Marifasa lupino lumino. Chapter Text A cold front begins to roll in. Heavy grey clouds mass in the skies overhead. The cheery, multicolored letters announcing ‘Pops Chocklit Shoppe have long begun to flake away under the twin forces of weather and time. Inside the old diner, two young boys sit across from one other. A light rain begins. Jughead Jones opens his faux-leather bound journal. The pages are beginning to yellow, curling at the corners. Though hes owned it for more than a year, its less than half full of his scribblings. He tries to conserve space best he can. After all, its not like hell soon have enough money to spend on another one. Thrift. Thats the key to surviving in these tumultuous times. He scrawls the date in the corner of the page. November 20 th, 1935 Our story is about a town, but beyond that, its the story of a nation, and a world. A world changing with greater speed and greater intensity than anyone might have ever imagined. Or dreaded. The optimistic reveries and Pollyanna dreams of the decades past have vanished in the face of an impossibly grim reality. In this country alone, one fourth of workingmen are out of a job. Across the seas, entire nations fold under the brutal might of destitution and poverty. Dictatorship rears its head and threatens to trample first Europe, then the world, underfoot. The future is marked by crooked crosses and scarlet flags. Even here, in picturesque Riverdale, safely ensconced in the land of the free, the travails of the world make themselves known. Our story begins with the Blossom family, and in particular with the strike called by the laborers employed by Clifford Blossoms nation-wide maple syrup empire. Like in so many towns throughout America, the class divisions and tensions in Riverdale ra- “I just dont know, Jug. I get that going after music is kind of a fools errand in this economy, but its my passion. ” Jughead looks up for a moment, his pencil ceasing its dance over the paper. “Archie Im kind of busy. ” The class divisions and tensions in Riverdale ran deep. On one side, there was the happy, clean-cut face of Riverdale. The Northside. Populated by cheery, all American, middle-class suburbanites. They ran their small businesses, raised their wholesome, fresh faced sons and daughters, kept their lawns immaculate, and made up one little disc in the backbone of our proud nation. On the other side, there was the unsavoury element that made this lifestyle possible. The Southside. Populated by poor day laborers, destitute bums, petty criminals, an- “My dad really wants me to take up the family business. And I get it. Its been in the Andrews family for generations. But I just dont think thats me. ” Jughead stops writing again. He fixes his friend with an exasperated stare. “Archie. Listen to me. We are in the middle of the worst economic downturn in history. Half of this country is unemployed. Crops are rotting in the fields. Democracy is crumbling in Europe. Fascists are bombing Abyssinia into ash. I dont want to sound rude, but you really have to ask yourself, ‘what are the biggest problems right now? Archie looks back at Jughead. He runs a hand through his ginger hair. He blinks. Theres a moment of silence. “So youre saying I should pursue my music? ” “For fucks sake. ”.

Mariphasa English Full Movier On the website Watch Online Screenrant Watch Online Free. WatchMariphasaMoviePutlocker Mariphasa STREAMING. Mariphasa 86. Mariphasa movie. Mariphasa lupina lumino. Mari fasal mara bayora. Maripasa. Mariphasa lupina lumina. Chapter Text “I cant do this anymore, Cher. I cant! ” “Jason…” She reaches out to lay a comforting hand on his arm. He jerks away. “No! God, look at what he did! Look at…” Jasons voice trails off. His eyes burn. “You cant fix all of the worlds problems, Jason. Its…it isnt our concern. ” “The hell it isnt! ” He jerks at the hem of his coat. “Where do you think the money comes from? ” He reaches out and grabs hold of the sleeve of her dress. Yanks it. She gasps in surprise. “That pays for all of this? From him! From what he does! He murdered those people. Christ, Andrews is in the hospital! ” “They were all Serpents, werent they? They were criminals. It could be worse. I just mean to s—“ “How can you…they were human beings, Cheryl! Human beings whose crime was to think maybe they deserved to be able to feed themselves and their families! How can you justify that? ” “Jason, hes our father. We live in his house. We-“ “ Why do you always defend him? With the way he treats us? Like were chess pieces to move around for the sake of his business? Like were just more of his property? And thats wonderful compared to the way he treats everyone else! ” “I dont care about him! ” she shouts. It startles him. He stiffens. Cheryl places her hands on his shoulders. Looks up into his eyes. “I care about you. I dont want anything to happen to you. ” Jasons face softens. He lowers his voice. “Cher, what do you thinks going to happen to me? ” “Youre scaring me, lately. Im scared youre going to make him mad. If you…if he starts thinking youre a problem? ” He snorts. “A problem? ” “Jason, I found your letter. ” “My l—“ “Dont play dumb with me, JJ. ” Her voice drops to a whisper. “The one from the Communists. Are you out of your mind? What if one of the maids had found it? What if…what if dad had found it? Who knows what he would do? ” She reaches up and puts a hand to his cheek. “Jason, I love you. Please dont do anything stupid. ” He hugs his sister. Gives her a brief kiss. “Cheryl, Im not going to do anything stupid. ” “If you do, youll just deny its stupid. ” “Fair point. ” “Please dont go on this ridiculous crusade you so clearly want to go on. ” He smoothes her hair. “Everythings going to be fine, Cheryl. Nothings going to happen to me. Or you. Or anyone else. But things cant go on like this. Not anymore. Cheryl, a boy we know is dying and our fathers the one responsible for it. ” “Dads guys werent there for Andrews. ” “So it would have been better if Jones was made an orphan? ” “Thats not what I meant, JJ. ” He sighs. Looks around. God forbid anyone was listening in. And one could never rule anything out in the dark halls of Thornhill. “Youre a good person, Cher. You have a good heart. I know that. You know this isnt right. ” She groans. “Maybe…God, I dont know. ” “I do. ” Cheryl hugs her brother.   “No, Jason, you dont. You dont know. Thats the fucking problem” Jughead doesnt know Joaquin DeSantos too well. He knows hes Kevins friend. He knows hes a serpent, like his father. But thats about all that he does know. So when he meets him coming out of the hospital one day in the first week of January, and Joaquin greets him with a ‘Jughead! he isnt quite sure how to respond. Except with a half-hearted wave and a ‘hey, Joaquin. The Serpent offers him a cigarette. He waves it away. Joaquin shrugs and pops one into his own mouth. “Suit yourself. ” The winter winds give him a good fight as he struggles to light it, but he manages. Joaquin jerks a thumb towards the squat, sprawling hospital building. Riverdale General. Built by Obadiah Blossom in 1892 as an act of charity. “Hows he doing? ” Jughead pauses. He shrugs. “Fine. ” Joaquin nods. Theyre just far enough from the hospital that its not clear whether Joaquin is himself heading there or merely in the area. Jughead doesnt bother to ask. “Fine? ”  "Well, hes got a bullet in the ribs. About as fine as can be considering the present circumstances. ” “Your dads a tough bastard. ” “How dyou know that? ” Joaquin shrugs. “Spoken to him more than once. ” He puffs on the cigarette. A little tendril of smoke curls from his lips and dissolves into the chilly morning air. “Right. ” Jughead tries to stay away from all of the Serpent shit. More trouble than its worth. Though, frankly, he thinks much of it is a lot of bluster. They arent near as dangerous or formidable as theyd like the public to believe. That Cliff Blossoms latest blow has scattered them like so many leaves is evidence enough of that. “Know him well? ” He finally