sexta-feira, 25 de julho de 2014

Message to my readers - It's time to say goodbye

Dear 17 readers (considering you are that many),

since June, my writings and ramblings have found a new place to call it home. I have decided to concentrate all of my ideas about any and every topic in one website, Please Feed the Journalist. PFtJ is part of a bigger project that's still pretty much starting. Click on the link, rush to PFtJ and follow me on my crazy, exciting journey towards new ways of living and working: http://pleasefeedthejournalist.com/.

sábado, 22 de março de 2014

Terence Stamp should have been in more movies

Terence Stamp should have been in more movies.  I'm not willing to relinquish this unquestionable truth in favour of diverging opinions on the matter. Which basically means: if you disagree, get the hell out of my blog.

(Or stick around and let me change your mind. You choose. You won’t regret it, I promise.)

Terence Stamp is a fine actor. For the past four decades, he’s been mostly known and recognised for being a character actor, and for his roles in such movies as “Superman” and “The Limey”, films that are polar opposites, but they both showcase his acting chops and his ability to get the audiences to ultimately like – and root for – the bad guy.

But that is just one side to Mr. Stamp’s long lasting career – one that actually started in the late fifties, when he was close friends with Michael Caine and they both travelled throughout Great Britain playing soldier roles in small theatres while getting frisky with girls. Terence Stamp is also the actor who marvelled movie goers in the sixties with his earnest, poignant performances as a young merchant seaman in “Billy Budd”; a terrifying, yet disturbingly attractive sociopath in one of the greatest, most underrated movies of the 1960s, “The Collector”; the highly seductive, and highly deceiving, sergeant Frank Troy from “Far From the Madding Crowd”; and, lastly, a personal favourite: Toby Dammit, the disgruntled actor who falls from grace with the movie industry – and ultimately, with life as well – in Federico Fellini’s small masterpiece of the same name.

Terence Stamp in an actor of incomparable talent, and also of great magnetism and this has been true even of his first appearance onscreen – as juvenile bully Mitchell in the little known “Term of Trial”. Since day one, anyone could have predicted that his was a face destined to great roles, and huge, unquestionable stardom. But something happened between the middle and the end of the sixties, and his career stalled, despite his talent and his looks (which, to be honest, are still breath taking to this day). He admits to it in his autobiography (a must read, even for non-fans, for the valuable life lessons one can get from Mr. Stamp’s impressive existence), and he even offers something in lieu of an explanation - but the question still remains. Why such a talented, handsome actor, one who could have been the name and the face of a generation, fell off the radar at such a crucial point in his career?

He was a movie star ready to happen, with looks and the type of physicality and presence made to be in front of a camera. The perfectly shaped head, the piercing blue eyes, the headful of very dark, shiny hair, the face that looked (and still does) as if sculpted by a highly talented, highly inspired artist – all courtesy of his parents, who, by his own account, gifted the world with "lookers" (I’m willing to bet he was the ‘lookingest’ of the bunch). Not to mention the unequivocal talent and his ability to lose himself and become one with his characters – he was The Collector, he was Toby Dammit (in more ways than one), and he was Frank Troy. He was the innocence and the earnestness personified in ‘Billy Budd’. He can convince you that British thugs can be friendly, even loving; he can sing, and make your heart melt, as the grumpy senior citizen he plays in “Song for Marion”. He can be all of those people, and still be very much himself – an actor, and a human being, ready for everything. A man who is always in the moment, very present and very aware of his surroundings – an ability he further developed during long stays in ashrams in India.

I’m sure Mr. Stamp doesn’t regret anything in his past, and – judging by his own words – he is content with the life he carved for himself. I, for one, am happy to the see him alive and kicking, as talented and handsome as ever, and probably much wiser. Watching his interviews is a serious delight – sensibility and patience ooze from him. I can’t help but wish, though, that he had made more movies at that moment in his career when he had everything going for him. I’ve lost count of the times I have watched “The Collector” and “Toby Dammit” just so I could satisfy my craving for Mr. Stamp. That was a face – and the kind of unmatched talent – that I wish I could see more of, in a variety of incarnations.

I admit: I wish there was more “1960s Terence Stamp” for me to binge on.

