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Take your heart and twist it in places you did not know existed.

Lone Rangers

Fracking

Hydraulic fracturing or fracking involves accessing oil and natural gas deposits deep below the earth’s surface by injecting pressurised fluids into a horizontal bore. The fracking fluids create fractures or fissures in the crust and free the trapped oil or natural gas which can thereafter be extracted. The horizontal bore, which can extend laterally for 3,000 to 5,000 feet, provides a larger surface area for the escaping gas, and is one of the key innovations that have made this process economically feasible. The jury is still out on whether fracking has adverse environmental consequences. Proponents argue that if done carefully the technology can be used to access hitherto inaccessible deposits, thereby prolonging our addiction to oil. Critics point out that the fluids used in the mining process can contaminate groundwater resources and lay agricultural land barren. (This is an informative animation that I came across that explains the process in greater detail.) Although the technology was developed in the late 1940s, its use became commercially viable only recently. As of 2010, it is estimated that 60% of all new oil and natural gas wells were being hydraulically fractured. The New Oil Landscape places fracking in a broader socio-economic context, and proved to be quite insightful. It is the sum total of my knowledge on the subject. Needless to say, I am not aware of the academic debate surrounding the technology.

I also came across a movie — Promised Land — that portrays fracking in a negative light. It stars Matt Damon and Frances McDormand, both gifted actors. Initially quite excited by the questions raised (I always enjoy watching the evil plans of big corporate conglomerates being thwarted by ordinary people), my enthusiasm was somewhat subdued when I came to know about the controversy surrounding the financing of the movie. Apparently, it has been backed by some subsidiary of the Saudi Arabian oil cartel, which has vested interests in delaying the development of fracking (Most of the oil deposits in the Middle East are conventional ones which stand to gain if fracking proves to be environmentally disastrous). Although, the financier claims that the backing was provided regardless of subject matter or genre, one is forced to wonder. The movie itself is not spectacular and I watched it only because of aforementioned reasons.

O Captain! My Captain!

“If you cannot be a poet, be the poem.”

Shame

Stars hide your fires! / Let not light see my black and cheap desires!

Several films, Shortbus and 9 Songs to name two, have sought to ‘de-eroticize’ explicit sexual scenes and depict them as some kind of a happenstance in the broader context of the plot. (More specifically, what I am referring to here is un-simulated sex in mainstream cinema and not just a sleazy B-grade flick meant to titillate). Unfortunately, however, I have often found films like these to be lacking a sound storyline in the first place. As a result, ironically, such misplaced noble intentions have only served the purpose of turning them into some glorified form of soft pornography. Truth be told, I have seen porn movies with a better tale to tell. Therefore, it was a welcome respite when I read some rave reviews about Shame.

One of the few movies I have come across that struggle to deal with the theme of sexual addiction, Shame is unapologetic about its graphic, and almost always unromantic, portrayal of the sexual act. Often nightmarish, it can be best described as a story about neurosis and dysfunction. The protagonist, Brandon, leads a secluded private life in New York and can’t seem to stop thinking of women. Or fucking them, for that matter. He indulges this strange addiction because he must, not because he enjoys doing so. Contrary to expectations, he still hasn’t come to accept it and his innate sense of guilt continues to torment him. His self-loathing manifests itself in his distance from people, even his own sister. As if afraid to be known, he is cold towards his co-workers, prostitutes, and strangers. His fanatic obsession is slowly depriving him of any recognizable human impulses and making him incapable of ordinary human contact. It’s quite obvious why he wants no witnesses to his fall from grace. He loves no one and wants no one to love him.

“We’re not bad people. We just come from a bad place.”

The ‘status quo’ is disturbed when “Sissy”, a neurotic, albeit carefree, aspiring cabaret singer comes to stay with her brother for a few days. As her presence brings Brandon’s darkest desires under close scrutiny, his rage against his own shortcomings surfaces in various forms. In a terse scene, desperate to grant some semblance of normalcy to his life, he dumps his stash of pornography, including his computer, in the garbage bin. Sissy is a witness to these trials and despite needing her brother more than he needs her, tries her best to comfort him. But Brandon is in a world of his own, more afraid than ignorant of her advances. It is suggested that a shared experience in their common past somehow damaged the two siblings. But, as might be appropriate, we never get to find out the hows and the whys.

I have often wondered if dysfunction in the private and emotional lives of such people translates into some kind of a morbid fascination with order and functionality in their public and professional lives. For instance, Brandon lives in an apartment that can only be described as sterile and excels at his work. He is zealous about cleanliness, ferociously cleaning the germs from the lavatory seat with toilet paper, before using the stall to masturbate. Perhaps, he has none of the distractions that trouble the ordinary family man. Aren’t serial killers supposed to be extremely methodical and scrupulous as well?

The title of the film might comes across as intriguing as Brandon finds himself succumbing to self-pity and disgust more often than shame. His is a story not so much about Crime and Punishment as it is about Addiction and Humiliation. But there is a close-up of his face towards the end that, in my opinion, captures the essence of his most private emotion. At a cheap hotel, he is having sex with two women. At the same time. But there is no concern with the movements of his lower body. Or his partners, for that matter. The close-up restricts our view to his misery. As he is about to have an orgasm, instead of pleasure or relief, there is pain and suffering writ large over his face. This is the burden that he must carry everyday. His cross to bear. The shape of his shame.

