Creative Provocation: Želimir Žilnik, maestro del docu-drama

Ustanak u Jasku

 Creative Provocation: Retrospective Želimir Žilnik


Želimir Žilnik (*1942) is a resident of Novi Sad in Serbia and has been working as a director of shorts, documentaries, features, essay films, and television productions since the end of the 60s. Always radically independent, he has created an oeuvre that reflects in precise, critical terms upon the various societies and their political, cultural, and economic conditions that form the setting of his films – Socialist Yugoslavia, West Germany in the 70s, the movements toward the break-up of Yugoslavia following Tito’s death, the wars of the 90s, the transformation processes that paved the way to a market economy, and the new borders now being drawn in Europe. We are very happy to welcome Želimir Žilnik to Arsenal from January 11-13 and will be showing 20 of his films until the end of the month.

Žilnik’s first short films from the end of the 60s are an audacious blend of agitation and documentary elements that criticize the dominant system in self-reflexive fashion. Together with Dušan Makavejev, Lazar Stojanović, Karpo Godina and others, he belonged to a generation of filmmakers that challenged ossified political structures with a sense of creative provocation. The concept of the “Black Wave” thought up by cultural functionaries to defame this group was ironically taken up by Žilnik in 1971′s BLACK FILM. Žilnik won both international recognition and the Berlinale Golden Bear with his first feature RANI RADOVI in 1969, which also caused him problems back home however. He was unable to complete his next feature “Freedom or Cartoons” (1972) and was given a de facto ban on working. In 1973, Žilnik left Yugoslavia and came to West Germany like many of his countrymen. There he made 7 short documentaries, usually shot with “guest workers”, and one feature. Yet democracy too set him on a similar collision course with the authorities, his cinematic explorations of terrorism and its exploitation by the mass media (ÖFFENTLICHE HINRICHTUNG and PARADIES) leading to the police searching his house and his being swiftly deported from Germany after his tourist visa allegedly ran out. Back in Yugoslavia, television offered him new working opportunities, enabling him to shoot cheaply and simply produced films about people’s everyday lives. It was here that he developed the directorial technique of the “docu-drama”, a blend of fiction and documentary that takes real events as its starting point before receiving a certain degree of fictional padding in the form of staged scenes and dialogues. The non-professional actors play themselves, draw on their own experiences, and are granted a space to express and present themselves and their own “dramas”. This raw, minimalist aesthetic heightens the impression of the real and the unadorned. Over the last few years, Želimir Žilnik has turned his attention more and more to the political and social upheaval in the states of southeastern Europe and the people caught up in it, as well as to migrational movements and the European Union’s increasing use of deportation.

TITO PO DRUGI PUT MEDJU SRBIMA (Tito’s Second Time Among the Serbs, Federal Republic of Yugoslavia 1994, 11.1., screening attended by Želimir Žilnik, & 31.1.) Despite having died in 1980, Tito turns up on the streets of Belgrade in 1994 resplendent in his best army uniform and eager to speak to his people, with animated discussions with passers-by thus ensuing. The people are suffering under hyperinflation and the war and have grown weary of both Tito’s veneration while he was still alive and his subsequent condemnation in the period that followed.

ŽURNAL O OMLADINI NA SELU, ZIMI (Yugoslavia 1967, 11. & 31.1.) Žilnik’s debut film already shows signs of his characteristic documentary fiction or arranged documentary style. He observes young people at play in Vojvodina as they hang out in bars and dance, somewhere between a sense of emptiness and an overflowing vitality for life.

CRNI FILM (Black Film, Yugoslavia 1971, 11. & 31.1.) Žilnik picks up 10 homeless people (who do not exist according to official speeches) from the streets of Novi Sad one night and takes them home with him. While they stay in the two-room flat where he lives in with his wife and little daughter, Žilnik asks passers-by on the street how the problem can be solved. “It is a film about the class structure of Yugoslavian society but also about the abuse of the déclassé for film purposes; it shows how the filmmaker exploits social hardship.” (Ž. Ž.) The final intertitle pithily expresses the dilemma: “FILM – WEAPON OR SHIT”.

USTANAK U JASZKU (Yugoslavia 1973, 11. & 31.1.) The elderly inhabitants of a village remember the war and the partisan battles. The film also relates how collective memories and myths enter into individual consciousness.

STARA ŠKOLA KAPITALIZMA (The Old School of Capitalism, Serbia 2009, 12.1., followed by a discussion with Želimir Žilnik and Boris Buden & 26.1.) The end of state socialism also entails Serbia entering the world of global capitalism. Before the real-life backdrop of a series of factory strikes, a group of workers storms the factory only to realize that the bosses have got their hands on everything already.  Young anarchists then kidnap the factory owner in an act of solidarity, with the visit of a Russian grand industrialist and American vice-president Biden only serving to complicate the situation further.

