Five lines hardly makes a piece of poetry deserve a place in my 'Book of Rhymes', and these five particularly are... disastrous, yeah. A cause of devastation for a couple of days, and I'm posting them here just to get rid of them from my computer. And it's not the poem itself that irks me, it's rather the effect it was supposed to create, which it didn't and this disappointment, well, is an intolerable disease, and I think I'm good being short of it. Although I wish the world got sensible enough to appreciate five lines Alexander Pope would have dreaded to see in his life.
Something that hits him on the face. Something that doesn't prove him wrong, but tells him how incredibly narrow minded he had been when regarding the concept of 'Eternal Sunshine' (goes to you too, Messrs. Gondry and Kaufman!) and something that establishes how I view things. And something that shows I've just begun to think of reading Derrida. :P
"Only as happy would the vestals be, as inhabitants of this idiosyncrasy; for in forgetfulness, if heaven lies, what use is an Eternal Sunshine, without room for a rise...?"
P.S. Written not as a nature-freak, please do not misinterpret. Thank you.
A bullet through the brain that asked me not to write to a newspaper again: Here's what was never published (alongside parts, of course, that made it through half-witted pairs of hands).
MUSIC REVIEW – YOGI (2009)
COMPOSED BY: YUVAN SHANKAR RAJA
Yuvan’s seventh feature of the year and sixth in tamil could come with a certificate saying ‘mature audiences only’, and that would be only apt, considering the level and seriousness of the music, as well as its aesthetic impact. The compilation of six tracks, two of those featuring Sarangi virtuoso, Ustad Sultan Khan (of ‘Tabla Beat Science’ fame) both in vocals and instrument-play is certainly not the everyday thing that tamil film music is associated with, and it is for this reason that I urge the active-listener to look deeper than the sheen. Both ‘Yaarodu Yaaro’ and the ‘Sarangi theme’ (the former rendered along with Yuvan himself) are examples, where there’s not just a showcase of exemplary play of the bow-type instrument, but rather a use in a different context, where the effect is something surreally surly, and more moody than sad. It’s psychotic, to be short, an emotion that is provoked no less by the ‘Main Theme’ itself, and the bunch of these three tracks score for unique and riveting tunes amidst the current chaos where there’s an uncertainty between pop-rock, hip hop and ‘dappankuthu’. Apart from the three, ‘Yogi Yogi Dhaan’ (both versions) is a rage, featuring Blaaze and the vocal seduction of ‘Viva Girl’ Neha Bhasin and it’s impulsive with no check on the rush of adrenalin. ‘Seermevum Koovathile’ is something on the lines of ‘Oororam Puliyamaram’ featuring an ensemble of Ameer, (Director of ‘Raam’, ‘Paruthiveeran’ who debuts as protagonist) Naveen, Snehan (lyricist, who debuts as actor too) and Jijuba and that’s about all the album has in store. All lyrics have been written by Snehan where there’s not much room to let the words flow, and thus there’s no remarkable lyrical accomplishment: It’s somewhere between clichéd and passable, and the line’s thin, yeah.
Overall, ‘Yogi’ doesn’t hold ‘anthems’ or tunes you hum at your leisure: It’s thought-provoking, to say the least, and I would recommend you dive straight in if you don’t fear the deep. If there’s a narrow-mindedness propelling you to stay adverse, I’d say you don’t listen to it then, for there’s nothing shallow over here…
I did my homework before watching this film. I read the reviews, including those of Ebert and though I don’t remember if A.O.Scott wrote about it, I do remember reading a piece on the New York Times, and I had been following it up on every Internet source I could lay my hands upon, having an avid interest on the storyline, knowing which I could never prevent an expectation popping into my mind: That I could be waiting to watch a modern interpretation of ‘Annie Hall’.
True, Summer Flynn is no lesser in awesomeness. She’s the kind of girl who can tell you that you’re going to be nothing more than just a friend one night, then kiss you beside the Xerox Machine the next day without prior announcement, tell you that she’s not looking for anything more than a casual relationship, and yet, lie in your bed in the nude when you get back after a minute-long self instruction to be strictly casual in the way you deal with her. She sounds like heaven when she speaks and when she laughs, she has a hairdo that makes you wish you could always be beside her to keep appreciating it, she has the dreamiest pair of eyes you can ever see on a girl, she’s a heck of a singer, she’s charming and she’s fun. She’s someone who can stun everyone, and hence wholly deserves the introduction she gets in the film: She’s an American Amelie Poulain, only that she isn’t as shy.
