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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Concerning The Bodyguard

Concerning the Bodyguard from Kasra Farahani on Vimeo.

www.kasrafarahani.com

Representation:
Jason Burns and Peter Dodd of United Talent Agency || 310.273.6700
Jill McElroy of Management 360 || 310.272.7000

SYNOPSIS:
Based on the short story of the same name by Donald Barthelme (originally published in the New Yorker Magazine in 1978), and read by author Salman Rushdie, “Concerning the Bodyguard” is a story about power, conspiracy, and the overthrow of a dictator in an unknown Near Eastern country. With Salman Rushdie’s reading as the only audio in the film, the images bring to life a series questions being posed by an omniscient narrator about the views and loyalties of a bodyguard, among a group of bodyguards entrusted with the protection of an important and dubious leader. The film explores the nuances of this relationship as well as shows what can potentially happen when a bodyguard intentionally or unintentionally relaxes his guard.

CREDITS
C R E W
Director.................................................................Kasra Farahani
Producers..............................................................Jose Nunez, Zamin Mirza
Co-Producer.........................................................Marthinus Lamprecht
Associate Producer..............................................Adam Gould
Editors...................................................................Tyler Nelson, Anton Capaldo-Smith
Director Of Photography......................................Alexander Alexandrov
Art Director...........................................................Callie Andreadis
Costume Designer................................................Anna Seltzer
Prop Masters........................................................Rachel Kondrat, Melissa Harrison
Original Music.......................................................Annabelle Cazes
Casting Directors..................................................Paul Head, Desiree Mandelbaum
Animation..............................................................Jessica Poon
Colourist................................................................Aaron Peak
C A S T
The Principal................Sion Ebrahimi
The Bodyguard.............Junes Zahdi
The New Bodyguard....Billy Khoury
The Driver.....................Zaid Abro
Bodyguard 2.................Alen Matters
Bodyguard 3.................Salman Nisar
Bodyguard 4.................Jason Eftimoski
Bodyguard 5.................Gavin Sindher
Bodyguard 6.................Ian VerdunIroning
Lady.................Lisa Goodman
Mistress.......................Ayden Mayeri
Bearded Man 1.............Abdi Zadeh
Bearded Man 2.............Saman Arjamand
Bearded Man 3.............Zubin Zehtab
Bearded Man 4.............Roozbeh Zehtab
Bearded Man 5.............Zamin Mirza
Bearded Man 6.............Daniel Schuman
Representation
Jason Burns : UTA
Peter Dodd : UTA
Jill McElroy : Management 360

John Adams - Scheherazade.2

Há momentos em que as coincidências acontecem. A verdade é que já tinha comprado bilhetes para este concerto quando li o livro do Salman Rushdie (já com tradução portuguesa) mas agora que volto a pensar nisso, Xerazade e os seus Jinns andam a aparecer bastante na minha vida. Diz a apresentação do concerto:

Essential American composer John Adams brings his own take on storytelling to the Barbican including a new dramatic symphony for violin and orchestra.

Performed by close collaborator and new music champion Leila Josefowicz, Adam’s latest work takes the idea of the original Scheherazade into the present day and “imagines a modern woman storyteller/hostage whose strength of character and powers of endurance are tested over and over”. There are more traditional tales to be told in the first half with Ravel’s youthful ballet score Mother Goose, featuring Sleeping Beauty, Tom Thumb and Beauty and the Beast.

Para a semana vou, então, ouvir "Scheherazade.2" de John Adams, um dos meus compositores contemporâneos favoritos, dirigida pelo próprio, com uma primeira parte dedicada a Ravel. A peça teve estreia mundial em Nova Iorque com Alan Gilbert a dirigir a New York Philharmonic e está aqui abaixo a partir do minuto 55.

Leila Josefowicz is the soloist in the World Premiere of Scheherazade.2 by John Adams. Also featured is The Enchanted Lake by Anatoly Lyadov and Petrushka by Igor Stravinsky. Music Director Alan Gilbert conducts. The program is hosted by Alec Baldwin and produced by Mark Travis.