NEZAPOSLENI LJUDI (Yugoslavia 1968, 12. & 23.1.) Žilnik confronts various unemployed people with a series of questions that are edited together to create a universal portrait of unemployment where no trace of socialist optimism is to be felt.

KENEDI SE VRAĆA KUĆI (Kenedi Goes Back Home, Serbia and Montenegro 2003, 13.1., screening attended by Želimir Žilnik & 28.1.) is the first part of a trilogy about young Roma Kenedi Hasani who plays the leading role himself. Having fled from the Yugoslavian wars to Germany in the 90s, he was deported to Serbia in 2002. At Belgrade airport, he meets other people thrown out of Germany who are living in transit just like him, all in search of friends and family, accommodation and orientation. Based on the experiences and accounts of the actors, the new borders being set out in the united Europe and the mechanisms for exclusion it is establishing are soon made tangible.

GDE JE BIO KENEDI 2 GODINE (Kenedi, Lost and Found, Serbia und Montenegro 2005, 13.1., screening attended by Želimir Žilnik & 28.1.) Two years after KENEDI GOES BACK HOME, Žilnik finds Kenedi Hasani again in Vienna during a screening of the very same film. He was arrested by the border police trying to illegally cross the border from Hungary to Austria and spent several months in a refugee camp. From there, he fled to Germany and Holland via Austria. He now takes a film team with him to Novi Sad where he decides to build a house for his family.

KENEDI SE ŽENI (Kenedi Is Getting Married, Serbia 2007, 18. & 29.1.) The third part of the KENEDI trilogy: After building the house in Novi Sad, Kenedi is now in debt and is looking for any work he can find. As Serbia doesn’t offer many opportunities, he decides to try his luck in the sex business. Might getting married to a EU citizen solve his problem? Just like in the other two films, Kenedi is not merely the object of the camera but is rather actively occupied with shaping the scenes from his life being reconstructed by it.

RANI RADOVI (Early Works, Yugoslavia 1969, 16. & 27.1.) Žilnik’s feature debut, named after the early works of Karl Marx (“additional dialogue: Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels”) attempts to come to terms with student hopes in Belgrade in 1968. Four young people, three men and woman, set out in a clapped-out old car to the country where they call upon the population to emancipate themselves and develop political awareness and attempt to implement revolutionary theories in practice. Frustrated by the resistance they meet and their lack of success, they turn to self-destruction. The film starts with the word “Comedy” and ends with a quotation by French revolutionary Saint Just: “Whoever only carries out half a revolution is digging his own grave!” This by turns angry and boisterous film won the Berlinale Golden Bear in 1969.

LIPANJSKA GIBANJA (Yugoslavia 1969, 16. & 27.1.) was shot during the student protests in Belgrade in spring 1968, with “Down with the Socialist Fat Cats” the slogan being shouted. Žilnik works here with interviews edited together in dynamic fashion in the style of cinéma vérité and has an actor quote Robespierre from Büchner’s “Danton’s Death”.

PIONIRI MALENI, MI SMO VOJSKA PRAVA, SVAKOG DANA NIĆEMO, KO ZELENA TRAVA (Yugoslavia 1968, 16.1.) Children and young people whom society has left to their own devices speak freely of their experiences before the camera, relating tales of life on the street, of theft, abuse and violence. One of them is little Pirika, who we meet again 45 years later in PIRIKA NA FILMU. The title is taken from a pioneer song of the time.

PIRIKA NA FILMU (Pirika on Film, Serbia 2013, 16.1.) is the portrait of a woman as well as an analysis of the post-communist status quo in the countries of the former Yugoslavia. 45 years after taking part in two films by Želimir Žilnik, RANI RADOVI and PIONIRI MALENI, the film is a hommage to the colorful life of Piroška Čapko, who is in Berlin to look for the daughter with whom she hasn’t spoken in years. Žilnik freely combines documentary elements, staged episodes (in which Arsenal also plays a role) and conversations between the different people that Pirika meets.

DUPE OD MRAMORA (Marble Ass, Federal Republic of Yugoslavia 1994, 14. & 25.1.) examines the aftereffects of the wars of the 90s on people living on the margins of society. Prostitute Merlin attempts to establish peace using her own particular method, trying to counteract the atmosphere of violence by sleeping with numerous young men and thus channeling energies that would otherwise quickly turn to aggression. Johnny has just returned from the front and seeks to use yet more violence to solve his conflicts. An apocalyptic vision of a Serbian society dominated by mentally damaged people, the myth of masculinity and the war mentality. MARBLE ASS won the Teddy Award at the 2005 Berlinale.

