{Catherine L. Addington}
Septiembre 30, 2014
Critic Alan Pauls called María Luisa Bemberg’s Camila (1984) an “event.” He meant it in the sense that Argentine film history is full of workmanlike, repetitious storytelling oriented toward the formation of a tradition, and Camila, this melodramatic variation on the transgressive Argentine theme, is singular in all respects. But he gets at what I love about this movie: it is an event in that it belongs so entirely to a specific time and place.
It’s not an event anybody saw coming. María Luisa Bemberg, the heiress to the Quilmes beer fortune who got into filmmaking as a forty-year-old woman against all odds and every last convention, was both an unexpected success and an understandable sympathizer. Camila is the story of patriarchy and its violent repression of women, and its detrimental perversion of men. It’s something Bemberg looked in the face her whole life as Argentina’s first prominent female filmmaker, but of course, from Camila’s privileged position. Yet this is not just a personal catharsis, but something much larger.
Let me put it this way. You can enjoy this movie — its passionate real-life love story between Camila O’Gorman and Ladislao Gutiérrez, the society girl’s elopement with the young Jesuit and their politically motivated subsequent execution — without knowing much of history. But if you imagine yourself in the original audience, an Argentine upon the movie’s release in 1984, the thrilling tragedy becomes all the more powerful.
The movie’s action takes place in the 1840s under the totalitarian government of Juan Manuel de Rosas, caudillo or governor of the province of Buenos Aires and the de facto leader of the Argentine Confederation (what is now the northern half of Argentina, with the rest being unincorporated or indigenous territory). A few years after Ladislao and Camila were killed, Rosas was overthrown and went into exile in England. This is the story of power in decline, desperate to preserve itself, looking to make examples of its tyrannical hold wherever it could. This is the story of a tardy comeuppance and its senseless bloodshed.
The movie was written in 1982, as the Malvinas (Falklands) War destroyed the last shred of credibility held by the Argentine military dictatorship known as el Proceso. It was filmed in 1983, while el Proceso gave way to elections in April and the presidency of Raúl Alfonsín in December. Then it was released in 1984, the first full year of Argentina’s now unbroken new democracy, during which the National Commission on the Disappearance of Persons (Conadep) filed the state’s report on the dictatorship’s torture and murder of political prisoners.
This is how that movie was watched: fresh off a totalitarian regime that fell too late for thirty thousand domestic victims and nine hundred war casualties. The Rosas government’s ambivalent relationship with the Church recalled their own discomforts in the pews these past years, Rosas’ union of political and sexual repression reminded them of the prudish tedium of military censors (Camila had the first sex scenes in eight years of movies), and the persecution of rule-breakers or deviants from the authoritarian norm was a blatant reprise. The parallels were there before Bemberg called upon them.
Rosas is everywhere in this movie and yet no one was cast to play him. His portrait appears on the walls of every house and church, on the jacket insignia of civilians, military, and clergy alike — his commands are quoted and inferred, but never spoken. He is this ultimate omnipresent judge who metes out death, whose image is everywhere but who never speaks for himself: he is that brimstone God he appealed to. This is Camila's surprising ambivalence toward religion, in a movie about the execution of a runaway priest and his lover. The Church is present here only as a political actor, not a religious body. After all, God himself only appears in Ladislao's conflicted prayer vigils and Camila's relieved pregnancy, which they take as a sign of His approval. No, here the villain is purely political, the sexual rules in place as convenient markers of political orthodoxy. The Federalist regime of Rosas will use this scandal to show his authority; his political enemy, Sarmiento, and his followers, the Unitarians, will use it to belittle their rival's moral inferiority and the regime's imminent demise. This is not about Ladislao. This is not about Camila. “No one,” laments Camila's mother, “no one thinks of her.”
We don’t dally in the given of conflicted repression and shame. Instead we indulge in their passionate love affair and the tragedy of their circumstances. It’s a melodrama, after all, and this gives us license to feel without shame as they do. We are given permission by the genre to feel these emotional enormities, to take up after Ladislao’s moral honesty in putting aside the collar he knows he cannot honor, to put aside our own pretensions of duty and to submit as he does to our own passions — sadness, anger, despair, hurt, everything this past decade has left us with. It is like opera, the circumstances so strained that every little occurrence is cause for a physically exhausting, ten-minute solo wail, because that is how a life like this feels. Melodramatic might be a negative adjective but it describes us accurately enough that we keep watching.
We know, watching this in 1984, that the dictatorship is over, that Rosas gets overthrown, but it is too late for Camila and Ladislao, it is too late for our friends and family, it is too late because it never should have happened in the first place. We watch their useless deaths and their late recompense, the civilians’ passive tolerance and the way it kills senselessly, and we are allowed to mourn the things we don’t know how to talk about yet. It’s as cathartic as an opera solo, and just as honest by being over-the-top.
And the romantic desperation of it all lets us reclaim these maligned historical figures, this written-off scandal, if not as heroes then as victims of circumstances we know all too well. Bemberg didn’t bring back the memory of Rosas for nothing: it was an ongoing fight. Five years after Camila was released, Argentine president Menem had Rosas’ body repatriated from its burial in England and reinterred in Buenos Aires’ elite Recoleta cemetery. The idea was that if we could forgive Rosas, we could make peace with el Proceso. The politics of memory is not an empty academic phrase but a political tool and Bemberg does not want us to forget that.
Camila is a story about submission to passion, romantic and sexual alike. But it is an event about submission to emotion, about putting aside pretensions of duty and patriotic unity in order to talk about what’s really happening. It is honest the way only a melodrama can be in all its exaggeration. It is emotional truth.
When it hit theatres in 1984, it was a blockbuster. Few movies have so thoroughly belonged to their viewers. Finally, a costume drama heavy on the latter. Finally, a romance we can actually believe. Finally, a political allegory we can grab onto. Finally, some action beyond a peck on the cheek. Not everything spectators loved about it was intentional — the political statements in particular are more a consequence of cyclical history than activist filmmaking. It was, at the time, the biggest success in Argentine film history.
Watch it, whether imagining yourself in 1984 or feeling its rawness in 2014. It is brilliant and unabashed and feminist and mournful and bright.

