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kinocube · 1 year

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Esmendrellarse coa risa

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Pode ser unha emoción humana universal un arquetipo cinematográfico tamén? Imos analizar o caso da risa e a súa presenza nas pantallas ao longo da historia do cinema, a ver se damos cunha resposta a esta cuestión.

A risa aparece deseguido entre todas esas cousas que as persoas pioneiras do cinematógrafo consideraron merecedoras de ficar rexistradas para a posteridade. Falamos de finais do século XIX, o século da innovación e da experimentación científica. O século no que unimos o memento mori e a consciencia do efémero da vida -pois trátase dunha época con altos índices de mortalidade- co espírito analítico e creador da ciencia e do progreso tecnolóxico; unha boa combinación para que abrolle a necesidade de capturar a ánima das cousas e das persoas antes de que desaparezan deste mundo, primeiro coa fotografía e despois, en movemento, co cinema.

A risa humana, en calidade de emoción universal -o seu significado non adoita depender de factores culturais- e de expresión de máxima felicidade é, sen dúbida, unha desas cousas que debiamos conservar a toda costa. O humor é un dos primeiros motivos do cinema con curtas dos Lumière como L'arroseur arrosé (1895), e con cineastas como Buster Keaton ou Charles Chaplin chegou ao seu auxe. Hai tamén que engadir que o humor formaba parte do vaudeville que, como xa temos comentado, se trata dun antecedente directo da cinematografía e influiu de maneira determinante na construción dos seus arquetipos.

"A risa mata o medo", foi posto na boca dunha personaxe de Der Name der Rose (Jean-Jacques Annaud, 1986) como unha crítica, aínda que a nós parécenos un eloxio. Neste filme, baseado na obra de Umberto Eco, ocorre un debate sobre a lexitimidade da risa que tamén nos pode servir para buscar pistas sobre o seu significado narrativo. A risa é un poderoso bálsamo contra todo o que tememos neste mundo. Ríndose dos fascismos, como Chaplin en The Great Dictator (1940) ou máis recentemente Guillermo del Toro no seu Pinocchio (2022), ridiculizámolos, perdémoslle o medo e quitámoslle poder sobre nós. É o poder da comedia. Da mesma maneira, a risa pode ser un bálsamo para personaxes que se enfrontan aos seus medos, como a risa maníaca de Ash en The Evil Dead (Sam Raimi, 1981) ante un fenómeno que escapa de toda lóxica para furgar nos seus peores pesadelos. Mais deixemos para un chisco máis adiante o análise das risas "maníacas", que constitúen un estereotipo de seu.

A risa tampouco se libra de conter significados contrarios, incluso contraditorios, a un tempo. Xa o diciamos dende crianzas: "riste de min ou comigo?". A risa pode conter cariño ou burla, é ambivalente. De aí a tensión da escena na que Tommy lle pregunta a Henry Hill "What do you mean funny, funny how? How am I funny?" en Goodfellas (Martin Scorsese, 1990). Polo mesmo motivo, a risa do público en Limelight (Charles Chaplin, 1952) representa o seu cariño e a súa acollida cara o cómico Calvero, en horas baixas, mentres que a risa desenfreada do público do primeiro filme sonoro da personaxe de Don Lockwood en Singin' in the Rain (Stanley Donen, do mesmo ano) é para el un insulto e unha vergoña, pois non hai nada máis patético que a comedia involuntaria.

A risa ten unha característica especial, que é a de ser moi difícil de reprimir. E é altamente contaxiosa. Desta maneira, non é raro que se chegue a entrar nun bucle entre a audiencia e as personaxes, como en certa escena de Life of Brian (Terry Jones, 1979). Cando a risa se descontrola para converterse en gargallada, ademais, tamén pode derivar noutro tipo de significados afastados por completo da comedia. Falamos da risa maníaca, da que xa comentamos un exemplo hai un anaco, que é perfecta para mostrar a unha personaxe ao bordo da loucura, xusto cando acaba de cruzar a fronteira.

