Picturesque.

It happens before you know it, like the yearning to start your conversation with a metaphorical implication, using “like” to soothe and iron the mirror’s (whoever’s listening) likings. It happens because the worldview that you have been gathering is oscillating to a conforming people’s view like a hallucinatory trip almost everyday, punctually and almost consistently like a pendulum in vacuum. It happens because of a fundamental fear of slipping away like what you feel when you stand at the periphery of the sea, when the beach sand’s slipping away to the tune of the sea while you obey gravity and in this juxtaposition of existence, the byproduct fear, overestimates the sea’s presence beyond and submit to a horizon that makes you breathless.

The comfort found in cynicism could be compared to a harmless nicotine addiction. It bothers you to always find ground. While the ground is common to all, in its own way it controls, pulls and ties you to itself. In the metamorphosis of intellectualization this becomes a constant dilemma whether to cross this beautiful brook called charm using a swing called the wit.

Now, are you game enough to use the swing?, is the primordial question.

Ages after, the spirit of game has been comfortable and almost blissfully enjoyable that the swing swings so low almost kissing the brook, gently, passionately, curving ripples and making love through design. Patterns emerge.  An intention exists. The sportsman has become a traveller in a palanquin.

It has become picturesque.

Goon cake.

That’s it. End of the road. You just have no idea what has happened to you, do you?

So somethings have happened.

Nowadays it seems like there exists some kind of calm in unhappiness that it’s almost unimaginable to pass a day without it. It’s permanency in recent times are a concern. Earlier, I used to think it’s because of some perennial gap due to unmet satisfaction, but on closer reflection, it just seems like there just can’t be peace anymore that can be bought so cheaply like from a Rs. 10 Milkybar or stolen that easily like those times when it used to rain in Madras, the whole city gets flooded and you host paperboat races with Giri and his brother from FLAT 50/3. Everything has to pass through this mind. There just can’t be one side that’s winning. People won’t just shut up. It’s not raining that frequently. I want to walk in knee-deep water now! Maybe it’s because you don’t shut up. That is, I don’t shut up. Somewhere ago, I think I played the wrong ball again and this time the ball is stuck with goo.

Things are stuck like fevicol left-overs.

I love people. You know those simple logical fellows trying to be humble every chance they get? That guy who is waiting to get married just to hide his fundamental insecurities of not striking love? “Hey you know love marriages are overrated machi. Arranged is not that bad. Its about following traditions. Also all this atheism and all is just to look cool. They will read a couple of books and put off so much scene. They don’t know anything. Dostoyevsky Doy soap bajji Mannangatti. See this blogpost? My intelligent uncle who graduated from IIT-IIM knows so much about religion and he also feels the same.  People should be allowed to believe whatever they want. Listen, I am going to write a blogpost on my proud tradition, I’ll see you later okva?” and..You know that guy with many friends, marrying into the money with a fat dowry and also posting links about rape in FB? “What a shame to this country! I am ashamed to be a man. Here take scissors, cut my penis.” My favourite common-forever-alone-guy who (also a Calvin and Hobbes fan) constantly worries, “When do I get to take couple pics and upload pics? Nowadays not only the no. of likes matter, but the rate at which you are getting your likes also matter. Competition yaar. When is my chance to go to Bali on honeymoon?” Or that girl who just finds her lover in the right caste, speaking the right language, so righteous. Perfectly arranged love marriage. Or that good-looking friend of yours who is constantly worried about his hair and skin,  who says “Dude, who will marry man? Fuck, I just can’t imagine it, I just want a trophy wife”. I just found out that pretty people are happy because they are pretty. Or that girl who just has that boyfriend so she can tell her friends that she’s dooinit dooinit. “We did it in the car on the way to Pondy. It was so wild! No wait, it was Goa.” Or that friend who uses his friend’s failure for his own ego boost. Hehehe.

Things are people happening. 

I am yearning back to become emotional, feel stupidly special and impart misdirected self-importance to me to tingle that dormant ego. I want to cook up my own world, (that’s right, where is my world?) make opinions thinking that they matter, make people listen to me and make them care because that’s what gets the game going right?  “I mean why don’t you watch EPL or IPL or atleast just accept Sachin and ARR or at least one is God da, you are useless!” I don’t know man, it just seems the world is spinning too fast for this one, this me. Somehow commerce has made everything personal, impersonal. A public equity. If you say everything that strikes your numb head to everyone every minute then who is your muse? Which is why this blog-post is sitting here and talking to itself for like um..now it’s been a month. There is just no time to gaze, even before that, all that’s done is shared and diluted.

