El Retrato Postergado - Full movie - Pelicula completa - Cc - Sub ingles
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To my father, Roberto Cuervo.
The mentality...Do you like it Professor? The mentality of the argentinians,
Many of his books have been awarded prizes
His last novel "Alrededor de la Jaula"
was awarded by the Veracruzan University of Mexico
His short story "La causa"
was awarded special mention in a contest organised by "Life"
Another book of short stories... "Todos los veranos"
it was also awarded the Municipal Prize
...yes...second Municipal Prize
another book of short stories is "Con otra gente"
That´s it...
- That´s all. - Is that all?
Life is like a rough draft in which you never finish making the final copy.
and I discover that my life is definitely a rough draft
all blurred and crossed out,
it is never completed, never finished.
And I supose that is for that reason
that I have a feeling of frustation, or sadness.
THE DELAYED PORTRAIT
Look Andres,
Here Haroldo talks about Roberto
It was Roberto Cuervo who gave me the clue...
He shot a brief documentary years ago
He said Roberto mentioned the Paulino Island
while we drove my Renault along Del Tejar Ave.
and I asked...
Which island is that Paulina?
He corrected: PAULINO
And it was then that the illusion appeared.
I was born in Chababuco
Haroldo´s hometown
While I was studying Literature in Lincoln I met Roberto.
We were not a very social couple
we spent many nigths reading and debating
He was taking film studies
but he loved literature.
He fell completely in love with Haroldo´s personality
good-nature, good friend
...sincere
He was not as arrogant as many prestigious writers.
So he decided to finish his studies
with a documentary portraying this author.
He wanted to show the world
that it is possible for an an internationally renowned figure
to remain humane, with simple customs...
fishing, the countryside, the river, friends and the family.
Haroldo accepted and what´s more...
He invited him to participate in his unfinished pieces of work
That is how "Humane portrait of a writer" was born.
Chacabuco, as many other towns in Buenos Aires
has a special feature, if we can call it that,
from the door of your house, you look at both ways,
and see the trees and the countryside at the end of any street.
You can feel surrounded by the countryside at all times.
That is what you first feel in Chacabuco
after walking a few blocks you find yourself in the countryside.
That rich countryside...
not only for its fertility and material richness
but for its valuable people.
My father was a peddler,
specifically he was a travelling shopkeeper.
He used to saddle up the wagon,
loaded it with many things such as food,
we said goodbye to my mother
and left, one day northwards,
another day southwards.
We travelled around the countyside,
selling and chatting with people.
All this, caused a strong impression on me,
which after a long time,
it bloomed and turned into anecdotes and tales.
In most of my stories,
there is always a character that has its origin in Chacabuco
Maybe I am similar to my characters
That is why I show them as they are.
That´s the commitment.
Not committed to literature,
which is too confusing,
but committed to life without compromise.
Talking about Chacabuco is talking about my childhood.
As time goes by I see the place
with a ghostly overtone.
When I talk or write about Chacabuco
It is not exactly the same place That is right here today
200 km. from Buenos Aires
For me, Chacabuco is the tiny town I write about and describe,
and it is in this way that I retrieve it,
...and make it up in the book “La balada del álamo Carolina”.
Chacabuco with yellow mud walls,
Old Mr. Peliche and Mr. Ponce,
Father Doglia,
my father,
and myself as a child,
travelling around the countryside.
Rafael Barrientos Haroldo Conti´s friend
Haroldo used to come very often to Chacabuco
I remember tenderly one anecdote.
Haroldo´s aunt Hayde...
...used to let me know when he was coming,
...and on the weekend, he arrived in his Renault 4L
I remember it clearly.
Then he would call me to meet him in the Huracan Club.
That was in...
Months ago I was in Ecuador,
I was invited to have lunch with president Rodriguez Lara...
...together with some other writers,
Juan Rulfo was also there.
During the lunch,
we were told to go to the president´s table to meet him.
Everyone introduced himself
while shaking Mr. president´s hand.
We had to say our name and country.
When it was my turn...
I casually said “I´m Haroldo Conti from Chacabuco”
And I remember that Rodriguez Lara kept gazing at me...
because he couldn´t remember that country.
- What does love mean to you?
Can you define it?
No, I can´t.
But I think true love is always surrounded by sadness.
I have always said it, but I don´t know why.
True love is surrounded by sadness,
it´s ephemeral, it´s intense and it dies.
I can live momentarily other lives
...but where I personally find myself
...is in writing
...with its charm and dissapointment
...personally considering it.