Critic Alan Pauls called María Luisa Bemberg’s Camila (1984) an “event.” He meant it in the sense that Argentine film history is full of workmanlike, repetitious storytelling oriented toward the formation of a tradition, and Camila, this melodramatic variation on the transgressive Argentine theme, is singular in all respects. But he gets at what I love about this movie: it is an event in that it belongs so entirely to a specific time and place.

It’s not an event anybody saw coming. María Luisa Bemberg, the heiress to the Quilmes beer fortune who got into filmmaking as a forty-year-old woman against all odds and every last convention, was both an unexpected success and an understandable sympathizer. Camila is the story of patriarchy and its violent repression of women, and its detrimental perversion of men. It’s something Bemberg looked in the face her whole life as Argentina’s first prominent female filmmaker, but of course, from Camila’s privileged position. Yet this is not just a personal catharsis, but something much larger.

Let me put it this way. You can enjoy this movie — its passionate real-life love story between Camila O’Gorman and Ladislao Gutiérrez, the society girl’s elopement with the young Jesuit and their politically motivated subsequent execution — without knowing much of history. But if you imagine yourself in the original audience, an Argentine upon the movie’s release in 1984, the thrilling tragedy becomes all the more powerful.

The movie’s action takes place in the 1840s under the totalitarian government of Juan Manuel de Rosas, caudillo or governor of the province of Buenos Aires and the de facto leader of the Argentine Confederation (what is now the northern half of Argentina, with the rest being unincorporated or indigenous territory). A few years after Ladislao and Camila were killed, Rosas was overthrown and went into exile in England. This is the story of power in decline, desperate to preserve itself, looking to make examples of its tyrannical hold wherever it could. This is the story of a tardy comeuppance and its senseless bloodshed.

The movie was written in 1982, as the Malvinas (Falklands) War destroyed the last shred of credibility held by the Argentine military dictatorship known as el Proceso. It was filmed in 1983, while el Proceso gave way to elections in April and the presidency of Raúl Alfonsín in December. Then it was released in 1984, the first full year of Argentina’s now unbroken new democracy, during which the National Commission on the Disappearance of Persons (Conadep) filed the state’s report on the dictatorship’s torture and murder of political prisoners.

This is how that movie was watched: fresh off a totalitarian regime that fell too late for thirty thousand domestic victims and nine hundred war casualties. The Rosas government’s ambivalent relationship with the Church recalled their own discomforts in the pews these past years, Rosas’ union of political and sexual repression reminded them of the prudish tedium of military censors (Camila had the first sex scenes in eight years of movies), and the persecution of rule-breakers or deviants from the authoritarian norm was a blatant reprise. The parallels were there before Bemberg called upon them.