DO JAJA (Throwing Off the Yolks of Bondage, Federal Republic of Yugoslavia 1997, 14. & 25.1.) documents the mass protests in Belgrade against the Milošević regime in Serbia in November 1997. Disillusioned by their political leaders, the demonstrators throw eggs at state institutions.

ÖFFENTLICHE HINRICHTUNG (West Germany 1974, 20. & 24.1.) is based on German television reports about police actions against the RAF, which appear to Žilnik to have been staged for TV audiences.

ICH WEISS NICHT WAS SOLL ES BEDEUTEN (West Germany 1975, 20. & 24.1.)  An amusing parody of German Romanticism and how it is transformed into kitsch that draws on different versions of Heinrich Heine’s “Lorelei”.

PARADIES. EINE IMPERIALISTISCHE TRAGIKOMÖDIE (West Germany 1976, 20. & 24.1.) An unscrupulous bankrupt industrialist stages her own kidnapping in order to restore her company to profitability. She hires a group of young anarchists as kidnappers so that she can turn up again after a few days of “captivity” with renewed vigor. Directly influenced by the kidnapping of Berlin CDU Chairman Peter Lorenz by the July 2nd Movement, Žilnik creates a pastiche of the Baader Meinhof hysteria circulating at that time in West Germany. Rainer Werner Fassbinder and Hanna Schygulla were originally intended to play the leading roles, which didn’t come to fruition however. PARADIES was apparently Fassbinder’s inspiration for his own film The Third Generation.

The half-documentary TVRÐJAVA EVROPA (Fortress Europe, Slovenia 2000, 21.1.) was shot in the border regions of Italy, Slovenia, Croatia and Hungary. The southeastern border of the EU is under heavy observation in the aftermath of Schengen Treaty and is serving to strengthen the nationalist tendencies and police organs of the eastern European states. Using true stories as his starting point, Žilnik reconstructs the stories of several people trying to cross these borders: the Russian man who wants to bring his daughter to his ex-wife in Italy before getting stranded in Hungary, where he meets refugees from Serbia, or the young woman from Romania, who is apprehended by police on the Slovenian-Italian border and sent back as a result.

INVENTUR METZSTRASSE (West Germany 1975, 21.1.) shows the inhabitants of an old apartment block – primarily “guest workers” – who introduce themselves and their living situations. Playing themselves in a rigorous structuralist setting, it is they themselves who determine what and how much of themselves they reveal. (al)

With the friendly support of the Serbian Embassy Berlin. Thanks to Miloš Stipić and Želimir Žilnik

Figures of Dissent: Želimir Žilnik

27 November 2014 20:30, KASKcinema, Gent. A KASK lecture in collaboration with Courtisane.
In the presence of Želimir Žilnik

Black Film (YU, 1971, 16mm, video, b&w, 14′)
Seven Hungarian Ballads (YU, 1978, 16mm, video, colour, 30′)
Inventory (Inventur – Metzstrasse 11) (YU, 1975, 16mm, video, colour, 9′)
Tito Among the Serbs for the Second Time (YU, 1994, video, colour, 43′)

“I do not hide my camera. I do not hide the fact from people I am shooting that I am making a film. On the contrary. I help them to recognise their own situation and to express their position to it as efficiently as they can. The hidden camera is a scam. It is all right to use in films on timid animals, but it has no place in films with people. “