Rehab for Lovers

You taste his movies through your eyes. It does not matter if it is a tale of urban alienation, forlorn love, or modern living – to mete out any other treatment to Wong’s brand of luxuriant cinema is undoubtedly an insult. As the luscious shades of red, green, and blue commence their bizarre tribal dance, you lick the cream off the top and dig into this sumptuous feast. Be it the fluorescent string of clover green windows in an elevated train sliding through the midnight darkness of a lonely city or the stunning lady in black wearing oversized sunglasses and leaning against her convertible – every bite is a guilty pleasure. There is no looking back now. Soon, you’re overwhelmed by the opulence of this singular cinematic experience and the visual stimuli merely become a portal to other promised pleasures. You sit back and relent. You stop questioning and let the waves wash over you.

Wong Kar-wai offers you “luscious, colourful treats that are gorgeous to behold and easy to swallow,” says Ebert. To me, he seems like a “filmmaking poet” who paints his words on the canvas of a 70mm film with such dexterity that a little play of light brings to life sensual textures, flawless exteriors, and moments frozen in time.

Often described as an auteur because of his highly stylized and visually distinctive films, Wong Kar-wai belongs to the Second New Wave of Hong Kong filmmakers who sought to provide an artistic impetus to the social, political, and cultural issues facing Hong Kong during the mid 1980s. With the signing of the 1984 Sino-British Joint Declaration outlining the handover of Hong Kong to China, citizens and filmmakers alike were forced to confront and scrutinize the dual nature of their cultural identity – caught in the proverbial conflict between western and eastern sensibilities. Consequently, the cinema of Hong Kong from this period dwells on themes that explore its “cultural, spiritual, and geographical dislocation”. Specifically, Wong’s movies are marked by their obsession with disaffection and isolation, often focussing on characters that are strikingly poetic in their solitude even when swimming in a sea of faces. They are “idiosyncratic and romantic tales of the young and disenfranchised uniquely representative of the cultural influences which distinguish his native land”.

John Donne said, “No man is an island”. But in the world created by Wong, everyone is a self-contained universe. Not surprisingly, Wong’s protagonists often happen to be the lost souls of our generation – random, unremarkable individuals embedded in the chaotic fabric of modern cities. Their paths might intersect briefly but as soon as they have shared their private moment, they are on their way again. Battling their insecurities, their passions and at the same time conscious of the larger world in which they find themselves entrenched, these characters imbibe the themes Wong is best known for – loneliness, unrequited love, and a subtle cultural clash. In short, they are manifestations of the city itself. In a concrete jungle where space is scarce, the light is artificial, and everybody else seems to be little more than a shadow on the curtain of your eyes, existence is sometimes captured not by faces or names but by means of subtle hints – a telephonic conversation or a searching gaze at the window across the street – in order to create the illusion of distance, alienation, and – in my opinion – insignificance; like the adulterous spouses of In the Mood for Love (2000) and the phantom lovers in Chungking Express (1994), we never get to meet these other people. They have played their small part in this universe and spun into a different orbit.

In no other of Wong’s movies do these various elements come together as effortlessly as In the Mood for Love. Set in the Hong Kong of 1962 during a period of unrest when the threat of Communism had seemed genuine, the film is the perfect portrait of Wong’s visual aesthetics. Dazzling dresses, sleazy motel rooms with red lighting, and the lethargic curls rising from a filter-less cigarette – they have never looked more appealing on screen. “He remembers those vanished years”. The Hong Kong recreated here is both nostalgic and contemporary, in perfect synchrony with its dual identity, exhibiting essential ingredients of a western upbringing and an ancient Chinese heritage. The title card at the beginning of the movie – “It is a restless moment” – prepares us for this mood of uncertainty that is mirrored by the lead characters who, while aware of the infidelity of their spouses, find themselves unable to confess their feelings for each other. “She has kept her head lowered, to give him a chance to come closer”. In the cramped confines of single room houses and congested offices, love “grows not in leaps and bounds but tiny increments, through the smallest of gestures, and the pauses between gestures”. In the words of a Chinese proverb – it begins with emotion and ends with restraint.

Restraint – it seems to be the essential component of so many of Wong’s movies. Days of Being Wild (1990), Chungking Express, and My Blueberry Nights (2007), are essentially visual commentaries on the random nature of relationships in a thriving cosmopolitan. “The city is an engine of possibility” and there are chance encounters hiding at every corner. But so are ‘missed moments’, when you draw in tantalizingly close to someone, only to be thrown apart in the chaos. In a physical geography that is defined by extremes and where frenzied street markets share space with urban high rise apartments and all-night neon signs, restraint and scepticism come naturally. After all, nobody wants to get hurt. But that does not stop a “vibrant and brash” version of love from flourishing in this harsh environment. A secret love. Unrequited love. The kind that prompts you to send postcards to every diner in town so that at least one of them reaches her. The kind that can border on being labelled crazy, but never lunatic. “That era has passed. Nothing that belonged to it exists any more.” When these woebegone lovers finally wake up from their dreams, they will do anything to manage without – from whispering their secrets into a hole carved out in an ancient tree to making that long journey back home. I guess they realise that what they found was not love but “the lover or the kind of love they seek”. The city just opened up their eyes to the immense possibilities. Last time I checked, those eyes were still dazzled.

