#brazil 1978

[basicallyanotherwitchesthing]

Douglas & Lena Villiers with Albert Goldman - Carnival in Rio - Hawthorn - 1978

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Men at Work - Down Under

[piloncillos]

Cálice, Maria Bethânia.

[medullam]

Djavan - Djavan, ph. Fernando Carvalho [1978]

[ozkar-krapo]

[rec. David TOOP]

"Lost Shadows: In Defence of the Soul (Yanomami Shamanism, Songs, Ritual, 1978)"

(LP. Sub Rosa. 2015 / rec. 1978) [BR-VE]

[yippeecheapdvds]

On Friday I watched “The Boys from Brazil” (1978) Thriller/Si-Fic

Feels weird to call this a si-fic movie but I guess it technically qualifies by having one instance of “futuristic technology”.

I really like the boys from Brazil, it’s a pretty good thriller. I watched it with a friend who had never seen it to see how quickly she could figure out the mystery. She figured out it had something to do with the children pretty quick but didn’t realize the specifics until the scientist started writing on a blackboard.

The ending was pretty spectacular, it’s my favorite part of the movie. Also the subtitles on YouTube are wrong, Bobby Weelock is saying “You freaked out maniac! PRINT!” Not “BITE!”.

Idk what was up with the claw bracelet Mengle was carrying around, maybe it represented something but he’ll if I know what it means.

I like how poorly thought through mangle’s plan was, what are you gonna do when the boys grow up and find out you killed their fathers? (And mothers two probably). What are you gonna do with the boys who don’t turn out the way you want? Kill them? I’m sure all the others will be totally fine with that. I’d love to see a sequel where these ideas get explored.

The movie is free on YouTube, as well as the trailer, wich is insane. Go check it out.

8/10

[nonenglishsongs]

Tim Maia - Sossego (Portuguese)

[blackbeardsmovies]

The Boys From Brazil (1978)

[radio-therookie-blog]

Oh did he ever sink his acting teeth into this role 😳

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Men At Work - Who Can It Be Now?

[piloncillos]

Sonho Meu, Maria Bethânia ft. Gal Costa.

[heathersdesk]

My grandfather was killed in a hit and run accident in 1978.

His mother and sister struggled with life after that. They decided to go on a trip across the United States together to get away from things for a while.

I discovered this trip when I was going through photo albums and suddenly saw a place I recognized.

The Salt Lake Temple.

They went to many places during that trip. But there was something truly special to me that, in one of the worst seasons of their lives, they ended up at the temple.

I served part of my mission at Temple Square. I was waiting for a visa to Brazil that I began to think was never coming. I had a truly horrendous time in the MTC babysitting a district of Elders who spent weeks on end bullying me and tearing down my self-esteem. I was told directly by someone, I forget who now, that I was being sent there to recover. And when I realized that the mission had no young Elders in it at all, that it was only Sisters and senior couples, I came to appreciate what that meant.

I had so many wild interactions there with so many people. Some of them were strange, like the guy who viewed the Book of Mormon as proof of alien interactions with humans. There were moments of heartbreak, like the woman who was in tears at the Christus statue who attacked us when we checked in on her. There were moments of pure delight, like when an LDS family with two young daughters came to that same Christus statue. The oldest girl, no older than 4 or 5, squealed "JESUS" and ran to the Savior's feet, little sister in tow. Whenever I hear someone mention the teaching to become as a little child, she is exactly who I think of.

There were also moments that were meant solely for me, like when I met the first Sister to ever be called to the Boston mission I had hoped to go to to wait for my visa. Boston has a large Brazilian population, many of whom are members of the Church. I had begged in prayer to be sent there and was told by other people it wouldn't happen because "Sisters don't go there." I had an entire conversation with the woman who was going to be that change. It seemed cruel to me at the time, dangling the carrot of something I wanted right in front of my face. In time, I've realized it was so I would remember that God does miracles and is aware of the desires of my heart, even if it means I don't get what I want. Someone needed to exercise enough faith to push that door open for women. I put my full weight behind it, and I can be just as proud that it opened for someone else.

