Freitag, 26. September 2008
Twiggy: I hated how I looked in the Sixties
. . . at 59, Twiggy feels better than ever in her skin. Even if these days her secrets include packs of frozen peas and photos taken after midday, says Cassandra JardineThe encouraging truth is that Twiggy does not look nearly as young in the flesh as she does in most of the photographs in her new book about how to look fabulous over 40. She has, I am heartened to observe when we meet in a London hotel, a slight tummy, jowly bits and a light craquelure of wrinkles.
Her cleavage is not available for scrutiny because she is wearing a high-necked T-shirt - M&S, of course - teamed with mannish trousers, waistcoat, jacket, blue silk brogues that make her "feel like Fred Astaire" and navy nail polish. The combined effect is of a well-groomed, genetically blessed woman of 59, rather than a cryogenically preserved nymph.
She shouldn't mind me saying that, because her book is all about how she is content to be her age. No Botox or laser treatments for Twiggy, nor scalpels, liposuction or collagen implants. "The whole thing of being depressed about getting older is wasted energy, so I try to be positive," she says.
In fact the only surgical appliance she has used in the last couple of years has been a corset to keep her bad back in order after a disastrous moment, "like 10,000 elastic bands snapping", when she bent over in the shower. Otherwise, she is as nature has dictated, helped along by regular exercise, sleep, a good diet, skin creams, flattering (but not always expensive) clothes and careful make-up.
At the tender age of 16, she became the world’s first supermodel. Now preparing to enter her seventh decade, Twiggy is to publish a style bible for the over-forties.
Es gibt viele Ikonen aber Sie war fuer mich die erste ... Ulla
Montag, 22. September 2008
Sizilien armes Land ?
Sizilien, ein armes Land? Verwundert schaut der Fremde in die Auslagen der Juweliere und Modegeschäfte in Palermo, Syrakus oder Catania. - Das Unwesen der Mafia? Aus Sicht der Besucher blüht es im Verborgenen, für die Sizilianer ist es, trotz Erfolgen gegen das organisierte Verbrechen im Jahr 2006, als mehrere Bosse festgenommen wurden, immer noch Realität. – Heißblütige Sizilianer, überschäumende Lebensfreude? Mit Erstaunen registriert der Reisende jene sizilianische Grundstimmung, die eine charmante Kombination aus Freundlichkeit, Stolz und Melancholie bildet, jedoch im Kreis von Familie und Freunden in eine fröhliche Oper des Wohlbefindens umschlägt. - Und die Rückständigkeit Siziliens? Sicher sitzen in manchen Dörfern die Männer abends immer noch gemeinsam auf der Piazza, als gäbe es keine Frauen und keine Emanzipation. In den Städten und den vom Tourismus ›reformierten‹ Küstenorten jedoch hat die Jugend längst die Lebensformen des modernen Europa und Amerika adaptiert.
Lust Sizilien kennenzulernen? Sizilien ist zu jeder Zeit eine Reise wert
Sonntag, 14. September 2008
SAN GIUSEPPE JATO, SICILY
The crepes filled with speck ham and provola cheese are heavenly. But they don't quite distract me from my anxiety as I tuck into dinner at our Sicilian B&B.
Could this sweltering night in the rugged hills behind Palermo be the night? Will I be savouring fennel-seed sausages when the grim, heavyset men arrive? Will they pause for a second to allow the diners' curiosity to turn to numb fear before spraying the room with bullets?
There is some justification for such wild imagining. Our small inn, called the Portella della Ginestra, was once owned by the Bruscas – a family synonymous with the blood-soaked history of the Sicilian Mafia.
Bernardo Brusca was the capo of the town a few kilometres down the road from us and a convicted murderer. His son Giovanni, now 51, detonated the bomb that killed Palermo's heroic anti-Mafia prosecutor Giovanni Falcone in 1992. A year later, the junior Mafioso also kidnapped the 11-year-old son of the mobster who had told the story of Falcone's murder to the police. The boy was held and tortured for 26 months, then strangled. His body was dissolved in a barrel of acid.
Could this sweltering night in the rugged hills behind Palermo be the night? Will I be savouring fennel-seed sausages when the grim, heavyset men arrive? Will they pause for a second to allow the diners' curiosity to turn to numb fear before spraying the room with bullets?
There is some justification for such wild imagining. Our small inn, called the Portella della Ginestra, was once owned by the Bruscas – a family synonymous with the blood-soaked history of the Sicilian Mafia.
Bernardo Brusca was the capo of the town a few kilometres down the road from us and a convicted murderer. His son Giovanni, now 51, detonated the bomb that killed Palermo's heroic anti-Mafia prosecutor Giovanni Falcone in 1992. A year later, the junior Mafioso also kidnapped the 11-year-old son of the mobster who had told the story of Falcone's murder to the police. The boy was held and tortured for 26 months, then strangled. His body was dissolved in a barrel of acid.
