, and if he had his way he might barely defend the charge. But where Adam is defeated, his parents are outraged, and a palpable sense of injustice pervades Adam's pretrial meetings. He wouldn't be there if someone had listened to him months earlier.
Privileged with access to the other soldiers in Adam's unit, director Dan Krauss conveys the anxious mindset of the newly deployed in their own words. Video taken in Kandahar during Adam's deployment shows them waiting around, talking about being bored, and going out on patrol hoping for something to happen. Nothing much would, until they'd be attacked and someone would be injured. Then it would all be over, and they'd be back to waiting for an attack.
It just didn't live up to the hype, as one specialist says.
That changed when their squad leader was hit by an IED, and Staff Sgt. Calvin Gibbs took over. In January 2010, Christopher received panicked communications from his son that things had gone wrong. Over Facebook chat, Adam said they were murdering people. Gibbs, the new squad leader, had introduced the unit to ways of getting kills — like planting found weapons on the unarmed — and Adam's fellow soldiers, Andrew Holmes and Jeremy Morlock, had put the tactics into practice.
In describing their kills, Morlock and Holmes are less emotional, even willing to justify their actions. If Morlock's detached description of how he staged the murder of 15-year-old Gul Mudin doesn't disturb viewers, the photos they took of the body will.
Krauss captures Adam's isolation and his parents' powerlessness in being able to help their son. In one harrowing scene, Christopher wonders if he could have done more — he called agency after office to report the incident, and he was ignored or told there was nothing that could be done.
Then there's Emma, who wonders when Adam is offered a plea deal of eight years what his options were — try to hold out, or speak up, and to whom? Over months, Gibbs found more willing participants interested in getting a kill. When it was clear Adam wasn't one of them, Gibbs threatened him directly.
It might be his word against his commander's and that of the 30 other soldiers. It might be his life. On that crucial day on patrol with Morlock and Gibbs, when the two encountered Mullah Adahdad and decided to get another kill, Adam says, he fired his gun away from the victim. But he didn't stop his colleagues.
For their parts, Morlock and Holmes aren't on camera to exonerate Adam. They voice feeling abandoned by a system that had trained them to kill and punished them when they did. Even Spc. Justin Stoner, whose report of an assault by Gibbs' cadre led to the investigation that outed the unit, says he wished he hadn't snitched — the men were doing what they were trained to do.
There are many parts of The Kill Team that provoke outrage, and the film doesn't try to simplify the issue or assign the kind of blame that might assure viewers these atrocities were the actions of a few isolated individuals and not a foreseeable result of a systemic problem.
The narrow focus on Adam's trial, though, means Kill Team ultimately doesn't try to deliver a wider critique, letting the most unsettling idea in the film be expressed implicitly: If it's this simple for soldiers to go off-mission and perpetrate crimes without notice, could it be happening elsewhere? The answer is probably yes.

In 'Paradise,' Pursuing Something Less Than Love by Mark Jenkins

In 'Paradise,' Pursuing Something Less Than Love

April 25, 2013

The opening sequence of Paradise: Love doesn't really have anything to do with what follows, but it does establish director Ulrich Seidl's unflinching eye. At a pavilion somewhere in Austria, a group of cognitively challenged children, many apparently with Down syndrome, ride bumper cars under the supervision of Teresa (Margarethe Tiesel). There's no hint of sentimentality, no attempt at reassurance.
In fact Teresa, a corpulent middle-aged divorcee with a surly teenage daughter, clearly needs a vacation — and the Alps or the Baltic won't do. After a consult with a hedonistic pal, Inge (Inge Maux), Teresa heads for a Kenyan resort to enjoy the attentions of the well-built young men who line up just beyond the ropes claiming most of the hotel's beach for paying guests only.
Co-written by Seidl and his regular collaborator Veronika Franz, Paradise: Love is startlingly frank if narratively underdeveloped. It picks up the theme of the filmmaker's 2007 Import/Export, in which characters cross between East and West — specifically between Austria and Ukraine — in search of work. This time, he observes a North-South transaction, with only one side in it for the money.
The tourists don't exactly hire the locals, yet the subject of cash soon arises, sometimes subtly but often not. As in Heading South, French director Laurent Cantet's 2005 film on the same subject, older women use their financial power to replace faded sexual allure. The men rely on physical beauty — and don't necessarily bother to be charming.
While the women are more interested in niceties, they can be condescending and even racist. Before hitting the beach, Teresa and a friend cackle while insisting that a bartender parrot the German names of foodstuffs whose shininess reminds them of his skin.
Then it's time for more carnal pursuits. The first gigolo Teresa encounters is too abrupt, and she flees. She's happier with the dreadlocked Munga (nonprofessional actor Peter Kuzungu), who's gentler and never asks for anything for himself. (He does, it will transpire, have an intriguingly large number of relatives who need urgent medical care.)
It might seem that, once she becomes disillusioned with Munga, Teresa would have had enough of the hustle. But she keeps pursuing her notion of a holiday romance until a raunchy scene with a male stripper — echoing one with a female prostitute in Import/Export — reveals the hopelessness of her quest.
Teresa's doggedness parallels the movie's own. Paradise: Love would be more compelling if it had a second act in which either its protagonist or one of her boy toys came to some sort of realization. Instead, Seidl's strategy is to reiterate and escalate, which is finally more exhausting than illuminating. If nothing else, the film's second half proves Tiesel's daring and dedication as an actor.
The director has a background in documentary, where he developed instincts that serve him well. Strikingly photographed by Wolfgang Thaler and Ed Lachman, who also shot Import/Export, the movie includes some striking real-world sequences. When Teresa and her giggly friends go to watch crocodiles at feeding time, it's a metaphor for voraciousness that also works as sheer exotic spectacle.
Partially improvised, Paradise: Love began as movie about three female relatives on separate (and disparate) vacations. It snowballed into a trilogy, with the forthcoming Paradise: Faith (about a missionary) and Paradise: Hope (about a diet camp) as separate films.
Perhaps those installments will be shapelier, with stronger resolutions to their premises. But it's unlikely that they'll be more audacious than this exploration of European sex tourism.


