Literatura científica selecionada sobre o tema "Criminalité au cinéma"

This article examines the role popular media have played in disseminating images of mafia fashion. Through the representation of criminal apparel on-screen spectators are encouraged to identify with the societal transgressions of the mafioso, engendering an abiding fascination with mafia style. By looking at Italian and Italian American productions from early silent cinema through contemporary television crime series, menswear becomes a primary means of harnessing spectatorial desire and identification that embraces enduring associations that link southern Italian identity with criminality and style. In the analysis of these texts it becomes apparent how costuming communicates a series of semiotic properties that reflect the complex interplay of masculine identities in an environment based on violence, power and appearance.

Incidences of residential building hijacking which characterize post-apartheid Johannesburg have drawn debates from diverse fields of scholarship: anthropological, legal, social, literary and even cinema. Do they instantiate outright criminality, incomplete adjustment into the city, strategies for socio-economic restitution or acts of inverse racism? This article, an interdisciplinary probe into the representation of building hijacking in Ralph Ziman’s Gangsters Paradise: Jerusalema (2008), uses reductionism philosophy to theorize the practice as an actuation of eccentric post-apartheid culture. Three arguments follow. First, that culture after apartheid has shifted from collective to individual agency. Second, that building hijacking, a dimension of post-apartheid materiality, is a reliable metric of this cultural shift and a component of post-apartheid cultural semiology. And third, that a theory of this emergent post-apartheid culture can benefit from a reductive dialectic. The article concludes that reductionism is a usable critical frame to intercept contemporary nuances of individuated post-apartheid culture to which building hijacking is indexical.

For more than a century, cinema has offered a rich source of images and narratives about crime and punishment. Unfortunately, the restricted nature of correctional environments and the social stigma surrounding incarceration leave most viewers reliant on media representations for the majority of their knowledge about correctional spaces. In most media representations of crime and punishment, outlaws and lawmen are reduced to stereotypical archetypes, and incarcerated characters are some of the evilest villains one will ever encounter. Moreover, the prison environment is painted as a playground for bad behavior, as penance for redeemable outlaws, or as an outright paradox that claims to reduce criminality despite appearing to increase it. Our uncritical acceptance of such characterizations goes hand in hand with our cultural addiction to mass incarceration. Limitless stories about uncontainable monsters perpetrating awful crimes inside cushy taxpayer funded facilities endorse a worldview where a permanently expanding and harshening prison system is vital to the safety of a functioning society. In short, our reliance on the spectacle of punishment has left us woefully and willfully misinformed about prison and those who wind up there.

Legendary bandit Chucho el Roto was portrayed by renowned actor Manuel López Ochoa in a film series made and released in the wake of violent repression of Mexico’s student movement. The four films provide entertainment with their charismatic leading man, melodrama, romance and comedy. Yet, the series also allegorizes and critiques Dirty War tactics employed in Mexico by portraying how the powerful abuse their authority to criminalize, imprison, torture and murder young idealists with an alternative vision for society. The popular figure of the bandit thus constituted a timely vehicle for critical reflection about political violence within a repressive climate. Chucho el Roto, el bandido legendario, fue retratado por el afamado actor Manuel López Ochoa en una serie de películas filmadas y estrenadas tras la violenta represión del movimiento estudiantil mexicano. Las cuatro películas proporcionan entretenimiento gracias a su carismático protagonista, al melodrama, el romance y la comedia. Sin embargo la serie también alegoriza y critica las tácticas de la Guerra Sucia empleadas en México, y lo hace mediante un retrato del poderoso abuso de sus autoridades para criminalizar, apresar, torturar y asesinar a jóvenes idealistas con una visión alternativa para la sociedad. La figura popular del bandido constituyó así un vehículo oportuno para la reflexión crítica sobre la violencia política dentro de un clima represivo.