But in 1996, Giovanni, known as “The Pig,” was finally hunted down. His family's properties, along with thousands of others owned by convicted Mafiosi throughout Italy, were later seized. And some were handed to co-ops, which vowed to use them for the public good – for example, the Brusca house, which was transformed into Sicily's first anti-Mafia agritourismo, as the Italians call a farm that takes paying guests.
And that's not the only option for tourists who want to support honest Sicilians, not the island's well-known criminals. Today, visitors can join a burgeoning movement toward ethical tourism on the island by taking part in a growing, incredibly brave anti-Mafia campaign. They can buy wine and pasta at the Libera Terra – free land – co-ops. They can spend their euros at shops that refuse to pay the pizzo, or Mafia extortion tax. Plus there are more B&Bs on former Mafia properties in the works.
In November, for instance, a large house near Corleone owned by Salvatore (The Beast) Riina will be opened to tourists. Riina was the undisputed boss of bosses and the most wanted man in Italy until his arrest in 1993. He is thought to have personally killed 40 people and ordered the deaths of 200 or so others – including the murders of Falcone and his colleague Paolo Borsellino. (Palermo's airport is named in honour of the two anti-Mafia magistrates.)
Of course, not everyone who books a room at Riina's former mansion will be there to support anti-Mafia tourism. This property is sure to attract visitors fascinated by mob history at its goriest. As do sites such as the Mafia museum in Corleone, which cater to fans of The Godfather. It is stuffed with videos and photos of Mafia hit men and their victims, and documents related to the police investigations. Still, many locals believe that anti-mob sentiment will eventually eclipse prurient mob tourism.
“There is a sort of anti-Mafia tourism coming,” Giuseppe (Pino) Maniaci says.
He certainly has reason to hope so. Maniaci is the host and owner of Telejato, a local TV station that regularly names and denounces Mafia members. In return, the thugs beat him up, slash his car tires and threaten to kill him – hence the round-the-clock police protection for his family.
GOODFELLAS' GOURMET
As for my own fears, the manager of our inn, 28-year-old Analisa Di Matteo, offers sympathy when I confess that staying in a former mob property is making me a little uneasy. Land is vital to Mafia power. Without it, they are exposed. Wouldn't the thugs, out of sheer spite, try to wreck the business or threaten the
employees?
Indeed, in the early years of Sicily's Libera Terra movement, some co-ops suffered vandalism and theft, though it's hard to say whether they were genuine Mafia revenge incidents. “At first, four years ago when I started here, I was a bit afraid of the Mafia,” Di Matteo says. “Now, no. They have never bothered us. They have bigger things to do.”
And so does the team at Portella della Ginestra. Their main concern is pleasing patrons, not worrying about horse heads in their beds. We decide to relax and enjoy the place.
To be sure, this B&B is not for everyone. It stands alone in the Jato Valley – no town, no bar or shops within walking distance. Even though it's only 20 kilometres from Palermo, Sicily's biggest city, it feels like it's in the middle of nowhere.
But it's an ideal base for hiking, and for day trips ranging from the ancient Greek temples at Agrigento to the glorious Norman cathedral in Monreale and the lovely beaches near Sciacca. None of these places is more than an hour's drive away.
And what views! The fields around the building are dotted with yellow ginestra flowers. The hills beyond them – small mountains, really – are steep, with rocky, jagged tops. The lack of rain can even give the terrain a desert effect. (Perfect for a spaghetti western.)
The B&B itself is clean and comfortable, if not luxurious. Each of the three bedrooms has gleaming terra cotta tile floors, high wood ceilings, spotless American-style bathrooms and air conditioning that actually works.
But the main attraction here is not the rooms. Or even the scenery. It's the food. Many of the vegetables and spices, from the eggplant to the oregano, come from the house garden. The pasta is made from organic wheat grown at similar co-ops. The wine – strong, deep reds and whites for $7 to $9 a bottle – carries the Cento Passi, or hundred steps, label. It takes its name from the film about the murder of a young anti-Mafia activist in 1978.
As for the meals, they're classic, hearty Sicilian fare: The Pasta alla Norma, with a sauce of fresh tomatoes, eggplant, basil and pecorino cheese, is tangy but not overpowering. The zucchini comes dressed in delicate beer batter. And the anchovies, bathed in the lightest of olive oils, are served under a pillow of porcelain-white mozzarella cheese. Sheer bliss.
This could explain why the restaurant is routinely packed even with those not spending the night. Among the regulars is Francesco Galante from Cento Passi wines. So I ask him if he considers the anti-Mafia co-ops (Sicily has five of them) a success.
He admits that the pace of transforming Mafia properties into clean businesses can be slow. But he says the co-ops are making extraordinary progress. The farms worked by the Placido Rizzotto co-op – which includes our inn – sell almost $2-million worth of wine, pasta and other organic products each year. And they deliver the message that the Mafia does not have to dominate every part of Sicilian life.
“We are showing you can make a right, honest life here, and work without fear,” he says. “This is a revolution.”
Galante wants me to know that the co-ops are only part of the story, though. He hands me a booklet called Pago Chi Non Paga (I pay those who don't pay) and suggests I go to Palermo to see the places it lists – from pizzerias to dance halls – who refuse to pay the pizzo Mafia tax.
