Manorama Six Feet Under - Review

Manorama Six Feet Under is a movie that operates at various levels of human perceptions. On one hand, it perceives the dissatisfied life of an unsuccessful writer-cum-junior engineer in remote Rajasthan. In the next, it is also about demystifying the angelic aura around the country's middle class and painting them as vulnerable and impressionable human beings.

In one of its various phases the movie also exposes the ensuing mid-life crisis in Satyaveer's marriage , surfacing either in the form of a mirage of Yana Gupta in the middle of a desert or the debate over who has to be blamed for an untimely child.

Navdeep Singh's directional debut has dwelled into complex realms of our lives unlike most contemporary Indian cinema.

For once, the "hero" in the movie is a corrupt government official who is serving his suspension period and thankfully not a super human/super honest undefeatable six pack! (Yes, I am indicating at one of those Khans who tries to bring in a “socialist& sanctimonious” angle to his once-in-a-year movies! )

Satyaveer Singh Randhawa played by Abhay Deol (who has shown a praiseworthy sense in choosing his movies) and his friend the local cop played by the multi talented Vinay Pathak, are characters plucked straight out of our daily lives - ones who so comprehensively epitomises the post modern industrialised nature of human mind - selfish, cunning, corrupt yet caring for his dear and near.

In fact, this is where the movie stands out from the rest of the gutter-clutter we see around us these days. Nobody in the movie has "good" intentions - rather each one of them is blinded badly by their self-centric intents and the movie is only a sequence of their actions and consequences.

The scene of a lone surviving gold fish (Sakuntala) in the aquarium feasting on her weaker counterparts floating dead on the surface is a piece of cinematic brilliance. It is contextual because it is shown soon after the scene where the minister reminds Rizvi of his “ordinary" existence and therefore symbolises the good old survival theory of strong eating weak, thereby pointing out the power inequities in modern India. In the words of the minister himself, the country is divided into two sets of people - one that runs the country, and the other bunch that run/walk/dance at the whim of the former.

What is also commendable about the movie is about how the team has distanced itself from the conventional methods of story-telling/movie-writing. As viewers, we all grew up watching our "common man" hero (yes, after being pushed to his limits) emerging back strongly and bashing up those gory villains on screen, sometimes to make "bindis” out of their blood and sometimes to feed them to rats or vultures. That is because we like to see our villains dying painfully in the end, which nevertheless should be inflicted upon them by our "morally righteous" hero with his bullet or knife depending on the budget.

Thankfully Navdeep has managed to deviate from that formula as well and has brilliantly wound up a complex saga of human travesty, inquisitiveness and perversion by giving the movie the most original and plausible finish. Manorama Six Feet Under is undoubtedly one of the best movies I have ever seen. An intelligent screenplay by Abhinav Kashyap - Devika Bhagat -duo, supported throughout ably by Arvind Kannabiran who has captured the dry landscapes incredibly well creating a solid visual context for the story. It’s difficult believe that Navdeep could create a masterpiece like this on his debut and even though it’s loosely based on the old classic “China Town” Navdeep can still be credited for coming up with the most credible and original re-creation of that theme.

Short Story

"Do you know why people in the cities talk of war whenever they are hit? That's because if at all a war breaks out, they wouldn’t be affected, at least not physically. Worse, these jokers can enjoy the show on TV and light candles in the memory of dead soldiers. The poor chaps who live on the western border would bear the whole brunt of bombs and missiles. They would be the show pieces on television with amputated arms and bleeding nose. How does it matter, right? These are fellows who (forever) have been neglected, now who would give a damn if they lost a hand? My city was hit by the devils from across the border, my heritage hotel even though it was set up by an imperial bastard, was racked up with those alien bullets - I want to attack their country! I want to see blood on their t-shirts! aaaarrghhhh these city people I tell you. " Anand paused, rested his back to the wall and twirled his toothpick menacingly. It made me sick but my repulsion was too trivial for him to notice or give up the act. The angry rhetoric would resume;

"You are still one of them Roy. I left that life - long back. Therefore don't ask me for an opinion, I think this chaos that the world is in today, was asked for. It is a natural response to your own deeds. Big deal my friend -more chaos I would pray"

Anand would go on and on, scolding the mad rush in the city, rebuking my choice to live here and dismissing the bizarre lack of sensitivity that individuate my corporate conversations with the city's new age aristocrats.

