Plentzia 48620

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In Previous Editions | 4.6.2018



Again, this bird flies, rising like a column of smoke and mingling itself into the blackness of the night sky.

“I’m so tired, so tired of lying and making up lies, not knowing what is a lie , or, what the truth.” Mary Astor drops on a couch by an open window, her eyes seem wet, her eyelids slowly close, Humphrey Bogart rushes towards her, to kiss those lying lips, while distractedly watching the thug, who’s waiting outside. Ten seconds that defined an era, a tone, pure noir. Sex and death.

Out of the screen at that time, but now its protagonists are dead, and even if we profaned their graves to shot the Maltese Falcon sequel, we would find that their bones without meat could no longer satisfy today’s public, their point of view, had forever changed. The truth is that the original noir, involving the tension between Adam and Eve, had to evolve, and it did, inspired new catalogues, adapted to each era, more or less faithful to the style, always in favor of the emotion, that is ultimately the essence of fiction; the artifice, the props, the lights, the clothing, the make-up, the shadows and the precepts of one genre or another, that the perpetual industry (based on marketing and advertising strategies), is nothing but a tool, designed to sell more for less cost as quickly as possible. Lies that play as truth, like movies, like Mariano Rajoy, like any story. Lies designed for all audiences, for men, for women, well or bad intended lies and even lies for sensitivities yet to be catalogued. The genres coexist, mix and sometimes get laid, to perpetuate their name by giving birth to new formulas; subgenres with features of the originals, perhaps more according to each era, updated and sometimes more difficult to organize. Chaos and order, a couple fatale, always sentenced to seek balance and prevent panic.

Some may say that Touch of evil was noir´s epitaph, that the genre had wrung out by the time the 60`s arrived. But just a couple decades later an updated black label came along with the release of Chinatown, a film in color which feasted on the rotten heart of urban landscape and spiced it up with niceties previously forbidden under the censorship such as graphic violence and incest. A new genre had been born. Later came Blood simple, Lost highway or The crying game .

Fiction is like the church, and the people of Plentzia, broad and generous; without fear of change, without prejudice, and without a black list of sensitivities banished to weak lateral chapels as if they belonged to some kind of cult. Genres and theories can entrench themselves and die in a cave or advance and persist in the journey to the stars. The catalogues are renewed, but the most fearful of change do not fear, the essence; the excitement and aggressiveness are still present in the catalogue since that kiss between Humphrey Bogart and Mary Astor.

In favour of the spectacle,