quinta-feira, 29 de dezembro de 2011
Homeland
It has been several weeks since did I wanted to write about Homeland, about the pleasure that it gives me to follow the series every week, in this time of the year most premieres don't interest me one bit (American Horror Story?! Terra Nova?!), the old series are suffering because the story is being extended for so long (How I Met Your Mother, House) and some others are going downhill at full speed (Dexter was particularly painful to see, but that's for another text). I cooled my temper and decided to wait for the season finale, because I didn't wanted to be disappointed. Fortunately, that did not happen. It can be difficult to believe, but since the first year of LOST that I was not so interest and absorbed and addicted to a series
Based on an Israelite original, Homeland begins with the return of Sergeant Nicholas Brody to the USA after a captivity of eight years in the Iraq as a prisoner of war of Al-Qaeda. Returning to a family that had already followed his course without the patriarch, Brody is looked upon like a hero by all except agent Carrie Mathison, who has the information that a North American soldier was converted to the Islam and to the dogmas of the terrorist organization. Working straightly with Saul Berenson, who serves as a mentor, Carrie will do everything to prove that an attack to the USA is imminent while it deals with personal questions that can put in question her professional competence and, worse still, her health.
In other words, Brody may or may not be a terrorist, Carrie can or not be certain or, at least, not completely. So, we are thrown head first in a cat and mouse play, fully of twists, treasons and where nothing is what it seems. If this does not sound especially innovatory for the ones who already saw Prison Break or 24 (some producers of Homeland are the same), Homeland plunges deep into the mind of those individuals and we realize their wishes, their fears and their contradictions. Carrie is cunning, determined and intelligent, but wont her psychological instability accented in years and years of strenuous work in the CIA? Or is that peculiarity that makes her such a competent professional? On the other side, Brody sees himself in a world where one does not fit, breaks with the family dynamic established in his absence and has strange behaviors. His he really a terrorist? Or did he convert to Islam as a defense mechanism?
While developing his characters carefully, Homeland does so that we worry about each one of them and the consequences of his acts, while it increases the tension on scenes composed by verbal confrontations or a simple test of the polygraph. Besides, the series do not paint the CIA as a few saints in defense of the homeland and illustrate well the motivations of the terrorists as well as the destructive actions of both parts in conflict - and are this climate of ambiguity, in which nothing is black in the white in different scales, which makes such fascinating and adult series. But what really it does from this season of Homeland something so memorable is his daring in crossing lines that we were giving like certainties and, in this way, opening the whole window of means - and, I repeat again, this text is full of spoilers, therefore it is better to stop reading right now.
When do Carrie and Brody become involved romantically in the seventh brilliant episode, the narrative does to what few ones would dare or, at least, not so early. Without the help of the illegal vigilance that it had installed at the home of the sergeant, Carrie is obliged to reveal itself and to coexisting with the suspect, who soon is seen again in his auto destructive character, since own he is about to losing everything that had. Link, however, he sees in him someone whom it fills out devoid of his lack emotionally and both establish a fleeting, but outstanding bond. She commits a mistake, open the play and the series answer to a hill of questions that another television product would drag during weeks. That weekend, nevertheless, it supplies when what Carrie will use in the last episode for indirectly were given (and without being able) to prevent the terrorist attack that Brody had carried out. The history can take some gentle and unlikely directions, but, if we are thinking well, they appear logical and matching with the personalities of those individuals.
To be continued…
Based on an Israelite original, Homeland begins with the return of Sergeant Nicholas Brody to the USA after a captivity of eight years in the Iraq as a prisoner of war of Al-Qaeda. Returning to a family that had already followed his course without the patriarch, Brody is looked upon like a hero by all except agent Carrie Mathison, who has the information that a North American soldier was converted to the Islam and to the dogmas of the terrorist organization. Working straightly with Saul Berenson, who serves as a mentor, Carrie will do everything to prove that an attack to the USA is imminent while it deals with personal questions that can put in question her professional competence and, worse still, her health.
In other words, Brody may or may not be a terrorist, Carrie can or not be certain or, at least, not completely. So, we are thrown head first in a cat and mouse play, fully of twists, treasons and where nothing is what it seems. If this does not sound especially innovatory for the ones who already saw Prison Break or 24 (some producers of Homeland are the same), Homeland plunges deep into the mind of those individuals and we realize their wishes, their fears and their contradictions. Carrie is cunning, determined and intelligent, but wont her psychological instability accented in years and years of strenuous work in the CIA? Or is that peculiarity that makes her such a competent professional? On the other side, Brody sees himself in a world where one does not fit, breaks with the family dynamic established in his absence and has strange behaviors. His he really a terrorist? Or did he convert to Islam as a defense mechanism?
While developing his characters carefully, Homeland does so that we worry about each one of them and the consequences of his acts, while it increases the tension on scenes composed by verbal confrontations or a simple test of the polygraph. Besides, the series do not paint the CIA as a few saints in defense of the homeland and illustrate well the motivations of the terrorists as well as the destructive actions of both parts in conflict - and are this climate of ambiguity, in which nothing is black in the white in different scales, which makes such fascinating and adult series. But what really it does from this season of Homeland something so memorable is his daring in crossing lines that we were giving like certainties and, in this way, opening the whole window of means - and, I repeat again, this text is full of spoilers, therefore it is better to stop reading right now.
