Christmas Day in London - the Finale

London doesn't even seem London without double deckers running in its busy streets and with the tube stations locked and inaccessible. Today, it's Christmas. And I'm spending it in London, with the companionship of the city only.

I walked all afternoon, despite the chill creeping under my jumper giving me shiver. I grasped my camera and faced the deserted streets of London. I walked up till Oxford Street just to take shots of the shop windows of Selfridges. To my utter disappointment, huge banners with a dull "SALES NOW!" had taken the place of the mannequins dressed up in panto/fairy tale mode. The sales here start on 26th December.

Tomorrow, I'll be home. The problem is, I'm starting to feel at home here as well. I'm falling in love with the city. With its life, its frenzy, its poetry, its consumerism, its stalls, its nightlife, its buildings, its diversity. At dusk, London is more magical than ever. I almost felt like dancing and singning. On my own. Just me and the city. Soulmates.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU ALL!

Get back next year, in 2010!

Christmas in London - part III - lonely, but not so much

Christmas in London smells like the perfumes sold in House of Fraser. It smells like sugar-coated nuts. It sounds like the chatters of the crowds that cram the streets. It sounds like the pitter-patter of the heels on the pavement. It sounds like joyful Jingle Bells played with the drums in the alley off the main road - a Jamaican flavour to it that made me give the players a deserved tip. It looks like an anthill and like a theme park. Its windows are creative, colourful and excessive at the same time: a sprout of fun.

Today, I was wearing high-heels, and it was empowering to see the city from up here. I totally felt like Carrie Bradshaw. Indeed, I also have the spicy vibe of the aunt living abroad. I'm loving this city every day that goes by a bit more.

Today, I have almost flirted with a dad, a handsome man who was running around the city with his 4-year-old son. Danger zone. I must not enter that area. Although I must say that men with kids have a charming sweetness about them. And boy, oh boy. What did I see as I arrived back home? A cute guy just living in my own estate. What a pleasant surprise!

I am not lonely. Today, I met a friend of mine and we enjoyed chatting and laughing in the streets of London. We enjoyed a cup of hot drink at Starbucks. We enjoyed just being in this city, walking around, in Christmas-lit London, wondering how it's going to look tomorrow, when the fuss will be over, the tube will not work, the buses won't run in the streets in this ever-busy metropolis. I don't quite feel lonely. Even though I'd love my family to be here and enjoy this peaceful yet lively atmosphere with me.

Lovin' Christmas in the City

No, I didn't manage to catch the sweet side of the city. Today, it was everything but sweet, London. Grey and rainy in the run-up to Christmas.

So, I went shopping. I had two choices: Westfields or Oxford Street. I went for the second one, despite the dull weather. Entering shops, browsing, purchasing something, browsing, browsing, trying something on, craving... These are the moments when I love the City. It runs in your veins with its vain bling bling, its wild consumerism, its addictive glamour. (You feel all the more guilty when tramps sitting on the icy pavement look at you, arms stretching towards your bags of you-can-do-without stuff).

Too many handsome boys. Too many gorgeous-looking specimen of the opposite sex: shopping has become a voluptuous experience since I'm in London. They work in retails, they strut in the streets, they carry their women's bags, they take a hot chocolate just before you at Starbucks, they wait and snort while their girlfriend is trying a pair of boots on (the exquisite pain of relationships), they frown as you leave the store that sells sexy lingerie. Many of them -what a pity!- are gay. You exchange just a glance, you gulp, hold your breath for a quick sec, and then it's gone. On to the next one.

Next shop. In and out. Under the rain and in the climate of a rain forest (too much heat in the shops - no wonder the ladies in their underwear at Selfridges were fine!). People are rushing to buy their last gifts. People are crowding the street in this delightful Christmas atmosphere. You feel it. You feel happy although you can buy not even a hundreth of what you would you like to. Stuff, stuff, objects. How much do you need it? How much are we defined by what we wear, what we sport, what we buy? Expensive, cheap, fashionable, eccentric, basic, casual, fancy... If I had the money, I'd buy everything. Would I? The choice, the clothes, bags, shoes, jewelry, books piled up on shelves, hanging on their hangers, more or less orderdly displaced make me feel dizzy. The paradox of choice. When a lot becomes too much...



The lights in Oxford Street are joyful, warm. Kids make me smile. The frenzy of the shopping makes everybody a bit mad, even parents strolling their prams become aggressive. The Christmas market with its smell of sugar-covered nuts and sausages adds folklore to the scene. And then I feel it. I distinctly feel it. The loneliness. I am lonely. I'm at the centre of the world. And yet, lonely. All the people around me, all the languages spoken, all the ethnic diversity around me cannot help my longing for someone to hold me. (And then I think at the poor guys enduring the torture of shopping with their partners and I feel relieved by not putting anyone in such pain on the eve of Christmas).

Today, I loved London. I loved it despite, or thanks to, its flaws: the fine rain, the money-driven soul, the shallow it's-all-about-appearances mode. I loved it because it was fun, energetic, tolerant. London pulses with life, it's vibrant, colourful, free. It made me feel so alive. I wondered: is it going to be enough, just one year, to do all I want to do?

While eating at Pizza Hut, I read the review of a panto and posted a note in the back of my head: bring Thomas to a pantomime in London one day. I want to find a job, earn money, go shopping with my sister in the streets of London, take my mom to a car boot sales, have my father pick up its own T-shirt somewhere. In London the entire world seems to be within your grasp. It must be all the faces you see around you. Handsome people, different people.

I didn't want to go home. I felt like I could walk all night -like a couple of months ago, when I was roaming in the streets of the City with a friend of mine. It was night. It was deserted all around us. I didn't want to go home then, just as much as I didn't want to go home now. My feet were soaked wet, my left shoulder hurt from carrying the bag, I was cold and my nose runny. And yet, I didn't want to go home. I would hit London streets until my shoes fall apart.

I yearned for human companionship. The loneliness of cramped streets cannot compare to the loneliness of a cosy house you call home. Even the impersonality of the tube -with the funny man checking his pocket after the message on the loudspeaker telling people to beware of pickpockets- is warmer than your couch.

I'll read the book I bought -with a 75% discount!- about the art of photography. I'll enjoy my solitude before flying back home, on Saturday, right after Christmas. Family is where your heart belong. But where you choose to live is a matter of opportunity. I love the chances this city gives me. It makes me want more. Greedy me. Greedy beings. Why can't we ever be happy with the little we're given? Why do I keep having the feeling that my life is slipping off my hands like soap? Why do I feel the weight of ageing without having achieved anything?