Films on Indian themes made by western filmmakers have often been ridden with stereotypes and clichés. The wave of Raj films that came out of British and American production companies in the years since India‟s independence have largely been nostalgia-driven, and they almost invariably end up exoticising the region. However, with regard to films made by the nonHollywood film company named Merchant-Ivory Productions, audiences had come to expect more sophisticated and nuanced treatments of themes drawn from Indian history. This paper examines one of their films, The Deceivers, which deals with the twin themes of Thuggee and Sati. The discussion of the film is set against the broader context of the literature and cinema spawned by Western interest in the Raj era. While it is certainly more aesthetically sophisticated than the Hollywood type of Raj films, The Deceivers nevertheless falls short of engaging with the complexities of 19th century India in any meaningful way and is especially blind to the tendency of colonial propaganda to criminalise entire ethnic groups. Such attempts at cross-cultural representation are nevertheless valuable from a pedagogic point of view in the specific context of postcolonial approaches in the humanities classrooms in our colleges. Keywords: Colonial, Empire, Gender, Sati, Stereotypes, Thuggee

The main purpose of the article was to study the representation of the concept 'thief' in the language of Russian mass media. This concept is important for both national and scientific legal concept spheres. The appeal to journalistic texts is due to the fact that they quickly reflect the main characteristics of the current state of mass consciousness and manifest its key stereotypes. The analysis was carried out in accordance with the main task of the study: to identify the key features of the concept represented in the media. In the course of the study, information from the newspaper subcorpus of the National corpus of the Russian language was used in order to collect and analyze empirical data. Semantic analysis of the contexts containing the key word of the concept revealed basic characteristics of the concept prevailing in the mass national consciousness. The authors conclude that the romantic and heroic image of the thief, which has deep folklore and literary roots, continues to exist as one of the prevalent characteristics of this concept in modern public consciousness. This image of the thief is largely formed by modern mass cinema, literature and music which are discussed in the media. The image of the so called «thief in law», often mentioned in the analyzed material, also partly contributes to the strengthening of the romantic features of this concept, since it implies following some alternative principles of morality and honor. At the same time, the research has shown that this concept receives an ambiguous evaluation in the Russian society, since the idea of criminality of this phenomenon is clearly expressed in many of the contexts under study.

La production de Rodrigo Sorogoyen investit l’espace urbain madrilène dans un cinéma de genre – le néo-noir espagnol – qui en fait non seulement un terrain d’exploration de la criminalité contemporaine mais aussi une métonymie des dysfonctionnements sociaux et politiques de l’Espagne. Le réalisateur use de la tension entre cadrages et décadrages pour déplacer l’attention du spectateur, et charger l’intrigue criminelle de ses films d’une analyse politique, les deux se rejoignant finalement dans le cadre urbain de la caméra. Trois films ou séries seront le support de cette étude : Que Dios nos perdone, El Reino, deux longs-métrages, et Antidisturbios, série en six épisodes.

This essay will explore the ways in which African American visual culture has attempted to negotiate criminalization and the current situation of what Richard Iton rightfully characterizes as “hyperincarceration.” It will explore the ways in which contemporary African American visual culture is engaged in negotiating between the literal material realities and consequences of mass incarceration and aesthetic constructions of violence. While mass incarceration is increasingly becoming understood as “the New Jim Crow” for African American political organizing, Black criminality has become the key lens through which questions of masculinity, class exclusion, gender, and selfhood get negotiated in African American visual culture. This essay will argue that the “subtext of ongoing Black captivity” is the pretext for much of what drives Black action genres and African American representation in general as a key signifier of a racialized identity and as an indicator of a Black subjectivity fraught with complexities of non-belonging.

