The Good Girl

Many times, a good Sunday is all about stumbling on a good movie playing on TV. Especially so if it is a movie you have never heard of. (Which also brings to mind the perils of depending too much on IMDB for movie recommendations. You end up missing some worth-a-watch movies that have not caught the user base’s fancy, or are not great enough to make into an elite must-watch list.)

My lazy Sunday yesterday became better with one such movie: The Good Girl (2002), where Jennifer Aniston plays a bored retail store clerk Justine. Justine has the trapped life synonymous with most of working class – an arid job which she has had for many years, and an indifferent husband Phil, who spends most of his time stoned on the couch, watching TV with his friend Bubba. Because she is bored, she craves for the opposite of her dull life. Thus the entry of a slightly eccentric and aloof ‘Holden’ as a new cashier in the store sparks her interest. Both characters are unhappy with the world, and this unhappiness brings them closer. Justine wants to conveniently keep this friendship as a mild distraction, but Holden is passionate, and insistent – and a flattered Justine gives in. They spend most of the relationship having passionate sex in a seedy motel. However, soon there are whispers in the store, and the Justine who is used to a quiet life, gets unsettled. Holden becomes more mercurial and demanding, sulking terribly when refused one of their secret trysts. To add to the misery, Bubba (Phil’s friend) sees the two of them going into the motel, and blackmails Justine into sleeping with him.
It is a rather well-knit story, in which Aniston slides in perfectly. It is hard to not sympathize with a girl who seems to walk limply beneath her unhappiness. She wants to escape her life, and you can see why. You can’t possibly grudge her this little romance, especially since you sympathized with a far less traumatized Laura in Brief Encounter. But at the same time, she is scared of Holden’s volatility, his youthful irrationality and even more of having to let go of Phil’s indifferent dependability. (He fixes her TV for her, holds her hand when a colleague dies – all the little things that seem to make many indifferent marriages work)
The movie is a work of contempt. Arteta/White (Director/Writer) do not seem sympathetic of the working class – they say as much in the stray characters, be it the Bible-reader Cornie, or the very-perked up Gwen, or the cretin Bubba. They even seem to regard Justine’s boredom and her distraction with contempt, looking at her as a sort of predator on Holden’s youthful passion. Yet, they depict her as a real person, and Aniston makes this person believable – regretful, indecisive, even a little evil and artful. A person, who sometimes, moved by a desire for freshness, is willing to blur moral boundaries. Arteta/White have also managed to get a comic touch in this otherwise depressive story of reality: through Cornie who curses non-believers with hellfire and the weird Cheryl, who is really ingenious in her marketing skills, but mostly with Justine's attempts to control the situation.
If you think Aniston can best portray only the spoilt and fashionable Rachel Green, this movie will certainly surprise you.

Proust

...is so amazing! I wonder what took me so long to start reading him. Although the idea of reading all seven volumes is intimidating, I think I will certainly enjoy the dips in memories. Remembrance of things past is not only a remarkable account of remembered life, it also a catalyst for revisiting old memories. Reading Swann's Way (part one) takes me back to some moments from my own life, forcing me to release those memories, churn them and work out what they effected. How they fitted into my child's perception. Perhaps a meaningless exercise, but dusting of some incidents is interesting.

Questions of Travel

Recently read a beautiful poem by Elizabeth Bishop at Five Branch Tree. I share part of it here:

Is it right to be watching strangers in a play in this strangest of theatres?
What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life in our bodies, we
are determined to rush to see the sun the other way around?

The tiniest green hummingbird in the world?

To stare at some inexplicable old stonework, inexplicable and impenetrable, at any view, instantly seen and always, always delightful?

Oh, must we dream our dreams and have them, too?

And have we room for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?

But surely it would have been a pity not to have seen the trees along this road, really exaggerated in their beauty,

not to have seen them gesturing like noble pantomimists, robed in pink.
--Not to have had to stop for gas and heard the sad, two-noted, wooden tune of
disparate wooden clogs carelessly clacking over a grease-stained filling-station
floor.

(In another country the clogs would all be tested. Each pair there would
have identical pitch.)

A pity not to have heard the other, less primitive music of the fat brown bird who sings above the broken gasoline pump in a bamboo church of Jesuit baroque: three towers, five silver crosses.

