Diary from set - Abruzzo

When I was told we were moving to a remote location to film the latter part of the movie, I didn't really think it was going to be that remote. But actually, I have come to learn that some parts of this land are still incorrupt. Virgin. And far removed. Extrasolar far removed in some cases.

I initially imagined myself walking the snaking cobble-stoned alleys of a quaint medieval Abruzzo village perched on a high windy mountaintop, with little old ladies dressed in black nodding as we city slickers passed by, and elegant gents wearing their hats before a shot of grappa and a smoky hand of briscola. And Castel del Monte is all that. And much more, thankfully. But it is remote as remote gets.

We are surrounded by beauty and nature as far as the eye can see. Fast racing clouds chase the sunlight over the rolling hills and valleys below. High, barren mountains of neolithic matter loom above us, shining brightly in the thin air and brightest of sunlights. Where forests cloak elevated surfaces, the autumn leaves show off their auburn colors with flamboyant pride. The earth shakes every once in a while, reminding us of the April tragedy that has changed the people around here forever.

The air smells clean. I wake to chirping birds in the early morning. And yesterday we spotted a pack of wolves behind the restaurant during lunch break. The skies have been benevolent and have not rained (or snowed) upon us too bitterly. The town folk is friendly and politely astonished at our barbaric invasion. The everyday food and wine is Out of This World, and hanging out with a fun crew makes the hard work a little easier.

But there is no Internet.
Very little cell phone coverage.
No cable TV.

The only Wi-fi available is in the main Production office, which is a public place I can have access to after a 12-hour day and for a limited time frame. Oftentimes the choice between blogging or catching up on my electornic mail and a hot shower falls for the latter. And so I have failed to keep up. I fearfully open my flooding inbox once a week when I return home for the weekend. I have a hard time responding to all those who seek a word with me. Even spam is beginning to give up on me. Haven't chatted on Skype in eons. Blog etiquette out the window. Readers perplexed. Those spoiled by my thrice-weekly posts have not heard of me in months. The weekly appointments with my guest chefs at Be my guest are at a standstill.

I am home for a long weekend, and the playtime, bathtime and cuddletime with my son is momentarily on hold (he's snoring). So I take advantage of this little moment before slipping into bed next to him and inhaling his sweet smell before falling asleep under the covers of my bed–and not the hotel bed I am calling home for most of the week–to apologize for the long silence. And to ask you to bear with me.

I am eating astounding local and unusual things, learning of new interesting Abruzzo wines, traditions and food lore for my journal. And I am keeping notes. I will return to blogging routinely in 3 weeks when the film's principal photography will come to halt before taking off again for another chapter after the holiday season.

In three weeks I promise I will make up for the lost time on these pages and pledge to tickle your appetite again soon.




For now you'll have to make do with my Archive.
Scusatemi!

Another film set, another suitcase

It's been a busy month here at Aglio, Olio & Peperoncino.

I have published several essays and features on various online Travel/Food magazines (check my sidebar for the links) and I have been interviewed, awarded and selected to be part of many great blogrolls (again, see in my sidebar for more AO&P online). I have designed a badge, and I am honored that some blog friends have displayed it on their sites. I have joined foodie hubs and search engines, and my traffic and followers have greatly increased.

I have twittered 'til the wee hours and made wonderful acquaintances therein. I have wisely de-cluttered and placed classified ads for old furniture and baby gear (alas no yard sale tradition here!). I have given books, clothes and toys to charities, and through the Internet, I "bumped into" my first preschool teacher, who is still living in Rome. We met for a picnic with Mr.E and it was a very touching moment to see her after all these years. She had saved this picture of my preschool graduation. I'm the one in the white dress and black shoes, fourth from the left.

Tomorrow I leave for a new film. We shoot an American film in Abruzzo for 8 weeks or so. Should be fun. But it will be hard to part with my son. He has just recently started attending a new school, and new habits and friendships are being formed. He is very shy, incredibly affectionate and tender, and I will miss my morning cuddles and his sweet "quanto sei bella" (how beautiful you are) during playtime. Our intimate mother-son rituals will be carried out by his loyal nanny. 

She'll be reading him Goodnight Moon, cooking his meals and becoming a tennis-playing warrior, or a truck-driving firefighter if the game requires it. I on the other hand will be speaking to my son over the phone. I will be strong and I will leave with a lump in my throat but faking a smile as my son waves from the window. I'll be biting my fingernails at his every silence and sneeze. I will be the breadwinner, devoured by guilt.