Moi preto desta categoría está a risa "malvada", un cliché moi trallado en canto ao que se refire a caracterizar os viláns de filmes, habitualmente maniqueístas e de tramas simples onde os bos son moi bos e os malos son moi malos. Non deixa de ter o seu atractivo contrapoñer a lixeireza dunha gargallada coas sombras dunha personaxe de escuras intencións, sobre todo cando se fai ben, como o vilán de Per qualche dollaro in più (Sergio Leone, 1965), que cando estoura non se sabe o canalizará a través dunha gargallada ou dun acceso de violencia cara os demáis. O importante é o contraste, un dos recursos estilísticos máis útiles para xerar narrativas cinematográficas interesantes.

A gargallada non ten porque cinguirse a singificados negativos ou escuros. Ás veces trátase simplemente dunha forma de desfacer a tensión, de desfogarse -mellor rir que chorar, non si?- ou unha xenuína expresión de alegría, de alivio ou de satisfacción.

Ao longo da historia do cinema houbo lugar para risos absolutamente icónicos, como o das bruxas de Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (Varios, 1937) e The Wizard of Oz (Victor Fleming, 1939), ambas pioneiras en establecer o cliché da risa malvada; ou o de Gwynplaine en The man who laughs (Paul Leni, 1928), que é sobre todo coñecido por ser a inspiración directa da personaxe de banda deseñada do Joker, con múltiples adaptacións cinematográficas.

Que opinades, é a risa un arquetipo? Son arquetipos as súas múltiples variantes? Se a base do cinema, para moitas persoas, é o primeiro plano e a emoción humana, o que queda claro é que a risa ten un lugar de honra entre as expresións máis versátiles e xenuínas para a gran pantalla.

Até o vindeiro episodio!

#laugh #laughing track #laughter #risa #esmendrellarse #cine #cinema #silent cinema #cinema history #historis do cinema #classic cinema #cine clásico #cinema clásico #galiza #galego #Youtube

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the-hilda-librarians-wife · 4 years

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Beauty and the Witch - Chapter Two

x x x x

Summary: Deep in the dark forest, there’s a castle filled with magic and mystery, where no one would ever go if they could help it. But an adventurer runs from nothing, and she might come to regret it.

Oh, who am I kidding, it’s a Sketchbook Beauty and the Beast Au, y’all

Notes: I might have changed Raven and Alfur’s names. Sorry, I just couldn’t handle those names on eighteenth century France. But if it makes you feel better, Raven’s first name is still the same. And his last name is Raven in french. He is now Raven Raven.

*Remembers I let David and Frida keep their names* oh shoot

(chpt1) (chpt2)

All the hushed voices quieted down as the candelabra entered the kitchen, moving as quietly as it could.

“Is it true, then?” The teapot asked with urgency. “That there’s a woman in the castle?”

“Of course it’s true!” Said the antique clock, sounding offended. “You think I’d lie?”

The candelabra hopped onto a chair, using it as leverage to get himself on top of the table where the others were discussing.

“It is true. There’s a woman here, beautiful and brave! But it will take a miracle to get her to forgive the mistress, let alone love her!”

The teapot humphed. “This is the closest we’ve ever been! The time is running out, it might be our only chance.”

“I agree.” The candelabra nodded. He had no idea how they would achieve such a feat. Ever since the curse, their mistress had become moody and unpleasant, but something had to be done. He wanted to die as a human, not as a candle holder! “We have to try.”

“Well, tell us more, then.” The clock got closer as he asked. “How can we get her to stay?”

He cringed, remembering the scene he’d watched few minutes earlier.

“We won’t have to.” He answered. “The witch has taken her prisoner.”

The former maid stared at him with her mouth hanging open, and the once butler slapped his forehead. Or, at least, the place where his forehead would be were he not a clock.

“You’re kidding me.” He mumbled, and the candelabra sighed.

“I’m not. She exchanged her freedom for that of the girl. Apparently, she’s her mother.”

“This does make things more complicated.” The teapot admitted nervously. “But not all is lost. First things first, we need to take her to a room.”

“A room?!” The clock piped in. “Oh, the mistress won’t like this…”

“This is for the mistress’s own good.” She insisted. “Now you two go take her out of the dungeon. I’ll send a cleaning squadron to the master bedroom of the South Tower. Quick! We have no time to lose.”

_#_#_#_

Half an hour passed where Johanna did nothing but sit with her back to the cold stone wall, biting back tears so as not to give that monster the victory to know she’d made her cry. Not that said monster was even there to see it; she’d flown away as soon as she’d been locked, showing Johanna that her life meant absolutely nothing to the creature.

