I have often wondered, if I could write about Madras the same way I once wrote about Calcutta - with the fascination of discovery and the serendipity that only new things can bring. I realized that I cannot. However, I also figured that I can write about Madras in a different way - a way that only my experience of the city can justify. Not such a long stint of experience, to be honest. I was there for a better part of two decades in the city; however it was in the last four years that I even got to be around and know places and only in the last year, did I get to do my explorations on my own. Do I think that I am underprepared with my knowledge of Madras than that of Calcutta? Hell yeah. However, things that I do know about Madras, I know so well because those things are people and experiences to me. This once, I was writing to a friend about the weather here in Calcutta. Suddenly, I found myself in a narration of a single stretch of the city without the people or its experiences but just the place in itself. I have given the excerpt from the same as follows...
Tell me what's happening in your city? The weather'z been a psychotic bitch here. Presently, (however) its a pleasant, cool, before the rain moment. Should not blame the weather when she is being kind. What about there? Have you ridden with your hair down on the beach road, on a hot sticky day when nothing as much as a leaf seems to move? It's a pretty thing about Madras. You are at Gemini, you feel like killing the guy honking next to you. At Stella, you feel inspired to run over those careless girls with big smiles shared only between themselves that cross greedily over to Gangothri. You move a little ahead and see that some punk-bitch thinks that he is so gangsta that he can cut widely across from left to right and take the lane to Chola. Many times, one wishes to not brake hard but make a bender on the fender of that Benz. The crossing after Gopalapuram (which you reach in normal time if the CM does not decide to come back home for an early lunch), is pure hell. Welcome to Alwarpet. Expensive restaurants and bad looking office building takes you into the most annoying road in the city before ending up in another annoying part of the city; Adyar. Let me not even go there. Seriously. No matter how much I would like to. Not because I am banned from that area. You know that it does not matter even if I am; because if I want to, I will. But let me stop the rambling, which is not unlike the Alwarpet road itself. Of course, I have had a nice dinner at Sangeetha's and many a good lunches at Sandeepa's. But tell me, have you never wanted to kill some of the signals there, if not someone at these signals? Coming back to the slice of life that Radhakrishnan salai is; let me linger on for a moment on one of the better things in that road. If you can go over the fly-over by the Music-Academy (which is, undoubtedly one of my most favorite spots in the city), then you are saved; momentarily. For the next right is, you are right, Mylapore. That whore has never sat on my lap. I still don't understand why one of the most hectic places in the city is called that. Except for the Saravana Bhavan (not so much an ego massage here, as much as a quick evening snack or a lovely late night dinner) on the corner, I would like to give this right turn life and make it human, just so that I may throttle it to a sweet, never ending death. A few other choice restaurants that taunt me with their air-conditioned interiors and many a high-rise buildings that have come up so quickly that makes me wonder if they were just cardboard cutouts. Moments pass by as I still think of the destination I seek; my client! Oh, there, with a massive overly done facade and an impressive looking approach, stands the citi-centre building. I am like, here'z my stop, I have to get in. Almost with resignation. I slow down and the indicator is on. I slowly drift towards that right. Something inside kicks into action. The indicator is off; noone was looking anyway, it is 3 in the afternoon. I give an extra turn to the throttle and roars my lovely bike forward. I slide between other vehicles that move forward like human sacrifices to the pit in an Indiana Jones movie. Something strikes my face apart from the oppressive weather. It is the winds of change. I see that the signal is red at the end of the road and Gandhi looks ahead as if he is walking out of the city. I don't care. I don't cut down on my speed. I see a white building full of cops on my right; and I still don't hesitate continuing to violate the laws. I knew that the winds of change was too dramatic an idea. I was not willing to blink though. The final moment was on me and the signal turned green. Anti-climactically, I still had to reduce my speed to take the right turn. But wait my dear, my story does not end here. I go a little further ahead and take that left just after; I park somewhere in the vicinity of the light-house. I don't have to seek its shadow. Because. I looked up and it rained. It was 3.20. My phone was ringing. It was my client. I am sorry Ron. You have to wait. I am squeezing life out of time.
I seem to have omitted writing that I had my first job on that road, my brother'z wedding, the first chance I had to betray my company, my first (subsequent) proof of corporate loyalty, my first almost-empty tank at five thirty in the morning, my first almost-accident, and so many more things that a gentleman cannot write about and friends should not ask about; have happened on that very road. But I did not write about all these things, not because they were not important but because they are of a different world and a different account. Accidentally, I seem to have stumbled on to an account of a part of the city as if it is an isolated entity, a thing in itself; not unlike my discovery of Calcutta...
14 May 2010
Thank you Calcutta!
A friend asked me to write a long letter about my stay in Calcutta. It has been two years since I have come to this city. Here is an excerpt from the letter...
:) a flood of memories come on to me like a giant wave. suddenly, i am reminded of a different time, where my city smelled of the sea whenever i turned east. where, all troubles could vanish if i just turned the bike towards the beach road. different times. so many people. a lot of moments. i am already there. wait, again, there is loyola college. how many coffees i had and how many spoons of sugar have i stolen from rishi. not a single haunt has been left unhaunted by me. the place at the side of bertram hall. the hostel. the cricket ground. hockey ground. football ground. the side of loyola church. the ictr. viscom dept. social work dept. chemistry dept. main block. landing. jubilee block. canteen. yrcs office. so many places. each with its own memories. there were days when i reached loyola at 7.30 in the morning and stayed on till 8.30 at the night. and now. everything is just a memory. the bad ones leave no longer a bitter taste. the good ones have become idealized into a dream. memory. i always says, that it is difficult for sense perception/experience to match up with memory. and so it is with chennai. it is now Madras. a distant, dream city. my home city by name. when i am angry with the world, i think of how i am stranded in calcutta. when i am in harmony with it, i look around and thank god for the many blessings that i have received here. life has been a good journey. sometimes difficult. sometimes easy. but always on the run. never in the same moment twice.
and suddenly, two years have gone by.
i have not dwelled on that thought too much. but two days ago, on the twelfth of may, 2008, i had first set foot in calcutta. Chinna and i had come here for me to take my entrance test. things did not go as expected. everything looked as if this trip would be reduced to being a short vacation to a city that i had never been to. but things changed. when i came to start a new life in calcutta, my dad took a transfer to work here in the same place as i. we moved into a small house. hardly 200 feet in dimensions. i did not have my bike. the trip to the university was a while away. i cannot say that i was not afraid. and still, things were interesting. challenging... more than anything else, always changing.
soon, i got back the comforts of my old life. i created a new life for myself. this beautiful city has opened its arms to me and taken me to her bosom. one thing i know for sure about calcutta is that, as a city, she teems with life. she has a distinct soul. she is beautiful. i learned more about life and myself. i have gained as a person. i have been guided from strength to strength. things keep looking better.
two years have gone by. not so suddenly.
I realized that I cannot write just one long letter about Calcutta. They always have to be many short ones. But here is a short list of those I thank. Not just in Calcutta. Not just FOR Calcutta. Not in any specific order.
