This astonishingly little seen documentary about Portugal’s second largest city, Porto, is a tribute by Manoel de Oliveira to the city of his childhood, where the director masterly interweaves fact and fiction together.
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The paradox of human self is that we are but the things we are aware of, yet we’re aware that we’ve been most ourselves exactly in the moments when, rising to higher levels of inner simplicity, we’ve lost self-awareness completely. The more intense an activity, the less conscious of itself it is. Such states don’t last. We are incurably dual and conscious. Trying to fix the moments of unity, to preserve and hold onto
That last almost Whitmannian (The Sleepers makes that same equation of oblivion, mother and sea!) montage of the sea where suddenly and uncannily, the yearned for nanny and her rhythms of lullaby, become the sea and the rhythms of the sea, & everything that was self-consciously nostalgic in the reconfiguring of memory is suddenly transmuted into something elemental and harsh, is nothing short of spectacular.
fosse possível abrir a cabeça e colocar os filmes do Mestre no interior, não estaria menos distante deles: é tortura, mas porque ninguém filma a lembrança como inerentemente incapturável, não assim. com a esposa a cantar fados por cima de projeções slide de fotografias antigas da casa onde nasceu, onde o pai morreu. o celulóide evita a segunda morte? ou vê-se uma coisa destas e o momento já se esvaiu: assim.