This was meant to be a How-To Guide for Road Trips in India, marking four years with my trusty 800. From the use of chewing gum to what sort of music keeps you going, it's all coming on at some point. Hopefully.
The Life & Times of Varun (26th September 2011)
In recent news, tragedy struck once again for young Varun Mukerji from Pune, in the early hours of Sunday, the 25th of September.
Varun, 23, had just been robbed of his phone and wallet and sunglasses earlier this month. An optimistic individual, he has done well to rebuild his faith in humanity since. On Saturday night, after his debut performance as a stand-up comic (for which he did fairly alright and is happier for the experience), he chose to leave his car at the parking lot, so as to accompany a ladyfriend as they drove to an after-party.
This just in: chivalry is not dead.
The next day, he found himself a victim of a depraved and valueless society for the second time in one month. His car had been broken into, window smashed and the perpetrators (probably neighbourhood child-vandals), made off with his backpack, the contents of which included a brand new laptop, along with some other personal possessions.
This left Varun in a daze, disappointed yet again by the immoral acts of an unjust society. He spent the rest of his Sunday reconciling with his loss, but looking ahead at mending his ill-fate. Always a brighter-side viewer, Varun was quoted as saying, "Well, at least the fuckers didn't steal my music deck, or scratch or dent anything. God damn motherfuckers."
The following week will be spent in recovering his possessions and giving his beloved car a new window. Our thoughts are with Varun and his family during this difficult time. Please forward your condolences and/or money to varunmukerji@gmail.com
Varun, 23, had just been robbed of his phone and wallet and sunglasses earlier this month. An optimistic individual, he has done well to rebuild his faith in humanity since. On Saturday night, after his debut performance as a stand-up comic (for which he did fairly alright and is happier for the experience), he chose to leave his car at the parking lot, so as to accompany a ladyfriend as they drove to an after-party.
This just in: chivalry is not dead.
The next day, he found himself a victim of a depraved and valueless society for the second time in one month. His car had been broken into, window smashed and the perpetrators (probably neighbourhood child-vandals), made off with his backpack, the contents of which included a brand new laptop, along with some other personal possessions.
This left Varun in a daze, disappointed yet again by the immoral acts of an unjust society. He spent the rest of his Sunday reconciling with his loss, but looking ahead at mending his ill-fate. Always a brighter-side viewer, Varun was quoted as saying, "Well, at least the fuckers didn't steal my music deck, or scratch or dent anything. God damn motherfuckers."
The following week will be spent in recovering his possessions and giving his beloved car a new window. Our thoughts are with Varun and his family during this difficult time. Please forward your condolences and/or money to varunmukerji@gmail.com
Find more Dan Auerbach songs at Myspace Music
Observations on Local Trains in Bombay (27th June 2011)
Welcome back.
So I've been an infrequent visitor to the local trains in Bombay until recently, when the 9:35 a.m. from Jogeshwari to Churchgate (by around 10:18, give or take a minute) and I have become something of an item. Anybody can tell that the hour at which my journey takes place must be a bit hectic, considering it's a pretty conventional time for people to travel.
Anybody from Bombay will smile knowingly and assure me that I am in for a melange of sardinism and an extra order of elbow-in-your-facery.
But I've grown to quite like it, in these past couple of weeks. It seems like such a distinct part of my day now, and so different from the rest of my Bombay life, even though it is quite easily considered to be the essence or lifeline of the Mumbai Man.
I say 'Man' here in all seriousness. Ladies, I applaud your efforts of battling each day with your best chappal forward, leaving your worries of being ogled aside and riding the trains of Mumbai through hail and high water, I really do. But let's be honest. Aside from the drastic disparity in the mere population of the two sexes on these trains, the women are also comparatively docile and keen on just about getting along, while perhaps getting their veggies organized on the way home.
The men on the other hand. The men have it different. And before I proceed, let me just say although it is definitely and without a doubt quite bothersome to use these trains during rush hour, it is also quite a thing to marvel at for the amazing amenity and miracle of infrastructure that it is and at no point do I want to take any credit away from that very fact.