People make things happen.

I am fascinated about people becoming snobs because they possess above par knowledge. With information openly shared in the internet, all you need is someone to analytically apply and seed-in the most regarded opinion and there you go, you’ve got the next blogger who can educate (hey look! I know so many things am so awesome and mature) and amuse you to all glory. I call this knowledgeable gajabujagangzz. Educated trying to educate others. Somewhere in between many interesting things happen. Someone giving advice on what actually actually rape is. Someone trying to cheekily articulate his knowledge and masturbate his ego in a licensed moral ground. Some digging up mud somewhere to prove that Laad Krishna was on this heavenly, blessed Earth. Someone who watched a lot of Seth Rogen movies trying to act like him. Someone who is analytically pursuing to prove that Sachin is actually actually a legend. Someone who is trying so hard to not sound dumb. Self importance cognitively translated to group importance and the whole all is one,one is all card. Poor me who thought social media was just a bridge, now it’s like I need to build a bridge to walk out of it all the time.

Things are things. People are people.

So that’s that. All that’s left is to come to terms with underachievement and a sea full of underwhelming cynical wonderment? Nope, maybe not. I still like Dosa. Lot of things may happen and I can control whether I can become subject to any forthcoming constraint. I hate control. It’s when as we gain control we realize how little control we have over things. I think someone said that change can be brought on by sustained logical thinking and keeping things simple, one step at a time, no need for revolutionary heroism. You know, those simple, ordinary people trying to be ordinary all the time. Yes, even that has become fashionable, thanks to Murakami maybe. I saw Cloud Atlas and Life of Pi and reason has made me indifferent to both these films. It would have been a different story five years ago. I am tired of fighting with myself.

Things have happened.

I recently got drunk with my brother. Jagermeister and Jameson. We were at a friend’s place. It was a good evening except my brother drank so much that he lost control. We were driving back home when in between he got this sudden urge to meet one of our cousins, who was in Chennai at that time. A cousin who he felt had been close to him (they belonged to the same group) when they were young but have seemingly grown apart. Of course, alcohol helped him suddenly see this. I didn’t argue much. I wanted to see him as well. But things happened when we met him. My brother made it evident that these things happen and that they shouldn’t let him grow apart from the people he used to love, things that he used to cherish. He grew so vivid with my cousin, drunk-hugging him and reminiscing constantly as I watched him in awe. I could never see myself feel that openly about someone.

Things have become pretentious.  

Catching Up #6

The fascination behind The Artist, for me, would be it’s unexpected charm with which it was entertaining (unendingly, so) and boy it just didn’t stop.

It’s hard to complain about life once you watch Valentin’s pet dog. 

More than just a lucky charm with Jean Dujardin in the lead I am now unable to think of anyone who would’ve waltzed the role with such heart-breaking affection. Probably Johnny Depp. Clooney’s eyebrows are lazy mostly. Probably someone/anyone from a TimBurton/JeanPierreJuenet film, maybe the Big Fish, yes a taller, thinner Danny De Vito perhaps. But this again could be (the reason for searching peculiar faces) due to the treatment of film in duscussion. A stage to shine one’s charm. The old-world showbiz talent. A picturesque emotional travelogue. That propelling “மிகைத்தன்மை” that punctuates the unique charm of an actor, also recently discussed in a NeeyaNaana show too, here, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YSaBuRmVEU8&feature=related (commercial “exaggeration” vs. realism in cinema).

99 francs (2007), an unwittingly energetic look at the world of advertisement and art, is how I got introduced to Jean Dujardin. Eyebrows and eyes almost constantly communicating with an innocuously naive outlook at life that may dare question only when they meet someone more than just an acquaintance, more than just a walking, miming human being. Probably that’s how the film and it’s characters look at us, the audience, for a childish peck on the cheek. The Artist was pacing, no, almost dancing with an ease that it constantly brought up the question behind the dialogue narrative that came up later into films. Then you think, Dialogues just seem so tedious, don’t they?

puppeeee.


Just, look at that dog. Why would you want it to talk and mess up what you have? (IDEALISTICSIGH)


“It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious.” Oscar Wilde.

