Hilton, that is.
I keep seeing headlines about Paris's new "post-prison look." People keep talking as if she's done time in some maximum security lockdown, instead of a few weeks county jail. I'm sure county jail is terrible; I know I wouldn't particularly want to go there. But am I wrong in thinking there's a major difference between prison and county jail?
Someone a few weeks ago wrote that with this whole jail thing, we'll never be rid of her now. I shudder to think that he might be right.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Santiago II
My plans to leave Santiago by the night train were frustrated by the simple fact that there were no more seats available. The man at the train station told me so, emphatically, several times: “no hay ninguno.”
You could tell he was frustrated with me. I hope he could tell I was frustrated with him. It wasn’t his fault, of course; he was just an officious RENFE man with no vested interest in helping a stranded foreigner; it was my own fault for deciding to wait until the last minute to buy my return ticket.
If this had been an episode of “Amazing Race,” and if I were 15 years younger, blond, and female, I might have been able to work a miracle. But in my present condition I didn’t think flirting would work with him, so I stalked out to find a place to stay. I resolved to try the first hotel I came across, which happened to be fairly close to the train station. It also turned out to be not only cheaper, but nicer than the place I’m staying in Madrid, except for the fact that the shower didn’t work and I ended up having to take a bath. Why did I wait so long to head back to the train station, you ask? Because it was Corpus Christi and I thought it might be interesting to see the procession.
Earlier when I had visited the cathedral I had picked up a flyer announcing that the Corpus Christi procession would take place that evening at 7:30. I thought, ok, I’ll hang out by the cathedral for awhile, take a few pictures of the procession and head over to the train station around 8. This was a foolish assumption. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that I would have to stand through another mass first. Yes, actually, I do know why. Because when I went to the fiesta for my friend Joaquín’s pueblo in Asturias (San Román, if I remember correctly), they started with the procession and ended up at the church for the mass. Alas, that was not to be in this case. I had already been to one mass earlier in the day, but I wasn’t sure at what point in the service they would break for the procession, so I decided to stick it out.
About 90 minutes later I found out that the procession came at the end (I’m sure if I were Catholic I would have known that already), and then the procession left through the door opposite the one where I was standing. By then I was tired of standing, so I decided to hightail it over to the train station before I collapsed altogether. Despite my tiredness and non-Catholic ignorance, I found it to be a fascinating service. This one pulled out all the stops. The entire cathedral chapter was there in full regalia, including the archbishop. They had the organ going, which was pretty cool. I like a good organ. It sounded pretty great, which must mean they keep it in better shape than it looks. Not that it looks bad, it just looks old and a little spider webby.
After awhile I wandered toward the Portico de la Gloria, still under the illusion that I could make a quick escape and take pictures as the procession left the church, and got to witness a moment of high irony when the police loudly rousted a beggar out of the doorway at almost the exact moment that the archbishop was talking about the Christian duty to remember the poor.
There was a lot of singing and chanting in this mass, which I found quite moving. I was not the only one; at a key point in the service when the archbishop was chanting, some boneheaded pilgrim (I assume, from the shorts and general air of greasiness) moved out into the aisle and started doing what looked an awful lot like the antler dance (obscure SNL reference -- 1976, Lily Tomlin hosted). I saw a tie-died sixties relic dancing that way at a Santana concert once; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the pilgrim hold up acigarette lighter and start flicking.
Then it was over, and I was off to the train station, only to find myself stranded. I could have looked at the bright side and chosen to see this as an opportunity to head back up toward the cathedral, eat tapas, and have some fun. But by that time I just wanted to climb into bed and sleep. Which I did.
Speaking of tapas, I found a cool tavern where I sampled an array of montaditos while I waited for the Corpus Christi mass to start. One nice thing about Santiago is that everything is cheaper than in Madrid. They had some cool montaditos for maybe 1.50 euros. One of the better ones was a piquillo pepper stuffed with tuna. There was also one with bacalao and roasted green pepper.