She resented the witch for all she’d taken from her. She would never see her daughter blossom into a woman, she’d never finish that painting she’d been doing of the lake, she’d never bake again or see Hilda smile. She wouldn’t run and feel the wind on her hair, or meet new people and places. She resented the creature for all of that, but she didn’t, not for one second, regret her decision. For as long as she lived, she’d rejoice in the knowledge that her Hilda was out there, living her life and most likely exploring the world like she’d always wanted to. Her brave girl was safe, and that was all that mattered.

Deep as she was in thought, for there was nothing else to do in her cell, Johanna startled when the barred door opened up loudly. She shrieked and got up, crossing her arms in front of her to protect her from the witch.

But the witch wasn’t on the other side of the door. Instead, the red candelabra was looking at her. He thanked the door for having opened up as Johanna screamed. He had a face, which seemed to be carved in the wax of the center candle, and he moved the two other candles around as if they were arms.

“Madmoiselle, please, calm down!” He said, noticing the woman was close to hyperventilating. “I will not hurt you!”

“You speak!” She exclaimed. “Did she bewitch you? So that you’d work for her?”

“The mistress, you mean? Oh no, someone else turned me into a candle holder, so fear not!”

Johanna frowned, her knees still wobbly from the shock. She’d imagined the witch had enchanted a normal candelabra to be able to move, but from what he said, he had been a person. And there was someone else with magic around.

“In fact, the mistress is so considerate that she ordered me to have you brought to another room!”

“Did she now?” Johanna lifted an eyebrow, not trusting anything that came from the witch. “I think it would be better if I stayed here.”

“Oh trust me, you’ll eventually get tired of the whole ‘cell’ thing.” Said another voice, making Johanna jump. “It would be better if we just took you there now.”

As the speaker walked near the candelabra, she realized that those were the objects that had been sitting on the table at the entrance hall. She swallowed, taking a deep breath in.

“Who are you?” She asked.

“Oh!” The red candelabra exclaimed. “How rude of me! I’m Albert Furgar, the maître d'. And my friend here is-“

“You may call me Mr. Corbeau.” The clock interrupted, making his friend chuckle.

“My old friend here isn’t too fond of his first name, I’m afraid. What about you, madmoiselle? What may we call you?”

“Johanna.” She answered, still giddy with the absurdity of the whole situation.

“Ah! What a beautiful name, fitting of a beautiful woman! Come now, madmoiselle Johanna. Let us show you to your rooms.”

And as they began to walk away, Johanna found herself following them. After all, it’s not like things could get any worse.

_#_#_#_

The way they led her through was unfamiliar to Johanna. As soon as they were out of the staircase which had led her to the dungeons, the objects began their journey through seemingly never ending corridors, so alike in their dark luxury that the woman knew she’d get lost if she tried to get anywhere on her own. If she was allowed to leave her room, that was.

Another resemblance between the corridors was that all of them had books scattered around. Hundreds, if not thousands of tomes stacked up from the floor and almost all the way up to the ceiling. It made Johanna even more angry that the witch had sentenced her Hilda for life over a single piece of paper.

They stopped in front of heavy double doors with intricate details carved on the wood, gesturing for her to open them. Inside was a room more suitable for a princess than for a simple artist; blush pink carpet covered the floor, and the ceiling was as high as the corridor’s had been, with paintings of archangels on it. On the furthest wall, there was a gigantic window with a window seat big enough for her to sleep on. However, that was unlikely to be necessary, for in the center of the room there was the biggest bed she had ever seen. She had her own bathing chambers and an attached writing room, but out of all of this grandeur, what called her attention the most were the moving brooms and feather dusters, which seemed to have been working on the room.

Close to her, one broom swiped a heap of dust into a small shovel. It then promptly used its bristles as arms to pick the shovel up and leave the room, but not before politely bowing to Johanna, the wood twisting unnaturally.

“Oh, here you are!” Said a new voice that made the woman jump. It came from a cart that she hadn’t even noticed, standing near the entrance to the writing room. On top of it, there was a complete tea set, but Johanna figured not all of them were alive, because only the teapot had a face, which seemed to have been painted on the porcelain. “It’s nice to meet you, dear. I am miss Van Gale, but you can call me Victoria. At your service.”

