Who has not dreamed of looking out the window of a plane flying above the clattering white clouds and the gray clouds, to land in Los Angeles in a blue and too long ago d ' summer of 1971. And after a few miles of unfamiliar roads go through a door window in a wooden house, move from room to room, open the fridge and pour a glass of apple juice. Case ends of the earth, houses around the corner, flipped homes, houses, hidden by a hill of waste material. The
collage frame that opens this post shows a panoramic view, almost Venetian, almost Flemish, home-cabin-store Fred Sanford and son, Lamont. It 's the scene of the first episode of the first season (1971-1972) of the TV series, and is already so perfect. A man sings merrily with piano accompaniment. To the left is a door window, the camera pans a room and shows that even distantly resembles that place lost in the maze of memory, silent and shadowy and almost timeless magic and grandparents once defined the good of living -good, rather it is a sunny stanzaccia, lit by three windows and a door. Room seems perpetually crumbling chewed and spat upon by a boxer of twenty-one months, cluttered with objects that have taken the color upholstery, and vice versa, of cianciafruscole broken and scattered on the carpets bleached only by countless summers. And 'the old Fred Sanford, the junk dealers, who sings and plays, but then the cameraman moves the camera forward enough to allow us to see: astonishment, the old is just dusting the floor, made a pianola. It 'we already knew that ( A) we're not in a bourgeois interior, and (B ) that is an ingrained habit that of the old to spend time in idleness heat wave, free old man like a nightingale or the lily of the field by bourgeois concerns joys and responsibilities (soon will win instead of a piano played in TV black and white, in the second season Lamont will take home a mangy sofa and Ale will be only the old dream of a color TV with remote control with three buttons). Both Lamont is the son who works and sweats, peering from the shadows of his pick-up deposits of waste materials at the edges of the streets of Los Angeles, and accumulates in either and out home hardware, and English china and coffins fashions and fads and black roots of Africa's vaguely Eastern religions.
collage frame that opens this post shows a panoramic view, almost Venetian, almost Flemish, home-cabin-store Fred Sanford and son, Lamont. It 's the scene of the first episode of the first season (1971-1972) of the TV series, and is already so perfect. A man sings merrily with piano accompaniment. To the left is a door window, the camera pans a room and shows that even distantly resembles that place lost in the maze of memory, silent and shadowy and almost timeless magic and grandparents once defined the good of living -good, rather it is a sunny stanzaccia, lit by three windows and a door. Room seems perpetually crumbling chewed and spat upon by a boxer of twenty-one months, cluttered with objects that have taken the color upholstery, and vice versa, of cianciafruscole broken and scattered on the carpets bleached only by countless summers. And 'the old Fred Sanford, the junk dealers, who sings and plays, but then the cameraman moves the camera forward enough to allow us to see: astonishment, the old is just dusting the floor, made a pianola. It 'we already knew that ( A) we're not in a bourgeois interior, and (B ) that is an ingrained habit that of the old to spend time in idleness heat wave, free old man like a nightingale or the lily of the field by bourgeois concerns joys and responsibilities (soon will win instead of a piano played in TV black and white, in the second season Lamont will take home a mangy sofa and Ale will be only the old dream of a color TV with remote control with three buttons). Both Lamont is the son who works and sweats, peering from the shadows of his pick-up deposits of waste materials at the edges of the streets of Los Angeles, and accumulates in either and out home hardware, and English china and coffins fashions and fads and black roots of Africa's vaguely Eastern religions.
Yet even in light of the Sanford house shake the mystery of a window first and then there was no longer there.
Continued ...
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Continued ...
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