I have never been to the Pacific Northwest, so I might be way off base, but Santiago de Compostela strikes me as being somewhat akin to what I imagine that area to be like. Clouds moved through all day, so in a split second you could go from bright hot sun, to cool shade, to misty drizzle, to a downpour. I was sitting in the Plaza de Obradoiro working on a paper when random, fat drops began to splash near and around me. I quickly grabbed my things and got undercover with other refugees from the plaza. Within 15 minutes it was over.
Speaking of the Plaza de Obradoiro, there’s a tunnel-like walkway that open sonto the plaza where a bagpiper chose to stand and play, probably because of the acoustics. A bagpiper can be a cool thing, good for a picture. But gradually it dawned on me as I tried to work on my paper that an hour had gone by and the guy had not shut up. Two minutes of bagpiper for a photo op is tolerable; a bagpiper who won’t shut up is a tool of the devil. I’m just saying.
One last observation: Santiago de Compostela has the cleanest train station restroom I have ever seen. Kudos to the cleaning lady.
You could tell he was frustrated with me. I hope he could tell I was frustrated with him. It wasn’t his fault, of course; he was just an officious RENFE man with no vested interest in helping a stranded foreigner; it was my own fault for deciding to wait until the last minute to buy my return ticket.
If this had been an episode of “Amazing Race,” and if I were 15 years younger, blond, and female, I might have been able to work a miracle. But in my present condition I didn’t think flirting would work with him, so I stalked out to find a place to stay. I resolved to try the first hotel I came across, which happened to be fairly close to the train station. It also turned out to be not only cheaper, but nicer than the place I’m staying in Madrid, except for the fact that the shower didn’t work and I ended up having to take a bath. Why did I wait so long to head back to the train station, you ask? Because it was Corpus Christi and I thought it might be interesting to see the procession.
Earlier when I had visited the cathedral I had picked up a flyer announcing that the Corpus Christi procession would take place that evening at 7:30. I thought, ok, I’ll hang out by the cathedral for awhile, take a few pictures of the procession and head over to the train station around 8. This was a foolish assumption. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that I would have to stand through another mass first. Yes, actually, I do know why. Because when I went to the fiesta for my friend Joaquín’s pueblo in Asturias (San Román, if I remember correctly), they started with the procession and ended up at the church for the mass. Alas, that was not to be in this case. I had already been to one mass earlier in the day, but I wasn’t sure at what point in the service they would break for the procession, so I decided to stick it out.
About 90 minutes later I found out that the procession came at the end (I’m sure if I were Catholic I would have known that already), and then the procession left through the door opposite the one where I was standing. By then I was tired of standing, so I decided to hightail it over to the train station before I collapsed altogether. Despite my tiredness and non-Catholic ignorance, I found it to be a fascinating service. This one pulled out all the stops. The entire cathedral chapter was there in full regalia, including the archbishop. They had the organ going, which was pretty cool. I like a good organ. It sounded pretty great, which must mean they keep it in better shape than it looks. Not that it looks bad, it just looks old and a little spider webby.
After awhile I wandered toward the Portico de la Gloria, still under the illusion that I could make a quick escape and take pictures as the procession left the church, and got to witness a moment of high irony when the police loudly rousted a beggar out of the doorway at almost the exact moment that the archbishop was talking about the Christian duty to remember the poor.
There was a lot of singing and chanting in this mass, which I found quite moving. I was not the only one; at a key point in the service when the archbishop was chanting, some boneheaded pilgrim (I assume, from the shorts and general air of greasiness) moved out into the aisle and started doing what looked an awful lot like the antler dance (obscure SNL reference -- 1976, Lily Tomlin hosted). I saw a tie-died sixties relic dancing that way at a Santana concert once; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the pilgrim hold up acigarette lighter and start flicking.
Then it was over, and I was off to the train station, only to find myself stranded. I could have looked at the bright side and chosen to see this as an opportunity to head back up toward the cathedral, eat tapas, and have some fun. But by that time I just wanted to climb into bed and sleep. Which I did.
Speaking of tapas, I found a cool tavern where I sampled an array of montaditos while I waited for the Corpus Christi mass to start. One nice thing about Santiago is that everything is cheaper than in Madrid. They had some cool montaditos for maybe 1.50 euros. One of the better ones was a piquillo pepper stuffed with tuna. There was also one with bacalao and roasted green pepper.