COSA VOSTRA
The pizzo has been part of Italian life forever. It's a form of negative insurance paid by shop owners: Pay it and the Mafia leaves you alone; don't pay it and your shop might get burned down.
(Or you might get killed, as Libero Grassi was in 1991. Grassi was a Palermo shop owner who denounced the Mafia “tax” in a page-one newspaper article entitled “Dear Extortionist.” Three weeks later, he was dead.)
The University of Palermo has estimated that 80 per cent of Sicilian stores pay the pizzo – which can be $1,500 to $4,500 every three or four months – although almost no one will admit to doing so. Anti-Mafia police have estimated the mob collects $45-billion a year from bribery, making it one of Europe's biggest businesses.
But in 2004, Sicilians started a grassroots organization called Addiopizzo – goodbye pizzo – to fight the “tax.” Shop owners who join the movement refuse to pay it and get legal assistance if they press charges against pizzo collectors. Some also get police protection.
Meanwhile, consumers who support the organization, including conscientious tourists, endeavour to spend money at anti- pizzo shops (many identified by the Addiopizzo window stickers) whenever they can. So far, almost 300 store owners have signed up.
I take my anti- pizzo euros to Capricci di Sicilia, a restaurant in the heart of Palermo owned by Vicenza Eterno. The Mafia has made repeated attempts to make her pay. She has never done so. “I have no fear,” she says.
As I eat a delicious, firm fish called spigola, she explains that it would be a dishonour to her family to pay the pizzo. Her father was one of the policemen who arrested the
Sicilian crime boss, hit man and (go figure) landscape painter Luciano Leggio in the early 1970s.
So far, neither she nor her shop has been roughed up for resisting the Mafia. Though Eterno says some shop owners have had worse luck and “sometimes those who don't pay have their cars burned.” For this reason, some shop owners don't list their names on the Addiopizzo website.
“Some people don't want to be heroes,” she says. “They have a fear of advertising.”
I leave Sicily a couple of days later. After visits to several fine beaches and a tour of the elegantly crumpled Greek city at Selinunte, I figure I should be able to put any lingering fear, or even thought, of the Mafia out of my mind. It doesn't quite work.
This strange, beautiful, sad island has been ransacked by generations of crime families and they won't fold in the face of Addiopizzo or co-ops on their seized land. But as I fly from Palermo's Falcone-Borsellino Airport, I at least have the satisfaction of knowing that I've done my tiny bit to help the courageous few who have had enough.
Eric Reguly is The Globe and Mail's European business correspondent. With a report from
Lorenzo Tondo in Sicily.
And that's not the only option for tourists who want to support honest Sicilians, not the island's well-known criminals. Today, visitors can join a burgeoning movement toward ethical tourism on the island by taking part in a growing, incredibly brave anti-Mafia campaign. They can buy wine and pasta at the Libera Terra – free land – co-ops. They can spend their euros at shops that refuse to pay the pizzo, or Mafia extortion tax. Plus there are more B&Bs on former Mafia properties in the works.
In November, for instance, a large house near Corleone owned by Salvatore (The Beast) Riina will be opened to tourists. Riina was the undisputed boss of bosses and the most wanted man in Italy until his arrest in 1993. He is thought to have personally killed 40 people and ordered the deaths of 200 or so others – including the murders of Falcone and his colleague Paolo Borsellino. (Palermo's airport is named in honour of the two anti-Mafia magistrates.)
Of course, not everyone who books a room at Riina's former mansion will be there to support anti-Mafia tourism. This property is sure to attract visitors fascinated by mob history at its goriest. As do sites such as the Mafia museum in Corleone, which cater to fans of The Godfather. It is stuffed with videos and photos of Mafia hit men and their victims, and documents related to the police investigations. Still, many locals believe that anti-mob sentiment will eventually eclipse prurient mob tourism.
“There is a sort of anti-Mafia tourism coming,” Giuseppe (Pino) Maniaci says.
He certainly has reason to hope so. Maniaci is the host and owner of Telejato, a local TV station that regularly names and denounces Mafia members. In return, the thugs beat him up, slash his car tires and threaten to kill him – hence the round-the-clock police protection for his family.
GOODFELLAS' GOURMET
As for my own fears, the manager of our inn, 28-year-old Analisa Di Matteo, offers sympathy when I confess that staying in a former mob property is making me a little uneasy. Land is vital to Mafia power. Without it, they are exposed. Wouldn't the thugs, out of sheer spite, try to wreck the business or threaten the
employees?
Indeed, in the early years of Sicily's Libera Terra movement, some co-ops suffered vandalism and theft, though it's hard to say whether they were genuine Mafia revenge incidents. “At first, four years ago when I started here, I was a bit afraid of the Mafia,” Di Matteo says. “Now, no. They have never bothered us. They have bigger things to do.”
And so does the team at Portella della Ginestra. Their main concern is pleasing patrons, not worrying about horse heads in their beds. We decide to relax and enjoy the place.
