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#claudia mori
ilblogdellestorie · 1 year
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Claudia Mori, Il Monello
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s-leary · 1 year
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Posting this version of Prisencolinensinainciusol, because I like these dancers much better than the slightly creepy classroom skit that’s easier to find on YouTube, and I know I’ve reblogged this before but Tumblr’s search function is just two parentheses clinging to each other as the ocean of content rises around them.
Every time I see this video I have to sit down and watch the whole thing. It’s just mesmerizing. I was so delighted to hear it in Ted Lasso this week!
If you’ve never encountered Prisencolinensinainciusol before: the lyrics are mostly gibberish, but they’re designed to sound like American English sounds to a non-English speaker.
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iheartliquor · 2 years
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jerrylewis-thekid · 2 years
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Adriano Celentano - Sanremo Festival 1961
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Adriano (when he was still young) with his wife Claudia Mori (who, despite being beautiful, betrayed her as ALWAYS happens in the entertainment world)
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tvserie-film · 2 years
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Title: The Mistress of the Inn (1980)
Vote: 7/10
The theatrical comedy brought to the television screen does not always work but in this case it sparks. Love is used as a weapon in one of Goldoni's most famous works and the final winner will be neither the disenchanted knight nor the beautiful innkeeper. It deserves to be seen and reviewed.
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ladythatsmyskull · 1 year
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Prisencolinensinainciusol (1972)
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moratoirenoir · 2 years
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@Buonasera Dottore  今晩は先生
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wmod3ybPy0I
不倫カップルの電話の会話という珍しい設定の歌。 アドリアーノ・チェレンターノの妻のクラウディア・モーリ(1944年生まれ)が歌う。男性は歌わない。 不倫あるある、という感じで、女性は愛を語っているのに、男性はそばに妻がいるので他人のふりをして話す。 そのギャップが面白い。創唱はミーナ。 This is a song of a couple in extramarital relation. Claudia Mori who is a wife of Adriano Celentano sings it. She talks about love, and he pretends to talk about business because his wife is there.
チェレンターノは浮気性なので、モーリは何度もこうした体験をしているだろう。それでもこのカップルは別れずに続いているのがまた面白い。 Celentano is capricious, so Mori must have explained such cases many times. But this couple hasn’t broken.
歌詞と意味 – Ciao, sono io… – Ah, buonasera, dottore. – Amore mio… – Sì, mi dica. – Non resistevo più, pensavo a te… – Ah, bene, direi che è importante. – Quando verrai? – Mah, adesso non so, dipende. – Non parlare se lì c'è lei, lascia parlare me, dì sì o no. – Certo. ―私よ ―ああ 今晩は先生 ―愛しい人 ―ええ 何でしょう? ―我慢できなかったの あなたのことを考えていた ―わかった 大事なことですね ―いつ来るの? ―そう 今はちょっと そのうちに ―彼女がいるなら話さないで 私が言うわ イエスかノーで答えて ― わかりました
Ma vieni appena puoi, anche tardi se tu vuoi – intanto non dormirei; quanto mi manchi, non sai. できるだけ早く来て 遅くなっても その方がよければ それまでは眠れない どんなに会いたいかわからないでしょう
– Mi ami o no? – Ci può giurare, dottore. – Io di più… – No, non credo. – Ma lei adesso dov'è? Vicino a te? – Sì, sì, senz'altro. – Oh, no, ho sciolto tutti i capelli giù e ho il profumo che mi hai dato tu. – Ah, sì? ―愛してる? ―確かに 先生 ―私はあなた以上に ―いやそうではないでしょう ―でも彼女はどこ?そばにいるの? ―そう その通りです ―いやだ 私は髪を下ろしてあなたのくれた香水をつけているのに ―そうですか
Vieni almeno per un po', non ho sonno, non mi sveglierai. Dì quello che vuoi, però stasera non dirmi no. 少なくとももう少しで来て 眠くない あなたに起こされることはない あなたの望みを言って でも 今夜はダメと言わないで
– Va bene, dottore, se è proprio necessario, vengo. – Adesso chiudo, non vorrei fare insospettire lei. Amore, io sono qui e potrei anche morire… – No, no, stia tranquillo, adesso farò un salto da Lei. Buonasera, dottore. – Amore, vieni qui… ―わかりました先生 どうしても必要なら行きます ―もう切るわ 彼女に疑われたくない  愛しい人 私はここにいる もう死にそう ―いやいや心配しないでください すぐに参ります 先生 ―いとしいひと来て
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freckleslikestars · 1 year
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Trust me, sweetheart, running away isn't gonna make things better for you. Workin' tables here, it may not feel right, but at least you got a roof over your head, and some friends who care about you. May not feel like your life right now. Just give it some time, okay?