Music is a strategic – and frequently essential – component of Wong’s films, its cosmopolitan nature reaffirming the cultural dichotomy of Hong Kong. He utilises its effectiveness in saying and repeating that which can not be articulated through dialogue or conversation. For instance, the score is used to create a particular ambiance (a passionate and destructive love affair gyrates in rhythm to the notes of a tango) in Happy Together, a specific mood (time slows down to a crawl as Nat King Cole croons in the background) in In the Mood for Love, and extrapolate a character (a 1960s track – California Dreamin’ – plays incessantly during the second half of the movie and conveys not only Faye’s state of mind but also her aspirations) in Chungking Express.

Wong’s movies have often been criticised for lacking a well defined plot. Of course they don’t! His are movies about people who are in a limbo, waiting for the real story of their lives to begin. Devoid of the traditional narrative construct, the presence of these characters in the film can be justified only if form gains precedence over content. If the surface aspects of a movie – such as the plot and the star cast – are all you want, you are most likely to end up frustrated. That is a given!

Wong, for me, personifies what I call “slice of life” movies. These are films about people whose lives do not have a pretty plot that can be divided into three acts. Films about people recuperating from the hidden dangers of love. Like Cop #233 in Chungking Express, who fixatedly eats canned pineapple with an expiry date of May 1 because he feels that everything comes with an expiry date, including love. Or Su, who sneaks into Chow’s hotel room and fetishes over his belongings, managing to steal a solitary drag from one of his cigarettes. These characters may be improbable or even impossible and their metaphorical musings may seem hopelessly romantic. But they exist in our imagination and as someone said, “the most potent way to exist is to occupy someone else’s imagination”. That is how we converse with these people. That is how we relate to them. And that is how they help us rehabilitate from our addiction to love. So, how about we just start over?

Suggestions: If you are new to Wong Kar-wai, begin with In the Mood for Love. Follow it up with Happy Together and Chungking Express. If you are not a fan by the end of these three movies, you will probably never be.

Note: A significant portion of the critical component of this post has been culled from this excellent thesis on Wong Kar-wai’s work: http://www.sensesofcinema.com/2002/great-directors/wong/

Gosford Park

On the surface, Gosford Park (2001) appears to belong to the genre of the classic British whodunit — a selected assortment of guests gathered together for a hunting party at an English country house; the pompous Lord (Michael Gambon) who gets grumpier as time passes by, shoots his mouth off more often than is good for him, and is therefore conveniently murdered; and a desperate air lingering over the guests which is sometimes as palpable as in an Agatha Chrsitie thriller. But this is where the similarities end, so to speak. For there are no Belgian detectives with cute moustaches exercising their little grey cells, a Watson or a Hastings in tow. Also conspicuous by its absence is the lengthy exposition of deductive skills at the end by an old biddy fashioned after Miss Marple. What you find in their stead is a healthy commentary on the stratification of the English society during the years between the great wars. That, and a lot of style. But do not take my word for it; my bias taints my opinion admirably.

Directed by Robert Altman, one of the few American directors that I intend on exploring after I am done getting stumped by the Coen Brothers, Gosford Park happens to be one of those well-made movies (well-made, mind you, not exceptional — there is a review on Cold Bacon that shreds it to pieces) which often starve and die in the shadow of their more illustrious counterparts (namely M*A*S*H, Short Cuts, Nashville and the like). That is reason enough for them to deserve a portion of my time and a fraction of your attention. The film tells the story of a shooting party hosted by Sir William McCordle at his country residence - Gosford Park - sometime in 1932. The invitees consist of a wide range of characters — from Lady William McCordle’s two sisters and their husbands to the Hollywood star Ivor Novello and a gay Hollywood film producer who is accompanied by his ‘valet’. But that is not all. Downstairs, we find an entire army of servants at their beck and call where we meet the mechanical housekeeper Mrs. Wilson (on one particular occasion she remarks, “I am the perfect servant. I have no life.”) and the quintessential English butler Mr. Jeeves Jennings, amongst a host of other valets, maids, cooks, servers, and grooms.

Between all the pretentious hunting, the elaborate breakfasts, the even more lavish dinners, and the vicious gossip mongering (why do servants obsesses about their employers' personal lives?), Sir William gets stabbed through the heart as he sits sulking in his study after his affair with the head housemaid, Elsie, is rather indelicately revealed over dinner one night. Although everyone is amply surprised, hardly anyone seems upset by this unpleasant incident. Indeed, all of them are just eager to get back their lives as soon as ‘this horrible business’ is resolved. (In hindsight, I have come to gather that sexual mores look good on the coffee table but rather out of place and prudish when all you want to do is have sex make love.) A comic inspector, played by Stephen Fry and not surprisingly named Thompson, elicits some laughs as he blunders and goofs all around the crime scene. But he is no Sherlock Holmes and we begin to get that uneasy feeling that accompanies the realization that there is more to things than meets the eye – the investigation isn’t the point.