In a recent gaming anthology, Henry Jenkins cannot help contrasting his son's cramped, urban, media-saturated existence with his own idyllic, semi-rural childhood. After describing his own Huck Finn meanderings over "the spaces of my boyhood" including the imaginary kingdoms of Jungleoca and Freedonia, Jenkins relates his version of his son's experiences: My son, Henry, now 16 has never had a backyard He has grown up in various apartment complexes, surrounded by asphalt parking lots with, perhaps, a small grass buffer from the street… Once or twice, when I became exasperated by my son's constant presence around the house I would … tell him he should go out and play. He would look at me with confusion and ask, where? … Who wouldn't want to trade in the confinement of your room for the immersion promised by today's video games? … Perhaps my son finds in his video games what I found in the woods behind the school, on my bike whizzing down the hills of suburban backstreets, or settled into my treehouse with a good adventure novel intensity of experience, escape from adult regulation; in short, "complete freedom of movement". (Jenkins 1998, 263-265) Games here are connected with a shrinking availability of domestic and public space, and a highly mediated experience of the world. Despite his best intentions, creeping into Jenkins's piece is a sense that games act as a poor substitute for the natural spaces of a "healthy" childhood. Although "Video games did not make backyard play spaces disappear", they "offer children some way to respond to domestic confinement" (Jenkins 1998, 266). They emerge, then, as a palliation for the claustrophobic circumstances of contemporary urban life, though they offer only unreal spaces, replete with "lakes of fire … cities in the clouds … [and] dazzling neon-lit Asian marketplaces" (Jenkins 1998, 263), where the work of the childish imagination is already done. Despite Jenkins's assertion that games do offer "complete freedom of movement", it is hard to shake the feeling that he considers his own childhood far richer in exploratory and imaginative opportunities: Let me be clear I am not arguing that video games are as good for kids as the physical spaces of backyard play culture. As a father, I wish that my son would come home covered in mud or with scraped knees rather than carpet burns ... The psychological and social functions of playing outside are as significant as the impact of "sunshine and good exercise" upon our physical well-being. (Jenkins 1998, 266) Throughout the piece, games are framed by a romantic, anti-urban discourse: the expanding city is imagined as engulfing space and perhaps destroying childhood itself, such that "'sacred' places are now occupied by concrete, bricks or asphalt" (Jenkins 1998, 263). Games are complicit in this alienation of space and experience. If this is not quite Paul Virilio's recent dour contention that modern mass media forms work mainly to immobilise the body of the consumer--Virilio, luckily, has managed to escape the body-snatchers--games here are produced as a feeble response to an already-effected urban imprisonment of the young. Strikingly, Jenkins seems concerned about his son's "unhealthy" confinement to private, domestic space, and his inability to imaginatively possess a slice of the world outside. Jenkins's description of his son's confinement to the world of "carpet burns" rather than the great outdoors of "scraped knees" and "mud" implicitly leaves the distinction between domestic and public, internal and external, and even the imagined passivity of the domestic sphere as against the activity of the public intact. For those of us who see games as productive activities, which generate particular, unique kinds of pleasure in their own right, rather than as anaemic replacements for lost spaces, this seems to reduce a central cultural form. For those of us who have at least some sympathy with writers on the urban environment like Raban (1974) and Young (1990), who see the city's theatrical and erotic possibilities, Jenkins's fears might seem to erase the pleasures and opportunities that city life provides. Rather than seeing gamers and children (the two groups only partially overlap) as unwitting agents in their own confinement, we can arrive at a slightly more complex view of the relationship between games and urban space. By looking at the video games arcade as it is situated in urban retail space, we can see how gameplay simultaneously acts to regulate urban space, mediates a unique kind of urban performance, and allows sophisticated representations, manipulations and appropriations of differently conceived urban spaces. Despite being a long-standing feature of the urban and retail environment, and despite also being a key site for the "exhibition" of a by-now central media form, the video game arcade has a surprisingly small literature devoted to it. Its prehistory in pinball arcades and pachinko parlours has been noted (by, for example, Steven Poole 2000) but seldom deeply explored, and its relations with a wider urban space have been given no real attention at all. The arcade's complexity, both in terms of its positioning and functions, may contribute to this. The arcade is a space of conflicting, contradictory uses and tendencies, though this is precisely what makes it as important a space as the cinema or penny theatre before it. Let me explain why I think so. The arcade is always simultaneously a part of and apart from the retail centres to which it tends to attach itself.1 If it is part of a suburban shopping mall, it is often located on the ground floor near the entrance, or is semi-detached as cinema complexes often are, so that the player has to leave the mall's main building to get there, or never enter. If it is part of a city or high street shopping area, it is often in a side street or a street parallel to the main retail thoroughfare, or requires the player to mount a set of stairs into an off-street arcade. At other times the arcade is located in a space more strongly marked as liminal in relation to the city -- the seaside resort, sideshow alley or within the fences of a theme park. Despite this, the videogame arcade's interior is usually wholly or mostly visible from the street, arcade or thoroughfare that it faces, whether this visibility is effected by means of glass walls, a front window or a fully retractable sliding door. This slight distance from the mainstream of retail activity and the visibility of the arcade's interior are in part related to the economics of the arcade industry. Arcade machines involve relatively low margins -- witness the industry's recent feting and embrace of redemption (i.e. low-level gambling) games that offer slightly higher turnovers -- and are hungry for space. At the same time, arcades are dependent on street traffic, relentless technological novelty and their de facto use as gathering space to keep the coins rolling in. A balance must be found between affordability, access and visibility, hence their positioning at a slight remove from areas of high retail traffic. The story becomes more complicated, though, when we remember that arcades are heavily marked as deviant, disreputable spaces, whether in the media, government reports or in sociological and psychological literature. As a visible, public, urban space where young people are seen to mix with one another and unfamiliar and novel technologies, the arcade is bound to give rise to adult anxieties. As John Springhall (1998) puts it: More recent youth leisure… occupies visible public space, is seen as hedonistic and presents problems within the dominant discourse of 'enlightenment' … [T]he most popular forms of entertainment among the young at any given historical moment tend also to provide the focus of the most intense social concern. A new medium with mass appeal, and with a technology best understood by the young… almost invariably attracts a desire for adult or government control (160-161, emphasis mine) Where discourses of deviant youth have also been employed in extending the surveillance and policing of retail space, it is unsurprising that spaces seen as points for the concentration of such deviance will be forced away from the main retail thoroughfares, in the process effecting a particular kind of confinement, and opportunity for surveillance. Michel Foucault writes, in Discipline and Punish, about the classical age's refinements of methods for distributing and articulating bodies, and the replacement of spectacular punishment with the crafting of "docile bodies". Though historical circumstances have changed, we can see