asks. Joaquin pauses. Takes another puff of his cigarette. “Dont know about ‘well. Only been in town a few months. ” His blue eyes gaze off into the grey cloud-streaked skies distant. “Maybe. Depends on what you consider ‘well. ” Jughead raises an eyebrow. “Well enough to be afraid? ” “Afraid of what? ” Joaquin asks, as though he resents the implication he might fear anything at all. Of course, they both know perfectly well what Jughead means. “Ending up the same way. ” “Nah. Im not that important. ” Joaquin shoots him a look. Jughead cant quite read it. Cant find that glint in the eye that affirms or denies the tongue. “Anyway, I might be more pissed than afraid. ” Jughead chuckles. “Pissed? Really? ” “Hell yeah. I just got here. ” He gestures in the general direction of the Southside. “All the other lowlifes and riffraff in leather jackets-theyre probably the closest thing I got to family right now. Not to mention allies. Which are more important. ” He takes one last drag on the cigarette. Plucks it from his lips. Flicks it to the ground and grinds it out with a boot heel. “And this asshole in a shitty wig comes along and cocks it all up. ” Jughead lips curl into a smile. “You know about Cliff Blossoms wig? ” “ Everybody knows about Cliff Blossoms wigs. ” “Except Cliff Blossom doesnt know everybody knows about Cliff Blossoms wig. ” The Serpent curls his fingers into the shape of a pistol and imitates the sound of a guns discharge. “Id like to shoot it right off his fuckin head. It feels nice to laugh, really. Its become a rather rare luxury lately. “You and me both, pal. ” Theres another moment of silence. Furtive gusts of winter wind blow withered leaves down Riverdales main street. Christmas wreathes, their needles and leaves beginning to decay, still hang from shop windows and doors. A few cheap signboards hang around, reading ‘happy new years! in cheery lettering belying the towns misery. One more blessed year in the U S of A. Welcome to 1936. “On that note, ” Joaquin says. “If youd really like to shoot the wig off Cliff Blossoms head…well, you and me aint the only ones. ” “No? Who else? ” Jugheads eyes narrow. His defenses go up. His instincts demand he be alert. He has the sudden feeling the next words out of Joaquins mouth will be ones of particular gravity. “Try every worker in his factory, for one. And a few other fellas. That I know. ” “Well…” Jughead says, cautious. “Are you and your ‘fellas planning to do anymore than ‘like to? ” Joaquin smiles, his eyes still locked on the rolling January sky. Its a conspiratorial, borderline predatory smile. Full of intent and devoid of warmth. Just maybe. ” Jughead feels his heart quicken, just a little bit. He hopes they put a damn bullet in Cliff Blossoms head. Or six bullets. He wont even entertain of that ‘it wont solve anything bullshit, because it absolutely will. No more Cliff Blossom means the people of Riverdale just might have a fighting chance to improve their lot. “Well, ” Jughead finally says. “When Cliff Blossoms gotten what he deserves, Ill know who to thank. ” “Why not thank yourself? ” “Hmm? ” “We…” Joaquin begins. His voice drops a few octaves. No ones listening and its unlikely anyone cares, but his voice drops nonetheless. “Well, apparently a few folks who feel more or less the same way are having a meeting on the 25 th at about sundown. To talk about…you know…issues. I figured Id drop by. Thought you might like to, also? ” Jughead opens his mouth. Joaquin preempts him. “Relax, its not a frame-up. Blossom thinks were done. Very confident guy. ” Before Jughead can respond, Joaquin passes him a slip of paper. He grinds out his second cigarette. He waves. “See you, Jones Jr. ” Then hes off, in the direction of Jughead-isnt-sure-what. Jughead checks out the slip of paper. Its just a scrap from a notebook, with an address scribbled in messy, spidery hand 1905 Maple Lane. Sundown, right? Veronica Lodge has just cracked open a box of papers chronicling the flow of money from her fathers automobile construction plant in northern Maine to…well, countless places. Its incredibly boring for her, a girl to whom business comes easier than most. It must be absolutely hellish for Betty Cooper, who Veronica has press-ganged into helping her. “What are we looking for, exactly? ” Betty asks. They sit in Veronicas spacey room on the second floor of Pembrooke, poring over records in the light of a dim desk lamp. Veronica has revised her strategy and decided to bring up boxes from the basement one by one rather than en masse. “Numbers that make no sense. Money transfers. Money disappearing. Particularly money being transferred into nameless or otherwise suspicious firms or accounts. Look for the names GM or the American Legion in particular. ” She runs a manicured finger down another slip of paper. Does some quick calculations. Tosses it aside in disgust. Nothing. “Veronica…Im not very good at this…I really dont think Ill be much help. ” She smiles weakly. Veronica wags a finger. “Nice try, Betts. Youre not getting out of this. ” Betty sighs in defeat, and they keep searching. The sun slowly sinks beneath the forested ridges beyond town. Darkness springs up. They keep looking. A little past sundown, Betty suddenly makes an odd little noise. “Huh, ” she mumbles. Veronica looks up. “What? ” “I didnt know your father did business with the Blossoms. ” Veronica raises an eyebrow. “Neither did I. ” Without asking, she reaches over and plucks the paper Bettys examining from her hands. Looks it over. There it is. 25, 000 worth of machinery to Blossom Maple Farms. Except, somethings not quite right. The combined costs of the machinery clearly dont add up to 15, 000. They barely break 10000, in fact. So that leaves 15000 dollars unaccounted for. “See that? Missing money, ” she pronounces, more to herself than to Betty. Theres an air of triumph in her voice. “What does that mean? ” Betty asks, blue eyes big and uncomprehending. “Well, Betty darling. It means that unless Clifford Blossom was giving daddy money for free, something odd is going on here. ” Her lips purse. Its so small. Insignificant, almost. No one would ever notice such a tiny discrepancy unless they were, like she and Betty, specifically hunting for it. She checks the date on the paper. May 1935. “Betty, can you grab me that stack of papers? ” She gestures to a messy pile on the floor next to the desk. “Didnt we already look through these? ” Betty protests as she leans down to grab them. “Yes. ” Veronica takes them from her. Flips to the one she needs. There they are. The 15000. All gone to an account in Spain. Málaga. Veronica chews her lip. Her father has always had dealings in Spain. The Lodge family is of Spanish descent, after all. Her fathers father, Ausencio, had decided on a prudent change of surname upon coming to America. Americans were, he figured, more likely to do business with a Lodge than with a Primo de Rivera. By the same token, hed christened his firstborn son Hiram. But that did not mean they lost all connection with the mother country. Veronica has been to Spain more than once, with her father and mother (who is herself Mexican, but of partly Spanish descent. So theres nothing strange about accounts in that country. But still, the moved money…and from Cliff Blossom? Surely that was not a coincidence. The night winds on. Betty falls asleep in her chair and Veronica gently places a pillow beneath her head. She finds more of the same, and it seems her father and Cliff Blossom maintained quite a healthy business relationship. Selling and buying. Buying and selling. More money shaved off the top of orders. A percentage point here. A few thousand there. Gone into shady, obscure accounts. All quite intriguing. It leaves her with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. A feeling she is certain will only be alleviated when shes gotten to the bottom of all of this. She cant ask her father, obviously. She cant march right up to Cliff Blossom and demand answers, either. But she can march right up to his kids.