...
.....
......
....
...
No. I still am afraid that I will miss many names.
So, thank you, all of you.
I love you all.
Thank you, Calcutta.
:) a flood of memories come on to me like a giant wave. suddenly, i am reminded of a different time, where my city smelled of the sea whenever i turned east. where, all troubles could vanish if i just turned the bike towards the beach road. different times. so many people. a lot of moments. i am already there. wait, again, there is loyola college. how many coffees i had and how many spoons of sugar have i stolen from rishi. not a single haunt has been left unhaunted by me. the place at the side of bertram hall. the hostel. the cricket ground. hockey ground. football ground. the side of loyola church. the ictr. viscom dept. social work dept. chemistry dept. main block. landing. jubilee block. canteen. yrcs office. so many places. each with its own memories. there were days when i reached loyola at 7.30 in the morning and stayed on till 8.30 at the night. and now. everything is just a memory. the bad ones leave no longer a bitter taste. the good ones have become idealized into a dream. memory. i always says, that it is difficult for sense perception/experience to match up with memory. and so it is with chennai. it is now Madras. a distant, dream city. my home city by name. when i am angry with the world, i think of how i am stranded in calcutta. when i am in harmony with it, i look around and thank god for the many blessings that i have received here. life has been a good journey. sometimes difficult. sometimes easy. but always on the run. never in the same moment twice.
and suddenly, two years have gone by.
i have not dwelled on that thought too much. but two days ago, on the twelfth of may, 2008, i had first set foot in calcutta. Chinna and i had come here for me to take my entrance test. things did not go as expected. everything looked as if this trip would be reduced to being a short vacation to a city that i had never been to. but things changed. when i came to start a new life in calcutta, my dad took a transfer to work here in the same place as i. we moved into a small house. hardly 200 feet in dimensions. i did not have my bike. the trip to the university was a while away. i cannot say that i was not afraid. and still, things were interesting. challenging... more than anything else, always changing.
soon, i got back the comforts of my old life. i created a new life for myself. this beautiful city has opened its arms to me and taken me to her bosom. one thing i know for sure about calcutta is that, as a city, she teems with life. she has a distinct soul. she is beautiful. i learned more about life and myself. i have gained as a person. i have been guided from strength to strength. things keep looking better.
two years have gone by. not so suddenly.
I realized that I cannot write just one long letter about Calcutta. They always have to be many short ones. But here is a short list of those I thank. Not just in Calcutta. Not just FOR Calcutta. Not in any specific order.
...
.....
......
....
...
No. I still am afraid that I will miss many names.
So, thank you, all of you.
I love you all.
Thank you, Calcutta.
13 May 2010
Oh that's why!
I am back from a ten day vacation just before the week of my exams with my family to the beautiful (mostly) hill-station-ridden Himachal Pradesh. Apart from the regular tourist haunts like Simla (horrible place - feels like an overloaded slice of a city crammed into a mountainous region; more on this later) and Manali (which is just a Mall road with a tourist offices to go to "higher" places), we also visited Dharamsala (or to be more specific, McLeodgunj). One thing that struck me about McLeod was the volume of foreigners in the town. Of course, you are thinking as you are reading, Saravanan, it is a tourist spot! Foreigners do come as tourists, see? Yes, I get what you are saying. However, I am not talking about, it-is-a-crowded-tourist-spot kind of foreigner density but like oh-my-freaking-god-we-are-strangers-in-this-white-infested-town kind of foreigner density. I sound racist here because almost all foreigners there were really white. Eastern Europe, America, Western Europe, old, young, suspect, dignified - they came in all shapes and sizes; but the common denominator was that they were all white. It might be a fact interesting to someone who is interested in such things; but not me, I am here to talk about a different kind of foreigner density.
While going from McLeod to Manali, we met a bunch of travellers from Europe on the coach. With a seating of just 9 people, interaction between passengers were cordial in that 10 hour trip.
There were some obvious, almost rhetorical if not for the faith of the asker, questions;
(from my incredulous mother to a very British and ageing home-maker); You are travelling without your husband and children?
(from a bewildered chai-wala to me about one of my co-passengers); How can he speak such good Hindi?
There were also the polite questions which lead to some really interesting facts;
(from my unsuspecting mother) How long have are you in India?
Mikhail says; We have been here just five months. (Indians in the coach stunned) We have no time, to see many places. (Indians stop understanding; a vacation beyond TWO WEEKS!)
I hate answering questions. Unless I am in the right frame of mind, I even hate talking. So I dreaded the polite question that would be directed to me. Waited for it to get over, that I may go back to the book I was reading.
What do you do in Calcutta?
I am pursuing my Masters.
Which subject?
Literature. English.
(Its the Israeli woman's turn to be relieved) Oh? That is why your English is so much better than ours. (A round of laughter all around)
Was it a laughter of relief or pride? Both. From different parts of the coach.
That is when I was acutely aware of the difference between the people in the coach. In that sentence and the stress on that word, there was an underlying principle in action. A simple and ancient one called syllogism. Let me give an example how it works.
Fact 1: All cats die. Fact 2: Socrates died. Therefore, Socrates must be a cat.
Let me rephrase this in context.
Fact 1: English Literature students know the language better than others. Fact 2: Saravanan is such an aforementioned student. Therefore, Saravanan knows the language, etc etc.
Does not seem harmful, does it? Maybe it is just as innocent as it appears. The logic ACTUALLY looks sound. Wait, it must be so. I perhaps am being too paranoid. Seriously. She is a good-natured, hardworking, mother of three in her mid-50s. She cannot have spoken what she did with malice.
Then it struck me harder.
She does NOT speak with malice. It is a given for her. It is a fact and an undeniable axiom to her. Now the syllogism comes back to me. Not in what was spoken but in what was omitted.
Fact 1: The only way an Indian, who has not even seen the Continent in real life, can speak English with some authority is by having studied it over a significant period of time. Fact 2: Saravanan is one such aforementioned person. Therefore, This is the ONLY LOGICAL CASE where he should be able to speak in such comfort this alien tongue.
For a moment, I raged against myself. I did not speak another word to any of the Others in the coach. The journey ended but not my anger. How dare she think that I am a natural inferior who cannot speak the language of the white man better than her? It took me a few days for the blanket of anger evaporate. It struck me then; WHY IN HELL WAS I MAKING ENGLISH-LANGUAGE-SPEAKING, THE QUALIFIER FOR SUPERIORITY?!??!
Then it all came back to me. Of course she is right in assuming that a person is not comfortable in a NON-native tongue. Some are linguists/experts who have spent countless years dedicated to their pursuit of knowledge in a different tongue. But the general crowd did not. If people learned English in countries like Israel, it is only to get along in countries where their own tongue was useless. They barely made sentences. Their scholars of the language were in big Universities. The smirk I had on my face when I thought, oh, every child at 15 years of age in a city-school in India can speak better English than you; vanished. It turned to shame. Why was it that such a thought gave me so much pride? What was the big fucking deal about speaking English anyway? Now her syllogism which had once appeared foolish and narrow-minded, now felt like a golden nugget of wisdom. It became clearer to me. This time, the dignity came unforced.