arcades as disciplinary spaces that reflect aspects of those that Foucault describes. The efficiency of arcade games in distributing bodies in rows, and side by side demonstrates that" even if the compartments it assigns become purely ideal, the disciplinary space is always, basically, cellular" (Foucault 1977, 143). The efficiency of games from Pong (Atari:1972) to Percussion Freaks (Konami: 1999) in articulating bodies in play, in demanding specific and often spectacular bodily movements and competencies means that "over the whole surface of contact between the body and the object it handles, power is introduced, fastening them to one another. It constitutes a body weapon, body-tool, body-machine complex" (Foucault 1977,153). What is extraordinary is the extent to which the articulation of bodies proceeds only through a direct engagement with the game. Pong's instructions famously read only "avoid missing ball for high score"--a whole economy of movement, arising from this effort, is condensed into six words. The distribution and articulation of bodies also entails a confinement in the space of the arcade, away from the main areas of retail trade, and renders occupants easily observable from the exterior. We can see that games keep kids off the streets. On the other hand, the same games mediate spectacular forms of urban performance and allow particular kinds of reoccupation of urban space. Games descended or spun off from Dance Dance Revolution (Konami: 1998) require players to dance, in time with thumping (if occasionally cheesy) techno, and in accordance with on-screen instructions, in more and more complex sequences on lit footpads. These games occupy a lot of space, and the newest instalment (DDR has just issued its "7th Mix") is often installed at the front of street level arcades. When played with flair, games such as these are apt to attract a crowd of onlookers to gather, not only inside, but also on the footpath outside. Indeed games such as these have given rise to websites like http://www.dancegames.com/au which tells fans not only when and where new games are arriving, but whether or not the positioning of arcades and games within them will enable a player to attract attention to their performance. This mediation of cyborg performance and display -- where success both achieves and exceeds perfect integration with a machine in urban space -- is particularly important to Asian-Australian youth subcultures, which are often marginalised in other forums for youthful display, like competitive sport. International dance gamer websites like Jason Ho's http://www.ddrstyle.com , which is emblazoned with the slogan "Asian Pride", explicitly make the connection between Asian youth subcultures and these new kinds of public performance. Games like those in the Time Crisis series, which may seem less innocuous, might be seen as effecting important inversions in the representation of urban space. Initially Time Crisis, which puts a gun in the player's hand and requires them to shoot at human figures on screen, might even be seen to live up to the dire claims made by figures like Dave Grossman that such games effectively train perpetrators of public violence (Grossman 1995). What we need to keep in mind, though, is that first, as "cops", players are asked to restore order to a representation of urban space, and second, that that they are reacting to images of criminality. When criminality and youth are so often closely linked in public discourse (not to mention criminality and Asian ethnicity) these games stage a reversal whereby the young player is responsible for performing a reordering of the unruly city. In a context where the ideology of privacy has progressively marked public space as risky and threatening,2 games like Time Crisis allow, within urban space, a performance aimed at the resolution of risk and danger in a representation of the urban which nevertheless involves and incorporates the material spaces that it is embedded in.This is a different kind of performance to DDR, involving different kinds of image and bodily attitude, that nevertheless articulates itself on the space of the arcade, a space which suddenly looks more complex and productive. The manifest complexity of the arcade as a site in relation to the urban environment -- both regulating space and allowing spectacular and sophisticated types of public performance -- means that we need to discard simplistic stories about games providing surrogate spaces. We reify game imagery wherever we see it as a space apart from the material spaces and bodies with which gaming is always involved. We also need to adopt a more complex attitude to urban space and its possibilities than any narrative of loss can encompass. The abandonment of such narratives will contribute to a position where we can recognise the difference between the older and younger Henrys' activities, and still see them as having a similar complexity and richness. With work and luck, we might also arrive at a material organisation of society where such differing spaces of play -- seen now by some as mutually exclusive -- are more easily available as choices for everyone. NOTES 1 Given the almost total absence of any spatial study of arcades, my observations here are based on my own experience of arcades in the urban environment. Many of my comments are derived from Brisbane, regional Queensland and urban-Australian arcades this is where I live but I have observed the same tendencies in many other urban environments. Even where the range of services and technologies in the arcades are different in Madrid and Lisbon they serve espresso and alcohol (!), in Saigon they often consist of a bank of TVs equipped with pirated PlayStation games which are hired by the hour their location (slightly to one side of major retail areas) and their openness to the street are maintained. 2 See Spigel, Lynn (2001) for an account of the effects and transformations of the ideology of privacy in relation to media forms. See Furedi, Frank (1997) and Douglas, Mary (1992) for accounts of the contemporary discourse of risk and its effects. References Douglas, M. (1992) Risk and Blame: Essays in Cultural Theory. London ; New York : Routledge. Foucault, M. (1979) Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Trans. Alan Sheridan. Harmondsworth, England: Penguin,. Furedi, F.(1997) Culture of Fear: Risk-taking and the Morality of Low Expectation. London ; Washington : Cassell. Grossman, D. (1995) On Killing: The Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society. Boston: Little, Brown. Jenkins, H. (1998) Complete freedom of movement: video games as gendered play spaces. In Jenkins, Henry and Justine Cassell (eds) From Barbie to Mortal Kombat : Gender and Computer Games. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press. Poole, S. (2000) Trigger Happy: The Inner Life of Videogames. London: Fourth Estate. Raban, J. (1974) Soft City. London: Hamilton. Spigel, L. (2001) Welcome to the Dreamhouse: Popular Media and the Postwar Suburbs. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Springhall, J. (1998) Youth, Popular Culture and Moral Panics : Penny Gaffs to Gangsta-rap, 1830-1996. New York: St. Martin's Press. Young, I.M. (1990) Justice and the Politics of Difference. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Websites http://www.yesterdayland.com/popopedia/s... (Time Crisis synopsis and shots) http://www.dancegames.com/au (Site for a network of fans revealing something about the culture around dancing games) http://www.ddrstyle.com (website of Jason Ho, who connects his dance game performances with pride in his Asian identity). http://www.pong-story.com (The story of Pong, the very first arcade game) Games Dance Dance Revolution, Konami: 1998. Percussion Freaks, Konami: 1999. Pong, Atari: 1972. Time Crisis, Namco: 1996. Links http://www.dancegames.com/au http://www.yesterdayland.com/popopedia/shows/arcade/ag1154.php http://www.pong-story.com http://www.ddrstyle.com Citation reference for this article MLA Style Wilson, Jason A.. "Performance, anxiety" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.2 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/performance.php>. Chicago Style Wilson, Jason A., "Performance, anxiety" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 2 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/performance.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Wilson, Jason A.. (2002) Performance, anxiety. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(2). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/performance.php> ([your date of access]).