My laptop travels with me and I will still post every other day. I will keep freelance writing, emailing, discussing and posting recipes and hosting the weekly Be My Guest event. I will be back home on weekends, and my plans to participate in the vendemmia, olive press and Positano parties are still very much happening. I will treasure returning to the hotel room after work every day to read your blogs and your stories. Mushrooms and truffles will be eaten. Hare and perhaps wild boar too.

I will be punctual at work every day, neat and quiet. I'll not slouch and I'll sit with my knees locked together, prim and proper in my patagonia fleece. I'll wear my woolly hat and mittens gracefully. I will perform my job duties with care, I will be up to the task. I will rub elbows with stars and I will participate in a new creative process. I will be professional, discreet and efficient. I will be all that and more.

But I feel this could be my swan song.

I need a stable job. One that I can rely on. One with human-friendly hours. I have fantasies of a 9-to-5 day. I crave perks and benefits. I need a regular income! It's wonderfully empowering to carry the world on my own shoulders and be free from obligations, but sometimes it gets really difficult to do it all by myself. There's no business like show business, but I'm exhausted.

Freelance writing, blogging and editing my book will be my refreshing part-time job during the upcoming full-time job engagement with the film. I can do it. It'll be hard, but fun, too. I always like a good challenge.

I have to go pack now. Destination: Sulmona, cute little town in Abruzzo known for its traditional production of confetti, sugared almonds––not paper party decorations.

Confetti are traditional Italian sugared almonds with a hard sugar coating. The result is a crunchy white oval-shaped candy that's usually given as a symbolic celebratory gift in sets of odd numbers, usually 5.

Confetti can also be made with a chocolate filling instead of almonds. They are handed out as a small token (in little ornate fabric bags or decorated boxes) to family and friends for special occasions, like weddings, baptisms, christenings, graduations, etc. Wedding confetti are typically white; to celebrate the birth of a newborn baby, confetti are usually gender-colored (pink or baby-blue) and for a graduation they are lucky red. Silver and gold anniversary confetti respectively represent 25 and 50 years of marriage.

On the other hand the English word "confetti" corresponds to the Italian coriandoli. The connection is an interesting language story: long ago, during Carnival people would throw confetti (candy) that held a small coriander seed inside each, as a sign of appreciation for the best costumes at masquerade balls. Later on, small pieces of paper substituted the candy and their Italian name refers to the original herbal ingredient, coriandolo, while the English-speaking world remained faithful to the original candy name calling them confetti. Did I confuse you sufficiently?

A presto!

Filming The Life Aquatic with Steve ZIssou in Anzio

Daybreak at Anzio, 2003

This photo was taken on a chilly December morning on the Anzio coastline during a day filming. Part of the reduced crew I was working with and I were waiting for the Belafonte ship to sail by for a second unit shot. We sat there in awe of this beautiful sky, hoping the moment could be extended.

During the filming of Wes Anderson's The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, this sunrise on the calm Anzio waters is among the fondest memories of those busy days.

Tiny Heroes

The Florence American Cemetery and Memorial site covers 70 acres, chiefly on the west side of the Greve stream. The wooded hills that frame its west limit rise several hundred feet. Between the two entrance buildings, a bridge leads to the burial area where the headstones of 4,402 military dead resting here are arrayed in symmetrical curved rows upon the hillside. They represent 39% of the U.S. Fifth Army burials originally made between Rome and the Alps. Most died in the fighting that occurred after the capture of Rome in June 1944. Included among them are casualties of the heavy fighting in the Tuscan Apennines shortly before the war's end.
In the fall of 2007 I worked on a film that narrated those very events. Miracle at St. Anna follows four African-American soldiers of the 92nd Infantry Division – known as the Buffalo Soldiers – who find themselves caught behind enemy lines and surrounded by German soldiers after one of them risks his life to save an Italian boy. They take refuge in a small Italian village on the Gothic Line, that has been temporarily vacated by the Germans during the Italian Campaign of WWII. In their company is Angelo, the small boy, shell-shocked and feverish, who seems only to speak to his invisible friend Arturo.

