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An Elegy (Undated)

I would run that extra mile;
I would write that extra line;
I would waketh that extra hour,
and fight sweet memories-
from turning sour...
In the brine of time.
Sweet memory pickled sublime
Until! Not a single mitten left
Or sour, diminished, totally bereft!

So then,
Let some questions unanswered remain,
And saveth us from complexities profane.
Whilst we walk our seperate ways,
For nights together and countless days;
And not a single strand of it
Be caught in banality or witty wit.
For let it sleep its peaceful sleep,
And may it not smile, sigh or weep,
And may it ne'er turn in its grave
As on its tombstone, I sit-humble and brave!
Protecting it from the brine of time,
While outside, jealousy and temptation entwine.

Amen

Kieslowski vs Kubrick: Exploring the K-Factor

Watching Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange recently reminded me of another similar masterpiece by the name of, 'A Short Film About Killing' by Kieslowski. Both the films are in their way a profound commentary on the quintessential relation between the individual and the state, and to what extent can and should the state play the puppet-master to the individual, especially when the individual himself turns into an anarchist. Technically, both films are made in polar halves; the first half shows the individual as the wanton, vulpine progeny hell-bent on hurting and antagonizing his surroundings, through rape, arson, looting, murder and generic plunder. Kubrick, it ought to be mentioned becomes excessively verbose and illustrative by incorporating his scene sequences with vivid imagery. On the other hand, Kieslowski's strength lies in the subtleness with which he pulls the strings in the background and lets the characters flow deeper and deeper into the plot. Ultimately, while viewing either of the films, the viewer experiences a sort of revulsion at what each protagonist does in the name of a wanton, albeit free willing nature.

The strength of both the films lies during the final moments, wherein the 'State' strikes back and teaches these vampiresque individuals a lesson, thereby bringing their story of debauchery and hooliganism full circle.

Kieslowski's finishes the circle of fate in his last scene wherein Tomek is executed by hanging till death. By en far, its one of the most powerful scenes in cinema due to the raw play of energy with which Tomek is shown to resist the noose, breathing his last whilst wriggling incessantly and grasping for air. The power of the film lies in this one scene as it is here that we find ourselves overwhelmed by pity for the protagonist and his pathetic state. Eventhough, he has done irretrievable damage to many, including committing murder just for the heck of it, and other smaller crimes, but we find ourselves question the whole idea of capital punishment, and why should the state reserve the right to 'push the button' on anybody. We find ourselves revolted by such a nihilistic approach of a chosen authority towards the 'rotten apples' of society. We are driven to ask again and again about 'reform' and ‘rehabilitation’ and other such softer alternatives to curb and improve the dark horses. But alas! The softer tones of our concerns quickly dissolve in Tomek's screams whilst the noose tightens around his neck and chokes the living hell out of him. Period.

Interestingly, Kubrick explores the other side of the coin; Reform. Herein, the protagonist, Alex, is given a choice between serving a life sentence or undergoing a series of mysterious experiments after which he would be free to go. Obviously, he chooses the latter. The point of schism being that the 'mysterious experimental programme' is the 'Government's new, untested hypnotic, psychological, brain-washing technique' through which the psyche of the individual is thoroughly ruptured, and incapable of acting on its own. After which, he is constantly burdened by some unexplainable guilt, which forbids him to commit any act of lust or aggression. Alex too becomes one such 'cabbage', who is brought on stage after the ‘tests’ are done, as a prized experimental rat, and made to lick the soul of a gentleman's boot dutifully. A topless damsel is then paraded in front of him. He struggles to reach out for her breasts, but is overcome by revulsion and falls on the ground, howling for pity and absolution (for your information, o! kind reader, he had raped a woman in the beginning of the film.). In effect, the once aggressive-rapist-murderer-arsonist is now a meek, helpless, defenseless turnip being pushed from one edge of society to another. If we had despised the earlier version of Alex for gruesomely raping a middle-aged woman, we now pity him for his temerity at being punched by a tramp he had once bullied. During the final stages of his despair, he tries to commit suicide, but breaks a few bones and lands in a hospital bed. A greasy minister comes and coaxes him to 'strike a deal' with him for a government job and salary, in return for keeping his mouth shut about the 'programme'. What else? He readily agrees and the movie closes with the two of them smiling 32-out at the shutterbugs. Its by en far, appalling, if not infuriating to watch the end.

I don't know who committed more damage to society, but in the end both Alex and Tomek compete for the 'Most Wretched Fate' Award. Abhinandan and Mou(my dearest friends from film-school), please correct me if i make any technical misjudgments here; but the fact of the matter is that both films are like a corollary to one another. If one shows subtle damage building-up into a vast explosion through its limited, matter-of-factly camera work, then the other assaults the senses through-and-through with its sets from the Korova-Milk-Bar to the hospital scene in the end. If one is a litany, the other is heavy metal. If one is about killing a criminal's body, the other is about killing his soul.