Rosas is everywhere in this movie and yet no one was cast to play him. His portrait appears on the walls of every house and church, on the jacket insignia of civilians, military, and clergy alike — his commands are quoted and inferred, but never spoken. He is this ultimate omnipresent judge who metes out death, whose image is everywhere but who never speaks for himself: he is that brimstone God he appealed to. This is Camila's surprising ambivalence toward religion, in a movie about the execution of a runaway priest and his lover. The Church is present here only as a political actor, not a religious body. After all, God himself only appears in Ladislao's conflicted prayer vigils and Camila's relieved pregnancy, which they take as a sign of His approval. No, here the villain is purely political, the sexual rules in place as convenient markers of political orthodoxy. The Federalist regime of Rosas will use this scandal to show his authority; his political enemy, Sarmiento, and his followers, the Unitarians, will use it to belittle their rival's moral inferiority and the regime's imminent demise. This is not about Ladislao. This is not about Camila. “No one,” laments Camila's mother, “no one thinks of her.”

We don’t dally in the given of conflicted repression and shame. Instead we indulge in their passionate love affair and the tragedy of their circumstances. It’s a melodrama, after all, and this gives us license to feel without shame as they do. We are given permission by the genre to feel these emotional enormities, to take up after Ladislao’s moral honesty in putting aside the collar he knows he cannot honor, to put aside our own pretensions of duty and to submit as he does to our own passions — sadness, anger, despair, hurt, everything this past decade has left us with. It is like opera, the circumstances so strained that every little occurrence is cause for a physically exhausting, ten-minute solo wail, because that is how a life like this feels. Melodramatic might be a negative adjective but it describes us accurately enough that we keep watching.

We know, watching this in 1984, that the dictatorship is over, that Rosas gets overthrown, but it is too late for Camila and Ladislao, it is too late for our friends and family, it is too late because it never should have happened in the first place. We watch their useless deaths and their late recompense, the civilians’ passive tolerance and the way it kills senselessly, and we are allowed to mourn the things we don’t know how to talk about yet. It’s as cathartic as an opera solo, and just as honest by being over-the-top.

And the romantic desperation of it all lets us reclaim these maligned historical figures, this written-off scandal, if not as heroes then as victims of circumstances we know all too well. Bemberg didn’t bring back the memory of Rosas for nothing: it was an ongoing fight. Five years after Camila was released, Argentine president Menem had Rosas’ body repatriated from its burial in England and reinterred in Buenos Aires’ elite Recoleta cemetery. The idea was that if we could forgive Rosas, we could make peace with el Proceso. The politics of memory is not an empty academic phrase but a political tool and Bemberg does not want us to forget that.

Camila is a story about submission to passion, romantic and sexual alike. But it is an event about submission to emotion, about putting aside pretensions of duty and patriotic unity in order to talk about what’s really happening. It is honest the way only a melodrama can be in all its exaggeration. It is emotional truth.

When it hit theatres in 1984, it was a blockbuster. Few movies have so thoroughly belonged to their viewers. Finally, a costume drama heavy on the latter. Finally, a romance we can actually believe. Finally, a political allegory we can grab onto. Finally, some action beyond a peck on the cheek. Not everything spectators loved about it was intentional — the political statements in particular are more a consequence of cyclical history than activist filmmaking. It was, at the time, the biggest success in Argentine film history.

Watch it, whether imagining yourself in 1984 or feeling its rawness in 2014. It is brilliant and unabashed and feminist and mournful and bright.

Septiembre 30, 2014
"Every year for five years he won the most significant trophy in world football. But he did not just win them; he was not a fellow traveller. He led. He was an ideologue. He played and made others play."

Sid Lowe on Xavi Hernández, without a doubt my favorite soccer player of all time. This is one of those brilliant lyrical pieces of sports journalism that can seem a little overstated from the outside, but you have to understand that, unironically, watching Xavi play soccer every weekend for my whole life has been one of my greatest experiences of art. No doubt.

Septiembre 28, 2014
"

Jonathan Haidt’s metaphor of the elephant and the rider is useful here. In Haidt’s telling, the mind is like an elephant (the emotions) with a rider (the intellect) on top. The rider can see and plan ahead, but the elephant is far more powerful. Sometimes the rider and the elephant work together (the ideal in classroom settings), but if they conflict, the elephant usually wins.

After reading Haidt, I’ve stopped thinking of students as people who simply make choices about whether to pay attention, and started thinking of them as people trying to pay attention but having to compete with various influences, the largest of which is their own propensity towards involuntary and emotional reaction. (This is even harder for young people, the elephant so strong, the rider still a novice.)

Regarding teaching as a shared struggle changes the nature of the classroom. It’s not me demanding that they focus — its me and them working together to help defend their precious focus against outside distractions. I have a classroom full of riders and elephants, but I’m trying to teach the riders.

