Fragmentos de um roteiro 4
(It probably won't make any sense if anybody attempts to read this, but fuck it. It makes sense to me. I'm just putting down some ideas, ok?)
ASTRONAUT (OFF CAM.)
...'I wish I could wake up and look at you - lying on the bed, next to me. '
He turn around in bed and faces THE GIRL looking at him and smiling. He speaks to her.
ASTRONAUT
'I don't feel homesick but I do miss you a lot'.
The girl keeps smiling. He breathes heavily. He reaches out to her and takes THE PICTURE OF HER LYING IN BED off the wall.
ASTRONAUT (OFF CAM.)
'If I close my eyes I can still see your face, and I'm not without you'.
He closes his eyes
WHITE FADE
EXT - CONEY ISLAND - DAY
We 're moving in the sand until we reach her feet walking. The astronaut is looking down. He looks up to her smiling. Wide shot, his all alone in the beach. He stops, lays down. Cameras upside down he sees her aproaching.
ASTRONAUT (OFF CAM)
'If I try hard and concentrate, I can see you sayin...'
HER
'I Missed you.'
He laughs.
ASTRONAUT (OFF)
I want to make a movie here one day.
We see a couple running in the beach (perhaps a scene copyed from jules et jim). We see the Astronaut with his hand trying to imitate a camera, running after an invisible act.
He laughs
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Monday, August 16, 2004
Fragmentos de um Roteiro 3
Outer Space
Things that pop in my head.
A man sings a soul music in the train station.
Astronaut walks the streets. Or rides his bike across the Brooklyn Bridge. (this location must be stolen, by the way). His thoughts:
'I think I dreamed of being an astronaut when I was a kid. I'm not completely sure of that. (all black, then fades in) At least the excuse I used to move here was this dream I needed to chase. I moved to a place where I could fail away from the eyes of the all the people I know. And somehow I felt that the people back in the my hometown would speak of me and remember me looking up to the sky longing for that fading star that would slowly become a myth, or a legend, or just a lie, but a good lie.'
Well, anyway. I'm far, far away from home. Hiding alone among the stars.
This place is as big as the infinite. And quite lonely, I would say.
Dreaming. I'm always dreaming.
I wish I could be more objective. Start, working, get real. More logical, down to earth. I wish I could concentrate on more useful things. I wish I could speak better, and not stuttering. Say intelligent insights and not the pseudo-intellectual crap just to show-off.
I wish I could write everything that I think.
I wish I was different. Better looking. I wish I couild acomplish a little more. Not giving up so easily.
I wish I could write poetry.
I wish I had undying love.
Outer Space
Things that pop in my head.
A man sings a soul music in the train station.
Astronaut walks the streets. Or rides his bike across the Brooklyn Bridge. (this location must be stolen, by the way). His thoughts:
'I think I dreamed of being an astronaut when I was a kid. I'm not completely sure of that. (all black, then fades in) At least the excuse I used to move here was this dream I needed to chase. I moved to a place where I could fail away from the eyes of the all the people I know. And somehow I felt that the people back in the my hometown would speak of me and remember me looking up to the sky longing for that fading star that would slowly become a myth, or a legend, or just a lie, but a good lie.'
Well, anyway. I'm far, far away from home. Hiding alone among the stars.
This place is as big as the infinite. And quite lonely, I would say.
Dreaming. I'm always dreaming.
I wish I could be more objective. Start, working, get real. More logical, down to earth. I wish I could concentrate on more useful things. I wish I could speak better, and not stuttering. Say intelligent insights and not the pseudo-intellectual crap just to show-off.
I wish I could write everything that I think.
I wish I was different. Better looking. I wish I couild acomplish a little more. Not giving up so easily.
I wish I could write poetry.
I wish I had undying love.
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Diarios de Bicicleta
Para os que perguntam das novidades eu escrevo lamentando o fato de que nenhuma surpresa ou disturbio, fora os ja rotineiros disturbios emocionais, aconteceu comigo nesses ultimos dias. Na verdade eu ate tenho algumas novidades. Ganhei uma bicicleta, por exemplo. A Lenara Verle, filha do prefeito de Porto Alegre, esteve aqui visitando seu namorado e quando foi embora eu pedi que ela me deixasse a bicicleta para eu cuidar. E ela deixou. Ando com a magrela pra cima e pra baixo. Nos dias que nao da vontade de sair da cama, faco um esforco pra sair e dar umas pedaladas. O que se revela ser um passatempo de muita inspiracao e transpiracao, eh claro.
Saindo de manha do Brooklyn, cruzando pelos cafes da Avenida Bedford, chego rapido na ponte Williamsburg, onde uma subida ingrime manda eu mudar para a marcha mais leve. Mesmo assim chego bufando la em cima. Finalmente o esforco diminui e eu vejo o Lower East Side, e o sul da ilha de Manhattan crescendo magnificos na minha frente emoldurados pela Brooklyn Bridge. Nessa hora eu vejo tudo em preto e branco, esqueco do CD do Moby que pulava no meu disc-man e consigo apenas ouvir Rapsody in Blue do Gerswin esplodindo na minha cabeca (pra quem nao sabe do que eu estou falando, veja Manhattan do Woody Allen). Tiro as maos do guidon e vou e vou so no embalo retomando o folego. Quando a paisagem se esconde atras de uns predios feios, muda para a marcha pesada e desco o outro lado da ponte a milhao desviando de atletas e rabinos que se sodomizam em chapeus e ternos pretos embaixo desse sol de 30 graus. Nos calombos que diminuem a velocidade, eu dou saltinhos que me lembram da pistinha de bici-cross que eu andava em Belem Novo. Saindo da ponte eu ando pelo lower east side em direcao ao East Village. Passo por uma pequena loja de discos onde toca uma versao careta, eu diria ate desafinada, de 'Desafinado'. Subindo a Houston passo por um jardim cheio de florzinhas amarelas que caiam no chao. Ali, velinhos japoneses praticam Tai-Chi. E eu penso "... se o Kurosawa visse isso..."