And I say “personally” based on my own experience.
I don´t know if I finally became a writer
but undoubtedly I´m not a man of letters.
By that time, I hadn´t met any other writers yet,
...they all seemed so far away from me,
...I got to know that there is nothing better than that distance,
to take part in those achievements.
What I´m saying sounds heroic
but in my own case as in other´s
it is not about renouncing or anything like that
...but about "to be or not to be"
Accepting all that, mean leaving myself apart...
Between literature and life, I choose life
And from life I recover literature
And yet if it wasn´t like that I would choose it anyway.
The theme of either the book and all that I write...
...is the constant loss.
The constant loss of life.
That is what hurts.
It hurts feeling that maybe I won´t do this anymore
EDUARDO GALEANO
Somehow we are all castways,
Somehow we are cling to a piece of wood..
...that carries us along the tide.
But…
the thing is to know what to do with your own shipwreck.
I strongly believe in Haroldo´s pieces of art.
It´s in those pieces that you find a mysterious person...
...that have nothing to do with him.
The passion, the patience, the sweetness...
the understanding, the humanity
the humbleness, the unselfishness
of Haroldo´s characters has nothing to do with him.
However, they are typical of his fiction.
I tell you that Oreste is Haroldo
because Oreste is, precisely, the least sweet...
...the least patient...
...the least unselfish...
...the least affectionate...
...the one who does nothing...
...the one who is carried away, right?
It is in this sense that I find him similar to Haroldo.
I have nothing to criticise in his work.
Quite the opposite.
I think he writes admirably well.
Some of his books and characters are unforgettable.
He will keep on developing himself,
If he does not mess up too much…
We don´t need to make a myth out of him,
or to lie about him.
Haroldo loved living well.
He had a beautiful week-end house in Don Torcuato.
He had a sailing boat
He had a wonderful island. He has!
One day I became a indolent.
It just happened.
I don’t know since when, but here I am...
...lying on one side of the road,
...waiting for a truck to take me wherever.
You must have seen someone like me from your bus window.
I´m exactly one of those and I feel good.
You would say that only the last man would choose this lifestyle,
Well, I´m the last man.
What you can´t probably imagine is that somebody...
...can be happy being the last man in the world.
I wonder when it all started.
This is a habit that I carry from the other life,
from your life,
because how can I dare worring about how and when anything started.
When I finally get rid of this habit I will be perfect.
But you would understand that I can´t achive that goal...
...because vagabonds never achieve anything.
So, the best is to leave it like this.
I don´t know why we want sales pitches by a handsome guy...
...trying to make us buy shaving cream or a jar of instant coffee.
You have to take things as they are.
I mean that things are full of life...
...or at least, they are dead or alive...
...depending on how dead or alive we are;
and that my shoes have something to tell me...
...if I pay them attention.
That is exactly what I do when I don´t know where to go.
Life decides for you most of the times...
All you can do is to ask yourself how and when it started,
...whatever it may be.
I know that many of you are waiting for the day...
...when you finally punch your boss,
...or the first nosy guy in your way.
I will spend this advice: don´t do it.
Anyway, I know you won´t do it.
Learn to enjoy simplicity,
And maybe you´ll stop worrying about your way and start walking.
Some things get solved in distances;
...they were kind of far away from me...
...and I was kind of close to them.
...no matter where I move towards,
...nothing would change that much.
I don´t expect you to understand me,
but if you make the effort you will know what I am talking about.
Of course, only some of you will.
Especially those still alive but up to their necks.
I´m only saying that I have nothing...
...so nothing to worry about.
The few memories I have, seem to belong to others...
...I look ahead and I don´t expect anything,
...which is the best way of being; ready for whatever it may come.
I don’t know neither where the truck will take me...
...or how my life will be tomorrow.
Tomorrow doesn´t exist for me,
and that´s why I feel alive.
Here I go, wherever it may be!
No, I don´t think Haroldo is a Jesuit soul.
Neither me.
But a mythical undercurrent has stayed alive.
Haroldo expresses this in his relation with nature...
I also express this relationship.
With nature and with mankind.
That is to say, with nature and society
With both it is expressed similarly,
...in the solidarity with others.
In the capacity of feeling other people´s sorrows as if they were yours.
It´s a communion.
It´s a way of communion.
And there is another communion, the one with trees and rivers,
...the sound of the ocean, the huge and solitary beaches.
Nature, isn´t it?
To take part in other´s sorrows
...and do your best to improve their lives, right?
The humiliated, the exploited…
What I find admirable in him...
