The 'GABBA - 19th JANUARY 2021

With emotions still swirling after last night’s “believe it or not” heist, I found myself shaking my head and grinning from ear to ear after catching a few winks of sleep from sheer exhaustion.

The cricketing part of this miracle will justifiably be explicated by a lot of writers. There are a zillion take-aways from this Series. Pujara’s ‘over my fucking dead body’ Yojimbo impersonation as Australia zeroed in on him and unleashed wave after wave of barely fathomable fury that was reminiscent of a nightmarish ‘Groundhog Day’. Washington Sundar’s now iconic penance at the altar of the cricketing gods as he dismissed ‘Gaz’ Lyon from his sight. Shardul Thakur’s faux bluster which actually did for Australia in the first dig. The fairy-tale lives of Natrajan and Siraj.

'Jinks' Rahane’s devastating left-hooks that floored Australia after the debacle at Adelaide. Shubman Gill’s stirring evisceration of Starc. And finally, the garrulous Rishabh Pant’s needling, nettling and eventual ‘Joker in the pack’ turn as the exclamation point.

Most Cricket fans get reverse jinxing and as much as my posts (when the game started) insinuated that I wasn’t really expecting a miracle at the ‘Gabbatoir and articulated my sheer disappointment at selection for this game which I genuinely believed, hampered our chances at competing; it was a veritable life lesson nonetheless and one that we will all be well served to live by.

Never. Ever. Ever. Bloody. Give up.

RAPE: A DECONSTRUCTION

The last couple of days in the social media world have been particularly trying. If the crap about the Mayan Apocalypse was not enough, the social media sites were agog with news and reactions concerning the Delhi rape incident. I usually don't bother making my observations known or jotting 'em down but I noticed something pretty peculiar this time around which prompted this.

I saw a lotta males going to great lengths to not only 'condemn' the admittedly horrendous incident (which was ok in a way) but also reiterate the fact that THEY RESPECT WOMEN thanks to the values fostered by the females in their respective families. And not so surprisingly, a large number of the female sex nodded their vigorous assents collectively. My first reaction went 'eh' & then when I cottoned on, I saw that this was crap. A rape is not the consequence of a single factor. Let us stop kiddin' ourselves. Precious few (if any) men look at ALL women with respect. Only genuine saints/sages are mentally/spiritually evolved enough to view all humans in an equally dispassionate manner. The rest (This includes ALL men) are not averse to viewing some women as sexual objects. While an overwhelming majority have the mental apparatus to restrain themselves, the rest are ticking time bombs waiting to explode. There may be a variety of reasons why a rape is committed. This is a phenomenon that has been happening for thousands of years. A lotta ppl. seem to think that castration/hanging would put an end to it. While it may certainly reduce the number of cases, rapes will still occur. Just like how murders still occur and will occur.

Coming back to the "I RESPECT WOMEN CUZ I WAS BROUGHT UP BY STRONG WOMEN" junta, I have a few things to say. It is not incorrect to assume that a sizable number of females associated with the rapists have been good sisters, doting moms and grandmoms. Frankly, a lot of reactions and 'chest thumping' have approached high camp. I may be cynical but it just didn't ring true. While everyone were busy conjuring ways to best torture the rapists, no one deemed it necessary to point out the fact that the rapists were inebriated when they committed the heinous crime. That's not so surprising cuz most of these punks cannot  'outrage' against the evil effects of alcohol for obvious reasons. We seem to think that it is the duty of the Government to guarantee safety for women. It is at best, an utopian dream. I have outraged against this spineless,gutless Govt. myself but that was ONLY regarding its indecisiveness to be strong and come down hard and fast against offenders. Booze,skimpily clad women and horny men make an explosive cocktail whichever way you look at it and blaming the Govt. is all too convenient an exercise.

While I bloody well accept the fact that this is not an ideal situation, one has to appreciate a parent's concern in ensuring the safety of his/her child. Criticising them cuz they are loathe to give 'freedom' to their female wards is bull. All they are doing is minimising the risk probablity of a mishap happening. Venting and outraging against such things never help. I was amused on receiving a lotta "STOP RAPE NOW" petitions. Me signing it won't help a fart.

Salman Khan mouthing crap was the last straw. The daft punk owes a large chunk of his inexplicable popularity to chest thumpin' misogyny. Alcohol,mental afflictions, dearth of moral fibre,impact of crap filled films and disintegrating family life all play a part.

I respect female intelligence so this is all that I've gotta say to 'em - The world is a fuckin' jungle. Deal with it and do what you have to do to be safe. 

