Friday, November 20, 2009

Three cheers to the old masters

I watched Cries and Whispers more than two years back in the Hyderabad Film Club. Both Bergman and Antonioni had passed away some time back and they were screening Cries and Whispers and Blowup to celebrate both these legends. That was the first Bergman movie that I watched and that was probably during the time that I started watching European and world cinema.

I still remember the experience vividly. I don't remember the plot exactly but I can never forget the emotion that it invoked in me after watching the movie. The movie is about three sisters. Two of the sisters(Karin and Maria) visit their youngest sister(Agnes) in her deathbed. She is being taken care of by a maid(Anna) who stays along with them. The entire movie is a dissection of the human nature with all its beauty and ugliness-- with no complaints. The sisters caring at the beginning later start to wish that this trauma better gets over soon, not because they dont want to see Agnes suffering, but because the trauma and the reunion kindles lots of things that were swept under the carpet. I was unable to appreciate this part of the story fully at that time. I felt how odd women are, they say something else, but think something else. It is always veiled, concealed. But now I know better, or atleast I think I do.

But its the climax that still lingers in my mind. Agnes and her unrequited love towards her sisters wanes away finally as we see her die a painful death.

In the last scenes we see(through Agnes diary) an image of the past, where all the sisters enjoy a bright sunny day laughing and enjoying the company of each other.

Agnes says - “I feel profoundly grateful to my life, which gives me so much."

We are aware of the mercurial nature of her sisters, but it is the present that counts. It is the now, that should be enjoyed. At that instance, we forget all the ugly wrangles of the sisters that happened for the past 90 minutes and we enjoy that instance of happiness with them. The picture above says it all. Its a moment in cinematic history to be savoured forever.

Absolutely wonderful cinematography for which Sven Nykvist got an Oscar.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

I was not familiar with the works of Patricia Highsmith before watching the talented Mr.Ripley by Anthony Minghella. I am trying to get the book for a long time, but in vain. But thats the past. Now I have found an easier way of getting books. Ordering online. Will read it soon.

I happened to stumble on a short story by her during just-another-session-of-clandestine-wikiing during office hours . It's a great read.

The mobile bed-object

You might immediately guess where I got the first line of my first short story inspired from.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The final thing that I am going to write about for today is the movie Adaptation by Charlie Kaufman. This movie is about a screenwriter(Charlie Kaufman himself) with a creator's block while trying to adapt a novel by Susan Orleans for screen.



In the first half of the movie, the protagonist Charlie Kaufman, brilliantly portrayed by Nicholas Cage(who got an Oscar Nomination for this role) struggles with adaptation of the book 'Orchid thief'. He is in a mid life crisis. His dumb brother Donald Kaufman writes movies on MPDs and serial killers and it seems to be making big money and gets all the girls. Charlie is confused.

At one crucial instance in the movie, Charlie Kaufman attends a screen writers seminar by Robert Mckee owing to his block and the suggestion made by his brother Donald..

Charlie Kaufman: [voice-over] I am pathetic, I am a loser...
Robert McKee: So what is the substance of writing?
Charlie Kaufman: [voice-over] I have failed, I am panicked. I've sold out, I am worthless, I... What the fuck am I doing here? What the fuck am I doing here? Fuck. It is my weakness, my ultimate lack of conviction that brings me here. Easy answers used to shortcut yourself to success. And here I am because my jump into the abysmal well - isn't that just a risk one takes when attempting something new? I should leave here right now. I'll start over. I need to face this project head on and...
Robert McKee: ...and God help you if you use voice-over in your work, my friends. God help you. That's flaccid, sloppy writing. Any idiot can write a voice-over narration to explain the thoughts of a character.

Almost the first half of the movie is full of voice overs. After this particular instance, you don't even here a single voice over(it took me some reading and a second watch to appreciate this). There is an entire change in way the events unfold after that. The story will move from a Charlie Kaufman-sensible-drama-type to DonaldKaufman-car-chase-shoot-them-all type.

This movie is a perfect example as to how great narration can be and how important it is to elevate a simple story to art. This movie is thoroughly enjoyable movie on the first watch and on further watches it becomes more of an intelligent movie than a fun one.

The credits to this movie include Donald Kaufman as one of the screen writers along with Charlie Kaufman. And thus he became the only fictional character ever to be nominated for an Oscar, for Best Adapted screenplay.

Ok so, what is the thing that is common between Patricia Highsmith, Cries and Whispers and Adaptation?

All these had a direct or indirect influence to my first short story Of fond memories and fonder lies.