Yes, a pity not to have pondered, blurr'dly and inconclusively, on what connection can exist for centuries between the crudest wooden footwear and, careful and finicky, the whittled fantasies of wooden footwear and, careful and finicky, the whittled fantasies of wooden cages.
Never to have studied history in the weak calligraphy of songbirds' cages.
And never to have had to listen to rain so much like politicians' speeches: two hours of unrelenting oratory and then a sudden golden silence in which the traveller takes a notebook, writes:

"Is it lack of imagination that makes us come to imagined places, not just stay at home? Or could Pascal have been not entirely right about just sitting quietly in one's room?

Continent, city, country, society: the choice is never wide and never free. And here, or there . . . No. Should we have stayed at home, wherever that may be?"

The entire poem can be found here.
What is it that drives our wanderlust? Why do we rush from the sea of our city, to enjoy the waves of one 3000 miles away? Or gaze out to the horizon to wonder what lies at the other end? Or even enjoy to just drive out a 100 kilometer and feel respite. Is it simply fickleness? An inability to be part of a constant scheme?

Recapturing the past

I feel that there is much to be said for the Celtic belief that the souls of those whom we have lost are held captive in some inferior being, in an animal, in a plant, in some inanimate object, and so effectively lost to us until the day (which to many never comes) when we happen to pass by the tree or to obtain possession of the object which forms their prison. Then they start and tremble, they call us by our name, and as soon as we have recognized their voice the spell is broken. We have delivered them: they have overcome death and return to share our life.
And so it is with our own past. It is a labor in vain to attempt to recapture it: all the efforts of our intellect must prove futile. The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, in some material object (in the sensation which that material object will give us) which we do not suspect. And as for that object, it depends on chance whether we come upon it or not before we ourselves must die.

- Marcel Proust, Remembrance of things past, Swann's Way

Paranormal Activity

A lot has already been said about the movie. So much so, that my knowledge of its existence came from none other than Times of India - the Mumbai Times section - no less. A movie shot with a hand-held camera, made within a budget of $15000, raking in millions at the box-office after its delayed opening in mid-October this year. (Mumbai Times, keeping with its decorum, hardly spent any space on the movie or what it was about. It quickly moved on to compare the tremendous box office performance of this low-budget flick to those on whom millions had been wasted - Mira Nair's mega movie a big case in point.)
Anyways, I read up about the movie, and was immediately intrigued enough to want to watch it. No better way to get through a difficult week than to scare oneself! And it worked!
Paranormal Activity is a story of a couple who have moved in a two-storied suburban house, and have been vaguely feeling a presence in the house. To confirm their suspicions either way, they get a big video camera and fix it on a tripod in their bedroom. The guy, Mikah, who seems a bit of a nerdy freak, insists on recording almost all of their lives together, and it is this footage that is presented to us as a movie.
From there unfolds a frightening but gripping tale. Every night, the camera captures some strange happenings and confirm the couples' vague feelings about a supernatural presence in the house. The girl Katie becomes increasingly frightened, while Mikah gets excited with the 'cool stuff' he is recording. The fear strains their relationship, and also seems to empower the demonic presence, whose actions seem increasingly bold and unstoppable.
The reason the movie is so frightening is because it feels very real. There is no special sound effect, no theatrical accessories to heighten the senses and put you on edge. The camera silently picks up strange activities, however small and the couple mostly see it only in the morning. At first, it is more the audience which begins to dread these nights than the characters, because to see even small things happen as people sleep peacefully is uncomfortably eerie. Very steadily, the tension begins to heighten and you feel a part of it. And the fear is very real because it seems it could happen to very ordinary, undramatic people, real people, you! Both the actors look very natural in the handheld camera, and the movie does feel like a home video - just a terribly scary one.
For some interesting facts -the entire movie was shot in 7 days, in the director's own home in San Diego. The cameraman was actually Micah (the actors' real names were used in the movie) - who had come prior experience of handling the camera from his college days. There was no script, only a plot outline. It is to the credit of both actors, especially Katie to bring alive a story without much technical assistance.

Postmodern Literature

LA Times has published a list of 61 essential postmodern list here. I have always been unclear as to what constitutes as post-modern, and this list makes the task easier by using specific criteria. Some of the key yardsticks used are: author as a character, blur between fiction and reality (duh!), comments on its own bookishness, self contradicting plots, etc. Now I don't know if these are sufficient criteria, but to me they do give pointers. You may argue that they should add the century of writing as another criterion. After all how can something written in the 19th century be post-modern? That it matches the meta-fictional or semi-fictional trend of post modern writers is purely accidental.