The City is getting to my heart. It's getting me. Slippery London, you're finally conquering me...

Relishing Christmas Atmosphere in the Streets of London

After spending the entire day home, slaving over my three articles for the internship, I needed -physically and psychologically- to go out. So, I grasped my purse, put on my new leather gloves and went out.

The streets of London are icy, cold, smoke comes up from the pavement and steam out of my mouth. Christmas lights make me feel like a kid again, although I'm 22 now. My first stop, in the vain attempt to find a book or two I'm supposed to read to write my 1,000 word essay by the 5th of January, is Borders.

Borders...it used to be a paradise of comfort. The book shop where you can grab a magazine, a newspaper, take a coffee at the Starbucks upstairs and just enjoy spending time there. It was always busy, but the atmosphere was friendly, cosy, happily arty. Now, in its we're-closing-down frenzy, the cosiness, the beauty and the relax of it disappeared altogether, leaving just shabby up-to-90%-discount window-sized banners, raging crowds of customers fighting over the last copy of their favourite book and empty shelves. What once was a homey, it's now maddening. Not the ideal place to do some Christmas shopping. Books scattered all over shelves and tables look like displaced people fleeing from a devastated city. The last copy of a novel on a counter reminds me of the typical ugly girl at the school ball that nobody wants to dance with...

In my spree escape I couldn't help but notice that each and every shop had its own special Christmas score. A spate of feeling-good, let's all love each other songs that will put a smile on your face even if you strive to resist. Christmas heart-warming, consumeristic soul slips in your wallet in the most joyful, albeit tricky way. It's in its cheesy melodies, in its glittering lights, in its unnecessary gift cards. Christmas in London smells of business and snow. But it's so contagiously exhilarating that I can't for tomorrow's roaming in the streets of the City. It makes me feel alive. It makes me feel adult and independent, even if I'm not.

Tomorrow's stop: Oxford Street. It might be hellish. But I'll take my camera with me. So if it gets rowdy I'll catch those moments. If I get the right angle, despitethe hustle and bustle I'm sure I can grasp the sweet side of London. I still regret not having my camera with me to snap those footsteps in the snow, still soft and shimmering white, while snowflakes kept flying down from the sky like crispy pieces of diamonds... a couple of days ago, when the City started to feel the Christmas warmth, despite the freezing cold.

A serious man - On life

Now, wasn't that a bitter ending?

I read the review of A serious man on the Empire on the tube yesterday afternoon, and the same night I went to watch the movie (after the failure of two weeks ago, when it was sold out). Empire's Dan Jolin ended his article like this: "And if we see a more exciting final shot of a movie this year, we'll eat your yarmulke" (skullcap, author's note). Indeed, I must say. I gaped. Literally. I saw the last shot and then the screen went black and the credits appeared and I just gaped. Black irony was a leitmotif throughout, but the very last shot was more than sourly ironical.

A phone call and a tornado approaching, a camera that stays on the back, shyly, at the same height of the kid. Fate and its inescapability. And the attempt of man to make sense out of it. Like Larry, the protagonist of the film itself, a serious, honest professor that, however, seems to be punished by destiny -a reference to the Biblical figure of Job? And nevertheless, he searches for a meaning in his plight, he asks Rabbis for interpretation and advice. The second Rabbi's answer seems particularly interesting. The story of the dentist becomes a metaphor for the life of mankind. Stop asking yourself too many questions, and just live. Just help others. Just make choices.

We'll never know what happens after the credits appear on the screen. We'll never know what the content of the doctor's phone call to Larry was. We'll never know the results of Larry's X-ray. We'll never know whether the tornado cast Danny and his schoolmates away. We'll never know. We'll just gape, as much as I did. We can just appreciate the brevity of the movie. The brevity of life. We can just enjoy, as fully as we can, the experience. Even if we can't make much sense of it.

Italians in London protest against Berlusconi

Hundreds of people gathered on Saturday 5 December in Belgrave Square, near the Italian General Consulate in London, to ask Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi to step down.

The demonstration, named “No Berlusconi day”, was the English counterpart of a bigger protest that simultaneously took place in Rome and was organised by a group of bloggers using social networks such as Twitter and Facebook.

Italians living in London vented their anger at the current political situation in their homecountry and claimed not to feel represented by Mr Berlusconi. The protest was not backed by any specific political party and encompassed people of different beliefs.

Purple was the colour chosen to express citizens’ disappointment with the current political mayhem in Italy. The participants chanted “Dimettiti! Dimettiti!” (“Resign! Resign!”), while some others screamed “Thief!” or “You’re a clown!” and booed Mr Berlusconi as images of his reaction to the declaration of unconstitutionality earlier in October of the so-called Alfano Law, which granted impunity for the four main offices of the State during their mandate, were shown onscreen.

Main points of the debate were the need of equality of all citizens before the law, with reference to article n.3 of the Constitution, the urge for freedom of information in Italy, the call for political caring of public instead of personal interests in the management of the State.

SEEKING CHANCES ABROAD

Many students and young people at the demonstration expressed their views on Italian’s political situation. Not only were they dissatisfied with Mr Berlusconi, but they said the whole political class is not offering a valid alternative.

A 20-year-old student at the Metropolitan College of London decided to come to England right after high-school, because he felt in Italy he did not have chances to succeed. A film director left Italy annoyed by the “culture of acquaintances, so that if you don’t know the right people you won’t make it.” The lack of a merit system and defined career paths were major factors in Italians’ decision to leave their country.

The disappointment of Italians living in London is sharpened by the image of their homeland abroad. “People here think that Italy is a fun-fair and mock Berlusconi,” said a student. “Italians abroad struggle to show their real value when they’re ruled by a clown,” he added.

This week’s The Economist dedicated an editorial to Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi by the headline “Time to say addio”, where “addio” means “goodbye for good”. In the past few months the Italian premier has been involved in several scandals, including most recent allegations of collusion with mafia in 1993 and involvement with call-girl Patrizia D’Addario.

Check the gallery and the best posters of the demonstration here

Check our (Paola Bonfanti, Daniele Fisichella, Marco Granese and Anna Pitton) report on You Tube

Strutting in the City

I wonder how Carrie Bradshaw managed to strut in high heels on the streets of busy New York without ever stumbling or twisting her ankle.