And now that I've said that, I can begin my lament.
On second thought, I think I will segue this lamenting business to a sense of appreciation actually.
The local train culture is definitely unique. What will strike any outsider quite soon after the sheer number of people inhabiting these little bogies (cars, train compartments, what-have-you) is the way in which the inhabitants interact. It is nothing short of odd.
Men holding other mens' hands has long been a picture of amusement for the modern citizen. Clutching each others' waists as they walk down a promenade while still somehow exuding a sense of machismo (that few will mistake for bad body odour) is a unique feature of the Indian male and will continue to be a distinct one -- while at no point being anything beyond an allusion to homosexuality because, really, these men are not usually sexually interested in one another.
They simply aren't.
Instead they are interested in developing relationships. Bonds. Strong, intangible, wonderful bonds that indicate a level of friendship that is quite remarkable, really. Their conversations are seldom shallow and mostly always filled with political and social commentary about the life and times of themselves, their sons and daughters and uncles and that one time they managed to get a massive discount on a television because they put a goat up as down payment. And now how they share each others' joys and sorrows, laughter and sadness, laddus and vegetarian patties.
It's all a bit sentimental really.
Something to point out here is that these passengers are also a very boisterous bunch. Make no mistake, their love for one another is evident as the weather is humid. But what will strike you is that these people, who for all intents and purposes are actually strangers to one another, save for the hour a day they spend riding the train together, are astonishingly violent! It's mental!
Like naughty kids in a boarding school playground in the monsoon, their hobbies include inflicting pain on one another and then laughing hysterically about it. All the while making poignant and heated eyes and really savouring the tension those stares create, if only for a few seconds.
And then it comes. The violence.
Each strike, each slap, each shove is masked with an air of brotherhood and affection that will elude your observation up until the moment their eyes light up and their serious grimaces turn into the widest grins of joy and excitement you never knew their minds could contain. Absurd.
Honestly, amidst the contorted stances each individual has the honour of holding while eagerly waiting for someone to leave a seat vacant, one would never guess that these trains are also host to a fraternity like none other. A fraternity so strong and and with such a magical foundation of hardship and life experiences -- it brings these train-journeymen together each day to laugh and occasionally hit, but mainly just support one another.
And it isn't just emotionally, mind you. They seem to love supporting each other physically too.
At least half these men really enjoy pretending to be furniture for hour-long trips.
And then to see them disperse. To disappear almost instantly, as though their lives had never been intertwined. One can't help but speculate and guess at their lives and wonder if they enjoy their jobs and love their families and ever go on holiday or basically do anything that is nearly as much fun to them as the time that they spend in each others' company every day in this wonderful, potpourri-like example of public transport.
--
Another observation I have made which is in a different sort of vein, a vein perhaps not comfortably found in everyone's umm... cardiovascula... okay I think I will drop this metaphor here.
The vein I refer to is the fact that at any point in time, this marvellous symbol of pulmonary infrastructure that Bombay is so proud to own... is also a moving weapon. A weapon capable of claiming dozens, if not millions (I may have my numbers skewed a bit) of lives every day just on the basis of an assumption. An assumption that each and every passenger is of sound mind and possesses regular motor skills and has a positive outlook to the concept of self-preservation. An assumption that at any point, a passenger won't (for reasons unbeknown to us) slip off the edge of the car, or protrude ever so slightly inducing harm to his body the likes of which are either irreparable or if nothing else, regrettable. The likes of which can't possibly be considered a liability by the Indian government because that would be an idiotic liability. Seriously, so many people use these trains! Wait let me go get a statistic.
Bear with me here.
SIX POINT NINE MILLION COMMUTERS DAILY. Whoa.
It may sound morbid, I know. Don't you think that I know? Well, I do. I know.