The story is inspired by the August 1944 Sant'Anna di Stazzema massacre perpetrated by the Waffen-SS. On May 2, 1945, the enemy troops in northern Italy surrendered. Shortly before withdrawing, the Nazi left a wake of horror, atrocity and devastation behind them. The manic rush of violence and mad killing that followed as the enemy fled these lands, accounted for the vast majority of casualties and mass-murders on the Italian peninsula.

On August 12, 1944, retreating SS men of the II Battalion of the 16th SS-Panzergrenadier Division, commanded by Hauptsturmführer Anton Galler, rounded up 560 civilans between villagers and refugees – mostly women, children and older men – brutally shot them in cold blood and then burned their bodies on the holy ground in front of the town's small church.

When we arrived in Sant'Anna on the day we were to film the massacre scene, the dawn sun was shining, much like on that dreadful mid-August morning. Young extras in period costume were shivering by the craft service table, blowing into their steaming cups of early morning coffee, and trying to get a glimpse of Hollywood. Children played football by the trailer base camp, in their 1944 attire, oblivious and giggly.

We respectfully brought about our daily chores and duties, and commenced our filming day as usual, busily organizing the first shot. It involved two simultaneous tracking dollies and a wide angle crane shot. As the grips and gaffers built the tracks and the camera department assembled their gear, I took a little stroll. I met a few silent glances from my colleagues and continued on, respectful of the place's history and aware of the stagnant negative energy surrounding me. It felt so strange to be walking on the very spot where 62 years before, such horror had occurred by the hands of other men.

I entered the church at my own risk. I had been warned by the sound engineer, my friend Maurizio. He had gone in minutes prior and exited sniffling. He's usually a big smile person, so a sad face on him stood out. I wanted to go in nonetheless, to say a little prayer for those 560 people that died on a morning not unlike that one.

The entire east-facing wall of the tiny chapel was covered floor to ceiling with small plaques, faded photos, scribbled inscriptions and epitaphs. The age of the oldest victim honored on that wall was 16. The youngest was a 2-week old infant. That wall was the children's memorial section, and the images of those 110 innocent faces staring back at me gripped my throat like a tight Nazi fist. The majority of the victims of the massacre that took place in Sant'Anna di Stazzema were children and young women. The men were either fighting, dead or hiding in the mountains surrounding the town. The few invalid elders in Sant'Anna died by the same two MG34 machine-guns that swept the church ground that day.

A sign by the exit read that the church organ was riddled with machine-gun bullets and the christening font completely destroyed by a grenade. The pews were then used for a bonfire to burn bodies. Many of the corpses were doused with petrol and then set alight. When the SS unit ran out of petrol, they used phosphorous.

As the day progressed, we reenacted the horrible events that took place on that day. I couldn't get the image of those children out of my eyes and had a very hard time trying to stay focused and do my job correctly that day. I was never that close to a war as on that sunny autumn day. I had never really understood what it must have felt like to be living it. I never quite caught the true meaning of a day to celebrate the memory of the military. Until then.

...

Italian war veterans are celebrated on June 2, on the Day of the Republic. On the Last Monday in May, I salute all the American soldiers that gave their life with valour during battle here in Italy. Besides Florence, the city of Nettuno also is home to another monumental American war cemetery. I've been there recently and it is a peaceful, incredibly quiet place by the sea, where a carpet of white stone crosses blankets the closely mowed lawn.

But today it is for those 110 children and 450 innocent victims of Sant'Anna that my Memorial Day thoughts go to. They too are heroes, and I wish to remember them because they too fought a battle on their last day. They faced fear and death with honour. They are not buried in a cemetery. They do not rest with their beloved or in holy soil. They nonetheless deserve to be mentioned and celebrated on this day. Those 560 represent the many faceless civilian victims of our wars that in each combat, give their life for no cause. For no apparent reason.

The youngest victims of the August 12, 1944 massacre

Diary from the set, part IV

Here are 2 more photos I forgot to upload after my return from the recent location shoot.

These were taken at the Medieval Abbey of Casamari, where many scenes from the film were shot over the last 4 days.



