Loonville

If you think Yashraj movies with rahuls, rohits, riyas and tinas; the song-dance routine and the mindless inanity are just perfect, don’t even bother reading ahead.While my movie quotient is just about average, I thought I had seen all that there was to be seen, atleast most of them. Then came along Michael Haneke and his brand of repugnant(?) films.

Funny Games, the latest from the Haneke stable, is intriguing. I don’t know what to make of it. The Newyork Times calls it “a vicious attack on innocent people, on the screen and in the theater.” Yet the MOMA retrospective calls him a blend of Dostoevsky and Turgenev. He picks the Cannes grand jury award yet the festival audience boos him.

Funny Games (2007) is a shot-by-shot remake of the 1997 version in German, a watershed moment for Haneke. Then came along other films, including Cache and The Piano teacher, brilliant movies a touch disturbing albeit.Funny games is no different though his brand of film-making requires a lot of stomach.

A family of three, Ann (Naomi Watts), George and Georgie settle into their vacation home where they meet a couple of suave young men (Michael Pitt’s one of them) who methodically get into torturing them over the course of the night. Motive ? Pitt gives a long discourse on unhappy childhood, sexual proclivities and the usual wisdom. That’s where Haneke gets you by the balls. The entire monologue is meant to be a parody, superficial. There is no motive, no cause-effect explanation offered. Pitt as the cold, icy murderer excels and Watts gives yet an another stellar performance. But Haneke takes the cake, pushes you well over the edge.

Mindless gore and blood, I can understand that. But the treatment in all the three Haneke movies I have seen is far too subtle and chilling. The camera just stays there and captures the gory details with disinterested objectivity. At times, it just goes over to a passive observer and the gory details escape the frame. None of the ostentatious zooms and pans.The result, it gets really creepy. If one had any brains, the realization that Haneke is having your own head fuck with your mind dawns. In fact you get an insight into your own repressive tendencies. And then the defence mechanism kicks in, we cry foul and cavil at Haneke, the “perverted filmmaker” Yet one endures it for reasons I cannot fathom.

Haneke proclaims it to be a reaction to American cinema, its violence and naivety. One can’t help but wonder if his movies are nothing but an extension of the same. However there is an element of Dostoevskian purity to the movies and that keeps you wondering if you have missed a certain undertone. I have racked my brains yet have failed to understand. I have barely scratched at the surface. Is Haneke mocking us ? Or am I looking for meaning where no reason is possible? Are there multiple layers of understanding? I suggest you find out for yourself; if you can digest it. There is no denying the brilliance, though the nature of it is open to question. Sadism/perversion or is it genius ahead of its time ? I wouldn’t dare take a guess. If you have an insight into how this works, I would be more than glad to hear from you.

Update: I suggest you watch the movies in the chronological order. The latter movies seem to make more sense that way. Too bad I have only seen the Cache and The Piano Teacher.

Okay, this is going to be the most banal observation you are going to hear. Have you noticed that when there are only six hours left to a quiz, several volumes left untouched and you have this streak of inspiration and groundbreaking (?) ideas that demand your utmost attention come up?

It’s JAM weekend.

P.S. Something that delves into the mind of a not-so-successful JAM taker coming up once I finish working on my “original path-breaking” ideas

The rain was coming down hard. I cursed myself for picking just the wrong time to leave Mickey’s place. I had to leave, the delicious chicken notwithstanding, thanks to my dad hollering over the phone. Trust me, I love the rain. Lazing away on a rainy evening with some Doors playing must be closest to Paradise. But there is an occupational hazard involved when you wear glasses and ride a motorbike. A hazy picture of the Kilpauk garden road presented itself. So far so good. I see this wizen old man doing a waltz on the road and somehow i know i was going to hit him.

