We were abroad celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary. Yes, yes, for us - the people of chapter two, remarried, returning to the scene of the accident, called us as you see fit - ten years of marriage is a piece of triumph worth celebrating. On the trip, I took with me Haim Shapira's new (and recommended!) book on statistics and probability. Graceful on my part. You know very well what the statistics say, may its name be erased, about the chances of the destruction of the First Temple becoming merely a preview of the destruction of the Second Temple.
And there it was, at a late hour and in a magical and luxurious corner of Italian nature, a message popped up on my device. I've been using reading glasses for years, but it seemed to me that it said as if some Israeli team was leading the way over Brazil, and more in soccer!
I jumped out of bed. I had to see the remaining minutes of this game with my own eyes. The odds were against me. The local Wi-Fi was on my face, and my technological abilities are not something to take to a deserted island, but my bubble went up to heaven and on the computer screen I saw, God willing, and so much, blue and white players at the end of extra-time, leading 2-3 over Brazil. You miss two penalties along the way, but who's counting? Then, in the last few minutes, we don't defend but attack. And especially celebrating the final whistle, knowing full well that they deservedly won. Fox didn't happen to us, we didn't score a penalty.
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And like many Israelis, mostly but not exclusively male, I was filled to bursting with deep feelings and reflections, not all of which can be expressed. Football is an old Israeli pain point. Football has been our childhood landscape, and the most beloved and popular sport from 1948 to the present. On the other hand, it is an endless doubt of disappointment.
Israeli fans know that the last minutes are when we fall. That decisive games and "money-time" are nicknames for killing fields, at the end of which our guys come off the grass without a title and without splendor. Again and again we asked ourselves, gray-haired football fans, where do Israeli qualities disappear when it comes to this game? Where is the creativity? Where have the bastardism and chutzpah gone? The ability to ascend when needed?
And it's true that until a few days ago no one had heard the word "Mondialito", and the names of those young players I still have to learn. But how can you not love an Israeli actor who makes Brazil for Brazilians, and then in front of the cameras devotes his joy to the sad Israel and the families of the fallen?
That moment on Saturday night, when everything suddenly came together, touched emotions whose roots are far older than the birth dates of these wonderful actors. And in another: the generation of these players is the most maligned generation in our history, and what did we not say against it. But look at them.
And I know that among my religious friends there are quite a few who adamantly refuse to celebrate achievements that involve violating the laws of Shabbat, or the laws of modesty. But the ability to live the paradox and contradiction is exactly the essence of the Israeli experience, and it requires a degree of mental flexibility, and quite a bit of irony – skills that I'm not sure if anyone is still teaching.
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The new film about the life and death of Inbal Perlmutter ("Inbal Perlmutter - If It's Over") crushes the heart. Not only because that's what tragedies do, but also because we all tell ourselves some version of the ancient legend of the glory of the premature deaths of too many rock artists.
More than once that legend, romantic in the bad sense of the word, also supports their portrayal as idols. After all, rock and roll flourished in the Western world. And even if by that time Christianity had already undergone a profound secularization, the seminal story is still about glorifying the death of a young man, and perhaps of youth itself, always spiritual and rebellious.
The deaths of figures such as James Dean and Elvis Presley already led to countless rumors that corresponded with ancient beliefs, and the tomb often had to be guarded from fans. But the in-depth research and loving care of the creative duo – Abigail Sperber and Sharon Lauzon – leaves no room for the kitsch of death. People, especially women, who have insisted on remaining silent all these years, are finally talking and telling.
They loved Inbal. Some admired. And they accompanied and supported, and I really wish each of us had friends who would wrap him up like that. Only in the final scene are everyone's faces revealed, and there is not a hint of legendary aura or catharsis. Everyone sits with drooping faces, gloomy and gloomy, as if only yesterday it happened and a beloved young woman, a fountain of living water of creation and a pit of death wish, crashed into that wall.
And in what way is it precisely this piercing gaze, devoid of any admiration of death, that also says something beautiful about life. And about companies. It's going to take me a while, but when I'm able to hear "Until Next Pleasure" again, I think I'll love it more.
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I don't remember when we started watching documentaries. Or to differentiate between movies and life itself. People of my generation tend to miss the cinema of yesteryear. Needless to say, longing is an extremely dubious source of information, but we will hasten to say that few would argue that the movies of yesteryear were simply better. Nonsense.
Some miss the days when Mom gave half a pound enough for tickets for you and your brother, as well as two falafel dishes and drinks. Others praise the subtle approach of the older movies where there was less profanity, and when someone fired a gun, someone else would fall, and that was it. Like in a theater. No horror close-ups in slow motion and no spritzes of ketchup.
A significant portion of my generation even miss the ruffians who would roll bottles down the hall, yell at the projector (whom they called "Cancer!"), smoke and go to blows, all during the film. I personally remember fondly the moments after.
At the end of the daily show, two surprises always landed on us: one of them was the simple fact that it was still light outside. It was a pleasant little shock. The second surprise involved the unforgivable gap between the festive entrance to the hall – carpets and mirrors, velvet and glory – and the miserable exit in the back foyers – broken protrusions and the smell of urine. An experience I have always believed to be the realization of the wise phrase "Know where you came from and where you are going". But after all this upheaval, something from the film still accompanied us to the life that awaited us outside.
I don't see that anymore. After musical movies there were couples dancing on the way out, and then some. Quite a few tried to imitate a successful trial. Coming out of Bruce Lee's karate movies, young people would try to kick pillars or break with their bare hands some protrusion that came their way, which often ended unfortunately.
In general, there was a feeling that we were all riding the same horses, robbing the same mail train (which carried dirty money for very bad people), rescuing a good friend from the hanging rope, and being a part, or at least we could have been, part of, the glory of the world. Even though it was clear to us that in Hollywood there was no street called Yoseftal, and that no one there was called Moshiko.
And look what it is, a documentary Noga, and very Israeli, threw me into all these memories of a movie that comes out of the cinema with you.
shishabat@israelhayom.co.il
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