The story we are telling is the interesting life of an Italian poet living in France in the tumultuous times immediately following the demise of King Charles V. The poet's name was Cristina da Pizzano, or Christine de Pizan (1363–c.1434) she - to quote Wikipedia - "was a woman of the medieval era who strongly challenged misogyny and stereotypes that were prevalent in the male-dominated realm of the arts. Cristina became well-known and highly regarded in her own day, she was born in Venice but spent most of her childhood and all of her adult life primarily in Paris and then the abbey at Poissy, and wrote entirely in her adoptive tongue of Middle French. Her early courtly poetry is marked by her knowledge of aristocratic custom and fashion of the day, particularly involving women and the practice of chivalry; her early and later allegorical and didactic treatises reflect both autobiographical information about her life and views and also her own individualized and protofeminist approach to the scholastic learned tradition of mythology, legend, and history she inherited from clerical scholars and to the genres and courtly or scholastic subjects of contemporary French and Italian poets she admired.Supported and encouraged by important royal French and English patrons, Christine had a profound influence on fifteenth-century English poetry. Pizan completed forty-one pieces during her thirty-year career (1399–1429). She earned her accolade as Europe’s first professional woman writer."

She wrote in defense of the poor, of women and the destitute victims of political oppression and struck a mighty pen at the tyrants of the time. In our romanticized version of history, we have Cristina maintain an epistolary and platonic affair with an ordained prelate to whom she remains a loyal friend until the end, and with whom she co-wrote many interesting essays , one of which on the figure of Joan of Arc.

On Friday we wrap our third week of photography and the next three will be on a sound stage in Cinecittà, Rome's leading film studios. I will post photos of the constructions built especially for the film and capture more images of my days "behind the scenes," sharing my thoughts and my days with you.

Ciao.

Diary from the set, part III

I leave in a few hours, I'm posting my last journal entry from last week as I set off for 3 more days abroad. Hopefully no more hotel/food horror stories...

Day 3 - Wednesday April 29th - sunset

This is the view I moved to today. The previous days' Overlook hotel was so noisy and brutally smelly that the few of us crew members staying there provoked a Bounty-like mutiny and demanded we change. So here we are.

A small agriturismo (working farm with b&b-style rooms) overlooking the splendid Lepini hills of the Frosinone region. Quiet, cozy and clean. Downstairs the signora is simmering asparagus for the ravioli filling and I can’t wait to tie an apron around my ample hips and lend a hand in her country kitchen. Outside in the yard, a suckling calf is scampering around its mother, cowbell ding-aling-ing along. The thundering sunset is offering up a spectacular skyscape.

My child spoke to me on the phone and closed our overlapping conversation with a heartwarming ti voglio bene, mamma – "I love you mommy" which made me melt with happiness. Tomorrow at this time I will be racing back into his arms, waking him from his sleep if need be to kiss his face, his wee sweaty hairline, his tiny chub hands, his feet.

This is where we shot today, and where we'll return after the long weekend home. A Cistercian abbey perched on top of a hill in the small town of Casamari.





Ciao amici miei, thanks for reading!

Diary from the set, part I

I lied. I said I would post from the road, but I did not.

I'm home for the weekend. On a National holiday the crew gets May 1st off, European Labor Day. I've just returned to my desk from a lovely picnic with friends. We spent the morning playing football and chasing butterflies, the park was noisy with kids' laughter, jaws crunching on fava beans and Pecorino, our posse drunk on Roman sun and strawberry Prosecco.

The work week was good, quite productive despite the unforgiving rain and the usual difficulties of location shooting. The living conditions were tough, the food horrid but the setting was very pretty. I wrote every day, hoping to be able to post, unsuccessfully. I kept drafts and decided to blog them now, one day at a time. I am loyal to my friends and readers, so a promise is a promise where I come from. My wish is to include you in a retroactive journey to the places and feelings I lived in, over the last 4 days.

...

Here's what I would have posted, had there been a chance. They are more like journal entries than posts. A list of laments in many cases:

Day 1: Monday, April 27th - after a very bad dinner experience

The room smells like old cigarettes despite the no smoking sign. At the hotel restaurant I waited close to 2 hours to be served a plate of cold pasta with nondescript meat sauce immediately followed by a dry breast of roasted chicken onto which an entire pepper mill had been spilled. I'm in a rusty mood because I can't understand bad restoration, but contrary to the current predicament, my day did start well. I spent the morning filming in a gorgeous setting, surrounded by lush vegetation, breathtaking vistas and in good company.

Our lead actress and 3 extras in full costume during a bucolic scene.

The garden of Ninfa is a fairytale haven, esconced at the foot of a sheer limestone mountainside, only a few miles from the sea. Monarch butterfiles and sparrows shared the air surrounding us; we walked amid clusters of snow white roses and languid albino wisteria, 6ft shrubs of laurel and sage lining the gravel paths that crept around the citrus groves and 7 natural springs that snaked around the garden. Being the flora-freak and frustrated garden-less green thumb that I am, I felt like I was in paradise.