Valentin’s stubborn art pride later smoothened by romance, Peppy Miller’s gamechanging peppiness and the suave reconciliation through dance, alltogether an adorable film it shaped by the end, that it was made for a loud applause and a happier audience. An unbreakable charm was the sole talent, with dialogues came more nuances to transform the art into something else that we see today. The film gives us many chances through these human silences, cartooning the drama and emoting through a constant adoration of both the art and it’s artists. How easily that driver Cliffon-Valentin friendship was sold. Was it because of the minimalistic effort? Many trinkets to wander about film philosophy and how this (still young) medium communicates with us. Some of them still in memory are- the beginning scenes where Valentin realizes that he has fallen for Peppy Miller (Berenice Bejo) dancing through a crowd, she might just not be another extra in his films that are predominantly silent, except for his loud charm to fill up the romantic stage or vice-versa when Peppy amuses herself in his changing room. An ingenious dream sequence where we understand Valentin’s confusion with the addition of atmospheric sounds, the key crux of the film, where the artist is lost in reality “out of the art” but in a dream. Like a blind painter able to see his paintings, stuck in delirious peril and utter inivisibility, something a blind person might consider as hell. 

Common place, The Artist is just adorable.

Valentin’s movies made a lot of money without having to open his mouth.

Dujardin’s ummm… did not do that well (32 million in U.S), but hey, he got an Oscar. (whatever that counts.)

Hugo took 150 million to make and it has made only 70 million, fetched 5 Oscars. (did you see a pattern? :O)

I also saw “A Separation”, after a long time a film that made me hold my breath, as Prakash here, http://clapsandboos.com/w/#article/20034f1e4708353875_37035656_01 writes in an unique dialogue, the film achieves an unbiased morality that hangs around long after it’s over. Lingering.

We also see Scorsese’s film late last year (another Oscar magnet that ended up with 5 Oscars) a cheerful adaptation of Brian Selznick’s book the Invention of Hugo. Another tribute to film and specifically to one of it’s pioneers. “The Father of Visual Effects”. Suddenly it’s not only just Woody Allen anymore with all the affectionate referencing.

The film’s initial scenes, the one where we end up with Hugo’s eye (at the “4” – it’s 7 o’ clock) checking on the station Inspector (Sacha Baron Cohen) after floating through the station,almost like a train and the one where we end up with the toy store “Confiserie Et Jouets” (Confectionery and Toys) (more exactly the shop owner’s eye trying to disillusion/catch the boy about to pilfer, by luring him with a “toy mouse”) after he runs around settings that are wondefully mechanical, a crafty “panache”. The boy slides down a ladder, skates winding down (almost like a play pen), climbs up a winding staircase in a house of complex clockwork. An eye to the Montparnasse station, somewhere in Paris is where Robert Richardson invites us to.

Selznick’s fictional character Hugo is an orphan who “fixes” clocks at a raliway station in Paris (late 1920s-early 1930s). His father (played by Jude Law)dies in a fire accident (shown in the film “by opening a closed door” in the museum) but only after inspiring Hugo on fixing a broken automaton he had discovered. Later, Hugo is taken care by his alcoholic uncle Claude Cabret who also dies after teaching him how to fix clocks. All though, he later ends up “fixing” something else of greater interest.

As the plot moves forward, we find Hugo meeting Isabelle, a girl who lives with this old toy shop owner along with his wife. Later the boy’s (and girl’s) adventures in the station under the strict eye of Inspector (under-used) lead them to know more and more about this strange old shop owner and his magically mysterious past. Yes, George Melies! and Yes, Ben Kingsley!

Isabelle and Hugo. (HEARTshapedKEY)

From libraries to actual Melies film footage, Scorsese actually takes us back in time or rather enlightens us about the earliest pioneers of the medium. Melies saw film as an imaginative illusion, but what’s more interesting is his length of imagination. Well, least said, he went to the moon long before everyone did, the first sci-fi film ever.

Moreover, in the relation to the film, it’s interesting that the automaton’s that appear in the film were real. (shows the length of Scorsese’s perfection). Here Selznick himself is baffled.

Whistle Hustle.

A few months back, I had gone to the theatres to watch John Carter (4th row from behind the back, I think, accompanied unfortunately by family) and as soon as Taylor Kitsch jumped up the air to interfere in that Barsoom mid-air war scene, set in a pretentiously kitschy setting ,whistles started to whiplash from around the back seats. Now, at that time, some part of me wanted to whistle is another matter (you see why I said “unfortunately by family”?). (That these same whistles made entry during Deja Thoris’s (Lynn Collins) entry is another matter -note: iron-clad skimpiness) , but these whistles were the same ones that filled the hall when I watched Surya in Ezham Arivu and Ajith in Billa and Vijay in umm.. (it’s been a long time since I watched an Ilaya Thalapathy’s movie), well never mind, but by now it’s obvious that it’s just not about the whistles.