To be sure, this B&B is not for everyone. It stands alone in the Jato Valley – no town, no bar or shops within walking distance. Even though it's only 20 kilometres from Palermo, Sicily's biggest city, it feels like it's in the middle of nowhere.
But it's an ideal base for hiking, and for day trips ranging from the ancient Greek temples at Agrigento to the glorious Norman cathedral in Monreale and the lovely beaches near Sciacca. None of these places is more than an hour's drive away.
And what views! The fields around the building are dotted with yellow ginestra flowers. The hills beyond them – small mountains, really – are steep, with rocky, jagged tops. The lack of rain can even give the terrain a desert effect. (Perfect for a spaghetti western.)
The B&B itself is clean and comfortable, if not luxurious. Each of the three bedrooms has gleaming terra cotta tile floors, high wood ceilings, spotless American-style bathrooms and air conditioning that actually works.
But the main attraction here is not the rooms. Or even the scenery. It's the food. Many of the vegetables and spices, from the eggplant to the oregano, come from the house garden. The pasta is made from organic wheat grown at similar co-ops. The wine – strong, deep reds and whites for $7 to $9 a bottle – carries the Cento Passi, or hundred steps, label. It takes its name from the film about the murder of a young anti-Mafia activist in 1978.
As for the meals, they're classic, hearty Sicilian fare: The Pasta alla Norma, with a sauce of fresh tomatoes, eggplant, basil and pecorino cheese, is tangy but not overpowering. The zucchini comes dressed in delicate beer batter. And the anchovies, bathed in the lightest of olive oils, are served under a pillow of porcelain-white mozzarella cheese. Sheer bliss.
This could explain why the restaurant is routinely packed even with those not spending the night. Among the regulars is Francesco Galante from Cento Passi wines. So I ask him if he considers the anti-Mafia co-ops (Sicily has five of them) a success.
He admits that the pace of transforming Mafia properties into clean businesses can be slow. But he says the co-ops are making extraordinary progress. The farms worked by the Placido Rizzotto co-op – which includes our inn – sell almost $2-million worth of wine, pasta and other organic products each year. And they deliver the message that the Mafia does not have to dominate every part of Sicilian life.
“We are showing you can make a right, honest life here, and work without fear,” he says. “This is a revolution.”
Galante wants me to know that the co-ops are only part of the story, though. He hands me a booklet called Pago Chi Non Paga (I pay those who don't pay) and suggests I go to Palermo to see the places it lists – from pizzerias to dance halls – who refuse to pay the pizzo Mafia tax.
COSA VOSTRA
The pizzo has been part of Italian life forever. It's a form of negative insurance paid by shop owners: Pay it and the Mafia leaves you alone; don't pay it and your shop might get burned down.
(Or you might get killed, as Libero Grassi was in 1991. Grassi was a Palermo shop owner who denounced the Mafia “tax” in a page-one newspaper article entitled “Dear Extortionist.” Three weeks later, he was dead.)
The University of Palermo has estimated that 80 per cent of Sicilian stores pay the pizzo – which can be $1,500 to $4,500 every three or four months – although almost no one will admit to doing so. Anti-Mafia police have estimated the mob collects $45-billion a year from bribery, making it one of Europe's biggest businesses.
But in 2004, Sicilians started a grassroots organization called Addiopizzo – goodbye pizzo – to fight the “tax.” Shop owners who join the movement refuse to pay it and get legal assistance if they press charges against pizzo collectors. Some also get police protection.
Meanwhile, consumers who support the organization, including conscientious tourists, endeavour to spend money at anti- pizzo shops (many identified by the Addiopizzo window stickers) whenever they can. So far, almost 300 store owners have signed up.
I take my anti- pizzo euros to Capricci di Sicilia, a restaurant in the heart of Palermo owned by Vicenza Eterno. The Mafia has made repeated attempts to make her pay. She has never done so. “I have no fear,” she says.
As I eat a delicious, firm fish called spigola, she explains that it would be a dishonour to her family to pay the pizzo. Her father was one of the policemen who arrested the
Sicilian crime boss, hit man and (go figure) landscape painter Luciano Leggio in the early 1970s.
So far, neither she nor her shop has been roughed up for resisting the Mafia. Though Eterno says some shop owners have had worse luck and “sometimes those who don't pay have their cars burned.” For this reason, some shop owners don't list their names on the Addiopizzo website.
“Some people don't want to be heroes,” she says. “They have a fear of advertising.”
I leave Sicily a couple of days later. After visits to several fine beaches and a tour of the elegantly crumpled Greek city at Selinunte, I figure I should be able to put any lingering fear, or even thought, of the Mafia out of my mind. It doesn't quite work.
This strange, beautiful, sad island has been ransacked by generations of crime families and they won't fold in the face of Addiopizzo or co-ops on their seized land. But as I fly from Palermo's Falcone-Borsellino Airport, I at least have the satisfaction of knowing that I've done my tiny bit to help the courageous few who have had enough.
Eric Reguly is The Globe and Mail's European business correspondent. With a report from
Lorenzo Tondo in Sicily.