When do Carrie and Brody become involved romantically in the seventh brilliant episode, the narrative does to what few ones would dare or, at least, not so early. Without the help of the illegal vigilance that it had installed at the home of the sergeant, Carrie is obliged to reveal itself and to coexisting with the suspect, who soon is seen again in his auto destructive character, since own he is about to losing everything that had. Link, however, he sees in him someone whom it fills out devoid of his lack emotionally and both establish a fleeting, but outstanding bond. She commits a mistake, open the play and the series answer to a hill of questions that another television product would drag during weeks. That weekend, nevertheless, it supplies when what Carrie will use in the last episode for indirectly were given (and without being able) to prevent the terrorist attack that Brody had carried out. The history can take some gentle and unlikely directions, but, if we are thinking well, they appear logical and matching with the personalities of those individuals.
terça-feira, 27 de dezembro de 2011
Like one of the most famous quotes about love goes:
“Love that is not madness is not love.”
The love ate my name, my identity, my portrait.
The love ate my certificate of age, my genealogy, my address.
The love ate my cards.
The love came and ate all the papers where I had written my name.
The love ate my clothes, my scarf, my shirts.
The love ate meters and meters of ties.
The love ate the measure of my suits, the number of my shoes, the size of my hats.
The love ate my height, my weight, the color of my eyes and of my hairs.
The love ate my medicines, my prescriptions, my diets. He ate my aspirins, my short-waves, my X-rays. He ate my mental tests, my examinations of urine.
The love ate in the bookcase all my books of poetry. He ate in my prose books the quotations in verse. He ate in the dictionary the words that might be joined in verses.
Hungry, the love devoured the utensils of my use: comb, razor, brushes, scissors of nails, penknife. Hungry still, the love devoured the use of my utensils: my cold health-resorts, the opera sung in the bathroom, the water heater of dead fire but that seemed a factory.
The love ate the fruit that was on the table. It drank the water of the metal adornments and of the jugs. He ate the bread of hidden purpose. It drank the tears of the eyes what, nobody the thrush, they were full of water.
The love returned to eat the papers where I had written my name.
The love gnawed my childhood, of dirty fingers of paint, hair never falling in the eyes, polished ankle boots.
The love ate away the elusive boy, always in the corners, and that it was marking the books, it was bitting the pencil, was walking in the street kicking stones. It gnawed the conversations, near the gas pump of the square, with the cousins who completely knew on birdies, on a woman, on marks of motorcar.
The love ate my State and my city. It drained the dead water of the mangrove swamps, abolished the tide. He ate the frizzy mangrove swamps and of hard leaves, ate the green acid of the plants of cane covering the regular hills cut by the red barriers, by the black train, by the chimneys. He ate the smell of cut cane and the smell of smell of the sea. He ate up to these things of which I was driving to despair because of not being able to talk about them in verse.
The love ate up to the days still not announced in the tear-off calendars. He ate the minutes of progress of my clock, the years that the lines of my hand were securing. He ate the future great athlete, the future great poet. He ate the future travels around the land, the future bookcases around the room.
The love ate my peace and my war. My day and my night. My winter and my summer. He ate my silence, my headache, my fear of the death.
“Love that is not madness is not love.”
The love ate my name, my identity, my portrait.
The love ate my certificate of age, my genealogy, my address.
The love ate my cards.
The love came and ate all the papers where I had written my name.
The love ate my clothes, my scarf, my shirts.
The love ate meters and meters of ties.
The love ate the measure of my suits, the number of my shoes, the size of my hats.
The love ate my height, my weight, the color of my eyes and of my hairs.
The love ate my medicines, my prescriptions, my diets. He ate my aspirins, my short-waves, my X-rays. He ate my mental tests, my examinations of urine.
The love ate in the bookcase all my books of poetry. He ate in my prose books the quotations in verse. He ate in the dictionary the words that might be joined in verses.
Hungry, the love devoured the utensils of my use: comb, razor, brushes, scissors of nails, penknife. Hungry still, the love devoured the use of my utensils: my cold health-resorts, the opera sung in the bathroom, the water heater of dead fire but that seemed a factory.
The love ate the fruit that was on the table. It drank the water of the metal adornments and of the jugs. He ate the bread of hidden purpose. It drank the tears of the eyes what, nobody the thrush, they were full of water.
The love returned to eat the papers where I had written my name.
The love gnawed my childhood, of dirty fingers of paint, hair never falling in the eyes, polished ankle boots.
The love ate away the elusive boy, always in the corners, and that it was marking the books, it was bitting the pencil, was walking in the street kicking stones. It gnawed the conversations, near the gas pump of the square, with the cousins who completely knew on birdies, on a woman, on marks of motorcar.
The love ate my State and my city. It drained the dead water of the mangrove swamps, abolished the tide. He ate the frizzy mangrove swamps and of hard leaves, ate the green acid of the plants of cane covering the regular hills cut by the red barriers, by the black train, by the chimneys. He ate the smell of cut cane and the smell of smell of the sea. He ate up to these things of which I was driving to despair because of not being able to talk about them in verse.
The love ate up to the days still not announced in the tear-off calendars. He ate the minutes of progress of my clock, the years that the lines of my hand were securing. He ate the future great athlete, the future great poet. He ate the future travels around the land, the future bookcases around the room.
The love ate my peace and my war. My day and my night. My winter and my summer. He ate my silence, my headache, my fear of the death.
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