Capitu e o Capítulo (2021) - full transcript

"If you had to choose between me and your mother, who would it be?" Capitu asks provocatively of her problematic lover. Elsewhere, they dance to inaudible music, with their friends, each couple keeping to a rhythm of their own. At times, this depiction of the memories we see one Dom Casmurro commit to paper with a flamboyant pen seems to be an interplay of conflicting emotions - particularly when jealousy raises its head.

They call me Casmurro.

This is not my real name,
it's a nickname.

A nickname that became my name.

I'm writing this book,

where all I confess
will become my story.

Montaigne once wrote:

"ce ne son pas
mes gestes que j'ecris;

c'est moi, c'est mon essence."

Are you afraid?


Yes, I asked if you were afraid?

Afraid of what?

Afraid of being hit...

of being hit in the face,

getting punched in the mouth,
being pummeled,

of getting arrested,

of fighting,

of walking,

of working...

I don't understand.

Being beaten?

Yes, getting beaten.

Who's hitting me?

Who is this that's beating me up?


Tell me something,

but be honest, don't sugarcoat it.

What is it?

Say it.

If you had to choose
between me and your mother,

who would you choose?


I would choose...

Why do I have to choose?

Mother would never
ask me such a thing.

Maybe so...

Your mother wouldn't ask,
but I'll ask.

Me or your mother?

Come on...
are you afraid to say it?

Me or her in every way.

Who would you choose?

Suppose you are at university
and receive word I will die...

Don't say such a thing!

Or I'll kill myself from loneliness
if you don't come soon,

and your mother doesn't
want you to come. Tell me,

would you come?

I would.

Against your mother's wishes?

Against Mother's wishes.

You would leave university,

leave your mother,
leave everything behind

to watch me die?

Don't talk about dying.


Transformation of the soul,

a surprising art,

elevating things to the point of
connecting to what is vulnerable.

There are souls darker than night...

destiny isn't just a playwright,
it's also its own rule-breaker.

A writer friend once
told me something wise:

That was a family.

A very old-fashioned family.

Nowadays with poisoned souls,
they hate each other.

That's when it presented itself.

It appeared during the few hours
when daylight fights with the dark

and you don't know
if it's morning or night.

It was hatred that caused the scene...

She was on fire, her spirit agitated,

she tore off her dark silk robe

until nearly bare.

What she showed was so strong,

that it blinded me...

A sun that floods and
represses the darkness.

She pulled the neckline
of her blouse so much

as to expose her breasts,

these two Greek pears
under candlelight...

She was intoxicating
and it gave me courage.

It may sound silly,
or something worse,

but my spirit found itself
hearing old and dangerous words:

dare all that a
man has to dare...

but, I restrained myself.

She kept on...

The wine, deep red in color,
that assaulted her by gulps...

In a low voice she whispered
obscenities so intimate

they are best silenced.

She screamed she would squeeze
every last cent out of the family.

Only when the money runs
out will I stop, she said.

She sang in the nude
with destructive purpose,

to disrepute those around her.

Cursed all her relatives,
one by one.

That's why she fell.

The world is disenchanted,

the damage is done.

Nothing is left of the old world

all its supernatural creatures
have been cast out...

Apparently, our liking for
imitating the French is a mistake.

If I had known,
I wouldn't have said it,

but I did to comply with
my painfully bitter duty...

Greek pear!

Spirit on fire!!

Supernatural creatures!!!

Imitate the French!!!

strong, and bitter!

Love excellence...

It wounds, and it cures!

Later, when I discovered Achilles' spear
had also cured the wound it created.

I searched in old books,
dead books,

buried books,
for the piece to the puzzle.

I hunted the worms that
had eaten the books

in hopes they could tell me what
was in the text they had eaten.

A long fat worm said to me:

we know nothing of
the words we eat,

we do not choose what we consume,

nor do we love or hate
what we chew, we eat.

All the worms, in their discrete silence,
repeat this same verse...

Abuna, Acarai, Acarape, Assup?,

Amiriz, Aquidab?, Atirib?, Bangu,

Bariri, Beberibe, Bocaina, Botucatu,

Brocoi?, Caboclos, Cabu?u, Caj?

Catete, Gamboa, Ipanema, Iraj?,

Itamarati, Jaboat?o, Jaguaribe, Jo?,

Mamor?, Maracan?, Maric?, Matup?,

Piracinunga, Piumb?, Pucurui, Quatis

Tijuca, Uruguaiana, Igarapava...



Listen to what Lima Barreto says:

The writer, geographer, anarchist
and vegetarian, Elisee Reclus,

when writing his Universal Geography,
in reference to Brazil,

he remarked on the need to preserve
the Tupi names of locations.

The great French geographer said

the names have value in the
clear sense the words possess.

They express a fact of nature,
the color of the running waters,

the height, the form or aspect
of the rocky formations,

he remarked on the need to preserve
the Tupi names of locations.

