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latenightcinephile · 3 years

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#718: 'The Golden Coach', dir. Jean Renoir, 1952.

One of the most bizarre things that happens with this list happened once again when I was reading up about Jean Renoir's The Golden Coach. Heading to the Wikipedia page, which is where I usually start, I found not much had been said about the film, except for Andrew Sarris's remarks that it was "an international failure" upon release. This seems to be pretty common with films on the list - it's apparently a requirement that good movies be detested originally - so I went to the book itself to see what Tom Charity of Time Out had to say about it.

Turns out, not much either. Charity provides a brief plot summary, quotes Truffaut, who called The Golden Coach "the noblest and most refined film ever made", and says that Vivaldi "provides the soundtrack", which is a bit too active-sounding, considering Vivaldi had been dead for two hundred years at that point.

So, why is Renoir's film on the list? I'm not really sure. But I quite liked it, so it's worth exploring.

Jean Renoir is not well-known for his later films, of which The Golden Coach is one. His major fame came with the release of more realistic satires in the 1930s: La Chienne (1931), Boudu Saved from Drowning (1932), La Grande Illusion (1937), La Bête Humaine (1938), and The Rules of the Game (1939). Despite their often comic plots, these films were steadfastly realistic and drew on local times and places. The release of the latter film was disastrous, though. Despite frequent re-edits, French audiences detested The Rules of the Game and Renoir's known Communist sympathies resulted in the film twice being banned. When the Germans invaded Paris in 1940, Renoir fled, first to Rome and then to the United States. He made several films in Hollywood - some critically acclaimed, others not - before returning to Europe a decade later. It was then that he began work on a loose trilogy of films about theatre and artifice. The Golden Coach is the first.

The film really belongs to its lead actor, Anna Magnani, who brings such vivacity to her performance that the rest of the cast are basically just dancing around her. She plays Camilla, a performer with a commedia dell'arte troupe in the role of Columbine. The troupe has come to 18th-century Peru to perform, and are forced into a contract with the local innkeeper, who insists on being reimbursed for paying their ship's passage over to the new world. The only reason that the troupe's performances are successful is that two men become smitten with Camilla: the Viceroy (Duncan Lamont), a milquetoast with all the money and none of the sense, and Ramon (Riccardo Rioli), a famed toreador. Ramon's attentions make the commedia popular with the masses, and the Viceroy's make it popular with the court. The Viceroy even gifts Camilla with a golden coach, causing jealousy among the other nobles, who threaten to have him stripped of his post. In the midst of these two men, and a third, Felipe (Paul Campbell), Camilla's happiness in the theatre is steadily eroded and almost completely replaced with the difficulties of real life. Only a last-minute resolution worthy of a Shakespearean comedy returns everything to rights.

Pictured: an unappreciative audience. Peruvian philistines.

Some writers theorise that Renoir's turn to more overtly theatrical subjects are partly autobiographical: that is, after what could be called an exile from his home country he made these films as a sort of manifesto about the importance of performance - that imagination and playfulness are far more important than most cinema critics believe them to be. Audiences shunned his work, this theory goes, and so Renoir felt compelled to put forward this particular vision. As well as this, though, Sarris remarks that The Golden Coach has a melancholy undercurrent to it, most notably in the final moments of the film. Camilla is drawn back to the stage, reassured by the leader of the troupe that the only place she will ever find happiness is when she is pretending to be someone else. Camilla notices that the Viceroy, Ramon and Felipe are all gone. "Part of the audience, now," Don Antonio (Odoardo Spadaro) tells her. "Do you miss them?" Camilla pauses. "A little," she says, before Renoir cuts to a wider shot of her standing at the proscenium arch. In this scene, it's unclear whether Camilla actually can find happiness in the theatre. What is most important throughout the film, it seems, is the idea of possibility. Real life will eventually force Camilla to choose one of the lovers, and yet her decision at the end (to give the golden coach to the bishop, and therefore to stop the Viceroy from being overthrown and to have Felipe and Ramon released from prison) returns all three of the men to the role of potential love interest. It's interesting that the arrival of the bishop feels like such a deus ex machina, because within the wider frame of the film it makes very little sense. Camilla suddenly hits on a 'solution' that seems to conveniently restore everything to how it ought to be, but it does so in such a quick and efficient way that it feels very artificial.