"

Clay Shirky, “Why I Just Asked My Students to Put Their Laptops Away” (via wesleyhill)

I had this guy for introductory journalism last year. One of the better profs I’ve had, and you can see why.

Septiembre 26, 2014

Camila (1984)
dir. María Luisa Bemberg

¿Quieres que te diga una cosa, Adolfo O’Gorman? Maldigo el haberte conocido. En vez de pensar en tu hija, lo único que te preocupa es tu apellido. Estás enfermo de orgullo. Todos están enfermos. Locos de violencia…de sangre…¿Alguien levanta la voz para salvar a mi hija? Nadie, nadie piensa en ella. La Iglesia piensa en su buen nombre, vos en tu honor, Rosas en su poder, y los unitarios en cómo derribarlo usando este escándalo. Pero en ella, nadie, nadie. (x)

You want me to say something to you, Adolfo O’Gorman? I curse the day I met you. Instead of thinking of your daughter, the only thing that occupies your thoughts is your reputation. You are sick with pride. They are all sick. Gone mad with violence…with blood…Does anyone raise their voice to save my daughter? No one, no one thinks of her. The Church thinks of its good name, you think of your honor, Rosas thinks of his power, and the Unitarians think of how to topple him using this scandal. But of her, no one, no one.

Septiembre 24, 2014
"

Y fue a esa edad … Llegó la poesía
a buscarme. No sé, no sé de dónde
salió, de inverno o río.
No sé cómo ni cuándo,
no, no eran voces, no eran
palabras, ni silencio,
pero desde una calle me llamaba,
desde las ramas de la noche
de pronto entre los otros,
entre fuegos violentos
o regresando solo,
allí estaba sin rostro
y me tocaba.

Yo no qué decir, mi boca
no sabía
nombrar,
mis ojos eran ciegos,
y algo golpeaba en mi alma,
fiebre o alas perdidas,
y me fui haciendo solo,
descifrando
aquella quemadura,
y escribí la primera línea vaga,
vaga sin cuerpo, pura
tontería,
pura sabiduría,
del que no sabe nada,
y vi de pronto
el cielo
desgranado
y abierto,
planetas,
plantaciones palpitantes,
la sombra perforada,
acribillada
por flechas, fuego y flores,
la noche arrolladora, el universo.

Y yo, minimo ser,
ebrio del gran vacío
constelado,
a semejanza, a imagen
del misterio,
me sentí parte pura
del abismo,
rodé con las estrellas,
mi corazón se desató en el viento.

"

— Pablo Neruda, “Poesía”

(Fuente: catherineaddington, vía iaminthepause)

Septiembre 24, 2014

mockingday:

Watch Emma’s speech and take action

(vía matshummelz)

Septiembre 23, 2014

spanishskulduggery:

I still don’t understand why mar meaning “sea” can be masculine or feminine.

Like sometimes it makes absolute sense when there’s a different article and you get a whole different word…

el coma = coma, like “comatose”
la coma = a comma, as in grammar

la mañana = morning / tomorrow
el mañana = the near future / the immediate future


But then it’s mar like…

el mar = the normal, regular, common, everyday “sea” you’d most likely be talking about
la mar = fancy schmancy “sea” for being suave and poetic

using grammatical changes to emphasize suaveness should be more of a thing

11:16pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Z1tNPx1RXzKDk
  
Archivado en: spanish just sayin' 
Septiembre 22, 2014

palais de glace, buenos aires
julio cortázar: relatos para armar

Septiembre 21, 2014

"Ahhhhh… ARE YOU KIDDING ME? This is Ivan the Terrible that rises magnificently! He absolutely flame throws this one! Unstoppable power! A radioactive hit from Rakitić - who racks it up alright! What a Darth Vader death ray hit this is onto it! Jumpin’ jack flash ain’t got nothing on this nick! A wonderful hammer blow, a cross between a sledgehammer and a rapier! Magnificent, magisterial hit! Magic!” 
- Ray Hudson on Ivan Rakitić’s first goal with Barcelona

"Ahhhhh… ARE YOU KIDDING ME? This is Ivan the Terrible that rises magnificently! He absolutely flame throws this one! Unstoppable power! A radioactive hit from Rakitić - who racks it up alright! What a Darth Vader death ray hit this is onto it! Jumpin’ jack flash ain’t got nothing on this nick! A wonderful hammer blow, a cross between a sledgehammer and a rapier! Magnificent, magisterial hit! Magic!”