But some of my favorite people I met there were people who just made me laugh. I met a Jewish convert from New York who told us his conversion story, how what drew him in was the Plan of Salvation. He summarized it in a New York accent in a voice I can still hear in my mind: "So you're a god, eventually. But can you pay RENT?!"

One of my favorite people I met was a Scottish convert named Agnes who was doing the Mormon trail across the US, beginning in New England and ending in Utah. She was a much older woman and told us all about her pilgrimage, and how she had cuddled with the oxen at the baptismal font in the Manhattan New York Temple. (I've been there. You enter into the baptistry on face level with them, or did the last time I was there.) She shared her testimony with us, and I'll never forget what she said.

She explained that the story of Joseph Smith was really hard to get her mind around. It truly is an insane set of asks: angels, gold plates, polygamy, and all the rest. She talked about how she came to accept it—not through any kind of empirical evidence or proof, but through faith and what that looked like.

For her, it was the recognition that being LDS was the best way she had ever encountered to live an excellent life. She said that the worst case scenario she could imagine is one where God would say to her, "You know that whole business with Joseph Smith was a load of crock, right? But you lived such a good life, I have to let you in anyway."

That has always stayed with me. Agnes was one of many people who came to the Square looking for something. I saw people come there looking for faith, or a fight, and truly everything in between. And it's only now that I'm older and wiser that I see something clearly now that I couldn't see then.

Agnes didn't need to come to Temple Square to find faith. She already had a tremendous amount of faith. She, and many others, were looking for conviction. I was at Temple Square long enough to learn you don't get that from a place. While a place like Temple Square can illuminate the possibilities for conviction through the lens of history, it doesn't bestow that conviction through contact or proximity alone. Conviction is made from the materials of your own life and your own choices. Your will, how firmly you place yourself into an immovable and unyielding position, is the measure of your convictions. It comes from within.

Faith is the decision to believe in what you cannot see, and what cannot be proven objectively. That never goes away. Nothing we experience in life, no place we ever visit, will create a shortcut under, over, or around that decision to believe, to trust in God. Faith, at its core, is a decision. The ability to continue making that decision over and over again, under all species of hardship and opposition, is conviction.

Where Jesus walked is nowhere near as important as how Jesus walked, and with whom. The same is true for all of us. Our walk with God might never take us anywhere near a temple because of where God has called us to go. But we are the holiest dwelling places of God on earth—not any of the buildings we've made.

Be a holy place of living faith wherever you are, whatever your circumstances may be. Worship God, no matter what places you can or cannot enter. There is more than one way to access a temple. One way is to enter a place that people invite God to dwell. The other is to become that place. There can be no separation from God where communion never ceases. It is the refuge that is unassailable by others for as long as the person wills it so. The torch within will not go out.

The temple is not special because it has some holy essence that springs forth out of nothing, to passively be absorbed by others. The temple is special because it directs people to Jesus Christ, who is the giver of healing and peace. The temple is just a building. It's Jesus Christ that is the true power behind it all, whose objective is to make you, me, and every person you know the holiest creature you've ever beheld. You are the end goal.

[lokiprincess]

The Different Colors of the Pride Flag: 

Happy Pride Month! 🏳️‍🌈

🤍 White represents peace and union among all (Created by Estêvão Romane, the 9 stripe flag with a white stripe in the middle - revealed at Love Fest in São Paulo, Brazil, in February of 2018 - is a variation of the original eight stripe flag of 1978.)

[supermaks]

1. Brazil. 1992. By Ercole Colombo. 2. Giovanna Amati and Niki Lauda watch as a Ferrari passes in Circuito Estoril, Portugal. 1992. By Ercole Colombo.

Giovanna Amati bought her first motorbike in 1975. A 500cc Honda, powerful, loud, clearly too big for a 15-year-old Italian kid without a driver’s license.