Sunday, October 25, 2009

In search of the absurd man


"All the boys are please come with me" - cried out a shrill voice. The audacious misuse of a language he loved made him squirm uncomfortably in the upper berth seat where he was lying down. He had his head on the side facing the pathway. He liked the hazy blue light on that side. He rolled over to track the source that was molesting his first love and trampling over it like a bull dozer. She even resembled one. She was a hefty lady in her mid forties in a bright blue sari that made your eyes sore if you dared to watch it continuously for more than a minute. She had an yellow jute purse on her side which she held on to very tightly. She had a maroon colored scarf tied around her head. Must have been the cold. For whatever reasons, he felt that the scarf suited her yellow purse and blue attire perfectly.

"The number of Boys heads is more, Maddam", she said. "No Maddam, it is for good only, to separate them to the other compartment".She was arguing with a fellow teacher in the same age group. He turned around noisily in his upper berth and looked at the face belonging to the shrill voice. The sudden noise made her look at him. He stared at her with contempt. She did not know why the youngster in the upper birth was looking at her with disgust. She returned his look with an equally kind look of scorn. He mumbled something and turned back again. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. The events of the previous day came to his mind and made it difficult for him to sleep. He rolled over again and uttered a noiseless cry thinking about the stupidity at the so called practical requirements of the world. The lady in the blue stared at the unknown someone who was starting to annoy her with his frowning face.

The boys moved one by one with their bags to the next compartment. They looked as if they were around 12-13. The killer of English was 'GUIDING THEM' to their respective berths. She returned after ten minutes to my bogey and sat on the side lower birth. She had traded her side upper berth with a young boy who had to oblige to her sympathetic plea of old age. He lay now cramped in his side upper trying to beckon the sleep that was far from his wary sight.

It was only her and her girls now. The girls were flocking her. They were asking her to suggest a fun game for them to play. The girls looked like they were around 15-16. A select few had the look of a nymphet. Oddly the boys of the same class had looked puny and lost compared to the girls. It involuntarily reminded him of something he saw in National Geographic once about female black widow spiders that kill and eat the tiny male ones after they mate. This thought made him chuckle. This time he attracted attention from many people. He laid his head down immediately. This time the stare from the big blue lady was good enough to incinerate an unguarded offender to ashes in seconds.

She went back to her chores. She taught the girls a carol praising the Lord and started singing with zeal that can be matched only by a devout, with rapid movement of her hands. The innocent girls, not knowing what to do, started singing along. One girl pulled the plait of the girl who had asked her 'Maddam' for something FUN to do. It was as though she was asking how she could ask 'Maddam' for something like this, knowing very well what the notion of fun was in her dictionary.They still enjoyed it and sang aloud, since the sing-along part was entertaining.

He was thinking of the possible cheeky retorts he would have given, had he been in the girls' position. He sneered at the singing lady. The guy in the upper berth, the one who lost his lower berth to the singer below, noticed his sneer and acknowledged it with a smile, turned back again in his relentless pursuit of the invisible sl(sh)eep.

He lay prone and and fumed. Fumed at the inane lady. She reminded him of the many happy folks that he hated. He hated them for being full of easy convictions, running behind things they love or lust. How happy would it be to believe one belief and have no questions about it, he thought. How he was unlike them. How difficult it was for him to not question things around him. He felt that he could never love any single person with so much motivated love; motivated- though for a variety of reasons.He so wanted to be the Absurd man that he had always envied. But conspicuous efforts to do so always leave him frequently anti-social and cynical as this instance in the train. Self wrought absurdity could never equal the real deal, enjoyed by the many, he realised with time. He usually became depressed again at his ephemeral misanthropy.

The events of yesterday played before his eyes like the trailer of an Oscar winning melodrama -- complete with the sepia undertones, slow motions, close ups and recycled version of Satie's Gnossienne no. 1. He had long waited for yesterday's meeting. His heart raced so badly before the meeting that he felt that he would die of a silly asphyxiation before the much coveted encounter even began. Butterflies in the stomach-- a silly cliché, but life is definitely overwhelmed with clichés, he thought, as that was the only thing that he could feel then.

By this time the compartment was very silent. Most people had dozed off. The girls started to disperse to their berths and laid down and had small talks in groups there. Eventually even they drifted off. He didn't feel like sleeping. This is pretty common for him during the times of his depression. He felt hungry and drained of energy. He had not had any food since breakfast. He didn't want to lay down any more. He felt very cramped and wanted to move freely. He crept slowly from his berth and started getting down, without a noise. He didn't want to wake up anyone. When he got down the lady in the blue, got up in one swift motion that was very much unlikely for a person of her age. She groped in her bag for her glasses. She must have thought that he was a thief trying to rob her luggage. Once she saw him, she must have recalled him as the guy with the frowning face and particularly rash attitude towards her, as it could be easily deduced from the change in her expressions. He thought of apologizing to her, then after a second he thought again and left quietly without a word, to the end of the bogey. It was calm and cold there.

