My Week With Marilyn

Sometimes into the film, ‘My Week With Marilyn’, after the 23-year-old wide-eyed assistant director, Colin Clark, had gained access to the star, her agent, Milton Greene, cautions that the relationship will end in a heartbreak: “That’s what she does, she breaks hearts. She’ll break yours.”

But, Colin is in love and he doesn’t need any advice. Now, shooting for the film is over, and Marilyn would return soon. Colin watches Marilyn perform the last scene, when Dame Sybil Thorndike tells him: “First love is such sweet despair, Colin.”

Now, Marilyn is gone. Colin returns to the girl he was dating with and asks if she is free on Saturday. Lucy says she is washing her hair and then asks:
Lucy: Did she break your heart?
Colin: A little.
Lucy: Good, it needed breaking.

My Week With Marilyn

Hugo

Oscar For Best Foreign Language Film

A Separation (in Persian: Jodái-e Náder az Simin, "The separation of Nader from Simin") is a 2011 Iranian drama film which won the 84th Academy Award for best foreign language film in 2012, becoming the first Iranian movie to win the title. The movie is written and directed by Asghar Farhadi, starring Leila Hatami, Peyman Moaadi, Shahab Hosseini, Sareh Bayat and Sarina Farhadi.

It focuses on an Iranian middle-class couple who separate, and the intrigues which follow when the husband hires a lower-class caretaker for his elderly father. A Separation also received the Golden Bear for Best Film and the Silver Bears for Best Actress and Best Actor at the 61st Berlin International Film Festival, becoming the first Iranian film to win the Golden Bear. It won the 69th Golden Globe Awards for the Best Foreign Language Film. The film was also nominated for the Best Original Screenplay Academy Award, a rare nomination for a foreign language film.

More here.

>>>>
In Darkness is a 2011 Polish drama film directed by Agnieszka Holland. Based on a true story in German Nazi-occupied Poland, the film tells of Leopold Socha, a sewer worker in the former Polish city of Lwów (now Ukraine), who uses his knowledge of the city's sewers system to shelter a group of Jews from the Nazi Germans. It was nominated for the Best Foreign Language Film at the 84th Academy Awards.

The film was also the first full-length film shown at the 23rd Polish Film Festival in America in Chicago on the Opening Night Gala. The film is dedicated to Marek Edelman. It is based on the book In the Sewers of Lvov (1990) by Robert Marshall; the only living survivor of the group, Krystyna Chiger, has also written a memoir of her experience, The Girl In The Green Sweater: A Life In Holocaust's Shadow (2009), which was published too late to be a source.

More here.

>>>>>
Needless to say, director Agnieszka Holland's Holocaust drama “In Darkness” is not an easy motion picture to watch. This is especially true as a result of some striking cinematography that will give viewers the worst cases of claustrophobia and achluophobia imaginable.

However, it will also give them hope in the existence of heroism in the unlikeliest of places. In “In Darkness,” which is now playing exclusively at Harkins Camelview 5, Robert Wieckiewicz plays Leopold Socha, a sewer worker and petty thief in Lvov – a Nazi occupied city in Poland. One day, Leopold encounters a group of Jews trying to escape the liquidation of the ghetto and agrees to hides them for money in the labyrinth of the town’s sewers beneath the bustling activity of the city above.

More Here.

>>>
Bullhead (Dutch: Rundskop) is a 2011 Belgian drama film written and directed by Michaël R. Roskam and starring Matthias Schoenaerts. It tells the story of the young Limburgish cattle farmer Jacky Vanmarsenille who is approached by an unscrupulous veterinarian to make a shady deal with a notorious West-Flemish beef trader. But the assassination of a federal policeman, and an unexpected confrontation with a mysterious secret from Jacky's past, set in motion a chain of events with far-reaching consequences. It is mainly spoken in Limburgish dialect.

More here.

>>>>
As with most modern gangster pictures, the plot of the Belgian import Bullhead involves illegal drugs, though Michaël R. Roskam’s low-boil thriller (an Oscar nominee this year for Best Foreign Language Film) isn’t about pot or coke or meth. It’s about “the hormone mafia,” a Flemish criminal consortium that supplies big commercial cattle ranchers with shots that bring cows to full maturity in eight weeks instead of 10. Matthias Schoenaerts plays a ’roided-up beef-industry lackey who ordinarily has no trouble with the mafia, but takes issue with his uncle’s new business relationship with a known cop-killer, especially once he learns that one of the men he’ll be dealing with is Jeroen Perceval, a former friend. Schoenaerts doesn’t trust Perceval, because at a crucial moment when they were pre-adolescents, Perceval failed to come through for him, and Schoenaerts has been suffering the painful repercussions of that failure ever since.

Bullhead’s bovine milieu makes a familiar tale of posturing tough guys stand out, but it’s also crucial to the emotional texture of Roskam’s story. This is a movie about animal behavior: men butting heads with each other, looking to mate, and waving their literal and metaphorical genitalia around to prove themselves. Bullhead bears some similarities to the recent stylish crime sagas Bronson (in that it’s essentially a character study, driven by a volatile lead performance) and Animal Kingdom (in that it’s about a macho world in which everyone’s watching everyone else, trying to suss out weakness). But the movie has its own vibe, as Roskam and cinematographer Nicolas Karakatsanis work some remarkable effects with lighting, making Schoenaerts look simultaneously bulky and small, and as Roskam has his characters grunt at each other and move through sliding doors, on their way to the slaughter.

More Here. http://www.avclub.com/articles/bullhead,69419/

>>>>
Monsieur Lazhar is a 2011 Canadian drama film directed by Philippe Falardeau. The screenplay was developed from Bashir Lazhar, a one-character play by Évelyne de la Chenelière. The film was nominated for the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film at the 84th Academy Awards. In Montreal, an elementary school teacher kills herself. Bachir Lazhar, an Algerian immigrant, is quickly hired to replace her while he is experiencing a personal tragedy of his own. His wife, who was a teacher and writer, died in a criminal arson attack with her daughter and son, a fire caused by targets (along with their associates) of the last book she wrote dealing with the social and economic shortcomings in present-day Algeria, from which comes the phrase eloquently said by Bachir: "Nothing is ever really normal in Algeria." He gets to know his students despite the cultural gap that is evident from the very first lesson. As the class tries to move on from their former teacher's suicide, nobody at the school is aware of Bachir's painful past, who could be deported at any time given his status as a refugee.

More here.

>>>
In the hands of a less talented filmmaker, Monsieur Lazhar could so easily have ended up a syrupy tear-jerker. But writer-director Philippe Falardeau’s adaptation of Evelyne de la Chenelière’s play avoids the maudlin at all costs, keeps things refreshingly understated and manages to deliver charming comic moments in the telling of what could have been a grim story. Produced by Luc Déry and Kim McCraw, the same duo behind last year’s Oscar nominee Incendies, this looks likely to follow in Incendies footsteps, winning over audiences here and nabbing much recognition beyond Quebec’s borders.

De la Chenelière’s play Bashir Lazhar featured only M. Lazhar himself on stage. For the big screen, Falardeau has necessarily widened his lens, pun intended, but not by all that much. It remains a surprisingly simple story in many ways and the power of the film comes from Falardeau’s decision to cut to the essence of this drama. There may be more characters than the original stage version but nothing is superfluous here.

