Tomas Alfredson
Lasciami Entrare

When they tell me at the office that I should have been a comedian, it also pleases me. It's when they say it at the end of a concert that it throws me off. It reminds me of when I attended kindergarten:

I was temporarily living with my grandparents, and every single day upon returning, I demanded that my grandfather come to pick me up with a supertele. Because on the walk home, every trash can was mine; I wanted to hit it on the first try. In five months, maybe I made one basket, but I don't remember if it happened or if it's just a recurring dream imprinted in my brain. The fact is that every attempt was accompanied by my grandfather's voice: you don't like Basketball, but Football. Use your feet.

Luckily, I've come to some certainties of my own. I can remain unfulfilled until I close my eyes, love can come and go, I can go buy olive bread and get run over on the crosswalks, but since I was born nothing has been more faithful to me than cinema, and it wasn't time that decided it. Nor was it anyone else. It's a direct consequence of my difficulty in finding the things to say and the right way to say them; it's the continuation of my mind in explanation and understanding. I can't find the words, and it does it for me through images. My brain converses with cinema and there's plenty to discuss. I think of the poor soul who will be born in 2060 and might die having seen a thousandth of the best productions from the beginning of cinema to the year of his death. Even trying hard, poor thing. Rest in peace. And then I should waste time with series. Mind you, there is a filling of excellent productions lately, but let's not kid ourselves, the purpose isn't exactly the same.

Cinema itself directly asks me Let the Right One In, and I give it my full trust, having it in my mind listening to the fragments of people's conversations, perceiving it as it accompanies reality and utopia, sometimes dreams, sometimes nightmares, all in my head. With the same completeness, Alfredson's film (Swedish, based on the novel, five or six years ago, and all that is already known) tells a love story that is certainly atypical, that negates the standards of social contextualization that cinema and literature (here I shelter with a shield) have accustomed us to, choosing an outfit that will make a great impression even a hundred years from now. Certainly, the pool scene will be etched in my mind forever more than the cover of "Nevermind" or the basket I might never have made.

In this case, there is no intent of user service (never requested), surely you must have come across it already and very few have postponed the appointment, and thank goodness, it's just right. Simple declaration of love. And peace to my soul too, every now and then.