I wore my boots this morning. They're not even that high. However, the moment I made my first step out of the house I regretted it. Questions like "Why the hell did I wore heels this morning?" or "Am I going to make it to uni without crashing to the ground?" kept buzzing in my head. I must assume that pavements in New York are less cracked and roller-coaster like than here in London.

Carrie struts smilingly, she's happy-go-lucky even wearing 15cm sandals, whereas here even wearing flats is not safe. I saw a man this morning that almost broke his ankle considering the twisting. Here in London rather than strutting in the city, we tackle an assault course every morning, watching out for cracks in the pavement, bumps, gutters, holes, drains, trying not to get run over by a bicycle, a taxi, or even worse, a double decker. And worrying at the same time, that if -heavens forbid!- you actually fall you cannot even rely on doctors here. They might amputate your leg just because they don't know how to fix your Achilles heel.

And by the way, I know why Carrie had so many shoes. When you live in a big city and rely on public transport, you consume your heels quite a lot. No wonder she had to buy a new pair of Manolo every other week!

Food for thought

Journalists are traders after all.

It's not who has the best story that gets the front page -or make it to the outlet at all-, but who sells the story better. Airbrushed bullshit! I really hate it.

But there's still hope. And it's an interesting choice of words as well, there's still hope in a still (picture). Today a great photographer (and great person as well) came to our International News class and for the first time in a while I had the vibe that being a journalist might mean something. That we, as journalists, might do some good for this world. His swearing-prone temper won me over immediately. His disruptive enthusiasm for the job was not sickening like someone else's enthusiasm for a bomb explosion. He told us quite plainly that war is full of nasty stuff and who enjoys those kind of stuff is a bit fucked-up in the head.

He was humble and naif enough to tell us (and I'm quoting here) that he still thinks he can change the world. A sort of campaigning journalism, if you want. A definitely not lazy, on the ground journalism. He had his reasons, his principles and morals to do what he does. He was frank enough to tell us which side he stands for ("If somebody punches me in the face, I'll punch him back and beat him until he doesn't want to punch me anymore"). He told us he drew a line between what is right and what is wrong and he sticks to it. He was critical and independent enough to open our eyes on certain details on today's media battles and propaganda, despite his lack of formal education. "And lacking education doesn't mean not being smart," he said. A photoreporter that not only showed us good takes and effective storytelling, but showed us commitment, understanding and passion. Passion not for a trade, but for people and their stories. A true combative journalist that went for the not-so-easy route to get the never-seen-before story! Loved it! And much much needed it!

Check him out: John D McHugh

Hate the Message, Don't Hate the Messenger

He was a she. Somali was her name. Long, gray fur. Blind, deaf, very old and much missed.

I saw these words on a missing paper attached to a tree on my way home today. And her picture. I felt the urge of telling them. I felt I had to. After being partly responsible for the death of their cat, I had to tell them. And it was awkward and terrible.

I approached the house. The woman came out to throw away the litter and I told her that I knew what happened to her cat. I used pretty much the same words I used in my post. Her husband came out and she told him the bad news. I felt sorry. Incredibly sorry. But I think I did the right thing. They had to know.

I felt like she didn't really trust me. She was inquisitive about the cat's body. I had no idea where it went. The people who keep the road clean must have collected it and thrown it somewhere. She asked me if I saw her dying. And I said yes. I recollected the scene and it was horrible. I hope they believed I am really sorry for what happened. Cause I am.

Here Kitty Kitty Kat, Here Kitty Kitty...

I was on my way home, after an incredibly long day at uni. I was listening to some music on my mp3 player, when I saw this lovely cat nuzzled on the threshold of a house. I went closer in the most friendly way possible not to frighten him. And I stroked him. He purred and mewed with appreciation.

I headed forward. I crossed the street. Headphones in my ears. I turned around. The pretty cat was following me on the zebra crossing. He stopped halfway through. In the middle of the road. I waved as to tell him to move on. To go back. He went back, but hesitated again. In the middle of the road.

A double decker hit him to death. I saw his body whirling under the wheels as if he was made of cotton. His long fur covered with blood, his guts smashed all over the pavement. My heart stopped. I gaped in shock. A passer-by asked me if it was my cat.

No. It was not my cat. But he was a cat I had just stroked, who trusted me enough to follow me. And cats are notably distrustful. One second before he was alive. And now he rests in shreds on cold gray asphalt. Torn into pieces, as cars run over him, carelessly.

Two years ago something similar happened. I bursted out crying like a baby. This time I couldn't shed a tear. I guess I've run out of them... or I am turning into a cynical metropolitan bitch. Who tries to be sweet and lovely, and ends up killing pets.

News value: struggling for a definition

The more time I spend here, the more I ask myself, what is the point of journalism? What is the point of reporting? It's all very exciting when you see young wannabe or already experienced journalists running around the Department with their mobile phones stuck between ear and shoulder or typing on the keyboard while struggling not to choke on the scorching coffee they're having with a greasy sandwich, also known as "lunch".

But, what is the point of being constantly informed? I have a sort of Orwellian feeling that all this information overload we are subjected to every single day leads us astray from real life. From real people. From the struggles of everyday life, from what really affects us. We, as journalists, try to give our audience a portrait of the world we live in. But who defines what the world is? And most importantly, who defines what's important and what's not?

When it comes to defining what's newsworthy, all too often we miss to consider that little word that is key to comprehend and fully grasp the motive underlying the failure of international news reporting: worth. When we talk about worth, we talk about values. And there's nothing more relative and biased than values.

What is valuable, what matters to people differ greatly from person to person, and differ even more greatly when it comes to consider the issue from a cultural perspective. This is why I hate so much the idea that British and American media have of international news reporting. When they do so, they believe they are unbasied and accurate. The huge lie is that they cannot abstract from their own culture, their own values, their own beliefs. Which is fine. The problem comes when big media such as CNN International or BBC World mould the image people worldwide have of other countries on the basis that such big organisations practise good journalism. Says who? Who set the standards of good journalism? British and Americans. Now, that's interesting. It's like being left-handed and playing a game where the main rule is "You have to play with your left hand." Obviously, those who are right-handed will fail.