More here. http://www.montrealgazette.com/entertainment/Review+Monsieur+Lazhar/5617267/story.html

>>>>>
Teachers can inspire, but we already know that. At some point in our lives, we had at least one teacher who truly enriched our lives by helping us grow as human beings rather than just making sure we made it to the next grade level. But in movies, teachers can only be inspirational if they can somehow “reach the unreachable”. The great teachers are the ones who go to the bad neighborhoods, keep the kids out of gangs, and put on leather jackets to show they can relate to life on the streets. Monsieur Lazhar eschews this superhero-teacher in favor of one who has a class of kids who are ready to learn, but have also had a brutal lesson on death and betrayal far too soon. By turning attention away from big dramatic speeches in favor of strong, quiet performances and non-saccharine sentiment, Monsieur Lazhar isn’t just a nice movie about inspirational teachers, but a nice movie all around.

On his way to deliver milk to his classroom, 11-year-old Simon (Émilien Néron) peers through the door and finds that his teacher Martine has hung herself. While the other teachers try to shield all the other kids away from the classroom, Simon’s friend Alice (Sophie Nélisse) fights through the crowd and also sees their beloved teacher’s body hanging from the ceiling. Simon, Alice, and their classmates are not only traumatized by the event, but they’re not even sure how to express their emotions. After reading about the story in the paper, Bachir Lazhar (Mohamed Fellag) offers to teach the class until a replacement can be found. Having suffered a recent loss of his own, Monsieur Lazhar and the class help each other through their grief.

More here. http://collider.com/monsieur-lazhar-review/139482/

>>>>
Footnote (Hebrew: He'arat Shulayim) is a 2011 Israeli drama film written and directed by Joseph Cedar, starring Shlomo Bar'aba and Lior Ashkenazi. The plot revolves around a power struggle between a father and son who teach at the Talmud department of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. The film won the Best Screenplay Award at the 2011 Cannes Film Festival. Footnote won nine prizes at the 2011 Ophir Awards, becoming Israel's entry for the 84th Academy Awards for Best Foreign Language Film. On January 18, 2012, the film was named as one of the nine shortlisted entries for the Oscars. On January 24, 2012, the film was nominated for an Academy Award in the category of Best Foreign Film.

More here.

>>>>
Pungent, ironic and glib, Josef Cedar’s follow up to his award-winning Beaufort is a smart, well written and deftly executed confrontation between a father and son who may be more alike than they would choose to believe. Both are academics, both dedicated to the obscure and marginal field of Talmud research, each representing a different generation and approach but both terribly keen on recognition for their work.

Though possibly too ascetic for multiplex crowds and rather difficult to follow for audiences that are not that familiar with academic bickering and philological refinements, Footnote (Hearat Shulayim) should do well for Sony Classics, which has acquired the film in Cannes, particularly with selective audiences in US, and turn into natural art house fare and ideal festival fodder.

Eliezer Shkolnik (popular comic Shlomo Bar Aba, remarkable in an atypical role) is a grim, dedicated purist who has been preparing all his life an introduction to a much annotated version of the Jerusalem Talmud. For years he has been the ignored candidate in his field for the country’s highest honorary award, the Israel Prize, causing him an enormous amount of resentment, which he openly expresses in spitefully putting down the winners and their achievements.

His son, Uriel (Lior Ashkenazi in an unexpected but highly successful departure from his macho roles), followed in his father’s path, but is apparently far more communicative and easy-going in his contacts with the rest of the world. All the more reason for the father to consider his son is a lightweight in his profession, incapable of true and serious research.

More here. http://www.screendaily.com/reviews/latest-reviews/footnote/5027492.article

>>>>>>
Iranian family drama A Separation defeated films from Israel, Belgium, Poland and Canada to win the country’s first Academy award in the foreign film category. The award has come at a time when the tensions between the Islamic republic and the U.S. are at its peak over Iran’s nuclear programme.

Directed by Asghar Farhadi, the film also won the best foreign film at the Golden Globes. Farhadi was nominated for a best screenplay Oscar. “At this time, many Iranians all over the world are watching us and I imagine them to be very happy,” Farhadi said, reading from prepared remarks on a piece of paper on Sunday night. “They are happy not just because of an important award or a film or a filmmaker, but because at the time when talk of war, intimidation and aggression is exchanged between politicians, the name of their country, Iran, is spoken here through her glorious culture, her rich and ancient culture that has been hidden under the heavy dust of politics.”

“I proudly offer this award to the people of my country, a people who respect all cultures and civilizations and despise hostility and resentment. Thank you so much,” he added.

The film begins with two couple’s seeking divorce, which eventually goes onto explore themes of honour, love, lies and deceit.

The only other Iranian movie nominated at the Oscars was 1997’s Children of Heaven which lost to Life Is Beautiful from Italy.

The other films competing were Michael R Roskam’s Bullhead from Belgium; Philippe Falardeau’s Monsieur Lazhar from Canada; Joseph Cedar’s Footnote from Israel; and Agnieszka Holland’s In Darkness from Poland.

More Here.

Erland Josephson

The New York Times Obit: Erland Josephson, Actor With Bergman, Dies at 88

Erland Josephson, a Swedish actor who worked frequently with Ingmar Bergman on stage and screen, most notably as the star of the acclaimed 1973 film “Scenes From a Marriage,” died on Saturday in Stockholm. He was 88.

Mr. Josephson combined physical stature and emotional depth in his best-known roles. Among the most prominent members of Bergman’s repertory company, alongside Max von Sydow and Liv Ullmann — his co-star in “Scenes From a Marriage” and many other films — he was also the director’s longest-running collaborator. He succeeded Mr. von Sydow as Bergman’s male lead of choice in the 1970s, but the two men’s partnership and friendship had begun long before that, in the 1930s, when they were both theater-besotted young men, and continued until Bergman’s final film, “Saraband,” in 2003.

Mr. Josephson was born on June 15, 1923, in Stockholm, into a family with a strong cultural tradition. His ancestors and relatives included a composer, a painter and a theater director who had worked with August Strindberg, and his father owned a bookstore, where the teenage Ingmar Bergman got his first break when a sales clerk invited him to direct an amateur theater troupe.

Mr. Josephson is survived by his wife, Ulla Aberg, and five children.

More here.

>>>>>

Josephson was one of Bergman's favorite actors and longest-running collaborator, appearing in more than a dozen Bergman movies, including the director's first film in 1946 ("It Rains on Our Love") and his last, in 2003 ("Saraband").

In "Faithless," a 2000 movie written by Bergman and directed by his former lover and leading lady Liv Ullmann, Josephson's character — an aging director visited by the spirit of an actress he once loved — is even named Bergman.

"To make movies with Ingmar has been one of life's great pleasures," the actor, who won several Swedish film prizes, told The Times in 1985.

More here.

>>>>
"Swedish actor Erland Josephson, who collaborated with legendary film director Ingmar Bergman in more than 40 films and plays, has died," reports the AP. He was 88. "Josephson was born in Stockholm in 1923 and met Bergman while training as an amateur actor at 16. He appeared in several Bergman plays and films. He shot to international stardom with the role of Johan in Berman's film Scenes from a Marriage, in 1973. Josephson also starred in Andrey Tarkovskiy's films Nostalghia [1983] and The Sacrifice [1986]."