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Mariphasa (HDRip. 1pm 3pm 5pm 7pm Forum Haus der Kulturen der Welt, Audifoyer John-Foster-Dulles Allee 10, 10557 Berlin / Subway: S5, S7, S9, S75, Hauptbahnhof station Free entry Get together We invite you to come for a coffee and listen to the invited artists who will discuss their work, research and ongoing projects with the Rencontres Internationales programming team. This is an informal and ideal opportunity to address the work of the artists in the programme before the screening... Screening Haus der Kulturen der Welt, Vortragssaal "Defeated" In the presence of Wiktoria Wojciechowska and Grzegorz Stefanski. Wiktoria wojciechowska: Sparks, Doc. expérimental, hdv, couleur, 0:0, 0, 2019  see more Mike hoolboom: 3 Dreams of Horses, Vidéo, 16mm, couleur et n&b, 5:30, 0, 2018  see more Grzegorz stefanski: Restraint, Vidéo, hdv, noir et blanc, 1:0, 0, 2016  see more Sergii sabakar: Outwards, Animation, hdv, noir et blanc, 2:25, Ukraine, 2016  see more Lina selander, Oscar Mangione: Diagram of Transfer No. 1, Vidéo expérimentale, hdv, couleur et n&b, 8:30, Suède, 2018  see more Eshwarya grover: Memoirs of Saira & Salim, Documentaire, hdv, couleur, 13:40, Inde, 2018  see more Viet Hoai Son cao: Neon Sarcophagus, Doc. expérimental, hdv, couleur, 15:29, Viet nam, 2018  see more Wiktoria wojciechowska Sparks Doc. expérimental, hdv, couleur, 0:0, 0, 2019 Sparks is a multidimensional portrait of a forgotten but still raging contemporary European conflict: the war in Ukraine. Ukrainians are fighting each other, with government forces on one side and pro-Russian separatists on the other. Wiktoria Wojciechowska went in search of combatants and victims to recount its impact on the lives of ordinary people. The title, Sparks, refers to incandescent shrapnel that mercilessly pierces the walls of houses. Civilians living near the front call it. or iskry, in Ukrainian. Looking up at a hail of burning fragments, they know it is already too late to seek shelter. The "sparks" signal death and fear. Combining photographs, collage, film, symbolic images of armed conflict with pictures and words collected from combatants, Sparks offers several perceptions of war. Wiktoria Wojciechowska is a multimedia artist, working with photography, video, collage, installation and books. Born in 1991 in Lublin, Poland and graduated with honors from Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw. Lives and works in Lublin and Paris. Wiktoria Wojciechowska was the 2015 winner of the Oskar Barnack Leica Newcomer Award for Short Flashes, portraits of drenched cyclists captured on the streets of Chinese's metropolis. Between 2014 and 2016, she accomplished Sparks, a portrait of the contemporary war in Ukraine, based on the stories of people living in a war-torn country. This series received several awards, such as Les Rencontres d'Arles 2108 New Discovery award's public prize, Madame Figaro prize and the Prix pour la Photographie, Fondation des Treilles. "Sparks" has been featured in numerous exhibitions such as Les Rencontres d'Arles 2018 in France; Jimei X Arles festival in Xiamen, China; Krakow Photomonth in Poland, The Museum of Photography in Riga, Latvia, Exhibition Bureau in Warsaw, Poland. Wiktoria Wojciechowska was also nominated for many prestigious grants such as Joop Swart Masterclass 2016, Unseen Young Talents, Lucie Foundation Emerging Artists, Visura Grant, Deutsche Börse Photography Foundation Prize (for the book Short Flashes) and Foam Paul Huf Award. She is a recipient of scholarships and grants of Polish Ministry of Culture and National Heritage and other institutions. Mike hoolboom 3 Dreams of Horses Vidéo, 16mm, couleur et n&b, 5:30, 0, 2018 Film is made out of gelatin that comes from horses. Theyre waiting to be slaughtered, so that pictures can be made. Mike Hoolboom is a Canadian media artist and writer. Grzegorz stefanski Restraint Vidéo, hdv, noir et blanc, 1:0, 0, 2016 I created this work for Wola Museum in Warsaw. I was inspired by anonymous documentary photograph probably from 50` that puzzled me as very contemporary and unbelievably well staged as for a snapshot. I was thinking a lot about how language of “reality” changes over time and how it can be easily influenced reinterpreted. And then I relied that reenactments are very bodily reinterpretation of images, that they make individual bodies to be mediums of transformation meanings; and I realised that their growing popularity and superficial innocence frightens me. I decided to reenact this photograph I came across and asked members of historical re-enactment groups to do it. Later I also wrote accompanying essay in which I have put into words my interest in language of documentary in contemporary art Grzegorz Stefanski, born in 1983 in Czluchow (PL) lives and works in Warsaw and London where he is currently an artist in residence at Sarabande Foundation. Before attending art school, he earned masters degree in philosophy and made his artistic debut in with solo exhibition during Cracow Photomonth Festival in 2010. He concluded his artistic education at The Slade School of Fine Art in London and Miroslaw Balkas Studio of Spatial Activities in Warsaw. In 2017 he won the Ivan Juritz Prize in London and the Grand Prix at the Biennale of Young Art in Poland. He has exhibited his works at the Whitechapel Gallery in London (2018) Museum of Modern Art in Warsaw (2018) Ujazdowski Castle Centre of Contemporary Art (2018) Manifesta 11 in Zurich (2016) Pastificio Cerere Foundation in Rome (2014) and the NY Art Book Fair at MoMA PS1 in New York (2010. He has collaborated, among others, with Nowy Teatr in Warsaw (2016) National Museum in Warsaw (2017) and Bunkier Sztuki Gallery of Contemporary Art in Cracow (2018. Sergii sabakar Outwards Animation, hdv, noir et blanc, 2:25, Ukraine, 2016 The source for the "Outwards" are the fragments of the found footages of the manifestations and conflict situations. There are plenty of them in the Internet now and sometimes difficult to understand what is going on. For the animation I choose the moments of aggression, it is not clear whether it is a defense or an attack, but all gestures directed from itself. Media is a reality where gesture, protest, and violence also take place. The similar, even equivalent acts we observe not always the evidences of equality of situations. So the question is not only about the limits of the screen, but also about the limits of understanding what we see. Sabakar Sergii is born in 1982 in Sumy, Ukraine. From 1997 to 2001 he studied at the Sumy College of Art and Culture And from 2001 to 2007 he was student of the National Academy of Fine Art and Architecture at Kiev. Since 2007 he has been attending a post graduate course there. He is based in Kiev. Lina selander, Oscar Mangione Diagram of Transfer No. 1 Vidéo expérimentale, hdv, couleur et n&b, 8:30, Suède, 2018 Artifacts from a Maoist life intersects with machines grinding books, the piecing together of destroyed DDR documents and children undergoing education. A comment on the earlier work “When the Sun Sets Its All Red, Then It Disappears” from 2008. Eshwarya grover Memoirs of Saira & Salim Documentaire, hdv, couleur, 13:40, Inde, 2018 What happens when a family revisit a house they abandoned sixteen years ago? It wasnât