But there is something very, very ostensibly dark about standing at the edge of the train, holding onto the bar, as you stare at the cityscape sailing by, breeze swooping through sewage and hitting your face with a foul yet fun and familiar smell and your earphones squeeze the life out of a song that you can feel throbbing with the same pace as your heart as you think about your life and everything you've come to be and it is all okay and it is all affirmed when suddenly you realize that it could all end... in an instant.
Like standing on top of a skyscraper, or staring at the blade of a knife or thinking of crossing a National Highway during a particularly great stretch while SUVs are doing close to 200kmph.
I've always imagined what it would be like. Have you?
Splatter.
I suppose this is morbid. I suppose this isn't the choicest topic. But I can't help but think it and I suppose there's no harm in writing about it, because, I mean, this is the stuff that they depict in great films and books and if Bukowski could get so famous writing filth, why can't I?
(Yes, this guy just compared himself to Bukowski. And he also just said that he's about to get famous so maybe you ought to just smile and nod.)
It is an absurd thought though, isn't it? That something so integral to the way of life in Bombay can also be the harbinger of death and deformation? That something so precious and valuable to the citizens of Bombay where people learn to live together and forge meaningful and seemingly intransient relationships with one another can also be the home of immediate carnage if a passenger so saw fit? Or if he felt drowsy, or caught a bit of vertigo, or spent a second too long dwelling on his sorrowful life and then... and then poof.
I suppose that this is as good a point as any to aposiopesis my way out...
Cheerio.
So I've been an infrequent visitor to the local trains in Bombay until recently, when the 9:35 a.m. from Jogeshwari to Churchgate (by around 10:18, give or take a minute) and I have become something of an item. Anybody can tell that the hour at which my journey takes place must be a bit hectic, considering it's a pretty conventional time for people to travel.
Anybody from Bombay will smile knowingly and assure me that I am in for a melange of sardinism and an extra order of elbow-in-your-facery.
But I've grown to quite like it, in these past couple of weeks. It seems like such a distinct part of my day now, and so different from the rest of my Bombay life, even though it is quite easily considered to be the essence or lifeline of the Mumbai Man.
I say 'Man' here in all seriousness. Ladies, I applaud your efforts of battling each day with your best chappal forward, leaving your worries of being ogled aside and riding the trains of Mumbai through hail and high water, I really do. But let's be honest. Aside from the drastic disparity in the mere population of the two sexes on these trains, the women are also comparatively docile and keen on just about getting along, while perhaps getting their veggies organized on the way home.
The men on the other hand. The men have it different. And before I proceed, let me just say although it is definitely and without a doubt quite bothersome to use these trains during rush hour, it is also quite a thing to marvel at for the amazing amenity and miracle of infrastructure that it is and at no point do I want to take any credit away from that very fact.
And now that I've said that, I can begin my lament.
On second thought, I think I will segue this lamenting business to a sense of appreciation actually.
The local train culture is definitely unique. What will strike any outsider quite soon after the sheer number of people inhabiting these little bogies (cars, train compartments, what-have-you) is the way in which the inhabitants interact. It is nothing short of odd.
Men holding other mens' hands has long been a picture of amusement for the modern citizen. Clutching each others' waists as they walk down a promenade while still somehow exuding a sense of machismo (that few will mistake for bad body odour) is a unique feature of the Indian male and will continue to be a distinct one -- while at no point being anything beyond an allusion to homosexuality because, really, these men are not usually sexually interested in one another.
They simply aren't.
Instead they are interested in developing relationships. Bonds. Strong, intangible, wonderful bonds that indicate a level of friendship that is quite remarkable, really. Their conversations are seldom shallow and mostly always filled with political and social commentary about the life and times of themselves, their sons and daughters and uncles and that one time they managed to get a massive discount on a television because they put a goat up as down payment. And now how they share each others' joys and sorrows, laughter and sadness, laddus and vegetarian patties.
It's all a bit sentimental really.