"It is Josephson's face which makes him so effective on film," reads his entry in the International Dictionary of Films and Filmmakers, "that bearlike aspect, his ability to look lost and forlorn, to convey a sense of suffering and bewilderment, in spite of his bluff exterior. Were one to repeat Kuleshov's famous experiment of the 1920s and to intercut the same shot of Josephson with images of joy, of sadness, of anger, of hunger, the audience would find the Swedish actor, even though he had not moved a muscle, wondrously expressive, capable of embodying every emotion just through 'being there,' in front of the cameras. Nevertheless, he has the rare ability to combine a capacity for rage — for the grand gesture on the blasted heath — with a more subtle skill for understatement and comedy."

More on Erland Josephson at Mubi.

Being Human

‘Being Human’ is a charity organisation established by Bollywood actor Salman Khan. It’s just another NGO, only that a superstar is associated with it. And, the star has taken the full advantage of his name to popularise the organsation, to begin with by wearing T-shirts with ‘Being Human’ embossed on them. He also talked about it in public, including at the TV reality show, ‘Bigg Boss’.

The result: Now, everyone knows about ‘Being Human’. Good. And suddenly, the market is flooded with T-shirts with ‘Being Human’ embossed on it. You wonder if all these T-shirts are the merchandise from Mr Khan’s organisation. You doubt it. All these T-shirts are being sold by opportunist businessmen, and being bought by star-struck teen-agers. The point is, everyone wants a piece of Mr Khan’s popularity, and generosity. Mr Khan, however, shouldn’t complain. He’s at least getting his share of publicity.

More about being human here. http://www.beinghumanfoundation.in/

Call Me Kuchu

In an unmarked office on the outskirts of Kampala, veteran activist David Kato labors to repeal Uganda’s homophobic laws and liberate his fellow lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender men and women, or “kuchus.” But David’s formidable task just became much more difficult.

A new “Anti-Homosexuality Bill” proposes death for HIV-positive gay men, and prison for anyone who fails to turn in a known homosexual. Inspired by American evangelicals who have christened Uganda ground zero in their war on the “homosexual agenda,” the bill awaits debate in Parliament. Meanwhile, the country’s newspapers are outing kuchus under headlines such as: “HOMO TERROR! We Name and Shame Top Gays in the City.”

David is one of the few who dare to publicly protest the country’s government and press. Working with an idiosyncratic clan of fellow activists, he fights for Kampala’s kuchus on Ugandan television, at the United Nations, and in the courts. Because, he insists, “if we keep on hiding, they will say we are not here.”

But just three weeks after a landmark legal victory, David is found bludgeoned to death in his home. His murder resounds around the world, and leaves Kampala’s kuchus traumatized and seeking answers for a way forward.

With unprecedented access, CALL ME KUCHU explores a community that is at once persecuted and consoled by the Christian faith, and examines the astounding courage and determination required not only to battle an oppressive government, but also to maintain religious conviction in the face of the contradicting rhetoric of a powerful national church.

More Here.

>>>>>
Call Me Kuchu tells the story of the life and death of Uganda's first openly gay man. At a time when an Anti-Homosexuality Bill is pending in Uganda's parliament, the film follows David Kato and three fellow activists, documenting their daily lives, their courageous work to combat persecution, and eventually the brutal and tragic murder that sends shock waves throughout the world.

More Here.

>>>>

Call Me Kuchu is the best documentary that I have seen at the Berlinale. I knew going into the movie that it had something to do with gay rights in Uganda and I wrote that I imagined I would just sit through it shaking my head at one sob story after another. What I experienced was so different. I love documentaries and this film uses that format so well. It is paced like a mystery unfolding. No one comes on screen without adding something to the fullness of your understanding and nothing is redundant.

Since extensive footage was taken, there was a diversity of people that are featured is impressive. The filming took place over the course of almost 2 years so they were able witness events as well as record stories allowing the audience to see the tension building with the passage of time. Because Uganda is currently ground zero for gay rights, this movie gives witness to an issue that has fueled the sense of justice in the worldwide community.

The film opens with a subdued anniversary celebration of two gay men and sets the scene for many gatherings to come. The people are happy but always keep a watchful eye on the high walls that surround them, enabling to be free but only while hidden. Exposure is always a lurking threat that means losing their jobs, housing, families and sometimes their life. Outing homosexuals is big business for The Rolling Stone which is led by a bigoted man who feels he has a mandate from God to rid Uganda from homosexuals. In a world where homosexuality is a crime and gay is taken to mean pedophile, those whose names are published in the paper are left to a dangerous fate.

More here.

The Truth About Pyare

Something happened that night. The cell in the police station was empty. Even the station was empty, except for two or three people dozing in the corner. As his cheek continued to twitch, and a constant humming pervading his ears, and the mosquitoes biting his skin, Sangram stood there on the corner of the cell, his back to the walls, and he realized, he wasn’t scared anymore. He remembered Rajesh tell him a long time ago, “When you are on a sinking ship, it’s wise to know where the sharks are.” He was already in the midst of the sharks. Now, all he could do was to fight back.

The next morning Pyare bailed him out.

“How was it?”

“The police station? It’s not a real jail, is it? And they did not file a complaint or anything, did they?”

“You won’t believe what a few currency notes can do.”

“Where did you get the money? Not Rustambhai?”

“Don’t worry, the old man doesn’t know. Bapu called Rosy and Rosy called me. They did not beat you up or anything, right.”

“No.”

What was happening was worse. Sangram did not like this sense of helplessness of his existence. He did not want to live his life in fear. Not anymore.

On the way, he made Pyare buy two bottles of Old Monk and they went to his room straight. He needed to straighten out a few things.

“Who are you?” he asked Pyare, point blank and menacing. “Why are you so nice to me?” He understood Rosy’s affection for him. They had become friends. But, Pyare was a difficult man to trust, despite the fact that he was only person who’d make Sangram feel strong and hopeful.

“You want an answer, right,” Pyare said, and Sangram nodded. “Very well. First, let me finish the drinks.”

As Pyare took a long swig from the bottle, Sangram looked the man in front of him. There was something very peculiar about the man. He did not fit in the surrounding the way the others did. He was more incongruous to the surrounding than even Sangram himself was, the thin, fair teenager who did not know how to swear and how to smoke, and how to speak in an obnoxious mix of Hindi and Marathi.

“I’m late already,” Pyare said and made himself comfortable on the bed. “I need to go and make it up to the DCP.” After Rosy left, Sangram had cleaned the room. He had got a new bedspread.

“You are not going anywhere till you tell me.”

“Tell you what? You are not my father to ask me questions. Even that DCP Pathak dares not ask me question. You know who I am?”

“That’s what I am asking,” Sangram said, still serious. Pyare laughed his maniac laughter.

“You, Sangram, grow up now,” he said when the laughter had stopped. “You cannot presume everybody to be like your runaway lover, right.”

“He wasn’t my lover. It was just an incident and I have forgotten all about it.”

No, you haven’t, and you shouldn’t. This must be a lesson for you to be cautious. Which you are. Which is good. But, mere bhai, you need people to survive, right. You need friends. And to keep those friends, you must make enemies. You cannot spend all your life in a shell, especially when you are at the love station.”

Pyare would never utter the name of the hotel. The place was always a love station for him.