Freitag, 12. September 2008
PALERMO SHOOTING von Wim Wenders mit Toter Hose Campino und Dennis Hopper
Heißes Filmtrio:
PALERMO SHOOTING von Wim Wenders mit Toter Hose Campino und Dennis Hopper startet am 20. November 2008.
Wim Wenders hatte lange schon Lust, mit Campino, dem Leadsänger der Toten Hosen, für die Kinoleinwand zusammen zu arbeiten. Mit PALERMO SHOOTING schrieb Wenders dem Freund die Hauptrolle auf den Leib und drehte zum ersten Mal seit 15 Jahren wieder einen Spielfilm in Deutschland und Europa. PALERMO SHOOTING feierte Weltpremiere bei den Filmfestspielen in Cannes 2008, wo er im Wettbewerb lief. Der Film wurde vom Premierenpublikum mit Standing Ovations gefeiert und kommt nun am 20. November 2008 in einer kürzeren, von Wim Wenders im Anschluss an Cannes neu geschnittenen Fassung in die Kinos.
Finn (Campino) lebt als erfolgreicher Photograph ein gleichermaßen prominentes wie hektisches Leben in der Rheinmetropole Düsseldorf. Seine Nächte sind ruhelos, sein Mobiltelefon steht nie still, und die Musik im Kopfhörer ist sein wichtigster Begleiter. Als seine Existenz nach einem Modeshooting mit Milla Jovovich urplötzlich aus den Fugen gerät, lässt Finn kurz entschlossen alles hinter sich. Er fliegt nach Palermo und lässt sich durch die Altstadt treiben, fasziniert von der Stadt und ihren Geheimnissen. Neugierig, risikobereit, aber zusehends ohne Halt, droht er, sich in bedrohlichen Träumen zu verlieren. Als er spürt, dass er von einem mysteriösen Schützen verfolgt wird, der ihm nach dem Leben trachtet, begegnet er der schönen Flavia (Giovanna Mezzogiorno). Aber bevor Finn sich der Liebe öffnen kann, muss er dem Tod begegnen.
PALERMO SHOOTING ist Wim Wenders’ persönlichster Film seit langem. Intim, abenteuerlustig und voller Überraschungen. In den Hauptrollen Campino, Giovanna Mezzogiorno („Die Liebe in den Zeiten der Cholera“) und Dennis Hopper („Der amerikanische Freund“) - neben den deutschen Co-Stars Sebastian Blomberg und Udo Samel - in einer Gastrolle Lou Reed. Ein romantischer Thriller um Leben und Tod und um die Erlösung in der Liebe.
Ein Film von Wim Wenders um Liebe und Tod Buch, Regie und Produktion: Wim Wenders mit Campino, Giovanna Mezzogiorno und Dennis HopperProduzent: Gian-Piero Ringel, Kamera: Franz Lustig, Musik: Irmin SchmidtEine Produktion von Neue Road Movies GmbH in Koproduktion mit ARTE France Cinéma, ZDF/ARTE und der Provinz von Palermo (AAPIT), in Zusammenarbeit mit Pictorion DAS WERK, Rectangle und Reverse Angle, gefördert vom DFFF, FFA, NRW Filmstiftung, Medienboard Berlin-Brandenburg und MEDIA
Kinostart: 20. November 2008
Quelle: in good company
Sizilien erleben und entdecken, Urlaub auf der groessten Insel im Mittelmeer
PALERMO SHOOTING von Wim Wenders mit Toter Hose Campino und Dennis Hopper startet am 20. November 2008.
Wim Wenders hatte lange schon Lust, mit Campino, dem Leadsänger der Toten Hosen, für die Kinoleinwand zusammen zu arbeiten. Mit PALERMO SHOOTING schrieb Wenders dem Freund die Hauptrolle auf den Leib und drehte zum ersten Mal seit 15 Jahren wieder einen Spielfilm in Deutschland und Europa. PALERMO SHOOTING feierte Weltpremiere bei den Filmfestspielen in Cannes 2008, wo er im Wettbewerb lief. Der Film wurde vom Premierenpublikum mit Standing Ovations gefeiert und kommt nun am 20. November 2008 in einer kürzeren, von Wim Wenders im Anschluss an Cannes neu geschnittenen Fassung in die Kinos.
Finn (Campino) lebt als erfolgreicher Photograph ein gleichermaßen prominentes wie hektisches Leben in der Rheinmetropole Düsseldorf. Seine Nächte sind ruhelos, sein Mobiltelefon steht nie still, und die Musik im Kopfhörer ist sein wichtigster Begleiter. Als seine Existenz nach einem Modeshooting mit Milla Jovovich urplötzlich aus den Fugen gerät, lässt Finn kurz entschlossen alles hinter sich. Er fliegt nach Palermo und lässt sich durch die Altstadt treiben, fasziniert von der Stadt und ihren Geheimnissen. Neugierig, risikobereit, aber zusehends ohne Halt, droht er, sich in bedrohlichen Träumen zu verlieren. Als er spürt, dass er von einem mysteriösen Schützen verfolgt wird, der ihm nach dem Leben trachtet, begegnet er der schönen Flavia (Giovanna Mezzogiorno). Aber bevor Finn sich der Liebe öffnen kann, muss er dem Tod begegnen.