What could top the list of ‘1000 reasons as to why I wanted to watch this film’ is the anticipation in me that I could be able to relate to the character of Tom Hansen (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) and that contributed a vast amount to the disappointment, I should say, because there’s nothing really similar except for the fact that he likes a girl blindly for her effect and whatever happens, he does not want to get over her. It’s not a question of determination or confidence, it’s just that he can’t bring himself to do it, because he had fixed in mind that she is the one, and the very act of ‘getting over’ her could only lead to a wreckage of personal judgement, and from the perspective of a male youth, that could be the most self-shattering thing that can happen. And apart from that, there’s nothing that I expected: No insecurity, no yearning for closeness for he’s already getting his share of sex (only that he isn’t satisfied with its frequency), there’s no fascination, no questioning of self if he really could deserve her and even when she’s gone, he just wishes he could be with her, there’s no agony in the absence. He’s just the typical American, post-adolescent youth who always is curious as to whether his relationship is what he thinks he is, or rather what he wants it to be, and though romantic, he just wants the words out of her mouth; he wants to know for sure what she thinks about him.
Summer isn’t elusive. She isn’t a woman who makes you wish you knew what’s behind those serene eyes, and though that’s what Tom thinks of her, it’s a misconception, because she’s just another of those girls who are so damn sure that they’re done with the whole ‘maturing’ process when they’re nothing more than half-baked: Indecisive. A soft-spoken Juno MacGuff, who’s actually shown to contradict herself towards the end and though there’s a transition in Tom Hansen too, there’s a vast difference in the two kinds: While in her case it’s the act of ‘getting mature’, in his it’s evolution, where he just learns out of experience. This isn’t misogyny, though the film begins with an open assault on a certain ‘Jenny Beckman’ or at least I’m unsure if the implication is veiled, because I always had the feeling that Summer was unjustly being celebrated.
Woody Allen certainly isn’t a master creator, but he’s someone who always does what he does in a sufficiently impacting way. He created Annie Hall to be the ‘Woman on Top’, someone who plays Boss, a subject of his fascination, of his awe; an angel who floats through thin air: Summer Flynn is just a bitch who cannot be hated because she’s just too good to be true. While Woody narrated out of the protagonist’s mind how he felt about her all through the film, ‘500 Days of Summer’ has a third person speak about Tom Hansen, and that, I felt, was one of the chief blunders because it was as though Tom Hansen’s mind is walled and all we’re allowed are sneak-peeks, which obviously aren’t enough in this exquisite break-up story. There’s too much of music, too much of sound, too many caricatures and they just stab the seriousness of the plot, making it look like a ‘see and smile’ poster, without room for empathy. Tom’s notion of love isn’t inspired; it’s a mess of what his mates say (not to mention a picture of modern disintegration in form of his little sister) and apart from that, as wisely shown in one of the more ‘innovative’ sequences, he has got totally nothing to say about his idea of ‘love’, and I don’t know. He doesn’t cry, (just comes close to it in what I think is the best scene of the film where he quits his job) there’s no nostalgia that’s stressed upon, no agony when he lives in solitude, and as I said, he just wishes like hell that he could be with her: He doesn’t suffer without.
It’s a learning experience this ‘relationship’, and nothing more. Tom learns from Summer, Summer from Tom. There’s a trade of perspectives, and one can’t be sure if there’s a blend, or as to whether Summer has finally gotten stable with her views or if it’s going to be the same case with her husband as well, only that there’s going to be an additional ring involved the next time. Woody Allen crafted the finale of ‘Annie Hall’ to painful perfection such that you make a transition to his place at the end of it, and you sigh along with him, you wish along with him, and you sing his ballad with hope. Tom Hansen meets Autumn. Day 500 becomes Day 1 and that’s it. So much for sobriety, so much for being woebegone; So much for Summer, where Annie Hall stayed on...
I don't think I'm going to be any elaborate this time, because the information involved isn't a mile long, it's just that I've created a new blog called 'MY BOOK OF RHYMES' for the exact same thing it's designated as: For 'My Book of Rhymes', which is a lyrical album to be, and it's not just that for I'd be posting everything, ranging from those behind the scenes to the lyrics themselves. The link is:
www.thebackporchpoet.blogspot.com
Both 'Book of Rhymes' and 'Back Porch Poet' come from the same Mayer song, namely 'New Deep', and it's not a Mayerification of me, it's just that we're co-evolving, only that he's not aware of it :D And loyalty would always stop me from leaving this blog of mine where I began, so I guess I'd be dropping by as frequent as previously (meaning once or twice a month) and I wish that wouldn't be disappointing to the 'audience' I have. :P
Some affectation, eh? I have to say that I'm blogging this unfinished piece only because I hate how mundane I sound in it, and because I'm going to try to give it a wholly new dimension, with a trace of credulity and genuineness perhaps. And regarding the picture, well... 'Hell's Angels' is supposed to be a motion picture that Howard Hughes is credited for producing (At least, going by what Scorsese told the world in his bullshit biopic 'The Aviator') and I don't know what made me choose the title even: It has no heartfelt relevance whatsoever, and looking at it only makes me feel bad that I too had written something totally for the sake of writing, and without an inchling of heart, and wow... I feel guilty.