Intended for most parts to be a study of the British class system during the 1930s, Gosford Park highlights the dependency of the upper class on an efficient servant class. Not surprisingly, Lady Lavinia shares the opinion that women who travel without a maid have lost their sense of self respect. Indeed, maids are required even for the purpose of getting dressed for dinner. Talk about sophistication! In the servants’ area, people are addressed by the names of their masters — “We stick to the old customs here, it saves confusion”, explains Mrs. Wilson. An observation that particularly came to my attention was the contempt that most guests bear for Mabel Nesbitt, Hon. Freddie Nesbitt’s wife, just because she comes from a working class family and has climbed her way up the social ladder. Lady Sylvia McCordle (Kristin Scott Thomas) and Lady Trentham (Maggie Smith) - who finds nothing more exhausting than training a new maid - are especially vicious and leave no stone unturned in reminding her of her true standing in the gathering. As anywhere else in the world, the elite always seem to have a weakness for the existing order.

The movie conducts quite a remarkable study of contradictions. Although Lady Trentham is threatened with financial ruin as her brother, Sir William, plans to withdraw her allowance, she is interested in what the maids have to say about her state of affairs. The Hollywood actor, Novello, is past his prime and has to sing at supper in order to ‘entertain’ the unappreciative guests. On the other hand, in the servants’ quarters, Mr. Jennings is amply proud to be the head of the staff at Gosford Park and conducts dinner proceedings in a fashion similar to his master – for instance, people are seated around the dinner table according to the ranks of their employers. This hierarchy extends to other sections of the society as well. So while the inspector struts around puffing his pipe and making a big show of his foolhardiness, his constable diligently searches for clues and points them out to him, only to be ignored. There is a particularly endearing scene in the movie where Novello croons while playing the piano and the servants, all apparently great fans of his, steal a dance or two, behind closed doors, when they are not being ordered about by their bored patrons.

The weather, always grey, damp, and dark, seems to provide the perfect atmosphere for the feeling of general unrest that underlies the perfunctory smiles and the superficial discussions of the guests. Which is all very good since a film critic described surface appearances, rather than complex interpersonal relationships, as the theme of the movie. The film looks good and, I am told, very genuine. Even though Gosford Park is not Barry Lyndon (dir. Stanley Kubrick, 1975), the sets and the cinematography convey the mood of the plot quite handsomely. When the murder disrupts the natural order of things, exposing the connections, some of them dark and ugly, between the classes, I realized (and so will you, perhaps) how a good score can help one in appreciating the finer points of a movie. Altman also seems to have a keen eye for snobbery and no one conveys it more flawlessly than Lady Trentham. Her sharp, caustic remarks sting where it hurts the most — when she is introduced to Novello, she mentions his latest movie and observes sarcastically, “It must be rather disappointing when something just, you know, flops like that”.

An ensemble cast with big names often bears an inverse ratio to the collective thrill they actually deliver. Each person just ends up distracting us from the other one. However, as Roger Ebert writes, by suitably choosing his actors, Altman gives us “a party with no boring guests”. That being said, more than once it would seem that the remarkable star cast has been spread out too thin – the downside of having so many threads is that there is no definite closure to most of them. The drama itself is not as intense as a Hitchcockian thriller for it does not seek to build up to an exposé. It proceeds with a relaxed rhythm and seeks to engage you rather than jolting you out of your seats. Having led your expectations astray, the climax leaves you feeling a little perplexed, maybe dissatisfied as well, if not cheated. Quite understandably, once the expected destination has been transformed by the experience of the journey itself, you might be even tempted to watch the movie again. Or not. Who am I to decide?

This post has been respectfully plagiarized from:

http://www.coldbacon.com/movies/gosfordpark.html
http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2001/nov/08/londonfilmfestival2001.artsfeatures
http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20020101/REVIEWS/201010302/1023

The Vicarious Lover

Michael Berg: I'm not frightened. I'm not frightened of anything. The more I suffer, the more I love. Danger will only increase my love. It will sharpen it, forgive its vice. I will be the only angel you need.

I usually don't fall for a movie just because of its star-cast. (Oh well, maybe Johnny Depp would be an exception to that rule.) That being said, one of the actors that I have found to be very watchable is Ralph Fiennes (pronounced as 'Fines'). There is something very sad about his face; as if it were the perfect portrait of a romance gone wrong. He seems to me the kind of person many of us were fascinated with at some unwise point in our lives (not that I know anything about him outside his movies). His roles as a jealous heartbroken lover in The English Patient or The End of the Affair and the stiff-lipped British diplomat-husband who literally travels to the end of the world in order to avenge the death of his wife in The Constant Gardener haven't exactly helped the stereotype. In fact, if truth be confessed, his portrayal of Lord Voldemort in the Harry Potter franchise, the psychopathic killer - Tooth Fairy - with a split personality in Red Dragon, and the unscrupulous war profiteering Nazi general, Amon Göth, in Schindler's List are the only roles that I know of that do not confirm to this typecast. (He had an instantly forgettable screen-time as Hades in last year's Clash of the Titans). Which makes me wonder. Do I happen to like the actor because of how intimately he understands his characters or because they just happen to be oh-so-perfect for this brooding, tormented lover who carries the weight of literature on his shoulders? Despite the apparent confusion, I can not, for the life of me, bring myself to think of a better person to play someone named Count László de Almássy. But then again, I have my own prejudices and preconditioning.