PALERMO SHOOTING ist Wim Wenders’ persönlichster Film seit langem. Intim, abenteuerlustig und voller Überraschungen. In den Hauptrollen Campino, Giovanna Mezzogiorno („Die Liebe in den Zeiten der Cholera“) und Dennis Hopper („Der amerikanische Freund“) - neben den deutschen Co-Stars Sebastian Blomberg und Udo Samel - in einer Gastrolle Lou Reed. Ein romantischer Thriller um Leben und Tod und um die Erlösung in der Liebe.
Ein Film von Wim Wenders um Liebe und Tod Buch, Regie und Produktion: Wim Wenders mit Campino, Giovanna Mezzogiorno und Dennis HopperProduzent: Gian-Piero Ringel, Kamera: Franz Lustig, Musik: Irmin SchmidtEine Produktion von Neue Road Movies GmbH in Koproduktion mit ARTE France Cinéma, ZDF/ARTE und der Provinz von Palermo (AAPIT), in Zusammenarbeit mit Pictorion DAS WERK, Rectangle und Reverse Angle, gefördert vom DFFF, FFA, NRW Filmstiftung, Medienboard Berlin-Brandenburg und MEDIA
Kinostart: 20. November 2008
Quelle: in good company
Sizilien erleben und entdecken, Urlaub auf der groessten Insel im Mittelmeer
get a taste of paradise on a visit to the island of her forebears
FROM the sky, the trail of the Aeolian Islands leads you like stepping stones to Sicily.
Once you see them emerge from the blue sea you know you are close. Even from the sky, you can sense the pulse of history drawing closer, feel how old the land is and how many souls have lived and died right beneath you.Our pilot left Rome in a huff, and bad-temperedly dipped and wove his way down the southern Italian coastline, my father cradling his head in his hands the entire way.
"I'd like to see Sicily again," he mumbles as he throws his hand forward to brace himself against the seat in front. My mother, sitting across the aisle from us, looks over and grins. Upon leaving Brisbane, she had entrusted my brother and I to the care of my father for the entire journey, and on each flight she sat herself across from us, oblivious to all goings-on. As the plane waited on the tarmac at Brisbane airport, my mother had broken the plastic casing on her purple and blue blanket, unfurled it, drew it up to her chin, and promptly fell asleep.
That's how she has been for the entire 30-hour journey so far, waking up only in time for meals and to disembark. My father, brother and I, on the other hand, had stayed awake for every bump and jostle of turbulence and every nailbiting pocket of air. The trek across the Bay of Bengal was, I was sure, among the last moments of my life. So, with the exception of my mother, who was being lulled to sleep by the toss of our impending crash, we all sat upright and alert, awaiting our early morning fate off the coast of India. Somehow, by the grace of some deity, we made it through, and on landing in Rome I felt the worst was finally over. Until I entrusted my life to an Italian pilot.
"Enough is enough," sighs my father as the plane abruptly loses altitude in a steep dive. It's a tight flying circle in this part of the world.
I turn to look at Ross but he's got his nose pressed to the window. I look past him and out to the sky and then, out of nowhere, there she is. Etna. Towering. Unmistakable. Terrifying.
"Mamma! L'Etna!" cries the little boy sitting behindme.
I look out of the window again to her smoking peak. My heart surges and my soul rises to just beneath the surface of my skin so that all the hairs on my body stand on end. I turn to my father beside me and see tears in his eyes. Home, his expression says. Finally, I am home.
* * *THE days pass in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. We get up late and eat a granita at the bar for breakfast. We drive to the beach where we bake for half a day and then come home for lunch, which is usually a panino with cheese and salami, some olives and a couple of glasses of red wine. We finish off with some fruit and maybe a scoop of gelato. Then we take to our beds for an afternoon nap on cool, white sheets between cool, white walls. In the late afternoon we get up, get dressed and go to whichever aunt, uncle or cousin has offered to feed us for the evening.
Zia Enna's pasta al forno proves to be up to the hype. I look at my brother as we walk up as a family to ZiaEnna's.
"Have you put on weight?" I ask.
"No!" his hands shoot automatically to his stomach and he rubs it.
The smell at Zia Enna's door is of baked pasta and fried eggplant. It seeps out of the front door and creates a cloud of scent on the footpath.
"Have so," I whisper as my mother presses thebuzzer.
The locks snap open, the door swings in and we are engulfed by the warm smells of baking that draw us up the stairs and into Zia Enna's kitchen by our noses. We find her tucked into a checked apron, pushing back her giant glasses and giggling softly to herself.
"Zia, it smells great!" says my brother, as he rushes to her and gives her a kiss on each cheek. She gushes like a schoolgirl and picks his face up in her hands.
"He's so good-looking," she sighs, "he will get an extra big piece!"
