Bob Dylan, el huracan de la musica


Pistols shots ring out in the barroom night
Enter Patty Valentine from the upper hall
She sees the bartender in a pool of blood
Cries out "My God they killed them all"
Here comes the story of the Hurricane
The man the authorities came to blame
For something that he never done
Put him in a prison cell but one time he could-a been
The champion of the world.

Three bodies lying there does Patty see
And another man named Bello moving around mysteriously
"I didn't do it" he says and he throws up his hands
"I was only robbing the register I hope you understand
I saw them leaving" he says and he stops
"One of us had better call up the cops"
And so Patty calls the cops
And they arrive on the scene with their red lights flashing
In the hot New Jersey night.

Meanwhile far away in another part of town
Rubin Carter and a couple of friends are driving around
Number one contender for the middleweight crown
Had no idea what kinda sh*t was about to go down
When a cop pulled him over to the side of the road
Just like the time before and the time before that
In Patterson that's just the way things go
If you're black you might as well not shown up on the street
'Less you wanna draw the heat.

Alfred Bello had a partner and he had a rap for the corps
Him and Arthur Dexter Bradley were just out prowling around
He said "I saw two men running out they looked like middleweights
They jumped into a white car with out-of-state plates"
And Miss Patty Valentine just nodded her head
Cop said "Wait a minute boys this one's not dead"
So they took him to the infirmary
And though this man could hardly see
They told him that he could identify the guilty men.

Four in the morning and they haul Rubin in
Take him to the hospital and they bring him upstairs
The wounded man looks up through his one dying eye
Says "Wha'd you bring him in here for ? He ain't the guy !"
Yes here comes the story of the Hurricane
The man the authorities came to blame
For something that he never done
Put in a prison cell but one time he could-a been
The champion of the world.

Four months later the ghettos are in flame
Rubin's in South America fighting for his name
While Arthur Dexter Bradley's still in the robbery game
And the cops are putting the screws to him looking for somebody to blame
"Remember that murder that happened in a bar ?"
"Remember you said you saw the getaway car?"
"You think you'd like to play ball with the law ?"
"Think it might-a been that fighter you saw running that night ?"
"Don't forget that you are white".

Arthur Dexter Bradley said "I'm really not sure"
Cops said "A boy like you could use a break
We got you for the motel job and we're talking to your friend Bello
Now you don't wanta have to go back to jail be a nice fellow
You'll be doing society a favor
That sonofabit*h is brave and getting braver
We want to put his as* in stir
We want to pin this triple murder on him
He ain't no Gentleman Jim".

Rubin could take a man out with just one punch
But he never did like to talk about it all that much
It's my work he'd say and I do it for pay
And when it's over I'd just as soon go on my way
Up to some paradise
Where the trout streams flow and the air is nice
And ride a horse along a trail
But then they took him to the jailhouse
Where they try to turn a man into a mouse.

All of Rubin's cards were marked in advance
The trial was a pig-circus he never had a chance
The judge made Rubin's witnesses drunkards from the slums
To the white folks who watched he was a revolutionary bum
And to the black folks he was just a crazy nigger
No one doubted that he pulled the trigger
And though they could not produce the gun
The DA said he was the one who did the deed
And the all-white jury agreed.

Rubin Carter was falsely tried
The crime was murder 'one' guess who testified
Bello and Bradley and they both baldly lied
And the newspapers they all went along for the ride
How can the life of such a man
Be in the palm of some fool's hand ?
To see him obviously framed
Couldn't help but make me feel ashamed to live in a land
Where justice is a game.

Now all the criminals in their coats and their ties
Are free to drink martinis and watch the sun rise
While Rubin sits like Buddha in a ten-foot cell
An innocent man in a living hell
That's the story of the Hurricane
But it won't be over till they clear his name
And give him back the time he's done
Put him in a prison cell but one time he could-a been
The champion of the world.

