What do we talk about when we talk about love? in one of his most disturbing stories. And I ask myself again in one of my accurate questions: what do we talk about when we talk about cinema?
It was clear to me in my childhood, in my adolescence, in my youth, or in the hermitical twilight of an old age in which almost nothing matters anymore, except an ancient curtain away from suffering, paired with happiness. And I survive, in my case, from memories, some very happy, but also from cinema. Of the immense joys that he has given me.
And a friend, with as many defects as me, but who has the immense and generous gift of giving priceless things to the people he loves, donated me a paper doll many years ago, . Also an enlarged photograph of a wonderful baby, angry in his gesture, adorable, someone who represents my eternal activity in life, between joy and rejection, with whom I talk every morning and night.
. In the Ice Palace. Surrounded by mostly young people, including some who eat popcorn, but without making noise.
And I feel an emotional orgasm again. And I still cringe, even though I’ve seen it two hundred times, when Lemmon notices that the mirror of the woman he loves is broken and that she feels even worse than him. With Wilder’s brilliant portrait of the powerful and their victims, even though they are very clumsy. This man, who some described as having razor blades in his brain and on his tongue, was as sarcastic as he was secretly romantic. And I feel an orgasm again when, accompanied by wonderful music, Miss Kubelik leaves the New Year’s Eve party with her lover and runs to the apartment of the pathetic Mr. Baxter. And he tells her: “I love her.” And she responds: “Keep playing cards.”
And I return happy to the solitude of my house. . And I tell my feelings to baby Matías. And I sleep relaxed. And I repeat myself: How great cinema is. That is, the one I like.