“This is my room?” She breathed, trying to get over the insanity of talking objects to focus on the insanity that was the witch giving her this room when hours ago she’d locked her in a cell. Feather dusters flew past her as they finished their jobs, and another broom accidentally bumped against her legs on its way out.

“Yes, it is! Enjoy, and call us if you need to.” The cart where Victoria was on wheeled out into the corridor, and the doors behind her closed. The last thing she heard was Albert’s voice as he walked away alongside Courbeau.

“Dinner at eight, madmoiselle! We’ll expect you at the dining hall!”

_#_#_#_

Cutlery for two was set on the long table of the formal dining hall. It had been arranged so that they would sit in front of one another, but on the long edges of the table, not the short ones, so as not to put them too far away from each other.

The stove had already finished working on dinner, and the food had a rich and warm scent as Courbeau and Albert spread it across the table. There was tension in the air. From what Albert had witnessed of them, the interactions between Johanna and the witch had been less than friendly. It would take a miracle for them to sit down and have a pleasant meal together. Unfortunately, it was a miracle that they needed.

The witch arrived at the kitchen with precise punctuality, flying in through the window, the wind from her wings making the candles in the room flicker. As she looked at the kitchen’s table, a frown formed on her brow when she noticed that her meal wasn’t there, ready for her to take to her room and eat alone like she had been doing for six years.

She raised her eyebrows at the stove, but when it did nothing but shrug at her, she began to realize what was going on. Mumbling under her breath about meddlesome servants, she made her way to the formal dining room, stomping her claws on the floor.

“Maybe we should warn the mistress?” Victoria whispered from her cart, from where Albert was inspecting the table’s set out.

“Yes, maybe you should.” The witch said in a clear and strong voice that made all her three servants startle and look at her.

“Mistress!” Albert chirped. “You see, we thought you might benefit from-“

“No.” She cut him abruptly, sitting down on one of the chairs. “I know what you’re trying to do. Don’t.”

Victoria hopped from the cart, landing on the table with a clink that made the witch cringe. After the curse, they’d found out that they were much more resistant than actual objects, but it didn’t stop her from getting worried. It couldn’t feel very safe to be made of china.

“Mistress.” She said gently as she moved closer to the witch. “We’re running out of time...”

“I know. Do you think I don’t?” Running her hand through her wild hair, she exhaled sharply. “I know exactly what you’re trying to do. And I’m not going to help.”

Corbeau, who had been in one of the edges of the table, frowned, making the 11 and 1 o’clock marks draw closer. “But why?”

“Because I don’t want to do this to you.” The witch answered, much more softly now. She looked at each of them in the eyes, feeling the familiar pain of guilt sting at her heart. “It’s not going to work. She will not learn to love me”

And I don’t know how to love either, she added to herself. Getting up from the chair, she tried not to look at her servants again so as not to see the disappointment on their faces. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up just to have them crushed. Send some food up to my room.”

She strode out of the dining room without looking back, opening her wings when she stopped in front of the window in the kitchen. None of them had the heart to stop her when she flew out again, wanting to be like she’d been ever since the curse: alone.

_#_#_#_

It had gone better than he’d thought it would, Corbeau said. The witch had said she didn’t want them to get their hopes up, but she hadn’t been particularly angry at the idea. Albert nodded, saying that they still had many months to have the two fall in love. Victoria didn’t remain as optimistic, but her determination didn’t wane. They’d make sure to make the women have a proper conversation eventually, even if it wouldn’t be that night.

They waited for a long time for their guest to arrive, but when Corbeau’s pointers indicated forty past eight, they lost their hope that Johanna was coming.

Albert took it to himself to go up to her room and certify that she was well. He knocked on her door as strongly as he could, and then waited for her to answer.

“W- who’s there?” She asked, a little fearfully, Albert noticed, from inside her room.

“It’s just me, madmoiselle.”

“Oh.” He heard the soft sound of her steps on the carpet before the door opened a crack, just enough for her to poke her head outside and look down at the candelabra.

“We were worried about you when you didn’t show up for dinner.” As he explained, Albert saw Johanna cringe, and unhappily deduced why she hadn’t come down for the meal.

