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The Black Day of Cinema

On the 30th of July we had the saddest news about two of the great film directors of all time: Ingmar Bergman and Michelangelo Antonioni had died. For a moment, I feared for Woody Allen (as bad news often come in three), but he was soon offering declarations in which he expressed his admiration for Bergman, the one that most of us had seen in many of his films and that he himself mocks in Stardust Memories.

I started to see Bergman films because of my mother (one of his most fervent fans) and like everyone else liked The Seventh Seal, The Virgin Spring and Fanny and Alexander. Unlike others, I loved his comic side, best represented by The Devil’s Eye, and detested his strangely existentialist The Silence and ridiculously self-indulgent All these women.

In my mind, Antonioni is still almost a lengend. A legend that was told to me by my father: one day he went to the opening screning of the most wonderful film of all times L’Avventura. He had gone alone and had no one to share it with. He then proceeded to recruit all of his friends and took them to watch the film he had loved; they hated it. In the end, he remained alone in loving the film and the only one among his peers to appreciate it.

Bergman and Antonioni were always legendary, both because of their films and because of the aura of greatness that surrounded any talk about them in our home at meal times.

To be Provoked or not to be

Lost in Pan’s Labyrinth

Children of Men

Almodovar ha vuelto

Apologies for the Silence

Shyamalan’s Fairytale

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