Il sesto senso (cinematografico)

Ho visto, nella mia vita, tantissimi film. Davvero, davvero tanti. 
E tuttavia non ho mai smesso, neanche per un micro-secondo, di aver voglia di andare al cinema. 
L'idea di uscire di casa per andare a vedere un film, di vederne anche due o tre alla settimana, non mi annoia mai. Ma proprio mai.
Detto questo, ho sviluppato negli anni una specie di sesto senso cinematografico, grazie al quale intuisco piuttosto rapidamente cosa mi piacerà e cosa no. E ci azzecco quasi sempre.
Negli ultimi tempi, ad esempio, il mio sesto senso nutre una certa allergia nei confronti di film profondamente inutili. Ce ne sono alcuni che già in partenza sembrano tali, è vero, e qualche volta li si va comunque a vedere: per curiosità, per poterne discutere con gli altri, per desiderio di svuotare la testa. Ma questa è un'altra cosa.
Qui sto parlando di film fatti da registi che reputo bravi e importanti, gente che stimo, che amo, che seguo, e che sulla carta dovrebbero essere tutt'altro che irrilevanti. Eppure, purtroppo capita che mentre si è seduti al cinema si pensi: ma perché mai questo regista ha fatto questo film? ma perché mai ha speso tanti soldi e tanta energia per produrre una cosa così?
Il problema è che più vado avanti e più rapida sono a capire che un film non mi piacerà per niente. A volte lo capisco senza neanche andarlo a vedere, che lo so che non si dovrebbe fare, però vi giuro che ci azzecco la maggior parte delle volte.
Ad esempio: non mi è venuta nessuna voglia, all'epoca della sua uscita, di andare a vedere The Great Gatsby di Baz Luhrmann. Non c'era un singolo aspetto dell'opera che mi ispirasse. Tutti ne parlavano, tutti si precipitavano a vederlo, ma io niente, non ce la facevo. Era più forte di me.

La settimana scorsa ero in aereo, per un viaggio piuttosto lungo, e ho visto che nella scelta di film disponibili c'era anche questo. Ho pensato: vabbé, me lo guardo. Ecco, credo di aver resistito 20 minuti al massimo. E no, vi prego, non mi venite a dire che è perché l'ho visto su uno schermo piccolino e che non rendeva l'idea. Qui non c'era nessuna idea, da rendere. Non ho resistito perché questo film è ridicolo, stupido e superficiale. Immerso in una ricerca vuota e costante di uno sfarzo grottesco e uno sforzo di dettagli che rende stanchi e storditi ma non coinvolge e non ammalia PER NIENTE. Neanche se fosse stato in 5D sarebbe riuscito ad azzeccare un passaggio, un tono giusto. Un sopra le righe e un'infilata di déjà-vu che nemmeno in una soap-opera di quarta categoria. La voce off del narratore, abbiate pietà! Gli attori, poi, al di là del bene e del male. Carey Mulligan nella sua parte peggiore, già non la sopporto, ma qui avrei voluto che ci fosse Dexter nei dintorni per mettere fine alle nostre sofferenze, Tobey Maguire nell'eterna parte del ragazzino innocente (ormai c'ha cent'anni pure lui) con quell'espressione un po' ebete che no, caro, non significa che la vita ti sta sorprendendo, ma solo che ancora una volta non hai capito niente di quello che ti sta succedendo e se tanto mi dà tanto non lo capirai mai. E infine lui, quell'ingenuo di Leonardio Di Caprio, un attore bravissimo che però ha il grande difetto di essere alla ricerca spasmodica del "ruolo della vita", quello che gli farà vincere l'Oscar, quello che farà da spartiacque nella sua carriera, quello che farà dimenticare al mondo che lui è quello di Titanic. E ovviamente non ce la fa. E di certo non ce la farà con questo film idiota. Quanto al regista, che ai tempi di Strictly Ballroom, Romeo+Juliet e Moulin Rouge sembrava un tipo interessante, direi che dopo questo e quel mattone invedibile di Australia, ci ha fatto capire che forse non era mai stato così bravo e noi ci siamo illusi...