Among the many anecdotes for which Želimir Žilnik is well known, there is one involving a discussion he had, sometime in the beginning of the 1970’s, with Ivo Vejvoda, then one of the leading Yugoslav diplomats and communist intellectuals. Vejvoda told Žilnik that it was unfortunate that his films focused so much on the “lumpenproleteriat”, which he called “a regressive force without class consciousness”. This remark was typical for the criticism accusing Žilnik of painting a “black” picture of the Yugoslav society which was ostensibly flourishing in the wake of the political and economic reforms of the 1960’s, an accusation to which he bluntly responded by making a film which he literally titled Black Film (1971). Žilnik picked up six homeless people from the street and brought them into his home, not only to share the warmth of his middleclass apartment, but also to actively participate in making a film about their situation. Black Film stands as the quintessential example of Žilnik’s work, which tends to focus on the lives of vagabonds, swindlers, tinkers, beggars and bohemians, those who were in the Marxist tradition dismissively referred to as the ‘lumpenproletariat’, generally depicted as an inert mass of marginal and reactionary vulgars, an unredeemed and unregenerate underclass which didn’t play any structural role in the construction of socialism. This blackness then, which was so characteristic of the “black wave” cinema of the time, can be associated with the indication of this uneasy contradiction between those who were considered as true proletarians and their degenerate close cousins, all of which were allegedly unable to grasp the political reality of their own situation. It can also be related to the unveiling of the notorious gap between the utopian promise of knowledge and salvation on one hand and the reality of poverty and inequality on the other. But the blackness can just as well be implicated on cinema itself, this art form which used to claim to have the power to change social reality, but in the end has to agree that it can offer nothing but a surface of percepts and affects for us to engage with. “They left us our freedom”, Žilnik wrote in a text accompanying a screening of the film, “we were liberated, but ineffective”. In spite of this self-reflexive critique, Žilnik stubbornly persevered in making films, even up to this day. The political landscape might have changed, but not the filmmaker’s attitude, which remains loyal to the uncovering of the difficult legacy of socialism and the predicaments of those who were once called lumpen, who are today said to be included but hardly belonging.

On 26 November, Želimir Žilnik will also present some of his work at Cinema Nova, Brussels.

In the context of the research project “Figures of Dissent (Cinema of Politics, Politics of Cinema)”
KASK / School of Arts

Rani radovi / Early Works _ Želimir Žilnik

Stara škola kapitalizma

[Video clip] Seven Hungarian Ballads | Želimir Žilnik

Early life

Želimir was born in the Nazi-run Crveni Krst concentration camp in September 1942 where his Serbian communist activist mother Milica “Maša” Šuvaković was imprisoned by Germans since early 1942. On 2 December 1942 there was a prison break in the camp as a group of prisoners managed to escape, and as a response – the Germans executed a number of remaining prisoners including Maša Šuvaković. Days before his mother was executed, 3-month-old Želimir was taken out of the prison and given to her parents. Young Želimir was thus raised by his maternal grandparents.

His father was a Slovene communist activist and Partisan fighter Konrad “Slobodan” Žilnik who got severely wounded and taken prisoner in March 1944 during a battle against Chetniks. Chetniks tortured him and eventually executed him couple of days later. Posthumously, he was awarded the People’s Hero gallantry medal.


He won his first awards, a Golden Berlin Bear and a Youth Film Award at the 19th Berlin International Film Festival in 1969 for his feature film Rani radovi[1] (Early Works) which depicted the aftermath of the 1968 Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia.

During the early 1970s he was criticized and his works were quite often banned due their[2] portrayal of student demonstrations and their advocacy of freedom of media and speech. Between 1973 and 1976 he found work for several independent German production companies. In conjunction with these companies he directed two documentaries dealing with anarcho-terrorism; Öffentliche Hinrichtung[3] and Paradies.[4] In Yugoslavia he found work in theatre production but returned to his previous work with documentaries.

In the 1980s his works began to garner more attention and were successfully presented on several television networks and at local and international festivals. In 1985 he made Pretty Women Walking Through the City which predicted that nationalistic tensions will cause the disintegration of Yugoslavia. His 1988 his black comedy Tako se kalio čelik[5] (The Way Steel Was Tempered) was nominated for the Golden St. George award at the 16th Moscow International Film Festival in the Soviet Union.[6]

In 1994 he wrote and directed Tito’s Second Time Among the Serbs, and helped initiate one of Serbia‘s independent media outlets, b92 in Belgrade. His 1995 feature film Marble Ass was a look at the myth built around the masculinity of the male as a warrior and leader. It was entered into the 19th Moscow International Film Festival.[7]

Recently he has directed several documentaries dealing with the commonality of the Central and Eastern Europe and the problems with immigration to and from Europe[8] with the same style and narrative that had gained him recognition for many years.

Selected filmography

  • Jedna žena, jedan vek (2011)
  • Stara škola kapitalizma (The Old School of Capitalism) (2009)
  • Kenedi se ženi (Kenedi is Getting Married) (2007)
  • Gde je bio Kenedi 2 godine (Kenedi, Lost and Found) (2005)
  • Kenedi se vraca kuci (Kenedi Goes Back Home) (2003)
  • Tvrdjava Evropa (Fortress Europe) (2001)
  • Kud plovi ovaj brod (Wanderlust) (1999)
  • Marble Ass (Marble Ass) (1995)
  • Tito po drugi put medju Srbima (Tito Among the Serbs for the Second Time) (1993)
  • Tako se kalio čelik (The way Steel was Tempered) (1988)
  • Abschied (Farewell) (1976)
  • Paradies (Paradise) (1976)
  • Rani radovi (Early Works) (1969)


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saluto a Philip Levine: alcune poesie

E’ morto il 14 febbraio 2015 il poeta statunitense Philip Levine. Era nato il 10 gennaio 1928, a Detroit, ed era una delle principali voci poetiche della sua  generazione.