Fact1: No sensible person would give such importance to an alien tongue as to have mastered it if there was not some special interest attached to it. Fact2: MA in English qualifies such a special interest. Therefore, Saravanan's language is such and such.
I was happy that this time, when I removed my name from the preliminary facts, a humbler path led me to a more fulfilling answer. I was happy.
But then I realized that I was writing all this in English.
Nothing had changed.
There was not much I can do. After having invested heavily in this area for a large part of my life, I cannot walk away from what I have gathered. So, the cause is a tragedy. Nothing can happen.
But wait; there is hope.
I decided, that I will continue writing in English. Except. I shall write in 'e'nglish.
And that is how the "capital"ism in english ended.
While going from McLeod to Manali, we met a bunch of travellers from Europe on the coach. With a seating of just 9 people, interaction between passengers were cordial in that 10 hour trip.
There were some obvious, almost rhetorical if not for the faith of the asker, questions;
(from my incredulous mother to a very British and ageing home-maker); You are travelling without your husband and children?
(from a bewildered chai-wala to me about one of my co-passengers); How can he speak such good Hindi?
There were also the polite questions which lead to some really interesting facts;
(from my unsuspecting mother) How long have are you in India?
Mikhail says; We have been here just five months. (Indians in the coach stunned) We have no time, to see many places. (Indians stop understanding; a vacation beyond TWO WEEKS!)
I hate answering questions. Unless I am in the right frame of mind, I even hate talking. So I dreaded the polite question that would be directed to me. Waited for it to get over, that I may go back to the book I was reading.
What do you do in Calcutta?
I am pursuing my Masters.
Which subject?
Literature. English.
(Its the Israeli woman's turn to be relieved) Oh? That is why your English is so much better than ours. (A round of laughter all around)
Was it a laughter of relief or pride? Both. From different parts of the coach.
That is when I was acutely aware of the difference between the people in the coach. In that sentence and the stress on that word, there was an underlying principle in action. A simple and ancient one called syllogism. Let me give an example how it works.
Fact 1: All cats die. Fact 2: Socrates died. Therefore, Socrates must be a cat.
Let me rephrase this in context.
Fact 1: English Literature students know the language better than others. Fact 2: Saravanan is such an aforementioned student. Therefore, Saravanan knows the language, etc etc.
Does not seem harmful, does it? Maybe it is just as innocent as it appears. The logic ACTUALLY looks sound. Wait, it must be so. I perhaps am being too paranoid. Seriously. She is a good-natured, hardworking, mother of three in her mid-50s. She cannot have spoken what she did with malice.
Then it struck me harder.
She does NOT speak with malice. It is a given for her. It is a fact and an undeniable axiom to her. Now the syllogism comes back to me. Not in what was spoken but in what was omitted.
Fact 1: The only way an Indian, who has not even seen the Continent in real life, can speak English with some authority is by having studied it over a significant period of time. Fact 2: Saravanan is one such aforementioned person. Therefore, This is the ONLY LOGICAL CASE where he should be able to speak in such comfort this alien tongue.
For a moment, I raged against myself. I did not speak another word to any of the Others in the coach. The journey ended but not my anger. How dare she think that I am a natural inferior who cannot speak the language of the white man better than her? It took me a few days for the blanket of anger evaporate. It struck me then; WHY IN HELL WAS I MAKING ENGLISH-LANGUAGE-SPEAKING, THE QUALIFIER FOR SUPERIORITY?!??!
Then it all came back to me. Of course she is right in assuming that a person is not comfortable in a NON-native tongue. Some are linguists/experts who have spent countless years dedicated to their pursuit of knowledge in a different tongue. But the general crowd did not. If people learned English in countries like Israel, it is only to get along in countries where their own tongue was useless. They barely made sentences. Their scholars of the language were in big Universities. The smirk I had on my face when I thought, oh, every child at 15 years of age in a city-school in India can speak better English than you; vanished. It turned to shame. Why was it that such a thought gave me so much pride? What was the big fucking deal about speaking English anyway? Now her syllogism which had once appeared foolish and narrow-minded, now felt like a golden nugget of wisdom. It became clearer to me. This time, the dignity came unforced.
Fact1: No sensible person would give such importance to an alien tongue as to have mastered it if there was not some special interest attached to it. Fact2: MA in English qualifies such a special interest. Therefore, Saravanan's language is such and such.
I was happy that this time, when I removed my name from the preliminary facts, a humbler path led me to a more fulfilling answer. I was happy.
But then I realized that I was writing all this in English.
Nothing had changed.
There was not much I can do. After having invested heavily in this area for a large part of my life, I cannot walk away from what I have gathered. So, the cause is a tragedy. Nothing can happen.
But wait; there is hope.
I decided, that I will continue writing in English. Except. I shall write in 'e'nglish.
And that is how the "capital"ism in english ended.
27 April 2010
Dogs in a Ghost Town
Last evening, the weather was turning pleasant anticipating the cooling storm that later came that night. I was at the gate of my good friend Diya and we were chatting about how oppressive the term papers and the tests were getting and how good it would be to just take a break from all this for a while. Our topics drifted from immediate murder of certain members (cough, one) the faculty to future endeavors to friends and eventually landing on the city itself. Of how great the place was... How simpler and open the people... How lively and how inclusive... How unpretentious the people, so much so that being pseudo-intellectual-pretentious is not exactly an abuse... How great the living in Calcutta was... In general... That is a pet topic of mine; a little thanksgiving, a little retrospection and a little celebration. Perhaps it was not the city but the part of it that I interact most with, Jadavpur university. But I chose not to believe in that option. Anyone who has been here during the Pujo would agree with me when I say, that it is Calcutta, who is life herself.
Cut 2 today. Not a single person from my apartment complex has stepped out of their flats. Forget going to work; there are no buses. The metro is probably facing a blockade at the gates. Taxis are all lined up at their stands. People have now, a Government sanctioned unofficial holiday. Say hello to the Bharat Bandh. Interesting choice of words I would say. For it means, Shutting down India. That is exactly what they are doing. I am not going to talk about how it is an unlawful activity. It is an illegal one as well. A Bandh is "enforced", i.e. quite literal to its word-meaning, it is forced. How ridiculous is it when Bandhs are planned to make a long-weekend? We laugh at our shame and have a nice day off away from the hot scorching sun. When you choose to protest, go ahead, shut your shops. By forcing a common trader/employee/student to forsake their work for a whole working day, how is it still not ruled that a Bandh is both a human-rights violation and a transgression against the fundamental rights of an individual? Calcutta is a city with a proud history of dissent. And still, we have not voiced our dissent against these fake-holiday-makers.