Partly miffed and partly perplexed I would nod at him with an irresolute smile. We were meeting nearly after a decade but he seemed least bothered about that. Not surprising at all for me though - from what I remember, Anand was peculiarly cynical amongst all of us. We would never see him fondle a sweet memory, never a word of praise for anyone, never a streak of hope. Ten years is still a long time but it hadn't changed him at all, except for a few hindi abuses thrown in between and a streak of grey hair around his pinna that stretched till the tip of his long locks.

He was my roommate at Peter's for four years. I was studying media management while he pursued a social development course. Those were tough times. You couldn't go around the campus not witnessing a protest march… or maybe posters calling for better roads, more employment, and end to land encroachments, fair elections… the list would go on.

The country is given to the dogs. Who will fight against this anarchy? - those posters would proclaim in colors of red and blue – Most of them would also cite countless cases of corruption and mysterious missing accounts of student leaders.

Visibly, the students (a big faction of them at Peter's) and a few lecturers’ were angry about the Lady Premier's wayward administration. They were expending it by distributing leaflets that acrimoniously exposed the mismanagement of funds and her surreptitious ways.

There was slap on free press too. Outside the coal-factory lathi wielding policemen would chase terrified agitators before they would catch a few by their neck. Women were not allowed on streets after 8 PM and teen-couples were often shooed away from parks and beaches once dusk entered.

Anjani studied at Shastri College of arts just a mile ahead of Peter's. I wanted to be with her and she wanted to be with Anand. That’s the easiest way to put it.

She would be joining us anytime now – that’s what I have been told, that’s why I am here.

"You remember the old clock tower behind the hostel? They brought it down last year. Mathew had called up that day. He said it gave him more grief than when he lost his wife”, amusement evident on Anand's face as he drew the little wooden chair close to his elbow.

"Yes he told me too, he had put up the pictures on Facebook and called the hydraulic crane Samar Sharma". Samar Sharma was the Lady Premier's son who once went around the city's cramped corners sterilizing young men before death took him in the funniest of fashion -he swallowed a needle by accident.

Anand recalled a side-splitter about Mathew. "Punter was humping Satidevi once when I walked into the terrace casually. Doggy Style… all pumped up…and he went all white when he saw me. Sati was casual and covered herself up easily but Mathew had this silly bloom on his face for over a week… washout bastard"

This story was probably exchanged a dozen times already in various toast parties and re-unions, yet, while Anand was reminiscing it, I could sense an uneasy element of freshness – as if Mathew was caught in coitus just awhile ago.
Times have whizzed past us!

I was tired after the long journey to the hills. The roads that led up to this place were dangerously placed between loose boulders and frightening cliff edges. I guess these talks about global warming and deforestation are not all nonsense really. I can see it around me these days. When Annie called from home, earlier in the day, she was complaining about the city administration cutting down water supply substantially. She was irritated about the fact that I was whiling away my time in the hills when she was cleaning up my old mom’s discharges and the rest. I felt guilty about it for a moment and then let it go. Big deal, I need a life too.

Anand walked in with a cup of coffee. “Anjani can’t make it my friend. Infact she doesn’t want to…”

I wanted to know why.

It’s you. She said she wouldn’t be comfortable – or rather you wouldn’t be comfortable

“Who is she to judge for me?” – I snapped.

“Precisely, she isn’t anyone’s anymore and is probably enjoying her new found freedom. Let her be.”

“Let her be”, I repeated.

…you treated my woman to a flake of your life
and when she came back she was nobody’s wife…..

The day couldn’t be more meaningless than this. If only I could get back home – get away from this cynical bastard! He ruined me. He ruined her and now he has ruined a re-union I was looking forward to since last winter.

Anand wouldn’t care.