“What you want me to do?” Sangram asked.

“I don’t want you to do anything. You told me that you’ll decide what you want to do. All I want is for you to do something. Anything.”

“I’m a hotel bellboy.”

“You did not run away from home to be a hotel bellboy. This is not what you are.”

Sangram did not know what to say. He agreed with Pyare. This was not what he was. He was supposed to be something else. Now, he couldn’t even think of those days.

“I’m scared,” he mumbled, as he finished the peg. Pyare had already finished half of the content of the bottle.

Pyare laughed again. “That’s why I like you, right. You are simple and direct. You have potential.”

Potential for what? Sangram did not want to ask.

“See, I am ready to help you, whatever help you want. You want to go home. You want to join a college, which I think you should do. You want to kills somebody. Whatever. Just tell me.”

Sangram did not want to tell him that he had stopped reading since the day Nikhil had disappeared. It was his punishment.

“But first, you will need to know the world beyond the limits of this love station,” Pyare continued.

Sangram could not agree more. First and foremost he would need to learn to deal with those mama-log.

“But you did not answer my question?” Sangram returned to his moot point.

“What was the question?”

“Who are you? And why are you so nice to me?”

“Stop being so suspicious, right. I am nice to you because I need a place to drink.”

Sangram glared at him. He meant business.

Pyare finished his drink and looked at the door. The corridor was empty. They could hear the noise of the street outside.

“See,” Pyare said, and suddenly did not sound like a drunk. “I don’t want tell you lies. There are certain things I cannot tell you. There are things I cannot even tell myself. All I can say is I may not be a good guy, but I’m not your enemy.”

“I know that…”

“Right. The fact is in a very strange way you remind me of myself. That’s the reason I want to help you.” Pyare stopped and gave him a smile. Sangram tried to guess how old this man must be. He couldn’t. But he would surely be older than his father.

“All I can tell you is that I am not from here, like yourself, and Pyare is not my real name, like yourself. What I do? Now, that’s the real question. What I do? Just say that I help people do their business, and I get a commission. That’s what I am trying with you. You get into a business and I will get a commission. You don’t believe it? Fair enough. There was a time I used to do something else. That was before I came to Bombay. Yes, I came here when Bombay was Bombay, not Mumbai, and it was the best job I could find,” Pyare stopped and checked the bottle. It was empty. He got up from the bed and smoothed his crumpled shirt, and collected his bag. Sangram could not even imagine what the bag contained. “Got to go now. I have a business to run.”

“But you did not tell me why are you helping me,” Sangram persisted.

“Come here.” Sangram left the bed and stood in front of Pyare. He felt dizzy. He did not sleep a wink last night. The tall, thin man wrapped his long hands around him in an embrace. It was the first time someone had embraced him like this; even Nikhil did not hug him like that. Sangram could hear the sound of Pyare’s palpitating heart.

“I’m an old man, and you are just a child. You have nothing that can profit me.” He stopped, took a deep breath and tightened the embrace, as if he’d like to insert the whole of Sangram inside this thin frame. “My father was a teacher,” Pyare continued, slowly, haltingly, this time he really sounded drunk. “He taught me a great many things, all of which I have forgotten. There’s just one thing I remember. He said, the greatest thing you can do with your life is to give somebody the experiences that you have earned, so that your misfortunes become someone else’s fortune. So that your experiences continues to live long after you are gone. That was the reason my father became was teacher, and was a teacher till the last day of his life. And, Sangram, you are the person through whom I am going to earn my immortality. Am I helping you? No. I am helping myself.”

He broke the embrace. Sangram was dazed.

“Look at you!” Pyare said. “This is the reason. You are so bloody innocent. Of all the people I have met in my long life, you are the only one who is still innocent.” Pyare placed his right palm on Sangram’s throbbing heart. “That’s why.”

He tuned to leave. “Now, go to sleep. You look tired. I’ll see you in the night, and we are going out. You are going to meet an important man.”

And, in the middle of the day, in the sweltering heat, with the sun blazing outside, amomg the noise honk of the chaotic city, Sangram, drunk and happy, went to sleep without even trying to, for the first time since his arrival in Mumbai.

[Excerpt from 'Hotel Sunshine', a novel I am working on.]

The Lady Eve

Writes Roger Ebert:

If I were asked to name the single scene in all of romantic comedy that was sexiest and funniest at the same time, I would advise beginning at six seconds past the 20-minute mark in Preston Sturges' "The Lady Eve,'' and watching as Barbara Stanwyck toys with Henry Fonda's hair in an unbroken shot that lasts three minutes and 51 seconds.

Stanwyck plays an adventuress who has lured a rich but unworldly young bachelor to her cabin on an ocean liner, and is skillfully tantalizing him. She reclines on a chaise. He has landed on the floor next to her. "Hold me tight!'' she says, holding him tight -- allegedly because she has been frightened by a snake. Now begins the unbroken shot. Her right arm cradles his head, and as she talks she toys with his earlobe and runs her fingers through his hair. She teases, kids and flirts with him, and he remains almost paralyzed with shyness and self-consciousness. And at some point during this process, she falls for him.

That isn't part of her plan. Stanwyck plays Jean Harrington, a con woman who travels first class with her father and their valet, fleecing rich travelers in card games and whatever else comes along. She sets her sights on Charles Pike (Fonda), heir to a brewery fortune, as he comes aboard after a snake-hunting expedition in South America. She drops an apple on his pith helmet as he climbs the rope ladder to the ship, and is reprimanded by her father: "Don't be vulgar, Jean. Let us be crooked, but never common.''

The Complete Review Here.

Lord Shiva & Bhim Part II

[Previously: Hopeless and malnourished, the second Pandava brother visits the dwelling of Lord Mahadev in Mouth Kailash, seeking an employment, hoping to have a good meal.]

Now, it was already lunch time and Bhim was of course invited to partake in the food, after all, he was a guest and guests are like gods. Parvati rushed to the kitchen and rustled up another dish or two for the guest. She then laid the plates on the floor, before her two sons and Bhim (Shiva said he was happily high and did not feel like eating). Bhim looked at the plate offered to him and his face fell. “What’s wrong?” Kartik, who sat next to him, asked. “What would I do with this tiny portion. Even my thirty-two teeth won’t realise that I just had lunch.” Parvati heard the complaint and was rather miffed. “You don’t worry about the quantity. I cook for ten thousand ghosts and demons every day. I cannot run out of food. You finished your portion, I’ll give you more.” Paravati went to the kitchen to get the special dish. By the time she returned, the plate in front of Bhim was sparkling clean. Now, it would be unfair to blame Parvati as a bad host. She had served Bhim the largest plate she had in her kitchen, and she had served Bhim a portion larger than both Ganesh and Kartik combined, and those two boys were not bad eaters either.

Parvati served her guest some more food, and it was barely sufficient. Then she collected all the pots and pans in the kitchen and placed them before Bhim. The Pandava brother cleaned each of the pots with relish, and finally, after weeks, his hunger was satisfied. He bowed before Parvati and said, “Mother, you are indeed a great host and a worthy companion to the Lord of the World. I salute you.” Parvati beamed and gave Bhim a blessing, this despite the fact that today she and all the ten thousand ghosts and demons will have to go hungry, for Bhim had finished all the food.