COTTON COMES TO HARLEM & CHESTER HIMES:A REVIEW

Magic is a hugely abused word and can be as elusive as a loutish runt, trying to lose himself in a Mardi Gras crowd.

Very rarely, it manifests itself in some obscure form or the other. Himes wrote some ground-breakin',spine tinglin',nerve janglin' classics but "Cotton Comes To Harlem" is his definitive Masterpiece.

GOD (He is black by the way) decided to put pen to paper one day and this macabre,bawdy,freak Masterpiece was the result.

If ever I dream of writing a novel, I only pray to GOD (That nigga again!) that it turns out to be something like this.

When I read Himes, I can almost smell the stale cigarette smoke forming geometrical patterns in gaudily lit rooms and the frozen garbage rotting away in many a tenement basement. Pock- marked delinquents, busty Madames with yellow rotting teeth,chippies with a sharp nose for a sucker,hopheads hankering after a fix,gutter punks out to slit throats for a buck,Mack Daddys with little else to show for talent,oily fatheads pulling the strings that keep all the scum floatin'......Heaven, it sure ain't!

A sample - "The broken concrete paving was strewn with broken glass bottles,a rusty bed spring,several worn-out automobile tires,the half dried carcass of a black cat with its left foot missing and its eyes eaten by rats." Now if that ain't a hard-boiled setting, Kapil Sibal is Sunny Leone in disguise. No one captured the post war race relations in Uncle Sam with such unrelenting frankness & penetrating perception. As someone put it sententiously, "Himes is a demented realist" and his books radiate feral violence & Cop strong arm tactics that makes "Dirty Harry" look like Martin Luther King in comparison.

 Himes was a Criminal who made good and his bleak outlook on life and his clamorous urge to depict the ugly side of Harlem and the plight of the Blacks was fueled by his own sobering experiences as a wild,restless African American who was shown the double-birdie by a white dominated societal set-up. But his books are more complex than they seem.  He is not apologetic about the rotten eggs in the Negro basket and doesn't always take refuge in the oft-quoted whine of "Them fuckin' whites ruined us". Nigger or not, a criminal is always a criminal and Himes never blurs that line.


If you are looking for 'feel good' fiction, look elsewhere. Himes' novels seem to be too pulpy,Noirish and violent to be actually true and I dismissed his books away as merely escapist,hard boiled fiction at first but when I found out that his brutal,evocative description of Harlem and his inhabitants weren't that far removed from reality; it did things to me.

What the hell are ye waitin' for?! As Chester himself might testily utter - "Grab 'em books soon as ye kin 'fore ye feel sorry fer yeself."


Read him before you croak. Bet your rump you'd regret it otherwise.

A KILLING...

It happened on a wet,hazy Sunday morning. Steam billowed out from the sidewalks, forming rings as it dissipated into an inexorable sky. The air was pungent and the atmosphere dripped menace as if mirroring the reality prevalent on the ground. A bugle uttered a shrill,desolate cry piercing through the dyspnoeal atmosphere.

It was time.

Faint light filtered into the Cell, struggling to pervade its farthest corners. Then, they came. Six of 'em. Tall,sinewy men with boots thudding into the ground, epitomising drive and intent. They rapped on the cell and finally, he looked up.

Limpid eyes peered at the Guards, camouflaging the fires raging underneath. The eyes still stared, raging against the rapidly fading light. But there it was. The trademark,insolent grin.

They cuffed him, each action a veritable lesson on efficiency and economy of movement. Then, the march started.

Hoarse cries and angry growls started to rumble from the 'cages' embodying slowly escalating tension and hysteria. Despair had punched anger in the teeth, knocking 'em out. For a flickering second, the eyes seemed to betray grim acknowledgment and tacit acceptance of fate. But the face held its pose. Oh yes, it sure as hell did!

The Guards increased their pace, the Rifles and bayonets a mere blur as they finally reached the yard. His eyes darted like a startled Frog still figuring out its focus of attention.

And then he saw her.

She was a frail old woman, her face gaunt and distraught hinting at a life lived rough. His eyes finally rested on hers.

Her feeble attempt to smile didn't quite come off. The eyes became liquid, gradually filling with tears. He looked at her quickly, his eyes imploring her to control the emotions bubbling forth. It took an infernal attempt but she managed it. He acknowledged her struggle, the sardonic grin still firmly in place. A small,motley group viewed the proceedings; their faces showcasing a whole gamut of expressions. Some believed that the man ought not to be hanged. Some believed he got what was coming to him. A few even believed he was innocent. It didn't matter anymore.