Short Story

Jaison had walked in late that night. I had drowned in about three glasses of beer by then. Summer heat was killing. Lot of sweat to deal with and I didn’t like it.

“Why are you looking disturbed?” He sat with a question

“That’s a look I was born with” I retorted with a smirk.

“Yea the rat faced black boy” Jaison sucked in his cheeks and teased.

We had moved into Mumbai around the same time a year ago. He found a flat at Pali and I settled closer to the highway at Andheri. That’s about four miles away from each other yet we rarely met. I had always felt that he found me boring. ( A lot of people find me boring. It’s the way I talk that put them off. For the rest of them I am weird. Look at that chap, why is he so quiet, isn’t that weird? Yes, it is.)

Jaison ordered a bottle of beer and I called for a pint. “So, what’s the matter? Why did you call?”

“The routine was killing me. Same job, same faces, and same tone of speech – I thought I would take a break from them all and spend time with you” I had a wide grin on my face as I spoke.

“Is that all?” Jaison asked unconvincingly

Is that all? I thought to myself. I wouldn't want to open up so early. He would find it silly and I would rather not talk about it.

“Yep. What’s new with you? How’s work?”

“Totally sucks, but then it’s a question of whether to serve or order the beer. I prefer the latter and so sucking up to the bosses and nodding my head to absolute nonsense on a daily basis”. There was no sign of emotion evident on his face. Maybe he had already accepted the fate of a corporate whore.

“Increments? Bonus?”

“They cut mine by 5%. It was either layoffs or salary cuts. I am the wounded survivor”

“They can’t cut mine. I would go to bed hungry then.” I joined the jest about work and pay cuts.

I'm a joker
I'm a smoker
I'm a midnight toker
I get my lovin' on the run

I loved the kind of music this bar played but I come here rarely. This is a place I have saved up for my worst days. It’s like this. On good days you go to restaurants that are flashy and colourful and listen to music that qualify as noise. On bad days you stay at home and try to read. On the worst of days you go to places like this that play songs with meanings. You feel as if they are singing for you, about you.

“I have to tell you this.” Jaison raised his hands and with an animated grin started explaining his weekend trip to the jungle with friends and how they got stuck deep inside the forest without an escort. I was putting in a casual hum wherever necessary and keeping the conversation live. How would I start?

“Jaison, I’m on the verge of a break-up and I am thinking about shifting to Delhi or Banglore”, to which he responded with a good and just that.

I went on, “I have had enough of Bombay”

“Why this sudden turn around? I never knew you were serious about it.” He pushed me for an explanation.

“It’s a little complicated and I am meeting her tomorrow. I would rather talk face to face and get out of it or I know it will come back to sting again” For a moment I felt i was talking to myself, reassuring my own mind about the inevitability of moving out.

“That’s better. Whatever the issue and whatever the decision is, it’s always good to talk – face to face. Emails & text messages have killed conversations. It’s been more than two years since I left my hometown. I have slept with three women since then. All this while, I have only been talking to my folks over phone and I have come to a stage where I feel that’s just about enough. That’s what phones and emails have done to your life. They have wiped live human conversations off the face of this planet. And these days for two people to sit across a table and talk, it has to be a bar or a coffee shop essentially. Look at us! Victims of pace!"

I did not respond. It looked as if Jaison was equally bored with his routine and was so engrossed in reiterating his complaints to me that my story wasn’t making an impact anywhere.

“But Isabel seemed to me a very nice lady - quite suited you. Why are you guys breaking up?” He had this peculiar way of holding the beer glass by its bottom and sticking his nose inside as he emptied it.

“She was looking out. Maybe I wasn’t giving her all that she wanted. It has now reached a stage where I am a hindrance to whatever she wants to do” I explained.

“But that’s fast. In four months you pissed her off??” he japed with a burst of loud laugh.

Reluctantly I joined the jest and called for another mug.

We didn’t discuss it any further that night. Maybe he had realised the fallacy of my arguments. Maybe he figured out that I was twisting the story my way - in a way that suited me, and complimented my conscience. He had always accused me of being selfish though that night he chose to keep quiet.