E a proposito di polpettoni, questa settimana ho avuto una delle delusioni cinematografiche più cocenti degli ultimi anni. Vi dirò, sempre in base a quel famoso sesto senso, io l'avevo già un po' capito, e il fatto che all'ultimo Festival di Cannes lo avessero ignorato non mi faceva certo ben sperare (ma non del tutto, che certe volte le giurie prendono degli svarioni che levatevi!), però il nuovo film di James Gray, The Immigrant, mi ispirava davvero poco. E infatti... 

Un film di tutto rispetto, per carità, ben fatto, ben recitato, ma di una inutilità sconvolgente. La trama è così banale e prevedibile, così fintamente drammatica, che davvero non lascia scampo. E' un film che non ti fa sentire niente, che ti lascia ai limiti dell'indifferenza, dell'apatia. Non so come Gray abbia potuto fare un simile, clamoroso errore. Se penso a quel piccolo capolavoro di Two Lovers, ho un momento di grande sconforto. E il peggio è che si capisce che lui "ci credeva davvero", che pensava sul serio di stare facendo un filmone bellissimo. E invece stava solo facendo un film per la TV, ma uno di quelli scarsi, mica una serie TV di quelle di oggi fantastiche e meravigliose, no, no, proprio quei filmetti banali con la musica che sottolinea ad ogni pié sospinto la drammaticità della scena (troppe! e quante ce ne sono di scene drammatiche? 50?)... Niente, un disastro completo. Anche se in questo caso sono convinta che sia uno svarione momentaneo, un errore di percorso, e che al prossimo si rifà e ci regala un'altra bella cosa. Vero, James?

James Gray sul set del film

A controbilanciare queste delusioni, però, ecco che arriva lui. Un film di cui sentivo parlare da mesi. Al punto che negli ultimi tempi la cosa aveva iniziato a darmi fastidio, soprattutto pensando alle polemiche che hanno accompagnato la sua uscita qui in Francia, con le attrici ed il regista che si davano addosso, e con le interviste al regista che proprio non mi piacevano, che anzi me lo facevano considerare antipatico e saccente, con arie da Jean-Luc Godard de noantri poveri. Insomma tutto questo per dire che quasi sono entrata al cinema pensando, vabbé, ma che sarà mai, mica sarà tutta 'sta cosa, questo film, magari è solo tanto rumore per nulla. E invece eccomi lì, seduta da sola al Ciné Studio 28, il fim è iniziato da 10 minuti ma io già comincio a rilassarmi e a godermi tutto perché il mio sesto senso cinematografico è come impazzito, è come se avessi nella testa una bacchetta da rabdomante che segnala che siamo vicinissimi a trovare l'oro. E infatti l'abbiamo trovato, l'oro (pure la Palma D'Oro!), si chiama La Vie d'Adèle - Chapitres 1 & 2, di Abdellatif Kechiche. 

Tre ore di film per raccontare la vita di una ragazza di 17 anni (meravigliosa attrice, Adèle Exarchopoulos!). Per entrare nella sua testa, nel suo corpo, nei suoi pensieri, nella sua felicità, nei suoi dolori. E persino nella banalità di tutti i giorni. Niente 3D, qui, e nemmeno inquadrature mirabolanti da mal di testa istantaneo. No, qui c'è una camera che sta attaccata al volto di Adèle, al suo corpo, come se le stesse facendo un elettrocardiogramma e non si potesse perdere nemmeno un battito, nemmeno un soffio. 

Adèle (Adèle Exarchopoulos) e Emma (Léa Seydoux)

Qui c'è carne e sangue, ci sono parole, situazioni, giorni, amore, desiderio, sofferenza, spensieratezza, feste, porte che sbattono, sesso che va avanti quanto deve andare. C'è una vita più vera del vero. C'è il racconto di una giovinezza che parla a chi quell'età ce l'ha adesso e a chi quell'età non se la ricorda più, ma se la ricorderà vedendo questo film dal messaggio assolutamente universale, perché "... così continuiamo a remare, barche contro corrente, risospinti senza posa nel passato". 
The Great Gatsby (quello vero, però...)

Inside Llewyn Davis

As you know, I love film-makers creating their own world.
An entire universe reduced to the scale of a microcosm, where you can recognize people, streets, rooms, songs, jokes, themes, words. A landscape that becomes familiar year after year, movie after movie: a place you can easily call “home”.
The Coen Brothers have been home for so many years, now, that I feel like I have known them since high school, or even before. From Blood Simple on, I have never missed a single appointment with one of their films. I grew up with them and I hope to get old with them, especially because they are like good whisky: the older, the better. 

