Coincidências, ou o que é essencial?

Começando o dia com a habitual azáfama de mails, plataformas, impressos para preencher, reuniões a agendar, quando sou surpreendido por este passo de Lucas 10,38-42: Naquele tempo, Jesus entrou em certa povoação e uma mulher chamada Marta recebeu-O em sua casa. Ela tinha uma irmã chamada Maria, que, sentada aos pés de Jesus, ouvia a sua palavra. Entretanto, Marta atarefava-se com muito serviço. Interveio então e disse: «Senhor, não Te importas que minha irmã me deixe sozinha a servir? Diz-lhe que venha ajudar-me». O Senhor respondeu-lhe: «Marta, Marta, andas inquieta e preocupada com muitas coisas, quando uma só é necessária. Maria escolheu a melhor parte, que não lhe será tirada». Aqui fica o modo como Velásquez viu este episódio sobre a importância "de não perder o Norte, de saber o que é essencial." E o que é essencial para ti?

Can I recognize God in this place

and in the ordinary people around me? Can I become aware of God’s presence here now? Interpela a voz de hoje em Pray as you go. Sim, em timbres de voz, em certa forma de sorrir, nesses "instantes límpidos, incomparáveis, de que não conhecemos as regras, [que] são portadores da possibilidade de sentido e redenção para a vida," de que fala Tolentino; nas memórias desses instantes partilhados com estes dois amigos que partiram demasiado cedo neste Verão, Stephen van Loo (1950-2015) e Fátima Araújo (1955-2015).

Acabou de chegar...

Lembram-se dos Communards? Do teclista, Richard Coles? Pois hoje, a designação correcta será Reverendo Richard Coles. Estas são as primeiras linhas do recentemente publicado Fathomless Riches, or how I went from pop to pulpit:"In a plain little room out of the sun, religious zealots in robes and beards meet to study the teachings of the founder of their sect. In the hum of their discourse and the rhythm of their prayer summaries of his teaching emerge, are worked up, recorded and broadcast to the communities he founded, fractious and disobedient, in the cities and towns of that hot volatile region. The teacher we know as St. Paul. He lived in the first century in Palestine, and those summaries we know as his epistles, or letters, to the communities he founded. Paul was born a Jew and became a brilliant scholar, so devout and so rigorous he was charged with putting down a weird little sect that had sprung up and around an itinerant rabbi from the north, Jesus of Nazareth, whose teaching was so scandalous, so threatening, that he had been handed over to the Romans and executed. And then something extraordinary happened. Paul, who had never seen Jesus or heard him teach, encountered him in a way that was so dazzling he was first blinded by it. When he recovered his vision he saw something never seen before: the God who created the universes fully realized in a man, the expectation of the Jewish people not only fulfilled but surpassed, and the offer of salvation to all."