Last Thursday, Peter Apps came to our class. Great guy, great journalist. His neck was broken on a car crash while he was assigned in Sri Lanka. He went back to work after nine months. No question: he's admirable. He works for a big news agency, Thomson Reuters, that provides wire services worldwide. One of my classmate questioned him about what makes a story worth being reported. And he said: "Well, in the end you have to look at who pays your salary!"

In the case of Reuters, it's partly subscribers' revenue, but mostly financial screenings. In their website, they claim: "Thomson Reuters is the world’s leading source of intelligent information for businesses and professionals." So, are we sure that the editorial choices aren't biased in the first place? They serve businesses and professionals, not the public. However, most newspapers and broacasters make large use of the information Reuters provide. And especially in the case of international news coverage, since most newspaper cannot afford correspondents abroad, the reliance on tentacular news agencies is inevitable. It's them setting the agenda. It's them choosing what stories are worth telling and which stories are not. On what criteria? What defines the newsworthiness of a piece of news when values worldwide are so different? The big boss. Companies from rich countries interested in knowing where the next war or natural is happening so they can divert their assets where it's more profitable.

In this Orwellian dystopia, journalists are powerfuls' puppets, aren't they? And I don't want to do that. I don't want to be part of this game. I don't want to provide news just to move the machine. I don't want to be the oil that makes the mechanism function better. And what bothers me the most is the self-righteousness of these media outlet. When they cannot properly sit and confront themselves with other values, other cultures. It must be part of the imperialistic frame of mind. I'll devote a post soon to the British habit of referring back to the Roman Empire.

The idea that they know it all, when they forget to place the smallest detail in the bigger picture. When the smallest element fails to be part of the picture: the single person. The people. Where are they in the business and money-driven reporting? Where are they? In one of Apps's slide there was a reference to the number of "bodies" when reporting deaths. As if people lost their identity as members of mankind when dead. We become bodies. We're no more people. Is it like that? He reports on finance and humanitarian crisis. Am I the only one who sees the utter contradiction of the combination? Money matters and humanitarian matters don't come hand in hand, I reckon.

But anyway, all this chatting to say this. I believe we should, as journalists, be much more humble and question the meaning of the principle of our job: what defines the news value? We should acknowledge that our profession is influencial, we mould people's mind somehow. People's view on the world depends partly on what we tell them. Which calls for a great responsibility we are urged to take. And with humility, we should challenge our values according to what matters to our audience. Something that we can only achieve on a small-scale level, when we can actually talk to real people and feel what they consider important, what matters to them. And after that, make sensible choices when we come to determine the newsworthiness of a story.

If we rely on international news organisations that boastfully aim at addressing an international audience, we fail to see that there is no such thing as an international audience. And that there is no agreed definition of what is the value of a story. We fail to see that values are culturally co-built within a society, and that there is no metre on which we can juxtapose such values and evaluate them. If we do so, we ignore diversity and become colonizers.

Instead of aiming at the truth -which is, however, the kind of goal a journalist will never achieve; truth is more a matter of discussion for philosophers or priests- we should, at the very best, try to depict reality, which is complex and multi-faceted. If we fail to do so, we run the risk of fuelling hatred and resentment by misrepresentating certain parts of society. The aim of telling the truth and depicting the whole world is an enterprise that simply goes beyond human capacity of judgement. And we mustn't forget that before being journalists we are human. But if we fail, the consequences of our failure might have disastrous consequences that we often ignore or shallowly consider, because we are mezmerized by the thrill of the profession. It might do more harm than good though. (I'm thinking about one of my classmates who came back from a training exercise embedded with some military troops that will be deployed to Afghanistan next year. She was excited at recalling the first explosion of a bomb. I wondered if she knew that bombs are meant to kill people and are not supposed to be fun in real world. When you can actually die any minute!)

In certain cases, is it better to tell the truth and wage wars or is it better to shut up and live peacefully? Is it better to serve vague word such as freedom, democracy and truth or should we serve real people made of flesh and blood? It's quite a dilemma.

Brits are freaks - Alcohol and Motherhood

The Brits need to put on their alcoholic beverages tags saying that pregnant women are not supposed to drink. This is something I've never seen in Italy. You could argue that English people are more mature and sensible to do so. But here comes a huge question mark: do mothers-to-be here need an ad to tell them that it's not advisable to assume alcohol while pregnant?

Clearly, they need it. And unfortunately, it's not an effective measure either, as such news confirm: Binge mom spared jail!!! The source is not one of the best. The Sun is arguably a serious paper. It's very biased in its reporting and the language it uses is far from objective. It slants towards offence most of the time, actually. But in this case, well, we have something to be outraged by.


I became rather sensitive to all the motherhood topic in the past two years. I've seen my sister pregnant, I've seen her in labour pains, I've seen my nephew new-born, with his diamond-shaped little face and wet black hair. And now I've come to know that my best friend is pregnant.

Motherhood is a sort of state of grace. My sister felt like Buddha when she was pregnant. She was radiant. Needless to say, she had fears, mainly concerning her son's health. She developed this morbid habit of watching eerie videos on the Internet of utterly appalling things, such as animals giving birth, kids with diseases and stuff like that. She was paranoid about her child's health and safety. Therefore, as she knew she was pregnant, alcohol was banned straightaway.

No ads, no commercials needed. She just made a commonsensical choice. Our mothers tell us so. I frankly don't know. We just know it. My best friend quit smoking. Ads are written in caps on cigarettes packages too, though. So I guess it makes sense if here, in England, they need ads to prevent pregnant women from drinking.

It's just rather sad that we need the advertising empire to tell us what's healthy and what's not. What about old wise granny's remedies? We know more, but we are far less wise.
And wasn't England homeland of commonsense? I doubt it.

Place in the world - part 2

Today I saw the picture of some kids starving in Africa and my eyes went wet.
I can't deny that it's a cliché that I do not entirely approve of -a kid is always moving.
It made me think of how pointless I am right now.
It made me realize how much we lose perspective of how the real world might be in far-off countries. Whilst we think about social networking, tweeting, getting information overloads on our mobile phones, people are starving.
Real people, somewhere in the world -and not necessarily that far- are struggling with their plight for the mere survival.
We forgot how it was when we didn't have it all, and now we can't do withou it.
But potentially there are very few things we really need.