Ethan & Joel Coen

In October the Cinémathèque Française presented a complete retrospective of their work and held a special avant-première of their newest movie: Inside Llewyn Davis, Grand Prix du Jury at the last Cannes Film Festival.

The Coen Brothers were there and your Zazie was there too, of course! 

The film is out today in all French cinemas (in the United States will be released only in December) and I strongly suggest you not to miss it. Before the screening, Ethan & Joel Coen, later joined by actor Oscar Isaac (who plays the main role in the movie), had a conversation with Bernard Benoliel of the Cinémathèque.
They talked about their way of making movies: the first idea, the sources of inspirations (which can be different: a book or a news read in a newspaper, or the willing of seeing two specific actors playing together), how they write their dialogues, how they use storyboards, how they managed to produce their films.
When Isaac arrived on stage, to the question: “Do they always agree with each other while filming?” He answered: “Oh, no, I used to do whatever the last one came up and asked me to do!” While the Coen brothers explained how the choice of Isaac for the role almost imposed itself because it would have been impossible to find another person who could be such a good actor and a good musician at the same time.

Ethan Coen, Joel Coen and Bernard Benoliel

Oscar Isaac, Ethan & Joel Coen, Bernard Benoliel

Gaslight Café, Greenwich Village, New York 1961.
A man is playing a folk song in front of the audience: he is Llewyn Davis, and we are about to follow his life for few days. Llewyn is not exactly having a great time: his solo career (he used to be part of a duo, but the other guy killed himself) is not working at all, he doesn’t have a place to live, he doesn’t even have a coat to protect himself from the cold winter, and the girlfriend of one of his best friends is expecting a baby from him. And the worst part is: this is just the beginning. It looks like there is no end to the disasters Llewyn Davis is able to create or to go towards to. Will he find a way to escape to this catastrophic spiral? Who knows…

Llewyn Davis (Oscar Isaac)

Llewyn Davis character is quintessentially Coenian. 
He is, in fact, the epitome of Coens heroes: a perfect loser. A looser so stubborn in his pursuing of the worst, that is impossible not to love him for his humanity and his weakness. This is where the Coen Brothers are so good at: sketching a character full of flaws but in such a witty and smart way that the audience is immediately captured and taken with him. Life is awful, the world is a bad place, music doesn’t pay the rent, love is hard to find, but hey, a good sense of humour can save a man from the worst catastrophes.

The mise-en-scène, here, is pure joy: the reconstruction of the NY folk scene in the ‘60s is far from being flat or slightly false (as it is often the case in movies set in the past). The warm colours and splendid light provided by the French director of photography Bruno Delbonnel (Faust and Amélie, c’est lui!) make every scene beautiful and real, and the Coen brothers film in a masterly manner.

Llewyn Davis (Oscar Isaac), Jim (Justin Timberlake) and Al Cody (Adam Driver)

The movie's key element, though, is the music. When the film is over you just want to run to the first CD shop (do they still exist, by the way?) and buy the Original Soundtrack. 
The Coens did the right thing choosing Oscar Isaac to play Llewyn Davis: he is really incredible, both as an actor and as a musician. The rest of the cast is amazing as well: John Goodman, Justin Timberlake, Garrett Hedlund, Adam Driver… they’re all p e r f e c t. Personally, I can’t stand Carey Mulligan, and I think she plays in a particularly dull and overdone way here. Plus, without short hair, she is totally uninteresting. This is, in my opinion, the only faux pas of the entire film.

As it happens to me with every movie I really love, I kept thinking about Inside Llewyn Davis for ages. 
I kept having flashes of some scenes: the NY streets under the rain, Llewyn face filmed very closely, the black twins smiling in the underground. And every time I felt a kind of nostalgic pang: when could I go back there again? I have to wait until the next Coens movie, I know.
But at least this is not an Adieu. Just an Aurevoir...

Shame

If there was a movie I was dying to see this year, it was Shame, by British director Steve McQueen. 