Why the fuck are we allowing ourselves to sit at home, castrated and defiled by our social inferiors? These second-rate citizens who violate the meaning of the word protest by forcing it on others deserve to whipped in roads by commoners. Of course it is an outrage in a democratic nation. So is a Bandh. Let us burn a bus. A PIL will be filed and nothing will be heard of. Of course, a bus is only a few lakh rupees of public money. Let it go to waste. Party-workers and leaders never pay tax anyway. We must make them sweat. Anyone burning a bus or causing damage to a public property should be made to pay a penalty of twice the cost of the damage they have caused. Jail terms are irrelevant to people who have little respect to the world around them.
What a villain is (s)he who uses societal norms and rules only to protect his/her interests while violating them when it profits him/her? I address this section to those bastard children of a perverted sense of universal ownership. Any protest has to be a voluntary one. Advertise your cause. Cry for justice. Let those who choose to support your cause at the cost of their one day's salary and livelihood come forward to join your protest. You will not do that because you are afraid. You are a spineless, useless, cankerous growth on the society which rots the bone. When protest becomes the order of the day, it is not protest at all. Only when there is a choice of not protesting along with the forum of protest, is there any real meaning to the protest at all.
Today when I was out on the streets to see ordinary people gritting their teeth in the sun, hauling some baggage at times, walking in the middle of one the busiest roads erstwhile, I was overpowered by a feeling that I do not experience often in Calcutta. I had it last Christmas when all my friends had scattered away in different parts of the world. I felt it when my best friend's sister got married and I was not there. And I experienced it today when we were all reduced to being dogs in a ghost town... I wish I was in Madras, because something like this would never happen there... Are the people braver or the police more efficient or the parties weaker? I do not know what the combination is. There is a decided lack of seriousness towards the policies of the parties when it interferes with everyday life. Maybe Calcutta should take a leaf from that book. I have often looked on with admiration when I note how few two-wheelers ply in Calcutta and how the public vehicles outnumber the private ones. Maybe it is time to bring out all those cars and bikes that are collecting dust in a garage. It is time to send a message. It has to be loud and clear. It simply says,
Cut 2 today. Not a single person from my apartment complex has stepped out of their flats. Forget going to work; there are no buses. The metro is probably facing a blockade at the gates. Taxis are all lined up at their stands. People have now, a Government sanctioned unofficial holiday. Say hello to the Bharat Bandh. Interesting choice of words I would say. For it means, Shutting down India. That is exactly what they are doing. I am not going to talk about how it is an unlawful activity. It is an illegal one as well. A Bandh is "enforced", i.e. quite literal to its word-meaning, it is forced. How ridiculous is it when Bandhs are planned to make a long-weekend? We laugh at our shame and have a nice day off away from the hot scorching sun. When you choose to protest, go ahead, shut your shops. By forcing a common trader/employee/student to forsake their work for a whole working day, how is it still not ruled that a Bandh is both a human-rights violation and a transgression against the fundamental rights of an individual? Calcutta is a city with a proud history of dissent. And still, we have not voiced our dissent against these fake-holiday-makers.
Why the fuck are we allowing ourselves to sit at home, castrated and defiled by our social inferiors? These second-rate citizens who violate the meaning of the word protest by forcing it on others deserve to whipped in roads by commoners. Of course it is an outrage in a democratic nation. So is a Bandh. Let us burn a bus. A PIL will be filed and nothing will be heard of. Of course, a bus is only a few lakh rupees of public money. Let it go to waste. Party-workers and leaders never pay tax anyway. We must make them sweat. Anyone burning a bus or causing damage to a public property should be made to pay a penalty of twice the cost of the damage they have caused. Jail terms are irrelevant to people who have little respect to the world around them.
What a villain is (s)he who uses societal norms and rules only to protect his/her interests while violating them when it profits him/her? I address this section to those bastard children of a perverted sense of universal ownership. Any protest has to be a voluntary one. Advertise your cause. Cry for justice. Let those who choose to support your cause at the cost of their one day's salary and livelihood come forward to join your protest. You will not do that because you are afraid. You are a spineless, useless, cankerous growth on the society which rots the bone. When protest becomes the order of the day, it is not protest at all. Only when there is a choice of not protesting along with the forum of protest, is there any real meaning to the protest at all.
Today when I was out on the streets to see ordinary people gritting their teeth in the sun, hauling some baggage at times, walking in the middle of one the busiest roads erstwhile, I was overpowered by a feeling that I do not experience often in Calcutta. I had it last Christmas when all my friends had scattered away in different parts of the world. I felt it when my best friend's sister got married and I was not there. And I experienced it today when we were all reduced to being dogs in a ghost town... I wish I was in Madras, because something like this would never happen there... Are the people braver or the police more efficient or the parties weaker? I do not know what the combination is. There is a decided lack of seriousness towards the policies of the parties when it interferes with everyday life. Maybe Calcutta should take a leaf from that book. I have often looked on with admiration when I note how few two-wheelers ply in Calcutta and how the public vehicles outnumber the private ones. Maybe it is time to bring out all those cars and bikes that are collecting dust in a garage. It is time to send a message. It has to be loud and clear. It simply says,
SHUT THE FUCK UP!
23 April 2010
The High Priest of the Holy Church of Americana: Sam Worthington
He.z got the "look" (that Vince McMahon looks for when you are in the WWE), the skillset (being able to eat a banana without shoving it up his nose) and he is already becoming the Christian Bale of 2007-08 and the Collin Farrel of 2005-06. Ladies and gentlemen! Sam Worthington. Fuck. He.z even got the name right.
Maybe it was my fault to watch two movies of this guy in two weeks straight (Clash of the Titans and Avatar). But I am pretty lucky considering that I did not watch a third (Terminator4). I thought I should give a review first, but then decided to go with a comparative review. However, that I have seen Shutter Island and Manhattan Murder Mystery (two exceptional movies) which deserve reviews more than these trashers, I wanted to go in a different direction. Besides, I am pretty sure that a whole load of you have seen Avatar and come to your own conclusions. What I want to talk about, is the immense quality of bullshit dished out to us by the Holy Church of Americana.
Whom/What is the Holy Church of Americana? It is the creme de la creme of the Fortune500 companies that decide on a complex market analysis algorithm, what the pursuits of the entire globe should be. I am not Anti-American. Let me put that down very clearly. As a country which has always given people enough hope that they can go anywhere they want if they really want it bad enough, America stands for what I believe in too. What I am against, is the corporate-mass-produced kitsch which is shoved down people's throats in America and across the world as the standards one should aspire to. Totalitarianism, even if it is of American-corporate conglomerates, is a path to self-destruction. The question is, whose self is going to be destroyed?
Before I make another point in this direction, let me get this out of the way...
Fuck you James Cameron. And the other guy.
As I was saying, Avatar should make people think, "oh? The movie is a massive hit across the US? People must have really woken up to it that they are cheering for nine foot aliens to kick American G I Ass." But no. It does not. Because ultimately it is a cripple Marine who is so much better than the other people in America (cuz he don't have legs, he must be closer to the earth, non?) and has to ride a Dragon (Turok, Quake, I don't give two shits about its name) to convince the "tribe" with bow and arrows to let him lead them to mass-destruction before kicking them out, American style. Obviously the Dragon-Rider will become the leader of the People. So the White Man in the skin of the Black Man, becomes the master, again. How sweet. Happy fucking ending.