It’s been over a year now and I haven’t met him or talked to him ever since. The last I heard was that he had moved into north Delhi with a French guy.

Summer has returned in its swelter self. The city roads and roofs are glinting in the heat. It’s least solacing and I have had three showers since morning. Isabel is sleeping by my side. She was insisting for a church wedding till she nodded off. I am not sure if I should invite Jaison.

Yes, and jane came by with a lock of your hair

She said that you gave it to her

That night that you planned to go clear

Did you ever go clear?

Disillusioned

There is a lot of noise around me these days. Everyone wants to vote and from where I see it, it looks like a fad. To be on the other side of the fence isn’t politically correct and therefore casting vote in general/assembly/local/civil elections has all of a sudden become the most needful action of the moment.

Let’s for a moment assume that all the farcical campaigns around you to “wake up & vote” leads to a 65+ % voter turnout ( a pretty decent number) in at least the urban, semi-urban pockets and larger towns of the country. I am, for the time being, only looking at these areas because that’s the part of the country which often gets carried away from reality and falls for staged romance, good looking sons of political playmakers and good English rhetoric. (The rest of the country does not have electricity in their homes to put on a TV or a radio. So they are spared the torture. Their demands for water, electricity and basic sanitation has never been of national importance, so let’s not discuss about those duffers)

The most obvious question of the moment would then be “Whom would I vote for?” and the logic of this question, stems from a value set that I hold (and was brought up with), which tells me that anyone who gets elected to hold an administrative post in this country has to be corruption free, both morally and academically. This means, he or she shouldn’t have had a “disgraceful” past and shouldn’t have had a “criminal” background (anything from a human blockade to murdering a political opponent qualifies as a crime here). The next obvious question would then be – “Where do i find such a guy?”, to which proponents of the campaign would scowl and vociferously shout back– “Don’t blame the system, be a part of it! ....If you can’t find one, be one... Voting is the least that you can do”.

I, (being the dumb image conscious middle class moron that I am), suddenly cringe and start feeling guilty for having asked that question but I still would wonder in my mind – but where the heck do I find such a guy?

If there is a sane soul around, he would probably try convincing me that there is NO SUCH GUY in this world. "We are all corrupt in our own ways, and corruption is not a bad word at all and there is no data in the world that would prove to you that someone who has had three flings outside marriage or has evaded income tax in the past can’t be a good administrator." That is how this sane friend of mine would try putting some sanity into my head and replace my pseudo-moral biases with a hope; – a hope of finding the “right” contestant for the post. (The “right” in the previous sentence was redefined to me by the sane guy awhile ago)

After this whole lotta noise I would go to the booth, cast my vote and come back hoping my guy would win. A month later, luck would smile and he would win and I would throw my fists into their – all joyous!

Now what?

Well, from now on would be a stage where “participation” as a concept starts assuming importance. The tendency over the last 6 decades has been to vote, rejoice and forget. It would be too wishful for me to assume otherwise just because you have a few wake-up campaigns and some nonsensical indie-rock songs doing rounds. It’s human tendency to forget when it matters. Whether it’s your work or your personal life, what gets you into trouble most often is when you forget to “follow up”. This time too I’m sure that we will all suck at following up with the elected lot and their post election activities.

Sooner or later another blast or some larger economic impedance would again push the voters into a discourse. We will have heated arguments following and at some point in this dialogue, from one corner of the crowd, that same old sane guy would stand up and exclaim – “You fools, you voted in large numbers last time didn’t you? You were extolling about the importance of participation, weren’t you? And then you all disappeared didn’t you? Now one year down the line you are having trouble with the lot you chose on your will? Why the heck is that?”

