There must be something between the astonishment of carnage and the anticipation of carnival. A breath that places us beyond experiences of horror or epiphany, which always go together.
When we were about to re-elect the worst government in our history, responsible, through action or omission, for the deaths of thousands of Brazilians, I went to a party. The first round shuffled the cards and belief in the outcome depended solely on each person’s personal bet. There was no guarantee that we would not suffer the same disaster.
It was a dance party and real, desperate joy was in the air. The joy of someone who knows he could fall at any moment. No wonder we are among the most partying people in the world. There is something surprising in knowing that every celebration may be your last. Nothing becomes more valuable and more enjoyable than before risk, which for us is permanent.
The beer tastes better and the samba becomes more samba. Something that Cléber Mendonça’s film “Secret Agent” brilliantly explores. Additional pleasure comes from a sense of urgency, as those who have recently fallen in love know, and who feel every breakup as an irreparable loss. Every second away from love is a mixture of anticipation and pain.
But there is another point, unaccustomed to extremes, equidistant between burning desire and destructive rage. There are moments when we can enjoy ourselves, without high expectations or sadness. In “After Life” (1998), director Hirokazu Coreda, best known in Brazil for “Fathers and Sons” and “Family Affair,” poses a difficult question: If you had to choose one scene to live in forever, what would it be?
The characters also choose the memory that will accompany them forever —Some refuse to do so, remaining in a kind of purgatory. Memory, mourning and experience are the basis of this Japanese film.
It is a work devoid of the tricks we are accustomed to in Western cinema. A certain reflective ability is needed to be able to appreciate it. Because it’s about cutting through the hustle and bustle of fancy texts, stroboscopic images and a soundtrack that anticipates emotions and channels them to the beat.
If I had to respond to the director’s provocation, I would say that there is a cliché from my week in the making. The highlight of my schedule, other than peaks of rage and euphoria, is Sunday breakfasts. I provide the reader with the details of this intimate experience to ensure that the simplest of meals ends up today, the most anticipated moment of my, always very busy, week.
No photos of her will be published on social media, because she does not exist. I cannot explain why this is a special moment, even though I know that who we share our lives with is of the utmost importance.
But not only. In Kor Edda, among the scenes chosen by the dead, a man chooses a plane ride on a sunny day. Another, feeling the wind on your face.
In a world constantly shaken by extreme news and exaggerated by mania – while mired in the highest rates of depression in its history – pleasure must be acknowledged.
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