Sarah Miles (to herself): Sometimes I get tired of trying to convince him that I love him and shall love him forever. He pounces on my words like a barrister, and twists them.
Maurice Bendrix: So what will you do when it ends?
Sarah: You think love ends when you don't see me?
Maurice: To be is to be perceived.

Recently, though, I got the opportunity to listen to him without my eyes leading me astray. You will probably remember him as The Reader in Sydney Pollack's movie of the same name. His audio cassettes for Hanna had considerably piqued my curiosity. Therefore, when I came across BBC Radio's production of George Bernard Shaw's Man and Superman that had Fiennes doing the voice-over for Jack Tanner, I was, quite literally, all ears. This was my first exposure to an audio play and Fiennes' voice bought Tanner (a radical member of the English upper class who is on the lookout for funds to circulate free copies of The Revolutionist’s Handbook and Pocket Companion) to life. I had always been very fond of his voice and the play made me fall in love with it all over again. Without the visual distractions to keep my faculties occupied, I could appreciate the various nuances in his speech - the way he often pauses for effect right in the middle of sentence; or the way he rolls his tongue over his words, tasting them and mulling them over before actually speaking. There is something very perceptibly heart breaking about it. Yet, it would never give itself away as the hopelessly tragic character that it breathes life into. In terms of an overused cliche, it is simultaneously stoic and a mirror to his soul. Right away, I knew I had my favourite English voice. (Note - Nobody can rival Bhupinder's vocal magic as far as Hindi is concerned.)

Almásy: Every night I cut out my heart. But in the morning it was full again.

Our good friend has also been involved in several notable theater productions, a majority of them being plays by William Shakespeare. I have a hunch that all the Shakespearean tragedies must have only honed his skills and/or whetted his appetite for playing the part of a doomed lover. Being an actor who is able to evoke feelings even before we can fathom what they mean, most of Fiennes' characters (or should it be the other way round?) allow you to embrace the tragedy in their lives without smothering you with the numerous undercurrents. Not surprisingly, he is most at home when involved in a delicate balancing act between various facets of his personality. Sure enough, we find that spark of eccentric genius in his eyes which bodes of disaster almost as often as it enchants and allures. And almost on an unconscious level, we can sense that the calm that pervades his life is the lull before the storm, when he will be throwing it all away for the sake of *cough* true love. It is quite possible that none of this makes sense to you. It is too darn difficult to translate feelings into words as it is. Here, we are trying to decipher cryptic messages conveyed by so many nameless expressions! Good luck with that. That fact accepted, I can almost picture Fiennes' playing the nameless narrator in a movie adaptation of Fyodor Dostoevsky's White Nights and giving Joaquin Phoenix a run for his money (who, by the way, was not ordinary in Two Lovers by any stretch of imagination).

And was it his destined part
Only one moment in his life
To be close to your heart?
Or was he fated from the start
to live for just one fleeting instant,
within the purlieus of your heart.
— Ivan Tugenev

The wind and the darkness seemed to be engaged in a game of hide and seek last night. At times it was eerily silent and then suddenly you could hear it howling outside the windows, pushing and shoving itself against the trees, forcing them into mock submission. Such moments are almost always quite apt for a cautious dose of someone like Sam Mendes or Kieślowski. But you must tread carefully, mind you, for these are dangerous territories. As I was going over my favourite scenes from The English Patient, I came to a formal conclusion that of all the actors who were a staple diet of the 1990's Hollywood romantic comedies/dramas (Hugh Grant, Patrick Dempsey, Colin Firth, George Clooney, and Richard Gere to name a few), no one would have been able to carry off the role of Almásy with such finesse as Fiennes. The measured nonchalance with which he delivers those one liners is, for the lack of better words, too endearing. So although I still hold fast to my promise of never being consciously misled by the star-cast of a movie, I would be lying through my teeth if I told you that I would not be willing to make an exception for this vicarious lover.

Ardh Satya

The following poem, by the Marathi poet Dilip Chitre, is a bit abstruse to start with. I say abstruse because different people may interpret it differently. Someone might take it to be a commentary on the existential crisis that stems out of failure to act justly. While someone else might find it to be a fitting description of a romantic’s predicament on coming face to face with the ‘real’ world. You, on the other hand, might come up with a totally different interpretation.

Ardha Satya, a film by Govind Nihalani, has Om Puri reciting it in one of its scenes and gradually becoming aware, during the course of the same recital, the stark similarities between his own moral dilemma and the one the poet is talking about. As the meaning sinks in, he continues reading, but in a much more subdued and sombre tone. He knows the ‘Chakravyuh’ has caught up with him as well and either he must find a way through or subject himself to the moral backlash that will result if he chooses to become a part of it. There is no changing the maze itself. In a way, the poem encompasses the gist of the movie - moral impotency and the loss of self-respect as a person finds himself slowly, and involuntarily, becoming a part of a system he could never relate to in the first place. The loss seems to have amplified when he meets a woman who has much more courage than him.