Tout en se présentant comme la relecture d’un fait divers de l’histoire italienne récente, Romanzo Criminale est un récit qui se déploie par le biais de différents médias : un livre, un film, une série télévisée, ainsi qu’un certain nombre de produits dérivés. On trouve également, dans les espaces en ligne Internet, des déclinaisons de ces produits générées par les utilisateurs eux-mêmes. Les pratiques de transformation ou de remix mises en œuvre par ces derniers, les hommages et autres parodies dilatent l’univers de départ en proposant des lectures alternatives au sein de communautés différentes. La présente étude explore les modalités qui s’offrent au chercheur pour une analyse de ce phénomène : si, dans un premier temps, la notion d’intertextualité peut être employée comme outil heuristique, la présence de véritables usages requiert le dépassement de la perspective narratologique et la construction d’une méthodologie de recherche adaptée au contexte contemporain. Afin de rendre compte de la multitude des pratiques existantes une enquête ethnographique dans les espaces en ligne (blogs, sites de partage de vidéos, réseaux sociaux) s’impose, assortie d’une approche critique de la notion de transmédialité. Enfin, l’une des caractéristiques les plus typiquement contemporaines du phénomène observé, celle qui consiste à faire advenir un univers fictionnel dilatable à souhait par les spectateurs, sera comparée à la mise en œuvre d’un "travail épique"
Presented as a new interpretation of a momentous event in recent Italian history, Romanzo Criminale is a story spread through different types of media; it is a book, a film, a TV series, as well as a number of extra materials. Spin-offs of these products created by users can be found on the Internet as well. Users pay homage to or parody the original media by transforming or remixing its content, thus expanding the story’s universe by putting forward alternative interpretations throughout various communities both on and offline. In this study, we explore the methods available to researchers for analyzing this phenomenon. If, in the first section of the study, the notion of intertextuality can be used as a heuristic tool, in the second, the presence of actual uses requires the researcher to go beyond the narratological perspective and construct a methodology that is adapted to the contemporary context of convergence. In order to understand the multitude of existing practices, it is imperative to carry out an ethnographic investigation of online spaces (blogs, video sharing sites, social networks), and accompany it with a critical examination of the notion of transmediality. In the last section, we examine one of the most typical contemporary features of the studied phenomenon, the one which produces an everexpanding fictional universe created by spectators that will be compared to an "epic work"