Although, what was interesting in the John Carter film is that it reminded me of the wide Transformers (also replace Deja Thoris with Megan Fox’s strategically angled bike seat entry, yeah well come on!, it was obvious) fanship that had gathered around in metro cities last year, like forest fire. Megatron could very well match a Vishal or a Jeeva here. But the key being, John Carter is a film that had hit the theatres for the first time, Edgar Rice Burroughs’ (Tarzan’s creator) first of Barsoom series (A Princess from Mars), hence the characters that walked on screen were totally new and still Carter’s long jump got the same treatment as Dhanush’s triple swirl somersault in Sullan or Vijay’s facing-the-villain-sodakkusodakku (insert “seriously guys, there is only one Rajini” dialogue) or Ajith’s demonic laugh, say, here {http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KFEvLfauKYE} . It’s interesting to note how the heroism trope works among us. It’s almost so easy for us to embrace a hero jumping 30 storeys high to land on a space shuttle for the first time (allthough, here it has a scientifically constructive explanation, not that it matters, because the adoration is equanimous) and this, {http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FdAJtmiFvVk&feature=related} (say), like a hundred times.

As much as cinema in Tamil filmdom has changed and extensive hero worship has annealed (I would rather call Vijay, Ajith, Surya and Vikram a compulsive hangover) to a comfortably warm region, we still have films like Vettai with a pudgy Madhavan trying to relinquish the fact that during his thinner days where he used to Run more often, he was the one who closed the shutter i.e “Ennake Shutter moodriya?” or roughly something like that. Yes, self-laudatory punch is the new “coming back to formula film” milieu while two cheery heroines {ofcourse one of them should be a Sameera Reddy or a Tamanna (cuz she’s the real Theni-maavatta ponnu) to do/dance/hip-swing the village belle template} sing a “naughty” song about their prospective husbands while the group dancers alone are not that priveleged enough to be bright or that fair and lovely. These are trinkets in our film universe that have formed a natural trope (that has grown tolerable) of that Migaithanmai (yet again am forced to invoke that link, because it’s a very well talked debate in Neeya Naana), here {http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fo5rQTBRejM}. What I found interesting is when Radha Mohan cheekily pleads our heroes to avoid the bullet-biting and later spitting it out like an aftermath of a paan-debacle. But what’s more confusing is to see when people take a constant dig at Vijaykanth for his antics while Vijay, Ajith and other Tamil heroes are forced to take part in the very same circus, almost like they are all part of a wicked Tim Burton plan.

Also, simultaneously there are films like Kadhalil Sodhappuvadhu Epdi that has Sidhharth narrating the film relentlessly to us ( a little tiresome, but defniitely enjoyable) and I heard the same audiences giggle at those well-etched simple witty moments. I am sure they were smiling too.

With respect to Udhav’s piece {http://clapsandboos.com/w/c/article/20034f65166a0663c2_66886175_01/gazing-at-our-hero}, when Nanban was about to realease, it was talked about almost (too quickly) as if Vijay has graciously come out of it his “usual template film” and that his fans might look out for something “different” (yes, different is the word we easily borrow many times) and soon after the film delivered, critics took notice of this new Vijay in a clearer, or rather “different” light. But here, there is a need for a rational gaze and it can go both ways. The fact that Vijay had chosen to do this film creates an argument that tickles his fanship. In ordinary journalistic terms, “Did he select the film because he liked Pari’s character and thought he could do justice to it?” or was it just a curt finger squiggling under the thundu since it was a Shankar-banner and he has been jumping and fighting (mundane) too long that his audience (note: his audience) started whistling for somebody else? Or maybe his legs were just paining. Also, after the film, do all his fans think about how much the Pari character is in consistency with his earlier “loose-unbuttoned-shirt-sporting-rough-tough-uneducated-mechanic doing street justice with hooligans” or maybe all these string of questions don’t have a purpose, because each film is mutually exclusive? Well that’s for the (whistles) to know and these heroes to be worried about constantly. The actors who fortunately/unfortunately fall under this trope (hero, in this case) becomes a puppet of audience obssession.