"TIME" - shouted the Super as the Guards closed in near the gallows. Time stood still, the atmosphere as thick as cold Birmingham steel. Hushed whispers ensued and a wail rang out but all sounds stopped as abruptly as they started. The hangman drew near, producing a cotton bag. As he drew it over the prisoner's face, the mask slipped.

In that one instant, the man saw his life flash by and the realisation that his life will ebb away in the next few seconds hit him like a clenched fist. The hangman saw his face and blinked. He knew it. He could almost see it. A heart that was pumping blood. The cells growing and dying...and growing again. The tissues forming, the organs functioning, the brain thinking and working,the limbs moving. It was all going to cease with a sudden snap. Summoning all his courage and mental strength, he looked away and became his old self.

Almost as if driven by automaton, the Hangman tightened the noose. Then, he climbed down and held the lever a trifle unsteadily. The SUPER had had enough. "YES" - he barked. There was a strident noise as the onlookers looked away. No one spoke. No one could.

The SUPER went near the body and poked at it with his steel-toed boots. "DEAD, I GUESS"- he muttered and spit out the tobacco that he was chewing through the ordeal. He bawled for the Doc who came to the spot in a rush. Then, he looked at the dead face. Taken aback and even infuriated to see that the smug grin was still in place, he turned only to see the old woman standing beside him.

Slowly, she walked away...

YOJIMBO (1961)

Akira Kurosawa is a name that even casual movie buffs are familiar with for he straddled the trickiest of all the ropes and passed the ultimate Test for an Auteur - please the lay fan and the informed Film critic.

If someone put a gun to my head, I'd say that he is the greatest of 'em all. As if his body of work isn't intimidating enough, he worked with some outstanding talent that embellished his Films with rare effulgence. Of all the talents, one man stood out.

Cinema has been blessed with some outrageously talented Actors who gave Films verve,depth,vitality and a sense of meaning. The great ones were/are capable of lifting a merely "good" Film to a great one. But, I doubt whether anyone in the history of Cinema was as consistently first rate and world class as that man from Japan. Brando could brood his way into our hearts, De Niro could dazzle the cinephile in us with his intensity and body language, Bogart could snap out his dialogues with barely plausible precision, Sivaji could express multiple human emotions with rare panache.

Mifune could and did all this and more. Personally, I'd say his "best" performance came in the magnificently resplendent "HIGH & LOW", one of Kurosawa's greatest Films adapted from an Ed McBain novel. His collaborations with Mifune are all acknowledged classics. But for all those awe-inducing Masterpieces, their greatest hour together was in "YOJIMBO".

If there is a better opening sequence in Movie history, I'd sure like to see it. Right from the start when the credits begin to roll, "YOJIMBO" grabs you by your throat. The thunderous BGM as Mifune comes into focus creates genuine "goose-pimples" moments. There have been many great Acting performances by the great man but here, Mifune is the personification of perfection. Hunched shoulders to drive away fleas, eyes screwed into the distance and twinkling when he talks with a member of the godforsaken village hinting at condescension, mind sharp as a rapier, mouth spewing sardonic one-liners and supremely self assured of his skills and mental acuity; Mifune is searingly brilliant and effective playing both the ends against the middle as he "cleanses" the town of all the 'scum'.

Masaru Sato's devastating mix of Jazz and Jap. Folk creates musical magic and provides perfect fodder for Mifune and Kurosawa to create something exceptional. The Cinematography is a veritable lesson to all aspiring Cinematographers. There is a scene in the Film where Mifune crouches in a room when I could have sworn it was night. Turns out it wasn't. Kurosawa is a master manipulator and his awe-inducing skills and control were never more evident than in this madly entertaining, incisive Film laced with liberal helpings of black humour and irony. The effect that it has had on future American Films is too obvious to state here. And it is apt that Kurosawa was influenced in some way by Dashiell Hammett, another Master at his own craft.

This is just about the most "perfect" Film I've seen and every time I see it, I'm compelled to marvel at Kurosawa's "story telling" skills more than anything else. He leaves nothing to chance.

As much as I love Leone, Eastwood and their "Dollars" trilogy; their "A Fistful Of Dollars" is but an adept imitation. I suppose that's as high a praise as any.

When Silk meets Steel

On a sunny March morning back in 2001, things happened.

Things that were barely believable. And we had no inkling whatsover. It was a day when time stood still. It had to. For a certain gent going by the name of V.V.S.Laxman produced something that made everyone's jaws drop in amazement. And it happened on the grandest stage of 'em all,the Eden Gardens.

