martedì 21 novembre 2006

le bandiere dei nostri padri



E' cosa nota la passione che lega Clint Eastwood al pugilato, a cominciare dai suoi primi film, come "Filo da Torcere", per arrivare a "Million Dollar Baby"! Ed è forse proprio per questo che riesce a colpirti, ogni volta, con tecnica perfetta. Ti colpisce, come nel suo ultimo "Flags of Our Fathers", allo stomaco, al petto, alla testa. Di scena in scena. Scena dopo scena, in un gioco di continui rimandi. Un 'gioco di gambe', il suo. Così lo si potrebbe chiamare, sempre in omaggio all'analogia con la nobile arte.
I personaggi rimandano ad altri sé stessi, in altre situazioni, e rimandano ad altri personaggi in situazioni simili. E il tempo si piega, si annoda e si scioglie di nuovo. Una lunga ballata: non solo per l'indiano "pima", Ira Hayes, buono per salire su un palco, come eroe da sbandierare, ma non altrettanto buono per entrare e bere in uno dei tanti bar dove "non si servono gli indiani"; non solo per "Doc", eroe senza armi e con gli occhi pieni di incubi; ma per tutti quanti. I vivi e i morti. Fino alla scena sublime che chiude il film, e che riesce a portarci dove tutti si vorrebbe essere. Come tutti si dovrebbe essere. Lontano. Lontano da tutti i paesi infelici che hanno bisogno di eroi.



La ballata di Ira Hayes
di Peter LaFarge

Ira Hayes, Ira Hayes

[CORO:]
Chiamatelo pure Ira Hayes l'ubriacone
Tanto non vi risponderà più
Non vi risponderà né l'indiano che si sbronza di whiskey
né il marine che andò in guerra.

Venite intorno a me, gente, c'è una storia che vorrei raccontarvu
Parla di un giovane indiano coraggioso che dovreste ricordare bene
Egli veniva dalla terra degli Indiani Pima
Una fiera e nobile tribù
che coltivava la Phoenix Valley in Arizona

Per centinaia d'anni, attraverso i canali,
l'acqua aveva cresciuto i raccolti del popolo di Ira
Fino a quando l'uomo bianco non rubò i diritti sull'acqua
e l'acqua spumeggiante venne fermata.

Ora il popolo di Ira pativa la fame
e i loro campi erano infestati dalle erbacce
Quando scoppiò la guerra, Ira partì volontario
E dimenticò l'avidità dell'uomo bianco.

[CORO]

Laggiù combatterono fino a prendere la collina di Iwo Jima
Duecentocinquanta uomini
Ma solo ventisette rimasero vivi per poterla ridiscendere.

E quando la battaglia finì
E venne alzata la bandiera
Fra coloro che l'alzarono
C'era l'indiano Ira Hayes

[CORO]

Ira ritornò come un eroe
Venne celebrato in tutti gli stati
Banchetti in suo onore, e discorsi
Tutti gli stringevano la mano.

Ma egli era solo un indiano Pima
Senz'acqua, senza terra, senza fortuna
A casa nessuno si curava di quel che aveva fatto
e di quando gli indiani avevano ballato.

Allora Ira cominciò a bere forte
La prigione era sempre più spesso la sua casa
E in prigione gli facevano alzare e ammainare la bandiera
giusto come gettare l'osso ad un cane.

Morì ubriaco, una mattina
Completamente solo nel paese per la cui salvezza aveva combattuto
Una pozzanghera con due pollici d'acqua
fu la tomba di Ira Hayes.

[CORO]

Sì, chiamatelo pure Ira Hayes ubriacone
Ma la sua terra è ancora secca
E il suo fantasma giace assetato
dentro la fossa dove Ira è morto.

2 commenti:

BlackBlog francosenia ha detto...

il testo originale della ballata:

The Ballad of Ira Hayes
by Peter LaFarge

Ira Hayes,
Ira Hayes

[CHORUS:]
Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

Gather round me people there's a story I would tell
About a brave young Indian you should remember well
From the land of the Pima Indian
A proud and noble band
Who farmed the Phoenix valley in Arizona land

Down the ditches for a thousand years
The water grew Ira's peoples' crops
'Till the white man stole the water rights
And the sparklin' water stopped

Now Ira's folks were hungry
And their land grew crops of weeds
When war came, Ira volunteered
And forgot the white man's greed

Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

There they battled up Iwo Jima's hill,
Two hundred and fifty men
But only twenty-seven lived to walk back down again

And when the fight was over
And when Old Glory raised
Among the men who held it high
Was the Indian, Ira Hayes

Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

Ira returned a hero
Celebrated through the land
He was wined and speeched and honored; Everybody shook his hand

But he was just a Pima Indian
No water, no crops, no chance
At home nobody cared what Ira'd done
And when did the Indians dance

Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

Then Ira started drinkin' hard;
Jail was often his home
They'd let him raise the flag and lower it
like you'd throw a dog a bone!

He died drunk one mornin'
Alone in the land he fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch
Was a grave for Ira Hayes

Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes
But his land is just as dry
And his ghost is lyin' thirsty
In the ditch where Ira died

******************************************************

Gather round me, people, and a story I will tell
About a brave young Indian you should remember well
From the tribe of Pima Indians, a proud and a peaceful band,
They farmed the Phoenix valley in Arizona land.
Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed,
Till the white man stole their water rights and the running water hushed.
Now Ira's folks were hungry, and their farms grew crops of weeds.
But when war came, he volunteered and forgot the white man's greed.

Call him drunken Ira Hayes --
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
Or the Marine who went to war.
Yes, call him drunken Ira Hayes --
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
Or the Marine who went to war.

They started up Iwo Jima hill, two hundred and fifty men,
But only twenty-seven lived to walk back down that hill again.
And when the fight was over and Old Glory raised
One of the men who held it high was the Indian, Ira Hayes.

Call him drunken Ira Hayes --
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
Or the Marine who went to war.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes --
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
Or the Marine who went to war.

Now, Ira returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land
He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand.
But he was just a Pima Indian -- no money, no crops, no chance --
And at home nobody cared what Ira'd done, and when do the Indians dance?

Call him drunken Ira Hayes --
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
Or the Marine who went to war.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes --
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
Or the Marine who went to war.

Then Ira started drinking hard, jail was often his home.
They let him raise the flag there and lower it like you'd throw a dog a bone.
He died drunk early one morning, alone in the land he'd fought to save.
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for Ira Hayes.

Call him drunken Ira Hayes --
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
Or the Marine who went to war.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes --
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
Or the Marine who went to war.

Yes, call him drunken Ira Hayes,
But his land is still as dry,
And his ghost is lying thirsty
In the ditch where Ira died.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes --
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
Or the Marine who went to war.

steve ha detto...

I wish I spoke Italian, any fan of kris kristofferson must have something interesting to say. my co host on the podcast is Italian (canadian) maybe I can get him to translate. we're always looking for independant music, send some if you can.