To which the advocates of wake-up campaign would answer – “Every system has it’s pros and cons. You can’t have a fool proof, unfaltering arrangement. There will be lapses and there will be human errors. But that does not take away the significance of voting because if you had not voted, you wouldn’t have had any right to stand up there and question them. Now, because you had voted for these men a year ago, you have every right to question them and dismiss them! Please do not therefore disregard the process of voting”

The sane guy would then laugh and walk towards me. He would put his hands around my shoulder and whisper. "That’s what I call ‘the good English rhetoric’ and I’m sure everyone sitting in this room would have fallen for it." I would cringe again at that – this time it’s not guilt, instead it’s shallowness of the discourse that is scaring me. I do not know what to believe in. Should I have voted at all or am I caught in a fantasy league of men who are consistently wishful?

4 years would pass and another election day would come. The wake-up campaigns would be back and long-haired junkies would be singing and shouting – vote, that’s the least you can do!

Short Story

“ Saas bahu serials and the clinic full of pregnant women and awkward looking to-be fathers” I was reading the short message Maya had sent me when Anthony interrupted. I liked the timing of it because I did not want to reply, I have stopped responding to messages and phone calls these days. I find it lame. I find phones stupid most times and harrowing other times.

“James, you had asked for a folder?” Anthony’s query - I replied yes.

My table was messed up - a pile of garbage – printed papers, plastics and several aluminium foils. If anything could bring down my rhetoric about “Print less, Save Trees” that would be by office desk. Garbled set of old and new copies of release-orders partially hid a morning daily which carried a full scape image of a bikini clad lady with an inviting look. An empty packet of potato chips and a political fortnightly called Caravan, published from Delhi shared the tea stain on the table.

Anthony showed me the blue cupboard where empty folders were stacked one over the other -a blue over a yellow over a maroon over a blue again. What if those folders had life? What if life was just as beautifully stacked? Arranged Neat Colorful.

“If you want bigger ones, it is in the shelf right below” Anthony pointed at the orange cupboard closer to my knees. His fingers were long and tender. The wrinkles were too distinct to escape my eyes.

Thankyou, this looks fine.

I picked the files and returned to my table. Anthony must be the same age as my dad, maybe a little younger. He resembled him in more ways than one – fragile frame, resigned eyes, stooping shoulders rounded by a hunch and a detached streak of grey at the bend of his moustache.

I haven’t talked to my dad for many days now, I haven’t been to my hometown for many years now. I haven’t been doing a lot of things I was expected to do for all my life now. Big Deal.

“You took those folders from Anthony?” Linet was right behind me, reaching out for the blue piece of cardboard. I gave it to her and resumed my work. It was twenty past eight into the night.

“Let’s arrange these orders and estimates neatly into them. I need to rush to the mill here now. Yo get these done and leave as well. Don’t stay up late.” I nodded yes to all.

In awhile there were just three of us in the office -the boy who keeps guard at night, Anthony and me.

I was playing the Famous Blue Raincoat and singing along while arranging the documents.

Its four in the morning, the end of december
Im writing you now just to see if youre better
New york is cold, but I like where Im living
Theres music on clinton street all through the evening

Why are you staying back Anthony? I asked the old man who was leaning onto the wall and staring carelessly at the printing machine a few feet away.

He wasn’t listening and I paused the music to repeat myself.

“ I am waiting for it to be 9.00. I’ll be catching the 9:15 Borivli train”

You stay there?

“Ahead. Closer to Dahisar”

That’s a lot of travelling isn’t it?

“Doesn’t matter. I will find a job closer home now” Anthony replied in the same droning tone.

What do you mean you will find? You are leaving this job?

“ been asked to... in a week’s time”

Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t know. But why? I was trying to hide the surprise and hoping the guy wouldnt mind my questions.

“These are bad times and it’s easier to send my sorts away. You can do without us”

I wasnt sure about that. I dont really think anyone in this office works harder than these chaps.
All you guys?

“No. I will go now for sure. Three is too many for this job, they feel. I am old, my legs are weak. I can’t be running around fetching couriers and cheque as swiftly as they do. So the young men stays” Anthony appeared totally at ease with the news.

That’s sad. I am feeling bad for you Anthony.

“How old are you sir?” I replied 27 and waited for him to continue. “I started off as a teacher in a primary school. I was just about 20 then. Slightly heavier than what you are now”

You were a teacher Anthony?