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O trabalho consiste no estudo e análise do romance Cidade de Deus, de Paulo Lins, relançado em 2002. Tal análise tem como objetivo verificar como esse texto contemporâneo articula sua escrita, sua produção, a partir de uma expectativa de leitura do leitor contemporâneo. O estudo também busca observar os mecanismos discursivos e textuais presentes na constituição da obra em questão, sem deixar de considerar o contexto sóciohistórico em que o romance está inserido. Procura explorar ainda, as condições específicas que despertaram o interesse do público em geral para a leitura da obra e em que medida a transposição do romance para o cinema, no ano de 2002, sob a direção de Fernando Meirelles, influenciou no aumento do número de leitores para esse livro.
This study consists in the investigation anda analysis of Paulo Lins' romance Cidade de Deus, relanced in 2002. This analysis intends to verify as this contemporary text articulates his writings, his production, from one expectative of lecture of a contemporary reader. The study search too to observe the textuals and discoursives mechanisms presentes in the constitution of book in question, without leave to consider the social and historic context in that the romance is inserted. It search still to explore the specific conditions that waked the public interest in general for reader of book and in that measure the transposition of romance for the cinema, in the year 2002, under Fernando Meirelles direction, had influence in the increase number of readers for this book.

Orientador: Arnaldo Cortina
Banca: Maria Lúcia Outeiro Fernandes
Banca: Tieko Yamaguchi Miyazaki
Resumo: O trabalho consiste no estudo e análise do romance Cidade de Deus, de Paulo Lins, relançado em 2002. Tal análise tem como objetivo verificar como esse texto contemporâneo articula sua escrita, sua produção, a partir de uma expectativa de leitura do leitor contemporâneo. O estudo também busca observar os mecanismos discursivos e textuais presentes na constituição da obra em questão, sem deixar de considerar o contexto sóciohistórico em que o romance está inserido. Procura explorar ainda, as condições específicas que despertaram o interesse do público em geral para a leitura da obra e em que medida a transposição do romance para o cinema, no ano de 2002, sob a direção de Fernando Meirelles, influenciou no aumento do número de leitores para esse livro.
Abstract: This study consists in the investigation anda analysis of Paulo Lins' romance Cidade de Deus, relanced in 2002. This analysis intends to verify as this contemporary text articulates his writings, his production, from one expectative of lecture of a contemporary reader. The study search too to observe the textuals and discoursives mechanisms presentes in the constitution of book in question, without leave to consider the social and historic context in that the romance is inserted. It search still to explore the specific conditions that waked the public interest in general for reader of book and in that measure the transposition of romance for the cinema, in the year 2002, under Fernando Meirelles direction, had influence in the increase number of readers for this book.
Mestre