This is about Rubin "Hurricane" Carter, a boxer who spent 19 years in jail for a murder Dylan felt he did not commit.
Carter was sentenced to life in prison for the murder of 3 white people who were gunned down at a bar in Paterson, New Jersey on June 17, 1966. Police were looking for 2 black men and pulled over Carter and his friend John Artis. They were sentenced to life in prison.
8 years into his incarceration, Carter sent Dylan a copy of his autobiography. Dylan visited him in prison, and convinced of his innocence, wrote "Hurricane." Lawyers at Columbia Records made Dylan change some of the lyrics to avoid lawsuits. Dylan went of Carter's prison in 1975 as a show of support. The visit brought a lot of attention to Carter's case. Touring with the Rolling Thunder Revue, which featured Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell and Roberta Flack, Dylan raised over $100,000 for Carter's defense at a Madison Square Garden concert the day after visiting his prison. A month later, they held another charity concert, Hurricane II, in the Astrodome. Dylan's efforts brought new publicity to Carter's case, getting him a new trial in 1976, where he was again convicted, with prosecutors claiming he killed the men in retaliation for a murder of a black man earlier that night.
Carter was not freed until 1984, when his conviction was finally overturned. Carter was the subject of the 1999 movie Hurricane, staring Denzel Washington as the boxer. The A-side of single is titled "Hurricane (part 1)." The B-side is "Hurricane (full version)." The characters mentioned in the song are real people. The line "He ain't no gentleman Jim" is a reference to "Gentleman" Jim Corbett, a white boxer in the 1800s known for his manners.

Gomorra a la vuelta de la esquina

La camara ¨cuenta¨. La violencia de la camorra napolitana es la posible Gomorra de San Pablo, Buenos Aires, Montevideo. La camara no se detiene, la mafia tampoco.

Luciana P.:
Creo que la peli es muy buena, le doy 4/5 Luchiestrellitas....:O)
Creo que tiene elementos super interesantes , por ejemplo el manejo de los espacios, como pone a la gente en categoria. Te lo explico, la escena que matan a los dos chicos que se robaron las armas. El personaje que los manda a matar, aparece en el techo. O cuando buscan las armas en ese bosque, la sensacion de estar perdidos, representado por ese bosque lleno de arboles iguales, me parecio genial.
Tambien cuando el que cobraba se va, despues de que entrega a su jefe, y pareciera como que sube una colina, esa idea de elevacion, de que se salvo.
En fin, la camara contando, lo cual me encanta, es super rico.
Otra elemento que ayuda a que la peli sea buena, es la evolucion, el cambio de los personajes, es esencial. Hace que la accion crezca.

siempre me voy a lo filosofico de las historias, no puedo olvidar la escena de la tv mostrando el glamour de la johansson con el vestido, que en verdad esta ensangrentado de sufrimiento de muchas personas, trabajo mal pago, explotacion, espionaje industrial, falsificacion, crimen.
tengo mucho para decir...tengo que poner algo en el blog

me llamo la atencion la falta de color, si pensamos que es una region tan soleada, era lo mismo que fuera blanco y negro, creo que es a proposito

la pelicula es sobre GENTE, sobre personas, pero nunca hay primeros planos abusivos

a priori le daria 3 sobre 5, siendo exigente

la manera de "contar" las historias, casi solo con camara testigo, casi documental, me encanto, porque respeta al espectador... mantiene el interes constante a pesar de que es larga, pero no te dice que tenes que pensar o sentir.

Luciana P.:
La luz es toda natural, no hay luz interior (a lo que voy es que no hay luz artificial, precticamente no hay faroles en el interior). Estan trabajando si no me equivoco con el iris de la camara abierto para que entre mas luz en los interiores, y eso quema un poco la luz en los exteriores (y eso mata un poco el color). La calidad del filmico es muy baja, si no me equivoco es fuji o alguna de esas, definitivamente no es Kodak.
La “camara en mano”, como decis vos estilo documental, es en planos medios a lo americano, (por debajo de las rodillas), a veces eso da la sensacion de gravedad, muchos directores optan por esto para sacar un poco al espectador de ese “ confort zone”, que estamos acostumbrados con el Steady cam.
Yo diria que el director agarro muchos elementos del DOGMA CINEMATOGRAFICO, no es dogma, pero practicamente se le pueden dar varios atributos de.
Creo que la historias fueron su mayor enfoque, tambien las actuaciones, las verdad, muy buenos actores, un par de excepciones, pero muy neorrealismo....