Something to point out here is that these passengers are also a very boisterous bunch. Make no mistake, their love for one another is evident as the weather is humid. But what will strike you is that these people, who for all intents and purposes are actually strangers to one another, save for the hour a day they spend riding the train together, are astonishingly violent! It's mental!
Like naughty kids in a boarding school playground in the monsoon, their hobbies include inflicting pain on one another and then laughing hysterically about it. All the while making poignant and heated eyes and really savouring the tension those stares create, if only for a few seconds.
And then it comes. The violence.
Each strike, each slap, each shove is masked with an air of brotherhood and affection that will elude your observation up until the moment their eyes light up and their serious grimaces turn into the widest grins of joy and excitement you never knew their minds could contain. Absurd.
Honestly, amidst the contorted stances each individual has the honour of holding while eagerly waiting for someone to leave a seat vacant, one would never guess that these trains are also host to a fraternity like none other. A fraternity so strong and and with such a magical foundation of hardship and life experiences -- it brings these train-journeymen together each day to laugh and occasionally hit, but mainly just support one another.
And it isn't just emotionally, mind you. They seem to love supporting each other physically too.
At least half these men really enjoy pretending to be furniture for hour-long trips.
And then to see them disperse. To disappear almost instantly, as though their lives had never been intertwined. One can't help but speculate and guess at their lives and wonder if they enjoy their jobs and love their families and ever go on holiday or basically do anything that is nearly as much fun to them as the time that they spend in each others' company every day in this wonderful, potpourri-like example of public transport.
--
Another observation I have made which is in a different sort of vein, a vein perhaps not comfortably found in everyone's umm... cardiovascula... okay I think I will drop this metaphor here.
The vein I refer to is the fact that at any point in time, this marvellous symbol of pulmonary infrastructure that Bombay is so proud to own... is also a moving weapon. A weapon capable of claiming dozens, if not millions (I may have my numbers skewed a bit) of lives every day just on the basis of an assumption. An assumption that each and every passenger is of sound mind and possesses regular motor skills and has a positive outlook to the concept of self-preservation. An assumption that at any point, a passenger won't (for reasons unbeknown to us) slip off the edge of the car, or protrude ever so slightly inducing harm to his body the likes of which are either irreparable or if nothing else, regrettable. The likes of which can't possibly be considered a liability by the Indian government because that would be an idiotic liability. Seriously, so many people use these trains! Wait let me go get a statistic.
Bear with me here.
SIX POINT NINE MILLION COMMUTERS DAILY. Whoa.
It may sound morbid, I know. Don't you think that I know? Well, I do. I know.
But there is something very, very ostensibly dark about standing at the edge of the train, holding onto the bar, as you stare at the cityscape sailing by, breeze swooping through sewage and hitting your face with a foul yet fun and familiar smell and your earphones squeeze the life out of a song that you can feel throbbing with the same pace as your heart as you think about your life and everything you've come to be and it is all okay and it is all affirmed when suddenly you realize that it could all end... in an instant.
Like standing on top of a skyscraper, or staring at the blade of a knife or thinking of crossing a National Highway during a particularly great stretch while SUVs are doing close to 200kmph.
I've always imagined what it would be like. Have you?
Splatter.
I suppose this is morbid. I suppose this isn't the choicest topic. But I can't help but think it and I suppose there's no harm in writing about it, because, I mean, this is the stuff that they depict in great films and books and if Bukowski could get so famous writing filth, why can't I?
(Yes, this guy just compared himself to Bukowski. And he also just said that he's about to get famous so maybe you ought to just smile and nod.)
It is an absurd thought though, isn't it? That something so integral to the way of life in Bombay can also be the harbinger of death and deformation? That something so precious and valuable to the citizens of Bombay where people learn to live together and forge meaningful and seemingly intransient relationships with one another can also be the home of immediate carnage if a passenger so saw fit? Or if he felt drowsy, or caught a bit of vertigo, or spent a second too long dwelling on his sorrowful life and then... and then poof.
I suppose that this is as good a point as any to aposiopesis my way out...