Erbarme dich, mein Gott

Erbarme dich from Bach’s St Matthew Passion. Erbarme dich, mein Gott, um meiner Zähren willen ‘Have mercy, my God, for the sake of my tears.’ As you sit here now, what are the sorrows and pains you are carrying? Today’s reading is from the Gospel of Matthew 18:21-35.19:1: Peter approached Jesus and asked him, "Lord, if my brother sins against me, how often must I forgive him? As many as seven times?" Jesus answered, "I say to you, not seven times but seventy-seven times. That is why the kingdom of heaven may be likened to a king who decided to settle accounts with his servants. When he began the accounting, a debtor was brought before him who owed him a huge amount. Since he had no way of paying it back, his master ordered him to be sold, along with his wife, his children, and all his property, in payment of the debt. At that, the servant fell down, did him homage, and said, 'Be patient with me, and I will pay you back in full.' Moved with compassion the master of that servant let him go and forgave him the loan. When that servant had left, he found one of his fellow servants who owed him a much smaller amount. He seized him and started to choke him, demanding, 'Pay back what you owe.' Falling to his knees, his fellow servant begged him, 'Be patient with me, and I will pay you back.' But he refused. Instead, he had him put in prison until he paid back the debt. Now when his fellow servants saw what had happened, they were deeply disturbed, and went to their master and reported the whole affair. His master summoned him and said to him, 'You wicked servant! I forgave you your entire debt because you begged me to. Should you not have had pity on your fellow servant, as I had pity on you?' Then in anger his master handed him over to the torturers until he should pay back the whole debt. So will my heavenly Father do to you, unless each of you forgives his brother from his heart." When Jesus finished these words, he left Galilee and went to the district of Judea across the Jordan. Jesus speaks bluntly in this passage of the pain of being unforgiven, and even of punishment, in a way that might seem threatening. But the underlying message here is about forgiveness, about the need for forgiveness. For a few moments, can you call to mind what un-forgiveness there is in your life? - hurts you have suffered from other people that you haven't got over, or lingering guilt you might feel about things you've done to others that you wish you hadn't? Now think of those first words Jesus utters in this passage, that Peter should forgive "not seven times, but seventy-seven times", and for a moment, imagine him saying this to you. When you apply this to your situation, how does it make you feel? More at ease? ... or perhaps inadequate? ... or does it stir in you some desire for a change of heart? Read again to the first part of the reading, noticing how you feel at the moment when the king has pity and forgives. Unforgiven pains and resentments hurt the person who won't forgive as much as the person who is not forgiven. Speak to the Lord now about any guilt or resentment you need to be liberated from. Sometimes you can only honestly say, "I would like to forgive, but I can't at the moment." That desire may be enough for now.

"The days that we have seen."

Ao rever, uma vez mais, ainda uma vez mais, os planos iniciais de Badaladas da Meia-Noite, e ao ouvir de novo as palavras de Master Shallow - "The days that we have seen" - para Falstaff, e a réplica deste - "We've heard the chimes at midnight", veio-me à ideia um dia, algures na segunda metade da década de 70, em que eu e um colega de Filosofia, o Marcello, nos sentámos na relva (na altura ainda se lhe podia chamar relva), encostados a uma árvore, junto ao ironicamente chamado Pavilhão Novo, na Faculdade de Letras, cada um com a sua cerveja na mão, e o Marcello me disse: "um dia, quando formos velhos, hei-de lembrar-me de estar aqui sentado consigo [o tratamento por "você" não era snobismo, devia-se, sim, ao facto de o Marcello ser brasileiro], a beber uma cerveja, e a dizer como o Pablo Neruda, 'confesso que vivi'." É verdade, Marcello, "the days that we have seen..."

Quando há uns vinte e tal anos escrevi estes versos

que encerram a "Meditação I" de Seduções do infante foi sob o impulso e a memória deste plano no início de Citizen Kane: "O halo dilui-se em torno do Senhor/ da Serra, a neve dança sobre a casa/ na campânula, presa nas mãos do infante." Ainda a propósito de Citizen Kane, e destes planos iniciais, escreveu André Bazin: "essa inclinação recorrente pele neve, característica de uma fantasia infantil (as bolas de neve em Les enfants terribles, de Jean-Pierre Melville). A nostalgia da neve está associada às nossas primeiras brincadeiras (a que provavelmente deveríamos acrescentar um simbolismo específico da neve, cuja alvura ameaçada, promessa de lama, convém particularmente à inocência culpada da infância)". [negrito meu, e acrescento: Touché!]

Um "Twin Peaks" à francesa?