Does it happen at all? At the beginning and end of the film, the curtain rises on a stage which shows part of the Viceroy's palace (the image seen above, with the Viceroy’s chambers through the door at the upper left, and the street behind the golden coach at the lower half). The opening and closing moments are explicitly a stage play, but the camera moves onto the stage and enters the world of the 'play' seamlessly. What was two-dimensional becomes three-dimensional. My gut interpretation of what is happening here is that the viewer is drawn into suspending their disbelief, as they do with all films. We enter the world of 1700s Peru, and the plot carries on happily enough until the end. Camilla has to choose between an unsatisfying but real end to her story, or to retreat into theatre and fiction. She chooses the latter, and the implausibility of it is so violent that it throws the viewer back out of the fictional world, back to the other side of the stage. We're back in the audience again, with the complicated people who don't fit neatly into a comedy plotline.

What we do get to do, though, is reflect on what we're seeing. There is a vibrancy in The Golden Coach that doesn't appear in many of Renoir's other films. Renoir makes the images colourful and lively, and this vibrancy is in itself entertaining. We're made to laugh at the antics, the effete lip-service that the nobles give to the king, the duels seen briefly through open doorways, and the timing of the commedia plays themselves. The mediocre acting (outside of Magnani) gives the film a roughspun, poor-theatre quality which is invigorating. We probably can't do what Camilla does and immerse herself permanently in this world, but Renoir's film makes no secret of the fact that he clearly thinks it's vital that this world exists, and that we're able to visit it from time to time.

#1001 movies #The Golden Coach #Jean Renoir

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couldibesomethingmore · 3 years

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Could I be Something More?

Could I be something more?

This is a blog just for me. The expectation is that absolutely no one is going to read this and that’s kind of the point. To be honest, I’m going through it. Like really, truly, irrevocably going through it. And not in a funny down bad kind of way, but in a soul-crushing kind of way. Yes, I’m overdramatic. I’m aware. I just don’t know anymore. I know, not an original problem but let me cope. I’m about to finish my junior year of high school and am having a quarter-life crisis. Once again, originality is not the issue here. Unlike most people on this godforsaken site, I don’t have an individuality complex. I’m trying to learn how not to be special because I don’t think I am anymore. I know at one point I was, but not anymore. How do I exist if not to revel in my specialness? Heaps of expectations weigh me down and I enjoy it. The pressure to succeed, the lure of failure all make my daring academic feats worth it. This brings me to this very moment. I feel that I could be something more, that I could reach the same heights I reached just a few years ago, that I could try harder. I need to know if this is a delusion. Am I ordinary trying to act as a God? Am I special but don’t try hard enough? Am I deluding myself into thinking I reached greatness in the first place? So I am not articulate enough to tell this to a real person and am resorting to Tumblr to at least speak out into the void.

Let’s start with the basics, everything I consider essential to my identity. I use she/they pronouns and am bisexual. I’m a white American living in the midwest. I have a mother, father, and 2 older sisters. I have a best friend and a group of friends, but those are separate. My favorite color is blue. I like to read. Math is my least favorite subject, but the easiest for me to grasp. I have a very cute dog. I watch a lot of TV and play animal crossing. My family is upper-middle class. I go to a public high school. I’m a band kid. I like philosophy and fantasy novels. My favorite song is “Cloud 9” by Beach Bunny and I listened to it for a total of 23 hours last year. I value self-expression and independence (this is not to be confused with uniqueness). My favorite show is “Attack on Titan.” My comfort show is “Snow White with the Red Hair.” My favorite movie is “Good Will Hunting.” My comfort movie is the sequel to National Treasure. My favorite book is “The Giver.” My comfort book is The Inheritance Cycle. I am an INTP 5w4. I really relate to Yuki and Rin Sohma. I would like to relate to Ichigo Kurosaki. He gained power for his friends and then gave it up. He does not need to be acknowledged by the world to feel whole. He is complete on his own. I take 40mg of Prozac and see a therapist on Wednesdays. I am incapable of accepting love. No, not because I don’t think I deserve it but because I can’t fathom it. I loathe myself. I’ve never really trusted somebody. More than anything, I want to stand on my own.