Cheerio.
Lenny Bruce (22nd March 2011)
I've mentioned my fondness for Dustin Hoffman before. He's one of those people I am a true and proper fan of. The sort whose character and persona(lity) influences you on an unconscious level... and in that way, becomes a little of who you are.
That ellipsis (...) I used there may just be incorrect. It's something I must work on, if I'm truly about to embark on a nobler profession soon. Grammar Nazi.
Words I learnt today are:
1. Sophistry: The use of fallacious arguments, esp. with the intention of deceiving.
2. Solecism: A grammatical mistake in speech or writing OR A breach of good manners; a piece of incorrect behaviour.
3. Specious: Superficially plausible, but actually wrong OR Misleading in appearance, esp. misleadingly attractive.
By the way, I'm mildly lying about the second and the third word, because I knew them before... but I thought they were pertinent to this series of S-lettered words I just created. Let's just say I re-learnt them today, with respect to context.
I like these words because of the nature of truth within them. Their endemic interest in truth, depiction and portrayal seems to resonate with my ideas about this tepid lifestyle of mine lately.
And with that same motivation, along with the one I introduced at the beginning of this post, came today's cinema selection: Lenny.
"The story of acerbic 1960s comic Lenny Bruce, whose groundbreaking, no-holds-barred style and social commentary was often deemed by the Establisment as too obscene for the public."
Fantastic film. Dustin Hoffman predilection aside, this movie is about Lenny Bruce and his amazingly impactful life. It's about the guts involved in pointing a mirror straight at yourself, or your group or your clan or your tribe or your country or your society. And looking hard enough to see the clear and present hypocrisy, no matter what the odds. It's about pursuing honesty and feeling strong enough to purge the filth to find it.
I've had many conversations about the importance of honesty over sensitivity; deliberating either party's goals of social harmony and physical co-existence...
What works, what doesn't, what needn't, what shouldn't. What prevails. What's practical. Not to mention whether they are distinct and stark to even call separate parties. I personally find sensitivity a little dull... even though I am aware of the significance of empathy in our lives today and in our semblance of future–
That there, is an aposiopesis. My word for the week.
---
I'm in the process of combining a few broad tenets and putting together a formidable life-stance. I'll put it up soon... it's all too overwhelming to do in 30 minutes, like these posts (rants).
In the meantime, watch Lenny. And listen to Tame Impala to get a taste of this Monday I just had. Here, I'll even put it on for you.
That ellipsis (...) I used there may just be incorrect. It's something I must work on, if I'm truly about to embark on a nobler profession soon. Grammar Nazi.
Words I learnt today are:
1. Sophistry: The use of fallacious arguments, esp. with the intention of deceiving.
2. Solecism: A grammatical mistake in speech or writing OR A breach of good manners; a piece of incorrect behaviour.
3. Specious: Superficially plausible, but actually wrong OR Misleading in appearance, esp. misleadingly attractive.
By the way, I'm mildly lying about the second and the third word, because I knew them before... but I thought they were pertinent to this series of S-lettered words I just created. Let's just say I re-learnt them today, with respect to context.
I like these words because of the nature of truth within them. Their endemic interest in truth, depiction and portrayal seems to resonate with my ideas about this tepid lifestyle of mine lately.
And with that same motivation, along with the one I introduced at the beginning of this post, came today's cinema selection: Lenny.
"The story of acerbic 1960s comic Lenny Bruce, whose groundbreaking, no-holds-barred style and social commentary was often deemed by the Establisment as too obscene for the public."
Fantastic film. Dustin Hoffman predilection aside, this movie is about Lenny Bruce and his amazingly impactful life. It's about the guts involved in pointing a mirror straight at yourself, or your group or your clan or your tribe or your country or your society. And looking hard enough to see the clear and present hypocrisy, no matter what the odds. It's about pursuing honesty and feeling strong enough to purge the filth to find it.
I've had many conversations about the importance of honesty over sensitivity; deliberating either party's goals of social harmony and physical co-existence...