I also read Sabari’s interesting piece on the “Psychology of Hero worship” (http://clapsandboos.com/w/#article/20034f68b8b41e8419_78008647_01) and stumbled upon this blog by the same Eric Klein (http://dharmaconsulting.com/2008/hero/) and he explains with a specific example of Mighty Mouse (http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dTGGFctDfJw/S9Z0HH3KTuI/AAAAAAAAAAM/F0yubCC0H40/s1600/mighty-mouse-movie.jpg) and after reading it we come dangerously close to whether our films need to come with a parental advice viz. “Please do not try this at home” (cc: WWE). The question is whether we treat our films with the same failed seriousness as that of Tom and Jerry. If so, I would like to make a cutout for Speedy Gonzalez and do melted cheese abhishegam (Oh, nothing big, just something like this—> I mean; http://www.sify.com/movies/Paal-abhishekam-for-Rajini-on-opening-day-imagegallery-kollywood-kkbqykgcfag.html?html=5), because Speedy taught me how to help/stand for a friend even when he is slow (Slowpoke)- he brought the good qualities inside me and made me a better person, hence. Is Surya’s Singam treated with the same predetermined playfulness? How much do we take from our films? Do we really need to take anything from a film? If so what is that we take. Well whatever *that* maybe, there seems to be a need for more rational sense for our godmen heroes (http://reviews.in.88db.com/images/Velayudham-Audio-Launch/Velayudham-Audio-Launch-photos.jpg; http://mrinkenti.files.wordpress.com/2011/04/pawankalyan_cutout.jpg) to come out of our nostalgic classroomgiri (remember the days when we used to fight about Rajini and Kamal?), out of our Sura vs Billa, out of ourselves.

Times are a changing. There is only so much one can believe from what’s on the screen. Ofcourse, this is something different (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eI1KhOP3St4) 😀

Melancholia.

This time it was that glorious epiphany-type connect. From reading Stephen Davis’ Morrison biography Life, Legend, Death to highlighting the books Morrison used to carry with himself wherever he went, to reading one of them i.e. Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil and finally being led into the very mind-numbing evil itself, yes, Lars Von Trier.

Incidentally, when I was reading Neitzsche’s B and E, Chap. III p.47 where he talks about religious moods and saints,

"in the background of the most recent philosophy, that of Schopenhauer, we find almost as the problem in itself, this
terrible note of interrogation of the religious crisis and awakening. How is the negation of will POSSIBLE?
how is the saint possible?—that seems to have been the very question with which Schopenhauer made a start
and became a philosopher. And thus it was a genuine Schopenhauerian consequence, that his most convinced
adherent (perhaps also his last, as far as Germany is concerned), namely, Richard Wagner, should bring his
own life− work to an end just here.."

Perhaps what’s more interesting is this thematic cloud that Trier has chosen to end the world with.

Earlier this year, Ebert recorded in his journals, that of Trier’s Cannes visit, as neutrally as he tries, there seems to be a confident dismissal of a crazy nut of a man , just like how Trier has chosen to dismiss almost everything in this world crazy nut of a world, his films being exceptions. The journal ends with how the crowd wished for Malick to be present and Trier to go away. If only Malick shows up people would know his art upheaval and versions of the world. Who knows what that can bring up? Melancholia certainly more than matches up the positivism and humanity yearned for in Tree of Life.

Trier is one of those very few sincere ones hoping for an apocalyptic 2012, if not praying solemnly for it, in blue melancholy. In terms of recurring philosophy, one must be content that Mr. Trier is one of those stubborn upon his existential explanation, clear if not confident about his clinical depression and for what it’s worth, he had all his fun on that crazy drunken night that Antichrist was. For post-Antichrist, I honestly thought he had lost all coherence. A sense of reassurance atleast with respect to that, in Melancholia. Ofcourse, given to the highly unsociable Trier and his stubborn individualistic viewpoints, this sci-fi film is remotely conventionally-sci-fi. One cannot expect a city from War of the Worlds to be ransacked and thousands of people thrown around crying.

Trier’s two-part drama is, visually, his most stunning work. In fact, this time, he made what he wanted to see, for real, the bigger picture of it all. The extinction of it all, the futility behind it and the execution grandiose finale- a sense of receiving, a coming to the audience. The film begins with what seems to be paintings/aural visuals in motion (an arbitrary kitschy tool in Antichrist and a failed one now it seems), the beautiful bride forced/pulled to the Earth by roots of nature, mankind accepting impending doom, which comes through the dance of a deadly but friendly blue planet (much bigger than the Earth) crashing onto the Earth, destroying it or rather dissipating it into the oblivion. So, to sum-up, an astronomical apocalypse with a dash of Kubrick-an audacity and excerpts from Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde in the background. Then, he would start rendering his story around this.

The film comes with a newly-wed couple Justine (Kirsten Dunst) and Michael (Alexander Skarsgård) struggling to turn around a long white limo, uphill a winding road and each has to take their turn (the driver, the husband and the wife) before they arrive late to their wedding party in what appears to be a big estate of sorts where her sister Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg) lives with her husband John (Kiefer Sutherland) and son Leo. Just when you think whatinthefucksname, Trier gets uncomfortably close to the Hollywood Wedding Movies stupor involving speeches and toasts. If you closely notice there are hardly 10 tables around (Trier can’t manage more than that I guess).