Fuck you motherfucker.
Avatar? More like, Atavar. At a war with everything that's against you. For if we are not with you, we are against you, aren't we? Wait, too much information to process for the humble follower of the Holy Church of Americana, so go back to rule number one. My God is a good God. Your god is a god starting with a small fucking 'g'. As I said earlier,
Fuck you motherfucker.
Now that my Avatar review is over. Lets go over Clash of the Titans. I am not even getting into the adherence/authenticity to the Greek Original. Come on people, get your heads out of your asses. Its fiction. Mythology. It can be adapted in any way they wanna adapt it. If they want to make the Christian, oops, sorry, American AllFather out of the Greek Zeus, let them do it. Now, we have Perseus, a man who is also son of god. Why, we just need a ghost. Oh wait... There is a ghost, Io, cursed never to age, how convenient, lets have Perseus screwing her. Now, what do we need... A bunch of religious fanatics who are fatalistic, willing to sacrifice themselves before the end comes. Wait, we can put a little matted hair in a bun on their heads and add red/white stripes on their foreheads. If we think that they are too much of a direct allusion to the "Hindoo" then Shame on us. Let Sufia Zinobia rip our heads apart. Its our narrow minded perception. There still remains something unfinished... Wait, they have got it. A Djinn. Is that an Arabic term? They did not know. They guy wears a turban, lives in a desert and is supposed to be eternal enemies to OUR people? Iskander says, Fuck me in the mouth. Are you sure that you are not talking about "Moslems" you know, the archetypal fundamentalists? No? You are making a secular movie? Oh right... This is meant for children. They watch it and grow up into Zombie-Americananites. Great. Awesome. Keep the good job up your ass.
Now that I have reviewed two movies in as many paragraphs, I would like to hear from you. What do you think of these movies? What other movies come to your mind when you think of this? Do you remember the classic Sharon Stone line from Alan Quartermain and the Lost city of Gold? "Oh, no! We have lost another (African-tribe-name) tribesman!"
Maybe it was my fault to watch two movies of this guy in two weeks straight (Clash of the Titans and Avatar). But I am pretty lucky considering that I did not watch a third (Terminator4). I thought I should give a review first, but then decided to go with a comparative review. However, that I have seen Shutter Island and Manhattan Murder Mystery (two exceptional movies) which deserve reviews more than these trashers, I wanted to go in a different direction. Besides, I am pretty sure that a whole load of you have seen Avatar and come to your own conclusions. What I want to talk about, is the immense quality of bullshit dished out to us by the Holy Church of Americana.
Whom/What is the Holy Church of Americana? It is the creme de la creme of the Fortune500 companies that decide on a complex market analysis algorithm, what the pursuits of the entire globe should be. I am not Anti-American. Let me put that down very clearly. As a country which has always given people enough hope that they can go anywhere they want if they really want it bad enough, America stands for what I believe in too. What I am against, is the corporate-mass-produced kitsch which is shoved down people's throats in America and across the world as the standards one should aspire to. Totalitarianism, even if it is of American-corporate conglomerates, is a path to self-destruction. The question is, whose self is going to be destroyed?
Before I make another point in this direction, let me get this out of the way...
Fuck you James Cameron. And the other guy.
As I was saying, Avatar should make people think, "oh? The movie is a massive hit across the US? People must have really woken up to it that they are cheering for nine foot aliens to kick American G I Ass." But no. It does not. Because ultimately it is a cripple Marine who is so much better than the other people in America (cuz he don't have legs, he must be closer to the earth, non?) and has to ride a Dragon (Turok, Quake, I don't give two shits about its name) to convince the "tribe" with bow and arrows to let him lead them to mass-destruction before kicking them out, American style. Obviously the Dragon-Rider will become the leader of the People. So the White Man in the skin of the Black Man, becomes the master, again. How sweet. Happy fucking ending.
Fuck you motherfucker.
Avatar? More like, Atavar. At a war with everything that's against you. For if we are not with you, we are against you, aren't we? Wait, too much information to process for the humble follower of the Holy Church of Americana, so go back to rule number one. My God is a good God. Your god is a god starting with a small fucking 'g'. As I said earlier,
Fuck you motherfucker.
Now that my Avatar review is over. Lets go over Clash of the Titans. I am not even getting into the adherence/authenticity to the Greek Original. Come on people, get your heads out of your asses. Its fiction. Mythology. It can be adapted in any way they wanna adapt it. If they want to make the Christian, oops, sorry, American AllFather out of the Greek Zeus, let them do it. Now, we have Perseus, a man who is also son of god. Why, we just need a ghost. Oh wait... There is a ghost, Io, cursed never to age, how convenient, lets have Perseus screwing her. Now, what do we need... A bunch of religious fanatics who are fatalistic, willing to sacrifice themselves before the end comes. Wait, we can put a little matted hair in a bun on their heads and add red/white stripes on their foreheads. If we think that they are too much of a direct allusion to the "Hindoo" then Shame on us. Let Sufia Zinobia rip our heads apart. Its our narrow minded perception. There still remains something unfinished... Wait, they have got it. A Djinn. Is that an Arabic term? They did not know. They guy wears a turban, lives in a desert and is supposed to be eternal enemies to OUR people? Iskander says, Fuck me in the mouth. Are you sure that you are not talking about "Moslems" you know, the archetypal fundamentalists? No? You are making a secular movie? Oh right... This is meant for children. They watch it and grow up into Zombie-Americananites. Great. Awesome. Keep the good job up your ass.
Now that I have reviewed two movies in as many paragraphs, I would like to hear from you. What do you think of these movies? What other movies come to your mind when you think of this? Do you remember the classic Sharon Stone line from Alan Quartermain and the Lost city of Gold? "Oh, no! We have lost another (African-tribe-name) tribesman!"
03 April 2010
The Booklet
I get annoyed by Horny people.
It is a bother riding in the Summer with these people venting their frustrations on the vehicle before them. There has been so much said about the ill-effects of being so Horny all the time, but people do not seem to give a furry rat's ass about it. So finally I am erupting like a volcano to slam these mouther fulchers hard. Excuse the heavy sexual innuendos; I think its cuz I did some stretch this evening. MUST STO... CANT STOP!!!
Anywho... There are three kinds of Horny people;
Safehorn, Bullhorn, Horntalker
The Safehorn is your overcautious, I-am-moving-three-feet-to-my-left-so-I-am-honking person. This category generally occurs most with people who have recently made a transition from a bike to a car. More often than not, these people have meek horns which sound almost apologetic for even being honked. A safehorn is annoying most in relatively empty roads, where they honk waking babies to update non-existent vehicles on the turn they are taking!
The Bullhorn... grr... Blood boiling even thinking. I will come back to this.