Figlio di immigrati russi ebrei, Levine è cresciuto a Detroit, dove ha iniziato a lavorare nelle fabbriche di auto a quattordici anni. Era solo un ragazzo quando ci fu la Grande Depressione, nel 1930. I suoi eroi non erano solo le persone che hanno lottato contro il fascismo, ma anche persone comuni che hanno lavorato in posti di lavoro senza speranza, semplicemente per non diventare poveri. Interessato alla realtà del lavoro operaio e dei lavoratori, Levine ha prestato la sua voce ”a chi non aveva voce”.

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Ha scritto una trentina di libri di poesie.

ll mondo familiare, sociale, ed economico del XX secolo di Detroit è uno dei grandi temi della poesia di Levine. Ha ritratto la classe operaia e ha testimoniato la vita americana della seconda metà del XX secolo.

Philip Levine: ‘Cos’è il lavoro’

Facciamo una lunga fila nella pioggia
alla Ford Highland Park. Per un lavoro.
Sai cos’è un lavoro – se sei grande abbastanza
per leggere qui sai com’è lavorare,
anche se magari non lo fai.
Ma lasciamo perdere te. Questa roba
parla di gente che aspetta, passando
da una gamba all’altra. Di quando senti
una pioggia sottile che ti bagna i capelli
come fa la nebbia, e che ti confonde
la vista finché ti sembra di vedere
tuo fratello, forse dieci posti più avanti.

Ti pulisci gli occhiali con le dita,
e ovviamente è il fratello di qualcun’altro,
con le spalle più strette del tuo
ma con la stessa posa dinoccolata
e dimessa, lo stesso sorriso che
non maschera la cocciutaggine, lo stesso
rifiuto, triste, di darla vinta alla pioggia,
alle ore buttate via ad aspettare,
al pensiero che a un certo punto, più avanti,
c’è un uomo che sta aspettando per dirti “No,
oggi non assumiamo”, per qualsiasi
ragione voglia. Vuoi bene a tuo fratello;
all’improvviso, adesso, puoi appena
sopportare l’amore che ti sommerge
per tuo fratello, che non è vicino a te,
o dietro di te, o davanti a te,
perché è a casa a cercare di smaltire
col sonno il turno di notte alla Cadillac
così può alzarsi prima di mezzogiorno
a studiare tedesco. Lavora otto ore
per notte così può cantare Wagner,
l’opera che odi di più, la musica
peggiore che sia mai stata inventata.
Quand’è stata l’ultima volta che gli hai detto
che gli vuoi bene, che gli hai stretto le spalle
larghe, hai aperto bene gli occhi e gli hai
detto quelle parole, e magari gli hai dato
un bacio sulla guancia? Non hai mai fatto
una cosa così semplice, così ovvia,
non perché sei troppo giovane, o troppo
scemo, non perché sei geloso e nemmeno
avaro o incapace di piangere davanti
a un altro uomo – no, è solo che non sai
cosa vuol dire lavorare.

[da What Work Is, 1991]

What Work Is
We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is – if you’re
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it’s someone else’s brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, “No,
we’re not hiring today”, for any
reason he wants. You love your brother,
now suddenly you can hardly stand
the love flooding you for your brother,
who’s not beside you or behind or
ahead because he’s home trying to
sleep off a miserable night shift
at Cadillac so he can get up
before noon to study his German.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wagner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you’re too young or too dumb,
not because you’re jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no,
just because you don’t know what work is.

Philip Levine

An Abandoned Factory, Detroit

The gates are chained, the barbed-wire fencing stands,
An iron authority against the snow,
And this grey monument to common sense
Resists the weather. Fears of idle hands,
Of protest, men in league, and of the slow
Corrosion of their minds, still charge this fence.

Beyond, through broken windows one can see
Where the great presses paused between their strokes
And thus remain, in air suspended, caught
In the sure margin of eternity.
The cast-iron wheels have stopped; one counts the spokes
Which movement blurred, the struts inertia fought,

And estimates the loss of human power,
Experienced and slow, the loss of years,
The gradual decay of dignity.
Men lived within these foundries, hour by hour;
Nothing they forged outlived the rusted gears
Which might have served to grind their eulogy.