The memories of the events past should have ideally left him unhappy, but for reasons unknown failed to do so. He did not feel bad for getting rejected. He was not angry for being ruled out. The reason for rejection was that he was too young for what he aspired to be. Though it sounded ludicrous he could understand perfectly well why he was rejected on those grounds. He even felt that he had been served proper justice, in one warped but possible angle. He was sad at the turn of events, as he had expected and banked so much on this meeting.

The scorn and outward contempt at things around him was also an effort to act as the absurd man of love, hate and conviction. The poor lady in the blue. He felt sorry for throwing glances of disgust at her. What did she do, to deserve this? There she sits, with her love and care for her girls, and of course for her luggage. Oh stop it you sceptic fool, he thought. He felt like crying. Ah, here starts the bout of reflection and depression, he thought. How he wished for a moment of pure, intense, unadulterated love or loathing. It was all that he needed to get out of this vicious cycle.

The train started to slow down. It was the next junction. His hunger called him again. He thought of getting down and grabbing something to eat. He opened the compartment door that was closed and leaned to see if there were any shops open. All the shops had closed. He checked the time. It was close to one am. There was a canteen of sorts about 30 metres from his compartment. He did not know how much time the train will stop there. Few folks covered in tight dresses and shawls were boarding the train. Very few were alighting the train. He got down the train and started pacing slowly towards the canteen. It was a small tea shop. They had almost closed it, when he went. He hurriedly asked the shopkeeper for some biscuits and a tea in a disposable glass just in case. The short guy in the stall, sleepily got a pack of dusty good day biscuits and tea as he had asked.

The train gave the usual jerk before start. He gave two ten rupees notes. The shop keeper was fumbling to get the change. The train's whistle, tearing the cold mist reached him. It started moving slowly. For a moment, thinking if he had made a stupid decision of getting down the train, he rushed back to his bogey without getting the change. When he was nearing the train with his heart racing, for a second he thought that he would miss the train, when suddenly the train came to sudden halt with a jerk. He too stopped with a jerk. The tea in the glass was almost half empty due to the climactic thrill that the train had successfully provided. He started walking slowly now.

By the time he had reached his bogey, the train had started moving again. But he was so close, he didn't take pains to rush. Only when he reached his bogey did he realise that the door was shut. By the time he realised that he could not force it open, the train had picked up speed. He reached the next window, where the lady in the blue sari was sitting, to ask for help. She was watching him with a cold stare. He shouted at her to open the door. He signalled her saying that the door was stuck. She made no effort to move and continued to peer at him. It took a few seconds for him to realise that this silence was intentional. Her lips curved into a sheepish smile.

The shock left him speechless for a moment and he came to an abrupt stop. It didn't strike him that he could still continue to shout for someone to open the gate, or rush towards the next compartment door. The train had picked up considerable speed, and it was stupid for anyone in their right minds to chase it now. He stood there, shocked, wondering and maddened. He had never been so tempestuous and started cursing her loudly. 'That vile old cunning hag, how could she?', he wondered. His face froze for a minute. It struck him only then. He started laughing, a small chuckle at the beginning. Isn't this what he had wanted all along. He laughed and laughed like a mad maniac. The train soared past him noisily unaware of his happiness. Pure, intense and unadulterated happiness.

Monday, July 20, 2009

Of fond memories and fonder lies


Arun stopped reading newspapers when he was 17. When he is asked why he did not read them, he says, that they are not interesting and he finds it not worth wasting his early morning hours. Politics and sports don't interest me - he says. He is the kind of guy who prefers playing a game of cricket or tennis, rather than read the news about them. It was the participation that made it fun for him. The glit and glam cant seduce me -he says with a laugh.

Nothing odd, one might be inclined to think. Lots of people don't read newspapers, what is the big deal, one might think. Lots of people don't read the dailies, because they just don't find it enticing. But with Arun, the laugh and the 'this doesn't interest me' replies are just a facade to mask the singular aversion that he has towards the dailies. It is never a concern for him till someone notices that it is more than a disinterest.

Arun was an average looking guy. He was 5' 10", lean, with a thin frame, dark colored with thick,unkempt hair. His left eye winks at odd frequencies. It does so because of an accident he had when he was in the high school cricket team. He was the team wicket keeper.An unorthodox spin from his best buddy's ball did that. He had 8 stitches to get the skin above the zygomatic bone in place. The doctors said that some nerve had suffered slight damage. He was hospitalized for a week or so.