But in all this he quietly dispositions all that is about to crumble. All it needs is a drunk dad, Dexter played by John Hurt to talk about his marriage-on-the-verge to the public. His wife gets up calling it a load of crap firstly into his accusations and gets into more about the lack of ambition in Justine, which as a domineering mother she publicly appreciates in Claire. Charlotte Rampling as Gaby, the critical mother fueling sibling-complex, trying to pull down Justine on her own marriage, calling it something that should be enjoyed while it lasts. While Claire simultaneously proud of her mother’s public comment about she arranging a fabulous “partay” comes around to take control, she shouts back at her mother’s speech when she goes over board“Why did you even bother coming”  perhaps John’s friends are there because he’s seen munching in controlled anger. Note: John calls both his wife’s female family members, bitches, to his own wife. Soon you’ll know the interludes that connect this wonderfully fucked-up family.

As Trier breaks his knuckles one by one of the familial bourgeois-dysfunctional, one becomes aware of all that’s selfish and exists as a farce in a family(Festen?). Before you know it, a deep-set ground-reality along with melancholy sets within the bride (clinically depressed) and nothing would change this, not even a husband in love and is willing to express his care, not even a lucrative , prospective career offer in advertising (Stellan Skarsgard in a cameo-corporate, Jack), not even a drunken-happy-bear-of-a-dad who knows only to desert his daughter on her wedding night for buxom women who go by the name Betty before the dessert’s been set.

There is a high point of humour underneath all this, perhaps that’s where all the melancholic grief could be yielded, for the depressed could laugh at the pointlessness of it all. Marriage, Money, Family , Sex disregarded distributed, Art carelessly rearranged even Science suicidal in shame.

The second act pulls the duality seen between Claire and Justine to the center-stage. Earlier with respect to the chaos reigns, the bean lottery, considered as a man made chaos game, Udo Kier (as an insignificant butler) when explaining that there were 678 beans and no one guessed it right (all the guests came pretty close), this incredibly trivial matter seems to be thrown away and somehow comes up in the second act- an intentional calibration. The other would be John, a fellow-manager of the apocalypse, giving hope to Claire-like people, the intelligent scientific man who studies things, almost proud and humble at the same time watching Melancholia pass away, but can’t live minutes watching it approach. (Nietzsche’s satyr?). Also among many things came an astrological reference, when Justine finds Taurus missing in the constellation, sitting on Abraham (the horse), reminds us that Kirsten Dunst ,who also appears to be in depression while shooting and Lars von Trier share the same sun sign (Taurus), oh wait same birthday.

As the knowing of the impending dawns, it’s interesting how Claire tries to exist. It was all about wailing and crying with her son’s future held in her arms and a whole run around the estate in futility and exhaustion. In fact, till the very end, Claire seems to suffer with Melancholia’s arrival, as all three (Justine, Claire and Leo) are washed with it’s blue atmosphere. Even Justine claims she tried earlier in human normalcy- she kindly asks, “Well, what did you expect?” to Michael about her marriage and meekly asserts “Well, I tried” to her sister about her trying to be happy. Everyone tries, some give up sooner than most.

As a melancholic pristine Justine watches over suffering humanity, Claire, nascent innocence (Leo) has it’s eyes closed. Melancholia crashes, silence. Trier really has made his statement this time. Well, he tried.

We could choose to be Michael and gracefully shoulder our coats over and walk away.

Depression could be understood, not shared, or atleast one can hope.

Sigh, Meanwhile, Watch this, TRIERchuckle.

Dive.

I am getting old.

But its like, I have always been this way, kinda thing, this getting old thing. Anyways thought I’ll blog it and see what comes out. That never gets old right? Heh. Anyways, I find a sweet sense of hatred in me nowadays. Good refreshing hate. Also, luckily, refreshing love, love is there somewhere too. But somehow this place and time living has become easy(yes, that’s how I refer boring as) for me. That is the problem and the solution isnt it? Fucking glorious paradox. Whether its people or their redundant wavelike emotions , up and down , UP and DOWN, or their insecurties getting more predictably annoying day by day and you getting annoyed at youself . Haha, So much fun. Predictable waves. Random waves, my toothache or my dinner skipping habits or the pigeons that stay outside my window and pose for silhouettes all day and night! What do I do? Fuck with them?