Obiettivo di questo contributo sarà quello di considerare il caso di Cattleya, casa di produzione indipendente fondata nel 1997 da Riccardo Tozzi, per comprendere il ruolo della stessa all’interno dell’industria televisiva negli ultimi vent’anni, e di come questa abbia contribuito alla crescita del settore, anche in relazione ad una rivalutazione del prodotto originale italiano all’estero Si analizzerà, nello specifico, quel che riguarda due prodotti di Cattleya in particolare, entrambi legati al contesto della ‘mala’ romana: Romanzo Criminale – La Serie (Sky Cinema, 2008) e Suburra – La Serie (Netflix, 2017). Per farlo, si dividerà il lavoro in due sezioni principali. La prima parte sarà dedicata al tentativo di inquadrare, dal punto di vista della classificazione di genere, i due prodotti. La seconda parte del contributo sarà invece dedicata allo studio approfondito del caso di Cattleya, con, in primo luogo, un’analisi riguardante la sua storia produttiva – e in particolare ciò che è relativo alla collaborazione con Sky e Netflix – e in secondo luogo ad un approfondimento sui testi in questione.

In Queer African Cinemas, Lindsey B. Green-Simms examines films produced by and about queer Africans in the first two decades of the twenty-first century in an environment of increasing antiqueer violence, efforts to criminalize homosexuality, and other state-sanctioned homophobia. Green-Simms argues that these films not only record the fear, anxiety, and vulnerability many queer Africans experience; they highlight how queer African cinematic practices contribute to imagining new hopes and possibilities. Examining globally circulating international art films as well as popular melodramas made for local audiences, Green-Simms emphasizes that in these films queer resistance—contrary to traditional narratives about resistance that center overt and heroic struggle—is often practiced from a position of vulnerability. By reading queer films alongside discussions about censorship and audiences, Green-Simms renders queer African cinema as a rich visual archive that documents the difficulty of queer existence as well as the potentials for queer life-building and survival.

An incisive analysis of contemporary crime film in Brazil, this book focuses on how movies in this genre represent masculinity and how their messages connect to twenty-first-century sociopolitical issues. Jeremy Lehnen argues that these films promote an agenda in support of the nation’s recent swing toward authoritarianism that culminated in the 2018 election of far-right president Jair Bolsonaro. Lehnen examines the integral role of masculinity in several archetypal crime films, most of which foreground urban violence, including Cidade de Deus, Quase Dois Irmãos, Tropa de Elite, O Homem do Ano, and O Doutrinador. Within these films, Lehnen finds representations that criminalize the poor, marginalized male; emasculate the civilian middle-class male intellectual, casting him as unable to respond to crime; and portray state security as the only power able to stem increasing crime rates. Drawing on insights from masculinity studies, Lehnen contends that Brazilian crime films are ideologically charged mediums that assert and normalize the presence of the neo-authoritarian male within society. This book demonstrates how gendered scripts can become widely accepted by audiences and contribute to very real power structures beyond the sphere of cinema.

American police departments have presided over the business of motion pictures since the end of the nineteenth century. Their influence is evident not only on the screen but also in the ways movies are made, promoted, and viewed in the United States. Screening the Police explores the history of film’s entwinement with law enforcement, showing the role that state power has played in the creation and expansion of a popular medium. For the New Jersey State Police in the 1930s, film offered a method of visualizing criminality and of circulating urgent information about escaped convicts. For the New York Police Department, the medium was a means of making the agency world famous as early as 1896. Beat cops became movie stars. Police chiefs made their own documentaries. And from Maine to California, state and local law enforcement agencies regularly fingerprinted filmgoers for decades, amassing enormous records as they infiltrated theaters both big and small. Understanding the scope of police power in the United States requires attention to an aspect of film history that has long been ignored. Screening the Police reveals the extent to which American cinema has overlapped with the politics and practices of law enforcement. Today, commercial filmmaking is heavily reliant on public policing—and vice versa. How such a working relationship was forged and sustained across the long twentieth century is the subject of this book.