a decision where Saira & Salim had a choice. Would you be able to relive those delightful memories & conversations without the traumatic ones overpowering your emotions? Eshwarya is a post graduate film student at National Institute of Design, India. She has studied architecture and believes that film is all about capturing the emotion of a space or creating a subconscious space and how people interact with it. Viet Hoai Son cao Neon Sarcophagus Doc. expérimental, hdv, couleur, 15:29, Viet nam, 2018 In a far away village Hai Hau of Vietnam, a group of Christians are building a spaceship to fly to the moon. Cao Viet Hoai Son (Cao Viet Hoài S? n) was born in 1994, Hanoi, Vietnam. He was a film student in a collaborate course of Hanoi Academy of Theatre & Cinematography and Belgium Institut Supérieur des Arts. He is interested about human connections and inner desires "Neon Sarcophagus" Viet Hoai Son Cao Wiktoria Wojciechowska produces a multi-dimensional portrait of a contemporary armed conflict, the armed conflict in Ukraine between government forces and pro-Russian separatists. The title, Sparks, refers to smouldering shrapnel that penetrates the walls of the houses. Once seen it is already too late, the shrapnel represents fear and death. Mike Hoolboom uses extracts from old films with horses; the film is made out of gelatin that comes from horses. Horses are waiting to be slaughtered; then the film can be made. Grzegorz Stefanski re-enacts postures from documentary photographs in the 1950s. He asks the participants of the historical re-enactments to embody these gestures, therefore questioning the language of reality through time. Sergii Sabakar revamps and animates media images, questioning our vision. It becomes impossible to distinguish between gestures of attack and those of defence. Lina Selander and Oscar Mangione film artefacts from a Maoist life, intersected with machines to crush books shredding the writings of the former German Democratic Republic and schoolbooks. In India Eshwarya Grover documents the discussion between a couple returning to their old house, 16 years after being forced to abandon it. Viet Hoai Son Cao goes through Hai Hau, a small Vietnamese village, where a community is building a spaceship to go to the moon. Special screening - Mariphasa In the presence of Sandro Aguilar. Sandro aguilar: Mariphasa, Fiction, 4k, couleur, 87:0, Portugal, 2018  see more Sandro aguilar Mariphasa Fiction, 4k, couleur, 87:0, Portugal, 2018 Paulo works as a night guard in a building site. He lost his daughter in dramatic circumstances and no regret would ever give him a sense of closure. He often sleeps in his lover`s house where he witnesses the repeated transgressions of an unstable neighbor. Everything threatens to crack. Born in 1974 in Portugal, Sandro Aguilar studied film at the Escola Superior de Teatro e Cinema, in Lisbon. In 1998 he founded the production company O Som e a Fúria. His first fiction feature film was UPRISE (2008. MERCURY (2010) was in competition for the Tiger Awards for Short Films at IFFR 2011. His films have won awards at festivals, such as La Biennale di Venezia, Gijón, Oberhausen and Vila do Conde, and have been screened in Torino, Belfort, Montreal, Clermont-Ferrand among others. Besides being a director, Aquilar is an editor and a producer. MARIPHASA is his second feature film. "Mariphasa" Sandro Aguilar Sandro Aguilar films an enigmatic labyrinth where everything is at breaking point; the flip side of the world where everything converges. The obscure image cannot be determined. Paulo, working by night as a security guard on a building site lost his daughter in tragic circumstances and nothing can appease him. He often spends the night after his shift at the home of his lover, witnessing the repeated violations of an unstable neighbour. Through the looking glass the world stands still then it starts all over again. Special screening Haus der Kulturen der Welt, Vortragssaal Closing screening Carte blanche to Claire Denis Last year, Jean-Luc Godard's "Image Book" was the surprise, film screened in German premiere, at the closing of the 2018 Rencontres Internationales. This year, for the closing of this 2019 edition, we warmly invite all of you to join us to discover a carte blanche to Claire Denis. In the presence of Claire Denis. Claire denis: High Life, Fiction, 4k, couleur, 110:0, France, 2018  see more Claire denis High Life Fiction, 4k, couleur, 110:0, France, 2018 Monte est le dernier survivant dun groupe de criminels envoyés en dehors du système solaire pour devenir les cobayes dune expérience hors normes au lieu dêtre condamnés à mort. Pour lui tenir compagnie, il na que Willow un jeune bébé né dans le vaisseau mais lespoir dêtre sauvé un jour semble de plus en plus vain. Claire Denis est née en 1948 à Paris et a suivi son enfance et son cursus scolaire en Afrique et plus particulièrement au Cameroun. Elle suit les affectations de son père, administrateur colonial, et se déplace dun pays à lautre, notamment au Djibouti et au Burkina Faso. En 1968, elle retourne en France et intègre lIDHEC dont elle sort diplômée en 1972. A sa sortie de cette école, elle commence sa carrière dans le monde du cinéma comme assistante réalisateur. Elle dit navoir jamais vraiment pu sintégrer, se sentant étrangère, déracinée en France. Elle collabore avec Robert Enrico sur deux de ses films, Le Vieux Fusil et LEmpreinte des Géants. Elle travaille ensuite comme assistante de Wim Wenders pour deux de ses films, Paris Texas et Les Ailes du Désir. Puis viendra Jim Jarmush avec lequel elle travaillera sur son film Down By Law en 1986. Elle aborde lécriture et la réalisation de Chocolat, son premier long-métrage basé sur sa propre histoire au Cameroun, avec les encouragements de Wim Wenders. En 1990, elle enchaîne avec Sen fout la mort et fait montre dun cinéma intimement lié au corps, au travers dune tension entre la forme cinématographique et la violence qui le compose. Après Jai pas sommeil, avec Béatrice Dalle en 1994 et US Go Home en 1996, elle figure en 1999 avec Nénette et Boni un couple frère-soeur quelle conçoit comme un amour franc, sans dû, ne craignant plus la séparation de la relation amoureuse. En 1999 elle réalise Beau Travail, portrait de la légion étrangère à Djibouti; en 2001, Trouble Every Day; en 2002, Vendredi soir; en 2004, LIntrus; en 2008, 35 Rhums et en 2010, White Material, tourné dans le Cameroun de son enfance. Son cinéma prône limage avant les mots. Les dialogues restent secondaires, faisant ainsi toute confiance à limage, à la scène, au cadre. Claire Denis a reçu de nombreuses récompenses le long de sa carrière. En 1988, elle est nommée pour le César du meilleur premier film pour Chocolat; en 1996, le Léopard Dor et le prix du jury oecuménique du Festival de Locarno pour Nénette et Boni; en 2010, le prix Henry Langlois pour 35 Rhums. Lannée 2013 marque le retour de Claire Denis au cinéma et au Festival de Cannes. Elle y présente dans la sélection Un certain regard Les Salauds, film noir dans lequel elle dirige Vincent Lindon (dix ans après Vendredi soir) et Chiara Mastroianni. Quatre ans plus tard, la réalisatrice engage Juliette Binoche pour Un beau soleil intérieur. Lhistoire se focalise sur Isabelle, divorcée, un enfant, en quête dun vrai amour. Elle est à nouveau présente au Festival de Cannes avec High Life, rassemblant Juliette Binoche et Robert Pattinson pour une mission spatiale hors normes. Claire Denis a réalisé trois documentaires: Man No Run, Cinéastes de notre temps - dans lequel elle rend hommage à Jacques Rivette. Vers Mathilde. Elle a également joué dans Vénus Beauté et En avoir ou pas. "High Life" Claire Denis Monte is the last survivor of a group of criminals sent beyond the solar system to become the guinea pigs of an unusual experiment instead of being condemned to death. There is only Willow to keep him company, a young baby born in the spaceship. The hope of one day being saved seems to be increasingly in vain.