I have never been to the Pacific Northwest, so I might be way off base, but Santiago de Compostela strikes me as being somewhat akin to what I imagine that area to be like. Clouds moved through all day, so in a split second you could go from bright hot sun, to cool shade, to misty drizzle, to a downpour. I was sitting in the Plaza de Obradoiro working on a paper when random, fat drops began to splash near and around me. I quickly grabbed my things and got undercover with other refugees from the plaza. Within 15 minutes it was over.
Speaking of the Plaza de Obradoiro, there’s a tunnel-like walkway that open sonto the plaza where a bagpiper chose to stand and play, probably because of the acoustics. A bagpiper can be a cool thing, good for a picture. But gradually it dawned on me as I tried to work on my paper that an hour had gone by and the guy had not shut up. Two minutes of bagpiper for a photo op is tolerable; a bagpiper who won’t shut up is a tool of the devil. I’m just saying.
One last observation: Santiago de Compostela has the cleanest train station restroom I have ever seen. Kudos to the cleaning lady.
Santiago de Compostela I
I took a night train up to Santiago de Compostela, planning to see the town and then take the next night's train back down to Madrid.
A word about pilgrims: for people supposedly so wrapped up in the transcendant, life altering, spritual experience of the camino, they sure have limited respect for what some people consider to be sacred.
There are signs all over the cathedral saying "no flash photography". So everyone uses flash. There are signs saying no tourism stuff during Mass. So what do they do? Wander the aisles, noisily get up and down, stand up and wave to their friends, shoot pictures with cameras that beep.
I don´t know. I´m not Catholic, but if I´m in a Catholic church during mass I try to have respect for the place and the people in it.
At least I can take comfort in knowing that most of these people, at least the ones I saw today, were not ugly Americans. They were ugly Germans, mostly, with some French mixed in. And some were quite ugly, in the metaphorical and literal sense. One guy had obviousy just arrived by bike. He was in his biking gear, and apparently was wearing nothing underneath, if the prominent bulge in his stretch pants was anything to go by.
I guess pilgrim behavior in the cathedral has always been a problem, though, which is why Gelmirez cut off access to the saint´s tomb in the 12th century.
I have to say that I love Santiago and am kicking myself for never having come here before. When I arrived at 7 a.m. the place struck me as quite clean; of course, the pilgrims were not yet up and about at that point. I had some tasty chocolate a la taza at a little bar with a non-nasty restroom. Later I had some caldo gallego and pulpo gallego (when in Galicia, you know). Later this evening is the Corpus Christi procession, so I think I´ll be heading back for that.
A word about pilgrims: for people supposedly so wrapped up in the transcendant, life altering, spritual experience of the camino, they sure have limited respect for what some people consider to be sacred.
There are signs all over the cathedral saying "no flash photography". So everyone uses flash. There are signs saying no tourism stuff during Mass. So what do they do? Wander the aisles, noisily get up and down, stand up and wave to their friends, shoot pictures with cameras that beep.
I don´t know. I´m not Catholic, but if I´m in a Catholic church during mass I try to have respect for the place and the people in it.
At least I can take comfort in knowing that most of these people, at least the ones I saw today, were not ugly Americans. They were ugly Germans, mostly, with some French mixed in. And some were quite ugly, in the metaphorical and literal sense. One guy had obviousy just arrived by bike. He was in his biking gear, and apparently was wearing nothing underneath, if the prominent bulge in his stretch pants was anything to go by.
I guess pilgrim behavior in the cathedral has always been a problem, though, which is why Gelmirez cut off access to the saint´s tomb in the 12th century.
I have to say that I love Santiago and am kicking myself for never having come here before. When I arrived at 7 a.m. the place struck me as quite clean; of course, the pilgrims were not yet up and about at that point. I had some tasty chocolate a la taza at a little bar with a non-nasty restroom. Later I had some caldo gallego and pulpo gallego (when in Galicia, you know). Later this evening is the Corpus Christi procession, so I think I´ll be heading back for that.