I thought about my grandfather today.
I touched the ring that he gave me and remembered all the times he told me I should write his memoirs.
He was a storyteller.
He was born in poverty and in a much disgraceful year: 1917.
Despite that, I believe he had a rather happy life.
Most definitely, a long one.
He was not much literate.
A smart, honest, good-hearted person, but not cultured (except for maths, where he was a skilled calculator).
I was wondering this morning whether it is true that the more you know, the least happy you are.
As if the top bargain did not exist and the options were just: happy but ignorant or sad but know-it-all.
Faustus has always been a fascinating myth to me.

And then I brooded over myself, my place in the world, yet again.
Do I really want to be a journalist?
Even if I went somewhere where reporting might make a difference, will I be able to just report?
How can you not be affected by such human tragedies as starvation, disease, famine?
And if you are affected how can you go back to the humdrum of everyday life in your rich country?
Needless to say, I don't know the answers.
I just wish that my life will make a difference and will be of some help.
If only for one person, I want to feel like I am much needed, perhaps indispensable.
This is my new mission.

Place in the world

Yesterday it was a horrible day. I had to go to the International Sushi Awards 2009. I called on Friday to get a press pass to cover the event. Again, an event that guests pay some £150. I could access it for free. It was supposed to be for my blog. Even though I was not sure it would fit the tone.

Anyway, in the morning I checked the email as I usually do and got THE NEWS OF THE DAY. A news that I wouldn't find on BBC, CNN, The Times, The Guardian, La Repubblica, Il Gazzettino... Nevertheless, it was the kind of news that affects you more than any other news. Not even a coup in Italy would have been more meaningful to me that THAT piece of news. MY BEST FRIEND IS PREGNANT. And she's keeping the baby.

I was so happy for her. She sounded great. And then, as I hung up and wrote her a congrats email, I had the break-down. What the hell am I doing here? Is this the place I'm supposed to be? Is this my place in the world? Am I needed here? What is our purpose in life? I feel useless in this city. I don't belong here. I'm not doing well at uni. I'm not a talented journalist. I don't know how much I want to be a journalist anymore. All I wanted to do yesterday was hugging her, the girl I've known since we were 6, the girl I've shared so many experiences with.

The whole world don't mean a thing when you don't share the joys of life with the ones you love. I chose a self-exile that is pulling me down like I've never thought it would. If I saw the Queen today, I couldn't care less. If I could interview Kate Moss today, I wouldn't care less. I just wish I was home, to have a chat with my best friend and ask her how she feels about becoming a mother, to help my sister with my nephew, to hug my mother and father and thank them for what they do for me, to laugh at my grandparents when they argue like 13-year-olds and then make up like grown-up lovers.

I miss those little things that make you happy in life. Because after all, that's what we look in life. We look for happiness. But where is it? Is it where you are? Is it what you do? Is it who you are with? Am I wasting my time? Am I wasting my parents' money? Am I wasting my expectations? My family's expectations? Where am I supposed to be?

Rejoice life. Congrats J and Will. I'm happy for the three of you!!! *^_^*

London by night on a Tuesday

Orange Moon

Caledonian Road

Plunging lights (Blackfriars)

River lights

London Nightscape

Fork

St Paul's streetlamps view

River pathway

Lily lights and water

Light against Dark

Cherish the light

You live it, you learn it: An education

From the very first brilliant cue that accompanies his tricky though charming smile, you can tell that this debonair 30-something is not the good guy he pretends to be. Nevertheless sweet and smart 16-year-old Jenny falls for David's debauched joi de vivre not less than for his sporty car and cocktail parties.

Eager to live like an adult, albeit trapped in a middle-class suburban life in 1961 London, Jenny (Carey Mulligan) grinds at school, ploughing through Latin translations and brilliant English essays, paving herself a way to gain a much yearned Oxford bursary. Her daydreaming about wearing black, smocking and reading philosophers of the Exsistentialism crashes into an unsettling chance encounter with David (Peter Sarsgaard), a well-mannered man that easily gains the girl's parents affection. The under-the-rain setting of the encounter only adds to the momentousness of the meeting.

However, David drags Jenny into a life of fun and enjoyment, gambling and dancing. The Swinging sixties peep out in Jenny's life as she joins David's privileged lifestyle and his rich posse: handsome partner in fraudulent sales Danny (Dominic Cooper) and his beautiful though dimwitted girlfriend Helen, played by Rosamund Pike, whose performance is imbued with charm and grace in a Marilyn Monroe kind of fashion. When David takes Jenny to Paris for her 17th birthday, the girl finally experiments with her sexuality and fully enter adulthood.

The only character who seems to be aware of the danger of the liaison with the older man is Jenny's thoughtful English teacher (Olivia Williams). And as everybody encourages the marriage between Jenny and David, Jenny's mom (Cara Seymour) and dad (Alfred Molina) included -the latter relieved by the expenses saved for her daughter's education- the cracks in the couple's relationship become bigger and bigger until everything falls apart and the truth is unveiled.

Historia magistra vitae, said Cicero long time ago, meaning that history is our first teacher in life. Our own history in the first place. But a more conventional form of education can be an indispensable loophole. As in Jenny's case, as she struggles to win back her headmistress' backup.

The story has all the potential to be a weepie, but instead the drama is interspersed with sparks of vibrant hilarity, in particular in the character of Jenny's father, whose bigotry and dullness reveal nevertheless a warm-hearted fondness for his only child. Mulligan's debut performance is moving and refreshing at the same time. Genteel features and strong personality have never mingled in such a harmonious way before. No wonder, rumour has her as possible nominee for next year's Academy Awards.

Scriptwriter Nick Hornby played an important part in the success of the film. His rendition of journalist Lynn Barber's memoir adds wit and humour to the story. Memorable quotes make the film all the more enjoyable: bitter remark by Jenny's school headmistress "You are not a woman" or Jenny's confession to her teacher "I feel old, but not very wise".

Lone Scherfig crafted all the details of the film with composure and taste, making it a delightful ensemble: casting, score, costumes and overall cinematography make An education worth the ticket's price. Convincingly enough, for the first time since I'm here, nobody left before the end.

Privileges of the Press and Scantily Dressed Journalists

I'm starting to enjoy being a journalist. Access is what I appreciate the most. Today I participated in a dreadfully boring conference on expert witnesses and their role in proceedings. Guest speakers included Lord Justice Leveson and Lord Justice Wall. Big names, those who wear wigs in court.