For dinner, to be on a safer side, Parvati cooked everything she had in her kitchen, at least a month’s supply for the family. Bhim was naturally happy, he ate to his heart’s content; it helped that Lady Parvati was an A-grade student of Lady Annapurna (equivalent of modern names like Julia Child and/or Sanjeev Kapoor).

The next day, however, the Lady was distraught, in a quandary. There was nothing to cook in the household. There was no point talking to her husband; he’d put forth his chillum and offer her a puff. That’s that. Parvati called Bhim and ask him to clean the house, including the kitchen, and the courtyard, and went on an errand, with Nandi, the divine bull, in toe.

“Where to Lady?” Nandi asked.

“Where else?” Parvati said desperately. “We got to eat.”

Nandi instantly identified the destination. There was only one place in the universe where the Lady did not want to go, Kuber’s palace. And rightly so. The stingy banker, the hoarder of all of Shiva’s wealth, wouldn’t even offer a glass of milk to his benefactor’s better half. And Parvati could use a glass of milk, especially today.

“My apologies, Lady,” Kuber said in his oily voice, “but I cannot pay you anymore, not even a tiny pearl, or a worthless topaz, till your addict of an husband returns what he owes me, with interest.”

You do not suspect Lady Parvati’s level of endurance, Nandi mused. She can suffer anything, anything but an unkind word to her husband. She glared at the portly banker, who kept quiet, but resolute; he had no money to spare.

“But, this is my husband’s money you are hoarding,” Parvati screamed.

“I agree. But, there are rules I will have to follow. Otherwise, the Lord will burn me up with a look of his third eye. I cannot give you any money at will.”

What else could Parvati do? She returned home empty-handed, maddeningly angry at her husband. On reaching home, it’s always a big climb even when you are riding a bull, the Lady went to where Shiva sat, apparently in meditation.

“You,” Parvati screamed, “You are my husband, and you must do your duties.”

Shiva opened his eyes lazily, and said, “What’s wrong with you woman; go to your kitchen, and cook.”

It was like pouring ghee on a dry and blazing mango wood; Parvati flared up. “Cook! Cook with what? There’s nothing to cook with. Do you want me to boil the snake you are wearing and make you a snake stew?”

As the mortified snake coiled around his neck, Shiva finally realised that something was indeed wrong. He invited his better half to sit next to him and talk.

“There’s no time to talk. Do something. Otherwise, we’ll embarrassed before our very servant,” Parvati screamed.

It was your fault, Shiva wanted to say, and stopped himself, it wasn’t the right time. “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. Arrange some food.”

“Where do I get food? I’m a god after all. I cannot go a-begging! I cannot even go to my friend Kuber. He’s strict about his loan policy. What do I do?”

At this, Bhim came to the rescue. He and the boys had come to see what was happening after they heard Parvati scream. “Why, my Lord,” he said, “You can do farming.”

“Farming?” Shiva said, “Are you joking? Man do farming, not gods. Anyway, I don’t have any training in farming. And where’s are the tools, and where is the land.”

Bhim had all the answers ready. You cannot learn unless you try, isn’t it? And, he was the Lord of the World, all the land was his. And about the tools, why, his trishul will make a wonderful furrow. All he needed was to start working. “And Lord, Bhim added, “We are with you. You just tell us what to do.”

>>>
TO BE CONTINUED... (The Lord of the World turns a farmer to the delight of his wife; every woman wants her husband to do something worthwhile. As the seeds grow, Bhim decides to fend for himself and decides to make a house call to Kuber. But, all’s not well in the household at Mount Kailash.)

The Three Musketeers

I think I can empathise with Paul W S Anderson. After those almost iconic, video-game inspired zombie horror actioner ‘Resident Evil’ series of films, it’s impossible to resist the influence. I am sure all those action sequences come very naturally to him. Especially when he casts his wife and the Resident Evil super-heroine Mila Jovovich as one of the leads. So, the film begins with a high-end vault reminiscent of the one’s seen in RE, with those unseen weapons to slice you to pieces and only the super-heroine can save the day — but, wait, all of these in 17th century France? Have some regard for history, guys!

Especially when your fictional universe is one of the most popular and well know stories of Alexander Dumas — With Jovovich’s Milady doing her mid-air action heroine routine on the roof of the French palace. Absurd! And did we mention those flying ships.

Absurd is the word. How can you expect anyone to take you seriously when you bring such absurdities into a story which everyone knows by now. I mean, if you haven’t heard of Athos, Porthos and Aramis, then I am sure you are not from this planet. Even those kids from ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ knew them. All for one, one for all, ring a bell?

And what does Paul W S Anderson do? He gives the story a high-tech twist, within the bounds of the costume drama! Ludicrous!

As the film ends you wonder who in their right minds agreed to finance the project. Do we really need a new ‘The Three Musketeers’ film? According to IMDb, there are at least 29 films on the same story, starting from the days of Clerk Gable, when he was young. They made a newer one in 1993 with Charlie Sheen and Kiefer Sutherland.

The Drinking Song

Still listening to Loudon Wainwright III. And, I think, I like the Drinking Song best...

The Drinking Song
drunk men stagger, drunk men fall
drunk men swear and that's not all
quite often they will urinate out doors

like widowed women, drunk men weep
like children curled up, drunk me sleep
like a dog, a drunk will crawl around on all fours

be he broke bum or rich rake
his dinner, be it bread or cake
his beverage be the worst of whiskey or finest wine

puke, it stinks and so it seems
that drunkards go to great extremes
but there is yet to be a perfectly straight line

drunks talk strong when drunks are weak
it's easy for a drunk to speak straight from the heart
drunks will fight, they're not afraid
they'll kiss the mistress, make the maid
a manly art

but the drink the toll will take
blood vessels in the nose will break
bags beneath the eyes - another sign

drunks get ugly so it seems
that drunkards go to great extremes
but there is yet to be a perfectly straight line

drunks are friendly when they're drunk
drunks are hostile when they're drunk
which drunk it is, it all depends up on

when drunks aren't drunk they thirst for drink
elephants are grey not pink
the drink evaporates, the man is gone
back to the yachts and subway cars
to the hip flasks and fruit jars
flat on the face, flat on the behind

drunks get drunk and so it seems
that drunkards go to great extremes
but there is yet to be a perfectly straight line

>>>>
Loudon Wainwright III sings drinking song in Youtube.

And here is the youtube playlist for Loudon Wainwright III.

Lord Shiva & Bhim Part I

On the occasion of Maha Shivratri, here is a story from the version of ‘The Mahabharata’ popular in Assam.

The Pandavas during their exile in the forest — They travelled from one forest to another, one hermitage to another. For the brothers, who were royalty after all, spending days in the forest wasn’t easy. It was especially difficult for the second brother, Bhim, as food was hard to come by in the forest. Hunting a deer or birds or fishes, was a task. Then you’ll have to clean the kill, and cook it before you got to eat. There were no servants to do your bidding; no cook to whip up delicacies for you. Most of all, the portion you got on your plate after all the trouble was really small. The deer or a couple of birds for five brothers and their mother and their wife wasn’t enough, especially for Bhim.

Kunti, looking at her morose second son, who was growing thinner and thinner by the day, was utterly unhappy. Finally, she told Bhim: “Son, as a mother it’s my duty to feed you to your heart’s content. Since, I don’t seem to be able to do this under the present circumstances, I advise you to find a job for yourself, a place where you can eat till your belly is full.” Bhim replied: “Dear mother, we are banished from our very kingdom. Who would give me employment?”

