Bunissima

So very poetic.

for all the Marys, she or he, whether they get pregnant by divine power or by John’s careful planning.

You will never know what you can find if you wander into the world of movies and give up for a moment to the Hollywood, “this summer on theathre”, the summer hit, the ultimate action hype with endless get down, get down (with an Arnold Schwarzenegger voice)…
Recommended and more by Romer!can, the movie I am going to talk about, was a hit. At least in the way I saw it.
It’s an amazing mise en scene of the Czech folk tale about a couple that cannot have kids and they make one from a piece of wood. The piece of wood comes to life in the form of a monstrous being that eats a lot and not only “regular” food, variating its carnivore diet from all kinds of animals to human flesh. Including its parents and a whole lot of people.
Even though, the beggining the movie did a great job tricking you into believing that both the man and the woman were going insane - each in its own way - about not being able to have a baby, you soon start to wonder. The father sees new born kids everywhere and this makes you think he has an obsession with kids because he knows he can’t have any. He is the typical corporate of average income, average life, average type of person. With thick glasses and a dull character, he tricks you into believing he is a weak, mindless man. To please his desperate, depressed wife, he carves a fake baby from a tree root. The sterile mother is going crazy, pretending that the carved piece of wood looking like a hideous child - with roots instead of hands and feet - is a real child that needs all the care and attention. She takes out the new unused new born’s clothes and pretends to be pregnant for eight months. After enough expectation, she “gives birth” to their son. The man gives in to the crazy wife’s whimps and plays along, pretending that she is telling the truth. Everyone around them is pleasantly surprised. Friends at work get him drunk celebrating the new born. The neighbors, a regular family, is very helpful and interested. Their child, a school girl, seems to suspect that something was wrong in all the pregnancy-birth-child hypothesis, but since her parents never believe her, she does not feel the urge to communicate with them and does not know enough to help the police. After having eaten two people, the “bad boy” is tied up and locked in a box in the basement by his father. Having seen some suspicios things already, the little girl finds Otik, makes friends with him and tries to feed him. After feeding Otesanek all the food from the family’s fridge, a neighbor and the father and mother of the creature itself (the people literally, and not their fridge contents), she cannot fight the old gardener lady to make justice for all her cabbages eaten by the monstuosity. Just like the folk tale says, the old lady will kill the monster with her hoe.

The epic of the movie itself does not seem much. From a less open perspective, it could look like a trial of validating an old folk tale into cinematography.

Using some interesting methods spiced with some kafkian details (in a moderate amount, only theme-related) translated into cinematography, incomprehension of the reality and incapacity of adaptation to it therefore, the movie captivates both your attention and your imagination. The world becomes a high pressure universe that you can only bear by giving in to admitting your own insanity and denying any rationality. Not only do the characters (except the most ingenuos ones, the mother and father of the little girl) prove these symptoms, but the viewer as well, for a little while (of course, admitting that “insane” for the viewer means accepting the convention of the fiction itself, and that it is not about insanity… well, not totally). Doubt and insanity go together like a glove and a hand. After admitting that it is a fictional world that must be taken as such, both the characters and the viewer want justice, suppression of the disturbance. Only that the justice seems helpless, the little girl is not trustworthy, the parents are just good at making faulty suppositions but never at drawing conclusions, the “parents” are tied up, one to the “motherhood”, the other to his wife beggings and insanity, dissapearances are unexplainable, and, unlike all the action movies, there is no actual justice instance that can discover anything, let alone come with a forensics team and discover all the crime scenes that happened even before the “happy couple” was living there.

Some naive-style scenes get a very good catch on the family and social life, where the parents trying to educate their girl, but can’t prevent her from reading sexual education books, which they consider it is a bad thing, the little girl’s fearful dodges from the father’s occasional blows, the daily meals that have no glow but yet seem so appealing, challenging a nostalgy about times when food was simple and untouched by modern pre-made rich fat hype, with the exuberant and overwhelming willing to help of the neighbors, an octogenary pedophile that almost has a heart attack when he sees the little girl’s panties when she is stealing a glance through the “parent’s” key hole, and the daily conjugal life in a building where everyone knows or wants to know something about everyone, picture a very lively surreal mural about modern society in its common sizes.