And both films are subtle tragic surmise of the modern epoch. I say this because after viewing each of the films at least twice, I realized the connotation of what either of the K-Dudes implied. Which was to concern themselves, and their audiences with ‘truth’, because that’s what has been the most ancient concern of ‘good tragedy’. Plato refers to this ‘truth’ as Catharsis, or Sublimation. Wherein, Alex’s meekness and Tomek’s fateful end arises pity and fear, but ultimately sublimates both and raises the spectator to a state of understanding. This state of Understanding is a subjective reality. And so, I would refrain from commenting on it any further.


PS. I intended speaking about a few other issues related to the jingbang, but shall refrain till the time i discuss Aamir and his cinema.

Anthem n Enigma
I

The ochre of skies had turned to violets, the once dark mane of the tiger had gone thin and pale with age, but the joy of leaving a place mixed with the anticipation of his onward journeys was still a part of nachiketa s travels. He wandered irremediably, just like the mythological satan who had been cursed with having no ground under his feet. But alas!our wanderer of yore did have his feet firmly on the ground, else how was he to feel the pulse of humanity running all around him. How was he to gauge the sparkle in the eye of the ragpiker child when he had casually given away his burger and fries to her at the signal, or how was he to touch the flame within the being of an ancient-lighthouse-caretaker seeing him live the same day of switching on n swithching off the huge light since as long as memory could stretch.He surely could'nt have,had he been a creature of the floating world;and so his feet were firmly on the ground looking for edges and cliffs from where he'd take flight and soar into the horizon of human possibilities and freedom and feeling, unhindered by prejudice,presumption or malice. Such was the nature of each cliff he stood on, before leaving an old dwelling place and travellng to the next. His journeys alas!were limitless mysteries unfolding into visions that made him see faces,eyes,colours and incidents as beautiful, surreal blotches on the fabric of an ever-moving, ever-changing humanity. But at times (in those visions) he also managed to distance himself far enough to be able to see the 'face' of an infinite human spirit. And that was the point.
'What is your name?',asked Kala, the mahout, glancing at our protagonist, sitting at Bumba's back, the tusker with pink teeth and heart-shaped patches on his ears. Bumba had been born with wings in the valley of Khyal, but the day he crossed over to the town of Dil, his wings had been clinged on by a million dust particles, turned brittle and broke. Those heart-shaped patches on his ears were an undying legacy that Akriti had left to him, her love songs whispered into his ears once upon a time, but alas! the fastidiousness of Dil had swallowed away her beauty into its belly of circuses n zoos and what not. In the end, her voice had ended up as heart-shaped patches on Bumba z ears, whilst her famished body been abandoned in the sleepy swamps of Majnu-ka-tilla around the northern pretincts of Dil.
Even before, Nachiketa was done pronouncing his name, the mahout tricked Bumba to kneel before our protagonist, in anticipation for a few green notes. Nachi obviously mistook it for some sort of beastly outburst, dropped his shutterbug at Bumba's feet and fled for life. In the midst of such mayhem, he rammed right into the blind hawker of black roses, breaking the biggest black bud and spillling a whole lot of ambrosia all around the walls of the old city. In an instant, the elixir of youth wafted all around those graffiti-ridden walls, bringing to life one painful graffiti after another. And there danced in front of him all the romeo-juliets and laila-majnums who had once tried to immortalize their names by etching them on the belly of this immortal wall. Nachi, lost in the midst of so many formless, floating couples whispering sweet nothings to eachother, suddenly realized that not all of them spoke of love, or poetry, or consummation in our typical-hooded style. Rather some of them quarreled, others shoved and jostled eachother, and others still damned the gift of immortality they had granted to themselves. One such formless couple quickly made their way into Nachi's rucksack.
Wasting no time on these sundry trivialities, Nachiketa quickly plucked a few petals from a nascent black rose-bud, hopped upon Bumba z back and pleaded Kala to take them away.
"Stop!", yelled Nachi, for his shutterbug still lay on the ground, and its reel recorded the bizarre quagmire that the whole bazaar had sunk into. But the tusker only took orders from his master, who was too busy counting the notes in Nachi z wallet. The elephant was fast, and even before Nachi let go off the last strands of hope of rescuing his life z works, Bumba had entered Pathardil, the swanky, concrete portion of Dil. Nachi sighed and looked at a million tiny lights of the city move whilst Bumba soared into limitless horizons, and the formless couple made silent love amongst the bed of black rose petals inside Nachi z rucksack. .....................................