some kind of blog promoting extraordinary storytelling

Posts by: Anita B Krišto


Inspired by #7

Juno, the screenplay extraordinaire With some precious time to spare, I got the opportunity to analyze the lauded film Juno, or rather its screenplay, written by the infamous (or whatever) Diabolo Cody. The film itself is narrated and acted out by the most perfect cast, as well as being the result of very impressive directing. Studying the Juno screenplay reveals the actors’ and director’s work had an exceptionally crafted blueprint as foundation for their work. The reading of it reveals its carefully crafted themes, plots, acts, scenes, and characters. In my mind, this story is a perfect example of a perfect comic tragedy. In most of Hollywood’s past and present films, the “boy meets girl…”-storyline is required whether it is the film’s main or complementary plot. In Juno, this storyline is central, but not the screenplay’s main story (although Juno and Beeker losing their virginity obviously is the starting point for the story’s main plot). This plot serves rather the purpose of realizing the characters Juno and Beeker, in terms of their personalities, psychology and social difference in term of life-opportunities – especially in terms of taking on the world and in what respect they are a driving force or not. The main storyline, however, is about Juno, a minor, getting pregnant, who ends up giving the baby up for adoption to the character Vanessa. Getting there is the focus of the film, and especially the trajectory that carefully leads to the intimate connection between Juno, the birthmother, and Vanessa the adopted, if you will, mother. Since the movie could be interpreted as a pro-choice story, considering Juno opts out of abortion, (which could have got her out of her predicament), it obviously is not. At least I chose to interpret this not being the case. Rather, the screenwriter...

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Inspired by #6

About being lost in Naples Adam constructs Eve, forces her – by definition – to conform to his conditions, and so constricts her movement, development and existence. She is denied the most fundamental of rights, in every possible way. She is denied her the right to become, denied he right to speak, denied the right to feel worthy. She is denied the right to own it, to own herself, her dreams. She is denied her aspirations, a direction. This is what I think the story of Lenù and Lina, being lost in Napoli, and thus the world, is about. It is also a story of abandonment, of vulnerability. It is about the necessary lack of trust in a world which offers no certainty. It is about dealing with a social universe where survival of the fittest is no theory but a fact, as is the fact that the definition of fittest at any given time is re-defined. And it makes the case, I feel, that survival many times could be deemed as over-rated, especially when there is – or never was – anything to live for. I know it is late in the game, there are many other who already have convinced us this epic drama is exceptional, just as many others have made quite insightful analyses of Ferrante’s life’s work, and its meaning. But I have quite unexpectedly been given the (sort of) gift of a significant amount of time to read and write. So, this is the time in my life I got the opportunity to stomp down to the library, where I picked up the Neapolitan Quartet, and made it this week’s mission. Which turned out to be quite a tedious project. This I did not expect: The obvious need to pay attention to every freaking...

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Inspired by #5

Soon after I finish reading any of those accomplishments, there is no solid memory of them left within, no specific words in strings attached remembered. Still, these written pieces of artefacts don’t leave me be, are gotten under my skin, into my heart. And I am changed. Or maybe, I have become. You sneaky one, you who lure us into your universe, that place we’ve never been before, but all belong to. And once we’ve arrived, you’ve no intention to leave us be, only wanting more. Who are you? Where did you come from? Where did you find this singular voice, which seamlessly weaves together echoes from the past with the futility of our present? And when did you allow yourself to let go of all fear? How dare you invite us into our world as you see it? Brave it is, to expose your soul to each and every one of us. We should be so grateful for the opportunity to transcend time and space, and to find truth, with you as their guide. À propos Autumn and there but for the by Ali Smith There is life before. And there is life after. But whatever it was before, a life with no Ali Smith in it is, in some ways, less than lived.   inspired by #5/Anita B Krišto© 2018

