If we wanted to put exquisite, in addition to Kantians, we would not be another to admit that the real is not the current content of our representations, but what is determined by the formal conditions of the possible experience.
But do not love so much.
The reality is simply everything that stains.
And the cinema committed to talking about the reality that surrounds him and hurt him leaves, in an indelible way, a fat of grease.
Laurent Cantet is clear and for years that the work of him lives in the dirt of society.
The class, with which he won the golden palm in 2008, is the best known, not necessarily the best, of the examples illustrating his way of understanding this bastard art that is cinema.
Arthur Rambo, the latest work of her, breathes the same yearly craving.
And, in his way, he already veteran director gave with this tape the day’s pattern.
Both the work of the Argentine principal Inés María Barrionuevo Camila will come out tonight as, and above all, the prodigy As in Heaven, of the Danish Tea Lindeburg, made clear, with or without Kant, that reality is there to stay.
And stain.
‘Arthur Rambo’ tells the ascent and subsequent fall of an immediate success writer (interpreted with ease by Rabah Nait Oufella) that, suddenly, it looks before the savage and very despicable tuits that he wrote under the friendly pseudonym of the
Title in honor, biunivocally, the wild poet of the XIX and the boxer no less contuming of the XX.
The film shines not so much for its originality when it comes to facing the issues it arouses (that if the identity in social networks, that if the provocation, that if the limits of the fun, that if the sense of irony, which
If the irony of meaning, that if the cancellation, that if yes, that if not) as, and this is the relevant, the agility, certainty and transparency with which we faced.
Cantet manages to illustrate as rarely before each of the contradictions that hide behind the apparent innocence of a mobile screen.
What matters is not so much the conclusion or the answers served as the ability of the film to seize with reality, confuse with it and, finally, stain the viewer’s retinas.
Count the fever, tells the foul breath of each of the doubts, the real account.
The camera moves between the bodies with the same lightness that does it between the tiny screens plagued by emoticons and nonsense until they reach the limit of, effectively, the real one.
The real, we have arrived, it is only unreal.
And so.
Shiny.
And then this is hard, ugly and pringo that time has given to call something orthopedic heteropathic and that, as so many other cancerous protuberances of reality, it is only injustice disguised of normality.
And here, in the first place, the resplendent work of Tea Lindeburg in AS in Heaven (as in heaven).
The Danish director travels at the end of the nineteenth century to narrate the story of a young woman (who gives life, attentive, flora ofelia Hofman Lindahl) the exact day that will change her life forever.
Convinced and prepared to be something different from what it is supposed to be according to tradition, religion, good customs and heteropathycate before, the bad birth of her mother will make everything change.
And not for good.
The director flees from proclamations to focus on what happens inside his protagonist.
The film runs, in this way, to skin flower, sensual and electrified by a staging as calculated as intimate.
On the one hand that effort to impress with each plane (things of Malick’s bad influence), what remains is a tenuous and deeply aggressive story at the same time;
A film that directly lives (rather than only recreate) within an orderly world that, suddenly, vanishes.
The result is a slightly ill film of its imperfections, but alive by, again, real.
And that, believe me, it looks very little.
Finally, and in tune with a full and very realistic day, Inés María Barrionuevo continues in Camila will leave tonight her more than solid and less than complacent work she started in 2004 with Atlantis.
The filmography arranged in four Barrionuevo films revolves around decided women and owners of themselves and owners also from each of the doubts of it.
They are women who live and swim against countercurrent.
It is an elliptical and rocky cinema that Bracea determined between climates, sensations and moods.
Now the story of a young woman (Nina Dziembrowki) is counted to be forced to move in the middle of the course to Buenos Aires following the inheritance, debts and brokenness of a dying grandmother.
Barrionuevo manages to compose a portrait of three generations of women without just moving from the face of the protagonist.
Despite a clumsy finish with moral manners, Camila … works with a clarity unusual for each of the shadows she announces.
It is combative cinema for extremely truthful;
It is cinema, and they are three, real.
It would be said even that it is cinema to Anti-Kantian for what is exercised to contradict the formal and very heteropathryal conditions of the possible experience.
That is, reality is changed.
We have arrived.