Now, what does this add up to? Absolutely nothing. Nothing but delusions of grandeur and good intentions. So, I’m going to start at the beginning and work my way to the present. Maybe, if I’m lucky enough, I can figure some things out along the way.

My earliest memory is from when I was two and yes, I meant the very beginning. I woke up in the hospital it was dark, like really dark and I remember being close to the ceiling. The nurse kept giving me popsicles and I wouldn’t stop eating them. Thinking about my unrestrained enjoyment makes me want to cry, like really badly. I do not know why. The last one I ate was purple but most of them were orange. My Dad walked in with my mother. He had just gotten off of work and was wearing a white collared shirt with brown slacks and black dress shoes. He asked me how I was feeling. I don’t remember anything else. I retained no sounds or smells. However, most of this is probably false. Memory falls prey to suggestion and the only corroborated part of my story is the popsicle thing and the being two thing. Again, is this a normal memory embellishment or am I subconsciously trying to convince my non-existent readers of my brilliance? Do I want people to be amazed at my memory skills from such a young age? Do I want to announce my specialness from the beginning?

I think about this a lot. I don’t know why.

I’ve also been focusing on Paddington Bear. I had a multi-hour argument with my friend over his identity. Culturally, Paddington is British. This we can agree on. He was adopted by British people, uses a British accent, and was introduced to society by British explorers. However, we disagree on everything else. I say Paddington is a Peruvian bear and therefore an illegal immigrant. He certainly does not have British citizenship. She disagrees. She says Paddington is a British Bear and he is not human enough to need immigration papers. To her, he is more of an invasive species than anything else. To me, he is an eco-terrorist. Also, Paddington uses soap and water to wash his hands. Does he use lotion too? Shampoo? Conditioner? He is also a pervert. He grasps the concept of clothes and actively chooses not to wear them. I am aware that he has no genitals, but it’s a matter of principle. He understands clothes as noted by the wearing of his coat and hat even when the weather does not require him to do so, but does not put on pants. Why? The bear is a sentient being and as such, I believe he requires pants.

This is all for now.

#firstpost #personalwriting #paddington #paddingtonbear #send help #fake deep

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ayahuasca61-blog · 4 years

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Ayahuasca benifits

Ayahuasca contains the incredible stimulant dimethyltryptamine (DMT), which is a Class A medication and illicit in the UK. Coming up next is a direct record of one individual's understanding of ayahuasca; note that the experience is diverse for everybody and, similarly as with all medication taking, conveys a component of hazard. It might have genuine ramifications for those with a background marked by psychological wellness issues. Refinery29 not the slightest bit energizes criminal behavior or unsafe conduct.

The abnormal thing is, I generally realized I'd do ayahuasca. A few people say it's a calling; you're either gathered or you're most certainly not. I initially caught wind of it from a former beau while at college. At that point, my recreational medication use hadn't reached out past a couple of spliffs at a bistro in Amsterdam and an unnerving 'whitey' in my old neighborhood which – after a call to my sister, making her aware of the truth that I was most likely passing on – settled itself in a curry house. I requested a large portion of the menu and continued to suck on the finish of a similar chip for over thirty minutes, stressing that my relationship with salvia was well and genuinely finished. I know, I'm an all out platitude. I'm heartbroken.