I just had to say "I'm a trainee journalist! I'm the press" and the doors went wide open. Badge with my name, free coffee, free lunch. Three weeks ago I got a wonderful goody bag full of toys to send home to my nephew for Christmas at a retailers' fair meant for the media. How lovely is that? I'm getting poor in expensive London, but at least I'm a journalist, which entitles me to some free meals and goody bags every now and then. I was thinking that if homeless dress up a little and attend this sort of events as "The Press", there it goes. They fill their bellies at the expenses of some rich companies.The conference, however, as I mentioned earlier, was painful for most of the time. Some people in the audience even fell asleep. And they paid loads money.

The funniest -and most embarrassing for me!- moment though, was at the very end. I was approached by an old lady who reminded me of the crone who introduced Anastasia to Dimitri in Disney's animation picture and had the voice of a transvestite. She asked me if I was a doctor and, of course, I said "No". Then she made some bitter remarks on my outfit, saying that doctors usually dress in a more humble way.

I felt a huge boulder right at the junction of the head with the neck. I was apparently too scantily dressed for her taste. "Luckily I am a trainee journalist and I'm young!" I added. She agreed that my outfit was alright for a journalist, flirty enough, but I wasn't wearing that much anyway. I was speechless, literally gaping. The two ladies I was talking to tried to back me up and reassure me. As the old crone left they told me I looked fabulous.

I didn't think I was dressed in an inappropriate way. I hope I wasn't. I went shopping precisely for this purpose last week. I dressed smartly for the occasion and now this woman tells me I don't have much fabric on me. How disappointing! Just because I'm wearing a tight skirt. Sorry if I'm 22 and I don't want to look like a nun!

Fate vs PR: the pitiless battle

I went shopping at Westfield's (big shopping centre, near Shepherd's Bush) on Saturday afternoon. First task: buy a new sim card and get a contract that allows me to make lots of phone calls without emptying my wallet. The shop assistant approached me and...wow...isn't he gorgeous?

He explained thoroughly what the offer was about, what I needed to do and so on and so forth. We engaged in a mild flirtatious conversation about my birthday that is coming soon, about me missing my family, about his family spread all over the world. It was all very cheerful and fun - albeit he cheekily told me I look older than I am.

So, he encouraged me to look for a new right number to pick up. I really didn't care about the number, any number was just fine. But he insisted I should pick a "nice" number. Thus, since both my current numbers end in 69, I decided not to interrupt the tradition and started searching for a number ending in 69. But I had no luck. F., the handsome clerk, went in the backroom and checked if there was any number that could satisfy my request. But, he had no luck either.

"Whatever," I said, "I'll just pick up a number." I closed my eyes, shifted the sim cards before me and picked up a number. Well, believe it or not, the number ended in 69. Fool of me -or should I rather say blind of me- not to see it before. But in the end I got it. It's my fate, I guess, to have a mobile phone number that ends in 69. "That's incredible. No, that's weird!" F. added. And I was puzzled and bewildered.
I am quite fascinated about esoteric stuff: numerology, astrology, destiny. It cannot be a coincidence. The whole situation. It must mean something. The number thing just adds a nuance of mystery to this momentous chance encounter. Such was the fancy whirling around in my head.

To make it short, after signing the contract, F. invited me to come back to the shop again in case I want to upgrade the offer or I have problems or anything else. He wanted to know my opinion about the customer service. I felt dizzy and just mumbled that since I don't like talking on the phone I might as well just come back to the shop. "However," I told him "it takes me a while to get to the shopping centre, so I don't know." His lips curled down as if upset. I left.

For the rest of the day, I couldn't help but wonder how far this flirting could go. "Should I go back and ask him out?" "Or maybe leave him my number?" "I don't have anything to lose, after all." "And he was clearly flirting." In the end, I didn't go back. As the day went on and the shadows of the night moved forward, I became wiser and realized what was really going on.

No fate, no destiny. A mere, albeit eerie, coincidence had taken place. And the mild flirting was just self-promotion. After all, if nobody goes back to the telephone shop, if everybody does everything on the phone or on the internet, poor F. risks to lose his job. The fancy of this sort of magical chance encounter vanished, or rather crashed against the concrete wall of an age of consumerism and business-driven human relationships. Fate vs PR? 0 : 1.

Flirting is fun and healthy, but when selling is the goal, then it's no more fun. My self-esteem went down, and so did the cash in my bank account. Great shopping, though.

No City for Old Men

London is chaotic, fast-paced, full of cracks on the pavement. Not to mention the roller coaster-like experience of treading up and down its underground tunnels hurrying up towards the next train. Not the ideal environment, as you can see, for an elderly person. Last week, I beheld three sad episodes that proved my thinking right: London is no City for Old Men.

First one was an old man in the tube. Leaning on his staff, he was hobbling along struggling against the crowd of busy rushing people. Glued to the handrail he seemed a small boat tackling hundred-metre high waves in the eye of a seastorm. He seemed a bit lost, however relentless. He must have been a long-time citizen of this town, hence, used to the hustle and bustle of the underworld of its efficient public transport system. As my friend approached him to offer some help, he grumbled something indistinctly and climbed with difficulty the staircase. Slow-paced and stubborn, the old man showed his pride despite being in a situation that is at odds with the city's hectic lifestyle.

The second one was far less proud of being old in London. And again, it happened in the tube. The train came to a grinding halt and this old guy fell on his knees. He hung on the pole and swayed for a while like a washed out sock pegged on a line. A man standing close to the poor chap helped him out, but with so little energy that the old bloke stared beggingly at a young boy passing by, carelessly listening to some music on his i-pod, for some extra help. The extra help didn't come. In the end I jumped up and tried to help, since none of my tube-fellows seemed to be bothered by the scene. And the old man managed to get out of the hellish train towards unknown destination.

Finally, we get to the third and last episode: an old lady that fell on the pavement. I was walking to the cinema with a friend of mine, when we saw this elderly woman sitting down on the cold pavement. An old man stood close and a young guy was leaning over the lady offering some help. The woman was visibly shocked and so was her husband. She touched her head and her hands in pain. Like blinkered horses people passed by. Not even the most basic of first aid was put into force by those who saw the scene. The security man and the shop assistant of the store nearby seemed even more lost than the old couple. They had probably never heard of 999 or 112. At last, a woman arrived, leaned over the old lady and called an ambulance. We assisted the old woman for a while, until two policemen arrived. My friend and I served our elementary duty of helping a needy person when almost nobody else cared.

Frenzied, energetic and lively as it is, London sometimes lack the most warming of human needs: being helpful, being friendly, being unselfish.