 

00:00:00: Billboard and intro to Lyadov
00:02:00: LYADOV: The Enchanted Lake
00:09:05: Back-announcement and intro to Stravinsky
00:11:39: STRAVINSKY: Petrushka
00:47:20: Back-announcement and intro to Adams
00:55:45: ADAMS: Scheherazade.2
01:44:59: Back-announcement and credits
TRT: 01:47:15

Les Djinns

Depois de ler o último de Salman Rushdie, "Two Years Eight Months and Twenty-eight Nights", ou seja mil e uma noites, e de o ter ouvido ler um pouco e falar do livro aqui, parece-me apropriado ouvir o poema sinfónico para piano e orquestra de César Franck 'Les Djinns', inspirado pelo poema do mesmo nome das 'Orientales' de Victor Hugo. A música experimenta o mesmo ritmo mágico e noturno do poema, transporta-nos com as criaturas que atravessam a prosa de Rushdie, o que é um bom motivo para o lerem, abaixo do vídeo.

Murs, ville,

Et port,

Asile

De mort,

Mer grise

Où brise

La brise,

Tout dort.

Dans la plaine

Naît un bruit.

C'est l'haleine

De la nuit.

Elle brame

Comme une âme

Qu'une flamme

Toujours suit !

La voix plus haute

Semble un grelot.

D'un nain qui saute

C'est le galop.

Il fuit, s'élance,

Puis en cadence

Sur un pied danse

Au bout d'un flot.

La rumeur approche.

L'écho la redit.

C'est comme la cloche

D'un couvent maudit ;

Comme un bruit de foule,

Qui tonne et qui roule,

Et tantôt s'écroule,

Et tantôt grandit,

Dieu ! la voix sépulcrale

Des Djinns !... Quel bruit ils font !

Fuyons sous la spirale

De l'escalier profond.

Déjà s'éteint ma lampe,

Et l'ombre de la rampe,

Qui le long du mur rampe,

Monte jusqu'au plafond.

C'est l'essaim des Djinns qui passe,

Et tourbillonne en sifflant !

Les ifs, que leur vol fracasse,

Craquent comme un pin brûlant.

Leur troupeau, lourd et rapide,

Volant dans l'espace vide,

Semble un nuage livide

Qui porte un éclair au flanc.

Ils sont tout près ! - Tenons fermée

Cette salle, où nous les narguons.

Quel bruit dehors ! Hideuse armée

De vampires et de dragons !

La poutre du toit descellée

Ploie ainsi qu'une herbe mouillée,

Et la vieille porte rouillée

Tremble, à déraciner ses gonds

Cris de l'enfer! voix qui hurle et qui pleure !

L'horrible essaim, poussé par l'aquilon,

Sans doute, ô ciel ! s'abat sur ma demeure.

Le mur fléchit sous le noir bataillon.

La maison crie et chancelle penchée,

Et l'on dirait que, du sol arrachée,

Ainsi qu'il chasse une feuille séchée,

Le vent la roule avec leur tourbillon !

Prophète ! si ta main me sauve

De ces impurs démons des soirs,

J'irai prosterner mon front chauve

Devant tes sacrés encensoirs !

Fais que sur ces portes fidèles

Meure leur souffle d'étincelles,

Et qu'en vain l'ongle de leurs ailes

Grince et crie à ces vitraux noirs !

Ils sont passés ! - Leur cohorte

S'envole, et fuit, et leurs pieds

Cessent de battre ma porte

De leurs coups multipliés.

L'air est plein d'un bruit de chaînes,

Et dans les forêts prochaines

Frissonnent tous les grands chênes,

Sous leur vol de feu pliés !

De leurs ailes lointaines

Le battement décroît,

Si confus dans les plaines,

Si faible, que l'on croit

Ouïr la sauterelle

Crier d'une voix grêle,

Ou pétiller la grêle

Sur le plomb d'un vieux toit.

D'étranges syllabes

Nous viennent encor ;

Ainsi, des arabes

Quand sonne le cor,

Un chant sur la grève

Par instants s'élève,

Et l'enfant qui rêve

Fait des rêves d'or.