Abstract This brief conclusion draws together the main points that the book makes on (1) how Wilde shaped Hollywood cinema (and the limitation of our understanding of this) and (2) how seeing Wilde through Hollywood can reshape how we read him. In the first case it discusses how Wilde and the ‘Wilde-ish’ helped to define the aesthetics of American cinema up to the early 1950s. In the second, it suggests that film-makers were able to make his works and, in consequence, Wilde himself the figure that they wanted him to be and so this Conclusion discusses how their version of Wilde can shift our perspective on his works, from their criminality and violent potential to their anticipations of the cinematic gaze and epigrammatic wit.

Taking Eduart as its departure point, this chapter looks into discourses of criminality and exclusion that targeted almost exclusively Albanian immigrants in the early 1990s and 2000s. The chapter thus addresses the historical rivalry between Greece and Albania which underlies Albanian-targeted racism. Alongside Eduart, Mirupafshim is also included for an original evocation of Albanian identities as indeed both films move beyond clichés of either ‘bad’ (illegal immigrants and presumably criminals) or ‘good’ Albanians (submissive victims of racist violence) which featured strongly in the media. Eduart and Mirupafshim screen unfavorable Albanian identities, confronting directly public fears and media discourse. Rather than a discussion on form, this chapter launches a broad cultural debate on identity and how Greek immigration cinema offers an alternative to xenophobic media discourse.

Until 1968, burglary was defined both legally and culturally as an extraordinary form of theft occurring between the ‘night-time’ hours of nine p.m. and six a.m., entwining the crime with visions of a shadowy, nightmarish nocturnal cityscape. Juxtaposing the horror of victims with the glamorous, sexy breed of ‘gentleman’ burglar gracing international cinema screens in phenomenally successful films such as Raffles (1939), the Introduction explores the vastly contradictory responses to the crime during the period 1860 and 1968. Encompassing not only fear-mongering accounts of the crime, but also those designed to excite, to challenge preconceptions, and to entertain, it maps out how these conflicting versions of burglary and burglars articulated broader social, political, and economic concerns. These included: the advent of mass literacy and growing demand for stories of crime that reflected the concerns of an audience of diverse class, age, and gender; the commercial imperatives of the insurance and entertainment industries as the middle classes expanded, including the development of household insurance and the popularity of the ‘true crime’ genre; the backlash against the evolving women’s movement and its alignment with new forms of criminality; and the evolution of new modes of policing and regulation, particularly forensic science. Following social surveyor Charles Booth’s observation that burglary was London’s ‘most characteristic crime’ in the early 1900s, the Introduction examines how the metropolis became peculiarly identified with burglars’ most daring exploits—and how the city itself was transformed by its association with the crime.

Arthur J. Raffles, fictional ‘cracksman’ by night and England cricketing star by day, burst onto the literary scene in 1898. Created by Ernest William Hornung, brother-in-law of Sherlock Holmes’ author Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Raffles was Holmes’ antithesis: the fun-loving master thief. Embodying the ‘pleasure culture’ surrounding the burglar, Raffles’ physical attractiveness and athleticism blurred the lines between moral virtue and romantic allure. As the original novels were continually remade in theatre and film and their characters reincarnated in those media, newspapers began to label real burglars ‘Raffles’. This chapter examines how, where criminality was concerned, distinguishing between fact and fiction presented unnecessary (and unheeded) complications to commercial success. Espying an opportunity, ex-criminals appropriated this sympathetic ‘Raffles’ title for themselves, using the idea of ‘real-life Raffles’ to fashion glamorous celebrity personae through lucrative autobiographical writings. The character became an international phenomenon, beloved by audiences across Europe and America who flocked to see his exploits at the cinema and continually identified the burglar as an English ‘hero’, akin to Robin Hood. Yet Raffles was no philanthropist. Keeping the jewels for himself and glorifying in escaping capture by police, Raffles was a figure of danger for many contemporaries, who identified the longevity of his success as a harbinger of popular unrest caused by economic depression that might seduce generations of young people into a life of crime. The chapter historicizes how cultural responses to romanticized versions of burglary were conditioned by critiques of poverty and the habits of the wealthy.