Chapter Text In retrospect, one cannot help but think that we shouldnt have expected anything different. If we were soldiers, we were shoddy ones. We were drunk on idealism and righteous indignation. We thought wed prepared for everything. Wed prepared for nothing. This was no riveting adventure novel or nickelodeon. And were no heroes. We were fallible boys of flesh and blood and we were about to be reminded of it in the ugliest of ways. “Im sorry Cliff, ” Sheriff Keller pronounces, shrugging. “Not much else to do. ” The maple syrup kingpin sits in the sheriffs office, livid. “What do you mean ‘not much else to do? How many people have you spoken to? Have you picked anyone up? ” Keller shakes his head in exasperation. “We cant just go round arresting people without any cause because they look funny. ” “The hell you cant! ” Cliff thunders back. “Thats your damn job! This is…” Cliff leans forward, planting his hands on the sheriffs desk. “This is the worst crime this town has seen in years, and youre telling me theres ‘not much else to do? ” “Without any suspects to speak of, yes, thats what Im telling you. ” “Why dont you start with anyone that associates with that…Southside serpent trash? Anyone with a damned snake tattoo or a leather jacket is fair game if you ask me. ” Kellers face stiffens. He wishes he could throw the man out of his office. He wishes he could tell him to go build himself a new factory without any of the aforementioned ‘trash and see how far he got. He wishes the letter of the law meant anything. “Look, as much as you might wish it were, this isnt Berlin. I cant haul a man into a dark cellar and torture him till he tells us what we want to hear. ” Cliff sneers. Something cruel and ugly, even moreso than usual. “No, no I suppose it isnt Berlin, ” He says. “But it is Riverdale. And my family built this town. Youre wearing that damn badge by my grace, Keller. I want to see justice done. ” Keller leans back in his chair. Let Cliff flounder a little. “You want to see justice done? Then point me to the culprit. ” Cliff chews his lower lip. His eyes roll up towards the ceiling. “How about the Jones boy? ” “Jughead? ” Keller snorts. “Hes harmless. Hes friends with my son. The kids a bit of an oddball, but hes harmless. ” “Really? Whos his father? ” Rhetorical question. “In fact, Ive got a suspicion. FP Jones stirs up trouble and is shot by…unknown parties. ” His lip twitches. “He blames it on me because Ive got the gall to stand up for the enterprise Ive built. So while hes rotting in the hospital, he has his son go and get a little revenge on his behalf. ” Keller nods. “You have any proof of that? ” “Proof? No, I dont have any proof. Thats why youre going to find me some. ” Keller freezes. He bristles. He thinks about Riverdale. About his job. About America and the state of the world. He thinks of how small and insignificant he is in the end. How hes in no position to demand or command anything. He knuckles under. “Ill see what I can do. ” “Hey-you need a warrant! ” Jughead protests, vainly, as a bull-necked Riverdale deputy shoulders his way into the Twilights projection room. “Good luck finding a lawyer, kid, ” The deputy snorts. Three other men follow in his wake, two carrying a leather truncheon of the sort you see thugs in the pictures wield. These are not officers of the law. Theyre dressed in plainclothes. Tan jackets and slacks, uniform colors. Discount brownshirts. He wonders for a moment whether theyre here on the authority of Sheriff Keller or Cliff Blossom, and then remembers that all-too often theres no real distinction. One of the men grips him tight round the bicep. He winces in pain. The other three busy themselves tearing what amounts to his home to pieces. Hot Dog lurches from his spot in the corner and leaps towards the nearest of them. The man readies himself and meets the poor creature with a swift, harsh kick to the side. The dog crumples to the ground, yelping in pain. “Hey! ” Jughead cries. The man unsheathes his truncheon and whacks the dog across the head with it, hard. “Stop! ” One of them lifts up the pile of blankets and rags that is his bed and flings it about, shaking loose nothing but a few pillows and scraps of papers on which he takes preliminary notes for his book. The man grunts in disgust. His companion kicks over the rack of old vinyl records in the corner to reveal the stack of books hidden behind. Jughead cries out in protest as the records spill to the floor and shatter. The tough holding his bicep only tightens his grip. His companion kneels down and rifles through the books. Lifts one up and turns it over in his hands as if its some sort of arcane object. “Hey! ” he shouts. “Check this out, boys. The German Ideology by Karl Marx. ” He reads in a painful attempt at some sort of vaguely European accent. “Looks like weve got ourselves a bolshie after all. ” The man holding Jughead leans down and sneers into his ear: “I bet youre shitting your pants now, huh, comrade? ” In the corner, Hot Dog cringes, blood trickling down the side of his head and matting his fur. The Deputy overseeing the raid stalks across the room, his boots crunching the remains of Jugheads records underfoot. Jughead bites back tears. His lip quivers. The deputy kneels down at the pile of books his tough has scattered over the floor. He ignores the fresh, glossy copies of The State and Revolution, The Foundations of Leninism, and The Communist Manifesto. Instead, he fixates on a non-descript little leather-bound journal tied together with an old piece of twine. A lump of terror forms in Jugheads throat. God, why hadnt he destroyed the last few pages of that damn thing? Idiot! The deputy flips through the pages, his face lighting up. Jughead knows what hes seen. The rough blueprint of the Blossom Factory. The short, bullet-pointed list of requisite materials. The timetable. Hes done. “Well, looks like this is our man, ” the deputy says. He turns to Jughead, smiling. “Did you really think you were going to get away with it? ” He storms across the room. He towers over Jughead, and brings his face low, to within inches of the boys. The man holding him in place grabs his other arm as well. “This is not fucking Petrograd, you little shit. This is Riverdale. ” “Yeah, the wanton violation of civil rights couldve fooled m-“ The deputy socks him in the stomach. Hard. Jughead doubles over, sucking in air. He gasps. The pain explodes through his guts and stabs upwards into his chest and head. He heaves. His mouth hangs open in shock. “Courtesies of Mr. Blossom, ” one of the toughs growls. “Come on, ” pronounces the deputy. “Lets get ‘im out of here. And bring those red books with