When the spinning head loses its pride.

Just finished dealing with the one qualifying exam I had this semester. Here's a brief report of the twenty-four hours that have transpired since.

I took a long ride from NYU to Penn Station, to catch a screening of Pride and Prejudice. A discounted ticket with free pop corn. Though the movie deserves more merit than that. To be perfectly honest, even against my own propensity to love dark films with glum endings, I liked Pride and Prejudice. In this film, the world is still an unblemished place, and love still a trespassing priority. Good things happen to good people and bad things happen to bad people, and in that sense, the movie does not make any significant departures from the code of conduct, causality and morality we've grown accustomed to via pedagogic injections.

Some of the shots are breathtaking, and the makers have clearly been diligent in their selection of landscapes, to make the entire environment convey as much pulchritude, as was perhaps conveyed through magically woven words of Jane Austen. It's a relatively long film, but the charmingly quaint dialogue with a British accent, coupled with the very agreeable nature of the film's course of events, in conjunction with Kiera Knightley's sensational looks make it a thoroughly delightful experience.

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Other movies I saw: School of Rock, The Boondock Saints and Syriana.

School of Rock is appealing at a musical level, if you're a rock sorta guy. Also, I think that School of Rock is an incredibly funny film, and is worth a watch for a casual unwinding Saturday evening. I'm a huge Linklater fan, so my opinion may be a little biased.

Syriana, on the other hand is by the makers of Trafficand as you would expect, broaches a much more serious and sensitive issue: global politics and oil. The movie shows how giant American oil corporates exploit , influence and impact the chaos in the middle east to further their personal mercenary interests. An interesting argument is presented for how buried under the rubble of corporate avarice lie the very seeds of fledgling terrorism. Though I found the beginning of the film somewhat scattered, the latter half of the film is much tighter, with things falling into place one after another, and the multiple threads all leading into one coherent and cogent plot. And yeah, finally, we have a film in which Matt Damon is no longer the cute bloke from the neighborhood. In fact, I found his character positively repulsive in the film - so that's a hundred points to him. (footnote: I'm impressed with George Clooney this year. Good night, and Good luck was brilliant too!)

And finally, The Boondocks Saints. Initially, I was tempted to cast and dismiss this movie as just another underground mafia / gangster movie, but giving the movie a little more thought (and having been told later that this movie is considered quite a cult classic), I realized that The Boondock Saints is perhaps more mature than what I had initially given it credit for. The plot is fairly simple. In my opinion, its the execution that has class and merits.

Nothing to be done...

Rather bored of musicals, I decided to explore off-Broadway for somewhat more serious theater. Last night, I caught a fabulous performance of Beckett's "Waiting for Godot" (yes, I hadn't seen it before. no, I am not a loser, I think.)

Sometimes subtitled "A Tragicomedy in 2 acts", Waiting for Godot is a richly layered absurdist play, examining the existential dilemma in "I think, therefore I am." It is a play that constantly trespasses the limitations afforded by reality. Yet, a deeper, perhaps philosophical, confluence inspires a dark and tragic verisimilitude.

The extremely bare decor works at two levels. At first sight, it seems to be in consonance with the overall inescapable nothingness borne into the very DNA of the play. "Nothing to be done" is one of my favorite quotes from the play. However, the Spartan layout, also helps contrast the complexity of the play: a lot like the disparity between the plainness of the material universe and the labyrinthine intricacy of Raskolnikov's mental interiors in Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment.

But Waiting For Godot is not just a tragic commentary on the emptiness that pervades life, it is also incredibly hilarious. The conversations between Didi and Gogo (the two tramps), as they wait for Godot (who never really shows up), by the tree on a country road are awfully entertaining.

There's no point in describing the plot here, because I could do so in a couple of sentences, and it would hardly capture the essence. So I say, "There's nothing to be done (or said), but to go and watch it!"

Random quote:

Vladimir: Was I sleeping, while the others suffered? Am I sleeping now? Tomorrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of today? That with Estragon my friend, at this place, until the fall of night, I waited for Godot? That Pozzo passed, with his carrier, and that he spoke to us? Probably. But in all that what truth will there be? (Estragon, having struggled with his boots in vain, is dozing off again. Vladimir looks at him) He'll know nothing. He'll tell me about the blows he received and I'll give him a carrot. (Pause) Astride of a grave and a difficult birth. Down in the hole, lingeringly, the grave digger puts on the forceps. We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. (He listens) But habit is a great deadener. (He looks again at Estragon) At me too someone is looking, of me too someone is saying, He is sleeping, he knows nothing, let him sleep on. (Pause) I can't go on! (Pause) What have I said?

A good wiki article for more details, here.

Lightning Strikes the Tiger's Eye

Once again, my sensibilities decided to betray me and collude with the merry-making that seems to have pervaded the frosty air. For the record, the weather today is one of stale freshness. A description of the immediate physical reality is in order. Just as the elephant vanished with the prophetic diary last week, winter arrived in the City unabated and unabashed. It's been snowing leopards and pandas (okay, this note is definitely inspired by animals). Snowflakes beautifully dancing down from the sky, packing rough Manhattan streets with snow jackets, as if to safeguard its charm. The veneer, while delicate, is pervasive at the same time.

And now on to the two subjects of this post: The Elephant Vanishes and Diary.

First, 'The Elephant Vanishes': a collection of short stories by Haruki Murakami. This is the second book by Murakami that I picked up (the first one was "Dance, Dance, Dance" - absolutely delightful). I have to say there is a certain, surreal appeal about his prose that kept me hooked to The Elephant Vanishes. My favorite stories are "Lederhosen" and "On Seeing The 100 Percent Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning." (the month of April has its own significance in my life as far as perfect girls go). With a wild and vivid imagination, Murakami's universe is mysterious and secretive. Even though the characters, on the outside, are fairly quotidian, they conceal a remarkable underlying complexity, which is developed and partially deconstructed as the story proceeds.

Second, 'Diary' by Chuck Palahniuk. Written in second person, in the cold, cutting and unforgiving voice of Misty Wilmot, this book reminded me very much of Martin Amis' Money: A Suicide Note in terms of style. The subject though, is completely different. If you've read Palahniuk's 'The Fight Club' and dumbfounded by its brilliance, you've got to check 'Diary' out. The setup: Misty Wilmot, once a promising young artist, is now an alcoholic, serving customers at their tables in a restaurant. As if life wasn't miserable enough, her husband is in a coma after a failed suicide attempt. Here's a quote from the book's cover:

"... Suddenly, Misty's artistic talent returns. Inspired but confused by a burst of creativity, she soon finds herself a pawn in a larger conspiracy that threatens to cost hundreds of lives. What unfolds is a dark, hilarious story from America's most inventive nihilist, ..."

But this book is much more than a sardonic tale. It proposes, in my opinion, the hypothesis that a beautiful work of art often has its inspiration in suffering. That pain facilitates creative fertility .

One of my favorite quotes from the book 'What you don't understand, you can make mean anything.' One random passage (not my favorite, but comes to mind right now):

This was Peter's theory of self-expression. The paradox of being a professional artist. How we spend our lives trying to express ourselves well, but we have nothing to tell. We want creativity to be a system of cause and effect. Results. Marketable product. We want dedication and discipline to equal recognition and reward. We get on our art school treadmill, our graduate program for a master's in fine arts, and practice, practice, practice. With all our excellent skills, we have nothing special to document. According to Peter, nothing pisses us off more than when some strung-out drug addict, a lazy bum, or a slobbering pervert creates a masterpiece. As if by acccident.