In the half-hour necessary to build the track and the crane used for the first shot of the day, I wandered around the property shooting pictures, smelling the perfumy flowers and taking in the surrounding beauty, drinking it in overflowing gulps. The stony, half crumbled Medieval structures stood standing like empty masks, lay forgotten on a pristine lawn. The beads of dew dotting the yellow acacia blossoms and the Japanese camelia flowers glistened in the pale morning sun, the birdsong sang to my heart notes of peaceful melody. I was ecstatic. These are the days in which I realize how lucky I am to do what I do. My job gives me the opportunity to visit wonders the existence of which I otherwise never would’ve known.


Things started to take on a bad fold when at luchtime, we had to fight for silence after a large group of school kids on a field trip began screaming and racing around the gardens in headless chicken manner. Soon after, dark clouds began to gather overhead and a strong wind began to howl furiously, shaking flowered shrubs and lifting billowing clouds of dust. Trying to take notes and keep track of dialogue and film stock use, continuity and camera reports while marking a 90-page script in a twister-like storm is not easy. I sat on my usual applebox by the wide angle lens camera and was nearly swept off my ample derriere by a strong gust, while the second camera, operating on a steadicam had to give up on a leading shot down a tree-lined path beacuse the wind was so strong, it threw the 300 lb operator+rig off balance. I hate the rain when I’m stuck in it, and the show must go on.


We wrapped the day after completing our 10-hour shift, slapped by violent buckets of chilled water and aggressive gales. After a curvy drive uphill, I walked Marcel Marceau-style into the musty hotel reception, grabbed my key and made for the shower. I must say the little cubicle washing enclosure did restore heat to my limbs. It was a mystic experience. At no less than 110°, I scorched my skin and stood chin to chest under its strong jet for something like 20 minutes, singing the aria "All'alba vincerò" at full lung capacity.

Face flushed by the searing ablution, skin balmed with almond oil and hair wet due to malfunctioning hairdryer, I wafted down to the reception to check my email in the small internet point (a desk in a corner of a dimly lit room). Unfortunately that's all I could do. 25 people in line and no time to log onto Blogger. Too lazy to go out again, discouraged by all the rain that had soaked my bones and that kept pouring in sheets, I opted for a meal in the hotel. Big Mistake. Long wait. Bad food = bad mood. I apologize for the tone, but I am fuming as I write this, knowing it will not be posted.

It's late now, and my eyes are closing. I will try and steer my dreams back to that idyllic garden and like a bee, travel from flower to flower. I’ll transform into a Kafkian bug or a nimble lizard and slip from rock to grass in rapid bursts of cold blooded energy. I'll become a sparrow, diving down from my corner nest barely touching the surface of a stream down below. I'll be a carp, under the surface of the lagoon, calmly observing humans above the shimmering surface in their dry aquariums.

I'll wake tomorrow to another day in a beautiful place. It's Sermoneta domani, where we shoot a crowd scene in the Medieval town's stone alleys. The weather forecast isn't promising, but at least we'll find mushrooms.


Buonanotte.

Another film, another suitcase

On the road again... This is what my job entails. Packing another suitcase, spending lonely nights in one more anonymous hotel room, and eating hotel food. Good luck.

I'm off on a week of filming on location around the Lazio region. I shall be visiting Norma, Ceccano, Sermoneta, Ninfa and Casamari, among others. Click on the names of the locations to view some random images uploaded from the web. They seem beautiful, and being the setting for the Medieval story the film tells, they should be laden with character and history. There'll be beauty abundant.

The suitcase contains my grandmother's cookbook and my notes. My camera and my laptop. I've got the script marked with the scenes to be shot, those still owing and the few omitted. I've got my stopwatch and my stapler. My pens and markers. I've packed my rain gear and one pair of heels for the evenings. I've got it all but one. I'll be leaving my baby behind. He stays with his loving nonna and his dutiful nanny, this time. I'd love to bring him along, but for just a few days it's not worth it. He's recouping from a high weekend fever and very comfy in his cozy home.

I'll be back in time for my birthday, May 2nd.

In the meantime, I shall be posting:
a) quick updates from the set;
b) simple recipes, comfort food Linus blankets, and any interesting fares I'll be encountering during my travels;
c) photos and images captured on the road, etc.