Pain & Gain: Michael Bay's Suffering Fools by Scoyy Tobias

Pain & Gain: Michael Bay's Suffering Fools
by Scoyy Tobias

April 25, 2013

For Michael Bay, the director of Armageddon and the Transformers movies, to comment on the excesses of American culture would be a little like — well, Michael Bay commenting on the excesses of American culture.
And yet that's exactly what he does with Pain & Gain, a stranger-than-fiction yarn about a South Florida crime spree that points and snickers in the direction of precisely the supersized grotesquerie that's long been Bay's stock-in-trade. He blankets the film in a tone of smug self-awareness that obscures everything but its bald hypocrisy.
A modest little comedy by Bay's standards — and an unwieldy behemoth by any other's — Pain & Gain gets some early comic mileage out of the get-rich-quick aspirations of a musclehead who believes he's entitled to a big, steroidal hunk of the American dream. This would be Mark Wahlberg, channeling the dim naivete he brought to his starry-eyed young porn star in Boogie Nights, as Daniel Lugo, a pumped-up Miami gym trainer who wants more from life than a crummy apartment and a used Fiero. His job brings him close to the vanilla-scented elite, but only close enough for a seductive whiff before the next monied client walks through the door.
Inspired by a motivational speaker (Ken Jeong) who talks of "doers" and "don't-ers" before skipping the next yacht out of town, Daniel sees an angle when a client, sandwich-shop magnate Victor Kershaw (Tony Shalhoub), brags about the millions he has stuffed in offshore bank accounts.
Daniel recruits two other gym rats — born-again cocaine fiend Paul Doyle (Dwayne Johnson) and phallically challenged 'roid-abuser Adrian Doorbal (Anthony Mackie) — as partners for a crude smash-and-grab job. All the three have to do is kidnap and sedate Kershaw, get him to sign over his lucrative accounts and release him like a fleeced sheep.
Things do not, you'll be startled to hear, go as planned — mainly because the planners lack the collective brainpower to knock over a lemonade stand. They survive (and thrive) for as long as they do only through brute force and moral vacancy, a potent combination for criminal mischief-makers. But the three men are incapable of long-term strategizing, which seems right for drug-enhanced muscleheads: They can grasp the immediate gains of bigger bodies and available women, but can't visualize a future that will inevitably turn them into Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler.
Working from Pete Collins' true-crime book, Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely's screenplay uses the multinarrator effect of films like Martin Scorsese's Casino to get inside the conspirators' empty heads while Bay's camera lays out their music-video dreams.
When Pain & Gain's caper is still in the planning stages, Wahlberg's excited monologues about America — a country that started with "13 scrawny colonies" before becoming the beefed-up juggernaut it remains today — can be a gas. The actor has a talent, after all, for investing even rogues like Daniel with a childlike innocence that's oddly winning.

But as the film grinds along, Bay's exhausting supply of macho consumerist images — from the fleets of Lamborghinis to the low-angle buffet of South Beach hard bodies — undercut the film's attempts at social commentary. He's the last person in Hollywood who has any business decrying the consequences of a culture that encourages taking shortcuts and living large. It's impossible to leave the film believing that Daniel's intentions were corrupt; with Bay telling the story, it's just his execution that was lacking.
This is Bay's attempt to make Fargo, but without the moral ballast of Frances McDormand's pregnant cop around to personify the virtues of a simple, decent, well-proportioned life. The bodies pile up — and for what, the film asks, just as McDormand does in the back of a cruiser when the case has come to a bloody end. "For what?" is a rhetorical question in Fargo. In Pain & Gain, the wages of murder and sin have a luxurious appeal that even Daniel's downfall can't diminish.