This isn't a riddance to my guilt, though. I guess this is pretty much the contrary: A reminder of what I too have been and shouldn't be. Which again brings me to the concept of the picture, for this could be the only post of mine after fifty or so, that doesn't have a picture, because well... I'm not entitled to use a picture that's relevant to the context of this piece. It's not a royalty issue, it's a whole lot more, and all I can say is, when I wasn't entirely allowed to write it in the first place, let alone a constraint in blogging it, I can't really think of sharing the awe that I felt :P
Attention journalists (if you know to read) this is sort of a disclaimer that claims that this isn't an edited piece so if you're looking for a point in this statement it's just that I'm not lame as you geese are, because I don't have a third party poring over my works, and even if they did I'm not dumb enough to not be able to differentiate 'prodigality' from 'prodigiousness' and though this dumb thing's underlining the word in red, I don't care because I've counter checked (unlike you, whoever I'm referring to :P).
Well firstly, before i get into the actual topic, I guess I have a problem because the person I allude to isn't gonna read as creative a blog as mine, she (oops!) would rather go for Harsha Bhogle I guess, but anyway I don't mind at least I'm venting out my emotions which, otherwise, would result in burning of yet another 12 pages' worth shit as well as soot on my gas stove (technically, my mother's, but never mind). Yet, I am taking measures to make sure that the concerned person reads this, (if she doesn't, it's not my misfortune it's just her lucky escape and I'd really be grateful if anyone of you who read this care enough to dunk the information into an apparently empty head) so if YOU are reading this, THIS is what I want to tell you...
(What comes below isn't an own version 'sadly', but a straight lift from this 'amazingly helpful' website called 'www'freedictionary.com' where I'm sure you can quadruple-check, so you needn't heap me with your bullshit and hence - just read)
Prodigal - prod-i-gal:
adj. 1. Rashly or wastefully extravagant. prodigal expenditures on unneeded weaponry; 'drown away this stigma of prodigality' - 'my worst nightmare' by Roshan George Thomas (If you're reading this by chance, I'm still a fan, mate, and I'm sorry) 2. Giving/given in abundance, lavish or profuse: prodigal praisenoun. One who's given to wasteful luxury or extravagance.
adv. prodigally
Prodigious - pro-di-gious:
adj. 1. Impressively great in size, or force, or extent; enormous. a prodigious storm 2. Extraordinary, marvelous; a prodigious talent 3. Obsolete (meaning it's not that obvious) Portentuous, ominous;
pro-di'gious-ly: adv. pro-di'gious-ness: noun.
So, if anyone had read page 10 of 'THE HINDU - NXG' (an incredible weekly with an equally incredible staff that explore extremely innovative topics ranging from 'Drug abuse' to 'Sexuality' and 'Sexual choices') they'd know who I'm referring to, and I'm sure her 'breakthrough' didn't do Jesse Owens proud (even a bit!) for I don't know how he was a prodigal talent and I know for sure she couldn't know about his 'prodigality' because neither did he have enough on him to be classified as anything close to a 'spendthrift', nor did this posh princess live at that time to see Adolf Hitler treat the man with disrespect (he handed him the medal, not hanging it on his neck - sorry for the lack of subtlety, I think things need to be said 'direct') so anyway, as this is proving to be a personal attack on a 'goofball' reporter who didn't graduate her English class (OMG, that was so San Fransisco!!! *just for the rhyme*) and who apparently hasn't sense enough to ask people the right questions ('young like us' isn't getting anyone a pulitzer, and neither is she 'Stephen Glass' and again, I insult a man...) and actually wrote that Sachin Tendulkar's 142 amidst a 'Desert Storm' (name of the chapter in Gulu Ezekiel's version of the man's life) was his 'breakthrough act' when clearly he had a pretty smooth career to have highs and lows and the only thing that stopped him for a moment from hogging the limelight being his captaincy and the match-fixing issue, I really think I have to make her read this... Can I get some help, people? :P
So, I don't know... This could be my vengeance against the newspaper for not publishing my review of one of the greatest films of all time in their 'classic films' section - Ozu's TOKYO STORY (and for calling 'Four Weddings and a funeral' as a classic!) or a personal vendetta against shitty work involving skating over the basics and seriously, I think the girl needs an English course (not for speaking, of course, don't suggest FLUENTZY! :P) and I most definitely am not willing to teach her... Well, every 'dog' has its day (I'd be fired at by my own 'censor board' - that's my dad - if I use the feminine form of it) and maybe someone would pick her up for a proper scrub, so yeah...
I don't know if there'd be spelling mistakes or grammatical errors in what I've written until now, I'm not going back to check, so I think I need to be genuinely forgiven for those ;)
(not her though - throw her in the dungeon! :D :D :D)
It's a momentary source of inspiration that made me write this thing. the first thing I thought about when I saw the title called 'THE KEYS TO THE STREET' was something like a house where the people are stuck inside and want a key to get out. And here's what resulted.
