Margui Speaks Up

I have been to Paradise tonight. I have rejoiced like a Walhalla generating Gods. Really. I have listened to Aldo Ciccolini at the Salle Pleyel, Saint-Saens Concerto number Four for Piano and Orchestra. Listening to that has been like flying - like a dream of a deep deep sllep, bur colored, peaceful and clear. This man has conceived and performed with such a masculine attitude and a formidable control . everything was clearest and sliding like oil in the mayonnaise. He was like swinging on the notes... Ho ascoltato Aldo Ciccolini alla Salle Pleyel stasera. Non mi era mai successo di ascoltare un concerto così, tanto più che io conosco bene Aldo, il suo modo di prendere la musica, come pensa le cose prima e mentre le suona, e quindi potevo solo intuire, dal muto prodotto finito, il pensiero e la vita che vi era maturata dietro. Il Quarto Concerto di Saint Saens è di una difficoltà tecnica spaventosa, ma nulla era rimasto dello sforzo tecnico. Lo sforzo tecnico era stato sciacq

That night, I wanted have myself a real good time... so I bought for 5.5 Eur a ticket for the concert in the Auditorium of the Louvre Museum, in the framework of the so-called Vendredi du Louvre. The Hungarian Quatuor Takash was playing, in a minimalistic, wrapped auditorium.   The deconcerting point of this concert was that this people, when they play, they really bacome a sole animal with four legs, and they have an extraordinary coordination. They began with a contemporary music piece, by Rihm, something too uniform and uninventive to be as long as 40 minutes. But the very amazing part of it was seeing this quartet not missing a beat, and staying all glued-up together. They were puppets in the hand of a sole big player, they were as together as the seaweed under the water, independent but all moved by the very same and invisible exterior force, uniformly, at the same moment and in the same way. This force acting in the material void, which seemed to animate them, was the starki

C'est le premier film par Jean Pierre Jeunet qui parle de mort, c'est un film mort, substentiellement, où la poésie est réduite en frivolité, les philtres colorés de la machine à prise ne produisent que de monochromes et des hyper-foncés, où il n'y a plus de paix, mais seulement hysterisme. La seule chose qui nous rappèle le bon Jeunet balancé de Delicatessen et Amélie sont les reprises de la ville, Paris, et de la Seine en particulier, avec ses beaux quais. Ainsi, je crois que certains parties ont été travaillés près du siège du parti communiste (et Pont de Crimée, Pont de l'Ourcq, Quai de la Marne). Il y a bien des clichés, et beaucoup d'auto-reférences: un mec qui échappe dans une maison en se cachant dans la corbeille (comme en Delicatessen), la reminiscence du cirque avec la contorsioniste, une auto-reference de Pinon dans Delicatessen, qui joue l'ancien artiste les larmes aux yeux, (une grande partie du cast est celle de Un long dimanche de fiançaill