They thought long and hard. At the end, there was just one person who could help them, Lord Shiva of the Kailash Mountains. He was not just the richest being in the world, but also the most generous. He was a perfect employer if ever there was one.

So, Bhim took his mother’s blessing, hugs his brothers, bid good-bye to his/their wife, and embarked on a long and arduous journey to Kailash Mountains.

Finally, Bhim reached the treacherous plains of the Blue God’s abode, and found his future employer in the middle of a ganja session, with his wife Parvati and sons Ganesh and Kartik, all in a jolly mood, enjoying a dance by the retinue of ghosts and demons. The Lord of Kailash did not particularly care about the massive visitor; even a thinning Bhim made a bulky frame. Bhim went ahead anyway, did the perfunctory greeting to the Lord, his spouse and his progeny, and stated his reason for the visit — a wanted an employment. Any employment.

Shiva was quick to reply; he did not even ask about the skills sets of the candidate — “No. There’s no vacancy.” When you have the entire underworld of ghosts and demons to do your bidding, who needs a human servant. And, to prove his point, Shiva offered an eloquent excuse: “I don’t have the dough to pay you.” “But, you are the richest man in the whole wide world,” Bhim said, “My mum told me so.”

“He is indeed,” Parvati, who was watching the strange visitor, interjected. “But, all his wealth is in the custody of Kuber, and I don’t want to badmouth him, but, that one is one stingy banker.” At this, Shiva glared at Parvati; the Lord did not want to hear bad words about his friend. His wife ignored the look, and asked Bhim: “And, pray, who are you?”

At this, Bhim narrated his sob story, how, among other things, he just could not bear his hunger anymore. Parvati was close to tears listening to the story, and she decided then and there that they should hire Bhim, if nothing else, just to feed him. And, Parvati’s argument was solid. She too needed a helper of her own. All those ghosts and demons did Shiva’s bidding, not her’s. And it’s difficult to take care of the household alone with two very hyperactive kids.

The Lord tried to protest, this time little feebly, but Parvati was ready with her argument... “What kind of a husband are you if you cannot provide some basic comforts to your wife. And, Kailash is not exactly like Amravati, the capital of heaven, is it?... But, there’s no money, Shiva mumbled. He knew his wife. It was useless to try and win an argument with her, If he did, there were chances that he won’t get his lunch today.

At this, Bhim came to the rescue. “Well,” he said, “I really don’t need money. What would I do with the money in the forest?” And he did not see any shops of any kind in Kailash either. “The only thing I need is to eat till my belly is full. So, if you can feed me twice a day, I’m your man.”

And the Lord thought, he’s just a mere human, how much would he eat. So, it was settled and Bhim got a job.

>>>
TO BE CONTINUED... (How the divine kitchen of Lady Parvati falls short to Bhim's appetite, how Kuber refuses to give any more money to the addict Lord and how the Divine Destroyer gets into farming and how all efforts to feed the second Pandava brother comes to naught.)

Says The Pilgrim: If not a starring role, I, at least, would like to be a supporting cast in your life. Even an extended special appearance would do. But, to be a two-bit extra, or a backup dancer on the third row, that wouldn’t do. I’d rather be in a B-grade life where I matter, than be in your blockbuster life where I don’t.

After all, I, too, am the hero of my life.

Loudon Wainwright III

This is the magic of the internet. This is how I discovered musician Loudon Wainwright III, and have been listening to him for the last three days and I absolutely adore the voice.

It started with Facebook. A few months back, out of boredom perhaps, I had clicked the ‘Like’ button of a number of sundry websites. Now, they compete to hawk their stories on my Facebook dashboard. Anyway, there was a story I found interesting (I am sure, it was related to some sex scandal), I clicked on the link and visited the site. There, after reading the story, I saw a picture of Ricky Martin (remember him, the singer who recently announced that he’s gay!), in mustache. I was curious. I clicked on the picture and it took me to the site of ‘Details’ magazine. It think it was Details, I am not sure. While glancing through the interview, I saw another link, an interview with a musician called Rufus Wainwright. Frankly, I had never heard of him. He was saying something about 50 Cent being gay (remember 50 Cent, who sung, Get Rich or Die Tryin’). My interest was pricked again. I went to the interview link. In the course of the interview, I learnt that this singer, Rufus, is son of another singer, Loudon. This was another name I had never heard of. The interviewer also revealed that Loudon had composed a song for Rufus when he was young, titled ‘Rufus is a tit man’. The site had a link to the song in youtube. I clicked on the link and listened to the song.

Yes, that was it. And now, I am a fan. I leant that there was a time when Loudon Wainwright III was hailed as the new Bob Dylan, and no kidding! He’s so straightforward, and simple and eminently listenable. I also got a few albums of Rufus himself, and the hallelujah song from the film ‘Shrek’. As of now however, I think I prefer the father’s voice.

>>>>

Loudon Snowden Wainwright III (born September 5, 1946) is a Grammy Award-winning American songwriter, folk singer, humorist, and actor. He is the father of musicians Rufus Wainwright, Martha Wainwright and Lucy Wainwright Roche, brother of Sloan Wainwright, and the former husband of the late folk singer Kate McGarrigle.

To date, Wainwright has released 21 studio albums. Reflecting upon his career, in 1999, Wainwright stated "you could characterize the catalog as somewhat checkered, although I prefer to think of it as a tapestry."

More Here.

Rufus McGarrigle Wainwright (born July 22, 1973) is an American-Canadian singer-songwriter. He has recorded six albums of original music, EPs, and tracks on compilations and film soundtracks.

More here.

>>>>
Loudon Wainwright sings "Rufus Is A Tit Man" in You Tube.
Loudon Wainwright sings "Daughter" in You Tube.

Indian Literature

This is a moment of pride, and honour. A short story, written by yours truly, has be published in the special, ‘Same Sex Love’ fiction issue of ‘Indian Literature’ (Nov-Dec 2011). ‘Indian Literature’ is the bi-monthly journal published by the Sahitya Akademi, the Indian academy of letters. I’m told that being part of the ‘Indian Literature’ is a big deal. So, I guess, this is my moment of arrival.

The story is called ‘Let Me Sin Then!’, about a Buddhist monk in mediaeval India. The story was written a long time ago, and went though a number of revisions. It all started with a name — Mitrabasu. The title was suggested by an American friend of mine.

A long time ago, I had posted the story in this very blog (since I’ve deleted it!); the story was also published in a small time-magazine sometimes back. Since then I’ve revised the story a bit.

The following are a few paragraphs from the story:

One day, it was all over. I was awarded the highest degree. I returned home, a winner. My father was a happy man. He would show every visitor to the household, the sanchi scroll that I received as a token of my achievement. I was the first in my clan to achieve such height of scholarship. I was the icon of pride in the household, a preciously cut and polished diamond.

Once again, I began to grow hair. Once again I started to wear silk, gold ornaments with sparkling jewels wrought in it, sandal paste on my forehead, and flowers around my neck, such as a nagarika in Pataliputra dressed. I began to drink madira. I even visited courtesan Madanamanjari’s palace on several occasions, hoping to get some solace. But her sad songs played on a harp made me more desperate.