He hates it when someone while talking to him, looks at his eye when it involuntarily winks. But he likes when people twitch uncomfortably at the unexpected wink that comes their way for the first time. He does intentionally wink at the girls that he ogles at and who, though familiar with his winks and the reasons behind it, get a queasy feeling of uneasiness, when he does his fake wink, or to be precise, his actual voluntary wink. But he is always undoubtedly granted the benefit of doubt.

He works as a medical representative. He does not mind much about his work. For him every day work was not of much concern. Each day of work was like walking a insignificant mile in a desert that spans an eternity. He is 27 now. In his leisure time he likes to follow people around. He likes chemistry. He also like to watch movies in foreign languages. Its always fun to watch people speak with a rhyme in a unheard tongue. It has a pleasing mystery to it he feels.

Are there many people like Arun? People read the news papers for no specific reasons. They would say, to know more about what is happening around. They might say, one has to know the current affairs to sustain in this harsh world. Or plainly just to keep themselves engaged, for a paltry yet significant hour or half, like a pleasant detour .People who shy away from news dailies are also pretty common. But I wonder if one more of Arun's kind existed, the ones who don't read the newspapers because of the obituaries section.

It started as a silly thing. He was always curious of the obituaries section. 'May he rest in peace' it said. 'His fond memories will always be cherished'- by the wife and sons of Mr. Balakumaran, his next door neighbor, who died in a road accident, hit by a rushing ambulance, while trying crossing the relatively high traffic S.K.road, the one besides the new construction site, where they were constructing the 16 storey-ed office complex. The office complex had become a landmark of sorts. They never had such huge buildings in their place.

Death-it confused him. It confused him, about the life and the way that he had been seeing it till now. Was he scared about death? yeah, a bit. But more than that, he was scared when he thought about his past, how he had been floundering in the corridor of life. Or the so-called one. If there was one thing, that the obituaries section made him realise, it was that, he was as unique as a molecule of sucrose in a box of sweets, as unique as a blade of grass in a savannah, he could die anytime, he could be killed anytime, an earthquake, a flash flood, a freak road accident, a malignant tumor in the brain, stabbed by a desperate mugger or in the worst, a slip in the toilet. He could vividly imagine himself dying in different ways in different places.

It was not the expectation that he was supposed to be unique and bestowed with the will of God, to achieve innumerable things, that scared him but the fact that there is an ugly, devouring marsh of quicksands beneath the picturesque beauty of life as portrayed by folks around. He wanted to scream at them at them "why did you lie to me?". "I dont want a happy fables, but a true one" -he shouted. "We prefer happy ones" -they shouted back in return. Doesn't it hurt to think, that you who had plans to change the world for good, are not given your due respect, and you are considered as valuable as a speck of dust in space, your death doesnt matter to God who had actually bid you with those tasks to change the world? He felt miserable.

Then it all passed away. Non chalance took over him. He was enthusiatic and indifferent. His actions were more determined by coin toss, rather than thoughts. He did many things, that he wouldn't normally do. Thats when he started shadowing people. He was curious to know about the things that people ran around for. He was good at shadowing people. Till now, no one that he has followed, knew that they were being followed.Just once did he get a black eye, from a muscular guy. He stopped following such guys from then on. He must have had it in him, to follow people. He had always wanted to do that, but hadn't done that before, probably due to the moral obligations that he had. More probable were the legal ones, he thought with a smile.

He started the voluntary wink only after that. He got slapped by a girl once. But when he explained to her about his damaged nerve, she gave him a suspicious and inquisitive look, followed by a sorry smile. She was beautiful. She was short, around 5'3" and cute with beautiful black curly hair, tied into a pony's tail. She had a disarming smile and an animated face. She was on phone the entire time when he was shadowing her. He had followed her all along, from the Hayagreeva Perumal koil bus stop, to her house. She was working in BPO, he later came to know. He told her all about his wink story, the original version, after he had proposed to her. He got slapped again, more than once this time. He enjoyed it this time though.They were more of tender caresses, than slaps.

He still follows people around. But its no longer frequent. He prefers spending his time pampering and spoiling his loved one. He tried teaching her, about the nuances of following people. But she was too scared for that. Isn't it wrong ?-she asked naively. Ah, how he loved her. He still doesn't read the dailies. He tried to stop his impromptu winks. It was her order. It was hard, but he would at any given time, rather try hard to do her bidding, than the ones delegated by the omnipresent and the invisible.