For those who can't access the links, here is the list. Though I must warn that this does not specify how each book fits into the criteria, and for that it is useful to visit the original link:
Kathy Acker's "In Memorium to Identity"
Donald Antrim's "The Hundred Brothers"
Margaret Atwood's "The Blind Assassin"
Paul Auster's New York Trilogy
Nicholson Baker's "The Mezzanine"
J.G. Ballard's "The Atrocity Exhibition"
John Barth's "Giles Goat-Boy"
Donald Barthelme's "60 Stories"
John Berger's "G"
Thomas Bernhard's "The Loser"
Roberto Bolaño's "2666"
Jorge Luis Borges' "Labyrinths"
William S. Burroughs' "Naked Lunch"
Robert Burton's "Anatomy of Melancholy"
Italo Calvino's "If on a Winter's Night a Traveler"
Julio Cortazar's "Hopscotch"
Robert Coover's "The Universal Baseball Association, Henry J. Waugh, Proprietor"
Stanley Crawford's "Log of the S.S. Mrs. Unguentine"
Mark Danielewski's "House of Leaves"
Don Delillo's "Great Jones Street"
Philip K. Dick's "The Man in the High Castle"
E.L. Doctorow's "City of God"
Geoff Dyer's "Out of Sheer Rage: Wrestling With D. H. Lawrence"
Umberto Eco's "The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana"
Dave Eggers' "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius"
Steve Erickson's "Tours of the Black Clock"
Percival Everett's "I Am Not Sidney Poitier"
William Faulkner's "Absalom! Absalom!"
Jonathan Safran Foer's "Everything Is Illuminated"
William Gaddis' "JR"
William Gass' "The Tunnel"
John Hawkes' "The Lime Twig"
Nathaniel Hawthorne's "The Scarlet Letter"
Aleksandar Hemon's "The Lazarus Project"
Michael Herr's "Dispatches"
Shelley Jackson's "Skin"
Franz Kafka's "Metamorphosis"
Milan Kundera's "The Book of Laughter and Forgetting"
Jonathan Lethem's "Motherless Brooklyn"
Ben Marcus' "Notable American Women"
David Markson's "Wittgenstein's Mistress"
Tom McCarthy's "Remainder"
Joseph McElroy's "Women and Men"
Steven Millhauser's "Edwin Mullhouse"
Haruki Murakami's "The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle"
Vladimir Nabokov's "Pale Fire"
Flann O'Brien's "At Swim-Two-Birds"
Tim O'Brien's "The Things They Carried"
Harvey Pekar's "American Splendor"
Thomas Pynchon's "Gravity's Rainbow"
Philip Roth's "The Counterlife"
W.G. Sebald's "The Rings of Saturn"
William Shakespeare's "Hamlet"
Gilbert Sorrentino's "Mulligan Stew"
Christopher Sorrentino's "Trance"
Art Spiegelman's Maus I & II
Laurence Stern's "The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy"
Scarlett Thomas' "PopCo"
Kurt Vonnegut's "Slaughterhouse Five"
David Foster Wallace's "Infinite Jest"
Colson Whitehead's "John Henry Days"

I have read only a few from this list: Atwood, Auster, Sebald (my favorite), Calvino, 2666 (still on it), Labyrinths, Kundera, Murakami (I don't know how this book comes here!). Except for Murakami, I think every read has been a delight. Particularly Sebald and now 2666, which despite its length, is quite an interesting work.

