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Rating: Eighties, Miss Pravo's concert.
For some inexplicable reason, I was in the front row.
From less than a meter away, the perfect measure of her gestures was all for me.
Of those harmonic and elusive little steps, swift and unreal...
She alone could record a song that anticipated Wenders' angels.
No trace of the super cool black and white of the thirties, obviously.
On the other hand, Kinski and Ganz didn't have the blue suitcase.
To my eyes, that suitcase was like Cochi and Renato's umbrella; both came from a planet not visible from the living room at home...
Patty was someone who embraced the absolute non-thought, and for this, she seemed to never age. A bit like Bowie.
But now Bowie is dead, and Pravo seems made of wax.
It's a shame she couldn't age into one of those sweetly senile and so cute ladies.
But we will remember her when, in her young years, she stole sorrows, even if only from those who allowed them to be taken away...
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