W Obama

This W Obama video is definately cool:

The Translation of Father Torturo: Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven   

The man secured the button of his pants, looked down at the filthy receptacle, as unpleasant as any in Italy, ground level porcelain, muddied by the refuse of man, and ejected himself from the closet, onto the open courtyard. His hairline was much too low down on his forehead, and his countenance, if seen at close proximity, bore the unhealthy lustre of face paint. He walked across, through the door opposite and the kitchen area beyond, which was stacked high with sacks of flour and sugar. His half finished cappuccino was still sitting on the table of the mirror lined shop. He picked it up and drained it in a swallow, smacking his lips at the bitter-sweet flavour.

     “How much?” he asked, approaching the counter.

     “One euro, fifty.”

     He handed the shop attendant a five euro bill and received the change.

     “Grazie.”

     “Grazie a lei.”

     He observed the chocolates ranged in the glass showcase below and, as he moved towards the exit, lingered at the freezer near the door, noting the sorbet stuffed lemons and oranges within, as well as the bright ice-cream, sculptured into red roses and small yellow ducklings.

     ”Anything else I can get for you?” the shop attendant called.

     “No,” the man answered and pushed open the door onto the street. He adjusted his tie, which strangled as if it had been a snake around his neck, took out a pack of Parisiennes and, lighting one, made his way along the via San Vittore to the via Carducci, which he crossed at a trot, avoiding a scooter which bore down on him with aggressive insistence. With long, virile strides he passed between the twin towers of the Museum of Torture, the perfume of cheap tobacco wafting around him, and proceeded into the courtyard, the walls of which were embedded with plaques and bits of sculptured marble dating back to Roman decadence. Flicking away the half consumed cigarette, he hastened into the left-hand door of the Church of St. Ambrose.

     Half darkness; the indistinct smell of religion; cool as a tomb. He chuckled to himself and listened to his own footsteps click along the tiled floor of the church.

Cimitero senza croci

Original Title: Un Corde, un Colt

Director: Robert Hossein

Year: 1968

This one is sort of borderline. It has a lot going for it: great music, creative cinematography, lots of spurs jingling, some great gun fights, and Hossein, who both stars in and directs it, seems to have a good grip on the mechanics of a proper western. In places however it seems to try a bit too hard (such as a five minute scene where no one says a word and a dramatic Spanish guitar is playing-but not much is really happening-a lot of tension for a scene that is not really all that tense). I watched it in Italian, though the original was French (an Italo-French production actually).

Anyhow this is an OK film. It is not great though, despite what some might say.

The Translation of Father Torturo: Chapter Six

 Chapter Six 

     After doing fifty knee bends, twenty-five on each leg, hams lowered until they pressed firmly just above the heel, Father Torturo proceeded to do a set of one-hundred push-ups, an amount he reiterated three times daily. His thick, muscular brown body jack-knifed up and down on the floor, his chin and pectorals just barely gracing the ground before being thrust upward once more. An oily sweat added shine to his skin. An equal number of sit-ups followed, and he then poised himself in a shoulder stand for a quarter of an hour before advancing to a neck stand, a position he maintained unflinching for a full ten minutes. Arising, he bathed his hands and face in a basin of water, wiped his body with a moist towel, rubbed it down with Carapelli olive oil, and then proceeded to invest himself with cassock, his bearing maintaining an almost religious solemnity.

     His room was furnished simply: A single, spring bed with a wooden cross nailed over it; a wooden table, which acted as desk; a small dresser whereon sat a rosary and an oval mirror the size of his hand; and a book shelf, filled with a number of volumes, many of them with their spines torn off.

     Father Torturo looked at himself in the mirror, combed his hair with a hard rubber comb and, taking up the rosary which sat on the dresser, left the room.

***

     Bishop Vivan sat at his desk, silently absorbed in a book. Every now and again he would reach down into the slightly open drawer and remove a brown chip of kinder-surprise, letting it drift into the open pink of his mouth, to melt upon the soft surface of his tongue. A smile crossed his lips every time he read some particularly delightful passage in his literature, and an occasional agitated frown, when the drama became awful.