The part I like best about the poem is its acceptance of the fact that there may not be any Absolute Truth. Just Ardh Satya or the Half-Truth. So, when the moment of reckoning comes, what do we choose? I guess, then, the ‘What’ is not as important as the courage to be held accountable for it. To have the strength to live with your choices and ideals. After all, in the light, the light of choices, will everything be equal? The 'right' choice - it might offer you a way out of guilt. But will it be any less painful or difficult? On the other hand, you might be able to tread the seemingly easier path. But will the guilty conscience be able to subsist on self pity and ignorance? There is no easy way out or in. When faced with an existential choice of such magnitude, in life, love, or beyond, Man is essentially alone, and there is nothing that ‘The Other’ can do alleviate his anguish or lessen his burden. His actions warrant responsibility and the strength to stand by them.

The movie concludes suggesting that Om Puri finally decides to break out of his situation, and regain his manliness and self-efficacy. But at what cost and in what manner? Ardh Satya indeed. Here’s a rough English translation of the poem I found online. However, I would recommend watching the movie you need to feel the real intensity of the poem.

Ardh Satya by Dilip Chitre

Chakravyuh mein ghusne se pehle, kaun tha mein aur kaisa tha, yeh mujhe yaad hi na rahega. Chakravyuh mein ghusne ke baad, mere aur chakravyuh ke beech, sirf ek jaanleva nikat’ta thi, iska mujhe pata hi na chalega. Chakravyuh se nikalne ke baad, main mukt ho jaoon bhale hi, phir bhi chakravyuh ki rachna mein farq hi na padega. Marun ya maarun, maara jaoon ya jaan se maardun. iska faisla kabhi na ho paayega. Soya hua aadmi jab neend se uthkar chalna shuru karta hai, tab sapnon ka sansar use, dobara dikh hi na paayega. Us roshni mein jo nirnay ki roshni hai sab kuchh samaan hoga kya? Ek palde mein napunsakta, ek palde mein paurush, aur theek taraazu ke kaante par Ardh Satya.

Who was I, before I entered this maze, Is not something that I will remember. As I entered the war-maze, There was only the life-threatening Closeness between the enemy and me. Even this, I will not realize. After getting out of the maze Even if I earn my freedom, The maze by itself, will not change. Unaltered. To die or to kill, To be killed, or to take someone’s life, Even this will not be decided. As a man wakes from his sleep, And starts to walk, he can never Again, see the world of his dreams. In this light, the light of choices, Will all be equal? Impotence on one side, Manhood on the other, And in the centre, (tipping the scale) is the Half-Truth.

Two Lovers

Let me draw your attention to a scene. Not very special. Subtle would be the word. Ahem. Michelle is just back from the hospital, having suffered from a miscarriage. Leonard is sitting by her side, tracing out those three words on her arm, as she drifts into a sedated sleep. He loves her, but she doesn’t know it. Not yet. But does he either? Is she just a way out of his loneliness? Plausibly.

What’s remarkable about the scene is not its clichéd poetic beauty, but the fact that it is embedded in the very brutal reality of life. It’s daytime and the sunlight is sharp in its intensity. No expressions playing on their faces remain hidden. There are sounds that are obstinately stealing into the room. The dull thud of the music from a party close by. The shouts, catcalls, and bickering of kids playing in the streets. The spirited laughter and animated conversations of the party-people.

The walls are straining under the pressure to keep these harsh realities outside, where they belong, so that the two lovers can stay frozen in time. But they still manage to creep in. And they make us realise that no matter how poetic, tragic, or romantic the moment might seem to you, life won’t let you stay trapped in it. Even fleetingly. It is relentless, cruel, and insensitive. It won’t stop for you to get back on your feet while you wallow in your own private prosaic moment. And that, my friends, sucks.

Emotional Quotient of a Door Knob

Interesting excerpt from the movie Annie Hall. Alvy Singer (Woody Allen) has just quarreled with his love interest, Annie, and is walking down the street, looking for some answers, when he comes across a man, a ‘happy’ couple, and the Wicked Queen in quick succession. Here's a bit of the wisdom. Needless to say, it's overtly dramatized.

Alvy Singer: I have to ask you a question. Don't go any further. With your wife in bed, does she need any kind of artificial stimulation like, like, marijuana?
Man: We use a large vibrating egg.

{walks off}

AS: A large vibrating egg. Well, I ask a psychopath, I get than kind of an answer. Jesus!

{along came the happy couple}

AS: You look like a very happy couple. Well, are you?
Lady: Yeah!
Gentleman: Yeah!

AS: So, so, how do you account for it?
Lady: Uh. Uh, I am very shallow and empty and I have no ideas and nothing interesting to say.
Gentleman: And I am exactly the same way.

AS: Aha! I see. Wow. That's very interesting. So you have managed to work out something, huh? Wooww. Thanks very much for talking to me.