...is a kind of mercy towards mankind...
I started writing when I was a kid.
I went to a Salesian boarder school,
...where cinema was considered sinful,
...that was the problem.
...and for us films were something really new.
So, I attended theatre lessons on Sundays, particularly puppets...
Not only had I started writing and manipulating puppets...
..but also making them.
I started writing the scripts.
We used to film in Chacabuco, in Lincoln, on the island...
And one day we woke up and horror was there instead of our dreams.
Haroldo had disappeared.
It was useless to look for someone who help us.
Doors got closed.
Only Father Castelani claimed for him before Videla.
We went to Lincoln.
We had to escape terror.
Unluckily, Roberto dies in a train accident.
Leaving me with my ten-month old son Andres
Those were dark times,
my parents-in-law were terrified,
And suddenly I remembered Roberto´s words
“You know, Cristina, this document is vital for literature...
...we have to take care of it”
...and I did it.
I lied to my parents-in-law,
I told them I´d burnt all Roberto´s documents
But the truth was that I hid everything in a wardrobe.
I don´t believe in Haroldo´s socialism
it´s not just because I don´t believe he was socialist,
...nothing like that.
But because I don´t believe in those things.
If you tell me that there is a man getting himself killed...
...in Tucuman or wherever...
…Well, I belive that..
But all the rest… all that fantasy socialism...
That is useful only for those who get good trips around the world.
I don´t believe that story, I´m old to believe that.
I don´t think that there is contradiction...
...between Haroldo´s ideology and what he writes,
...unless you consider writing a waste of time.
We believe that writing is a way of creating contact..
...with the rest of the world.
We think that writing passes on to others certain things.
...and makes people aware.
I respect working with words,
...and I consider Haroldo´s function as really important to this country.
...from literature he helps the change process.
From his internal crisis, which other way?
If he wouldn´t be authentic, if he wouldn´t do what he feels…
Understand that if I consider writing as existing...
...if you ask how I write you are asking how I exist.
I expect that other people, most of whom I will never meet,
...could see themselves through their writings,
...which are are nothing until someone throws light on them.
This is my only concern about literature.
It seems that we are condemned always to be late.
That´s for instance, what happens now..
when we listen to "something" like a tango song
20 or 30 years after the original one.
In the same way, we are peronists 10 or 15 years later.
It wouldn’t be a surprise that in another 10 or 15 years...
...we held conferences on popular singers, like Palito Ortega or Claudio Caramelo.
...and that a poet with a stupid face sings their popular songs.
It is funny to listen on the radio a male writer with a female voice.
...talking about Contursi or Descartes,
in the same way they talk about “Critique of Pure Reason”.
It is sad that we miss this country.
There are some guys that are so far away from everything...
...that they place their characters in the Renaissance.
But they would like to walk along Florida street wearing socks and underwear.
There are also writers that don´t write.
By means of luck they got a degree...
...and appear on every talkshow, interview, round table…
They are the ones who have made a social activity out of literature.
- Does Haroldo attack with his literature?
Nooo, definitely not!
He is more than that. He is refined.
And if he comes now saying that he represents….
...I will tell him that he lies.
His literature is refined.
It is curious that he has been clapped wildly by those idiots...
...who encourage the famous “commitment”, isn´t it?
I have nothing important to say about my work.
The fact that I wrote it doesn´t mean that I have to explain it.
All that I could have done for it up to now...
...is precisely to have written it.
Haroldo helps us to discover what we are;
it is in that way that he helps us to know each other better.
...to recover our lost identity...
...and to turn ourselves into better persons.
I get all messed up with people...
...I walk, run and jump...
I spend time with a tree, all the time it needs.
I pay attention to the teacher as much as to my dog when he barks...
Actually, it is a ***,
She has so much to tell me, that I have no time to listen to the teacher.
There are good teachers as well as bad ones.
They all have as many things to teach me…
...as my friends of the bar have.
I think he has been influenced by his seminar experiences.
I´m not afraid of being wrong.
No doubt he was Jesuit and will die Jesuit.
For sure...
I think he is a Jesuit priest.
What I´d like to highlight is that Haroldo turns his necessity of God
...and his anguish of being part of a *** world
...into solidarity and generosity.
He is very open-minded.
He is not wrapped up in himself,
...though he may see so,
...for someone who knows him only superficially.
Those who know him better know that he highly depends on others.
Other people´s wounds hurt him more than his own wounds,
He is sensitive and open to the wounds of the world.
I would like you to hear this few things...