Le Fantastique de Fétichistes

A new book called Le Fantastique de Fétichistes is available for pre-order here.

It is edited by Estelle Valls de Gomis and has I think three short stories of mine from the Metrophilia series translated into French. I haven’t seen the TOC, but it does include J.K. Huysmans and Joséphin Péladan, so I am sure it is a cool book.

 

Carthage

My story Carthage, is up here at Pequin.org.

The Translation of Father Torturo: Chapter Five

  Chapter Five

     “Cin-cin.”

     The two men lifted the glasses to their lips and drank. The wine, though not especially good, was pleasant on the tongue. Outside it was wet and chilly. To be near a fire, drinking, whatever it might be, was a comfort. The light from the fire glowed on their faces: one had features soft and gentle, the other’s were like stone. The men were nearly the same age, but one looked ten years older than the other.

     “I will change my occupation,” said the softer, younger looking of the two.

     “What?”

     “Yes – it is only me and mother now. There is no longer any need to keep it up.”

     “But it is your livelihood!”

     “I am amazed to hear you, to hear a man of your calling say such a thing!”

     Torturo shrugged his shoulders. “I respect filial duty,” he said.

     “Even if it means slaying your neighbour?” Marco asked in a whisper. “I cannot believe you truly think that.”

     “They are only metaphorically your neighbours. You have been brought up to perform a certain task; – That is the blade of reality.”   

     “But . . . But, living without morality: It sickens me!”

     Torturo took a sip of his wine.

     “A certain English psychologist once said that nature’s order is far older and more established than our civilised human morality.”

     “Nature’s order?”

     “Certainly: by killing, you are following the dictates of nature.”

Comments on recently seen films

The Assassination of Jesse James: What a bore! I am amazed that this film received praise. It is basically like a two and half hour long re-enactment that could have been done for the History Channel. All the characters are stupid and talk with hillbilly accents.

Sleuth: This one is good. Very clever script and good acting. If it has any real fault, it is that it is a bit too clever.

The Band’s Visit: A great Israeli film about an Egyptian police band that gets stuck in a small Israeli town for a night. Definitely worth seeing.     

Per 100,000 dollari ti ammazzo

Director: Giovanni Fago

Year: 1967 

A deep organ. Desert scene. Trumpets. A western that, if not great, comes quite close.

Though the credits give made-up American names to most of the actors and the director (who is billed as Sidney Lean), the cast on this one is strictly European, staring the great Gianni Garko as Johnny Forrest and Claudio Comaso as his evil brother Clint. Comaso, it must be said, plays an excellent villain, and there is something about him that is truly repulsive. Though not as famous as his brother Gian Maria Volontà, this actor is almost as interesting.

There is lots of great scenery, sweat dripping from faces and plenty of guns going off—as well as some really beautiful horses. Another interesting feature is how dirty Garko appears throughout the film. His jacket is always covered in dust and in the final scene his face is completely covered with sweat, dirt and blood as a strong wind whips hay around what I guess is supposed to be Albuquerque.

The score on this one is really striking, though I am not exactly sure who is responsible for it.

Giovanni Fago has not done all that much as a director, but from what I have seen of his work, he is quite remarkable. This film and the really odd O’ Cangaçeiro make him worthy of a great deal of respect.

Highly recommended.

Health care plans: Clinton, Obama

Ok, a lot is made about Universal Healthcare. It sounds good. It would be good. But….

I live in Switzerland, and here we have a plan very much like that proposed by Clinton. I can tell you first hand, that it is not all that wonderful. In the past six years I have paid much more in health insurance than the benefits I have received. And that is including a good number of doctor’s visits, medicine, and even an operation.

Rich and poor both pay the same. There is really no equality. There are subsidies, but only for the very, very poor. There are caps, but there are also minimum amounts that the insurance companies cannot charge beneath.

I am all for everyone having health insurance, but it should be something that is government issued. Otherwise the ones who benefit are the health insurance companies.

Her plan on the surface seems more appealing, but in reality I think Obama’s is better.

Just for a note: I voted for Mr. Edwards . . .