Kabuliwaala (the one from Kabul) is a old Bengali/Hindi tale by the master himself, Rabindranath Tagore. It’s about a street peddler and a little girl. It is a pretty famous one, made into a neat Hindi flick in the sixties. Most people must have a smile on their face by now, yes that’s the story we guys did in Hindi class, grade three (or was it four ?) While the names have long disappeared, the emotions still lurk. Even back then, when Tagore meant nothing to us, we knew we were reading some seriously good stuff. Though we had a crappy version of kabuliwaala, a guy that sold us jamuns outside the campus, I have always thought of my Hindi teacher Mr.Eugene as the kabuliwaala sans the beard; tall, well-built, funny and slightly alien-ish ( he was an anglo)

As I had earlier prophesied, I nearly hit the old guy, went into a skid and almost crashed into the makeshift median there. Mentally, I was going through a list of curses i could possibly throw at the old guy. I see a couple of people standing near Hunky-Dory but they didn’t look like the type that would get involved in a shouting match, especially, when nobody was knocked over and more importantly, there was no shattered glass. First the ordeal of missing chicken and now this, the last straw, and I am all ready to give some love to the senile b!@#$#%rd.

Kabuliwaalah was this really nice chap, separated from his daughter in Afganistan, peddling his wares in Kolkata. He meets this little kid here and for the rest you can do a Google.

“Enna nenaichukitu ___ “( what where you even thinking ?) I know those eyes from somewhere, my tone mellows down.

“Konjam paarthu poga ___” ( Couldn’t you have been a little more careful?)

Naidu thaatha¹. It had to be him

Naidu thaatha, a short, stocky man, with holy ash smeared across his swarthy forehead; ferried us (a brat pack of seven) to school everyday. I went to Union Christian then and I really looked forward to the ride on the cycle rickshaw everyday. A ride across Nowroji road, then towards the Zuebida hospital, onto the Poonamalle high road, near Pachaiyappas, New Avadi road, into Lakshmi street and Taylor’s road. Back then, it was Preethi’s house, Charan’s house, a couple of other houses and Karthi’s house i.e my home [yeah, it was never called Sidu's house ] Naidu thaatha, as he was called by zillions of school kids, was a wonderful man, who wouldn’t ever ride fast , like the other young urchins used to make fun of our rickshaw. Despite that, Naidu thaatha’s rickshaw was a merry lot. Songs, I now suspect must have been MGR’s², rang out loud. Thaatha thought himself to be a singer of sorts. We didn’t complain, it was pure fun. The best part was on hot, sultry evenings when he got on feet and pulled the rickshaw. One lucky kid got to ride on the driver’s seat.It was thrilling, your feet barely touched the pedals and you thought you actually did all the steering. Of course, how could I forget the bell ? The bell goes beserk. So like the English, all we wanted was bright, sunny afternoons.

Two years later, we moved.

“Neenga Naidu thaatha thaane ?” ( Aren’t you Naidu thaatha ?)

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“Nyabagam irrukka, naan Siddu, Karthik thambi, enna neenga thaan school kootitu poveenga?” (Do you remember me? I am Siddu, Karthik’s younger brother. You used to take me to school.)

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“Enga porenga? Naan kondu vanthu vidruen” ( Where are you going ? I’ll get you there)

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Thaatha doesn’t seem to recognise me or the names. Well, I did only two years on his rickshaw and my brother did seven. He isn’t very coherent either. Keeps staring at me and then starts looking around. Senility, I think.

” Thambi, mazhai peiyuthu illa. Paarthu poganum paa” ( Son, it’s raining. Better be careful)

He goes across the road and keeps walking. Least disturbed by the close call or by the madcap yelling his name from behind.

All I could do was take his advice. After all it comes from someone that has delivered generations of school-kids safely. My very own Kabuliwaalah.

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1. Thaatha – Grandfather. used to address elderly people.

2. MGR – Don’t kill me for this, but MGR (M.G.Ramachandran) was a film star from the sixties , one that invariably played a do-gooder and was a major hit among the cycle-rickshawallahs. Ended up being one of the most loved chief ministers and politicians across the country.