...any time you need them.
We desperately need your smile
Your dragged steps revealing in the deadtime of the night,
We can still hear your voice in the region of never-ending fear,
...that voice that encourage us to defy our fears,
I wonder where you are,
Who took you hands away?
Neither Luis Silvestre, nor Mascaro will stop until they find you
The trees claim for the return of the everlasting traveler.
We are prisoners of the killing beast and the infamy...
...getting over every dawn, we draw your name on the walls…
Come on Haroldo, wounded boy!
Don´t give up
...that there’s a river of shouts and silences in your own silence.
Some people invest my work with a missional or dramatic sense...
...but it´s not necessarily like that.
It´s my way of being realized.
Suffering in my stories is my own choice.
There´s something that keeps burning deep in your heart...
...and never goes away.
It is faith or the necessity of faith.
It is fire or nostalgia for the fire.
Sometimes nostalgia for god is stronger than his presence.
In my own case, there´s a hole and the necessity of filling it.
You may consider it simple if I say that writing means to remember.
But I don´t mean grasping nice memories from the past to make them literature.
I am not only me but my history.
This is an ideal distinction.
My identity is my history.
When I recall myself I am assuming and considering myself as a man.
This exclusive man with his exclusive history,
...witness to his own existence.
...and that in the end, it is no other thing than his own existence.
It is through my characters that I live.
I make myself live situations that happened or could have happened.
It doesn´t matter if they really happened,
...after all we are the only ones to whom time is valuable.
Without us, time is a black emptiness, simply nothing.
I don´t know if I feel free, but I have worshipped freedom.
e.g. I´ve only accepted solitary jobs.
Those that don´t restrict my freedom.
I have declined many things because of this.
I´d have rather traveled and lived an adventure...
...than money, or other benefits... glory, compliments, whatever…
I don´t know if that means to believe in freedom...
...but anyway freedom in action is what matters.
I´m not supporting "abstract freedom" as Vargas Llosa does.
And now we are in politics territory, you see?
Sometimes we have to trade-off our freedom...
...and other’s as well for a higher social welfare.
Vargas Llosa is a defender of the abstract freedom,
...as we see in this attitude towards the peruvian revolution...
..and Cuba, for Padilla´s case.
He defends abstract freedom.
Freedom in itself, you see?
If freedom is useless to mankind and to have a fair society...
...then why do we need freedom?
It might be around, but it doesn´t modify anything.
It´s kind of fatality
I´ve always thought this and repeated more than once…
I don´t feel especially happy when I write.
Writing is hard for me.
Writing is a form of substituting adventure sometimes…
Since I can´t travel, climb a mountain, go sailing…
...well, I do all that through literature.
I´ve said it before…
And while I repeat this I become older...
As I couldn´t live a thousand lives,
...I live them all through literature,
...so I am saying more or less the same.
In literature, there are some different fascinating lives...
...that I choose to live
It´s not enough to live only my life.
Contradictory, rough draft as I´ve said before.
So, I live through my literature.
As Galeano said in the recording we heard...
In my opinion, literature is a worthwhile experience,
it doesn´t have any special meaning if we consider it as a simple exercise.
It is a refined, spiritual experience.
In that sense, some other writer are ahead.
I would say that sadness is the only thing that Buenos Aires gave me.
Most of my poor life,
...melancholic and sad life,
...full of failure and success, has taken place in Buenos Aires.
This was the actual outlook...
My life has been like that and I escape from it through literature.
I´ve escaped my life with “Sudeste”,
and also with “Alrededor de la Jaula”...
...I´ve escaped to the poor outlying coastal area of Buenos Aires...
...which, is the land that belongs to no one and nobody sees,
..despite the fact that we are "porteños".
That land lying between the decks of the port and the coast...
I definitely went with Mascaro...
...in his pilgrimage around America.
They are all retreats from Buenos Aires,
...and it makes sense because I have a traveller´s soul.
When I wrote “Sudeste”, which is my first novel,
...I was living on the island,
...and the story not only came out of my pen and paper...
...but also of the people and the things there.
By that time, I hadn´t met any writer yet
It wanted to create a kind of literature that wasn’t an interference with life,
...and when they all seem so far away from me...
...I got to know that there´s nothing better than that distance...
...to take part in that world.
I wanted to create a kind of literature not interfering with life...
...but to create a way to know life better.
This is a solitary, dramatic and recreational literature...
...literature that needs the living, not the dead.
If you want to understand Haroldo, you need to be in Tigre...