De qualquer modo, um filme hilariante, considerado pela redacção dos Cahiers du Cinéma o melhor filme do ano. Tem vindo a ser exibido num canal por cabo. Aqui fica o que,a propósito dele, escreveu Stéphane Delorme, director dos Cahiers:"Parfois, devant un film, les seuls mots qui viennent à l’esprit sont : « c’est pas possible ». La dernière fois c’était devant Holy Motors de Leos Carax. Maintenant il y a P’tit Quinquin. Non, ce n’est pas possible qu’un cinéaste aussi sérieux que Bruno Dumont réalise le film le plus drôle depuis des années. Pas possible qu’un cinéaste accomplisse son œuvre en changeant totalement de registre, comme s’il suffisait de ce pas de côté pour que tout passe à un niveau supérieur – on rêve soudain de voir un film comique de Bergman, d’Antonioni, de Dreyer, de Tarkovski. Pas possible de faire rire à ce point de personnages ancrés dans la France profonde sans que cela passe pour une moquerie mal placée – mais le cinéaste l’a dit à Cannes, où le film était montré à la Quinzaine : « Riez de bon cœur ! » Pas possible que ce cinéma souvent mutique engendre un texte si fou et surréaliste qu’on s’en souvient par cœur. Pas possible que le meilleur acteur comique jamais vu sur cette planète soit un inconnu du nom de Bernard Pruvost, encore jardinier il y a quelques mois, qui multiplie les instants de jeu de son plein gré ou à son corps défendant, sans qu’on puisse départager l’un de l’autre. C’est n’importe quoi, ce n’est pas possible, et c’est tout ce qu’on veut. P’tit Quinquin est une bombe, pas seulement par son comique explosif, irrésistible, mais parce qu’il dynamite toute posture d’auteur, ridiculise tous les roitelets gérant leur fonds de commerce, toutes les fausses audaces et les timidités feintes que l’on s’empresse de porter aux nues. P’tit Quinquin est un geste radical, définitif, par un cinéaste qui sait qu’il n’a plus rien à prouver. Quelle confiance en soi il faut pour s’aventurer dans pareil projet ! Bravo à Arte d’avoir suivi le cinéaste dans un pari si excentrique. P’tit Quinquin est une série de 3 h 20 à découvrir en quatre épisodes à la télévision, mais, bémol, on aurait aimé que la version cinéma (seule différence : le format Cinémascope) sorte dans la foulée, tant l’expérience de le voir d’une traite, au milieu des rires du public, a été le plus beau souvenir du dernier Festival de Cannes. Il y a un an tout juste, les Cahiers faisaient la couverture sur une autre série audacieuse, Platane d’Éric Judor, portée cette fois par Canal + : pourvu que la télévision continue à donner naissance à des projets aussi farfelus. Plus encore, on voit à quel point le cinéma français dans son ensemble, souvent enclin à l’académisme, est aussi le terreau des projets les plus invraisemblables. Il est probable que pour la troisième année de suite le meilleur film de l’année pour la rédaction soit un film français, après Holy Motors et L’Inconnu du lac. On voit mal qui pourrait détrôner c’t hallucinant P’tit Quinquin. Quant à Bruno Dumont, après avoir tenté et réussi l’an passé son premier film « avec star », Camille Claudel 1915, il semble avoir découvert un nouveau continent, et son prochain film sera encore une comédie. Dans P’tit Quinquin il garde son sens inouï du cadre, du paysage, ces raccords regard à tomber par terre, et son attention merveilleuse aux comédiens. Et il s’est débarrassé d’un certain volontarisme qui pouvait plomber ses films en appuyant ou soulignant trop : il avait besoin de légèreté. Mais au fond rien n’a changé : comme ses autres films la série se dirige vers un tragique (de plus en plus apaisé) qui replace l’humanité dans le monde et affronte ­l’absurdité du mal. Il est aujourd’hui notre seul cinéaste métaphysique. Même Brisseau ou Guiraudie replient leurs récits vers les rapports humains. Chez Dumont il y a toujours un moment où le visage est ouvert : il est une promesse de paysage. Et l’homme ne peut faire signe que vers la terre. D’où cette figure désarmante, la plus belle de son cinéma, où un personnage regarde le monde devant lui. La caméra montre ensuite ce qu’il voit dans un point de vue subjectif qui dit la beauté du monde, le mystère du monde, mais aussi la beauté et le mystère de ce regard. Dans les trois derniers plans de P’tit Quinquin, deux visages regardent tour à tour dans la même direction et on ne sait plus qui des deux regarde ce que l’on voit. Peu importe ils regardent ensemble, et nous avec eux. Ce n’est pas possible, on y est, on le voit, on est « au cœur du mal », c’est-à-dire nulle part, et n’importe où sur la Terre."