Arts and Follies, Consumerism and Street Smart Kids: too much for just one day

In the end I didn't manage to go to the AA meeting. The shutters of the office were almost wrecked and inside neglet and dust reigned. My friend and I gave up disappointedly the idea of exploring the issues and lives of wretched alcoholics and drug addicts and decided to go somewhere else. This City has more to offer than pollution and ready-made food courts.

First stop: Oxford Street. From there we rambled towards Carnaby Street: an alley for fashion junkies and design addicts. The shops had familiar names, international brands and colourful shopwindows. An amazing store sold hats of all sorts and fashions: from classic black and white NY branded baseball cap to green and grey tartan berets. I felt like Alice in Wonderland once again. Consumerism and the universe of choice. Shelves that were literally vomiting goods overhung me. And then we had a sushi meal in a lovely shop that sold all kinds of whole food: cheesecakes, cereals, cookies, juices, chocolate bars, jams, bread and more.

Next stop: we randomly arrived in Trocadero and saw a massive billboard: "Ripley's Museum: Believe it or Not". What's that? We crossed the street and checked it out. The gift shop was any kid's bonanza: an endless choice of sweets -coke jujubes, liquorice wheels, chocolate-coated nuts, lollipops-, pointless goodies and books of long-fogotten memorabilia. The bright colours gave me a thrill of excitement and I felt like a child again. A wonderful feeling. But there's a price to happiness. We bought two tickets for the museum -f***ing expensive!- and crossed our fingers hoping for the best.

After queuing and wondering how much time of our lives we waste queuing (at the bank, at the post office, in the tube, in the museum and so on), we entered. First impression: not worth it. But as we moved forward we realised that the museum had some interesting things to offer. Human's fascination for the wacky, the weird, the bizzarre has some intriguing allure in its obsessiveness. Why are we so attracted to the eccentric, to the extravagant, to the unexplicable? Is it just a healthy anthropological curiosity of others' cultures and skills? Is it a self-reassuring means of looking at our own lives? Is it a self-comforting tool to appreciate our relative "normality", "sanity" better? Do we need the extreme to enjoy the common?

Whatever the reason, there were loads of peculiar stuff in this strange collection. A loads of stimula and topics to talk about with my fellow adventurer. Agoraphobic artist Enrique Ramos made the best of the time he spent barricaded home by meticulously crafting paintings out of the bodies of dead butterflies or pieces of stamps from all over the world. J.F. Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe proved excellent models for his imaginary world of self-imposed conviction. His extraordinary creativity topped by a sprinckle of folly went so far that he reproduced Leonardo da Vinci's Last Supper on a grain of rice. His miniatures of the Royal Family were stunning.


In this temple of freaks we could see humankind's recklessness at its utmost: screenings of people without limbs, crazy stuntmen that could carry a rickshaw attached to their eyelids, dying carpenters that carved their own testament wood statue and stuck on it their own hair, fingernails and brows. It makes you shiver and consider how hard it is to make a sense out of our lives. Among the size-freaks -the tallest and the fattest men ever alive- I had the chance to take part in this wondrous fair and became a freak myself. A two-way mirror tricked me as I played games with my tongue (wonder of wonders, I can double fold it, flower fold it and make it forked like a snake)...to the amusement of the visitors on the other side.

A light-blue wax head of a Chinese reminded me of Lupin from1980's movie Big Trouble in Little China, the model of a Wolf Man reminded me of Fur, the film based on photographer Diane Arbus's life. All my childhood's paranoid thoughts suddenly bubbled up: the clown from IT, the Oompa-Lumpas from 1971's Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and, as I wandered in the Mirror Maze, the villain from The Wizard of Oz that removed and changed head on her whim. This labyrinth of memorabilia might be as well a House of Horrors in a theme park. The line that separates the marvellous from the dreadful is extremely thin.

The museum revealed also an anthropology section. I marvelled at a penis sheath from somewhere exotic and even more at the shrunken skulls from the Amazon. I felt uneasiness at the sight of girls pulling down the level of a fake electric chair and laughing hard at the painful cries of the the condemned dummy. They took photos and repeated the scene more than once. An eerie scene, indeed. This deadly tool invented by a wicked dentist was used only in the US and in Indonesia. The girls probably didn't grasp the reality lying behind. I sighed at the thought that the death penalty was abolished back in 1889 in Italy. Is this civilization?




The best part of the museum was the very last attraction: a passage through a blue rolling tube crammed with iridescent yellow and pink dots. The score reveals the character of the experience: Born Slippy by the Underworld from the film Trainspotting. You are walking straight but the tube around you spins so fast that you feel dizzy, stumble, lean on the handrail. You feel like a junkie and it's just a psychological reaction. For the weak ones, a chicken run is also available.

After the museum we went back to Oxford Street. The crowd of buyers that, hands on their pockets, fill every single shop make me wonder and brood over the meaning of life: what's the point in working all week to spend the saturday in stores to give away the money? Stuff, stuff, stuff. I see cash and punds and credit cards and bank withdrawals all around. And grumpy people. Spellbound people. People in chains. Educated, smart people that run around in circle and are fettered to capitalism. Are they happy? I doubt it. They have it all and don't have nothing.

My date was a Nigerian-born Englishman that never saw a shooting star. Is there such a thing? On a lucky day in summertime a couple of years ago I went on the mountains and saw 43 shooting stars in a row. He never saw one in his whole life. 43 free wishes to express in one night. Here in London, wishes are coins cast in tiny fountains or thrown in a sham blackhole.

We went in a massive sportswear store, the cathedral of capitalism. Consuming consuming consuming. My friend's thinking is all about making money. Figures, business, profit. The mindset in this country is very enterpreneurial. Which is great. People are prompted to think with their own brains, to take risks to set up a company. And who fails falls out of the game. It's no wonder that Charles Darwin, father of the evolutionary theory, was English. You play the game, you gamble. If you're fit you survive. Otherwise you die. Such a theory could have never been conceived in a Catholic country. I reckon my Catholic frame of mind despite my lack of faith in God. Charity to us (Italians) has a totally different meaning than here. Charity comes along with humility and sharing. And despite the grandeur of the Vatican, everyday people are really out there to help and be close to others. In Britain charity means fund raising, expensive dinners and celebrities' sponsorship. Max Weber's theory that capitalism and protestantism are intertwined is dawning on me as clear as it has never been before.