- Ray Hudson on Ivan Rakitić’s first goal with Barcelona

(Fuente: blaugr4na, vía fcbarcelonadaily)

Septiembre 21, 2014
"

I recall here that in 2010, there was not one meaningful story published in US or UK-based sports news about the fact that the head coach of the South African women’s football team was sexually abusing players — that this was happening through the men’s World Cup, almost certainly with the knowledge of people at the South African Football Association. It’s hard to believe that FIFA administrators were ignorant of this. And I’d frankly be surprised if that was the only national women’s team that was poisoned by this level of sexual harassment. In 2009, the biggest story in women’s sports was a series of ludicrous fouls conducted within a regional, amateur women’s soccer game that happened to be recorded and broadcast (that in and of itself is a rarity). Everyone reported that incident like it was news.

There are months when it seems that women only appear in the sports pages if they win a world championship or file a rape accusation. So I guess we should be glad Solo’s personal life is so awful, so explosive. Were it not, the US’s win over Mexico and Solo’s shut-out record wouldn’t have appeared in the news as the footnote it is to the story “no one is talking about.”

All of this is to assert that the media’s relationship to women is itself violent. And as long as the day-in-day out struggle of women athletes—to win games, to set world records, to win appropriate support for their sport—remains the story that “no one” is actually talking about, no one gets to indulge the fantasy that a woman athlete’s domestic assault charge is “the same” as that faced by a multi-million dollar male athlete playing for a billion dollar business run by and for men.

"

Prof. Jennifer Doyle on Hope Solo, Ray Rice, and the ongoing media cycle on domestic violence and sports

Septiembre 21, 2014
Haven Is For Real

How D.C. churches defied the Reagan administration and helped Central American refugees flee repression in the ’80s

Today, churches in Arizona are once again declaring themselves sanctuaries. David Hosey is a student at Wesley Theological Seminary in D.C. and has been active with several progressive churches in the city, and knows the social-justice history of D.C.-area churches intimately. The sanctuary movement, he points out, “was a real commitment…that was a powerful thing for churches that saw themselves as liberal, I think, to really have to commit to putting themselves out on the line,” he says. “It’s pretty easy to be a liberal in D.C. But to actually risk sanction? That’s tough.”

Septiembre 21, 2014

museo nacional de bellas artes
buenos aires, argentina (x)

Septiembre 21, 2014

inferno / purgatorio / paradiso
palacio barolo, buenos aires

history and design:

When the Palacio Barolo was completed in 1923, it was the tallest building in South America, with a crowning lighthouse that could be seen from Montevideo, Uruguay. The Italian architect, Mario Palanti, was commissioned to build the palace by an Italian immigrant, Luis Barolo, who had become rich in the fabrics trade. Palanti was a huge fan of Dante, and designed his building to pay tribute to the great author’s Divine Comedy.

The building is precisely 100 meters tall, one meter for each canto in the epic poem. Following Dante’s footsteps, a visitor to Palacio Barolo begins his journey in Hell (the basement and ground floor), moves on through Purgatory (floors 1-14) and ends in Heaven (floors 15-22). The 22 floors equal the number of stanzas of the poem’s verses. Each floor is split into 22 offices. And as in the Divine Comedy, the number nine is repeated throughout the building’s plan. Nine entries to the building represent the nine hierarchies of hell, while nine arches in the central hall stand for hell’s nine circles.

…The palace was inaugurated on Dante’s birthday, and Latin inscriptions throughout the building pay further tribute to the poet. The crowning cupola, inspired by a Hindu temple in India, symbolizes Dante’s union with Beatrice, his perfect woman.

Septiembre 21, 2014

fuckyeahmexico:

Como se vería el traje de Batman en estilo Maya?

El artista Mexicano Kimbal creo este batitraje que emula al antiguo dios Camaztoz del inframundo que tenia cabeza de murcielago.

El batitraje Maya estará en exhibición en el Museo Mexicano del Diseño junto con mas piezas en honor al 75 aniversario del caballero de la noche.

Informacion de la exhibición

Mas fotos del batitraje Maya

Septiembre 20, 2014

afootballreport:

Away Days: America in Europe

Words and Photos by Nathen McVittie, from USA vs Czech Republic in Prague.

After the World Cup dust has settled, soccer continues.

International teams take to friendly matches to tune up ahead of competitive fixtures or to test the youth of tomorrow.

Their fans turn up, from near and far, to pay respect to old heroes or to catch a glimpse of heroes-to-be.

This past week, close to a thousand American fans took the plunge and traveled to Central Europe from all over the world in order to witness the continued evolution of an emerging power.

Read More

(vía benolsens)