The mix of childhood-like feelings, self justice, living in a world of tales, wishes, and the modern society contrast and irony, loneliness, threat of pedophily, crime, indolent justice, where the new values are defined by consumerism, advertising, greed, rotten family ties and loss of one’s self, subtle parody of modern society, shows ultimately that you cannot live without a bit of fantasy but that the reality will always be there as a reason to put you down to the ground and cry, because you realize that little “Otik” is an illusion.

In sfarsit, m-au lasat in pace, nu stiu cine, nu stiu de ce, dar pentru vreo cateva luni bune am fost inecata de spamuri referitoare la online poker gaming pokero jouer poker, spamuri ce compilau engleza franceza si spaniola. Quite smart, if you ask me. Gata, nu mai am spam. Ma si speriasem, credeam ca e ceva in neregula.

In alte stiri ale zilei, un tip, Tibi, isi deschide un “multicomplex” in Italia, Roma, care include restaurant, sala de nu-stiu-ce, pare-se fotbal, discoteca… 10 intr-unul, sapte dintr-o lovitura, ce sa mai. Foarte inteligenta ideea. Desi se pare ca romanii de acolo sunt atrasi de cantitatile enorme de carne si manele, asozonate cu maieuri tip plasa, zorzonele sclipicioase ce se misca ametitor in ritmul buricului, si taraf (a se citi manele), ideea in sine este izvorata din chiar sufletul de roman al patronului. Romanii, sau cel putin majoritatea lor, au o fire nostalgica. Se gandesc cu melancolie la Romanica lor si la modul nemaipomenit de viata de aici. Nimic de obiectat, totul merge spre bine, mereu. Multi dintre ei, se gandesc la ce tare o sa se loveasca atunci cand o sa cada pe spate vecinii si prietenii cand ii vad cu Audi-ul cu numar de Italia si inelele si lanturile de aur, fara numar (ok, stiu ca deja ca a hamai despre chestia asta cu manele, lanturi si dansuri din buric e expirata, dar, for crying out loud, nu si in practica). Si cel mai mult le place romanilor sa intalneasca alti romani si sa vada cat de mult i-au surclasat… sau the other way around, daca e cazul, cu mustrarile de constiinta necesare.

Si uite asa, vecinii de bloc, care bloc se afla mult mai departe de al meu bloc, nepretuit si neasemuit fata de alte minunate cutii de chibrituri gri construite pe vremea comunismului, vecinii astia, asa cum spuneam, se strang in fata blocului MEU, sa joace remy. Stiu ca am spus zaruri in titlu, dar asta e, de dragul artei, taceti si ingititi. Si baietii astia, draguti, educati si manierati, care poarta smokinguri si isi cara si laptopurile cu ei, si zic mereu saru’mana… err, asta e din alt film, scuze, care poarta slapi si probabil aceleasi tricouri cu care au dormit in seara trecuta, asadar si prin urmare, vin aici sa joace remy in fiecare zi. Zi de zi. ZI DE ZI. Zi de zi ma delectez cu clinchetul induiosator si zglobiu al tabletelor dreptunghiulare de remy si cu un baga-mi-as, ‘tu-ti mortii matii, si multe alte delicatese ocazionale si originare. Si, ca si intelenovela Madre luna, se pare ca aici este luna plina mereu. Altfel cum mi-as explica incantatoarele si romanticele urlete de lup? Iar fetele? Ce face fetele?