Les Djinns funèbres,

Fils du trépas,

Dans les ténèbres

Pressent leurs pas ;

Leur essaim gronde :

Ainsi, profonde,

Murmure une onde

Qu'on ne voit pas.

Ce bruit vague

Qui s'endort,

C'est la vague

Sur le bord ;

C'est la plainte,

Presque éteinte,

D'une sainte

Pour un mort.

On doute

La nuit...

J'écoute : -Tout fuit,

Tout passe

L'espace

Efface

Le bruit.

Mr Rushdie talks.

Salman Rushdie reads from his new novel Two Years Eight Months and Twenty-eight Nights, before going on to discuss it in more detail. Why was it the book he needed to write next, emotionally? What books did he consume in his childhood? Why does he think that Charles Dickens would have loved Twitter?

A relaxed, insightful and fun conversation with one of the world's great storytellers.

 

www.vintage-books.co.uk/books/1910702…eight-nights/

Joseph Anton (depois de lido).

Há em "Joseph Anton" de Salman Rushdie coisas que me interessam, emocionam, tocam: a vida de um escritor, o mundo que o rodeia, outros escritores, a luta pela liberdade de expressão, os erros que tenta justificar, a turbulenta vida emocional, a relação com a política, a ascensão do fundamentalismo. Embora perceba a escolha da terceira pessoa, criando algum distanciamento, algum efeito adicional de novelização, não tenho a certeza que não se torne ocasionalmente confusa.

Diga-se que sou admirador de Rushdie e recomendo a leitura do livro. Dele li também Midnight's Children, Haroun and The Sea of Stories, Shalimar The Clown e o pomo da discórdia, The Satanic Verses.

Duas citações portuguesas:

José Saramago had written, 'there is something that has no name. That something is what we are.' The something that had no name within him always came to his rescue in the end. He clenched his teeth, shook his head to clear his thoughts and ordered himself to get on with it.

[E a propósito do livro The Ground Beneath Her FeetThe film rights to the novel had recently been acquired by the piratically dashing Portuguese producer Paulo Branco and the film was to be directed by Raúl Ruiz. He met Branco and proposed Padma for the female lead. 'Of course,' said Branco. 'That will be perfect.' In those days he had not learned how to translate producer-speak into English. He did not realise that Branco was really saying, 'Of course not.'

Donald Barthelme - Concerning The Bodyguard

Does the bodyguard scream at the woman who irons his shirts? Who has inflicted a brown burn on his yellow shirt purchased expensively from Yves St. Laurent? A great brown burn just over the heart?

Does the bodyguard's principal make conversation with the bodyguard, as they wait for the light to change, in the dull gray Citroën? With the second bodyguard, who is driving? What is the tone? Does the bodyguard's principal comment on the brown young women who flock along the boulevard? On the young men? On the traffic? Has the bodyguard ever enjoyed a serious political discussion with his principal?

Is the bodyguard frightened by the initials D.I.T.?

Is the bodyguard frightened by the initials C.N.D.?

Will the bodyguard be relieved, today, in time to see the film he has in mind - Emmanuelle Around the World? If the bodyguard is relieved in time to see Emmanuelle Around the World, will there be a queue for tickets? Will there be students in the queue?

Is the bodyguard frightened by the slogan Remember 17 June? Is the bodyguard frightened by black spray paint, tall letters ghostly at the edges, on this wall, on this wall? At what level of education did the bodyguard leave school?

Is the bodyguard sufficiently well-paid? Is he paid as well as a machinist? As well as a foreman? As well as an army sergeant? As well as a lieutenant? Is the Citroën armored? Is the Mercedes armored? What is the best speed of the Mercedes? Can it equal that of a BMW? A BMW motorcycle? Several BMW motorcycles?

Does the bodyguard gauge the importance of his principal in terms of the number of bodyguards he requires? Should there not be other cars leading and following his principals car, these also filled with bodyguards? Are there sometimes such additional precautions, and does the bodyguard, at these times, feel himself part of an ocean of bodyguards? Is he exalted at these times? Does he wish for even more bodyguards, possibly flanking cars to the right and left and a point car far, far ahead?