Disclaimer: No, this is not one more post on how narayanan became knowrrayeknayan thanks to the Cheiro and his book of numbers.

There are times when a name comes up and hits us right in the balls face, ones that you just can’t ignore. Wollongong, Boing-Boing, Mamungkukumpurangkuntjunya (Yes, these are places) God forbid, i get lost and have to ask directions to Mamung-blah-blah. My dad comes from this little village in Kerala called Paruppu. Paruppu roughly translates to ‘pulses’ and a certain derogatory term in the Tamil. Well, T.Kallipatti isn’t exactly regal either, you pandis.

Again, i have digressed. A name is a study in aesthetics. When a teacher looks down a Lakshmi Veera Raghava Iyengar on the answer-sheet in class four, it’s a foregone conclusion that little LVR Iyengar is going to have a great grade-sheet. But twenty years later, Mr.Iyengar is not going to get too many hits on Facebook. Let’s face it, ‘LVR Iyengar’ conjures images of a bespectacled over-enthusiastic nerd high achiever. Before you dismiss this merely as an exercise in inanity, this rather over-stretched example just serves to highlight how we tend to associate names with certain stereotypes and how some names have meant a tad little more to us.

Here are my top five names, some that blow you away, most that could leave you ‘huh, what was he even thinking?

5. SAVITRI – (f) Belonging to Savitr, the sun god

People that know me understand my fascination for the name and must be surprised at its being at only five. One has to thank the stunningly hot lady from the Amarchitra Katha comics for my love affair with this name. The evergreen heroic Savitri that stands up to the Gods and raises her ‘pati dev’, Satyavan, from the dead. Some lady she must have been. Then I moved over to the Keira Knightley types and curvaceous Savitri was all forgotten. A couple of years ago, this advertisement, the sardar kid saying ‘SAVITRI, MY LOVE’ happens (Watch it here) and it all comes rushing back again. Savitri is my muse, my ‘louwe’, my everything and yeah my guitar

4. a) SHENBAGA DEVI / b) SHANMUGAPRIYA - (f) a) roughly flower-goddess / b) lover of the deity Shangmuga

These names get to a joint fourth position purely on what they have meant to the entire physics batch at Loyola College. While I wouldn’t venture to pass a comment on shanmuga, Shenbaga is a different story. A dear friend, my namesake,Sid G, calls me up in the middle of the night and says “dude, this chick Shabana emails me. She wants to come over and study with me” Sid G was elated and over the moon. Given his luck with women, especially their weird names, everybody was so happy for him
“Sid G is hooking up with some hot musla babe.” “Lucky bugger, major CAT- sessions with Shabana.”
A couple of days later, he is back with his ‘PM’ and a sheepish grin
“Macha, it was Shenbaga Devi da, not Shabana”

Thanks Shenbaga and Shanmuga for making college a lot less weary.

3. YESHUA – (m) Aramaic form of Jesus, meaning “God is salvation.”
This is one kick-ass name. Somehow it personifies everything heroic and great. Being the Hebrew form of Jesus adds to the mystique. The only guy name in my top five.

2. ZARA – (f) Arabic, blooming flower
Zara is one exotic name that completely blew me off my feet and I had no clue what it meant till i looked it up a couple of minutes back. My first tryst with Zara was way back in the mid-nineties when my neighbour got this Zara bag and couldn’t stop flaunting. This has remained a name I just can’t put a face to. Stand-alone. Complete by itself.

1. NATALYA – (f) Latin, Christmas Day. Russian, birthday
An angel from an ancient russian fairy tale volume. The little girl in the poster above my bed. The book and the poster are long gone but Natalya is still there. Somehow all my childhood notions of love are inextricably woven around this name. I shall say no more. Btw, I intend to name my daughter Natalya { Savitri is the mom, of course }

So, what did you tell me your name is ?