Working at the Biblioteca Real
There was a book I needed to consult that was only at the Palace Library, so I went over to the Royal Palace. Quite cool. For one thing, I was the only one there. The security people radioed from the entrance "uno para la biblioteca". Then they gave me a badge and usured me through.
It´s fun going places where regular tourists do not get to tread. The reading room is roomy, with a lofty baroque ceiling. Bookshelves line every wall. When I went to pay for my photocopies they sent me to the secretary, who kept being through one more set of doors, around another corner, over squeaky floors and past rooms and rooms full of old books. I felt like I was entering the inner sanctum of some Arturo Perez Reverte novel (who is, after all, merely a Spanish knockoff of Umberto Eco).
Here´s another observation that might get me crucified by the 20th century types among you: After watching Un chien andalou and part of L´age d´or at the Reina Sofia museum, I have decided that surrealism is B.S. I mean, I get that Bunuel was a genious, but the thing played like the bad home movie of a precocious and overly self-conscious high school drama geek.
I guess I belong where I am: in the middle ages.
It´s fun going places where regular tourists do not get to tread. The reading room is roomy, with a lofty baroque ceiling. Bookshelves line every wall. When I went to pay for my photocopies they sent me to the secretary, who kept being through one more set of doors, around another corner, over squeaky floors and past rooms and rooms full of old books. I felt like I was entering the inner sanctum of some Arturo Perez Reverte novel (who is, after all, merely a Spanish knockoff of Umberto Eco).
Here´s another observation that might get me crucified by the 20th century types among you: After watching Un chien andalou and part of L´age d´or at the Reina Sofia museum, I have decided that surrealism is B.S. I mean, I get that Bunuel was a genious, but the thing played like the bad home movie of a precocious and overly self-conscious high school drama geek.
I guess I belong where I am: in the middle ages.
Random thoughts on Spain
A few random observations from my recent trip to Madrid:
1. Not all cafes are created equal. I had what I thought was impossible: anabsolutely flavorless ensaladilla rusa at a cafe near Atocha station today, notto mention the albondigas that tasted of cardboard, heavily-flavored with onion.
2. Bullfighting is rife with ironies, not the least of which is that theultimate macho battle of man against beast features men who wear skin-tightsparkly suits with pink socks.
3. While watching a bullfight on TV other night, one matador was interviewed,apparently one of the top matadors in the country, even though he looks barelyover 20. The interviewer asks a question, and the kid opens his mouth, and Iswear, he’s still waiting for his testicles to drop. Imagine Mike Tysontalking, but make him 100 pounds lighter, and dress him in a sparkly suit with pink socks.
4. The house where Cervantes lived and died was on Calle Cervantes, just downthe street from the Casa Museo de Lope de Vega, also on Calle Cervantes. In theultimate indignity, Cervantes was buried, I believe, in the Trinitarian conventjust around the corner on Calle Lope de Vega.
5. That whole neighborhood around the intersection of Calles Huertas and Leon,where the Academia de la Historia sits, is now being called the Barrio de lasLetras. Periodically, you will find literary quotes written in what appears tobe brass inlaid into the pavement on Calle Huertas and other streets, fromEspronceda, Cervantes, Quevedo, etc. Despite the literary pretensions, however,the whole neighborhood still smells like pee.
6. Madrid is always and eternally “en obras.”
7. The Prado is being expanded, which has had the ironic effect of constrictingspace on the inside. Entire sections have been closed off for remodelingleading to awkward bottlenecks where rivers of tourists converge into oneseething, sweaty, smelly mass before splitting off again into their respectivetributaries. Even though I’m carrying a camera, I like to consider myself a cutabove the standard tourist, since I’m here for work, dammit, and therefore Iresent it when I find the paintings that I am particularly interested insurrounded by tour groups with their droning guides.
8. That does not stop me from occasionally eavesdropping, however. Hey, if they’re going to intrude on my space, I’ll intrude on theirs.
9. I also went to the Reina Sofia museum today and discovered that, at least today, I prefer representational art over non-representational.
10. Spanish TV has more channels now, but it’s still just as bad as ever.
11. The President, Zapatero, looks like Mr. Bean.
1. Not all cafes are created equal. I had what I thought was impossible: anabsolutely flavorless ensaladilla rusa at a cafe near Atocha station today, notto mention the albondigas that tasted of cardboard, heavily-flavored with onion.