I may not have time to visit each and every one of you, or be able to comment on your posts, but I will be traveling solo with you and your hearts with me the entire time.

Ciao amici, buona domenica!

Mamma's Pasta e Ceci

Dinner and a Movie, this month's installment features 1987 Norman Jewison hit Moonstruck. In Italy this film was called Stregata dalla Luna.

I remember watching this film and drooling over its many food-related images. The sequences taking place in Brooklyn restaurants, the fornaio oven (tended by a young Nicholas Cage) churning warm Italian rosette buns and sfilatini baguettes, home-cooked meals and one particular scene where Cher and Olympia Dukakis (playing her mother) prepare breakfast during a heated conversation: eggs fried in a crumbless slice of sourdough bread, a dash of tomato concentrate, a jug of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling strips of greasy bacon. Hardly the Italian iconic prima colazione that first comes to mind, but oh, so yummy looking. Most of the comedy’s dialogue scenes take place with the family gathered around the kitchen table, and Grandpa dispensing wisdom and humor with each bite.

I wish to honor that same homey Italian family tradition that fills my household, by contributing my mother's famed Pasta e Ceci. The Italian thick creamy chickpeas mixed in with pasta is among my favorite soups for all seasons. A steaming bowl can replete lost energy and warmth in frosty winter nights; while the chilled version refreshes with each spoonful during sweltering Roman summers. My mom's rendition is by far the best I've ever tasted, and I know my ceci.

4 cans (200gr / 14 oz each) chickpeas (also called garbanzo beans), rinsed
2 tbsp unbleached flour, leveled
2 garlic cloves
2 sprigs rosemary
1 liter (1 quart) vegetable stoc
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
1/2 pot of water
150 g (3/4 cup) maltagliati or mixed pasta

Prepare a mazzetto odoroso (or, bouquet garni) by placing the rosemary and the garlic in a knotted cheesecloth or gauze.
Whir one of the cans of chickpeas in the blender and set aside.
Put all the ingredients – except the stock and blended ceci – in a large stewpot, and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer lightly for 1 hour over a gentle flame, seasoning to taste.

In a small saucepan, heat 2 tablespoons each of olive oil and flour and cook for 10 minutes, stirring constantly over very low heat. Add 1 ladle of vegetable stock to obtain a creamy, white sauce. Stir this into the simmering soup, along with the blended chickpeas. Remove the herbal pouch and add the pasta, cooking it directly in the soup, until done. Serve piping hot with a thread of raw olive oil and freshly ground black pepper.

Note: For the cold, summer version, simply reserve 2 cups of creamy broth aside, cool the soup down before refrigerating, and then add the re-hydrating broth back before serving (otherwise the pasta will continue to absorb the liquid long after cooking and become too cement-like).



Loretta Castorini: Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession.
Priest: What sins have you to confess?
Loretta Castorini: Twice I took the name of the Lord in vain, once I slept with the brother of my fiancee, and once I bounced a check at the liquor store, but that was really an accident.
Priest: Then it's not a sin. But... what was that second thing you said, Loretta?

Whatever Lola Wants

Lola is what my two year-old baby sister used to call me. It was her simplified toddler version of my vowelly and complicated name, which was in fact too difficult for her to pronounce. She's in her twenties thirties now, and still calls me that. Lola has just stuck with me over the years and has become my nickname. And somewhat of an alter ego.

Worldly Lolas include the sassy vixen of Cavalleria Rusticana that steals Turiddu from under Santuzza's engagement bed: Then there's cheeky and meretricious Lola cabaret dancer played by Marlene Dietrich in Josef von Sternberg's film The Blue Angel,  Lolas that have inspired femininity and impudent attitude in many a wench. 

I have spent endless hours in movie theaters, fantasizing at the sexy Lolas on the silver screen, wishing some of their magnetism could magically be transmitted by analogy or metaphor. Cinema is full of Lolas, just think of the eponymous films directed by artists such as Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Bigas Luna or Jacques Demy. The variety of filmic portraits of fictional and historic women named Lola is boundless, there's Action Lola is Tom Tykwer's 1998 Run Lola Run, and the Max Ophüls depiction of the numerous affairs of dancer Lola Montès, most notably with Franz Liszt and Ludwig I, King of Bavaria.