For two main reasons: because I thought his first movie, Hunger, was a masterpiece, and because I am convinced that Michael Fassbender, who played in both McQueen’s movies, is THE best actor around (and that’s been the case for the last 3 years). When I found out, a couple of weeks ago, that the cinema MK2 Bibliothèque was hosting the French avant-première of the movie and that the director and the actor would have been present in flesh and blood, I basically lost my mind. I think I have been the first one in Paris to buy the ticket (literally two seconds after the tweet announcing the sale) and, well, I was right: the screening went sold out in few days. Yesterday night was the big night and I was lucky enough to find a seat in the first row (actually, I was amazed by how fast I could run to grab a place on my high heels!). The cast joined us at the end of the movie: Steve McQueen, Michael Fassbender and young actress Nicole Beharie talked briefly to the audience.

McQueen, Beharie, Fassbender - Paris, November 23 - Photo by Zazie

McQueen, Beharie, Fassbender - Paris, November 23 - Photo by Zazie

It was very quick and I was still under the movie’s spell, so everything seemed a bit dreamy to me. The public couldn’t ask any question, and maybe it was better like that, because the only question I could have placed under the circumstances to Mr. Fassbender would have not been of the highest quality: Are you photoshopped???!!! Or, alternatively, the one I have prepared but I didn't have the guts to ask:

Zazie, the blogger with NO Shame - Photo by Spissetta

Shame relates the story of a descent into hell, the story of an addiction that brings Brandon, a 30something living in New York, onto the abyss of self-destruction. We are not talking about drugs or alcohol, here, but we are talking about sex. Brandon’s days and nights are built around this. He literally spends his time fucking around, seeing porno movies, making porno chats, or wanking at every hour, both at home or in his office’s toilets (because, yes, he manages to have a normal job). The unexpected arrival in his apartment of his sister Sissy, a musician without a place to live and some evident issues to solve (the film remains very vague on the subject, but it is clear that in the family something went quite wrong), breaks the fragile equilibrium and the routine of Brandon’s existence. The consequences, for both of them, will be very heavy and Brandon will be obliged to face the desperation that’s eating his life from the inside. 

At his second movie, Steve McQueen can already be admitted to the court of the grand. A first picture is sometimes a concourse of lucky circumstances and good events, a second one, no. McQueen has a personal, special style (every scene is necessary, there is no place for redundant shots in his cinema), important screenplays and no fear whatsoever to dig into the deepest, scariest, most unsettling parts of the human being. In fact, his cinema is a cinema of the extreme. But for one thing, yes, he has been very lucky: in finding an actor willing and daring to follow him on this path. For Hunger, Fassbender starved himself and lost 30 kgs (at the end of the movie you can literally count the bones on his chest), for Shame, he has been ready to deliver himself completely. He shows on screen the most intimate parts of his body, and the most intimate gestures. Nothing has been spared to the poor guy: the actor is pissing, masturbating, fucking, saying and doing the most outrageous things in front of the camera. And the camera is always onto him, the camera is almost possessing him. No surprises he won for this role the prize for Best Actor at the last Venice Film Festival. This is a one-of-a-lifetime performance that deserves an Oscar (but I doubt that our friends in Hollywood will be bold enough to give it to him. Don't worry, the Zazie d'Or is on its way!). Even Carey Mulligan, who plays his sister, an actress that I have always found mediocre until now, proved to be a great actress if in the right hands. 
Shame is an insanely intense movie, full of unforgettable moments.
From the saddest version of New York, New York ever heard, to the sudden lightness and innocence of a real, normal (and unique) date, till the obsessive orgy scene where Brandon’s face is transfigured by a grimace of desperation instead of being blessed by an expression of pleasure. This movie is tough, gripping, compelling, intelligent and brave.
I assure you, the only shame here, would be NOT to see it!

Drive

Something is rotten in the State of California, and if it is a Danish guy to declare it, you should believe him, especially if his name is Nicolas Winding Refn.

The no-name hero of his movie Drive lives in LA and works as a stuntman during the day and as a getaway driver of crimes at night. And he is very good at what he does. All the rest, it’s a mystery: no family, no friends, and apparently no past life. He is a solitary and silent man. One day, he meets by chance Irene, a young neighbour, and her little children Benicio, and his existence is transformed. When Irene’s husband comes back home from jail, it is easy for the driver to accept of being involved in a dangerous hold-up: it is just by doing so that the criminals, to whom Irene’s husband owes money, will leave the woman and her son alone. Useless to say, things will be a bit more complicated than expected…

This is the movie of the consecration for Winding Refn, a Danish angry young man (he was born in Copenhagen in 1970) who is considered one of the most original and interesting talents of European cinema. He built his reputation through tough and personal movies like the trilogy Pusher, the chilling thriller Fear X and two movies of stylized violence like Bronson and Valhalla Rising, often using as his alter ego the more-than-amazing Danish actor Mads Mikkelsen. Awarded of the Best Director Prize at the last Cannes Film Festival, Drive is surely less uncompromising and more mainstream than all his other movies, but it is by far the most enjoyable one. 