The Horntalker. If you are annoyed easily when strangers are overly familiar, like I am, this is your killjoy. These are jobless people who honk because they think it is fun to talk to the other person riding in front. You can identify them by the specific pattern of honking. If you hear a Nokia standard SMS tune, you have found yourself a Horntalker. Biggest problem, apart from wanting to invent a shrink ray, shrink them and keep repeatedly kicking them after having injected them with ant-like toughness, is that the signals of one horntalker to another is so different that the horn ends up doing the opposite of what a horn should do; instead of giving a clear signal, it confuses you.
I have to come to the Bullhorn. These are idiots who have shoved their... because I am told that I have a family oriented audience reading my blog; some body part up/in the horn. They have distinct bigger-than-my-bike attitudes which spillover in the inappropriately loud/unmatching horns they keep honking, just because they have spent an extra grand on it. I am not a very violent person. But sometimes I wish that I can break these folks' foreheads against the dashboard. Am not that violent; ask the people who I have not beaten up.
There has not been any age-type pattern in all these three categories and slight overlaps are possible between these categories. However, it has been noticed that women with big cars are more often sucked into the Bullhorn category than men with big cars and interestingly the Bullhorn category is also full of men with small penises... I mean... Well, not men with small cars. Oops... Freudian silp!
By my classification, you must have realized that according to me, no honker is a good honker... you know, unless it really is a great honker! ;) winky wink! But coming to the point, all honking is pissing off. However, there are situations where one NEEDS to honk. They are;
To geniunely give a signal. Solution: Use a direction indicator light.
To passover a vehicle in front of you. Solution: Use the dimmer at night. In the day, go closer to the vehicle's tail light and nod your head. The other person's rearview mirror usually catches the driver at the tail and more often than not, this works. Also helps you keep your speed in control.
To reach your pregnant wife to the hospital. For God's sake man, don't cheap out on an Ambulance. They can drive even on the wrong side of the road.
Given that all my ideas are those in use already I am going to introduce my world changing concept; for there are always situations where the driver ahead is a dickhead and needs to be honked at. Hear me out. Honking at him/her is not going to change the bad way they drive. But my innovation is going to. Go for the drum roll now matey, for my innovation is....
The Booklet.
A simple booklet contains twenty five leaves and is issued out under specific drivers' names. A driver cannot have more than one booklet per year. Whenever a person in front is annoying you, you can choose to (a), suck it up and passover at the next signal without any issues. Or if your boss had shouted at you at work or somebody spilt scalding hot coffee on your pants, then you can choose to use the Booklet (which is option (b), btw).
To use the Booklet, simply move next to the annoying car at a signal, take a leaf from your booklet and fill out the car's number, nature of offence, time and date of the event and... Slap that mouther fulcher so hard on the face that it needs a towing truck to take his jaw back to the rest of his/her face. It is completely legal. More empowering than honking. Obviously more cathartic. Less accidents will occur. People will not go slapping the world, because, with just twenty five leaves per year, they will be forced to be very judicious. Since holiday season has a lot of people in an upbeat mood, the most natural time for using of the booklet is countered (because people realize that they have more than a few leaves left). This can also be checked by setting up some kind of a reward system for people who have many leaves left. So if a person gets slapped, he/she must have deserved it, for the person taking all this trouble. More importantly, if the receiver of the slap can prove that the slap was wrongly administered, he/she can always file a complaint because they have the leaf with the details of the driver who slapped them. If proven right, they can slap the original offender twice and if the plea is defeated, a heavy fine and three slaps will be imposed on the appealer.
Am I just a violent, feudal, old testament kinda guy? Or am I really on to something here? What do you think about the Booklet? I know you would like to slap someone! So ya, make this happen!
It is a bother riding in the Summer with these people venting their frustrations on the vehicle before them. There has been so much said about the ill-effects of being so Horny all the time, but people do not seem to give a furry rat's ass about it. So finally I am erupting like a volcano to slam these mouther fulchers hard. Excuse the heavy sexual innuendos; I think its cuz I did some stretch this evening. MUST STO... CANT STOP!!!
Anywho... There are three kinds of Horny people;
Safehorn, Bullhorn, Horntalker
The Safehorn is your overcautious, I-am-moving-three-feet-to-my-left-so-I-am-honking person. This category generally occurs most with people who have recently made a transition from a bike to a car. More often than not, these people have meek horns which sound almost apologetic for even being honked. A safehorn is annoying most in relatively empty roads, where they honk waking babies to update non-existent vehicles on the turn they are taking!
The Bullhorn... grr... Blood boiling even thinking. I will come back to this.
The Horntalker. If you are annoyed easily when strangers are overly familiar, like I am, this is your killjoy. These are jobless people who honk because they think it is fun to talk to the other person riding in front. You can identify them by the specific pattern of honking. If you hear a Nokia standard SMS tune, you have found yourself a Horntalker. Biggest problem, apart from wanting to invent a shrink ray, shrink them and keep repeatedly kicking them after having injected them with ant-like toughness, is that the signals of one horntalker to another is so different that the horn ends up doing the opposite of what a horn should do; instead of giving a clear signal, it confuses you.
I have to come to the Bullhorn. These are idiots who have shoved their... because I am told that I have a family oriented audience reading my blog; some body part up/in the horn. They have distinct bigger-than-my-bike attitudes which spillover in the inappropriately loud/unmatching horns they keep honking, just because they have spent an extra grand on it. I am not a very violent person. But sometimes I wish that I can break these folks' foreheads against the dashboard. Am not that violent; ask the people who I have not beaten up.
There has not been any age-type pattern in all these three categories and slight overlaps are possible between these categories. However, it has been noticed that women with big cars are more often sucked into the Bullhorn category than men with big cars and interestingly the Bullhorn category is also full of men with small penises... I mean... Well, not men with small cars. Oops... Freudian silp!
By my classification, you must have realized that according to me, no honker is a good honker... you know, unless it really is a great honker! ;) winky wink! But coming to the point, all honking is pissing off. However, there are situations where one NEEDS to honk. They are;
To geniunely give a signal. Solution: Use a direction indicator light.
To passover a vehicle in front of you. Solution: Use the dimmer at night. In the day, go closer to the vehicle's tail light and nod your head. The other person's rearview mirror usually catches the driver at the tail and more often than not, this works. Also helps you keep your speed in control.
To reach your pregnant wife to the hospital. For God's sake man, don't cheap out on an Ambulance. They can drive even on the wrong side of the road.
Given that all my ideas are those in use already I am going to introduce my world changing concept; for there are always situations where the driver ahead is a dickhead and needs to be honked at. Hear me out. Honking at him/her is not going to change the bad way they drive. But my innovation is going to. Go for the drum roll now matey, for my innovation is....
The Booklet.
A simple booklet contains twenty five leaves and is issued out under specific drivers' names. A driver cannot have more than one booklet per year. Whenever a person in front is annoying you, you can choose to (a), suck it up and passover at the next signal without any issues. Or if your boss had shouted at you at work or somebody spilt scalding hot coffee on your pants, then you can choose to use the Booklet (which is option (b), btw).