I've come around to loving the name, for its simple sound, sensual feel and exotic musicality. To my surprise, Lola is furthermore a curiously diversified word. For example, I recently found out that Lola is short for omolola in the Yoruba language spoken in West Africa, and means "Child of Wealth." Auspicable, but not quite applicable to moi. Furthermore, Lola Racing Cars is a race car engineering company founded in 1961 in England. I wear one of their vintage T-shirts when I'm feeling particularly Rock 'n' Roll.

Something I really had to apply myself to in order to fully understand, is that Lola is also a "simple" hardware description language designed for illustrating synchronous, digital circuits. The purpose of this particular Lola is to statically describe the structure and functionality of hardware components and of the connections between them. Funny how a Lola text is composed of declarations and statements, which to an unversed ear like mine sound as totally intellectual rather than cybernetic.

If Oscar is the popular Hollywood trophy, and César is his French cousin, the Lola is the popular name for the prestigious German Filmpreis Award. 

More famous nickname homonyms include Lola Rodrìguez de Tiò, the Puerto Rican female activist poet; or the darkly romantic showgirl portrayed in the Barry Manilow hit "Copacabana"; Lola Flores, an Andalusian gypsy singer, dancer and actress; Lola Sharapova-Abdurahimova, one of the first Tajik female violin players; and Lola Martin, America's n°1 Latin porn star.

I began blogging with the idea of writing anonymously, but in the short period since then I have changed my mind. It doesn't feel right somehow. I speak honestly and candidly about myself in my posts, and sometimes in my silly anonymity, it feels like I'm tricking those who read my truths. 

You can still call me Lola, everyone in the family does, as do my closest friends. I like it very much. But if you really want to learn a bit more about me, know that my real name is Eleonora.

Tre giorni, an essay in Italian

La convocazione è per le 10:00 ma io sono lì alle 8:30. Come per il primo giorno di scuola, o per la prima volta diretti ad un indirizzo nuovo, quando si arriva troppo presto perché si è percorsa una strada che ci ha portati sul luogo deputato in meno tempo di quanto stimato. Sono lì sola e mi chiedo, ma dove sono tutti? E sopratutto, cos'è che faccio io veramente di lavoro? Piove, e il mio ombrello è di quelli tascabili, che inevitabilmente si rompono da un lato, e l'acqua ti cola sempre giù bagnandoti nell'unica parte scoperta del collo, scendendo come una lama di ghiaccio fino alle mutande. I dolori del ciclo e il sonno arretrato alterano la mia percezione, i residui della congiuntivite accorciano attraverso i miei occhiali graffiati e bagnati di pioggia, notevolmente il campo visivo. La sospetta assenza di persone attorno a quello che a breve dovrebbe diventare un frenetico set cinematografico, mi preoccupa. 

Poi, uno ad uno spuntano sorrisi, facce note e il profumo della macchinetta del caffé a cialde nella saletta ricavata accanto al passaggio dei cavi del genny mi fanno lentamente tornare lucida. Caricata come una molla con qualche giro di chiavetta vengo riproiettata nel mio usuale mondo e ritmo lavorativo. Il numero dei frame diminuisce e la proiezione arriva a velocità normale. Il suono ovattato si definisce e i sensi si affinano. Avverto un certo agio. Sento una dolce nota sostenuta che mi fa abbassare le spalle tese e mi lascia piacevolmente stupita. Sorrido.

Era da Natale che non lavoravo. E poi, come spesso accade, nel giro di una settimana, mi sono stati offerti due piccoli lavori. Due lavori perfetti, i classici impegni brevi della serie cooked & eaten. Alle 10:00 di un piovoso mercoledì, sola in un parcheggio di un teatrino di posa sul Raccordo Anulare, affronto curiosa il secondo dei due. Tre giorni era l'accordo. "Ci servi solo per tre giorni, per chiudere il film," ha detto quella voce al telefono.

E così è stato. Compressi in quei soli tre giorni, ho vissuto i piacevoli lati di un film intero. Ne ho tratto il paradossalmente il meglio. Un concentrato di film. Un distillato di quello che amo del mio lavoro. Come non mi capitava ormai da un bel po', io mi sono effettivamente divertita. Una bella novità, considerando il mio desiderio di cambiare mestiere. Nello specifico professionale, in quanto a compiti e doveri, l'impegno constava di poche effettive responsabilità, visto che si girava già raccordati. Nessuna noia, pochi tempi morti. Le solite lunghe attese, certo, ma stranamente colme di scoperte e coincidenze. Nessuna routine, au contraire. Sono stati tre giorni (stipendiati) di risate, cioccolata e sguardi di complicità. Peccato siano stati solo tre.