J.G. Ballard took the last flight to the sun

His later work continued to subject modern life to its own extremes, with a sinister corporate dystopia in 2000's Super Cannes, a middle-class revolution in 2003's Millennium People and a descent into consumerist fascism in 2006's Kingdom Come. But the label of science fiction writer still stuck, much to Ballard's irritation, partly as a way of "defusing the threat". "By calling a novel like Crash science fiction, you isolate the book and you don't think about what it is," he explained.

He kept the literary world at arm's length, and refused a CBE in 2003, pouring scorn on the honours system as a "Ruritanian charade that helps to prop up our top-heavy monarchy".

From The Guardian.


Sylvia Plath, esa tristeza

Conocí el trabajo de Sylvia Plath a través de otro poeta, Rafael Courtoisie, no hace mucho. Ella, como tantos, sufrió el sino maldito de la enfermedad de la tristeza. Y sin ella, habrían podido crear tantos y tantos escritores?

Sylvia Plath (Boston, 27 de octubre de 1932Londres, 11 de febrero de 1963) fue una escritora estadounidense especialmente conocida como poeta, aunque también es autora de obras en prosa, como una novela semi-autobiográfica, La campana de cristal (bajo el pseudónimo de Victoria Lucas), y relatos y ensayos.

Junto con Anne Sexton, Plath está reconocida como uno de los principales cultivadores del género de la poesía confesional iniciado por Robert Lowell y W. D. Snodgrass.


There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself---
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.

A gray wall now, clawed and bloody.
Is there no way out of the mind?
Steps at my back spiral into a well.
There are no trees or birds in this world,
There is only sourness.

This red wall winces continually :
A red fist, opening and closing,
Two gray, papery bags---
This is what I am made of , this and a terror
Of being wheeled off under crosses and a rain of pietas.

On a black wall, unidentifiable birds
Swivel thier heads and cry.
There is no talk of immortality among these!
Cold blanks approach us :
They move in a hurry.


El silencio de los culpables

Miles de indígenas han llamado a un paro amazónico en la selva peruana, desde el 9 de abril. El silencio de los medios peruanos al respecto no por esperable, es menos pasmoso. El reclamo es contra la destrucción del medio ambiente por parte de las empresas mineras, entre otras. Las concesiones de tierras continúan, sin respetar los derechos de los habitantes autóctonos y el derecho de la humanidad a proteger el ambiente, para mantener la vida en el planeta.


Volver o no volver, Gardel, Sabina

Con La Frente Marchita

de Joaquin Sabina

Sentados en corro merendábamos, besos y porros
y las horas pasaban deprisa entre el humo y la risa.
Te morías por volver con la frente marchita cantaba Gardel
y entre citas de Borges, Evita bailaba con Freud,
ya llovió desde aquel chaparrón hasta hoy.

Iba cada domingo a tu puesto del rastro a comprarte
carricoches de miga de pan, soldaditos de plata.
Con aguita de un mar andaluz quise yo enamorarte
pero tú no tenías más amor que el del Río de la plata.

Duró la tormenta hasta entrados los años ochenta
cuando el sol fue secando la ropa de la vieja Europa.
No hay nostalgia peor que añorar lo que nunca jamás sucedió
mándame una postal de San Telmo, adiós cuídate
y sonó entre tú y yo el silbato del tren.

Iba cada domingo a tu puesto del rastro a comprarte
monigotes de miga de pan, caballitos de lata.
Con aguita de un mar andaluz quise yo enamorarte
pero tú no tenías más amor que el de río de la plata.

Aquellas banderas de la patria de la primavera
a decirme que existe el olvido esta noche han venido
te sentaba tan bien esa boina calada al estilo del Ché
Buenos Aires es como contabas, hoy fui a pasear
y al llegar y me puse a gritar ¿donde estás?

Y no volví más a tu puesto del rastro a comprarte
corazones de miga de pan, sombreritos de lata.
Y ya nadie me escribe diciendo no consigo olvidarte
ojalá que estuvieras conmigo en el Río de la plata
Y no volví más a tu puesto del rastro a comprarte
carricoches de miga de pan, soldaditos de lata.
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