Fetele vine frumos la ora cinci, dupa memorabilul ceai, erm, romanesc (a se citi amaratul de job), imbracate in lanturi de aur si haine made in China, pentru a evalua tinuta - in toate sensurile, morala, fizica si vestimentara- a tuturor aia care indrazneste sa le deranjeze dulcea visare transcendentala. Ce alta delectare poate avea un suflet simplu care se duce sa isi cumpere paine, suc de portocale 100% natural sau vin, decat cea de a auzi parerile experimentate ale unor guru in toate domeniile? Parul tau e ca pusca pentru ca n-ai mai iesit din casa de cateva zile? Pai o sa te anunte ele. Apelativul Marie e suficient. A, te-ai imbracat naspa, deja stii, dupa cum se intorc pe rand toate capsoarele ala dragute si se uita la tine din cap pana in picioare. Poate dea domnul sa te prefaci ca te uiti in telefon ca sa scapi ochilor ageri fixati asupra ta, o sa numere pana la trei, pentru ca atunci vei baga telefonul in buzunar. Psihologie, nu gluma.

In alta ordine de idei, o vecina a avut inspiratia sa cheme politia sau si mai rau, sa le atraga frumos atentia ca nu se cade sa lasi bidoane goale de bere, mucuri de tigara, coji de seminte si injuraturi goale si tari in fata unui bloc in care nici macar nu locuiesti. Partea buna e ca m-au trezit mai devreme decat ma trezesc de obicei. Partea rea… Amenintarile curgeau nesmintite in toata frumusetea lor si toate incercarile femeii de aduce orice urma de ratiune in discutie au fost zadarnicite de vorbele smecherite ale jucausilor experimentati in remy.

Uneori, romanul e ca spamul. E un simplu joc de noroc.

We don’t have many myths. We are a poor people in that but I am sure that if we tried harder we could find out that there is more to it.
Think destiny, think fatality. This is what characterises the Romanian people.

Maybe the younger generations are changing (even though I heard a girl at the pool saying that what’s written for you it is going to happen no matter what, she was very loud about it too). In here God is everywhere. People do not go to church ever so often though. The “Sunday clothes” no longer exist, people do not take the weekly Sunday bath any more. Instead there are shiny disco clothes, shiny street clothes, cell phones and lots of personal goods value. But Romanians are still very, very faithful. Even if they are crazy about making fun and lauging at other people’s misfortune, about being mean sometimes and about pretty much what comes with a modern society, Romanians are like a rock when it comes about God. If they make mistakes, god is good enough to forgive them. Don’t get me wrong, I am not against modern society. You can’t be, unless you are my grandma and can’t understand why tight jeans are a must. I am not even talking about god here. Just about fatality.

One of our fundamental myths is about fatality. About how you cannot avoid your “destiny”. The story is simple: the shepherd hears from his faithful sheep that his other two shepherd companions want to kill him and take all his sheeps. Instead of fighting and trying to run, he accepts his destiny. In the whole, his testament is in fact an allegory of the death-wedding perspective, so common in Romania (they used to dress the young unmarried dead in bridal clothes, because they thought thay they will get married in the other world, le monde d’au dela).
It is not beyond reason why people choose to be so fatal-oriented. People have always gathered around the axis mundi that represented safety. It is so hard to understand that thers is nothing out there to control your life, because life is so complicated and so full of unknown threats everyday.

I do not believe in fatality, in the so-it-was-written thingy. No one can prove this exists. Just like belief, it is a matter of belief. But what makes the most sense, is that nothing is “written.” Where is it written? What happens is indeed a cumulation of facts, events, and people’s personal decisions and wishes, and sometimes you just cannot avoid this. That’s what a society is. An individual makes his own decisions and takes actions, but they are always reflected into other people’s decisions and actions. And I don’t mind if anyone thinks things are different. We are all free to have oppinions.