Not that I don’t admire the current Terence Stamp, or the one from 20 or 30 years ago. But it’s such a beautiful thing to see an artist, or any incredibly talented person, at the height of their transforming power. I honestly believe that very few actors reached the same level of ingenuity as Mr. Stamp did at any point of his career. Still, I’ll always wonder what happened at that junction in his life. I’ll always wish for more vintage Terence Stamp.

Yet, I’ll always welcome a new movie with the older, wiser, Terence Stamp.

segunda-feira, 3 de março de 2014

How 'Lulu' the app saved me


I know it may seem a little out of place to be writing about 'Lulu' now, after the buzz and the hype over the male rating app for women has significantly simmered down, but there's a point that has been rolling over my brain for a while and it's dying to be gotten across, so why not write a blog about it now (file it under "the year in review" if it makes more sense that way)?

A couple or so years ago I got involved with a guy. It wasn't any guy though. A world-traveling, soft spoken guy. A guy who knew how to cook, who could tell tales of trips around exotic countries like no one I knew before (or since). A man after my own heart, for his love of knowledge and his intense curiosity, paired with a strong desire to be released from every mundane restraint and, once and for all, hit the road and never look back.

Obviously, I fell for him. Hard. A monumental heartache ensued (like any woman who fell for world-traveling types can attest), and a huge sense of loss over something (or, better yet, someone) I never really had, love-wise, took over me. Looking back, I believe I was mourning for the loss of my own adventurous nature, one I had all but suffocated over the years prior to my meeting him. But, by then, I could only feel bad for myself for being in love with a guy I just couldn't have - a guy who would never really be mine.

Cut to the second half of 2013. Everyone and their grandmother was passionately discussing the launch of an app that promised to empower women who thought it would be a good idea to rate guys they had been with, and let the world (or just other women) know if they were worth the consequences of ill-fated one night stands or "relationships" that never made it past the second date.

I must confess I was curious. I wanted to know how some of the guys I had dated up to that point held up to other women's scrutiny. So I downloaded the app and signed in. At first, I was disappointed that most of the guys I'd had taken any kind of romantic interest in were not there, but eventually I found a couple of them. One of them was that guy. The world traveler. The guy who had marveled me with his stories, his calmness, his wisdom, his gentle nature.

That guy, the one who was more and more starting to seem like the one who got away (truth be told, I was coming from a long streak of failed involvements with guys, and the men I was casually seeing at that time didn't really make my heart skip a beat) had a surprisingly low score on 'Lulu'. Not only that, but the comments left by other women on his profile were so demeaning, so downright cruel, but also terribly honest. They stopped short of calling him a loser. And I felt like, all of that time, I had been pining for an illusion.

My perceptions of him were shattered, right then and there, but at the same time, a strong sense of relief took over me. I still believe those women were probably just trying to show great contempt in the worst, most publicly offensive way possible - I wouldn't put it past him to have burned them badly, as he seemed like he could be the type to put on a vanishing act the morning after -, but I couldn't help but feel that those words, those tremendously straightforward expressions of disdain were also a wake up call. Their bad experiences, compared to my beautiful tale of fate, enchantment and lost love, felt like breaking the fourth wall. They made me see a side of him I was fortunate enough not to have been a "victim" of. But that side of him was what made him real for those women. And that made him seem more real to me too.

I'm thankful for all the experiences I've had in the past few years in the love department, good and bad. This particular guy was pivotal in the sense that his life experiences helped me realise what I was missing out on. His knowledge of the world, his thirst for adventure, his willingness to share were a balm to my then aching heart. I learned so much from being with him for just a short time. But it was time for me to live my own experiences. Create my own tales of adventure. It was time for me to make my own life stories.

I've since recovered from the unimpressive record of failed relationships, as I learned that being single wasn't a problem if I could accept myself as I was, love myself with all my faults, and like my own company. I traveled more, I saw things I had been longing to see since I was little. I also learned not to fall in love with impossible guys - men with an expiration date, as I have taken up to calling them. I've learned that I deserve to love - and be loved by - men who are real.

I have a lot to thank that guy for, but I'm the one writing my own life history. Like that Rapture's song, I believe my future's looking bright in all the little pieces of the people that I keep inside, that guy included. But I keep other pieces inside too. And the future looks like a million moments of intense, unspoken happiness that I have already lived, and still am about to live. The happiness I'm living as I write these words - a substantial chunk of it thanks to another guy. I can only wish the same happiness to that guy, and to all the other men that came before and after him.