Walking back home at around 9pm we met some kids. They looked 8 to me. I wanted to investigate. My friend suggested that he should go. He asked them about their age. They were 11, four of them. Eating crisps, cycling, hanging around. They asked him why he was asking. He made up some excuses. They were flippant, defiant. They smelt the bullshit and didn't want to be fooled. They said something about their favourite football team. I gaped at them. Street smart kids. Too young to be so angry, so aggressive, though. I felt much more innocent than them, much more naive, and I am twice as old. What kind of childhood are they living? What are their aspirations? What can they expect out of their lives? Who takes care of them? Being here makes me fancy about becoming a teacher. My caring side emerges every now and then. There are too many brats these days.

The Imaginarium and the Storytelling

There were a couple of details that could have put me off in Terry Gilliam's The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, from the wise midget to the whole circus-like setting. (Honestly, who hasn't a creepy feeling when it comes to circus, clowns, freaks?). But, if I were a film critic I would never start my review with a "Terry Glliam creates a universe of fantasy and weirdness in his latest visionary The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus". It would be way too dull and trite.

On the contrary, I found the film rather political and social focused. Subtle criticism is interspersed within the plot and intertwines beautifully with the magical world of its main characters. The story is a bit pretentious, but Gilliam has a vibrant and engaging way of telling it. Mmm...I wonder if engaging is the appropriate expression since a couple of people abandoned the screening halfway through (incidentally, I've been twice to the movies so far and both times some people left in the middle of the show. I wonder why that happens. In Italy, and a French friend confirmed it also for her home country, that would never happen. Or it would rarely happen. My hypothesis is that Londoners are so busy that if a film isn't good enough they wouldn't waste their precious time watching it).

Going back to The Imaginarium... I found it rather critical of England. The time setting is supposed to be contemporary, but the world of the travelling theatre seems to belong to a long-forgotten past. The past of thousand-year-old Doctor Parnassus. The presence of Tony is never well-explained, as well as each character's story. Where does the midget come from?
But that's not the point of the story. It's not about explaining. It's all about suggesting, it's all about hinting. Suggesting an imaginary world of desires and dreaming that leads straightaway to death. The only way to escape it is a fatal deal with the devil. And here comes the criticism: the devil has red hair. Interesting choice of dye. Everyone who knows me a bit knows that I don't like red-haired guys (I mean, aesthetically). And being ginger is a very common feature among Englishmen. The main female character, Valentina a.k.a. Lily Cole, also has red hair. Her beauty, gentleness and naughtiness (her father calls her scrappy) at the same time, level out the discrepancy with her malicious male counterparts.

Greed is also pilloried sharply in the film. The paradise of shoes in which the fancy old lady revels, the spiteful promise that Doctor Parnassus seals with the devil are all part of this criticism. But most strikingly the director tears to pieces the whole charity propaganda, showing its fake, hypocrisy and abysmal brutality. Corruption exploiting children's sufferings is portrayed in a rather grotesque way, which reminded me of some Otto Dix's paintings. Lopsided perspectives and unnaturally bright colours add Gilliam's style to the oddities of the movie.

The film is imbued with metaphors. Some of them refer to a long-established tradition: the devil as a smarmy snake, Charon the ferryman who accompanies the souls in the hereafter, the sound of clarinets to underline the lovers' first encounter in the very opera's fashion. Other Italian references are Tony's a.k.a. Heath Ledger's costume that resembles Punch's, the Neapolitan character of XXVI century Commedia dell'Arte, and Valentina's representation as a modern version of the Venus of Botticelli. Other symbols are more intriguing and more theme-related. The ever fascinating metaphor of the travelling theatre as life experience juxtaposed to settling down and the linked device of the mirror as tool to search inside one's soul. Both elements were typical of the baroque. And then the tarots, the steep mountain, the police that defeat Russian mafia by showing their arses... The blatant farce is depicted in splendid grandeur and accuracy.

As well as mesmerizing the audience's eye, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus sows here and there pearls of wisdom that are worth noting down. Tony's dirty plans were revealed by an inquiry that was cover story on The Sun. When questioned by Valentina's true-blue friend Anton he replies: "Don't always believe what you read in the newspaper, especially The Mirror" (pun intended?). Quite a barb, ain't it? Especially when you consider that soon later Percy, the dwarf assistant of the company, suggests his master that telling the truth is always a bad idea.

But the most powerful of lines is a catchy phrase uttered by Doctor Parnassus himself addressing the devil: "You can't stop stories from being told".

The past few days have been all about storytelling. Yesterday's International news class had Jeff Nathenson, partner manager at Google and YouTube, as guest speaker. Beside his precious advices on how we should exploit technology at its utmost possibility, he told us that in the end it's all about storytelling. The way a reporter, a journalist, a freelance brands him/herself depends on how he/she tells the story. And he invited us to find our own way to do that. Next guest was Salim Amin, CEO at A24media.com, the independent African 24 hours news channel. He showed us an incredible and moving documentary about the journey he took to trace back his father's footsteps. Bits of footage of Mohammed Amin's report of the famine in Ethiopia in 1984 mingled with contemporary footage of the same country and the very same places where the human catastrophe took place.

Amin's photoreporting was inspiring. He was able to make a difference and raise awareness an money to help people. It was also disturbing and heavy to bear. The words of a commentator towards the end of the bit we watched struck me like darts. MohammedAmin's footage was so deep, so powerful that compelled the viewer to struggle against his conscience, to have a thorough a look inside one's life and reconsider one's priorities. I don't know if I will ever be able to experience something like that. Being a foreign reporter means being ruthless. How can you face famine, suffering and death and then go away? I wondered: how can we be so shallow to care about technology and fashion when people in the world are starving?

And again today. Shirin Neshat, Iranian artist and filmmaker, said at a panel debate at the London Film Festival that in the end it's all about storytelling. Writing and directing a movie is storytelling.

I could easily define myself a storyteller. Being a storyteller sounds much better than being a journalist.


Quick note: Never make a deal with the devil. It's never a good idea. See The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus and Dorian Gray for confirmation. Immortality is something we shouldn't aspire to.
Quick note 2: It was disquieting seeing Heath Ledger's first appearance in the film as the hanged man.
Quick note 3: The 16-year-old sort of curse reminded me of my favourite Disney heroine: Aurora, a.k.a. The Sleeping Beauty. Sweet 16...a dangerous turning point for a girl, apparently.