2. Bullfighting is rife with ironies, not the least of which is that theultimate macho battle of man against beast features men who wear skin-tightsparkly suits with pink socks.
3. While watching a bullfight on TV other night, one matador was interviewed,apparently one of the top matadors in the country, even though he looks barelyover 20. The interviewer asks a question, and the kid opens his mouth, and Iswear, he’s still waiting for his testicles to drop. Imagine Mike Tysontalking, but make him 100 pounds lighter, and dress him in a sparkly suit with pink socks.
4. The house where Cervantes lived and died was on Calle Cervantes, just downthe street from the Casa Museo de Lope de Vega, also on Calle Cervantes. In theultimate indignity, Cervantes was buried, I believe, in the Trinitarian conventjust around the corner on Calle Lope de Vega.
5. That whole neighborhood around the intersection of Calles Huertas and Leon,where the Academia de la Historia sits, is now being called the Barrio de lasLetras. Periodically, you will find literary quotes written in what appears tobe brass inlaid into the pavement on Calle Huertas and other streets, fromEspronceda, Cervantes, Quevedo, etc. Despite the literary pretensions, however,the whole neighborhood still smells like pee.
6. Madrid is always and eternally “en obras.”
7. The Prado is being expanded, which has had the ironic effect of constrictingspace on the inside. Entire sections have been closed off for remodelingleading to awkward bottlenecks where rivers of tourists converge into oneseething, sweaty, smelly mass before splitting off again into their respectivetributaries. Even though I’m carrying a camera, I like to consider myself a cutabove the standard tourist, since I’m here for work, dammit, and therefore Iresent it when I find the paintings that I am particularly interested insurrounded by tour groups with their droning guides.
8. That does not stop me from occasionally eavesdropping, however. Hey, if they’re going to intrude on my space, I’ll intrude on theirs.
9. I also went to the Reina Sofia museum today and discovered that, at least today, I prefer representational art over non-representational.
10. Spanish TV has more channels now, but it’s still just as bad as ever.
11. The President, Zapatero, looks like Mr. Bean.
Random observations about Spanish food
Random observations about Spanish food.
Years ago, after my first extended stay in Spain, I was elated to discover that right in my home town was a Spanish restaurant. I called them up and asked what I thought was a reasonable question: Do you guys serve cocido? I got a frosty silence followed by an acerbic “we serve Spanish cuisine here.”
To me, real Spanish cooking is exemplified by cocido, not by cuisine. Here’s some random thoughts about some Spanish dishes.
Tortilla. When I lived in Spain some 20 years ago, the country had still not discovered the microwave. Tortilla was served at room temperature. So that has forever been locked into my mind as the way tortilla should be. Today, though, if you order tortilla at some cafes (including, unfortunately, the venerable Cafe Comercial), they will automatically warm it up for you. To me, that is outrageous. But it gets worse; the tortilla I ordered at the Cafe Comercial tasted like the potatoes had been boiled instead of fried. The texture was all off, as if someone was trying to make a low-fat tortilla. The words “low-fat” and “tortilla española” do not even belong in the same sentence. The potatoes must be cooked gently in copious amounts of olive oil for the flavor and texture to be right. So the Cafe Comercial got it wrong, as far as I’m concerned.