...and watch the river runing slowly.
That´s Haroldo´s rhythm, that´s the river rhythm.
You need to see its tide rising slowly, calm...
...its relations with the light, the air,
...with the trees and the soil that gets wet...
All that is Haroldo.
Haroldo is a river...like the Tigre...
...he is a delta...with its springs...
...a stream and channels...
...surrounding islands.
Haroldo´s literature is about people´s loneliness...
...that warms and embraces.
...as the river does with the islands.
In the early 70s, he went to Cuba for the first time...
...as jury of "La Casa de las Américas",
In 1975 he went back, because his novel "Mascaro" was awarded a prize...
That first trip was the shook, as his son I won´t forget it...
...I say the "shook" because he had always had a tendency to socialism...
He chose that ideology because of its criticism towards Peronism.
My grandfather was one of the founders of Peronism in Chacabuco
They had great discussions, they loved each other.
In that tendency he saw the concrete revolution.
He thought he wanted this for his country, as did many others,
Finally, he engaged in an organization with that ideology:
the Worker’s Revolutionary Party,
...from the 70s known as “People’s Revolutionary Army”
He admired socialism and the Cuban Revolution,
...leading to the application of an active militancy
...it was not only led by sympathy.
When he was living in an apartment on Vuelta de Obligado St., in Belgrano.
...he received threats,
...before and after the military coup,
...he was clearly told,
Even my uncle, a retired military in those days said to him:
“Look Haroldo, you must leave, your name is on the list”
He had access to that kind of information,
He offered to take him to the Cuban embassy,
…he was clear.
But Haroldo chose his project,
...and decided to run the same risks of his comrades.
He could have left through the front door,
but he decided to stay and to run the risk.
It was not so long ago...
...that I share Cortazar´s opinions, criteria’s and ideologies,
I assume commitment as intellectual,
and I’m not only talking about political commitment…
…not exactly as a creator, because creation is territory of absolute freedom.
Then, I think commitment on a conscious intellectual level…
I can not commit myself to writing a committed novel,
...or a political novel, with an underlying political message…
But I should commit myself and do it,
...and I’m obliged to do it,
I should sign a petition, claim for political detainees
...and rebel against injustice.
But I think that, in this sense,
conversation and comrades’ experiences are very useful
I also think that it is possible to write committed Literature
I mean, political literature, worthy political literature.
I agree with Galeano when he says that...
“it is our supreme obligation to create more beautiful things...
...than those created by the adversary.”
But yet, by creating beauty we can write political literature,
...politics will turn up naturally, not forcibly.
I can not tell beforehand that I am going to write a political novel.
...and suddenly, come up with a novel about Delta...
...with no trace of demonstrations,
...simply because in Delta there are no crowds,
not even inhabitants.
I feel highly committed and I need to get highly involved...
...with the themes I write about.
I have grown and lived in a very political environment…
...the country´s political problems.
In any form, even in that solitude, it will arise.
The train would leave at 8, maybe 8.30.
Just 10 minutes before the locomotive was being recouped,
but anyway,his uncle would get nervous an hour before.
Everybody in town was like this.
-What time is it? -7.45
His uncle picked the clock from his pocket and watched it nervously.
- Almost 7.50. Shall we go?
Oreste doubted for a while: - Come on.
The locomotive was being recouped.
His uncle picked up the packages and his luggage,
...and started walking hastily towards platform number 4.
He seemed to have forgotten it.
Oreste tried to take his luggage and his uncle looked at him in surprise.
- It´s all right boy
- Send my greetings to my auntie. To everybody.
- Thank you, my dear, thank you.
They ran along the train bumping into the second class passengers,
who were also running desperately as if…
...the whole station would crash on them.
They entered the train through the windows with their luggage and children.
His uncle climbed one coach that was near the locomotive.
He stuck his head out of the window:
- When are you coming to visit us?
he asked looking at all the people gathered on the platform.
- As soon as I can.
- You have to, when did you say?
- As soon as I can.
His uncle moved away to arrange his luggage.
Then he sat and kept silent.
They looked at each other, his uncle smiled and said:
- Oreste!
He also smiled, far from him, on the platform.
The bell rang and his uncle leant out of the window:
- Bye dear, bye! kissing him on the cheek.
He tried to kiss him too but he had already sat down.
The train shook from end to end.
His uncle waved goodbye and smiled.
Oreste ran together with the train.
He ran and looked at his uncle, who was smiling like those childish men.
Then the train speeded up and Oreste waved goodbye...
...but did not find an answer.