I clearly don’t belong here. Sometimes I think not in this world only. Abe!, (yes I have started using that a lot nowadays ) am serious yaar. My roommate often says, “We all need something to look forward to and someone to love, I mean that’s what everyone wants in the end right?” and he was not even asking for my approval. He just smiled proudly. A broad knowing smile. He is getting married in December. He will be 22 when he does. *Should I not ? Should I? Should I not? Should I?* mmmm… ok, fuck it–> He is Mellu. (*Curses you for judging, also if you find it any racist/offensive, you are RIGHT, make me famous*) Also after that delhiboyoutrage have been getting some interesting links. Caught this.

With that thought I’ll continewww, EH-nyways, “I think people seem so surfacially afraid of what’s deep down. Floating to the next horizon floating and panting. Surfacial surfers. Shouldn’t drown shouldn’t drown. No, surfacially surfing sufferers. Yes. Not wishing to look down and worry the depth, or atleast ponder. Have to surf. Surf. Surf till the sun sets and surf the next day too. I just choose to float and look above. Am I right? Please tell me I am. I mean there should be someone doing this right?”

 Hello fellow surfer skimming through my blogpost, Wassa? How’ve you been?”

Sometimes I just love animation films. They just make sense like in one just grand heart warming simplicity. Watched Surf’s Up recently and was wondering why it is called surf-ing . Perhaps the surfers got too lazy they didn’t even want to tell the word surface fully, just surf- that’s it. Well fuck your inner Pink Floyd and wipe all the Cold-play that you’ll ever have in you.

Existence shouldn’t be this tough. You just be. But beyond a goal it seems like , there are no goals, you can get whatever you want , it’s all fucking there. When, your ambition has chosen to spread an easy chair and recline to music. When, your senses have become sensible enough to stop proving to any cultural paradigm. When, your vision can’t get any clearer, because if it does, then you become a control freak. Like a fucking machine. Counting minutes and making schedules for your precious human design. Oh am working out, oh this is my catching-up-with-movies time. Well When is dowhateverthefuckyoufeel like time? Do you need a smartphone to remind you of this pointless idealogical metaphor, time? and make a parody of plans?

Then there are those comfortable cynics justifying themselves by throwing sharp arrows at these cute, bubble blowing romantics when one could’ve easily popped them up cheerfully with their hands (or just let it go!), Sighabeyaar, forget them romantic bubblers who wanna live inside them. Let them.

Let them cynics give up and dig their own profound peaceful grave while poets seem to medidate down near the sea bed.

Sigh, all seems like a fucking adventure doesnt it?

Let’s dive in. Come. Let’s get some poetry.

Twitconvos #1

@equanimus First of all,Thanks for the refining insight. I must assert here now itself, that my fanboyism for Bala is not a hangover of his creations. It has grown without myself knowing it. Also, Bala is daring and thus a provocateur and not vice versa , you know NOT like a Gaspar Noe where his trangression started from his love-hate relationship with French street movement (also social resent), Bala hasn’t travelled extensively in those regions.

OK, As always it is fascinating to discuss Bala films, I respond in humility wrt to his work. You must have noticed that I had included the word Parpaniyam as only a subtle rebellion. In fact even though Bala affirms his friendship with Jeyamohan in that second interview, for the sharp question as to why the beggars in Naan Kadavul were shown to be sporting the Indian flag, he casually replies, “It was to show that, you know that these people are also from India( a need to be shown as a part of a country)”. It is here clear in fact that he is far away from any Tamil diaspora seditionist views or segmentation for autonomy. Also about what you said about Dravidian ideology, a little personal thought, here(What follows are my personal views, may not be enitirely acceptable). Earlier I did a similar tease with respect to a small segment in Enthiran, but later about that. Let me take a bite. With the acceleration of globalisation, film has again become one of the most active mediums to get influenced and to influence (am talking about the commerce that “sells” nowadays).In that perspestive, what Bala has to offer, probably has more girth if not technical grandeur and more importantly with respect to the discussion, a definite purpose. With this in mind, Bala’s films uncannily trace the stories if people who are in the “upliftment” process.Though Bala considers them as equals demolishing politely (“soft dismissal” if you may)anything and everything that brings a difference in societal recognition and placement. One of those, especially prevelant in his tsubversive habits is RELIGION.

He decides to call it off one day, by stating Naan Kadavul. He sees God in everyone.

“And nAn kadavuL topped it all and was clearly identified as a film with Hindutva leanings. Some people then attributed this to Jeyamohan, who’s well known for his Hindu/India sympathies, wrongly so in my reading. The overarching mystique angle, the visceral good vs. evil narrative and the mythical godlike hero are all patently Bala’s signature. Jeyamohan is far too rigourous for this sort of stuff.”