Restaurante Los Arcos. My last full day in Madrid, I decided to eat lunch at Restaurante Los Arcos, an establishment recommended by my erstwhile colleague, Emilio Cabeza-Olías. That lunch is the reason siestas were invented. Ideally, I would have lingered over it for two hours, chatting with friends while my body slowing absorbed what I had foisted upon it, then gone home and slept while the absorbing continued. But I was by myself, which meant the lunch did not last as long as it should have, since I am by nature not very sociable with people I don’t know. Astoundingly, this restaurant had a separate room for non-smokers, so I dined in blissfully fresh air, although a certain essence of the Spanish experience was missing. I ordered “pimientos rellenos” as my first course. I believe these were piquillo peppers, stuffed with what tasted like sauted jamon serrano, among other things. It was really hard to tell, because like chilis rellenos the peppers were enveloped in an eggy batter, and then swamped in a sauce that was out of this world. The sauce was tomato based, but it had a meaty flavor somewhat reminiscent of the broth you get when you slow cook a pot roast. It was very rich, with just enough of a tomato tang to pucker my taste buds. The whole thing was served in an earthenware cazuela, for added authenticity.The next course was “cochinillo cochifrito.” Once before I have had “cochinillo cochifrito.” I was with my friend Damian in Avila, and what arrived on my plate was flattened and crisped beyond all recognition. I finally recognized that what I had been gnawing on and attempting to extract meat from was a little, tiny piglet jaw complete with molars. Because of this previous “cochinillo” setback, I hesitated between this and the more expensive “cochinillo asado,” but in the end I decided to give the “cochifrito” another try. Succulent comes close to describing it. Chunks of crisp, fatty meat fell from the bone with very little urging, yielding juicy, salty goodness with every bite.I wasn’t sure if I could cram more food in, but I decided to give dessert a try. I opted for the flan. Flan can be mediocre, or very bad. The best custards do not have little air bubbles trapped in them. Bubbles fossilize and completely ruin the texture of a flan. This flan was clean; no air bubbles to be found. Great care had been taken with this flan, and you could taste it in every bite.
Years ago, after my first extended stay in Spain, I was elated to discover that right in my home town was a Spanish restaurant. I called them up and asked what I thought was a reasonable question: Do you guys serve cocido? I got a frosty silence followed by an acerbic “we serve Spanish cuisine here.”
To me, real Spanish cooking is exemplified by cocido, not by cuisine. Here’s some random thoughts about some Spanish dishes.
Tortilla. When I lived in Spain some 20 years ago, the country had still not discovered the microwave. Tortilla was served at room temperature. So that has forever been locked into my mind as the way tortilla should be. Today, though, if you order tortilla at some cafes (including, unfortunately, the venerable Cafe Comercial), they will automatically warm it up for you. To me, that is outrageous. But it gets worse; the tortilla I ordered at the Cafe Comercial tasted like the potatoes had been boiled instead of fried. The texture was all off, as if someone was trying to make a low-fat tortilla. The words “low-fat” and “tortilla española” do not even belong in the same sentence. The potatoes must be cooked gently in copious amounts of olive oil for the flavor and texture to be right. So the Cafe Comercial got it wrong, as far as I’m concerned.
Restaurante Los Arcos. My last full day in Madrid, I decided to eat lunch at Restaurante Los Arcos, an establishment recommended by my erstwhile colleague, Emilio Cabeza-Olías. That lunch is the reason siestas were invented. Ideally, I would have lingered over it for two hours, chatting with friends while my body slowing absorbed what I had foisted upon it, then gone home and slept while the absorbing continued. But I was by myself, which meant the lunch did not last as long as it should have, since I am by nature not very sociable with people I don’t know. Astoundingly, this restaurant had a separate room for non-smokers, so I dined in blissfully fresh air, although a certain essence of the Spanish experience was missing. I ordered “pimientos rellenos” as my first course. I believe these were piquillo peppers, stuffed with what tasted like sauted jamon serrano, among other things. It was really hard to tell, because like chilis rellenos the peppers were enveloped in an eggy batter, and then swamped in a sauce that was out of this world. The sauce was tomato based, but it had a meaty flavor somewhat reminiscent of the broth you get when you slow cook a pot roast. It was very rich, with just enough of a tomato tang to pucker my taste buds. The whole thing was served in an earthenware cazuela, for added authenticity.The next course was “cochinillo cochifrito.” Once before I have had “cochinillo cochifrito.” I was with my friend Damian in Avila, and what arrived on my plate was flattened and crisped beyond all recognition. I finally recognized that what I had been gnawing on and attempting to extract meat from was a little, tiny piglet jaw complete with molars. Because of this previous “cochinillo” setback, I hesitated between this and the more expensive “cochinillo asado,” but in the end I decided to give the “cochifrito” another try. Succulent comes close to describing it. Chunks of crisp, fatty meat fell from the bone with very little urging, yielding juicy, salty goodness with every bite.I wasn’t sure if I could cram more food in, but I decided to give dessert a try. I opted for the flan. Flan can be mediocre, or very bad. The best custards do not have little air bubbles trapped in them. Bubbles fossilize and completely ruin the texture of a flan. This flan was clean; no air bubbles to be found. Great care had been taken with this flan, and you could taste it in every bite.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Quixote article in LA Times
My friend Damian sent me this link to an article in the LA Times about the continuing impact of Don Quixote in Latin American culture. Very interesting piece; worth a read.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
While in Madrid I picked up a copy of Alatriste, a Golden Age period epic that follows the adventures of soldier and sword-for-hire Diego Alatriste in early 17th-century Madrid. The film stars Viggo Mortenson in the title role, and borrows elements from the first five novels in the Alatriste series by Arturo Pérez Reverte.