To use the Booklet, simply move next to the annoying car at a signal, take a leaf from your booklet and fill out the car's number, nature of offence, time and date of the event and... Slap that mouther fulcher so hard on the face that it needs a towing truck to take his jaw back to the rest of his/her face. It is completely legal. More empowering than honking. Obviously more cathartic. Less accidents will occur. People will not go slapping the world, because, with just twenty five leaves per year, they will be forced to be very judicious. Since holiday season has a lot of people in an upbeat mood, the most natural time for using of the booklet is countered (because people realize that they have more than a few leaves left). This can also be checked by setting up some kind of a reward system for people who have many leaves left. So if a person gets slapped, he/she must have deserved it, for the person taking all this trouble. More importantly, if the receiver of the slap can prove that the slap was wrongly administered, he/she can always file a complaint because they have the leaf with the details of the driver who slapped them. If proven right, they can slap the original offender twice and if the plea is defeated, a heavy fine and three slaps will be imposed on the appealer.
Am I just a violent, feudal, old testament kinda guy? Or am I really on to something here? What do you think about the Booklet? I know you would like to slap someone! So ya, make this happen!
17 March 2010
The Wrestler
Instant Classic.
I am a huge Wrestling Mark, a fan of over thirteen years, having followed about three major prowrestling companies in North America during the span. Some of the wrestlers, I have simply marked out of my skin for the amazing ability to entertain even without touching the other person in the ring. However, Hulk Hogan was someone that never impressed me. Though I have said, and on this very day, that no discussion of prowrestling in America can be done without Hogan, I stand by the idea that I am not impressed by a guy who has altered his routine very little during the past thirty years. But that does not take away from what he has done to the sport, both in the good and the bad way, and the amount of legitimate mainstream attention he brought to prowrestling. Hogan, even in his best years, was packaged by the media, twice his worth. The question is not something we ponder over on an everyday basis, but what if, Hogan had not been packaged so during the Rock n Wrestling era?
The answer is, he would have become, Randy The Ram Robinson. Caught between two worlds in and outside the ring, Mickey Rourke's portrayal of a wrestler's life in his twilight years shows that this is a movie not meant just for a wrestling fan, but for everyone. With just about three matches where Rourke fights (very ordinary matches at that), a wrestlign fan can simply youtube better fights. But what happens when a superstar is made to shift boxes for a living? There is no money in the independent circuits of wrestling, not for a guy like The Ram, and still he succumbs to the famous wrestler's sickness of wanting to fight one more match?
Following the above paragraph, I had about a month off writing blogs. Lot of things happened in that break; I presented a paper on pro wrestling; definitely a first in JU and maybe one of the first few in all of India (though Massachussets institute of technology offers a paper on it now). I also made my debut (solo debut, at least) as a director of a play, however short it was and small the audience be. With an exceptionellent cast and crew, going by the name, The (Insert Name) Theatrical Society, we proved that we were Tough Enough! I wanna continue that and prove myself to be dogged; so I am at it again; blogging. Btw, WM26 has gone by last week, we have two new champions and a great career ended. So This review goes out to all those tough men and women who go out there week in/week out to entertain us.
So is this a pure wrestling movie? NOT EVEN CLOSE! We get to see about four matches, not good in quality or length. The match against the Necro Butcher showed the spirit of Indy wrestling, but not so much the technicalities involved in a match. Of course, we saw how a match is "booked" (written to order) in current fashion contrasted to the Old School (where Ayatollah tells Randy, that he is the heel and Randy is the face, and that is how they are going to wrestle). The common viewer who has always sniggered at wrestling being "fake" now knows what goes on, but it truly does not focus on these details. Like any good movie, this follows the logic behind wrestling (and behind all entertainment), Kayfabe (Pig Latin for Fake). It is simple, actually. If you are watching a show like Scrubs or ER, you realize that Zack Braff/George Clooney is an actor playing a doctor. You do not expect him to come and do a heart transplant in the evening. So is Wrestling. And like any other movie where a single protagonist's struggle for identity shows a journey between his/her professional and personal lives, the Wrestler does too. Randy is a man past his prime, both in his career and his life. He is not someone too smart. He has not made the smartest choices in his life. But at this point of time where everything is slipping away and that dramatic turn around he needs so much does not seem to just happen for him, he figures out that he needs to cope with it as an isolated individual without a past or a future. He lives only with his legacy which is simultaneously both the past and the future. At this height of existential tension, Randy the Ram Robinson flies off the top rope to hit the RamJam (a flying headbutt, which is a personal favorite; Chris Benoit, you are missed. But that is another story).
Why do I think this is an excellent film?
It is a well-made film, and contrary to drama, well-made is a compliment to a movie. The casting is apt with each actor delivering their parts in a very intense and sufficient manner. Rourke is a revalation. I have not seen any of his early works, except Angel Heart. And his Marv is a totally different kind of a beast. And still he oozes charisma whenever he is in front of a camera and he looks a real tough guy. He translates this energy without much difficulty to the screen in one of the best, if not the best performance in a "sports" movie. Marisa Tomei is a dream who can reflect the many layered complexity in her character in such an underplayed live-through. Rachel Evan Woods occupies so little screen time to warrant such a rivetting performance. I initially was a little pissed to see Ernest The Kat Miller as the main event wrestler in the movie. The Kat, in his best night was an upper-mid-card comic heel (translates in movie slang as the Guru in Alan Quartermain's City of Gold). He had no business, in my opinion, main-eventing in a serious movie. Given that the real big names who are out of wrestling (like Stone Cold and the Rock are out of question), I considered people like Sid Vicious, one or both of the Steiner brothers, and even seriously for a moment thought about Diamond Dallas Page (despite his Ready to Rumble fiasco). But man was I proven wrong, because despite his limited body of work on TV, Miller is one of the best on the mic and he is a natural actor. So he more than justifies his selection. The camera work and the editng was unobtrusive (which is the best thing that can happen in a movie like this) and the music... That song, One Trick Pony, left me with a lump in my throat. It was perfectly positioned and it makes you want to say it will be alright to that guy on screen, though you know it will not be. This movie is a success for me, because it captures in essence what a Modern American Tragedy is all about.
I can keep talking about his movie forever, so let me sum up, by giving a kind of a fact/fiction glossary about some of the wrestling stuff that happens in this movie.
The blood is fake: No, as you saw, a blade is used. However, most wrestlers are not as careful as Randy the Ram. Hogan is a famous blader. This is also called Juicing.
Chair shots are fake: No. When you take a chair shot on your person, it hurts. You hope it hits on a flat surface like two forearms together or the back. If you take one on your head, you just pray that you dont have a concussion.
People don't die from wrestling. The number of wrestlers who have died under 40 is disturbing. Sometimes, if one of your favorite wrestlers who is not a maineventer simply stops appearing on screen, he/she might have died. Many promotions do not report unless the wrestler is in contract/or is a legend. RIP to all those nameless warriors.
