I write to tell stories

Archive for February, 2018

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Extract Chapter 8 from my book – A blue and red swing – By L.A.


The Poet.

The habit and the exercise of writing awakened in me the perceptions I did not yet know to possess; in my soul there was a Poet, timid and fearful of human beings, whose intrigued gaze allowed me to see the surrounding environment under different aspects. With the arrival of autumn, the hills of the Ferro Monalatto bloom new life; the vineyards arranged disorderly on the slopes of the hills, wear colorful clothes, the palm leaves go from red to intense yellow, from green to brown and communicate, with these nuances worthy of a painter, a warmth that warms the heart. The acacia woods are lit with that yellow that contains all the strength of the sun, the pine woods keep a dark and shady green and the fields, whose borders of wild bushes wear a reddish worthy of royal clothes, they pale, as if they were afraid of the arrival of the harsh winter.

A few days before the start of the school, while I was swinging on the swing that my uncle had built for me after the accident with the Alguco, my eyes rested on a tree in front, a few steps from where I was and with I noticed how much his appearance had changed; I wondered if it had happened all night, suddenly. I remembered the green leaves of that plum tree and I could not understand the beauty that had suddenly reached each other from day to day in red and yellow; those two colors merged into the thick foliage of that tree, giving life to a picture of a beauty that left me breathless. I looked around and saw that even the trees at the end of the driveway had changed, even those on the other side of the hill were suddenly dressed up to celebrate the Autumn. All this moved me, the beauty of that transformation was fantastic, I found it a sort of masked ball to honor the summer and greet her with warmth and liveliness. The need arose in me to sing that show with words; it was an extraordinary fact that deserved to be remembered with appropriate words. I ran to my room, went up four steps at a time the stairs, grabbed my diary and the keys of his lock that I jealously stored in the belly of a stuffed rabbit, then I went back to the garden and sat down on the swing. I began to reflect on how I could praise the wonder of colors that was shown to my eyes and then it happened as if by magic that the words were placed on the white paper by themselves, as if a mysterious recall had brought them to me. At just eight years the poems that you learn at school are very simple, but from those few verses I had studied I had learned to grasp the melody of the words used to describe something, that touched the strings of my heart and made them vibrate. I ran to my mother to decant my cleverness and my compositions; like all the mothers who considered her son a fool and a naive, she showed a false interest in my creatures and after a few minutes she had already forgotten what I had made her read.

My father’s indifference was not far behind; on Sundays, at the table during lunch, absolute silence was imposed on those present in the name of television: once it was sport, once the news, then the film. Even today this unhealthy habit of listening to that blathering box that spits idiocy, silencing the family present, accompanies us every moment of our domestic life. I stayed there, sitting at the table with my head down and whatever I had to say, the television surpassed me, she, that damn box of the cathode ray tube, was more important than me. With the passing of the years, my feeling of being an invisible ghost within the family increased dramatically; my parents were too busy with their chores to dedicate a minute to me. Over time I learned to keep myself company alone and the Poet in this was really an exemplary friend. I spoke alone, I played alone and I had the only comparison with my ideas and my writings. In the morning I spent it in the company of my companions who, after years and days of crying because of bad things I did not understand, had finally become friends; the afternoon I would go back to the fields around the house with my dog and I would run happily in the castles and woods of my imagination, where no human being could reach me.

#Amazon #KindleUnlimted #KindleStore #L.A.

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The Movie – Qualunquemente – By Giulio Manfredonia.


Italy, March 2018. The #elections for the renewal of #Parliament await us: the film #Qualunquemente is the icon of Italian #politics and #economy.

Fun and ironic in a ruthless way: a sincere overview of the Italian reality.

#antonioalbanese

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The Movie – The 15:17 to #Paris – By #Clint #Eastwood.


I never read film reviews, I like going to the cinema and instinctively choosing the film to watch, I do not read anything about it before, so I did not know that the actors who play the three heroes interpreted themselves.
As soon as I started the film what struck me was the flat acting of the three adult friends, unlike the children actors who were really good.
The narration is too slow, the first hour flows with difficulty, it is heavy and then in the last stretch all the action, waiting for the film’s beginning, has been condensed into a few scenes.
The idea of the story is good, but the script embroidered too much on the protagonists’ past and on an interlude of present, before the great event, which expands too much.
However, I appreciated the attention dedicated to Italian cities and Italian music that accompanied the images.

This time the director disappointed me.

#Paris #clinteastwood #movie

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It forms like a shock under the skin: reading a #screenplay and watching the film at the same time, it’s like getting drunk of #narration.


The Movie – Annie Hall – By Woody Allen.

Focusing on every single scene, stopping the film to can read the screenplay and then look at it on the screen; I spent hours to see this film, but it was worth it, because it seems to me to study the film vivisection, as you do with the prose of poems.

Writing screenplays for the cinema is… WOW!

There are no words to describe such a privilege, such an emotion.

#movie #woodyallen #screenplay #anniehall #write #movie

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The #Movie – Annie Hall – By Woody Allen.