Oscar night rituals

I'm jet lagged. I spent the night in L.A. yesterday and the body’s schedule is not yet in synch with the clock ticking on my bedside table.

Every year come mid winter, hordes of movie buffs, cinephiles and fans gather in séance-like covens to worship the Academy of Motion Picture’s viril statuette and its artist, thespian and author recipients. Here in the Old World - 9 hours ahead of Hollywood - we like to party hard and late to watch the Oscars through dawn. Buffet style snacks, loads of chocolate, pretzels & chips, espresso and gallons of booze accompany us through the wee hours and the overly long acceptance speeches of the less interesting categories. Bets and prognostications, theme dress-up (it is Carnevale after all) and convivial merry make the 6 hour-long Notte degli Oscar an annual must.

My virtual flight of fantasy landed early on the Kodak Theater’s red carpet, as ushers were still buffing the brass velvet rope holders, cameramen tweaking their equipment and florists busily assembling the last colorful arrangements. As the celebs and their limos began spilling onto Hollywood Boulevard, I dwelled – my stiletto heels burrowing into the soles of my feet – brushing gowns with Nathalie Portman, Anne Hathaway and Meryl Streep. I winked at Robert Downey Jr and socked Mickey Rourke in his granite shoulder. I tried hard to chase after Sean Penn, but that slender wife of his kept bouncing me off. Once I finally filed into the Oscar shrine, I managed to get front row seats and followed the event’s succession of surprise presenters and acceptance speeches through the night.

The first celebrity to grasp Uncle O’s statuette was the sexy guapa Penelope Cruz who claimed she just might faint. The documentary winner "Man on Wire" was the first Oscar acceptance speech to include magic tricks, its star Philippe Petit furthermore showed his gratitude by balancing the Oscar on his chin. The Best Animated Feature Film? The award in this category was picked up by Wall-E and his beloved Eee-vah (yippee!). Dustin Lance Black tried hard to hold it together while accepting his original screenplay award. That’s when I started sniffling. I tend to get quite get emotional at the Oscars.
The most powerful and touching Oscar moment pinnacled as the Hollywood crowd rose to its feet, with several nominees getting teary-eyed, as Heath Ledger’s family stepped up to accept his best supporting trophy for "The Dark Knight." Ledger's father, Kim Ledger, said the award "would have humbly validated Heath's quiet determination to be truly accepted by all you here tonight, his peers within an industry he so loved." Sister Kate Ledger told the audience the honor will go to "your beautiful Matilda," which drenched quite a number of tissues for me. I also was moved by the inspiring "All my life I've had a choice between love and hate. I chose love… and I'm here." A.R. Rahman’s speech, the shy and quiet man who won both best score and best original song for Slumdog Millionaire and clumsily sang on stage between awards.
Sean Penn won for his portrayal as Harvey Milk in Gus Van Sant's excellent Milk, his speech reflected the recent Proposition 8 issues in California and featured quite a bit of good light-hearted comedy.
Kate Winslet’s out of breath gratitude opened with a humble "I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t made a version of this speech when I was 8 years old staring in the bathroom mirror and this was a shampoo bottle," as The Reader actress told the audience. "Well, it’s not a shampoo bottle now. I feel very fortunate to have made it all the way from there to here."
In one of yesterday's sweetest moments, Slumdog Millionaire director Danny Boyle jumped up and down like Tigger the hyper tiger from Winnie the Pooh after winning for best director. Explaining his eccentric behavior, the British filmmaker said he'd told his children that "if this miracle ever happened, I would receive it in the spirit of Tigger." It was a Slumdog Millionaire sweep, the rags to riches story infact held the last smile with the Best Picture win. Steven Spielberg took the stage to announce the winner of the Academy Award for best picture. This was the 8th and the final win for Slumdog in the 81st Oscar Night. The entire cast and crew climbed on the podium to receive the award. And it indeed made me smile as I coasted down from the clouds and landed face down on my bed where E snored quietly.
The early morning school day alarm buzzed me awake at 7:40 am, shattering the coma-like nap I had slipped into just moments before, and erasing all Hollywood glitz. Until next year, that is.