Wrestlers make a lot of money, they keep wrestling because they are addicted. Few wrestlers make it to a big promotion where they get a paycheck every month. Most wrestlers die trying in Indy circuits where they are paid by the bout. Few retire at a healthy age. Most, even if they are in a big promotion, invest their money foolishly (except maybe JBL, who is a WallStreet wiz in real life) and end up over-working themselves.
Wrestlers are wusses in real life. Guys like the Undertaker, Booker T, Steve Blackman, Kurt Angle, Brock Lesnar and Randy Orton have legit cases of having engaged in physical confrontations off-wrestling, and all except maybe Orton are known to have kicked the other guy's ass.
If you have more queries, feel free to write in.
I am a huge Wrestling Mark, a fan of over thirteen years, having followed about three major prowrestling companies in North America during the span. Some of the wrestlers, I have simply marked out of my skin for the amazing ability to entertain even without touching the other person in the ring. However, Hulk Hogan was someone that never impressed me. Though I have said, and on this very day, that no discussion of prowrestling in America can be done without Hogan, I stand by the idea that I am not impressed by a guy who has altered his routine very little during the past thirty years. But that does not take away from what he has done to the sport, both in the good and the bad way, and the amount of legitimate mainstream attention he brought to prowrestling. Hogan, even in his best years, was packaged by the media, twice his worth. The question is not something we ponder over on an everyday basis, but what if, Hogan had not been packaged so during the Rock n Wrestling era?
The answer is, he would have become, Randy The Ram Robinson. Caught between two worlds in and outside the ring, Mickey Rourke's portrayal of a wrestler's life in his twilight years shows that this is a movie not meant just for a wrestling fan, but for everyone. With just about three matches where Rourke fights (very ordinary matches at that), a wrestlign fan can simply youtube better fights. But what happens when a superstar is made to shift boxes for a living? There is no money in the independent circuits of wrestling, not for a guy like The Ram, and still he succumbs to the famous wrestler's sickness of wanting to fight one more match?
Following the above paragraph, I had about a month off writing blogs. Lot of things happened in that break; I presented a paper on pro wrestling; definitely a first in JU and maybe one of the first few in all of India (though Massachussets institute of technology offers a paper on it now). I also made my debut (solo debut, at least) as a director of a play, however short it was and small the audience be. With an exceptionellent cast and crew, going by the name, The (Insert Name) Theatrical Society, we proved that we were Tough Enough! I wanna continue that and prove myself to be dogged; so I am at it again; blogging. Btw, WM26 has gone by last week, we have two new champions and a great career ended. So This review goes out to all those tough men and women who go out there week in/week out to entertain us.
So is this a pure wrestling movie? NOT EVEN CLOSE! We get to see about four matches, not good in quality or length. The match against the Necro Butcher showed the spirit of Indy wrestling, but not so much the technicalities involved in a match. Of course, we saw how a match is "booked" (written to order) in current fashion contrasted to the Old School (where Ayatollah tells Randy, that he is the heel and Randy is the face, and that is how they are going to wrestle). The common viewer who has always sniggered at wrestling being "fake" now knows what goes on, but it truly does not focus on these details. Like any good movie, this follows the logic behind wrestling (and behind all entertainment), Kayfabe (Pig Latin for Fake). It is simple, actually. If you are watching a show like Scrubs or ER, you realize that Zack Braff/George Clooney is an actor playing a doctor. You do not expect him to come and do a heart transplant in the evening. So is Wrestling. And like any other movie where a single protagonist's struggle for identity shows a journey between his/her professional and personal lives, the Wrestler does too. Randy is a man past his prime, both in his career and his life. He is not someone too smart. He has not made the smartest choices in his life. But at this point of time where everything is slipping away and that dramatic turn around he needs so much does not seem to just happen for him, he figures out that he needs to cope with it as an isolated individual without a past or a future. He lives only with his legacy which is simultaneously both the past and the future. At this height of existential tension, Randy the Ram Robinson flies off the top rope to hit the RamJam (a flying headbutt, which is a personal favorite; Chris Benoit, you are missed. But that is another story).
Why do I think this is an excellent film?
It is a well-made film, and contrary to drama, well-made is a compliment to a movie. The casting is apt with each actor delivering their parts in a very intense and sufficient manner. Rourke is a revalation. I have not seen any of his early works, except Angel Heart. And his Marv is a totally different kind of a beast. And still he oozes charisma whenever he is in front of a camera and he looks a real tough guy. He translates this energy without much difficulty to the screen in one of the best, if not the best performance in a "sports" movie. Marisa Tomei is a dream who can reflect the many layered complexity in her character in such an underplayed live-through. Rachel Evan Woods occupies so little screen time to warrant such a rivetting performance. I initially was a little pissed to see Ernest The Kat Miller as the main event wrestler in the movie. The Kat, in his best night was an upper-mid-card comic heel (translates in movie slang as the Guru in Alan Quartermain's City of Gold). He had no business, in my opinion, main-eventing in a serious movie. Given that the real big names who are out of wrestling (like Stone Cold and the Rock are out of question), I considered people like Sid Vicious, one or both of the Steiner brothers, and even seriously for a moment thought about Diamond Dallas Page (despite his Ready to Rumble fiasco). But man was I proven wrong, because despite his limited body of work on TV, Miller is one of the best on the mic and he is a natural actor. So he more than justifies his selection. The camera work and the editng was unobtrusive (which is the best thing that can happen in a movie like this) and the music... That song, One Trick Pony, left me with a lump in my throat. It was perfectly positioned and it makes you want to say it will be alright to that guy on screen, though you know it will not be. This movie is a success for me, because it captures in essence what a Modern American Tragedy is all about.
I can keep talking about his movie forever, so let me sum up, by giving a kind of a fact/fiction glossary about some of the wrestling stuff that happens in this movie.
The blood is fake: No, as you saw, a blade is used. However, most wrestlers are not as careful as Randy the Ram. Hogan is a famous blader. This is also called Juicing.
Chair shots are fake: No. When you take a chair shot on your person, it hurts. You hope it hits on a flat surface like two forearms together or the back. If you take one on your head, you just pray that you dont have a concussion.
People don't die from wrestling. The number of wrestlers who have died under 40 is disturbing. Sometimes, if one of your favorite wrestlers who is not a maineventer simply stops appearing on screen, he/she might have died. Many promotions do not report unless the wrestler is in contract/or is a legend. RIP to all those nameless warriors.
Wrestlers make a lot of money, they keep wrestling because they are addicted. Few wrestlers make it to a big promotion where they get a paycheck every month. Most wrestlers die trying in Indy circuits where they are paid by the bout. Few retire at a healthy age. Most, even if they are in a big promotion, invest their money foolishly (except maybe JBL, who is a WallStreet wiz in real life) and end up over-working themselves.
Wrestlers are wusses in real life. Guys like the Undertaker, Booker T, Steve Blackman, Kurt Angle, Brock Lesnar and Randy Orton have legit cases of having engaged in physical confrontations off-wrestling, and all except maybe Orton are known to have kicked the other guy's ass.
If you have more queries, feel free to write in.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)