Ross just smiles and I look to his tummy, which has started to fill out nicely. Zia Enna bends down and opens the oven door. From inside she draws out a baking dish of pasta al forno. The sauce has turned a deep red and the cheese on top has melted and turned into a hot crusty lid. With a long, sharp knife she starts slicing through the pasta, cutting large square portions. She slips a spatula under one corner and lifts out the most perfect piece of pasta al forno I have ever seen. The layers of penne sit perfectly moulded to layers of fried eggplant, meatballs and hardboiled eggs. Melted cheese binds it all together.
"Go sit in the dining room," she shooes us all away with a smile.
Drool appears at the corner of Ross's mouth and I know that Sicily has changed him forever.
"Ross gets the biggest piece," says Zia Enna as she appears in the dining room carrying a plate. She lays a hunk of pasta down in front of my brother.
"He's a growing boy," she giggles.
"He's growing all right," I cough, and Ross shoots me an evil glare in reply.
"So what do you think of Sicily?" Zia Enna asks Ross when we've all been served dinner. "It's beautiful, Zia," he smiles around a mouthful ofpasta.
"Ah!" Zia Enna claps her hands together, "it is beautiful, isn't it? The air, the mountain, the sea -- you can breathe here." Her eyes lock on to my brother's.
"You should find yourself a nice Sicilian girl and stay here." Ross smiles again. "And I'll make you pasta al forno every week."
He looks like he's seriously considering it.
* * *SO the days pass in this easy, hot, food-fuelled rhythm until, finally, Saturday night arrives.
Castelmola is reached only by braving a number of tight hairpin curves, with nothing but a sheer drop below. Gianni spins his car expertly around the tight corners, only occasionally veering slightly to one side and swiping a few trees. My fingers are locked in a white-knuckle grip on the armrest.
Gianni swings his door open and we both get out of the car and step into the night air, me on shaking legs. Gracie slides out of the back seat.
We walk a long, curving tarmac road up into a square and past the ancient castle that gives the town its name. Gianni is slightly ahead of us and I'm trying hard not to let my eyes linger too long. Instead I turn my eyes to the town that had captured my imagination from the ground. There is a fairytale quality to this place. Once upon a time it would have been a remote, towering outpost, the residents comfortable in their isolation. Below us, the tourist mecca of Taormini is brightly lit and overcrowded. Up here the lights are soft and muted, swept stone alleys are lined with hundreds of steps, and there's a soothing quiet in which you could happily lose yourself. Gianni winds on ahead, turning left and right down streets the width of staircases and studded with sand-coloured steps. Gracie loops her arm in mine and we continue to climb.
I exhale slowly and know that, even though I have hardly seen the rest of the island, I have just found my favourite Sicilian town. Dinner is on a stone terrace, and like most of Castelmola we have to climb a steep incline of steps to get there. "Pizza," Gracie says, "I'm definitely having pizza."
I tip my head back so that I can see the stars in the sky. This far up the mountain they look like you can reach out and touch them. The terrace is awash with soft amber lights and our company is an assortment of Gianni's friends and their girlfriends, all of them glowing and tanned. To one side I have Gracie and directly across from me is Gianni, his eyes turning a shade of light chocolate in the soft light, which sets his tan perfectly against the light blue of his shirt.
"Margherita," I say to the waitress.
"Booorrring," hums Gracie at my side.
The air is cool and it makes me shiver a little. Pizza and beer seem like the perfect meal tonight.
Once you see them emerge from the blue sea you know you are close. Even from the sky, you can sense the pulse of history drawing closer, feel how old the land is and how many souls have lived and died right beneath you.Our pilot left Rome in a huff, and bad-temperedly dipped and wove his way down the southern Italian coastline, my father cradling his head in his hands the entire way.
"I'd like to see Sicily again," he mumbles as he throws his hand forward to brace himself against the seat in front. My mother, sitting across the aisle from us, looks over and grins. Upon leaving Brisbane, she had entrusted my brother and I to the care of my father for the entire journey, and on each flight she sat herself across from us, oblivious to all goings-on. As the plane waited on the tarmac at Brisbane airport, my mother had broken the plastic casing on her purple and blue blanket, unfurled it, drew it up to her chin, and promptly fell asleep.
That's how she has been for the entire 30-hour journey so far, waking up only in time for meals and to disembark. My father, brother and I, on the other hand, had stayed awake for every bump and jostle of turbulence and every nailbiting pocket of air. The trek across the Bay of Bengal was, I was sure, among the last moments of my life. So, with the exception of my mother, who was being lulled to sleep by the toss of our impending crash, we all sat upright and alert, awaiting our early morning fate off the coast of India. Somehow, by the grace of some deity, we made it through, and on landing in Rome I felt the worst was finally over. Until I entrusted my life to an Italian pilot.
"Enough is enough," sighs my father as the plane abruptly loses altitude in a steep dive. It's a tight flying circle in this part of the world.
I turn to look at Ross but he's got his nose pressed to the window. I look past him and out to the sky and then, out of nowhere, there she is. Etna. Towering. Unmistakable. Terrifying.
"Mamma! L'Etna!" cries the little boy sitting behindme.