I would run through the empty streets at night looking for Varunmohan. I was not happy, not a bit. There was something missing beyond my stupendous luxuries. Sleeping on the plush couch in my father’s oppulent house, I longed for the rocky bed of my Nalanda room. I longed for those days in Nalanda in desperation.

And today, sleeping on a bed like those of Nalanda, I am not happy either. Sankhaneel tells me, happiness is a state of mind. I understand. But my mind is no longer there with me. My mind roves around in Nalanda. It searches for him everywhere, Varunmohan. But he can’t be found. He is no longer there in Nalanda. He is no longer the same Varunmohan I knew in Nalanda.

This place where I live now is a warm country. After leaving home on that fateful night, I walked for three months with Sankhaneel to reach this place, to a Buddhist monastery among arid mountains. They call the place Amravati. But I can see no sign of Lord Indra’s heavenly kingdom here. The place is inhumanly solitary. The nearest village is half a day’s journey. Except for chanting of my fellow brothers, I can hear nothing. Even no birds come here for food. I cannot have my peace of mind. I remain restless. I cannot sleep, or chant mantra, or read, or do dhyana. I walk alone among the gray mountains searching for him who cannot be found. My feet bleed, tears flow from my eyes. But I cannot rest. I cannot forget him. I cannot have my peace of mind.

Baajaa Gaajaa

The most wonderful thing about India as a country is its unpredictability. You cannot pigeonhole the country and its people. Every time you argue that India is this and that, you are faced with several instances to immediately dispel your argument. This is the beauty of this messy, mixed-up country. This is the strength of this Land of Thousand Contradictions.

While religious intolerance, culture clashes, and such sundry matters of difference has become a common phenomenon, and we, everyone, as one particular community, have become increasingly remote from other such communities that surround us, it was an experience to see how we still can break these barriers effortlessly, in public life. All we need is an open mind, and an undiluted lust for life.

At a city mall last week (Saturday, February 11, 2012), I encountered a microcosm these very elements. The occasion was the Baaja Gaaja musical festival, an annual event, conceived and presented by Subha Mudgal and Aneesh Pradhan, for the last four year. In such a short time, the event has already become a staple of the culture calendar of the Pune city. What’s unique about the event, among other things, is that it features musicians you may never have heard before, and that too from two completely different extremes, young experimental musicians and folk artistes from far off places. So you have Dhak players from Kolkata making music in one stage and a brass band from Goa making music in another.

There were at least three platforms spanning the large suburban mall, with a schedule which was hard to choose. What do you pick up, Gajarati folk or Manipuri drums?

The one thing I liked best about the whole business was the informal energy it exuded. It’s a shopping mall, mind you. There were those shoppers, roaming, and there was this stage on the promenade, there was someone singing. If you like the tune, you can just stop there, and listen. You can walk up to next to the stage and observe the show.

On the stage was a Mumbai-based artiste singing Gujarati folk; he’d remind you of the soundtrack of ‘Guru’, the Mani Ratnam film with A R Rehman music. As the tempo began to rise, a Sardarji, with turban and all, got up from his seat and began to dance a few rudimentary garba steps. Then something happened. As if a major portion of the audience was waiting for this little nudge. Embolden by the Sardarji’s steps, a host of others, young and old, man and woman got up from their seats and began to dance. This excited the singers and his accompaniments; they increased the tempo, and suddenly, there was frenzy, a celebration of music, pure and without inhibitions. It was far, far better than a flash mob.

The Gujarati folk was followed by Bengali Dhak. Dhak is basically a drum, which is mostly used during the Durga Puja. Here, on the stage, the sound and energy was quite classical. I had chatted up with the leader of the band, Dilip Das, before his performance. He narrated how his parents had migrated from Bangladesh not so long ago, and how, it gives him a great pleasure to be able to perform Dhak without even an occasion, like the Puja. He’d come to Pune once before, a long time ago, to perform at Pune Festival.

The day being a Saturday, the mall also hosted a flea market; it’s not a flea market like the Juna Baazar. It is an expensive flea market; but you get to see some peculiar stuff, like homemade pickles or a notebook made of elephant poop. I would have liked to get that notebook, but it was expensive. And, there were those food stalls, selling chicken Mughlai, or wine, and a white, half-hippie man selling Pasta, who offered a plateful of pasta to a woman in Burkha, who spoke to him in impeccable English. Next to her, her husband got for himself a plate of a traditional Gujarati delicacy being sold by an old Maharashtrian couple and her young granddaughter.

All this with the music of the harmonium wafting in the air. Incredible.

Is love a Persian horse-rider who descends on your roof?
Is love a gambler of the sleepless night?
Is love the intellectual outpouring of a sage?
Is love a hyacinth bud that blooms among the waste?

— Translation of a Asamiya poem by Prabeena Saikia

Bullhead

Whitney Houston

Whitney Houston, the multimillion-selling singer who emerged in the 1980s as one of her generation’s greatest R & B voices, only to deteriorate through years of cocaine use and an abusive marriage, died on Saturday in Beverly Hills, Calif. She was 48.

Her death came as the music industry descended on Los Angeles for the annual celebration of the Grammy Awards, and Ms. Houston was — for all her difficulties over the years — one of its queens. She was staying at the Beverly Hilton hotel on Saturday to attend a pre-Grammy party being hosted by Clive Davis, the founder of Arista Records, who had been her pop mentor.

Ms. Houston was found in her room at 3:55 p.m., and paramedics spent close to 20 minutes trying to revive her, the authorities said. There was no immediate word on the cause of her death, but the authorities said there were no signs of foul play.

From the start of her career more than two decades ago, Ms. Houston had the talent, looks and pedigree of a pop superstar. She was the daughter of Cissy Houston, a gospel and pop singer who had backed up Aretha Franklin, and the cousin of Dionne Warwick. (Ms. Franklin is Ms. Houston’s godmother.)

Ms. Houston’s range spanned three octaves, and her voice was plush, vibrant and often spectacular. She could pour on the exuberant flourishes of gospel or peal a simple pop chorus; she could sing sweetly or unleash a sultry rasp.

Dressed in everything from formal gowns to T-shirts, she cultivated the image of a fun-loving but ardent good girl, the voice behind songs as perky as “I Wanna Dance With Somebody (Who Loves Me)” and as torchy as what became her signature song, a version of Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You.”

The complee New York Times obit here.

>>>>>
Roger Ebert on The Bodyguard:

The ads for "The Bodyguard" make it look like a romance, but actually it's a study of two lifestyles: of a pop music superstar whose fame and fortune depends on millions of fans, and of a professional bodyguard who makes his living by protecting her from those fans. The movie does contain a love story, but it's the kind of guarded passion that grows between two people who spend a lot of time keeping their priorities straight.

The star is Rachel Marron, played by Whitney Houston, and is as rich and famous as . . . Whitney Houston. The bodyguard is Frank Farmer (Kevin Costner), who got his training in the Secret Service and still blames himself for the fact that Ronald Reagan got shot, even though he had an excellent excuse for being away from work that day. Now Farmer hires himself out at $3,000 a week to guard celebrities, and is careful not to get involved.

Of course that's easy at the outset. He is hired by Marron's manager after the singer gets death threats. It's not love at first sight. The conventions of this genre require that the star and bodyguard have to get off on the wrong foot; she doesn't want him meddling with her lifestyle and freedom, and he doesn't have any respect for an uncooperative client.