What works, what doesn't, what needn't, what shouldn't. What prevails. What's practical. Not to mention whether they are distinct and stark to even call separate parties. I personally find sensitivity a little dull... even though I am aware of the significance of empathy in our lives today and in our semblance of future–
That there, is an aposiopesis. My word for the week.
"Aposiopesis (pronounced /ˌæpəsaɪ.əˈpiːsɪs/ from Classical Greek, ἀποσιώπησις, "becoming silent") is a rhetorical device wherein a sentence is deliberately broken off and left unfinished, the ending to be supplied by the imagination, giving an impression of unwillingness or inability to continue. An example would be the threat "Get out, or else—!" This device often portrays its users as overcome with passion (fear, anger, excitement) or modesty. To mark the occurrence of aposiopesis with punctuation an em dash or an ellipsis may be used."Source: Wikipedia, because it's on its way to becoming a legitimate source now.
---
I'm in the process of combining a few broad tenets and putting together a formidable life-stance. I'll put it up soon... it's all too overwhelming to do in 30 minutes, like these posts (rants).
In the meantime, watch Lenny. And listen to Tame Impala to get a taste of this Monday I just had. Here, I'll even put it on for you.
Cohesion (11th March 2011)
You know what I used to love doing as a kid? Pouring a little water on a surface (usually the floor), in patches... and then using a few drops to kind of connect the different puddles so that, almost magically, I could watch the water come alive and congregate.
It seemed miraculous to me... the way water could do that. To witness seemingly disconnected puddles just come together like that must be how oceans are formed, I would ponder. Moving by itself, I realize now that this is due to the cohesive nature of water. Well, that and its adhesive properties along with surface tension, but the physics behind it doesn't make it less inspiring.
Cohesion. The act of forming a united whole. Nature sure is the best teacher.
It seemed miraculous to me... the way water could do that. To witness seemingly disconnected puddles just come together like that must be how oceans are formed, I would ponder. Moving by itself, I realize now that this is due to the cohesive nature of water. Well, that and its adhesive properties along with surface tension, but the physics behind it doesn't make it less inspiring.
Cohesion. The act of forming a united whole. Nature sure is the best teacher.
Undividedness (22nd February 2011)
I'm looking to get a little closer
A little closer to you.
I can't imagine being closer
Proximity's got me looking the fool.
I remember
Tucking your hair back behind your ear
Or holding your side while I stood near.
Waiting to see you and hating to leave
Or thinking of how my chest would heave.
When my stares were full and my eyes weren't cold
I guess time has a way of making everyone old.
I remember looking at a girl with this ridiculous and hopeless grin of undividedness.
I miss that feeling. Only slightly, mind you.
My distractions have learnt to take centre stage.
Now my friend is pretend and he plays the lead role
The thing with solitude is – it has plenty of soul.
Even when I'm real, my mind's in a bout
Do you think this is easy? Shit, without-a-doubt.
Putting on that suit is like wearing a glove
But a trace is a good thing when you're in love.
Costumes are for pussies but what are you gonna do?
Pussies are essential man, there's nothing more true.
These last two stanzas seem a bit more hip-hop
But rhythm in poetry always helps the beat drop.
I'm trying to close now, no room to stutter
This shit sure ain't smooth peanut butter.
Yours crunchily,
Mr. Division.
"If you've come looking for hard times, hard times ain't hard to find." - Clarence Greenwood
A little closer to you.
I can't imagine being closer
Proximity's got me looking the fool.
I remember
Tucking your hair back behind your ear
Or holding your side while I stood near.
Waiting to see you and hating to leave
Or thinking of how my chest would heave.
When my stares were full and my eyes weren't cold
I guess time has a way of making everyone old.
I remember looking at a girl with this ridiculous and hopeless grin of undividedness.
I miss that feeling. Only slightly, mind you.
My distractions have learnt to take centre stage.
Now my friend is pretend and he plays the lead role
The thing with solitude is – it has plenty of soul.