After leaving technical school, in what sort of enterprises did the bodyguard engage before accepting his present post? Has he ever been in jail? For what sort of offense? Has the bodyguard acquired a fondness for his principal? Is there mutual respect? Is there mutual contempt? When his principal takes tea, is the bodyguard offered tea? Beer? Who pays?

Can the bodyguard adduce instances of professional success?

Had he a previous client?

Is there a new bodyguard in the group of bodyguards? Why?

How much does pleasing matter? What services does the bodyguard provide for his principal other than the primary one? Are there services he should not be asked to perform? Is he nevertheless asked from time to time to perform such services? Does he refuse? Can he refuse? Are there, in addition to the bodyguard's agreed-upon compensation, tips? Of what size? On what occasions?

In the restaurant, a good table for his principal and the distinguished gray man with whom he is conferring. Before it (between the table with the two principals and the door), a table for the four bodyguards. What is the quality of the conversation between the two sets of bodyguards? What do they talk about? Soccer, perhaps, Holland vs. Peru, a match which they have all seen. Do they rehearse the savaging of the Dutch goalkeeper Piet Schrijvers by the bastard Peruvian? Do they discuss Schrijverss replacement by the brave Jan Jongbloed, and what happened next? Has the bodyguard noted the difference in quality between his suit and that of his principal? Between his shoes and those of his principal?

In every part of the country, large cities and small towns, bottles of champagne have been iced, put away, reserved for a celebration, reserved for a special day. Is the bodyguard aware of this?

Is the bodyguard tired of waking in his small room on the Calle Caspe, smoking a Royale Filtre, then getting out of bed and throwing wide the curtains to discover, again, eight people standing at the bus stop across the street in postures of depression? Is there on the wall of the bodyguard's small room a poster showing Bruce Lee in a white robe with his feet positioned in such-and-such a way, his fingers outstretched in such-and-such a way? Is there a rosary made of apple beads hanging from a nail? Is there a mirror whose edges have begun to craze and flake, and are there small blurrish Polaroids stuck along the left edge of the mirror, Polaroids of a woman in a dark-blue scarf and two lean children in red pants? Is there a pair of dark-blue trousers plus a long-sleeved white shirt (worn once already) hanging in the dark-brown wardrobe? Is there a color foldout of a naked young woman torn from the magazine VIR taped inside the wardrobe door? Is there a bottle of Long John Scotch atop the cheese-colored mini-refrigerator? Two-burner hotplate? Dull-green ceramic pot on the windowsill containing an unhealthy plant? A copy of Explication du Tai Chi, by Bruce Tegner? Does the bodyguard read the newspaper of his principal's party? Is he persuaded by what he reads there? Does the bodyguard know which of the great blocs his country aligned itself with during the Second World War? During the First World War? Does the bodyguard know which countries are the preeminent trading partners of his own country, at the present time?

Seated in a restaurant with his principal, the bodyguard is served, involuntarily, turtle soup. Does he recoil, as the other eats? Why is this near-skeleton, his principal, of such importance to the world that he deserves six bodyguards, two to a shift with the shifts changing every eight hours, six bodyguards of the first competence plus supplemental on occasion, two armored cars, stun grenades ready to hand under the front seat? What has he meant to the world? What are his plans?

Is the retirement age for bodyguards calculated as it is for other citizens? Is it earlier, fifty-five, forty-five? Is there a pension? In what amount? Those young men with dark beards staring at the Mercedes, or staring at the Citroën, who are they? Does the bodyguard pay heed to the complaints of his fellow bodyguards about the hours spent waiting outside this or that Ministry, this or that Headquarters, hours spent propped against the fenders of the Mercedes while their principal is within the (secure) walls? Is the thick glass of these specially prepared vehicles thick enough? Are his fellow bodyguards reliable? Is the new one reliable?