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inspired by #4

Our train whines its tracks downwards, and our faces are near-blinded by a glorious, soon to be blood-orange, sun setting into the Mediterranean Sea, just west of the island those Greeks referred to as the île de beauté (in ancient Greek, of course). And just like that, I am struck by my own, insistent commenting of seemingly inspiring things and places passing us by: ‘Look at that village!’. ‘An old station’. ‘Wow. A tunnel’. ’Is this the fifth tunnel? ‘Cute Cow’. ‘Look. Valley’. ‘Oh! Another Cow!’. This commenting reminds me of something. Or somebody. Somebody I just met. Or does it? Then I realize. My spoken-observations are clearly echoing those of a certain Mister Thornberry who, some thirty years ago (or more) ‘spoke what he saw’, according to the world-traveler Mister Theroux. They met on a train in Costa Rica. At one point, Theroux wanted to push  Thornberry off the train they both were on. Why? Well. When Thornberry saw a motorbike, ‘Motorbike’, he said. When Thornberry saw a hut, ‘Hut’, he said. When Thornberry saw a pig, ‘Pig’, he said. And so on. Thornberry saw a cow, ‘Cow’, he said. She saw a cow, ‘Cow’, I said. While this one Thornberry became Theroux’s rescuer, more than once, he is initially portrayed as slightly annoying – to say the least – equally annoying as I certainly am to my loved one, sitting next to me, trying to be in the moment, trying to enjoy the moment, trying to take in all the beauty passing us by, while simultaneously, trying very hard to ignore the persistent flow of my spoken-observations; this, my non-stop talk (noise), is more than likely driving him mad. As are my not-so-near-manic attempts to capture the rolling-landscape-in-magic-sunset-scenes, with my shaking camera, pressed against the dust-dirty window of the train rolling down and round those island-hills heading...

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inspired by #3

Maybe some famous poet told you. Paint, and you will never be alone. No. You knew, even before there were words. You knew, even if no one saw what your eyes could see. When your hand reached for that pencil, or a brush of colour you trusted it more than anything else. And so you lived. so you found peace. Each and every day you committed to your destiny. You shut the door. You looked out the window. And was never alone. ◊ How blessed he was Found by her, accepted by her. The only one who never, not even once, lost faith in his vision. She stood him by, With no need to explain herself. With no regrets She followed him, to the end of time.   ◊◊◊ During the screening of the poetic, surprising and utterly inspiring Tore, himlen & havet, I was once again reminded of the necessity to claim your true destiny, and run with it. If you can. Because if you do, you will never, ever be alone. Speaking from experience, I am. If you have the opportunity, I highly recommend you go see that beautiful story told by Maria Mogren and Jens von Larcher about the painter Tore Kurlberg and his generous Märta Kurlberg. I dare you to be disappointed. https://m.facebook.com/Tore2016 www.eckefilm.com inspired by #3/Anita B Krišto© 2017

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inspired by #2

There it lay – on some table, near the stairs to the store’s underground – covered by no humble hill, plenty of gray clouds and heavy mist. I was not the least in the know about what a monumental tale its pages contained. I was suspicious of the claims it was amazing, and even astonishing. And I was just about to put it down again, but then, changed my mind, kept it in my hand. It would not, nor ever, let me leave it behind; like magic it followed me home. I left it be for a while, knew this one would require nothing less but my full attention. Do not ask me how I knew, that every word in this piece of work was necessary, that each of them would count – just as I knew not all questions would be answered, but that it would not matter. And now I know for sure it does not matter. It took me many readings to read it, because the child’s account demanded my full attention, and so, out of respect I read it slowly, not to miss any twist or turn. I read it in word by word, sentence by sentence, and definitely not in one sitting, as I felt the child’s fear, as if it in part could be mine. And so it was mine. I finished it, just now. The last couple of pages I read long before it is evening. I realized last night I could no way finish reading it just before time to sleep (time that would be nightmare). So much I feared what might be written on its last pages, what would be the end of a grim story. What would be the destiny of this lonely child. I finished reading it, my...

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inspired by #1

my name is lucy barton, it says on the cover, and while i neither really care for the title, nor feel inspired by the name lucy itself (although i suddenly come to think of plenty of fictional lucys that once inspired me, or made me laugh), i pick it up – this, so called, bestseller – from the lower shelf, where it sits, more or less hidden from any potential buyer’s view. except mine. i am in search of comfort, as i seem to be stuck in the bleakest of times, although i also ponder the possibility my current state of mind mainly is an effect of aging or a really bad cold, or rather, or rather, i wish my state of mind is affected by aging and/or a really annoying cold. i pay for the story about lucy barton, and bring it home, not knowing i will, within a month or two, return to the bookstore, once, and then twice, to purchase this story again, just because the book has become so dear to me i cannot imagine lending my own copy to anyone else, not even the closest of friend. not knowing i will in the near future tell random strangers about lucy barton, like the young cashier at a clothing store who proudly declared she prefers reading thick books, just like i did, many years ago, when i still believed in miracles, the goodwill of people and humanity. this work, by elizabeth strout, has, for reasons more or less unknown to me, moved me as few books have, at least during my adult years. still, i am not entirely sure why the woman’s words moved me to tears every time i turned the pages of her (seemingly) humble, little book. it moved me to such an extent, i cannot ever read it again – not even with the purpose of trying to figure out this writer’s...