you. ” Though they toss him into a police wagon, they dont bring him, as he expects, to Sheriff Kellers station. Staring through the vehicles dingy windows, Jugheads heart sinks when he lifts up his eyes to see the sprawling mass of Thornhill looming on the horizon. His heartbeat quickens. What an idiot he is. How is it he ever thought theyd get away with this? Hes a child. A stupid child. And now hes going to suffer for it. Whats Cliff going to do? Beat him into a coma? Kill him? The wagons doors open swing open, and the deputy grabs him by the arm, yanking him clear out of the vehicle. One of the toughs produces a length of black cloth and blindfolds Jughead. He marches, blind, lead along by the rough grip of his persecutors through the gardens and weeds that smother Thornhills gounds. He trips over roots and stones and once, hes pretty sure, someones foot. One of them laughs a throaty laugh at that. Jughead hears a door creak open, and theres a rush of warmth as hes ushered into a room. Even through the blindfold he can tell its dark. The men shove him down into a chair and bind his wrists to the armrests. He doesnt struggle. Theres no purpose. This is the price of his foolishness. This is what he gets for listening to an insane rich boy who thinks hes Lenin. And now hes likely going to die for it. Time dilates and slows until someone yanks the blindfold from his face. The three toughs and the deputy line up behind him. He takes stock of his surroundings. Barrels, large ones, line the walls as far as he can see, stacked as much as twenty deep. A great, vaulted roof hangs over him, creating the impression of a grand cathedral. He quickly comes to the realization that hes in the cellar where the maple syrup stores (or a portion of them) are kept. Jughead wonders what it would do Blossoms pocketbook if someone were to set fire to all of this. He almost manages a little smile, through the pain and the terror. At the peak of the stairwell leading up to the ground floor, the door jiggles. Voices come clear through the other side. The first he recognizes. Its Jason. He mutters something unintelligible, though the tone is indignant. The second is his father. And Cliffs voice comes loud and clear, even through the oak door, down the stairwell, and into the cellar. “I want you to see how we deal with trash like this, ” he snarls. The door swings open and the terrible, dark form of Cliff Blossom appears at the top of the stairs, glaring down at him like an executioner of old. Behind him, looking less than enthused and even paler than normal stands Jason. Cliff stalks towards his prisoner. He grabs a fistful of Jugheads dark hair and yanks his head around. “I have to say, I never thought Id be invited to Thornhill, ” Jughead quips. Cliffs free hand balls into a fist. Jason concentrates on his feet. Jughead glares at him. “Did you think you were going to get away with it? ” Cliff demands. “Id hoped, but frankly the look on your face is worth it. “I should finish with you like I did with your old man. ” Jughead snorts. “You couldnt kill him. What makes you think you can kill me? ” Cliff hits him. Jughead grunts. The blow pops his head backwards. The skin of his lower lip splits wide and blood pours down his chin. Jason flinches. Cliff hits him again. This time the pain explodes in his eye. He sees a kaleidoscope of glittering stars and swirling rainbows. Moans in pain. Cliff sighs with satisfaction. “I could shoot you. ” “Do it, then! ” Jughead snaps, ignoring the vicious pain in his split lip and his eye. “Show everyone that youre such a coward you need to tie a teenage boy to a chair to kill him! ” Another blow. A strand of saliva mingled with blood dribbles from Jugheads mouth. His breath rattles. “I want to know who helped you. I know you didnt do it alone. ” Jughead throws Jason a quick glance. He still wont look up from the floor. Jughead sucks in a few deep breaths, concentrating on his hands. On his legs. On his chest. Anything but the stinging pain in his face and stomach. And the terror squeezing his heart to the point of stoppage. “No one…” he mumbles. “No one helped me. ” “Bullshit! ” This time, the punch lands in his gut, still sore from the identical beating the deputy had given him earlier. Jughead lets out a half-moan half-gasp as the air is driven from his body. A few tears fall, even as he struggles mightily to contain them. They roll down his cheeks and mingle with the blood on his lip and the sweat of fear that breaks out on his clammy skin. “Just me. All alone. Im a criminal mastermind. ” “Did your dad put you up to it? ” “Yeah my dad, who you tried to murder, orchestrated this all from the comfort of his hospital bed. ” “We found all of that Marxist trash at the theater, ” Cliff declares, triumphant. “I know you didnt buy it all yourself. Not at any store in this town. So who gave it to you? ” “I sent a letter…” Jughead forces out, despite the agony clawing into his stomach anytime he speaks. “To Comrade Stalin. ” Another punch. “Youre just like your lowlife of a father. Human refuse. You look at your betters and you just cant stand it, can you? Because trash like you cant create. All you can do is destroy. ” Jugheads head hangs low. Blood drips from his mouth. Tears from his eyes. Sweat from his skin. He takes a few more rattling breaths, gathering his strength. The fear begins to subside. In its place comes an indignant fury. “We created it all, ” He forces out. “What did you say? ” “I said we built it all. Your factory. Your house. Your empire. Every cent of wealth that you have, we made it! People like us. People who work while you sit in your castle and get rich off of us like a damn leech! ” The next punch is the hardest one yet. Jughead feels a tooth towards the back of his mouth loosen. Even the deputy and his toughs, standing in silence near the far wall, seem a little uncomfortable. “You know, it doesnt matter if you talk, ” Cliff says. “We got your little journal. That ought to tell us everything we want to know, right? So heres whats going to happen. Youre going to go down to Sheriff Keller. Youre going to admit that it was you who destroyed my factory, and that it was your father that put you up to it, understand? ” “Were gonna win. ” “From where Im standing, it looks a whole lot like youve lost. ” “You fight us, we fight you. We win. Thesis, antithesis, synthesis. Thats the essence of the dialectic. ” Jason catches his eye for just a moment.  “What the hell are you talking about? ” “Try reading a book sometime. ” Cliff crouches down to look Jughead in the eye. “Youre supposed to be smart. I shouldnt have to tell you whats going to happen if you dont cooperate. ” “No, you shouldnt, so just save your breath. ” He hardly feels the next blow. FP Jones was supposed to be discharged from the hospital in a day. He was supposed to go home in a day. He never gets there, because the day before his release, two of Kellers men show up and place him under arrest for aiding in the wanton destruction of private property. He goes straight from the hospital to a jail cell. Cliff Blossom settles in to read the Jones boys journal. It ought to be illuminating. He almost laughs at the kids florid prose. Its composed like a damn novel. It reminds him of the sort of thing he might have written during his Princeton years, decades ago. But the writing quickly spirals towards nonsense. His son Jason isnt a communist. Hes become a bit rebellious and incalcitrant as if late, but hes no red. He certainly wouldnt start a damn underground chapter of the Communist Party here in Riverdale. The Jones boy has quite an imagination on him. The stuff of fantasy. Its too bad he wont be able to make much use of it in prison. Joaquin DeSantos. That Serpent from out of town whod worked at the factory for a while? Sure he could see him being party to this crime. He makes a note to have Keller bring him in, too. Even if he werent guilty, one more thug off the streets. But Jason didnt help them. Jason doesnt associate with rabble like those two. Hes raised his son right. The way generations of Blossom men have been raised. Proper. A worthy heir to a legacy stretching back beyond the founding of the republic. But-someone knew exactly where to break into the factory. Someone knew how to tamper with the silo so that it would explode. Someone had quite an in depth knowledge of Blossom Maple Farms inner workings. Cliff pinches the bridge of his nose. He sets the journal down. He stands, uncertainty and fear washing over him. He stumbles down the hall to his sons room. Jasons not home right now, thankfully. He steps into the room. Everything looks perfectly normal, just as it should. Theres his sons bed, neatly made. Theres his bookshelf, filled with the classics that every young man of breeding ought to be familiar with. Theres his closet, half open, with the upscale clothes Cliffs spent a small fortune on hanging neatly in rows. He stalks over to the boys cabinet. Yanks it open. He lifts the copy of Capital from its rather poor hiding place. He hurls it to the floor. Next comes Economic Theory of the Leisure Class by Nikholai Bukharin. In a fit of rage, he tears the first few pages from the binding before throwing it to the ground with the first. So many of them. Marx. Engels. Trotsky. Lenin. Stalin. Even more red trash than theyd found in the Jones lads hovel at the theater. Cliff feels himself, for the first time since hed discovered the papers missing from his desk actually trembling with fury. But the next discovery blackens his vision and nearly sends him into a swoon. Its a little red bifold, that at first he takes for a wallet. Upon the red leather binding is stamped the image of the hammer and sickle superimposed over the globe of the earth, and below this an inscription shouting: “Workers of the world, unite! ” He opens it with unsteady fingers. His sons signature. Jason Blossom, literal card-carrying member of the Communist Party of the United States of America. Cliff almost laughs. Hes wandered into some absurdist continental play. The kind they used to put on in Berlin before Hitler cleaned Germany up. That must be it. Theres no rational explanation for this. No explanation for the boy hes nurtured and raised and cultivated for eighteen years now inflicting such a rank betrayal upon him. He has a sudden image of himself firing a bullet into Jasons head and the thought calms him for a moment. Cliff grips the card tight in his hand, nails digging into the leather. He makes his way downstairs, and takes a seat in a great armchair perpendicular to the front door of Thornhill. And there, he waits for his son. Jason comes home a little before 10 oclock. Scarcely has he crossed the threshold that Cliff is out of his seat and hurtling towards him, half-mad with rage and grief. He claws at the boy, gripping his collar. Jason lets out a sort of choking noise. “Dad, wh-“ Cliff shoves the membership card into Jasons face. “Oh shit. ” “This is how you repay me? After everything Ive done for you? This house? Your education? Your food? These clothes? ” He yanks at the neck of Jasons shirt, tearing away a strip of cloth. “You ungrateful little bastard. Where the hell did you come from? My blood is not in your veins! ” Jasons eyes go wide and he seems ready to voice a protest or a plea. But he doesnt. “Good. ” “What did you say? ” “I said good. Id be ashamed to have any of your blood in my veins. ” Cliff pulls his son closer and thrusts his face aggressively towards him. “If Id affronted my father like this, hed have hanged me from the highest tree in Riverdale, and he would have been goddamned right to do it. I ought to put you on the next boat to Leningrad you faithless prick. ” "Please, by all means, ” Jason sneers. Cliff almost hits him. His fists clench. The muscles in his arms and his neck bunch up. “The only reason youre not going to rot in a jail cell with Jones and that DeSantos boy is because of the disgrace it would be to our name. And youve disgraced it enough already. ” Drawn by the commotion, which is her bread and butter, Cheryl appears at the top of the stairs. “Whats going on? ” “Cheryl, get upstairs! ” Her father barks. Jasons eyes go wide again. “Wait, Jugheads in jail? ” He asks, earnest, as if for a moment forgetting his own predicament. “Oh, yes. And hes going to be there for a long time. Lets say one year for every dollar I lost in that blast. ” “Bu-“ “Shut your damn mouth. ” “What is going on? Dad, let him go! ” Cheryl protests. “Get upstairs! And you…” he snarls at Jason. “Get out. Youre not my son. If I ever see your face again Ill treat you the same way I would any enemy of this family. Get out. ” “Fine. He turns to go. Cheryl bounds down the stairs. “Jason, wa-“ Cliff stops her midway. Grips her hard by the wrist. “Cheryl, enough! ” he snaps. “This is none of your business. ” “None of my business? He-“ “ Enough! ” Jason steps out of the door, shoots his father one more hateful glance and his sister an apologetic one. Then he takes his leave, leaving Thornhill and the Blossom name in his wake. The next morning, the same headline appears in newspapers all over the country. All over town. Veronica Lodge and Betty Cooper greet it with dismay. Jason Blossom greets it with both surprise and horror. Cheryl Blossom and Archie Andrews greet it with indifference. Cliff Blossom and Hermione Lodge greet it with glee. SPANISH ARMY RISES: DECLARES ITS PROGRAM TO SAVE SPAIN FROM BOLSHEVISM The rising is a long time coming. Spain is a country of contradictions and simmering fury. Conflicts between right and left, between socialists and fascists, between laborers and landlords, between the church and anti-clericals, have set the country to the point of burning. There is no longer any center in politics. The right dives headlong into fascism while the left cheers the onward march of soviet power. Anarchism and Communism find fertile grounds in the masses of dispossessed, destitute peasants and day laborers that throng Spain in the millions. Fascism flourishes among the merchants and the landlords terrified of suffering the same fate as their Russian counterparts in 1917. By the time new elections are called in February of 1936, the country is a tinderbox. The center-left Frente Popular, headed by dour liberal Manuel Azaña, faces off against the right-wing Frente Contrarevolucionario, under the legalist reactionary Gil Robles. Both men are too moderate for their supporters and too extreme for their enemies. Spain turns out in force to vote. In the smoky backrooms of casinos and country villas, the generals of Spains bloated, unruly army plot with the representatives of capital and