As I understood what you were trying to convey in this, it’s hard not to go more into the fascinating dialogue that Naan Kadavul puts.
It’s “not only” a brash take on theology. Debased with a pot smoking guy who apparently knows it all, by falling into the habits of a rare occult. Atheism, as you know has been closely knitted with the Dravidian movement. It was(is?!) it’s core socio-emotional arm.It forms the basic structural platform against MertharathuMakkal. But Bala is simple and single layered in his allegory.

He, most progressively put is in an emotional voyage atleast WRT to his film works. Naan Kadavul’s dialogue is a constant and a simple one. There were confused responses as to what Arya with held in the film, especially among Tamil reviewers (am taking simple examples here). From what I see, Rudran on the surface level is a ruthless pot smoking ruggard in the symbols of a rare occult that Bala got fascinated with during his visit.—I came across an interesting tidbit about Bala from a friend a couple of days back(probably you’d know this already but still am typing). Bala during his “lost” days (after Pithamagan shooting)was seen to be kicking around and playing with Manda Odus (human skulls) in cemetries. A vettiyan was watching this. After some time, when Bala’s father had passed away and after the burnt body bones had to be treated with a certain orthodox procedure (he was asked to take the bones in the left hand) and Bala refused, “This is my Dad why should I use my left hand?”, That’s when the vettiyan had questioned his skull kicking. And that apprently hit Bala a lot.

Coming back, Rudran was an extrapolation of Chiththan in Pithamagan; an angry dialogue. As far it goes, Bala weighs the importance of what Rudran says in the holy script and what Chiththan mumbles at the graveyard in the same way. If some saw what Rudran had to say with his Aham Brahmasmi (I also saw someone getting all spiritual and shit during a certain padathodakka vizha talking about the “vibrations” of that word). Bala was in a phantasmagoric search for a higher meaning, more than patronizing, I repeat “DOES NOT patronize”. It would remain the same old gibberish to him. He was interested more about the “Irakkamilla Kangal” of Arya and how to exploit it in the grand stage that can be ruthlessly and almost liberatingly set by an Aghori, bad mouthing away into glory. The story was hardly about this character. It was Bala there, again testimony to the fact that all his characters are him , in some/a major way.

His God is about the unfairness of life and the struggle to find fairness/self-respect among people(Beggars are people, was the statement). In fact there were some immediate thoughts in me after I wacthed the film, sort of philosophical-epiphany if you may that “the poorest man in the most senstive man and thus the most emotionally receptive” feeling the rythm and pulse of daily life that he is almost able to see God within himself. Now Arya is just the pissed Off Bala is just directing us to see these people. There is an odd scene where Rudran sits on a rock and near a temple, almost like some unwarrant entry of an unwanted person near a place where there is much need.

We also see a blind Pooja dragging herslef to Aarya for help and a dumbstruck Laila in the rain running to Chiththan after she sees Shakthi getting help. Both need help. In some form/way. Bala I think, chooses to meditate at this point. His vision of God is someone who makes his entry here. Here , at this point. Pooja is crying, like a Sita (some Hindus would say) and here, where is Krishna? But in real nothing happens. This is not good Vs Evil. It is Humans Vs God. Humans are God. And if at this critical juncture if the observant critic chooses to place Rudran as God, (am stifling a laugh here), you know where I am going with this.
A new Human Design, if you may, that Bala has tried in all his happiness with his characters prior to this “incident”. In fact, given to the repeatedness of this in his films, Bala is “Yearning” in all forms. It’s(has been)part of his life. He wants to say, It’s part of everyone’s.

Regarding his earlier films, I must say, it was too early to look too much into his subversive habits and stereotypes, but any insight is a welcome as such. But recognising his stereotypes is important, I think. I mean whether or not his films fuel Dravidian support is one thing, but there is a “soft dismissal” regarding his reactions towards paarpaniyam. Also, whatisthere if I choose to look into more? If one does it with Carnatic music , sipping filter kaapi, why not into this? Even so , I am more ready to believe that Bala is in a cloak of pan-Indian manouvre to make people indulge in such speculatory teases (choose what to believe right? Freedom of belief right?). I atleast think so. Please don’t take this as a defense. I guess , if you think my response has been a little opinionated, then I wish to contribute this to a result of a very moronic/opinionated critic given by J_A_F_B(with all due respect) in BR’s comments section (Avan Ivan).