For somebody who doesn’t have a driving licence (apparently he failed the test 8 times), Winding Refn has an incredible ability of showing the beauty and the thrilling sensation you can feel seated at a four wheels. American cinema is packed with spectacular and often unbelievable scenes of car racings, but the ones filmed here have a more subtle and simple taste. The filmmaker doesn’t want to show off; he just wants us to enter into the driver’s universe in a smooth but gripping way. I really like the silent characters of Winding Refn cinema: like the One-Eye of Valhalla Rising, the driver lives his life more through images than through words. He is watching carefully what’s going on, often a mystical witness of the absurdity of life, inhabited by a wisdom that puts him on a different level. As many silent, charismatic and solitary heroes of American cinema (Clint Eastwood, are you there?), the driver played so wonderfully by Ryan Gosling has the astonishing quality of being redeemed by love but haunted by violence.

To the surprise of many, I will dare to define Drive as an incredibly romantic movie. In this sense, the elevator scene is the most beautiful and pivotal one: in an elegant, almost old-style slow motion, the man turns to kiss Irene, suddenly illuminated by a perfect light, and his arm protects her from the presence of a third presence in the elevator. The person is a criminal, and after few seconds he will be knocked down by the animal and brutal violence of the same man. The representation of violence in Winding Refn movies, clearly influenced by the cinema of Martin Scorsese, Brian De Palma and Michael Mann, has Kitanesque’s nuances: is rapid, merciless and stylish (with forks, instead of chopsticks, in the eyes). Another essential element of Drive is the music, in various moments invading the screen like a real form of life, expressing things like a dialogue would do.

And then the cast: I already declared my love for Ryan Gosling in my post about Blue Valentine (http://leblogdezazie.blogspot.com/2011/04/new-york-trilogy-blue-valentine.html), so I don’t have much to add on this. His career choices are simply perfect. The other brilliant presence in the movie is the one of Bryan Cranston, the cherished actor of the TV series Breaking Bad, who masterfully built his character in just few scenes. Also the villains are not bad: Albert Brooks and Ron Perlman are scary and magnetic in the right way. On the female side, Christina Hendricks (the Joan of Mad Men) has a too short role to say something interesting about her, while I have to make here a declaration, and not a loving one, about Carey Mulligan: I can’t stand her. Since the very first time I saw her on screen I asked myself why this girl is considered a good actress. She pretends to be deep but she is not, she pretends to have a complete range of expressions but she doesn’t, she wants to look smart but she just looks unbearable. Her way of acting is unbelievably boring, and I mean, she is not even stunningly gorgeous (quite the opposite, as a matter of fact). Why is she on a silver screen? Maybe I am missing the point, but can somebody explained me why is she becoming so famous and why is she working with such good film-makers? All this remains a mystery to me.  
Should I finally make up my mind and get the driving license I never even tried to have?
I asked myself at the end of the movie. Well, if Ryan Gosling is giving private driving lessons, I promise: I will serioulsy think about that... 