To Himself: You know, even as a kid, I always went for the wrong women. I think that's my problem. When my mother took me to see Snow White, everyone fell in love with Snow White. I immediately fell for the wicked queen.

{In an animated sequence}

Wicked Queen: We never have any fun anymore.
AS: How can you say that?

WQ: Why not? You are always leaning on me to improve myself.
AS: You're just upset. You must be getting a period.

WQ: I don't get a period. I am a cartoon character. Can't I be upset every once in a while?

Me: Err. Aha! I did not know it was that simple. Hmm.

The Forest of The Night

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

The hour is right for some cliché’s. It’s always a bit difficult doling them out. Time is bound to be wasted. Yawns are hardly stifled. Eager eyes are disappointed. ‘A’wed fans are let down. But habits die hard. Especially the ones meant to be done away with. So here goes.

It’s not always that movies make you think, leave alone dream. It’s not always that you find it hard to find flaws in one. It’s not always that you sit down to write just after being to one. It’s not always that you begin to believe in cliché’s. Unfortunately.

The dimwit here is talking about Taare Zameen Par. But he is not here to tell you whether Aamir Khan did a great job. Neither is he going to discuss whether the cinematography was spot on. He is here to do almost everything else. The movie seems like a must for everyone who has ever been a student; trying hard to fight the system which slowly subdues any voices or ideas that one might muster. The system which systematically suppresses any creativity one might have, while honing one to be a part of the flock of sheep. Then again, it’s not just about that. One must watch it if one has ever been a son or a daughter or a parent. If one has ever believed in oneself. If, in the stead, one has ever lost track of everything worthwhile.

We strive hard to find messages in cinema. For once, can we just let it be? However, it’ easy to give in to cravings. I did not resist. What was the movie about? Was it about letting people reach for their dreams? Was it about treating everyone as different, if not special? Was it about ignoring the mad rat race and following the heart? Was it proving the point that not all people are meant to be great, intelligent beings; some are just meant to be even greater, more intelligent beings? Or was it about helping (if only sometimes) the cause of people who are children of a lesser god? The movie WILL be interpreted in different ways. After all, the world is the color of the looking glass we see it through. Cliché dictates I should suggest you to watch it. It just might be able to convince you to do something you have always wanted to do.

Salt flowed freely on either side of me. Mom. Dad. Unknown Aunties. I fought hard. But then thought otherwise. The world will revert back to its old ways. Parents will stop being suspiciously polite to their kids. Their kids will stop painting on the canvas of their imagination. My canvas shall lose its umpteen hues and turn into a dull grey of monotony. Life will turn a full circle. A time of a Thousand Whispers will pass. But that shouldn’t stop us from expecting a change. Or should it? I believe, in the end, we all must walk down that road; the one which runs through The Forest of The Night. The one which compels us to face our demons. The one which will help us in finding our angels.

I do KNOW this is crappy. But the thing had to be got rid off.

Eyes Wide Shut

I should have been asleep by now. There is an important class tomorrow. But fortune favors the foolish. Or so I presume. I have not come to believe otherwise. However, I must narrate this story. It’s like a butterfly. If I let it slip now, I will never be able to capture it. I must not create a ruckus. The room-mate has just stirred in his sleep. We must all listen in silence. And with patience.

I had just brushed my teeth and decided to call it a day when a strange train of thoughts was set into motion. It must have been the research I did for my quiz. I think I studied a bit too much about Kubrick. He got me intrigued. His strange persona and an even stranger way of confining it to celluloid. I had to see it for myself. There was no other way.

I did the needful. And when I did, I was simply stunned. The theme of A Clockwork Orange has to be called a landmark. I don't think anything else would suffice. It forced me to contemplate about such possibilities. Can extreme violence, christened ultraviolence, turn a person into a coward? Then came Eyes Wide Shut. It floored me.

The movie showcases an entirely different world. A world where there is a single emotion – lust. No other feeling comes in the way of this overwhelming passion. Love is not the magic word anymore. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is one primal instinct – the need for sex and physical satisfaction. Remember all those songs about promises and devotion that we grooved to? Well, they don’t hold any water anymore. Not in this make believe world anyway. Or is it not that fictional after all? Has it been lurking around in the corners ever since the dawn of civilization? Ever since we decided to curb that impulse and hide it away under the guise of civilization?

It would be interesting to discuss both sides of the argument here. But instead of arguments, I just have some more questions. And questions can not be confined to categories. Are human beings incapable of fidelity? Is the basic instinct too overpowering to be curbed? Can LOVE do it for us? Or will there always be suspicion lingering in our minds? Is it only the masculine gender which is more prone to such fantasies? Or is the fairer sex an equal culprit?

We might do a romantic take on things as well. We might say that i>Love makes a person less mortal and more divine. It is responsible for making us rise above these vile emotions. It makes us find heavenly bliss in mortal eyes. But then again, isn’t the supreme act of love sex itself? How do we distinguish between the two? Romantics might differentiate. Cynics might align them in the same row. I will refrain from giving my opinion. It is liable to be prejudiced.

I think, in the end, it’s all about a decision. Do we seek pleasure or happiness? Do we seek to keep giving in to our primal instincts, again and again? Or do we shun the lust for that ephemeral pleasure, put on the garb, and stake our claim to keeping the human race civilized? Do we choose to shut our eyes or keep them wide open?