privilege. They say: ‘should the left win these elections, it will mean the bolshevization of Spain. If they win, we will rise. In workingmans clubs and the salons of the urban intelligentsia, they wring their hands. They say: ‘if the right should emerge victorious, they will impose fascism upon us. It will the days of Primo de Rivera tenfold. They will take away everything weve won. Azañas Peoples Front wins a slim majority, but thanks to Spains peculiar system of apportionment (ironically the very same that handed a crushing victory to the right three years ago) sweeps the seats in the Cortes. So the horrified generals, supported by cadres of arch-reactionaries, fanatical carlistas, fervent monarchists, and vigorous fascists, mount their insurrection. On July 17 th, early in the morning hours, the army garrison in Morocco, Spains last true colonial possession and the base of the feared ‘Army of Africa, the Spanish militarys greatest army, declares its opposition to the government. A watchword goes out across the land, transmitted from officer to officer, by phone, or by courier, or face to face. Covadonga. The place in Asturias where the reconquest of Spain from the Moors had begun all those centuries ago. It is a sacred place in the mythology of the Spanish right. So there is no surprise in that these modern would-be crusaders should choose its name as the light to ignite their rebellion. For they seek to reconquer Spain, just as Ferdinand and Isabella did half a millennium ago. Only their enemies, the red hordes, the spawn of Moscow, are a foe greater than ever was any emir or caliph.  Covadonga.  This is the signal for garrisons all over Spain to follow suit. The Peoples Front government in Madrid is expected to crumble in days, if not hours. The rebel generals look forward to a quick victory. They had expected all the army to side with them. They had expected any popular resistance to melt away before their guns. They had expected that Spain would knuckle under, bow her head supine, and allow them to rule like in the years gone by. They were wrong. The grim General Mola rises in Pamplona, seizing a broad swathe of territory across northern Spain stretching from Galicia in the west to Irún in the east. The irascible Queipo de Llano declares for the fascists in Seville and secures most of Andalusia for the rebellion, hours after assuring the government of his loyalty. Morocco is quickly taken by the Army of Africa thanks to the quick action of one Colonel Juan Yagüe. But his generalship is temporary, for the young General Francisco Franco soon flies in from his virtual exile in the Canary Islands to take command of his legionaries and Moorish troops once more. But in the rest of the country, the rising collapses. The generals have miscalculated.  In barracks all over the country, soldiers refuse to obey their officers orders to rebel. They shoot their traitorous commanders dead and declare their loyalty to the republic. The crews of the Spanish Republican navy follow suit, imprisoning or killing their captains and placing their warships under control of sailors committees. In the streets of the great cities and in the fields of rural villages, bands of armed workers and peasants resist the fascist attack by force of arms. They stand up from their ploughs and spades, they come out from their hovels and their wretched shacks. Ranged against heavily armed soldiers and the hated Civil Guard, they fight with ancient hunting rifles and shotguns where they have them, with sickles and pitchforks and fists where they do not. They know what a defeat of the republic will mean for them. The starvation wages of days past, hardly enough to feed one man let alone his family. The dictatorial might of the landlord and the boss, who will treat their workers like slaves once again, or slaughter them like animals should they dare demand humanity. The unbreakable power of the church, which once held a monopoly on the countrys schools and seminaries and is determined to do so once again. The ignorance and misery and hopelessness of ages gone by imposed upon Spain once more, this time under the dark banner of fascism. One middle-aged bracero, his face cracked and burnt by the sun of the fields, armed with an ancient, rusting musket and nothing else, sums it up succinctly to a foreign correspondent who demands to know why he fights: “ I cannot read or write. All my life I have done nothing but work. If these people win, my daughter will never get an education either. ” In Madrid the rebellious military garrison is surrounded in its barracks by a furious crowd. The mighty Anarchist union of the CNT organizes a robust resistance to the fascist coup in Catalonia. Men cry from the crowds, appealing to the common soldiers in uniform. They are the sons of workers and peasants themselves, after all. Rebel soldiers watch in fascination as loyalist militiamen rush towards them, guns held over their heads in a gesture of peace. Instead of bullets, they deliver passionate arguments as to why they should not fire. “ Soldiers! Brother workers! Your officers have lied to you! Dont shoot! The true enemy is behind you! ” In more than a few cases, the guns are turned around and brought to bear on the rebel commanders instead. The insurgent generals watch in horror, as their play for power seems to slip from their hands. With the navy in the hands of loyal soldiers, the phenomenal Army of Africa, the rebels ace in the hole, cannot be ferried across the Straits of Gibraltar to fight on the mainland. General Franco dispatches emissaries to Germany, begging the sympathetic Nazi government for planes and guns. Hitler obliges. Within a day or two, German bombers are bringing Francos troops across the water separating Morocco from the peninsula, rendering Republican naval superiority irrelevant. Mussolini, excited by the opportunity to extend his influence on the continent, funnels weaponry and materiel of every type to the fascist insurgents. The conflict thus ceases to be a mere civil one and takes on an international scope. The international left, who had hailed the election of the Peoples Front as a spark of hope amidst the surging fascist tide in Europe, despairs. The destruction of the republic would be another Ethiopia. Another country delivered up to the claws of fascism. The partisans of fascism and Nazism rejoice. Here is the red threat stopped in its tracks. Here will triumph order and tradition over anarchy and fool dreams of equality. The rebel generals are shocked and dismayed as their bid for a rapid takeover fails, but they are not prepared to surrender. They marshal their forces and consolidate power in those areas of the country that they have seized. They prepare for something greater than a coup-a campaign. If they could not conquer the republic through surprise, they will take her by brute force. The republican loyalists, and those groups allied to them by convenience, recover from the initial brutality of the attempted rising. They shore up their defences and prepare to defend their liberty against this band of fascist traitors resting upon foreign bayonets. The battle lines are drawn. The world watches in awe as the international struggle of the day plays out in miniature. The Spanish Civil War begins.

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