Be that as it may, ayahuasca was not quite the same as some other hallucinogenic I'd at any point known about. It wasn't recreational yet rather a hallowed procedure to be regarded. An intense, psychoactive, plant-based blend that has recuperating forces and soul breathing life into impacts, the experience guarantees a breakdown of the inner self. The best clarification I've experienced is in Chris Kilham's The Ayahuasca Aircraft testers Handbook: "An aching, part recognition of something suffering and part instinct of future disclosure."

Ayahuasca deciphers from the South American Quechua language as "soul plant" or "plant of the dead" and the function has been drilled for a huge number of years by indigenous individuals who treasure the plant. The flavor of the earthy colored, severe fluid is so powerful and unmistakable that simply considering it carries the flavor to the rear of my throat. The shaman who drives the service, and goes about as a profound guide and defender all through what's occasionally an eight-hour-long understanding, should have eaten less carbs on the plant solely and now and then for quite a long time so as to completely incorporate with its characteristics.

From the outset, I'd comprehended ayahuasca through sensationalized, fantastical stories that swayed between confronting devils who'd caution you about your approaching, unexpected passing and coming to the subconscious in all out euphoria with "God". This while spewing your guts out as you cry madly and perhaps poo yourself. I was puzzled. I was unable to get ayahuasca off my brain and over a time of years I wound up irregularly perusing around the theme. I was brought up in a little, common town, in a 500-year-old house with an apparition that my folks had a minister exorcize multiple times. I'm totally serious. So I'd just experienced things I was unable to clarify or justify, and I was available to the possibility of a profound world past the domains of human comprehension.

So there I was, a young lady who'd never to such an extent as looked long and hard at a psychedelic not to mention attempted one, on my approach to drink the most remarkable, mind-adjusting mix the world brought to the table. My sister and I had traveled toward the north of France one dull October evening, to an enormous, natural estate in the wide open which had a place with the group of our companion. We'd masterminded a Peruvian shaman to approach Europe and complete various gathering functions. We welcomed each other in quieted murmurs before being advised to go upstairs and get ready. I felt hungry. I'd been fasting for seven days: no liquor, vinegar, pork or hamburger, no dairy, not all that much, positively no lemon and no sex. I was told this scrub would expand my stately experience. I put agreeable garments on – a progression of layers since I knew ayahuasca changed your internal heat level and I was, around then, worried about being cold. I was loaded up with expectation yet I didn't feel frightened. The house appeared to be swollen with a reinforcing, warm vitality that caused me to feel secured and quiet.

There were 13 of us participating in my first function, including the shaman and his right hand (who'd later disclose to me the two of them accepted they'd been rehearsing these services together for a huge number of years, through the span of numerous lifetimes). We each had a delicate, dark sleeping cushion, pushed against the back dividers to frame a circle. Every sleeping pad accompanied a pad, a cover, a cleanse basin and 10 mapacho cigarettes (it's accepted the shaman can channel vitality through this tobacco and they're smoked when you're having an especially tough time, to accomplish realignment). I likewise took some tissue roll since I was actually very worried about the pooing bit. The room was nearly completely dark, just somewhat lit by candles so I could look as the shaman strolled around the room blowing smoke to guarantee the space was ensured. I tuned in as he opened the service with a petition, bringing in the correct soul partners for our undertaking and appealing to God for everybody's aims.

It's essential to come to ayahuasca with aims – to realize why you're there and to comprehend what you look for. Following an agonizing year of watching my dad deteriorate into death from a mind aneurism and a progression of strokes that left him cerebrum harmed, I was wrestling with the dismissal I'd felt from him during my life. He was a heavy drinker and in spite of his various endeavors to fight his sickness, he'd missed the mark. His passing had doused my untainted expectation that one day I'd have the relationship with him that I profoundly needed. I'd likewise quite recently been dumped by my sweetheart, which came as a colossal stun (in any event to me), and I was battling to grapple with the layers of dismissal I'd encountered from the men I cherished.