Philip Levine

Detroit, una fabbrica abbandonata

I cancelli incatenati, la recinzione di filo spinato è lì

come un’autorità di metallo contro la neve

e questo grigio monumento al senso comune

resiste alle stagioni. Ancora carica questa recinzione

delle paure di sciopero, di protesta, di uomini uniti

e della lenta corrosione delle loro menti.

Al di là, attraverso le finestre rotte, si vede

dove le grandi presse si sono fermate fra un colpo e l’altro

e così,  sospese nell’aria, restano prese

al margine certo dell’eternità.

Le ruote di ghisa sono ferme; si contano  i raggi

che il movimento sfuocava, i montanti che l’inerzia combatteva,

e si calcola la perdita del potere umano,

lento ed esperto, la perdita di anni,

il graduale declino della dignità.

Uomini vivevano in queste fonderie, ora dopo ora;

nulla di ciò che hanno forgiato è sopravvissuto agli ingranaggi arrugginiti

che sarebbero potuti servire a macinare il loro elogio.

Philip Levine

Belle Isle, 1949

We stripped in the first warm spring night

and ran down into the Detroit River

to baptize ourselves in the brine

of car parts, dead fish, stolen bicycles,

melted snow. I remember going under

hand in hand with a Polish highschool girl

I’d never seen before, and the cries

our breath made caught at the same time

on the cold, and rising through the layers

of darkness into the final moonless atmosphere

that was this world, the girl breaking

the surface after me and swimming out

on the starless waters towards the lights

of Jefferson Ave. and the stacks

of the old stove factory unwinking.

Turning at last to see no island at all

but a perfect calm dark as far

as there was sight, and then a light

and another riding low out ahead

to bring us home, ore boats maybe, or smokers

walking alone. Back panting

to the gray coarse beach we didn’t dare

fall on, the damp piles of clothes,

and dressing side by side in silence

to go back where we came from.

Philip Levine

Call It Music

Some days I catch a rhythm, almost a song

in my own breath. I’m alone here

in Brooklyn Heights, late morning, the sky

above the St. George Hotel clear, clear

for New York, that is. The radio playing

“Bird Flight,” Parker in his California

tragic voice fifty years ago, his faltering

“Lover Man” just before he crashed into chaos.

I would guess that outside the recording studio

in Burbank the sun was high above the jacarandas,

it was late March, the worst of yesterday’s rain

had come and gone, the sky washed blue. Bird

could have seen for miles if he’d looked, but what

he saw was so foreign he clenched his eyes,

shook his head, and barked like a dog—just once—

and then Howard McGhee took his arm and assured him

he’d be OK. I know this because Howard told me

years later that he thought Bird could

lie down in the hotel room they shared, sleep

for an hour or more, and waken as himself.

The perfect sunlight angles into my little room

above Willow Street. I listen to my breath

come and go and try to catch its curious taste,

part milk, part iron, part blood, as it passes

from me into the world. This is not me,

this is automatic, this entering and exiting,

my body’s essential occupation without which

I am a thing. The whole process has a name,

a word I don’t know, an elegant word not

in English or Yiddish or Spanish, a word

that means nothing to me. Howard truly believed

what he said that day when he steered

Parker into a cab and drove the silent miles

beside him while the bright world

unfurled around them: filling stations, stands

of fruits and vegetables, a kiosk selling trinkets

from Mexico and the Philippines. It was all

so actual and Western, it was a new creation

coming into being, like the music of Charlie Parker

someone later called “glad,” though that day

I would have said silent, “the silent music

of Charlie Parker.” Howard said nothing.

He paid the driver and helped Bird up two flights

to their room, got his boots off, and went out

to let him sleep as the afternoon entered

the history of darkness. I’m not judging

Howard, he did better than I could have

now or then. Then I was 19, working

on the loading docks at Railway Express,

coming day by day into the damaged body

of a man while I sang into the filthy air

the Yiddish drinking songs my Zadie taught me

before his breath failed. Now Howard is gone,

eleven long years gone, the sweet voice silenced.

“The subtle bridge between Eldridge and Navarro,”

they later wrote, all that rising passion

a footnote to others. I remember in ’85

walking the halls of Cass Tech, the high school

where he taught after his performing days,

when suddenly he took my left hand in his

two hands to tell me it all worked out

for the best. Maybe he’d gotten religion,

maybe he knew how little time was left,

maybe that day he was just worn down

by my questions about Parker. To him Bird

was truly Charlie Parker, a man, a silent note

going out forever on the breath of genius

which now I hear soaring above my own breath

as this bright morning fades into afternoon.