What are you doing here then? Why are you here at all? I wanted to ask but chose not to.

“I started off as one and that was in the early 70’s. I used to teach music to children. Then I quit because those were emergency days. Those days Cohen was a rage amongst my generation. We would sit at the local bar and sing Cohens and Tom Waits and Billy Joel...Students would barge into the streets, court rooms, offices, break glass windows, and pelt stones at buses, burn cars... We would do all that and come back and sing.. You say you got a real solution..Well, you know...We'd all love to see the plan...You ask me for a contribution...Well, you know...We're doing what we can” He sang it in tune and stopped it midway to pick up the water bottle on my colleagues’ table. “It was fun” The amusement was still evident on my face. I didn’t want to hide it, instead wished he told me more.

“It’s time I leave I guess” he checked the watch and picked the brown bag that had GAP written over it.

This is your last day here Anthony? How will you survive?

“Do you really think I will not survive? I was 8 years old when I was adopted by a Christian Family outside Bordi. I was with Father Kurien at his orphanage till then. He gave me this name and I first heard about survival from him. He had a peculiar way of pronouncing the “i” in it. He would say “eey” and not “eye”...He told us that anyone born into this world is meant to survive as well. If one thing goes awry something else would work, but in the end we will all survive till death calls us. So when you talk about survival, I assume you are talking about not going to bed hungry. Are you?”

I was lost. I said yes and mentioned about his family.

“I lost my wife a few years ago. My son works at a hardware shop close to home. So things aren’t that bad.”

You can’t go back to teach again. Set up tuition for school kids?

“I can. I won’t.” I sensed resentment in his voice. He would later me how he detested the schools in the state and how the music he knew has become old school. The conversation wouldn’t last long though as he would move out to catch the local train.

“I will see you once more this week. Hopefully they wouldn’t kick out anyone else again”

I waved my hands and shouted goodbye - alone again, I thought

And if that's what you have in mind
yeah if that's what you're all about
Good luck movin' up 'cause I'm movin' out.
Mmm, I'm movin' out. Ooh-hoo, mmm I'm movin' out...

I turned the volume higher and checked the phone for Maya’s message.

“You want meet me for dinner?” I replied no.

Disgrace by Coetzee- Review

Disgrace is a book filled with modern-day political and social cynicism. Coetzee paints a vivid picture of post-apartheid, globalised/globalising South African Society by constantly poking at it's pseudo sense of morality, it's deprecating love for literature, the way british autocracy and racism gave way to lawlessness and anarchy, the ever widening social gap leading to acts of violence, the invasion of city's shrewdness into a village's innocence, human obsesssion with close-ended answers and our constant insistence for "justice" with little or no understanding of the definition of "crime". This 220 pager is a fantastic read - simple, yet complex in it's premise and all it's chapters forever juxtaposing Grace along Disgrace. The reader is provoked to sit back and wonder if they are mere labels or social notions - or if there is a difference between the two after all. I would always put the book down only to pick it up again and read further.

Philosophically the book is as powerful as Camus' Outsider and Orwell's Animal farm. Coetzee's constant comparison of David Lurie to a cockroach in the wash basin, or to a golden retriever fighting his own sexual instincts, or Lucy's comment about man-animal co-existance being the only form of existence, or the incurably infected dogs that meekly accept their weekly euthanasia provide a strong metaphor to human despair tied by chains of moral righteousness and helplessness in times of chaos.

The book operates at various levels as one looks at it. It could be the existential blues of an old man as he approaches old age, or it could be looked from the eyes of an independent woman whose only intention is to stay as far away as possible from the city's maddening life.,

We have three dots in space - David Lurie, the professor , Lucy his daughter and Melaine Isaac the student lover - all entwined and inter-twined by threads of disgrace, which is nothing but a social notion. One overlaps the other and in the process create a spehere of profoundity that refuses to leave your head even after putting the book down.

I would strongly recommend this.