Stargate SG-1 | 10.08 Memento Mori
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spockvarietyhour · 2 years
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Stargate SG-1 “Memento Mori”
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dailystargatebooty · 6 months
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gcdhoods · 2 years
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PROMPT 008
YELLOWJACKETS AU — for @nourflage
in which the murder™ is caught in a horrific plane crash and left to their own devices to survive a harsh canadian winter with nothing but the power of teamwork, girlbossing, and cannibalism.  
tw: graphic depictions of murder, cannibalism, blood, gore, & body horror. please read at your own caution! 
i know of a girl who is a doe in the woods, wide-eyed innocence with the kind of smile that makes hunters stop in their tracks, finger paused just above the trigger —
she reminds them of their hunger. desire to consume what they do not have. a stomach growls regardless of the beauty your eyes feast on in the forest she calls her home; animal-hunger, animal-grief when you stand over her dead body. you wear her doe-antlers that you gouge into the side of your skull in her memory, a twisted taxidermy of your body. an arching of bone like hands to the sky, reaching for a heaven you will not get into. murderer. you swallowed her whole so there was no body to bury, only a licking of fingers. they ask you how you survived the winter.
turn her corpse over in your memory. did you steal her face or were you born twin reflections? do her antlers weigh heavy on your head when the snow dusts the bone-curve of the new crown your wear like a lover’s hands on thighs, caressing?
don’t worry, dear reader. the butchering is mostly metaphorical.
the hunger is always real.
“i’m fucking freezing. there’s no way we’re going to make it past october at this rate — which of us has the most meat on them?” there’s a curl in javi’s voice that indicates a turn of his lips, a permanent fixture to his features now; old humour turned cruel if not completely drained of him. “badr, you’re looking scrumptious, plus there’s enough of your stupid body for all of us to gnaw on for a few weeks. be a real one, yeah?”
last night, i saw you in a dream. in it, you were covered in the blood of a murdered city, but smiling. free. the night before, i dreamt of another one of us floating in the lakeside as it froze; summer to winter in a matter of seconds, trapping her like a butterfly in resin. the night before that, he —
in the bible, people had visions, right? like prophets and stuff?
in every dream, i wake up hungry.
winter is coming and there are twenty-four birds sit-sitting on a tree. point to them with your rifle, shoot in quick succession. more bone to add to your antler-crown, gore still dripping off the points. wear you like a memory, moment of silence before you reload with a sharp tug, one eye closed and the other squinting into the scope.
they did not make you a bird of prey so you learn to grow teeth, start from the belly until it ripples into every inch of skin. bone-god, death-eater. that will come later.
“there’ll be enough to eat.” you say it and no one believes you; body already too-thin and on the precipice of death. vulture-picked even before all this. they think this makes you weak when all it does is give you more space for a filling.