Even when I'm real, my mind's in a bout
Do you think this is easy? Shit, without-a-doubt.
Putting on that suit is like wearing a glove
But a trace is a good thing when you're in love.
Costumes are for pussies but what are you gonna do?
Pussies are essential man, there's nothing more true.
These last two stanzas seem a bit more hip-hop
But rhythm in poetry always helps the beat drop.
I'm trying to close now, no room to stutter
This shit sure ain't smooth peanut butter.
Yours crunchily,
Mr. Division.
"If you've come looking for hard times, hard times ain't hard to find." - Clarence Greenwood
Piece of Papaya (22nd February 2011)
"I believe it's time for another piece of papaya." If there were ever any words to inspire me to write on a Monday night like tonight, it's probably these.
It's too bad the papaya is over. I'm not in the mood for grapes, which is highly unusual. Oh well, apples and oranges.
I just watched 'Never Let Me Go', a "... 2010 British dystopian drama film based on Kazuo Ishiguro's 2005 novel of the same name."
I could quote a little more Wikipedia but it will suffice to mention that this movie is about a world in which cloning is a means to improving longevity thanks to live human specimens acting as donors. Basically your average Tuesday afternoon fleeting hypothesis. It's been done before in 'The Island', but I think this film does it better. The story is more compelling and possibly even relatable because of the stellar acting and also because wearing spandex and having an odd coloured drink with Scarlett Johansson seems less than real.
Anyway, so this movie isn't half bad. Andrew Garfield is a fine actor. I saw him first in the spectacular Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus and I can't help but think he's going to go on to live a very wealthy life thanks to the success of The Social Network. I don't usually review movies here because of the frightening number I watch and it simply wouldn't be fair. And I'm not about to start. Well, not just yet anyway.
This piece is, instead, an ode to the lovely Carey Mulligan, who has me terribly and irrevocably smitten.
I first met this enchanting thing in 'An Education' and she hasn't left my mind since. She plays a nearly 17 year old school girl with an exceptionally bright mind, a fair talent with the cello and a penchant for all things French (bourgeois). In a time when educating oneself was the proper thing to do for a young woman, this character begins to ask questions way beyond her years. Her dreams of going to read English at Oxford start to fall to pieces upon meeting a charming and worldly older man, a Mr. David... who leads her into a tale of romance and excitement, the likes of which she had only imagined. (It's worth noting here that Peter Sarsgaard plays David... an amazingly talented actor himself.)
The movie is actually based on the true story of British journalist Lynn Barber and the 'education' she received before exiting her teenage years. The movie is terrific... but more so, this Carey Mulligan is where the gold is. Her eyes are filled to the brim with fantasy and those little dimples complement her timid smiles all too well. Like magic.
Honestly, so cute and man, those eyes can hold a litre of water! There was this moment just before Jenny was being seduced by David... when I actually had to pause to see how old she is in real life! Proper protective feelings arose. One could say that's conservative, but let's just call it "normal".
So she's 25. Turning 26 in May this year, I know you didn't ask. People like her make me instantly happy. Actors who manage to familiarize themselves with you to the point that you forge a personal relationship with them... no matter what their role. They get in your head and become a part of your friend circle, as creepy as it sounds. I think it takes a special kind of talent to endear yourself to another person via celluloid.
Dustin Hoffman is a man who continually does that to me. He makes me feel comfortable and warm and I can't help but smile when he does... or become tremendously worried when he does, as in the case of Kramer vs. Kramer. Lately however, he's been doing fun roles... and even during voice overs like in Kung Fu Panda as Shifu, his Dustin-ness comes through like a wave of brilliance.
James Franco is definitely on that list. So is David Duchovny, Jason Bateman, Michael Cera and not to get too mannish here but so is Zooey Deschanel, Ellen Page and Penelope Cruz to name a few.
(Although I will admit women actors endear themselves to me for reasons besides their thespian skills.)