What bugs me though, is this fatal spirit of Romanians. “What is written for you, it’s branded on your forehead”. This is not true. Choice is a choice is a choice. Good and evil is all inside you. You have the power to decide. Ignorance and le mal esprit cna, of corse can be a factor, but that was not your choice, unless you realized you had it. Think well, what are the wishes that did not come true? Why is that? Maybe you did not want it really hard enough. When you want something, it is you who fight for it, and no one else. When you doubt, anything will be broken in half, between wish and fear. It is one or the other. It is the good and the evil. It is all inside you. All it matters is you have the choice.

So, as an ending for tonight’s thrilogy (more like a 4-logy, if that word exists), I must speak about the wonderful adventures in the Narnia of electricity. I kid you not. It has been a fantastic adventure I have been going through since my laptop decided it does not like Romanian electricity anymore (probably longing for the native plugs, where it used to have better offer than the Romanian electricity company has to offer - yes, there’s only one, to not leave place for doubts).
But let me rewind, and take you to beggining of this whole adventure.
At first, there was nothing but a couple of broken plugs. Summonig the good forces, we made it so that these were taken care of by a very skilfull electrician from around these parts of the world, who has made sure that the plugs will not ever bring ay grief.
And then, some others broke out in a heresy, defying all that was good and fair. But this was also taken care of by the already familiar character, the famous electrician now known around the entire shire for being the saviour of the plugs that take the wrong path.

There were some other nights when the Ruler of all plugs was showing some discontent, making all kinds of noises and flames and buzzing like it was annoyed by some evil force floating around in the air. It has all been ignored, because no major damage or obvious results, erm … resulted.
But last night was different. Sometimes, me and my best mate, my HP P-Cee, decide to move from one place to another to explore new possibilities of fighting and defeating the evil, by trying new plugs. And the Ruler of all plugs started buzzing and groaning and moaning and sparkling flames at us in a defying attitude, like he did not want us to be there.
So we left the plug, but I guess it was a bit too late because the Ruler did not stop his terrible and scary menace. At some point some other P-Cees around the territory started having funny behaviours and speech impediments, talking in a red language, saying they can’t go on like this.
So, the brave warrior that always does what she pleases, decided it’s about time to have a talk with the Ruler of all plugs, as scary as it was.

And the result was disastrous.

Its rather impertinent evil Pawns tottaly took down the warrior that was figting for the good of all plugs, of the all mighty Internet and for all the scared P-Cees. Here’s how the pawns looked, be wary of their power:

And this is how they looked after sacrificing their lives, so they can take out all the life from the plugs that bring happiness to folks:

But the fight was not over yet. The electrician was called again, with hope and some money tied on a rope. And waited for hours and hours that for the inhabitants of this shire, seemed like centuries. Eventually, the ugly truth has come to the surface. He deserted. He was too tired fighting the Ruler and also announced that he was not going to be available for the next centuries because of some pagan holidays, like Sunday, and Monday, because for some reason, this Monday is not a working day.

We assesed all the possibilities. The Aunt might have known about some other electrician that was a trusted warrior. She did not.

The Electrica SA, or whatever the family name was, the evil and yet reasonable ruler of all Rulers cut it shortly saying they do not deal with it and that we should call a friend.

So we called our Sister. She suggested we should try different combinations between the pawns of the Ruler and see if the pawns were dead or if the Ruler of all plugs itself was dead. Apparenlty just the pawns of the plugs. Not the Ruler, not the pawns of the light bulbs from the shire.
From then on, there were two options. Find some new pawns, or switch the light bulb pawns with the plug pawns.
After a walk in the crude terrible rain throughout the entire territory where all the pawn shops were closed and hope as well, we decided to go to plan #2. Evil and risky but better than just getting bored to death. Switch the pawns. Vote was unanimous. Celebration came. Wine was poured and cookies eaten.

All the inhabitants were happy to give up light when they wash their hands so their P-Cees can light their ways.

And so it happened. Wired was the word.

And it was worthed. Everyone was happy.

Never was this adventure forgotten. Stories are still being told, even without light bulbs but with one plug… the only one that survived the war.