Back in the seventies people filled the halls of the cinema to see Ela Sauraa militant, Bergman, or Fellini Berlanga. It was, as has always been film, a window into our worlds impossible, a look at the thoughts of others, their imaginations and their fears were also ours. Do not know if it was first film or the Bible or Don Quixote. I do not know, but the film was omnipresent in the lives of people where we took refuge as a die. a That film characters who made genre films, which is the best that has ever gone replaced by stupid characters that our children have grown and imported, as everything from American cinema. That was different.
It was enough for Bogart in his overcoat deliberately seek a cigarette for all incorporation puffs of smoke into our lives without creating alarm. Fifty years have passed a the release of those emotions with the splendor of Technicolor at the bottom of the coop in Sed Mal, La Dolce Vita or The 400 Blows, a Vertigo or pleasure, movies at home, we took a transit a la Rita Hayworth bare hand after removing the glove, the sensuality of belly dancing Silvana Mangano the Bayon in Anna, in her tight corset LizTaylora of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof then huddled at night in the thalamus of the pillow to put a face to our aspirations and difficulties. a They were our friends, our myths of the Hollywood Hills and I would throw matches the girls as well as Lauren Bacall Humphrey. We all looked great mechanisms dominating the pace and the climate of black cinema, comedy or drama. a Now the piercing has replaced the aesthetic and the doors of the Festival de Malaga girls willing to wait hours to paste minimum screams peek at the characters in his television shows, and not eat for a movie, he goes to the theater eating popcorn, the peanuts. a chat and Mobile is the new destination wax molds now dreams of the youngsters, and in the retina absorb, up blood, violence and sex.
This generation can say that will live very well without family or Savagesa Wonderful Town, or love la Raia Aishwarya look Zeta-Jones or fifty years ago recreabamos us in the eyes of a distant wild rumor or Gloria Swanson a infinite sweetness Joan Crawford with which we learned to fall in love, pinned at the top of our beds, instead of the bleeding heart of Jesus who preached the priests. That’s why we love the cinema, as Rick Blaine told his lover Ilsa Lund, We’ll Always Have Paris Parisu heels we will always have in our lives as savior.