This was the most expensive Spanish feature ever produced, although by American standards it was woefully under-budgeted. It wonderfully captures the paradoxes of Golden Age Spain – a country at its height culturally and artistically, but also beginning its centuries-long decline.
The filmmakers had a wealth of material to choose from in the novels of Pérez Reverte; each of the five source novels could have provided enough material for a solid adventure movie on its own. Combining them into a single panoramic epic that covers 20 years in the life of its hero has the unfortunate effect of diminishing substantially its cinematic impact.
Budgetary constraints are also evident from time to time. Scenes that ought to be grand in scope feel claustrophobic at times, as if by filming in dark light and confined spaces the director sought to camouflage inadequate sets and locations.
Despite these weaknesses, Alatriste is a cinematic event that cannot be missed by aficionados of Golden Age Spain.
This was the most expensive Spanish feature ever produced, although by American standards it was woefully under-budgeted. It wonderfully captures the paradoxes of Golden Age Spain – a country at its height culturally and artistically, but also beginning its centuries-long decline.
The filmmakers had a wealth of material to choose from in the novels of Pérez Reverte; each of the five source novels could have provided enough material for a solid adventure movie on its own. Combining them into a single panoramic epic that covers 20 years in the life of its hero has the unfortunate effect of diminishing substantially its cinematic impact.
Budgetary constraints are also evident from time to time. Scenes that ought to be grand in scope feel claustrophobic at times, as if by filming in dark light and confined spaces the director sought to camouflage inadequate sets and locations.
Despite these weaknesses, Alatriste is a cinematic event that cannot be missed by aficionados of Golden Age Spain.
Good Read
I picked up a book at the book fair in Madrid called Ladrones de tinta. It’s sort of a mystery novel where the hero is contracted by Cervantes’s editor to discover the identity of Avellaneda. Along the way he rubs shoulders with pretty much every heavy hitter in Madrid circa 1614: Lope, Quevedo, Tirso, Góngora and myriad others, high and low.
Occasionally the book feels like it’s trying too hard; every time the hero meets a literary icon, said icon is in the middle of writing one of his iconic works and the hero just happens to make a key suggestion (such as the entire plot of Fuenteovejuna). However, the book is lively, and paints a vivid picture of Madrid in the Golden Age, complete with the sights, sounds, and smells of the streets, the grooming habits of the people, and a very vivid description of how to treat hemorrhoids.
One small quibble: I don’t think a chapter goes by without some mention of urination; apparently bachelors in Golden Age Madrid had a habit of forgetting to empty their chamber pots. All that aside, the book was loads of fun and I recommend it for your summer enjoyment.
Occasionally the book feels like it’s trying too hard; every time the hero meets a literary icon, said icon is in the middle of writing one of his iconic works and the hero just happens to make a key suggestion (such as the entire plot of Fuenteovejuna). However, the book is lively, and paints a vivid picture of Madrid in the Golden Age, complete with the sights, sounds, and smells of the streets, the grooming habits of the people, and a very vivid description of how to treat hemorrhoids.
One small quibble: I don’t think a chapter goes by without some mention of urination; apparently bachelors in Golden Age Madrid had a habit of forgetting to empty their chamber pots. All that aside, the book was loads of fun and I recommend it for your summer enjoyment.
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