Music, I’ll call it music. It’s what we need

as the sun staggers behind the low gray clouds

blowing relentlessly in from that nameless ocean,

the calm and endless one I’ve still to cross.

Philip Levine


Si stava all’angolo

finchè passò Tatum*

cieco come il mare,

pesante, barcollante

al braccio del giovane

suonatore di basso, ed

entrambi parlando di

Jackie Robinson.

C’era freddo, era tardi,

e il Flame Show Bar

faceva un gran fracasso

quella notte, persino

Johnny ray.

rinunciava a competere.

Tatum disse, Non posso

credere quanto lui sia veloce

ad essere il primo. Aspetta

vedrai Mays

disse il bassista.

Donne in bianche pellicce

si riversavano fuori dai bar

e andavano lentamente verso

l’area di parcheggio. Ora

potrebbe piovere e venir giù

a dirotto. L’uomo

nel cappello marrone

non sollevò mai il capo.

I marciapiedi turbinavano

le loro dense acque,

le strade riflettevano il cielo,

che non sapeva di niente. Tatum era

schiacciato verso il Bland Hotel,

un giornale fradicio

conficcato nella sua scarpa, la sua bocca

aperta, il suo gilè tirato e scuro.

Non posso proprio aspettare, disse.

Philip Levine

*Poesia dedicata al “rivoluzionario” pianista Art Tatum (1909-1956), una delle figure storiche del moderno pianismo jazz.

Philip Levine : The Two |

Levine, Philip, 1928-today

Philip Levine: What Work Is, ‘Cos’è il lavoro’

La volpe di Philip Levine | controappunto

Edward Hopper l’incomunicabilità nel deserto metropoli e oltre

Pubblicato in amore, cultura | Contrassegnato , | Lascia un commento

Na juris! (Partisanenlied · Jugoslawien, 1943)

La versione italiana, ripresa da “La musica dell’Altraitalia”:


All’assalto, all’assalto, all’assalto,
echeggia nei boschi l’urlo dei combattenti,
le file nemiche sono folte!
Colpisci, irrompi,
picchia, spara!
All’assalto, o-hei, partigiano
innanzi a te è il giorno della libertà.

All’assalto, all’assalto, all’assalto,
vendichiamo le case bruciate,
vendichiamo tutte le nostre tombe!
Scaccia gli indemoniati,
e salva i sofferenti!
All’assalto, o-hei, partigiano
innanzi a te è il giorno della libertà.

All’assalto, all’assalto, all’assalto,
al rogo gli alberi marci,
diventi un paradiso la terra;
splenda per tutti il sole,
vi prosperi soltanto la gioia!
All’assalto, o-hei, partigiano
innanzi a te è il giorno della libertà.

All’assalto, all’assalto, all’assalto,
fratelli oppressi venite con noi,
conquistiamoci da soli la libertà!
Attraverso la fame e il dolore,
per una vita migliore!
All’assalto, o-hei, partigiano
innanzi a te è il giorno della libertà.


Pubblicato in la canzone più vera che c'è! | Contrassegnato | Lascia un commento

Libia, 35 egiziani lavoratori rapiti – Allah Akba e gas , lo scontro di civiltà è reale !

Libia, “35 egiziani rapiti” dopo i raid del Cairo Lo riferisce Libya Herald. I sequestrati sarebbero in gran parte lavoratori del settore agricolo.