It’s just the way I am feeling. Everybody has the right to disagree with it. I guess I must start devouring the masters from now on. There has to be something about the way they capture their ideas on film. I wouldn’t have been floored otherwise. Full Metal Jacket coming up Sir. Next on the menu are Woody Allen and Martin Scorsese.

Memorablia

Memories are a beautiful thing if you don't have to deal with the past.

As dumb as a one liner can probably be. Got this from a Richard Linklater movie. But if one ponders a little, then you realize the line's got a certain whackiness to it. As well as a bit of substance. Go on. It doesn't hurt if you think. Whatsay huh?

Hey...I realized after I posted this junk that today's April 1. My Day! So I came back to write some more. Isn't this supposed to be funny and all? But believe me, I haven't got a funny bone in my entire body. I can try to be sarcastic if you want me to. But serious laughs, well....... I can do the laughing part, you know. When I sit down to write something, pen and paper et al, all I can remember is when I peed the last time. Big Problem with thinking. So leave alone the funny part, I have serious-unknown-syndrome in just converting thoughts into ink (or binary in this case). But I never cease trying, much to the dismay of people who are forced to read my 'work'.

Only yesterday, I remember using copious amounts of mental and physical coercion to get Chingari Baadshah to read (and comment) on my blog. But Baadshah is an expert in wriggling out of tight situations. With a swish of his water jug and a shrill "abbeeeeyyyy kya kar rahe hoo??", he managed to wiggle out of my persuasive hold. 'Damn', I muttered under my breath and set out in search of some other unsuspecting bakra. But fortune has been known to side with the jerks. So I thought better and decided to feed some movie to my starved senses (courtesy 3 days of prolonged labor pains aka exams). I went for a Woody Allen flick - Annie Hall. I expected the movie to be some another melodramatic flick that I usually end up liking. But surprisingly, the romance was fresh and the humour subtle. But even then it managed to evoke loud giggles (and certain glares from my roomie). Go for it if you are looking for something new and closer to life. You might surprise yourself.

Okay. So the post started off with some sappy one-liner, moved onto some humorous (or not so humorous domains), and finally ended up discussing cinema. That is sign enough that I should get my daily dose of meditation. And no, that is not the reason why I am so smart, intelligent, creative etc etc. Till Next Time!

PS - Try making a bakra out of someone today. If you want to be original, make him read my post and tell him it's supposed to be funny.

They Said It

Legends die hard. And same holds for what they say. Funny, witty, sappy, emotional lines from movies I adore.

Why do I fall in love with any woman I see, who shows me the least bit of attention?>
— JOEL BARISH, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

You don't know about real loss; because that only occurs when you love something more than you love yourself.
— SEAN MAGUIRE, Good Will Hunting

We don't read or write poetry because it is cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race, and the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, Law, Business, Engineering-these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love-these are what we stay alive for.
— JOHN KEATING, Dead Poets Society

If we all go for the blonde and block each other, not a single one of us is going to get her. So then we go for her friends, but they will all give us the cold shoulder because no on likes to be second choice. But what if none of us goes for the blonde? We won't get in each other's way and we won't insult the other girls. It's the only way to win. It's the only way we all get laid.
— JOHN NASH, A Beautiful Mind

There's nothing better than a great romance to ruin a perfectly good friendship.
— OLIVER MARTIN, A Lot Like Love

I've made the most important discovery of my life. It's only in the mysterious equation of love that any logical reasons can be found. I'm only here tonight because of you. You are the only reason I am.....you are all my reasons.
— JOHN NASH, A Beautiful Mind

I guess when you're young, you just believe there'll be many people with whom you'll connect with. Later in life, you realize it only happens a few times.
— CELINE, Before Sunset

There's these breeds of monkeys, right, and all they do is have sex, all the time, you know? And they turn out to be the least violent, the most peaceful, the most happy, you know? So maybe fooling around isn't so bad.
— Jesse, Before Sunrise

Honestly, if you're not willing to sound stupid you don't deserve to be in love.
— EMILY FRIEHL, A Lot Like Love

You know, this necklace makes me think of this totally random memory of my mother. I was a little kid, and I was crying for one reason or another. And she was cradling me, rocking me back and forth, and I can just remember the silver balls rolling around. And there was like snot running down my nose. And she offered me her sleeve and told me to blow my nose into it. And I can remember, even as a little kid, thinking to myself, this is love... this is love.
— ANDREW LARGEMAN, Garden State

Yeah. The funny thing is - on the outside, I was an honest man, straight as an arrow. I had to come to prison to be a crook.
— ANDY DUFRESNE, The Shawshank Redemption

We're not laughing at you - we're laughing near you.
— JOHN KEATING, Dead Poets Society

I'd ask you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell.
— SEAN MAGUIRE, Good Will Hunting

Now we all have a great need for acceptance, but you must trust that your beliefs are unique, your own, even though others may think them odd or unpopular, even though the herd may go, that's baaaaad. Robert Frost said, "Two roads diverged in the wood and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference."
— JOHN KEATING, Dead Poets Society