Passou-se 40 minutos e eu estou na doze com a sexta avenida. Amarro a magrela na grade da escada de um predio e entro num cafe pra comer uma bagel. Dali eu venho ape ate a New School, onde eu posso ler os meus emails e escrever bobagens para os amigos. E e isso.
O dia continua maravilhoso la fora. Vou sair pra dar uma banda.
Marcello
Para os que perguntam das novidades eu escrevo lamentando o fato de que nenhuma surpresa ou disturbio, fora os ja rotineiros disturbios emocionais, aconteceu comigo nesses ultimos dias. Na verdade eu ate tenho algumas novidades. Ganhei uma bicicleta, por exemplo. A Lenara Verle, filha do prefeito de Porto Alegre, esteve aqui visitando seu namorado e quando foi embora eu pedi que ela me deixasse a bicicleta para eu cuidar. E ela deixou. Ando com a magrela pra cima e pra baixo. Nos dias que nao da vontade de sair da cama, faco um esforco pra sair e dar umas pedaladas. O que se revela ser um passatempo de muita inspiracao e transpiracao, eh claro.
Saindo de manha do Brooklyn, cruzando pelos cafes da Avenida Bedford, chego rapido na ponte Williamsburg, onde uma subida ingrime manda eu mudar para a marcha mais leve. Mesmo assim chego bufando la em cima. Finalmente o esforco diminui e eu vejo o Lower East Side, e o sul da ilha de Manhattan crescendo magnificos na minha frente emoldurados pela Brooklyn Bridge. Nessa hora eu vejo tudo em preto e branco, esqueco do CD do Moby que pulava no meu disc-man e consigo apenas ouvir Rapsody in Blue do Gerswin esplodindo na minha cabeca (pra quem nao sabe do que eu estou falando, veja Manhattan do Woody Allen). Tiro as maos do guidon e vou e vou so no embalo retomando o folego. Quando a paisagem se esconde atras de uns predios feios, muda para a marcha pesada e desco o outro lado da ponte a milhao desviando de atletas e rabinos que se sodomizam em chapeus e ternos pretos embaixo desse sol de 30 graus. Nos calombos que diminuem a velocidade, eu dou saltinhos que me lembram da pistinha de bici-cross que eu andava em Belem Novo. Saindo da ponte eu ando pelo lower east side em direcao ao East Village. Passo por uma pequena loja de discos onde toca uma versao careta, eu diria ate desafinada, de 'Desafinado'. Subindo a Houston passo por um jardim cheio de florzinhas amarelas que caiam no chao. Ali, velinhos japoneses praticam Tai-Chi. E eu penso "... se o Kurosawa visse isso..."
Passou-se 40 minutos e eu estou na doze com a sexta avenida. Amarro a magrela na grade da escada de um predio e entro num cafe pra comer uma bagel. Dali eu venho ape ate a New School, onde eu posso ler os meus emails e escrever bobagens para os amigos. E e isso.
O dia continua maravilhoso la fora. Vou sair pra dar uma banda.
Marcello
Monday, August 09, 2004
Outer Space
He lies in bed semi awake.
astronaut. (off):
Monday. Monday is my day off. Perhaps I should be using this time on a positive manner. Go to the beach, see a museum, enjoy life, do some writing, look for another job - God, I hate my job.
(a busboy serves water very slowly in a tall glass) Somedays I wake up and it's so hard to get out of bed. And I hardly had any sleep last night too. That little display on my stereo would lit the whole room in green. I'm so tired. So hungry. I guess I'll have to get out of bed afterall - there's no food in these apartment. (We hear the little music of the ice-cream truck driving by). If Mr. Softe's drive by one more time I'll shoot myself in the head. What am I saying? I could never do such a thing. I don't even have a gun. I have to get up before I go insane. (checks he's phone). Shit. It's already noon.
He lies in bed semi awake.
astronaut. (off):
Monday. Monday is my day off. Perhaps I should be using this time on a positive manner. Go to the beach, see a museum, enjoy life, do some writing, look for another job - God, I hate my job.
(a busboy serves water very slowly in a tall glass) Somedays I wake up and it's so hard to get out of bed. And I hardly had any sleep last night too. That little display on my stereo would lit the whole room in green. I'm so tired. So hungry. I guess I'll have to get out of bed afterall - there's no food in these apartment. (We hear the little music of the ice-cream truck driving by). If Mr. Softe's drive by one more time I'll shoot myself in the head. What am I saying? I could never do such a thing. I don't even have a gun. I have to get up before I go insane. (checks he's phone). Shit. It's already noon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)