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på tal om august

Jag minns det fortfarande som vore det inte för länge sedan, fastän det är så länge sedan. Jag informerade mor om att jag inte kunde bli författare, för en sådan var jag ju redan. Visserligen inte en publicerad författare, men det var i det sammanhanget en petitess som lätt kunde åtgärdas – särskilt med tanke på den i mina ögon omfattande produktion jag bedrev. Det året skickade jag iväg mitt första manus till förlag. En diktsamling. Samma år skickade jag till samma förlag ett manus till en roman för beaktande. Det senare verket skulle i dagens termer närmast kunna betraktas som utdrag ur en taffligt skriven blogg. Väntan på det positiva svaret från förläggaren var olidlig. Förlagets oväntade refusering av båda verken kom som brev på posten. Visserligen minns jag att en av redaktörerna som fått äran att läsa mina lyriska verk var uppmuntrande i sin kritik. Den andra redaktören önskade mig kortfattat lycka till i mitt fortsatta skrivande. Jag som tolvåring blev förkrossad över dessa besked och konkreta kvitton på att mina texter inte var av det rätta måttet. Det hela var ofattbart och jag fattade, kort sagt, ingenting. Jag är fortfarande opublicerad författare, men trots detta lika produktiv som då. Det finns helt enkelt för många sagor som pockar på min uppmärksamhet och inte låter mig vara. Däremot vet jag nu, (dryga) trettio år senare, att inte förvänta mig något annat än att bli refuserad. Det är ju snarare undantag än regel att manus av (okända) debutanter publiceras. Det har jag dock sedan länge förlikat mig med; istället finns annat som gör mig brydd. Som exempelvis listan över de nominerade till Augustpriset som nyligen tillkännagavs. Det ska erkännas att det är först de senaste åren jag förstått Augustprisets betydelse för den svenska litteraturen – och för de...

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vet jag något om god litteratur?

”Vad menas med kvalitet? Är det möjligt att fastställa dess kvalitet med hjälp av några ”objektivt” fastställda kriterier? Kan vi bedöma värdet av en bok om vi inte förstår sammanhanget i vilken den är skriven? Den sista frågan funderar jag mycket kring. Personligen uppskattar jag böcker som jag orkar läsa igenom, nuförtiden är de allt färre. Men jag blir exalterad av böcker som är så starka att jag har svårt att koncentrera mig på annat. När jag väl hittar en fantastisk bok blir jag besatt, och pratar konstant om den. Jag blir helt enkelt en säljare. En separat, men ändå intressant fråga är, om det går att avgöra en om en bok är bra, även om man själv inte läst den. Jag hävdar att så är fallet. Exempel: Vikram Seth fick en enorm succé med boken A Suitable Boy. Den har jag inte haft förmånen att läsa. Verket kräver rejält med koncentrerad lästid, och engagemang som jag hittills inte kunnat ge den. Men jag har hört om andras syn på boken, vad den säger om vissa familje- och samhällsförhållanden och kvinnors öden. Så jag har bestämt att detta är en bra bok. Jag har till och med köpt den, och gett bort som gåva. Det som stärkt min tro på Vikram Seth förmåga som författare är två av hans andra böcker: The Golden Gate (prosapoesi, skrivet på rimvers) och An Equal Music (en berättelse om barockmusiker). De är båda fascinerande, särskilt The Golden Gate som är ett outstanding verk. Vad gäller An Equal Music så uppskattar jag, och njuter av Seths beskrivning av musikbranschen; där beskrivs vad det innebär att vara barockmusiker. Det är makalöst välskrivet. Men kärlekshistorien känns för banal, för tillrättalagd. Där finns en symbolik som jag inte riktigt hänger med på. Jag har inte läst det...

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blue jasmine

Movie dates are a new habit. Nothing beats watching a really good film on a huge screen. Well. I guess a lot does. But you know what I mean. So far this late summer Promised Land, Känn ingen Sorg and Frances Ha got me to buy tickets. All are pretty good films. Frances Ha really reminded me of Girlfriends, the 70s movie. Just want to put that out there. I think Greta even refers to it herself in some article . Anyway. The last scenes of Frances brought some tears to my eyes (a lot does, mind you). Monday it was time for Blue Jasmine. The new Allen flick. When I saw the trailer (just before Promised land) I thought that maybe, maybe this would be Allen’s best in years. For one it didn’t seem to be funny at all. Not even in a black comedy sort of way. But rather serious. All I have to say is Cate Blanchett. What a freakin’ great actress. AMAZING. and the actor playing her sister, Sally Hawkins. GREAT PERFORMANCE.   Anita B Krišto © 2013 Citera gärna, men ange källa och författare

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