I look out of the window again to her smoking peak. My heart surges and my soul rises to just beneath the surface of my skin so that all the hairs on my body stand on end. I turn to my father beside me and see tears in his eyes. Home, his expression says. Finally, I am home.
* * *THE days pass in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. We get up late and eat a granita at the bar for breakfast. We drive to the beach where we bake for half a day and then come home for lunch, which is usually a panino with cheese and salami, some olives and a couple of glasses of red wine. We finish off with some fruit and maybe a scoop of gelato. Then we take to our beds for an afternoon nap on cool, white sheets between cool, white walls. In the late afternoon we get up, get dressed and go to whichever aunt, uncle or cousin has offered to feed us for the evening.
Zia Enna's pasta al forno proves to be up to the hype. I look at my brother as we walk up as a family to ZiaEnna's.
"Have you put on weight?" I ask.
"No!" his hands shoot automatically to his stomach and he rubs it.
The smell at Zia Enna's door is of baked pasta and fried eggplant. It seeps out of the front door and creates a cloud of scent on the footpath.
"Have so," I whisper as my mother presses thebuzzer.
The locks snap open, the door swings in and we are engulfed by the warm smells of baking that draw us up the stairs and into Zia Enna's kitchen by our noses. We find her tucked into a checked apron, pushing back her giant glasses and giggling softly to herself.
"Zia, it smells great!" says my brother, as he rushes to her and gives her a kiss on each cheek. She gushes like a schoolgirl and picks his face up in her hands.
"He's so good-looking," she sighs, "he will get an extra big piece!"
Ross just smiles and I look to his tummy, which has started to fill out nicely. Zia Enna bends down and opens the oven door. From inside she draws out a baking dish of pasta al forno. The sauce has turned a deep red and the cheese on top has melted and turned into a hot crusty lid. With a long, sharp knife she starts slicing through the pasta, cutting large square portions. She slips a spatula under one corner and lifts out the most perfect piece of pasta al forno I have ever seen. The layers of penne sit perfectly moulded to layers of fried eggplant, meatballs and hardboiled eggs. Melted cheese binds it all together.
"Go sit in the dining room," she shooes us all away with a smile.
Drool appears at the corner of Ross's mouth and I know that Sicily has changed him forever.
"Ross gets the biggest piece," says Zia Enna as she appears in the dining room carrying a plate. She lays a hunk of pasta down in front of my brother.
"He's a growing boy," she giggles.
"He's growing all right," I cough, and Ross shoots me an evil glare in reply.
"So what do you think of Sicily?" Zia Enna asks Ross when we've all been served dinner. "It's beautiful, Zia," he smiles around a mouthful ofpasta.
"Ah!" Zia Enna claps her hands together, "it is beautiful, isn't it? The air, the mountain, the sea -- you can breathe here." Her eyes lock on to my brother's.
"You should find yourself a nice Sicilian girl and stay here." Ross smiles again. "And I'll make you pasta al forno every week."
He looks like he's seriously considering it.
* * *SO the days pass in this easy, hot, food-fuelled rhythm until, finally, Saturday night arrives.
Castelmola is reached only by braving a number of tight hairpin curves, with nothing but a sheer drop below. Gianni spins his car expertly around the tight corners, only occasionally veering slightly to one side and swiping a few trees. My fingers are locked in a white-knuckle grip on the armrest.
Gianni swings his door open and we both get out of the car and step into the night air, me on shaking legs. Gracie slides out of the back seat.
We walk a long, curving tarmac road up into a square and past the ancient castle that gives the town its name. Gianni is slightly ahead of us and I'm trying hard not to let my eyes linger too long. Instead I turn my eyes to the town that had captured my imagination from the ground. There is a fairytale quality to this place. Once upon a time it would have been a remote, towering outpost, the residents comfortable in their isolation. Below us, the tourist mecca of Taormini is brightly lit and overcrowded. Up here the lights are soft and muted, swept stone alleys are lined with hundreds of steps, and there's a soothing quiet in which you could happily lose yourself. Gianni winds on ahead, turning left and right down streets the width of staircases and studded with sand-coloured steps. Gracie loops her arm in mine and we continue to climb.
I exhale slowly and know that, even though I have hardly seen the rest of the island, I have just found my favourite Sicilian town. Dinner is on a stone terrace, and like most of Castelmola we have to climb a steep incline of steps to get there. "Pizza," Gracie says, "I'm definitely having pizza."
I tip my head back so that I can see the stars in the sky. This far up the mountain they look like you can reach out and touch them. The terrace is awash with soft amber lights and our company is an assortment of Gianni's friends and their girlfriends, all of them glowing and tanned. To one side I have Gracie and directly across from me is Gianni, his eyes turning a shade of light chocolate in the soft light, which sets his tan perfectly against the light blue of his shirt.
"Margherita," I say to the waitress.
"Booorrring," hums Gracie at my side.
The air is cool and it makes me shiver a little. Pizza and beer seem like the perfect meal tonight.
Edited extract from The Sicilian Kitchen by Michele Di'Bartolo
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