That amazing day has been well documented by all and sundry but 10 years down the lane, the events that happened then still defy descriptions; rendering the latter obsolete. Humphrey Bogart's immortal line "The stuff that dreams are made of" never sounded more fitting. But more than anything else, the day exemplified all that is best about skill and the human spirit. That was the day when Indian Cricket came of age and the vestiges are still visible today.

Tendulkar may be the template against which all greatness is measured. Sehwag's buccaneering bravado and explosive talent may make the bowling team flinch instinctively. Dravid's technical virtuosity and cultured strokeplay may dampen the most enthusiastic thoroughbred.

But Laxman kills. He kills hopes, kills aspirations, kills chances. And he kills them by almost apologetically pulling out the life support. Laxman's batting may be all silken grace and ethereal charm but it is shrouded in an almost mystic cold-blooded ruthlessness. He rarely hits the ball any more than is necessary for it to reach the ropes. It's a baffling gift that defines his batsmanship for he never "gets his hands dirty". He does his job with minimum fuss and maximum efficiency but it is his modus operandi that stands out.

Not for him the quick single for he is hardly a model athlete. But a top professional assassin handles his weapons with uncommon dexterity that creates an aura of intense familiarity. As any Caribbean Cricket fan would say "Laxman don't need 'em quick singles Maan."

The hands manoeuvre the bat at precisely the right moment when ball hits bat. Minimum movement and maximum balance ensues as the challenge is met. It's a gift that cannot be taught. A gift that is bestowed by the Gods. And Laxman does say his prayers gratefully enough on the Cricket field with reassuring regularity.

Stats are a great indicator for measuring effectiveness. Sometimes, their sheer weight may bestow greatness.

For all that, one has to watch a VVS Laxman Innings to understand the magic which sometimes transcends the concept. He hasn't scored a Ton in the Ol' Blighty as yet.

Knowing the man, he would happily settle for a match-winning 80.

Aaranya Kaandam - The Kollywood answer to "Fargo".

Settled down to watch this much lauded,much anticipated Film in a lesser known Theatre in Saidapet.

At the outset, I have to say that this Film lives up to the pre-screen hype that surrounded it. The plot isn't exactly novel but Thiagarajan Kumararaja has created an incendiary Film that manages to keep you riveted to your seat throughout its playing time by the usage of carefully orchestrated,stylised violence and dialogue laced with irreverence and quintessential Tamil urban cockiness.

The BGM showcases inspired brilliance at places but I had a feeling I had heard most of it before somewhere without quite being able to put a finger on the source exactly. Jackie Shroff's burnt inflections epitomise the sombre and ponderous tone of the Film but his role fueled tedious idisyncracies doesn't quite come off as well as it could have. Perhaps he was too "tight" or self conscious in essaying the role.

Sampath's character has a lot of meat in it and he has grabbed the chance with both hands. As the violent but disarmingly astute Pasupathy who is second in line to Singaperumal (Shroff), his quick enterprise and willingness to get his hands dirty for a job that needs to be done is essayed with surprising panache and virtuosity.

This is that rarest of rare Tamil Films where the Fringe players throw in their weight to make this a heady cocktail. The men who play Gajendran and Gajapathy (Rival hoodlums) scare the crap out of you with their raw physicality (THAT scowl will give you the heebie-jeebies), in-your-face aggression and oily malevolence. Heck, even Ravi Krishna (with all his acting limitations) is adequate in his role as "Sappa". A word about the hilariously talky Somasundaram who plays the quirkily funny Kalayan and Master Vasanth as his canny,worldly son. These are the 2 characters who catapult this Film to the "very special" category.

Kumararaja pays homage to Tamil cinema a la Godard and Tarantino in his own inimitable way and his respect for Tamil pop/punk culture borders on genuine genuflection. Lots of people have likened him to Tarantino but I saw strains of the Coen brothers' style more than anything else. Unlike Tarantino whose Films pulsate with reckless energy, this is a leisurely paced,sombre almost speculative mood piece interspersed with sudden bouts of violence that propels the Film along. And there is a Femme fatale in here so the Film can lay claim to being Tamil Cinema's first modern day Noir classic. Yasmin is no Bacall/Stanwyck and her lingo grates on the nerves sometimes but that is forgivable in an otherwise largely enjoyable Film. The slo-mos in the violent sequences reminds one of "Bloody" Sam's immortal style and that is one more reason to watch this wonderful Film.

"Aaranya Kaandam" is a vociferous scream that echoes into the inky blackness of the Jungle night for Tamil Cinema to wake up. Will it?

At any rate, well done Thiagarajan Kumararaja!