In Rio de Janeiro there are
Tupi names that are so eloquent,

the translations of the form
or the charm of certain places

leave one astonished with the
discovery of their meanings,

their poetic power,

the force of the superior emotion

of which these

primitive cannibal
inhabitants of this region were capable.

The names of the bays alone.

How is the seduction,
the nature, the fascination,

not well translated in the name
Guanabara - breast of the sea?

And if the sea opened here, its breast hid itself
among the waters of Niteroi - hidden water.

Let's go back to Lima Barreto:

These Tupi names of the natural
accidents surrounding the city

are the oldest documents it possesses of
the lives that here flourished and died.

The sea?

I've swum past the bay,
into open sea.

Great swimmer...

on his front or on his back...

on his back he's faster...

shreds into the water...

he likes to go deep...

beating it within...

he never tires,

he has gills!

He's always
harnesses the rough sea.

Let's go out?

I'll only leave here
if it's cloudy.

Bored of me already?


Seems like it.

You're such a child.

You want to swap our peaceful
attire for embittered armor?

What, I've waited
all this time?

Waited so many years to become
bored in just seven days?

No Bentinho...

It's what I really want.

I want it because I
desire it just as much.

Desire what as much? What?

What was, what is, what is yet to
be and what will never cease to be.

I have this bright
light inside me.

I've received
the best present a person can.

I've received the best present
a person can be treasured...

time that cannot be lost.

Let's go out tomorrow.

Are you lazy or afraid?

Must we leave during
the best part?

Ready to experience
the secret?

Have you never dreamed?

Never awoke at night,
steam rising from your body,

covered in sweat,

thinking the curtain
was about to open?

To take the stage?

To put on our play?

A long play with ten acts, fifteen acts,
that you beg to never end...

You want to slam the door
to Heaven in my face?

No is no.

It must be overcast.

Clou-dy skies.

The literary world has
suffered a notable loss,

or at least contemporary
Brazilian poetry has.

There is suspicion a dark star

shines its tragic light
near the graves of modern Brazilian poets.

All of them died
around 25 years of age.

It seems as if the
poets of our land

are shadowed by
maleficent star fairies.

Castro Alves,

Alvares de Azevedo,

Junqueira Freire,

Casimiro de Abreu,

Macedo Junior,

Dutra Mello, Bernardino Ribeiro...

Franco S?, who died with
twenty years of age in 1856...

All poets, exquisite poets,

sensitive spirits,
musical spirits, rare spirits,

drunk on Byron
and camphor...

?lvares de Azevedo, the young author
of Mac?rio, of Night in the Tavern,

died at 21 years old.

"Oh the pages of life I loved..."

Azevedo along with Junqueira Freire
are local products, indigenous to Brazil.

They are mediums of
Brazilian culture.

Alvares de Azevedo pulls us from
an outdated mental influence.

He was a laborer
chained to the soil.

He would read everything
in its original form

by Greek, Latin, English, French,
Italian, German, and writers.

Shakespeare, Tasso,
Byron, Goethe,

Heine, Musset,
Victor Hugo, Shelley, Sand...

These were his most
cherished writers.

What he read and what he preferred
he took from Rio de Janeiro.

From here he took the
paintings of his imagination,

sparked by the lush
beauty of this region.

His melancholy
was innate to him,

from his idealist and
intelligent nature.

Nowadays his work is often
forgotten or unknown.

Or perhaps even worse
it has gone ignored.

But our country is this way,
it always has been,

undeniable mediocrity transformed
overnight into colossal notoriety...

A french poet do not speak in "eternity",
but in "eternal invalidity",

the meaning contradicts itself...

Listen to what Alvares de Azevedo wrote,
how he breathed,

you will hear something
of his idealism:

"It's not to drag oneself by worn elbows,
have a pillow as hard as rock, I know...

the world is a lost quagmire,
the sun of which, if I only had, is money."

Between terror and laughter, side by side,
is where many great poets have lived...

Franco S? wrote the
following verses:

"Ah! Lucky young man,
I promise you

if today you are the weak-kneed, trembling groom,
kissing the petticoat that envelops your staff

maybe, once a husband,
death will fall upon you

to then rise a pallid skeleton,
from the dense cloud of eight skirts."

He was twenty years old...

A secret about to reveal:

a trip to Europe, us four.

We're all going?

We're all going.

Whatever you tell me,
I'll believe you.

Whatever I tell you?

Tell you what?

Tell me...

Tell me you want to
take me to a castle...

To a gloomy setting
at the top of a hill,

standing on a cliff,

off in the distance
way up high...

A castle?

A castle with one hundred,
two hundred, one thousand rooms...

where one passes by everything
and where one sees everything...

all the doors are open...

inside is a long staircase,


poured milk,
white and warm drool,

drowns me,

chokes and suffocates me...

It gets so hot

it explodes into
dizzying mirage...

Don't move Sancha,
don't move...