Her parents never found out, not how she got the money, not where she found the bike, not even the identity of the salesperson desperate enough to accept a child’s money. A bike like that, to a kid like her. But not just any kid. Giovanna’s father owned movie theaters; her mother acted in said movies. All Giovanna wanted to do was play the role of racing driver. For two years, Giovanna kept her Honda hidden behind her friends’ garage, and only took it out for little spins during the late hours of the night, when Roma pretended to sleep and the sleek, narrow streets grew even more austere. Monsters in silk shirts mumbled low in the shadows, watched the kid ride over stone and grime, turn into dark gardens and across the Tevere river, far beyond the reach of the misty moonlight. Up and down, left and right, zigzagging past the Vespas and the yellow bicycles left unattended in the piazzas. A curt glimpse towards the Vatican, a recognition of Spirit, a nod of respect. Total darkness. Giovanna rode through the night like a black horse. Hair like broken hay sticking out of her helmet; sunken eyes the color of whiskey peering through a red visor. Straight, thin lips sucking on rolling paper and blowing out smoke too strong to be tobacco. This was Giovanna Amati in the dark. La principessa veloce de Roma.

3 years later, in 1978, Giovanna Amati was kidnapped in broad daylight. Caught between the considerable wealth of her surname and the diabolical politics of the time, the girl never really stood a chance. She was sitting in her car, parked in front of the Amati villa, perhaps waiting for someone to come join her, perhaps only taking a moment to breathe, listening to some music. We’ll never know. 3 masked men broke through the windshield like hammers and dragged her kicking and screaming into a van nearby. Giovanna was then taken to an apartment just a few blocks away, where she was undressed, assaulted, humiliated, broken and tortured, wrapped in a thick plastic sheet and shoved inside a wooden box. For 74 days, she was kept inside that box. The box only opened for food, for water, for hands, for mouths, for pain, for horrors. 2 months later, the box opened one last time. Against explicit court orders from the Italian government, Giovanni Amati and Anna Maria Pancanni paid for their daughter’s ransom using leftover box-office receipts from George Lucas’ ‘Star Wars’, old family jewelry and some of their servants’ life-savings.

The full cost hit 800 million-lira (almost 3 million US dollars). Soon after her release, Giovanna started receiving flowers and love letters from one her captors, Jean Daniel Nieto, which prompted some to speculate about the nature of their relationship. Giovanna was kept in a box for two months. ‘The box made me stronger.’ She’d tell the BBC, years later. After a few days of radio silence and even more flowers, she phoned Jean Daniel Nieto, and informed him she could no longer live without him, and they should run away together. Jean Daniel Nieto was ecstatic. He showed up to the meeting point right on time, in his best two-piece suit. Giovanna showed up on the back of her Honda. She did not stop for Jean Daniel Nieto. The police cars who’d been following close behind, however, did.

Giovanna Amati began racing cars professionally at the age of 21. Despite successful campaigns in Formula Abarth, Italian F3 and Formula 3000, Giovanna had close to no open-wheel experience, no real backing, no sponsors, and no hopes of a successful F1 stint. Still. She wanted to ride F1 cars the way she rode her bike alone in the streets of Rome. She wanted to play the role. She was an Amati, after all. Her final option was still in the box. Money. A doomed team wobbling on its last leg let her pay for its ’92 seat, and so, with no actual pump and uncomfortable circumstance, Giovanna Amati became the last woman on earth to ever drive for the F1 world championship, and the first and only woman to do so 14 years after being kidnapped. She attempted to qualify for Brabham 3 times: Brazil, Mexico, South Africa. All failed. Brabham kicked her out, obviously, and in came male savior Damon Hill, who then, phew, failed to qualify five times.

In my dreams, la principessa veloce de Roma still rides her Honda at night. Her eyes are red behind the visor, and she doesn’t stop at the Vatican. They’ll never catch her again.

Text by supermaks

Sources: 1, 2, 3, 4

3. South Africa. By Ercole Colombo.

4. Gangster-story all’italiana. Source unknown.