Fajr Libya, la coalizione di milizie al potere a Tripoli, aveva chiesto ai cittadini egiziani di lasciare il paese per evitare ritorsioni dopo i raid in cui erano stati uccisi almeno 60 miliziani Siria
: forze curde alle porte di Raqqa, la roccaforte dell’Isis Siria,
riprendono bombardamenti degli Emirati Arabi Uniti contro l’Isis
Egitto bombarda basi Isis in Libia, almeno 60 morti Libia,
i raid aerei dell’Egitto contro l’Isis Il vicario apostolico di Tripoli: “Non ha senso restare in Libia senza dialogo col mondo musulmano”
16 febbraio 2015″Almeno 35 cittadini egiziani” sono stati rapiti in Libia dopo l’inizio dei raid dell’Egitto nelle zone controllate dall’Isis e da Anbsar al Sharia. Lo riporta Libya Herald. I sequestrati sarebbero in gran parte lavoratori del settore agricolo. Stamattina dopo l’inizio dei bombardamenti Fajr Libya, la coalizione di milizie al potere a Tripoli, aveva chiesto agli egiziani di lasciare la Libia per evitare ritorsioni. In post sulla pagina Facebook di Fajr si legge: “Si chiede ai fratelli egiziani che lavorano in Libia di lasciare il paese entro un massimo di 48 ore per preservare la loro integrità di fronte a qualsiasi operazione di rappresaglia suscettibile di accrescere la tensione fra i due popoli fratelli”. Raid dell’Egitto All’alba l’Egitto ha iniziato a bombardare Derna e Sirte con l’obiettivo di colpire depositi di armi e campi di addestramento dello ‘Stato Islamico’. Una vendetta per la morte dei 21 ostaggi copti – la cui barbara uccisione è stata mostrata in un video – ha detto un portavoce dell’esercito. Dopo che il comando dell’aviazione libica, riferisce il portavoce, ha colpito le postazioni a Derna dell’Isis e di Ansar al Sharia, il gruppo estremista legato ad al Qaeda, è in corso ora la terza ondata di raid egiziani. La condanna del Parlamento Il Congresso nazionale libico, ovvero il Parlamento sostenuto dalle milizie islamiche a Tripoli, ha condannato i raid condotti dall’aviazione egiziana contro obiettivi dello ‘Stato islamico’ in Libia. Si tratta di una “aggressione alla sovranità nazionale”, ha detto il Parlamento islamico citato dall’emittente al-Jazeera. “La Libia è uno stato sovrano e combattere il terrorismo dovrebbe essere un compito dello Stato” si legge in una nota. Dall’assemblea di Tobruk, riconosciuta dalla comunità internazionale, nessun commento ai raid egiziani. Vittime: almeno 60 miliziani Sono almeno 64 i jihadisti uccisi nei raid aerei condotti dalle forze aeree di Egitto e Libia a Derna, Sirte e Bengasi. Lo ha precisato il portavoce delle forze armate libiche di stanza a Tobruk, Mohammed Hegazi. Tra le vittime ci sarebbero tre comandanti dello Stato islamico e l’operazione avrebbe colpito il 95 per cento degli obiettivi prestabiliti. La vendetta di al Sisi Ieri dopo il video della tragica uccisione dei 21 ostaggi cristiani copti egiziani il presidente Al Sisi aveva convocato d’urgenza il consiglio nazionale della Difesa e in un discorso rivolto alla nazione era stato chiaro: “L’Egitto si riserva il diritto di reagire nel modo e nei tempi che riterremo più opportuni”. E oggi all’alba è arrivato l’intervento.

Libia e non solo : collage – Domenico Quirico – Lucio Caracciolo video , qualche vecchio post

Allah Akba e gas , lo scontro di civiltà è reale !+ vari post di ..

Pubblicato in EFFETTI COLLATERALI, islam, sono cazi acidi sono | Contrassegnato , , , | Lascia un commento

Barbra Streisand: Don’t Rain On My Parade

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To Be Or Not To Be

« Essere, o non essere, questo è il dilemma:
se sia più nobile nella mente soffrire
i colpi di fionda e i dardi dell’oltraggiosa fortuna
o prendere le armi contro un mare di affanni
e, contrastandoli, porre loro fine? Morire, dormire…
nient’altro, e con un sonno dire che poniamo fine
al dolore del cuore e ai mille tumulti naturali
di cui è erede la carne: è una conclusione
da desiderarsi devotamente. Morire, dormire.
Dormire, forse sognare. Sì, qui è l’ostacolo,
perché in quel sonno di morte quali sogni possano venire
dopo che ci siamo cavati di dosso questo groviglio mortale
deve farci esitare. È questo lo scrupolo
che dà alla sventura una vita così lunga.
Perché chi sopporterebbe le frustate e gli scherni del tempo,
il torto dell’oppressore, la contumelia dell’uomo superbo,
gli spasimi dell’amore disprezzato, il ritardo della legge,
l’insolenza delle cariche ufficiali, e il disprezzo
che il merito paziente riceve dagli indegni,
quando egli stesso potrebbe darsi quietanza
con un semplice stiletto? Chi porterebbe fardelli,
grugnendo e sudando sotto il peso di una vita faticosa,
se non fosse che il terrore di qualcosa dopo la morte,
il paese inesplorato dalla cui frontiera
nessun viaggiatore fa ritorno, sconcerta la volontà
e ci fa sopportare i mali che abbiamo
piuttosto che accorrere verso altri che ci sono ignoti?
Così la coscienza ci rende tutti codardi,
e così il colore naturale della risolutezza
è reso malsano dalla pallida cera del pensiero,
e imprese di grande altezza e momento
per questa ragione deviano dal loro corso
e perdono il nome di azione. »

Pubblicato in confessione | Contrassegnato | Lascia un commento