Eventually the tension between them melts, and there is a sort of love affair, based mostly on mutual proximity (they never talk about much but their professional relationship, and the skills of his job). There's an odd, effective dating scene where she leaves her mansion to visit his cluttered, grim little apartment (and a peculiar moment with a samurai sword and a scarf that is undeniably erotic).

Meanwhile, Farmer gets to know some of the members of Rachel's retinue, including her son, her sister, her manager and her obnoxious press agent (Gary Kemp). These people are supported by Marron, and live with her on her terms, creating eddies of jealousy and palace intrigue. She is aware of her power, and tells Farmer she is essentially a nice person who is considered a bitch by a lot of people, and wishes that weren't so. Houston is effective at suggesting both sides of that personality.

The complete Review Here.

>>>>>>>>>

More on Whitney Houston here.
And Here.
And in Salon.com here.

Ghostwritten By David Mittchell

OKINAWA

Who was blowing on the nape of my neck?

I swung around. The tinted glass doors hissed shut. The light was bright. Synthetic ferns swayed, very gently, up and down the empty lobby. Nothing moved in the sun-smacked car park. Beyond, a row of palm trees and the deep sky.

"Sir?"

I swung around. The receptionist was still waiting, offering me her pen, her smile as ironed as her uniform. I saw the pores beneath her make-up, and heard the silence beneath the muzak, and the rushing beneath the silence.

"Kobayashi. I called from the airport, a while ago. To reserve a room." Pinpricking in the palms of my hands. Little thorns.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Kobayashi. . ." So what if she didn't believe me? The unclean check into hotels under false names all the time. To fornicate, with strangers. "If I could just ask you to fill in your name and address here, sir ... and your profession?"

I showed her my bandaged hand. "I'm afraid you'll have to fill the form in for me."

"Certainly ... My, how did that happen?"

"A door closed on it."

She winced sympathetically, and turned the form around. "Your profession, Mr. Kobayashi?"

"I'm a software engineer. I develop products for different companies, on a contract-by-contract basis."

She frowned. I wasn't fitting her form. "I see, no company as such, then . . ."

"Let's use the company I'm working with at the moment." Easy. The Fellowship's technology division will arrange corroboration.

"Fine, Mr. Kobayashi...Welcome to the Okinawa Garden Hotel."

"Thank you."

"Are you visiting Okinawa for business or for sightseeing, Mr. Kobayashi?"

Was there something quizzical in her smile? Suspicion in her face?

"Partly business, partly sightseeing. "I deployed my alpha control voice.

"We hope you have a pleasant stay. Here's your key, sir. Room 307. If we can assist you in any way, please don't hesitate to ask."

You? Assist me? "Thank you."

Unclean, unclean. These Okinawans never were pureblooded Japanese. Different, weaker ancestors. As I turned away and walked toward the elevator, my ESP told me she was smirking to herself. She wouldn't be smirking if she knew the caliber of mind she was dealing with. Her time will come, like all the others.

Not a soul was stirring in the giant hotel. Hushed corridors stretched into the noontime distance, empty as catacombs.


There's no air in my room. Use of air-conditioning is prohibited in Sanctuary because it impairs alpha waves. To show solidarity with my brothers and sisters, I switched it off and opened the windows. The curtains I keep drawn. You never know whose telephoto lens might be looking in.

I looked out into the eye of the sun. Naha is a cheap, ugly city. But for the background band of Pacific aquamarine this city could be any tentacle of Tokyo. The usual red-and-white TV transmitter, broadcasting the government's subliminal command frequencies. The usual department stores rising like windowless temples, dazzling the unclean into compliance. The urban districts, the factories pumping out poison into the air and water supplies. Fridges abandoned in wastegrounds of lesser trash. What grafted-on pieces of ugliness are their cities! I imagine the New Earth sweeping this festering mess away like a mighty broom, returning the land to its virginal state. Then the Fellowship will create something we deserve, which the survivors will cherish for eternity.

I cleaned myself and examined my face in the bathroom mirror. You are one such survivor, Quasar. Strong features, highlighting my samurai legacy. Ridged eyebrows. A hawkish nose. Quasar, the harbinger. His Serendipity had chosen my name prophetically. My role was to pulse at the edge of the universe of the faithful, alone in the darkness. An outrider. A herald.

Excerpted from Ghostwritten by David Mitchell Copyright© 2000 by David Mitchell.

Cloud Atlas By David Mitchell

The Pacific Journal of Adam Ewing

Thursday, 7th November

Beyond the Indian hamlet, upon a forlorn strand, I happened on a trail of recent footprints. Through rotting kelp, sea cocoanuts & bamboo, the tracks led me to their maker, a white man, his trowzers & Pea-jacket rolled up, sporting a kempt beard & an outsized Beaver, shovelling & sifting the cindery sand with a tea-spoon so intently that he noticed me only after I had hailed him from ten yards away. Thus it was, I made the acquaintance of Dr Henry Goose, surgeon to the London nobility. His nationality was no surprise. If there be any eyrie so desolate, or isle so remote that one may there resort unchallenged by an Englishman, 'tis not down on any map I ever saw.

Had the doctor misplaced anything on that dismal shore? Could I render assistance? Dr Goose shook his head, knotted loose his 'kerchief & displayed its contents with clear pride. 'Teeth, sir, are the enamelled grails of the quest in hand. In days gone by this Arcadian strand was a cannibals' banqueting hall, yes, where the strong engorged themselves on the weak. The teeth, they spat out, as you or I would expel cherry stones. But these base molars, sir, shall be transmuted to gold & how? An artisan of Piccadilly who fashions denture-sets for the nobility pays handsomely for human gnashers. Do you know the price a quarter pound will earn, sir?'

I confessed I did not.

'Nor shall I enlighten you, sir, for 'tis a professional secret!'

He tapped his nose. 'Mr Ewing, are you acquainted with Marchioness Grace of Mayfair? No? The better for you, for she is a corpse in petticoats. Five years have passed since this harridan besmirched my name, yes, with imputations that resulted in my being blackballed from Society.' Dr Goose looked out to sea. 'My peregrinations began in that dark hour.'

I expressed sympathy with the doctor's plight.

'I thank you, sir, I thank you, but these ivories,' he shook his 'kerchief, 'are my angels of redemption. Permit me to elucidate. The Marchioness wears dental-fixtures fashioned by the aforementioned doctor. Next yuletide, just as that scented She-Donkey is addressing her Ambassadors' Ball, I, Henry Goose, yes, I shall arise & declare to one & all that our hostess masticates with cannibals' gnashers! Sir Hubert will challenge me, predictably, "Furnish your evidence," that boor shall roar, "or grant me satisfaction!" I shall declare, "Evidence, Sir Hubert? Why, I gathered your mother's teeth myself from the spittoon of the South Pacific! Here, sir, here are some of their fellows!" & fiing these very teeth into her tortoise-shell soup tureen & that, sir, that will grant me my satisfaction! The twittering wits will scald the icy Marchioness in their news-sheets & by next season she shall be fortunate to receive an invitation to a Poorhouse Ball!'

In haste, I bade Henry Goose a good day. I fancy he is a Bedlamite.

Read from extracts from Cloud Atlas here.