Is the bodyguard frightened by young women of good family? Young women of good family whose handbags contain God knows what? Does the bodyguard feel that the situation is unfair? Will the son of the bodyguard, living with his mother in a city far away, himself become a bodyguard? When the bodyguard delivers the son of his principal to the school where all of the children are delivered by bodyguards, does he stop at a grocers on the way and buy the child a peach? Does he buy himself a peach?

Will the bodyguard, if tested, be equal to his task? Does the bodyguard know which foreign concern was the successful bidder for the construction of his country's nuclear reprocessing plant? Does the bodyguard know which sections of the National Bank's yearly report on debt service have been falsified? Does the bodyguard know that the general amnesty of April coincided with the rearrest of sixty persons? Does the bodyguard know that the new, liberalized press laws of May were a provocation? Does the bodyguard patronize a restaurant called the Crocodile? A place packed with young, loud, fat Communists? Does he spill a drink, to disclose his spite? Is his gesture understood?

Are the streets full of stilt-walkers? Stilt-walkers weaving ten feet above the crowd in great papier-maché bird heads, black and red costumes, whipping thirty feet of colored cloth above the heads of the crowd, miming the rape of a young female personage symbolizing his country? In the Mercedes, the bodyguard and his colleague stare at the hundreds, men and women, young and old, who move around the Mercedes, stopped for a light, as if it were a rock in a river. In the rear seat, the patron is speaking into a telephone. He looks up, puts down the telephone. The people pressing around the car cannot be counted, there are too many of them; they cannot be known, there are too many of them; they cannot be predicted, they have volition. Then, an opening. The car accelerates.

Is it the case that, on a certain morning, the garbage cans of the city, the garbage cans of the entire country, are overflowing with empty champagne bottles? Which bodyguard is at fault?

Joseph Anton

Tinha prometido a mim mesmo não comprar mais livros este ano. Tenho muito que ler e preciso de poupar. Todos precisamos. Há coisas mais fortes, contudo, e "Joseph Anton" de Salman Rushdie é irresistível. É a memória dos anos de Rushdie vivendo escondido, com o peso da fatwa sobre a sua cabeça.

Ouvi recentemente Rushdie ler "Concerning the Bodyguard" de Donald Barthelme. É um dos muitos maravilhosos podcasts de ficção da New Yorker. O texto não está acessível, mas para ouvir não se paga nada. O conto vale a pena no conteúdo e na forma e os comentários de Rushdie merecem igual atenção. A certa altura ele diz que sim, que os guarda-costas que conheceu se reveriam na personagem de Barthelme.

O que nos leva de volta a Joseph Anton. Joseph Anton foi o pseudónimo que Rushide escolheu, enquanto teve de viver escondido, juntando os dois primeiros nomes de dois escritores que adora, Joseph Conrad e Anton Chekhov.

Tudo isto seria já motivo suficiente para comprar o livro, até porque Rushdie é dos meus escritores favoritos. A mesma New Yorker, contudo, deu a machadada final na minha débil vontade de resistir ao publicar um excerto. É longo e vale a pena ler todo. Abaixo fica um excerto do excerto, o momento em que o escritor revê o filho (e respetiva mãe, sua ex-mulher) pela primeira vez, depois de saber da sentença de morte.


When he got to Clarissa and Zafar's house, the police were already there. "There you are," an officer said. "We've been wondering where you'd gone."

"What's going on, Dad?" His son had a look on his face that should never visit the face of a nine-year-old boy.

"I've been telling him," Clarissa said brightly, "that you'll be properly looked after until this blows over, and it's going to be just fine." Then she hugged her ex-husband as she had not hugged him since they separated five years before.

"We need to know," the officer was saying, "what your immediate plans might be."

He thought before replying. "I'll probably go home," he said, finally, and the stiffening postures of the men in uniform confirmed his suspicions.

"No, sir, I wouldn't recommend that."

 

A escrita na terceira pessoa quase lhe dá um ar de ficção, mas a verdade é histórica (ver o post anterior). A fotografia deste post é de Richard Avedon e veio da New Yorker também. E o livro está já encomendado.