But I want to move...

I want to give in...

Surrender to that slow,
delicious strangulation...

the release of the leather
wrapped around my neck,

the prelude of the disgrace
that accentuates my desire...

a different future, I don't care...

an eternal, magical offering...

I want to be put under
a spell... possessed...

become intoxicated,

inhale ether... camphor...

an entire night of indulgence.

I've never felt this way before.

How do you feel?

I don't know...

I hesitate between
me and myself...

I feel fine...

it's that...

I'm undoing a rainbow
thread by thread...

Some women become
red when they kiss.

Some bite.

I die.

I die inside when I kiss...

I die and go to heaven.

Put your hand here,

at the base of my neck...

that's it,

wrap your hand around...

I want to feel your
fingers around my neck.

So tight I can't breathe,

let me go blue,

squeeze me until I explode.

Has anyone ever been
promised so much?

All at once?

Could the child be his?

And the Raven, never flitting,

still is sitting,
on the pallid bus of Pallas

just above my chamber door;

and his eyes have all
the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,

and the lamp-light over him streaming
throws his shadows on the floor,

and my soul from out that shadow
that lies floating on the floor

shall be lifted nevermore!

You make me want...

to dig my nails into your neck,

dig them in

until life flows out of
your body with blood.

The dark wave of resentment
surged from within the home,

drowned the walls
from floor to ceiling.

Human brutality tumbled obliviously

within the universal stillness of things...

As unhappy actors,

they continue on to the conclusion
of a poorly represented drama.

I can't...

I'm not the father.


You didn't hear what I said?

That he isn't my son.

What gave you that idea?

Did you hit your own
head with a hammer?

Tell me, tell me everything,

then after I've listened,
I want to hear the rest,

it can't be much.

Come on Bentinho, tell me.

There are things
one doesn't say.

Don't tell me
just half of it.

Since you've already
told this much, tell me all of it.

Spill it!

A separation is something
that is decided.

It would have been best
if we did it with vagueness

or in silence,

each with their own wounds.

But since you insist,

this is what I can tell you.

Escobar has always
been a lewd,


He had a lover...

a theater actress...
a ballerina...


A dancer,

she's like a leaf that gets blown
from one gutter to another...

it's easy to get up
her skirts,

she was fine with anything...

they lived in indecency.

He is the father
of that child.


Even the deceased!

What imagination Bentinho!

Escobar, a swimmer,
with strong arms...

You liked him.

I always knew it...

In bed...

gave you my back and
became Escobar for you...

I remember well,

it was a palace, similar to
Quinta da Regaleira in Sintra

called the Temple of Love.

Only the nobles frequented...

they were all very discrete...


what about rooms for couples?

For couples on their honeymoon?

With mirrors on the ceiling?

The most sought after were
the even rooms 4, 6, and 8.

They said it was heaven.

And it was!

This is good-bye Bentinho.
Good-bye Capitu,

I don't know if you will
see me again...

I'm going to another Europe,
one that is timeless,

I'm already aboard, aboard...

Europe... My pilgrimage is a
sentimental one for this world...

I follow my destiny...

Whoever lives among the stars,
dies among the stars...

The old Europe... Everlasting...

I'm going to the inside of the earth,
behind the truth like that of beautiful youth...


we are a world on loan...

It's a lover's scene.
A scene of everlasting love...

Not all poets are
as fortunate as Junqueira Freire,

who lived a life of legendary
and Romanesque circumstances.

He was a friar, his poetry
was written in the cloister.

His figure stands out in the
solitary background of his cell,

his chest constricted by
despair and remorse.

Junqueira writes:

"I also fantasized about
beautiful image of serene life.

I also desired the happy refuge
of the sterile cloister."

Whatever sincerity
was behind his pain,

it could never be
believed by the commoner,

to whom is not bestowed the scrutinization
of all the depth of the human soul.

Junqueira Freire, although uncultured,
that poetry was his.

In this, there is a feeling of
the precious virtue known as:

poetic individuality.

He had language of his own,
he was a poet.

A poet for great heights...

He died at 22 years old,
nearly not enough time to...

"In the filthy game of
impure lasciviousness,

the murderous miscreant
descends from the altar,

from the miscreant to
the bright pulpits,

your clamor flatters
the addicted,

here where crimes
quiver with fear

and the red lips
of feminine kisses

trigger lightning that
terrifies passions."

Junqueira's poetry is strong,

at least to me it seems strong...

Oh Mangueira,
you are a picture of a beauty

that nature created, oh oh

what splendor is the sunrise

upon your hills of zinc shanties

everyone recognizes you from afar

by the sound of your tambourine

and the beat of your drum

oh oh oh oh
Mangueira has arrived, oh oh

oh oh oh oh
Mangueira has arrived, oh oh

Mangueira, your glorious
past is recorded in history.

The green and pink of your
flag represent to the people

that the samba is
there at Mangueira.

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