Leadbelly - Titanic (Interpretations)

The song video is not available for embedding. You could watch it here



Blues musician Huddie Ledbetter (also known as Leadbelly) composed his song “Titanic” as early as 1912, the very year the ship went down. In this song Leadbelly refers to the exclusion of African-Americans from many spheres of American society of the time. He does this by highlighting the absence of black people on the maiden voyage of the Titanic. He introduces a famous black sports celebrity of the day, the heavyweight boxer Jack Johnson, who, according to the song, was refused boarding of the ship by Captain Edward John Smith.

When Jack Johnson wanted to get on boa’d Captain Smith hollered,

“I ain’ haulin’ no coal.”

Cryin’, “Fare thee, Titanic, fare thee well!”

For contemporaries, Jack Johnson was one of the first black heroes to literally fight white racism. When Johnson won the world champion heavyweight title as first black boxer in 1908, the media and the white boxing world counted on former champion, Jim Jeffries, as “great white hope” to regain the title . This “hope”, however, was battered to its knees in the epoch-making boxing match on July 4, 1910, in Reno, when Jack Johnson successfully defended his title and thus was seen as “the symbolic black man taking out revenge on all whites for a lifetime of indignities” . As opposed to his boxing career, Johnson, in leadbelly’s Titanic song, does not have to suffer from white arrogance for long: in one of the last lines of the song, Johnson receives news of the disaster, thus discovering that not being allowed on board was, in fact, a blessing in disguise. Happy still to be alive, while many of those who were allowed to board found their wet grave in the North Atlantic, he dances in celebration (“doing the Eagle Rock”, as Leadbelly calls it). This line – already an illustration of Scott’s statement (refer source below), that “fantasy life among dominated groups” may take the form “of schadenfreude: joy at the misfortunes of others” – is topped by the explicit last line of the song:


Black man oughta shout for joy
Never lost a girl or either a boy
Cryin’, “Fare thee, Titanic, fare thee well.”


All the information above has been sourced from;
Black Titanic. African-American and African appropriations of the White Star liner

Anterograde Amnesia - If only I had this!

Bad movies give me a head-ache. Ghajini did too. It's 2 past midnight and I can't find sleep, courtesy a vexed head after an annoying movie. With both my legs thrown in the air I am ruminating how Ravi K Chandran despite swanking his supreme sense of color while shooting landscapes could botch it up with an an over done zoom in - zoom out? Besides almost every frame in the movie was digitally enhanced and therefore just like the script, the frames too looked exceedingly artificial with highly saturated greens and yellows.

Ghajini is 200 minutes of unbeatable misery and my initial reluctance to watch it is completely justified by a lousy script, below pathetic songs and a wretched show by both the leading ladies .
I guess the matter with Aamir Khan is that he is mighty confused in head. Maybe he is a good actor, (I do not deny that though I would love to) - but trouble ensues when you tend to forcefully put a tag of perfectionist when you are absolutely the opposite of that. When was the last time this man did something with complete perfection, or did he ever do that? Ever?

This guy is in a pressing need for guidance in choosing scripts because when you put up a two hour joker act that makes a total mockery of the viewer's wit and acuity, you are bidding for your own downfall.

This movie escaped a box- office doom, thanks to an ever worsening and fast declining sense of delectation among Indian Audience, who have now also migrated largely enough into the UKs and USAs of the world to ensure that any lame act like a Singh is King or an Aap Ka Suroor will not go unattended.

That is no surprise though, considering the amount of kitschy entertainment that is being stuck down your throat everyday through TV and Internet, maybe Ghajini can appear real and meaningful here. Entertainment is relative.

Also that day has come when a set of thickos (self-proclaimed film-critics with a job that enables them to publsih their substandard analysis on national dailies) would soak up their greasy palms and call this one a brave attempt. Some of them even spotted subtle social messages as well - like this chap who was delighted by Asin's short but berated elocution on how mordacious men in schools - offices - police stations and taxis have made it unsafe for girls and women in the country. He felt the scene was a much needed poke at the lecherous conscience of Indian Men. Well, it's a free country and you are only allowed to ignore such analyses.

I am off to sleep with a head-ache again.