Around then, I was overpowered with a sentiment of being trapped, stale. Mindful of and making progress toward a degree of bliss that I realized I'd came to previously, I felt a physical weight limiting me. As I attempted to grasp all the adoration in my life and feel thankful for my numerous favors, poisonous plants of obscure agony and injury twisted around my lower legs and kept me unmoving. I felt incapable to develop and create as an individual yet was excessively decided and idealistic to surrender and tumble into a pit of hopelessness. I was no place young lady. What's more, it was screwing choking out me.

So I sat on that sleeping cushion, prepared to dump my daddy issues and lament the most self image crushing dumping of my life so far. Help, was my aim; I was gotten and I expected to figure out how to move once more. Mother Ayahuasca is responsive and receptive – like absinthe's green pixie, she drives you on a fundamental excursion. Oppose her and you'll endure. Attempt to outmaneuver her and you'll lose. You can bring to mind an individual or a circumstance and, similar to an unending hallway, you can experience entryways and experience twinges connected to your past and the wellspring of your agony. A few people have increasingly decision of where they go; some are constrained into the rooms she feels you have to see. Others have only one substantial entryway that is somewhat slightly open – enough to show that what lies behind are the most unnerving things they will ever know – and they continue returning to that entryway to defy its abhorrences. Everybody's understanding of the plant is extraordinary and one of a kind. Click here ayahuasca

Around 45 minutes subsequent to drinking the ayahuasca, I felt it. I went into a synaesthetic winding of shading and vitality, another universe of extraordinary creatures fueled by tones and emotions and considerations that recently appeared past my creative mind. I sat for some time and attempted to slow myself in this world, fluttering out of it and into the stately hover, at that point once more into ayahuasca once more. I heard my companions begin to cleanse and a profound infection defeated me. Bundles of vitality that felt like fleece tangled in the rear of my throat advanced toward the surface and my skin shivered. I retched for a considerable length of time, however it felt easing and nearly satisfying. I'd look down on account of my youth self and resume a memory from before, overwhelmed by psychological mistreatment and the failure of my dad. I'd hurl and quiver until I'd upchuck once more, dispersing the agony, at that point I'd breakdown dormant onto the sleeping cushion until the following wave came. This experience was steady, it turned over me over and over, another memory to assent to, another cleanse. The following thing I recall is gazing toward the shaman bowing before me, singing an eerie tune which uncovered torment that I can't clarify in words as I cried wildly and unashamedly. There it was: discharge.

Photograph: NEIL FLETCHER AND MATTHEW WARD/GETTY Pictures.

Leaves from Banisteriopsis caapi (Ayahuasca plant).

As the shaman sang his icaro, a sacrosanct melody used to approach explicit spirits or to quicken the vitality in the space, I felt all the torment and hopelessness I'd encountered in my 27 years – yet for the most part I felt a feeling of recuperating. All through the service I saw "cleansing" icaros, which drive a progressively extreme ejection and empower you to alleviate yourself of physical and enthusiastic poisons. Certain individuals from the gathering would fall into a consistent, vicious cleanse during specific icaros. What alarmed me more than anything else were the tunes that set the ladies off. I felt a stinging sensation as the ladies in the room spewed as one and my sister and I extended over, regurgitating and shaking in impeccable concordance. I regularly consider what it was that made the ladies cleanse however didn't influence the men, what sort of passionate poisons we conveyed that they didn't.

I've heard accounts of ayahuasca helping individuals determined to have a terminal ailment to accommodate their despondency; of medication addicts who experience a disclosure, empowering them to vanquish their bad habit; of the youthful sister of a companion who, after a progression of recoveries, confronted losing her life to a devastating dietary problem yet discovered recuperation. Be that as it may, be under no deception – ayahuasca will no

#ayahuasca

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pacamaracatuai-blog · 7 years

