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A true story

At first I wanted to write about Shutter Island (finally saw last night) and the fact that Scorsese does not excites me more. That is the wonderful balance of Casino (probably the best films of the 90) that the good old Marcantonio Luciano can not download ventricles and liver on the film. Too perfect, even though not yet cold and calculating as Spielberg. But it's always great to see him move through the script and the actors, go naked in the room (if only to stop with the fucking air conditioning is ice cold) to see more of this quality. But still, I wanted to talk about this, I said. But no. Why Scorsese - Scorsese's alive! - Makes you want to go to the movies. And these days there
Eastwood, for example. Then

control, open and newspaper sites to find the time, to ascertain - as usual - that is projected in the original language and a volta sicuro, per evitare le fregature già sul groppone, di quelle che

si declina ogni responsabilità per variazioni di programmazione e orari non comunicati ,

concludere con una telefonata in via del Corso, giusto per fugare ogni dubbio.

Perché io e il Metropolitan (al limite insieme a qualche coppia di lingua inglese nelle ultime file) ci siamo voluti bene in quei pomeriggi solitari, quando ci abbracciavamo su quelle calde, comodissime e attraenti poltrone blu notte (superiori a quelle, color ruggine, della sala Volpi di Venezia, che dormite durante de Oliveira!) che guardavano dall’alto l’unicità di quella barra poggia piedi, fedele amica not only of the bar flies.

It 's true that after the coffee we always find a few, but sometimes, at least in the evening, I imagined, poor deluded, that the emo clique perched on the steps of Santa Maria dei Miracoli or the multitudes who flock Messengers Music Charter Mark for an autograph, could fill it from time to time. But obviously not the case.

Ok, I was aware of. I signed the paper shield that are online petitions but I thought it would happen so quickly. Death, I say. Then

has happened this past December 29.

The Metropolitan is gone. Or rather, not breathing. Then slide (all right if they pass) those afternoons when the light came in with and came out after dark and met with a little 'luck, the saxophonist of the Piazza del Popolo, perhaps led by the legacy of delusional Lynch. Scott, Eastwood, Coppola (that trip redux of the Apocalypse), where you'll find in here?

Amaro. I feel quite bitter about this. Violent as sugar.

So, come to think, to have the choice of closing the curtain, to which little can be with the shields of paper mentioned above, I would have preferred something like Blade Runner , Eight and a half. O The Apartment.

But it is my goodbye The Social Network state. Beautiful, yes. But okay.