
After last Saturday’s State of Grace I went up to Bairro Alto to meet Pete and his flatmate Sarah in As Primas.
I mentioned to them how Portuguese subtitles in films always seem to tone down colourful language.
In a film I saw recently, one character lamented the fact that everything was ‘fucked up’, which got translated as ‘tudo é uma grande confusâo’.
From As Primas we headed down to a bar owned and run by José, a mature student in one of Pete’s English classes.
We were served free beers by him till two in the morning and then when all the other customers had been asked to drink up and go, we were invited to stay behind and share some of the cake that was there to mark the birthday of one of the bartenders.
José then locked up the bar and we went for a drive along the north bank of the Tagus in the direction of Estoril to a late bar, with U2’s new album blasting out the car tape deck.
José used to be a racing driver in his native South Africa and he took great pleasure in chasing down an overtaker, smoothly leaving him trailing.
We stopped a few miles further on at the late bar for more beer and some hot dogs.
Being miles and miles away from my apartment, I crashed at Pete and Sarah’s place in Sâo Joâo.
On Sunday morning I went out for a hangover-clearing constitutional with Pete.
It was a grey, wind-buffeted November day.
We walked to Cascais for coffee at John David’s Snack Bar, a venue populated by a colony of expat Brits sitting outside in the driving wind, sea spray and occasional drizzle, drinking coffee and reading the English newspapers provided free of charge for customers to peruse.
Yesterday’s first division football scores were chalked up on a blackboard at one end of the bar. We discussed Brian Clough and Graham Taylor and English football officialdom’s habit of snubbing managerial talent in favour of blandness.
Sitting there chatting in the damp November breeze was strangely invigorating.
Feeling restored, I headed back across the river to Almada and Costa da Caparica.
During the week there were no tempting films on in town.
But during Tuesday’s Portuguese lesson with Silvia we arrange to go see the film Ao Fim da Noite on Saturday.
She thinks it very strange that I should want to watch a Portuguese film.
“Are you sure you want to see this film? It is Portuguese, it will be boring.”
“Yes, I want to see it. I’ve never seen a Portuguese film.”
She laughs.
“You will regret it.”
Amoreiras is the cinema showing ‘Ao Fim da Noite’.
The film is directed by Joaquim Leitâo, with music by António Emiliano.
As Silvia guessed it would be, it turns out to be a disappointing film.
There is no rhythm to it, and the acting is wooden.
It’s a plodding and dull would-be thriller devoid of atmosphere and elegance despite being set here in Lisbon, one of the most atmospheric and elegant cities in the world.
“What’s everyone saying about the film?” I ask Silvia at the end, as everyone gets up to leave.
“Oh they don’t like it”, she replies.
Outside Amoreiras it’s a dreich early evening.
I see Silvia off onto a bus taking her home.
Then I turn towards Rotunda.
I walk through misty rain that is drifting like illuminated snowflakes around Rotunda statue.
I follow Avenida Fontes Pereira de Melo up past the Sheraton hotel, and soon come to Nimas cinema on Avenida 5 de Outubro.
The cinema’s exterior is nondescript, with just a small entrance on the ground floor of an apartment block.
Inside, though, Nimas is similar to the impressive architectural style of Amoreiras.
Orange cubes hang from the ceiling over wood panels and blocky brown walls.
The film that Nimas is showing tonight is Zandalee, or to give it the English equivalent of its Portuguese title, Last Tango in New Orleans. Music is by the band Pray For Rain.
Right from the opening bars of strummed acoustic Cajun-style music, I know that I am going to love this movie.
The incredibly sensual Erika Anderson plays Zandalee.
Judge Reinhold is superb as Thierry, with Nicholas Cage drifting charismatically round the edges as Johnny.
Old friends Johnny and Thierry have each gone their own way in life.
The paths they have chosen are poles apart.
In ‘Zandalee’, Johnny is the wild artist letting passion rule his life, whereas Thierry has killed the artist within himself, opting instead for a life of workaholic materialism.
This conflict comes to a head in the wonderful dinner scene where decorum, etiquette and polite chit-chat are subverted by Johnny’s acidic observations on ‘respectability’.
Another great scene in this steamy semi-masterpiece of a movie is the dance in the bayou between Johnny and Thierry with Zandalee looking on, the two waltzing fools suspending their mutual contempt for a sublime couple of minutes.
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