Kafka on the shore

I seriously considered for a moment the idea of calling this post A SINGLE MAN who had AN EDUCATION as a GHOST WRITER, but then I changed my mind, because I know which is the only movie I really want to talk about, and this is the new Polanski movie. I have seen these three pictures basically the same week and I have to say that, having spent half of my life seated in cinemas, there was no doubt, for me, about the greatest one.
Still, I want to say something about the other two.
An Education is the most disappointing movie I have seen in a while. I sincerely don’t understand all the fuss about this mediocre film. This is a TV movie of good quality, but nothing more. Nick Hornby and his screenplay? It is better to read one of his books. Carey Mulligan, the biggest surprise of the season? C’mon guys, she was right for the role, but let’s talk about her in few years and we will see what she has been able to do in the meantime. Peter Sarsgaard? He is so devoid of charisma that the only reason why Mulligan could be so fascinated by him is attributable to her young age and her lack of taste. In other words, rent the DVD and spend a couple of nice hours looking at it, if you really want to.
A Single Man is a different case.
First feature film by fashion designer Tom Ford, the movie is based upon a (splendid) novel by British writer Christopher Isherwood. Chapeau to Mr. Ford, because this is such a good movie to be his first one, and chapeau to Mr. Colin Firth, who’s always been a great actor but here has the chance to prove it in a very subtle and complete way, but… yes, there is a but. Everything is so studied, in this movie, so planned that, in the end, the story, the characters and their feelings are suffocated by this cold perfection. This is the story of a man who has lost his partner, the love of his life, this is the story about a man who’s desperate, and you can’t feel it.
And well, I’m very sorry, but this is my favourite novel by the writer who, for ages, has been my favourite writer so, Mr. Ford, you’re not very lucky because I'm very picky here: George didn’t live in a house published in Architectural Digest – December 1962, he used to live in a house so small that he and his partner were obliged to touch each other every time they met in the kitchen. And yes, even if obesity wasn’t as bad as in the years 2000, there actually were some students having weight problems, they weren’t all top models in that California campus.
But hey, please keep going, I’m curious to see what’s coming next, Tom.

In Polanski’s world, on the contrary, perfection is just there to be destroyed. Perfection is not of this world, he seems to say, and since we are all human beings, we know it, we understand it and we feel it. Ewan McGregor, and I’m obliged to use the actor’s name because (cleverly enough) he has no name in this movie, is a ghost writer who has been hired by a big editor to write the memoirs of a former UK Prime Minister, Adam Lang. Lang lives with his wife and few collaborators in a remote American island, off the Eastern seabord. Soon after McGregor arrives there, Lang is involved in a big international scandal: he is accused of war crimes (apparently, he accepted CIA's tortures over some suspected terrorists).
Besieged by journalists and people protesting against him, Lang feels trapped. When he leaves for Washington, McGregor decides to stay on the island, where he discovers disturbing secrets (his predecessor in this job has probably been murdered, Lang is very much involved with CIA). In which kind of dangerous situation did he put himself? He will soon (too bad for him!) find out.

Polanski is the Kafka of cinema.
A brilliant one. He doesn't need that much to show you how tricky life could be.
He just needs one scene: McGregor (how good is this actor? he is so amazing!) seated in his working room, inside a house made of brick and glass, near the sea. From the inside, you can look outside, at the shore, at the beach: it seems there is so much freedom in a space like that. But then, suddenly, you feel trapped. You feel anxious, because there is something extremely scary in this apparently peaceful land, and you want to run away from it. McGregor surprises in the garden a working man putting inside his wheelbarrow pieces of wood that the wind a second afterwards throws away again. He laughs, and we laugh as well, as an audience, but are we so sure that this is so funny?
It is not, and after a second we ask ourselves a simple question: which is the reason of all this?
Because it is quite clear: we are all little insects that sooner or later, after having spent our lives doing more or less useless things, will be thrown away in the same way...
This is one of the main themes of Polanski's filmography, and it is not that weird if you think about his life, an extremely difficult and controversial one: born in Paris by Jewish-Polish parents, Polanski moved to Warsaw at the age of three. Not a very good moment to do so. His parents were both deported, his mum died in a concentration camp, he saved himself hiding from the Nazis in an incredible way. Years later, he became a filmmaker and moved to the US together with his wife Sharon Tate. He was succesfull and happy, for a while, but in August 1969 Tate (8 months pregnant), was killed by Charles Manson. Devastated by the event, he started having troubles with alcohol and drugs. In 1977, Polanski was accused of Samantha Geimer's rape (a 13 years old girl) and left the States before receiving the final sentence.
This is the reason why he has never been back to the US and also the reason why, very recently (while in Switzerland to receive an award), he has been put in jail again and he is now at house arrests.
As it was often the case, his real life reproduces his biggest fears, the ones that (as Kafka in his books) he always tries to exorcize in his movies.

Some years ago, at a private screening here in Paris of The Queen by Stephen Frears (my job has very often lovely side effects), I was lucky enough to be seated very close to Mr. Polanski.
I rarely heard somebody laughing so much and in such a loud way watching a movie.
He laughed like a person who knows that it is better to enjoy the present moment, to enjoy what we have while we are having it.
Who knows what tomorrow will bring….