“we won’t have to worry about food again.”
in the back, javi: “what the fuck do they mean? what the fuck?”
it occurs where most nightmares do: at a school dance.
we will make makeshift normalcies in the wild where we do not belong — ( where we return to, always, always ) — homes out of foraged cabins and skinny calves brushing at night, learn to fall asleep despite the spiders crawling on temples, despite the thump-thump of something coming, of hearts sending out morse-code warnings none of us know how to read. weeks, now, and it’s almost sweet how we’ve tamed survival into a kind of domesticity as the changing of seasons sits patiently on the horizon, us willfully ignoring it and winter on its hind legs, licking its lips as it looks at our warm bodies.
“you ought to wear your hair more, like this — doesn’t it frame your face so lovely?” isabele’s practiced beauty is something from an old life unfitting for this old world, glitter carefully smeared over behiye’s eyelids. none of the roughness of delilah’s palms, wariness of warden’s shoulders; signs of nature’s erosion of civility on our bodies but none on your once, almost lover.
behiye’s eyes are wide, expectant as they look at you. there’s a smile as you lean to her, thumb swiping across lips to spread the gloss gathered, gazes locking. despite the gentle grace you still carry, there is a forewarning in blackened hazels that only she will know.
we will ruin this too, won’t we?
“perfect.” whispered, slow curl of mouths around the word. turn it into a melody. isabele smiles so proudly, hands clapping as she bustles to here and there to fuss over decorations and dresses, blissfully naïve. how you love her. how she reminds you of —
homecoming would have been today, if everything was as normal as it should have been. in this nothing wilderness, you will make a normalcy out of anything: flat beer you rationed into old mason jars to sip slowly, dresses smoothed with pressing hands over wrinkles, bonfires you dance around to top 40 songs we try to remember the words to. laughter echoes into sunset, into darkness. the flames still flicker but your eyes stay pitch-black no matter how close you sit to the fire, hands outstretched.
winter waiting. hungry for the warmth of bodies, of innocence.
the blade is eight inches long, enough to run him through twice over.
you hold the knife high over your head, all the skull-crowns you wear laughing at his writhing. in this version of the story, he does not get the peace of death after decades of running from your grasp.
you want his dead fucking body now.
body meet blade in holy matrimony, tender as a kiss when it pushes through skin, organ, bone, spine, skin again. bowstring across violins with the repetition of our body’s anatomy like a melismatic run across notes waiting for a crescendo ending, with the sawing that comes afterwards.
is there screaming or laughing? there is so much blood and for once, none of it is yours. you lick your lips and you taste metal, taste him.
you can hear the rest of them coming, know the sound of bare feet against the dead leaves of the forest you’ve made a home out of, hear their whoops and screams of laughter. joyous. when was the last time we were this happy? you gave them this.
those who are here to witness the first of many touch your arms lightly, remind you to rise over the body, as you should. chins hooked to shoulders, giggling soft in your ears, cheeks nuzzled to necks. babbled praises, more sounds and sighs than anything. nonsensical prayers. good enough for now, but later you will have to teach them of proper worship.
“eat. feast.”
you are a benevolent god, aren’t you? you meet their eyes one by one and they hold your gaze, ready. waiting. winter is coming. winter is coming. winter has lived in our bones for years and years now. no one moves.
“you first.” behiye’s voice rings clear, sweet as church bells on a sunday morning. there are murmurs of agreement surrounding her, you.
you smile wide enough to split your lips, your blood mixing with his. what is a god without their believers, so lovely in their listening? you stain your skirts red when you kneel before him in respect, head bowed for a moment of silence.
i wrote of cannibal-lambs once. did you catch it? did you see this coming?
when i said i was hungry, i never said it was for meat.
winter comes and never goes. the heart in your hands is heavy, slit throats gathering snow in the gaping hole you left in her. this is all for love, i promise. this was always a love story. i don’t know how to write anything else.
you rest the stilled organ in the middle of drawn futures in blood against the frozen dirt, candles flickering and animal-bone, human-skull gathered and placed carefully. the others are circled perfectly around the sacred space we’ve made, humming harmonies from the throat. you let your eyes close, thankful. you love them so.
we thank you for your gracious offering. you will find immortality in us. we will carry you safe back home. tell heaven we will return one day.
you hold it high for them to see, hoods draping off heads as you tilt your head to the sky. one moment, two —
teeth meet flesh. were you waiting for poetry? there is only this: incisors digging into the soft meat of a once-friend, now-memory, now-ghost. you tear the organ, blood dribbling down chins. greedy devourings, breaths of frost red-tinged. can you see it? can you taste the fear under your tongue?
they ask you how you survived the winter. you tell them it was easy.