The couple life, stormy, take and leave, in the busy city of New York.
Annie and Alvy become long-standing friends for the viewer, in generating beautiful and ugly memories, we identify with them, because relationships are irrational, but we can not do without them.

#newyork #woodyallen #anniehall #comedy

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The #Screenplay – #Annie Hall – By Woody Allen.


Wonderful!
The construction of dialogues and scenes is brilliant, clearly transmits the mood of the characters.
The story recounts in detail the memories of a couple’s life, between highs and lows, a flowing narrative that never bores; at the end of the script I was disappointed that the story had come to an end, because I was fond of the characters, as if they were old friends.

#Woody #Allen is a genius.

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EXTRACT FROM CHAPTER 2 – MY BOOK – A BLUE AND RED SWING – BY L.A.


#book #Amazon #KindleUnlimited #biography #L.A.

In the early years of my life I was accustomed to living with serenity and spontaneity, because the only rules I had to respect were those of home and, naively, I had never asked myself whether out of my house there were other rules: just I saw something on a shelf and I’d reach across my hand to touch it and pick it up. I had to investigate, hear and record. A child’s curiosity is boundless, maybe that’s why they are all a bit rebels from small, but it is also normal. Life is a gift and I think we are aware of it only at the beginning of our existence, when we live calmly without fuss absurd, abstruse and incomprehensible rules; to burn is a bit like finish thrown into a crowd of people at the market. Our eyes fill colors of clothes of passers-by and we were so taken by the goods on display, that the fact to be there, it invests us like an explosion; so, we do not focus well on the rules that govern that fiber of the universe, we simply enjoy it as long as we can.

From the car window that drove my mother, I saw scroll fields, homes and people like a series of photographs in bright colors. I was kidnapped by the succession of images; memorized landmarks, like a tree or a wall and marveling my own ability to memorize the places I had seen.  Some nights we went out all three together drive: I was sitting behind, my mother was sitting in the passenger seat, next to my father, who was at the wheel. The dark outside enveloped the car like a blanket and I loved lying down on those seats slightly inclined towards the bonnet, too dark as night. The only flashes that lit up the interior of the car were my father’s cigarette Firefly orange and colored dots of the dashboard: from my kennel I saw those colored stars, while my parents who, with their whispering, to reconcile my sleep, enveloped by the rumbling of the motor car, which he had on me the same soporific effect of the wind that howled outside our House.

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The Movie – After Earth – By M. Night Shyamalan.


 

A visionary planetary future, but one that makes us reflect on the idea of a philosophy of life #ecology and respect for the environment by human beings: if man continues to destroy and pollute, if he continues to be a threat, all the other life forms could decide to fight the human being until its extinction, to protect their own home.

The conflict between father and son, which takes place on a hostile #planet #earth, because every form of life has evolved to eliminate the human being.

Yet in the war on survival, animals also remember the good received and reciprocate with their lives.

#Fighting to death, to overcome him limits, becomes for the child a question of revenge against his father, to prove once and for all that even if he is a kid yet, is a good warrior: a true ranger.

I started writing my first #screenplay with scriptwriting #software.


What a strange feeling to build the scenes on paper, while I imagine them and how difficult it is not to number the scenes and not to insert the shots, because this rewriting belongs to the director.
To me it is also natural to do this rewriting, indeed, writing direct and complete the first draft with numbers of the scenes and details of the shots, because while I write the film I imagine it in my mind.

However it is the first script that I write, so I’m good and I hold back; at the end of the writing the same question remains unanswered, without an answer, the same question that the lady, sitting next to me at the cinema the other day, asked me:

“Once he has written the scripts, what will you do?”

I answered: “Good question, I do not know anyone in the world of cinema and I do not have contacts, but I only know, I feel inside the soul, I have to write scripts, I have to do it before I die, then what will happen and what will I do, once written … I just do not know, maybe I’ll send it to some production #company in Los Angeles. “

Today a lady told me: “It was nice to see the movie at the cinema with you sitting next to me, because you can see with a different eye. Thank you.”


In cinemas in Italy there is still a half-movie break, which on the one hand I hate, on the other hand I use it to analyze the first part of the film.
The lady sitting next to me, had never entered the cinema in the Duomo, in the center of Milan, which was once a theater.
Place that I prefer to the modern multiplexes, because the atmosphere of the old theater is a good company while watching the film.
At break I pointed out to the lady the change of colors of some clothes and objects worn by the protagonist: usually dark green or blue or blue, all cold shades of water, these objects, like the headband, the coat and the shoes, became red after the protagonist started falling in love or she made love with the amphibious creature,
I pointed out how often, in objects and furniture, blue, dark green and blue came into contrast with red, often identified in a single object.
The lady thanked me, she doubts that in the future she will be able to grasp certain details in the future films she will watch, because she claims that to me it is natural, that I have a third eye with which I watch the film in a different way from a spectator .
She encouraged me to write screenplays, how I feel I must do and she told me:
“Do it, because you are brought.”
I will do it.
The film we saw was “The Shape of Water.”

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