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Wow...6 months in Sicchezpampa flew by faster than I ever imagined! That's not to say it was all easy, though. Here are some of my reflections on my biggest challenges and some of my favorite moments from my time here. Oh, and enjoy this photo of my coffee on a sunny morning with two of our many ducks (they were little ducklings when I first arrived, and now they are bigger than ever!). Challenges There were lots of challenges I expected from the start: adjusting to 1800 meters above sea level was hard for me, making me tired and unable to eat much for the first week. I decided to give up my healthy vegan diet to eat what my Peruvian family ate, and it was not always easy to adjust. (Dishes like mondongo - cow guts - were nearly impossible for me to even really taste, I just couldn't get it down.) And Sicchezpampa's Spanish is fast and full of slang - to be honest I still don't understand a lot when they are gossiping at full speed about the latest happenings. The work in the fields tore up my hands and the bugs devoured my arms and legs. Oh, and I had a cold for the last two months. Yuck! One of my challenges stopped me from completing my goal of holding a training or event to spread some knowledge about coffee quality. Plans to hold a workshop here in Sicchezpampa were shot down by Azael and the technician. Nobody will come, they told me. (I still don't believe that!) They wanted to have a big training for all 18 communities in the sector. It's a failure if everyone from all these towns can't participate, Azael told me. But the 18 communities' coffees never materialized; the tech never prepared them, and I found this out way too late to plan a different training. Definitely a frustration! I wasn't terribly surprised by this though. Turns out the two biggest challenges were the ones I expected the least. The first was the sudden death of a dear friend in the US. I had some internet but it wasn't very useful, use of WhatsApp limited by how strong my signal was, and I couldn't use my phone to make international calls. It turned out to be several days of frustrating attempts to talk to friends. Meanwhile I explained the situation to Azael and Pascuala, who were understanding, but not having old friends in touch in tough times was hard for me. The second major hurdle was dealing with a culture of alcohol abuse and domestic violence here in Sicchezpampa. I had previously spent time in a Guatemalan community where alcohol was taboo, so I wasn't prepared for the extent of alcohol use here at all. Men drink at parties but also while working in the fields all day, early in the morning, and sometimes late at night - and drunk driving motorcycles is also not uncommon. Because of Pascuala's store, our house was an epicenter for men to get together and drink. Not surprisingly, there are no resources for alcoholism or addiction in the area, and people don't seem to understand the severity of the issue. One man died of cirrhosis and his brother passed out drunk at 8:30 AM the day of his funeral... and nobody seemed to think this was ironic. Pascuala told me over and over the tragic stories of domestic violence in Sicchezpampa and the other towns - usually men hitting their wives while drunk, though occasionally children were also hurt. More often children were simply affected by seeing the violence in their homes, with still more tragic consequences. Women were sometimes able to leave their husbands but they have so few options; most of them end up moving back in with their parents, and struggle to care for their kids. And they can always denounce their husbands' behavior to the authorities...men who get reported get a slap on the wrist and then go back home to presumably repeat their actions. I never saw any of this firsthand, but knowing it was happening and being unable to do anything was frustrating. Favorite moments Ok, time for some happy moments. Those who know me know that most of my favorite moments will include food or coffee, no surprises there! There was meeting Azael's sisters and singing Azael happy birthday complete with a cake. Learning to make sweet tamales called humitas with Pascuala - she taught me well! I'm looking forward to making them again in the US for my family and friends. And being a coffee quality judge for the first time during my trip to Carmen de Curilcas with Norandino was delightful. I also enjoyed my trips to Limón riding the mule, which I started doing weekly to help out Pascuala by buying bread for her store. The baker, Doña Matilde, always loaded me up with sweet bread and treats like cookies if she had them! Tasting the coffees I picked and processed myself, along with Rodolfo and Yulie, was definitely a highlight. Plus sharing the remainder of those coffees with Azael and Pascuala back at home along with the scores! My first time picking coffee was a great experience I will always remember, and learning to plant seedlings in the nursery was also incredible - something I had wanted to learn for a long time. I learned everything from useful vocabulary words to how to control a donkey with verbal cues to how to make rice exactly like Pascuala. And despite all the challenges, my six months in Sicchezpampa were absolutely worth it. Wherever I go and whatever I do in the coffee industry, I will always keep my experience living with small farmers in the forefront of my mind, because none of this is possible without them. Their challenges are our challenges because we share the same livelihood.

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