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olgaromana · 5 months
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♥️ Russia. Moscow. VDNH (All-Russia Exhibition Centre). Fountain “Druzhba Narodov”.
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Claudia Mori & Adriano Celentano “Non succederà più”. Sanremo 1982.
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satureja13 · 9 months
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Buongiorno Vlad!
Non Succederà Più by Claudia Mori is playing on the radio.
It's around 7am. They are already up because they went to bed early.
Here they are at their tents.
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Vlad is planning to read a lot as it seems :)
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hahaha them <3 Bunny is already having breakfast as it seems ;)
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And while Jeb and Ji Ho are preparing breakfast... Jeb: "Ji Ho! Do you remember when I still had that bag on my head?" Ji Ho: "How could I ever forget!" ^^' (Jeb and Ji Ho wearing 'couple shirts' (again) ;)
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... Saiwa, Vlad and Jack care for Adriano.
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Saiwa: "He must be very clever to survive out here alone." Vlad: "Don't worry, Adriano. You are not alone anymore."
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They are going to swim in the lagoon after breakfast!
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From the Beginning  ~  Underwater Love ~  Latest
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tvserie-film · 4 months
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Title: Rugantino (1973) Vote: 6/10 A womanizer with little brains in his head gets into trouble for a woman and ends up being deceived by people more powerful and richer than him. He ends up at the guillotine partly through his own fault and partly through the intrigues of others. He certainly wasn't innocent nor a positive character but he suffers a punishment he didn't deserve in a city where in the end it's the powerful who decide about the poor.
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likecopperlikesalt · 3 months
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Third Wheel, Missing Stair, & Vampire Tape Recorder Strikes Out on the Apps
Just thinking about how Merrick could've been a much better novel if anyone other than David Talbot narrated it. Boring man, not interesting enough to make his lack of self awareness interesting. He says he feels guilt, but it's not actually shown.
Imagine Merrick from the POV of: Louis, Merrick, Lestat, Honey in the Sunshine, the ghost of Aaron Lightner....
But on the other hand, it is extremely funny to see David Talbot get curved by everyone he tries to get with in the novel.
Merrick - I hit it once. Nah, not again. Louis can be my maker. I like old souls in young bodies, and this guy even older than you! I did keep your old man hands. As a memento (mori). Pause. Yes, for that. And other things.
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Unspoken Merrick: Did you really think you could just use me as a source of power without getting used in return at some point?
Lestat De Lioncourt- I'm only going to wake up for Louis. Not you. (You are not compelling enough for me to wake up from this catatonic hellscape behind my eyeballs.)
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Later: Please leave the room. I don't want to have a three-way with you right now. Go show Merrick how to feed.
Louis De Pointe Du Lac- No. I'm sad and suicidally depressed. I have a gaping chest wound. I love Merrick. This is my last hurrah.
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Aaron Lightner - Why are you shouting at this little girl? Why are you shaking her?
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Jesse Reeves- Not actually stated but David says she was too young to fuck with Claudia's ghost... and she was 30 at the time. But Merrick is old enough to conduct as *checks* a child? The legal drinking age? And he's not worried about Merrick summoning Claudia's ghost?
Mary, anonymous Talamasca member: What the fuck did I just walk in on? Is this how you conduct exorcisms!? (Not stated: Dating the men in this Motherhouse is so annoying. Glad New Orleans has a thriving LGBTQ bar scene.)
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