29 03 2010


Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo

Michael Moore is a lucky journalist.  He navigates a crosscurrent and earns millions with his anti-establishment media manipulations. His prose hardly seems that of an American commentator: he is a stateless person whom nobody kicks in passing and an intellectual fucker and at the same time a far from naive investor. He is fat and ugly and wears the cap of a drunkard or imbecile, but in the American Way of Lift this means that he has risen on the basis of his wit.

Michael Moore is a journalist whose Complete Audiovisuals have been projected from A to Z on Cuban television (no other young local filmmaker has this record). And last week it was the turn for the national premiere of Capitalism: A Love Story.

As much as I try, I never seem to miss the pamphlet films by this author. They are brilliant in their rudeness. They are a sign of the ideological idiocy with which he could be pulling the leg of his imperialist country. But, paradoxically, they are also the best defense of the democracy so demonized in this “absurd First World” and in turn so demonized here.

For some anguished or annexationist reason, the gospel according to Michael Moore always leaves me wanting to live in a country where it is possible to criticize, without opportunistically opposing the voice of the State being a cause of incarceration or crime at the expense of the critic.

And there is a lot of residual freedom reading between the lines of Mr. Michael Moore. His detailed descriptions of far-fetched defects are triviality for our black humor trained in totalitarianisms and tonfas. His Quixotic complaints don’t even register in Cuba: with the decades we have become accustomed to things as they are, and is better not to stir up too much shit in front of the fan, much less in front of the microphone or digital camera (silence is now our safe conduct).

After half a century or half a millennium of uncultured dialog, we Cubans have killed the Mini Michael Moore that once lived in all of us. We know that the clowning performer with his script of antics will soon end up in prison on this side of the political paradise. His obsession with sticking his obese fingers on the pulse seems to us a little obscene (technically silly). Like half civil citizens we find an inverisimilitude in a man making a living, beating on a tree if it has not fallen or is on the verge of falling.

And on top of that, Capitalism: A Love Story sins with its plot hanging by a thread: in the documentary there is no believable trauma, at least in the tropics. The decadence of his post-Cuppy Cuba is nothing more than pure capitalistphobia, complicated with jazzy rashes of The Internationale. Michael Moore sets himself up as a singer of My Cid against the emaciated democracy Made in the USA, and in this film demonstrates that the perfect word for his palate is Socialism, perhaps because “it’s easy to be number one when there is no competition” (the quote is his).      

Without an apocalyptic whiff of 2012, our Stupid White Man on The Roundtable television show (where they show this work twice a day) abuses the trust of workers, cops, managers, priests and people hurt to the point of resentment, and overwhelms the utter gullibility of his dis-informed third world viewers (excluding Cubans of course, who accuse him of boring them to death: I still cannot find a neighbor who saw the full first hour).

But, just as such freedom of action and creation is the most dangerous example of how to provoke the power, ripping to shreds justice, biting its edges, publicly scandalizing the face of eternity or the Internet: an entire leonine lesson for the most uneasy Cuban blogosphere (“I refused to live in a country like this and I am not going to leave,” says Michael Moore).

Moreover, it is nothing new in that other world (Woody Allen leaves him in the dust when it comes to being caustic). I hate election cycles. Ruminating on the ruins of the kingdom. Selling the pain of others as a synonym for sincerity. Flirting with flatulent lack of faith in the ass of the 21st century. Whoring presidents in exchange for the preachers certain lies (at times obscurantism of the casino or bowling alley). A Hollywood retouch of the Conspiracy Theory and the sputum of the plutocracy in the name of the first or the posthumous Amendment to the Constitution. Parallel Assemblies Proselytizing. An eye-of-the-camel type grudge against the rich. Infantile leftism in a phase not so incipient as insipid. And an et cetera populist who culminated with the calumny that “capitalism is an evil and you cannot regulate an evil: you must change it for something else, for democracy…” (without specifying adjectives).

These same Michaelmooreian components are the cartridges with which the Cuban writer doesn’t know how to draw a counter text (much less finish off a counter text). These same bile bullets are those that our authors shun so as not to be seen as pests in the face of institutionality.

Of course, so to deny my “mercenarianism” in-waiting, it’s possible that some rough Varela or an ubiquitous Ubieta will be sacrificed before the screen to type the Cubafilian review of Capitalism: A Love Story. Please, don’t shoot, against my star style: if you haven’t noticed, this review oozes Cuba-loving vengeance from its twelve apostate paragraphs.



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