By Night in Chile - Bolano

For those who believe in the Day of Judgment, the day of death is for making atonements. Even those who have different beliefs seem to feel a compulsion to explain their lives on the deathbed. I remember vaguely (or maybe it is only a romantic imagination) the last few words from the only two people I have seen close to death (not on their last days). Their words were incoherent, their eyes constantly focused on a distant point, which I like to believe were moments running from their lives. There were some regrets there, and a couple of confessions. None of them dramatic, but only to find freedom from some unnecessary weights carried for years.
Contrary to those words, the last words of Bolano’s priest (Urrutia) are very coherent. They are said for a purpose. Like others, he begins to speak to make atonements for his mistakes, but the atonements quickly relegate to justifications. Urrutia is a member of Chilean intelligentsia who has turned a blind eye to the happenings within his state, and given it’s tacit approval to the atrocities of General Pinochet. Through the memoirs of this spineless, opportunist priest, Bolano sketches the complicity and unconcern of this intelligentsia, which stands and holds literary parties above a torture chamber for prisoners, gives personal lessons to Pinochet and his team of barbarians, and remains sullenly silent against the crimes of the government.
In the priest’s feverish deathbed expressions, there often appears his nemesis: ‘the wizened youth’. The Wizened youth is either Urrutia’s moral self, challenging him to rise beyond his selfish interests or it is Bolano himself, criticizing the old literati who sit on their posteriors, while the country goes through turmoil. It is to this youth that Urrutia offers his peace speech – alternating between guilty confessions and defensive arguments for his complicity. In real life, Bolano admitted to being less than impressed with the Chilean or Latin American literature, which he perhaps perceived to be escaping into magic realism while ignoring the realities. This book is believed to be his stark criticism of the literary world, particularly singling out Pablo Neruda.
By making Urrutia a member not just of the literati, but also of Opus Dei, Bolano also indirectly blames the church for lending a strong support to an authoritarian government. The Church support itself is not surprising, considering the history of Opus Dei with Franco’s barbarian regime in Spain. Yet, to draw priests so shamelessly hand in glove with a killer, is a strong statement. In one part of the book, Urrutia travels to different European churches, and runs a long commentary about churches decaying with pigeon droppings and falconry. Such is the concern of the church, and of a literary critic.
It is an excellent work. One completely different from The Savage Detectives, the only other Bolano I have read. Each book stands on completely different pillars, and is still linked to the other with a wonderfully strong narration and interest in real lives. I do not completely subscribe to Bolano’s criticism – literature does serve a purpose, but that purpose is not always to hold the mirror to reality. Sometimes an escape offers a respite to the reader, draws him away into a world where life can exist. Literature expands beneath and beyond the obvious, and a failure to comment on the obvious is not necessarily literature’s failure. On a more practical note, literati too have to fear for their lives. But then, we cannot negate that tragedies don't often become horrific and draw an exclaim until written about. For this, some members of the writing circles need to offer discerning voices, publish rebellious material (even though clandestine), spend sometime in prison and lead some protests. Only then they seem worthy of the adoration shown them.

Waiting

Wait seems to be the theme of the moment. I am waiting for the monsoons, which seem unmoved by the scorching days. I am waiting for things to progress at work, beyond which let me not say more. I am also waiting for getting out of the city to greener pastures (though I did come back from a hectic weekend - but that was 'hectic', so not quite what I am looking for).

Mark Twain on Jane Austen

Am reading 'Who is Mark Twain', a brilliant collection of personal papers that Mark Twain left behind. The one on Austen is a crack-up. Here is an excerpt:

Does Jane Austen do her work too remorselessly well? For me, I mean? Maybe that is it. She makes me detest all her people, without reserve.
Is that her intention? It is not believable. Then is it her purpose to make the reader detest her people up to the middle of the book and like them in the rest of the chapters? That could be. That would be high art. It would be worth while, too. Some day I will examine the other end of her books and see.

All the great critics praise her art generously. To start with, they say she draws her characters with sharp discrimination and a sure touch. I believe that this is true, as long as the characters she is drawing are odious...

...Old Mrs. Ferrars is an execrable gentlewoman and unsurpassably coarse and offensive.

Mr. Dashwood, gentleman, is a coarse and cold-hearted money-worshipper; his Fanny is coarse and mean. Neither of them ever says or does a pleasant thing.

Mr. Robert Ferrars, gentleman, is coarse, is a snob, and an all-round offensive person.Mr. Palmer, gentleman, is coarse, brute-mannered, and probably an ass, though we cannot tell, yet, because he cloaks himself behind silences which are not often broken by speeches that contain material enough to construct an analysis out of.

His wife, lady, is coarse and silly.

Lucy Steele’s sister is coarse, foolish, and disagreeable.

Did you see how her characters drawn with sharp discriminaton are all 'coarse'?

Regal Walk

Spent a wild weekend at the Kanha National Park. This was my first trip to real wilderness, and it was a wonderful experience. Kanha is such a beautiful, varied place. And the tiger - it never looked so majestic in a zoo. (That's the only place I have ever seen it before)