“Oh, I’m just not hungry.” She lied. Not having eaten anything since morning, she was starving. But if she said so, she’d have no excuse.

Albert sighed. “The mistress won’t be joining us tonight, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He began walking away, but when Johanna didn’t follow him, he looked over his shoulder at her. “Come now, madmoiselle. I understand that you are wary of us, but you must trust that we don’t want you to starve.”

With both fear and courage, Johanna stepped out of her room and into the gloom of the corridor.

_#_#_#_

“Oh my goodness!” She gasped as she was led inside the formal dining room. In its extravagance, she could easily picture a king and his court having their dinner there, covered in silk and jewels and discussing the very fate of their kingdom. But instead, the only person in the room was Johanna, dressed in the simple paint stained dress in which she’d left her house earlier that day.

Nonetheless, the food was also impressive, and could have easily been made for a royal. Being an artist, she had never gone truly hungry, but she’d never had food to spare either. Many times, she’d made herself eat less so that Hilda could have a proper meal. But this was food for someone who absolutely did not have to worry about money. She didn’t miss the fact that two plates had been laid out.

“That’s… a lot.” She said as she sat down, trying to sound thankful and not ungrateful.

“I’m afraid Cook overdid himself today.” Victoria explained. “He was very excited. It’s been a long time since he cooked for a guest.”

Johanna raised her eyebrows. “Guest?”

“Yes!” Albert chirped. “You are our guest!”

“Doesn’t feel like it.” She mumbled as she parted her bread with a crispy sound, and dipped it in soup.

“Yet!” Said Victoria. “Doesn’t feel like it yet. Trust me, you’ll warm up to this place.”

She heavily doubted it. Could she really enjoy a place she couldn’t leave? All the objects were being suspiciously nice to her, but that didn’t make up for the family and friends she’d left behind. Being held captive by a monster was not something she looked forward to warming up to.

“I know what you must think about our mistress.” Albert said as if reading her thoughts. “And after the way she treated you, you can’t be blamed. But she’s really not as bad as she seems.”

Corbeau nodded enthusiastically, as much as he could with a wooden neck. “Just keep an open mind about her.”

They were being too nice for her to roll her eyes at them, so Johanna stopped herself from doing it. She couldn’t imagine why they seemed to be trying so hard for her to have a good opinion about the witch, but at least their intentions didn’t seem to be malicious.

“Well, I don’t know about her.” She said, trying to be cheerful while changing the topic of the conversation. “But this food is something I can get used to.”

Victoria chuckled, and Albert made her a deep bow.

“We aim to please, madmoiselle!”

_#_#_#_

Corbeau and Albert were leading her back to her room (under her request - she had no idea when she’d get used to those dark corridors) when she noticed a staircase that was all but trashed. Chunks of the stone steps had fallen and were now hubris, and spiders had made their webs on the handrails. She had noticed that most of the castle was badly in need of dusting, but this was a whole other level of forsaken.

“What happened here?” She asked them, pointing to the staircase.

“Ah, that.” Corbeau rolled his eyes. “The mistress doesn’t allow us to clean that part of the castle.”

Albert seemed to look around, as if expecting the witch to jump out of a corner at any time before answering.

“That’s the West Wing.” He whispered. “It’s the one place in the castle where you must never go.”

“Why?”

Both of them exchanged a look.

“It’s where the mistress spends most of her time. Trust us, she doesn’t like anyone being nosy about it.”

Johanna frowned. If that was where the witch spent her time, then most of her possessions should be there. Johanna knew nothing of magic aside from what they said in the village, that it was dangerous and not to be messed with. But If there was anything that could free her from her bond to the witch, she was certain she’d find it there. If anything, she was sure to find answers to the mysterious puzzles that surrounded the castle.

She nodded and allowed herself to be guided back to her chambers. With every step, however, her mind did it’s best to memorize the way. She’d be back very soon. It was her only hope.

#im going to write a nice one shot *plans a ten chapter fic*#fic: batw #my fic #sketchbook ship #sketchbook ship hilda #sketchbook ship fanfic #the hilda librarian #the hilda librarian fanfic #hilda johanna #hilda johanna fanfic #beauty and the beast au

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