Gotta love Dustin Hoffman, though :)
It's too bad the papaya is over. I'm not in the mood for grapes, which is highly unusual. Oh well, apples and oranges.
I just watched 'Never Let Me Go', a "... 2010 British dystopian drama film based on Kazuo Ishiguro's 2005 novel of the same name."
I could quote a little more Wikipedia but it will suffice to mention that this movie is about a world in which cloning is a means to improving longevity thanks to live human specimens acting as donors. Basically your average Tuesday afternoon fleeting hypothesis. It's been done before in 'The Island', but I think this film does it better. The story is more compelling and possibly even relatable because of the stellar acting and also because wearing spandex and having an odd coloured drink with Scarlett Johansson seems less than real.
Anyway, so this movie isn't half bad. Andrew Garfield is a fine actor. I saw him first in the spectacular Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus and I can't help but think he's going to go on to live a very wealthy life thanks to the success of The Social Network. I don't usually review movies here because of the frightening number I watch and it simply wouldn't be fair. And I'm not about to start. Well, not just yet anyway.
This piece is, instead, an ode to the lovely Carey Mulligan, who has me terribly and irrevocably smitten.
I first met this enchanting thing in 'An Education' and she hasn't left my mind since. She plays a nearly 17 year old school girl with an exceptionally bright mind, a fair talent with the cello and a penchant for all things French (bourgeois). In a time when educating oneself was the proper thing to do for a young woman, this character begins to ask questions way beyond her years. Her dreams of going to read English at Oxford start to fall to pieces upon meeting a charming and worldly older man, a Mr. David... who leads her into a tale of romance and excitement, the likes of which she had only imagined. (It's worth noting here that Peter Sarsgaard plays David... an amazingly talented actor himself.)
The movie is actually based on the true story of British journalist Lynn Barber and the 'education' she received before exiting her teenage years. The movie is terrific... but more so, this Carey Mulligan is where the gold is. Her eyes are filled to the brim with fantasy and those little dimples complement her timid smiles all too well. Like magic.
Honestly, so cute and man, those eyes can hold a litre of water! There was this moment just before Jenny was being seduced by David... when I actually had to pause to see how old she is in real life! Proper protective feelings arose. One could say that's conservative, but let's just call it "normal".
So she's 25. Turning 26 in May this year, I know you didn't ask. People like her make me instantly happy. Actors who manage to familiarize themselves with you to the point that you forge a personal relationship with them... no matter what their role. They get in your head and become a part of your friend circle, as creepy as it sounds. I think it takes a special kind of talent to endear yourself to another person via celluloid.
Dustin Hoffman is a man who continually does that to me. He makes me feel comfortable and warm and I can't help but smile when he does... or become tremendously worried when he does, as in the case of Kramer vs. Kramer. Lately however, he's been doing fun roles... and even during voice overs like in Kung Fu Panda as Shifu, his Dustin-ness comes through like a wave of brilliance.
James Franco is definitely on that list. So is David Duchovny, Jason Bateman, Michael Cera and not to get too mannish here but so is Zooey Deschanel, Ellen Page and Penelope Cruz to name a few.
(Although I will admit women actors endear themselves to me for reasons besides their thespian skills.)
Gotta love Dustin Hoffman, though :)
Fugue State (28th January 2011)
He pulls until the smoke fills his eyes, enters his lungs and attempts to incite his brain, before it leaves his mouth... not unwanted but not nearly having fulfilled its purpose.
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He stands on the beach staring out at the sea, waiting desperately for the tide to reach him, if only just to wet his ankles.
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It's after sunset. There are no clouds and there are no stars. It's dark, but not completely... just a deep shade of grey paints the sky and drips into his mind.
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Fugue state. It is his fault, he knows it... but that doesn't make it go away. He blinks slowly, once every 6 seconds. Each blinks comes with a promise of meaning, a moment of hope in the darkness imposed by his eyelid.
His eyes open to the same smoke, the same sea, the same sky.
The same state.
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