i.
Philip
- I made a mess of things.
It was a horrible trip.
Soon as you leave New York nothing changes anymore. Everything looks the same.
You can’t think anymore, espetialy the thought that things could ever change.
I completely lost my bearings. I thought it would go on forever.
Some evenings, i was sure i would turn back the next morning. But then i would keep going and listnening to that sickening rádio.
At night, in the motel, wich looked like all the others, i’d watch inhuman TV.
I lost touch with the real world.
Mulher
- You did that long ago.
You don’t have to travel across Amerixa for that.
You lose touch when you lose your sense of identity. And that is long gone.
That’s why you always need a proof that you still exist.
Your stories and your experiences you treat them like raw eggs.
As if you only experience things.
And that’s why you keep taking all those photos. For further proof that it was really you who saw something.
That’s why you came here. So somebody would listen to you and the stories that you’re really telling yourself.
That’s not enough in the long run, my dear...
Philip
- True. Taking Polaroids does have something to do with proof.
Waiting for a picture to develope, i’d often feel strangely ill at ease. I could hardly wait to compare the finished Picture with reality. But even comparing them wouldn’t calm me.
The pictures never caught up with reality.
Mulher
- You can’t stay here.
Philip
- I went on as if were possessed.
Mulher
- You’re really out of touch.
You can’t stay, understand?
Philip
- Are you serious?
Mulher
- Yes, my friend. I’d like to comfort you, though.
Philip
- I don’t get it.
Mulher
_ I don’t know how to live either. No one showed me how.
When you come to an intersection in this city, it’s like coming to a clearing in the woods.
ii.
Lisa
- What are you writing?
Philip
- ‘The inhuman thing about american TV is not so much that they hack everything up with commercials, though that’s bad enough, but in the end, all programmes become commercials.
Commercials for the status quo.
Every image radiates the same disgusting and nuseating message. A kind of boastful contempt. Not one image leaves you in peace. They all want something from you.
iii.
Alice
- There’s nothing on it.
Philip
- Wait a few minutes. Then it will appear real clear.
(...)
Alice
- That’s a lovely Picture. It’s so empty.
iv.
Alice
- What’s the word, then?
Philip
- Dream.
Alice
- Dream.
Those words don’t count.
Only things that really exist.
v.
Alice
- I want to take a picture of you, so you’ll at least know what you look like.
vi.
Alice
- What’s the matter?
Philip
- Fear.
Alice
- What kind of fear?
Philip
- Are there different kinds?
Alice
- Yes.
Philip
- I’m afraid of fear.
Alice
- Why are you afraid of that?
Philip
- Why?
vii.
Philip
- What did the house look like?
Alice
- It was old.
There were trees.
Philip
- Nothing else you’d remember?
Alice
- The stairway was dark.
viii.
Alice
- It’s too bad these lovely old houses have to be wrecked-
Philip
- They don’t bring enough rent.
Alice
- The empty spaces look like graves.
‘House of graves.’
ix.
Alice
- Have any of you seen this house?
Alice nas Cidades, Wim Wenders, 1973
Na verdade estas cidades são as minúsculas fortalezas interiores que erguemos contra o medo. Náufragos de nós mesmos. Mas há razões de ordem prática que nos impõem a realidade. E talvez mesmo o cansaço da viagem permanente onde, sem casa nem sombra, procuramos no outro e nos lugares, o que de facto, na realidade, somos. Desejamos o ponto ínfimo em que a realidade nos toque.
O ponto mínimo onde lançamos mão ao real, que poderá ser um instante – de revelação lenta e duração efémera, como uma Polaroid – um minuto, um lugar, uma casa, um beijo, uma mão sobre outra. (E Alice e Philip são do efémero, da Polaroid de Philip e do photomaton de quando se re-conhecem.)
Na realidade as cidades de Alice são as imagens devastadoras na sua massividade e ausentes de significado onde somos náufragos – e o filme é de 1973 – e de onde procuramos uma rocha sólida. Uma identidade. Uma casa.
Deambular pelo Ruhr ou descer a Calçada do Combro ou atravessar fronteiras ou uma palma da mão. É indiferente. É a palma da mão que procuramos reconhecer. A nossa.
Na verdade perturba um pouco o road movie, a estética americana da viagem da fronteira do caminho do horizonte largo, num território europeu. Há qualquer coisa de excessivo nesta paisagem antiga, carregada de história, enfatuada de acontecimentos e mapas e sinais e signos, incomportável à câmara que deseja abrir-se ao fio do território. O espaço que é, num road movie, a rarefacção do próprio ser em procura de alguma coisa. Uma fronteira? (E talvez a estética americana só sirva um território e seja incapaz de alcançar uma paisagem?)
Um filme de cidades que não é sobre cidades mas o(s) caminho(s). Um filme sobre cidades que não é sobre cidades mas sobre casas. Um filme sobre cidades que não fala de cidades mas da palma da mão.