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!

The Man That Cut Bradman To Size

Not much of a Biography bloke but Harold Larwood is not just another Fast Bowler. That I'm particularly passionate about the great art of Fast Bowling & its decorated & feted practitioners is something my pals are aware of and Larwood was easily, one of the earliest & the greatest of 'em all. That he was well before my time only adds to the romance & mystique surrounding his legend.

By all accounts, he was the most menacingly lethal Fast Bowler of all time bar none. Short (His lack of height actually helped him generate blinding quickness off the deck), spare & lean; Larwood was born gifted with the kind of pace that burned grass. Even with whatever li'l footage of his bowling videos that are available now, his action is typically classical & silken smooth.

"Bodyline" will never go away. Not ever. So the Cricket fans can stop kiddin' themselves. But this amazing Biography is much more than a detailed account of that momentous Series. Here, we see a proud and unapologetic Man who had the bloody courage to live life on his own terms amidst excruciating mental pressure. A man who valued integrity & self pride over money & personal ambition. We see a Man who almost broke his back hauling coal in remote Nuncargate and actually spilled blood bowling for England with a busted foot. We also learn of Douglas Jardine, the mythical figure who is praised & reviled in equal measure. Jardine must have been a real study - Aquiline nose, sculpted face, his Harlequin Cap prompting jeers & swears from the Aussie crowds bayin' for blood, his bloody minded ruthlessness & an almost fanatical obsession to win back the Ashes come what may, his contempt & distaste for all things Australian and then some. But Jardine was also a honourable Man Larwood trusted with his life. Till his death, Jardine was fiercely loyal & got the same loyalty from all his "wards" including his beloved Larwood.

"Lol" went back to the country that wanted to kill him & was eventually accepted as a model Citizen of the Country. As opposed to making money, he made a lot of worthy friends and when he said that that was what counted, you believed him. A lot of great Fast bowlers came on to the scene later & embellished Cricket but Harold Larwood was the template. Frank Tyson, Ray Lindwall, Dennis Lillee, Jeff Thomson, Malcolm Marshall, Curtly Ambrose, Waqar Younis et all had arguably more impressive figures (They tell only half the story) but there will be only one Larwood.

This book won the WISDEN Award in 2009 & rightly so. I've read only the Stephen Waugh biography (which I thought was a splendid & illuminating Cricketing biography) but this one transcends the genre itself.

Read. Enjoy. Then sigh back in content & imagine a scrawny Nottinghamshire lad with bright eyes glinting in the Sun,launch into a beautifully co-ordinated run-up before hurling another thunderbolt.

A RIVETING JOURNEY

April 2, 2011. Close to midnight. Fingers all damp, creating geometrical patterns in the air. Tension, like a coiled spring. Everyone waiting. Waiting for the orgasmic release.

And then, it happened.

Ball met bat, pinged off its face and soared high into the steamy night. Bat twirls. Pandemonium.

"Captain Cool" (The one with steel Cojones) conjured an Innings typical of the man. It had the Dhoni stamp all over it. Deft nudges, running like an escaped killer, rasping cuts and a gradual,ruthless dismantling of a formidable bowling unit.

While everybody is heaping praises on the guy who has patented the "Helicopter shot" (And very deservedly so!), there was one li'l man who made it possible. A man who largely kept away from the immediate wild,emotion charged post match celebrations. An intense introvert, he was probably reflecting on the magnitude of his achievement before coming out to give the inevitable interview.

Jayarwardene's silken stings lacerated India. But Gambhir mended the wound and knifed Lanka in the gut before Dhoni cut off the life support.

India is a star heavy line up with some supremely gifted willow wielders. To go with the glittering array of talent, they also have a Man whose bloody mindedness is rivaled only by a certain Rahul Dravid. Dravid evolved into a more attacking batsman but Gambhir is a natural that way. Desperately hungry for success, no one relishes a scrap more than this hugely impressive lad from Delhi. I picked him out as the bloke who was most likely to play the most decisive knock of this World Cup and he didn't disappoint.

As a guy who had followed Indian Cricket actively from the mid 90's till the present time, the most overwhelming feeling when it all ended was relief. The Indian Fan knows and intuitively understands the trauma caused by shattering defeats, uninspiring sphere slingers and exhibitions of "yellow livered play." Calls were attended to before, during and after the game. It showcased the whole gamut of emotions. Anticipation, anxiety, despair, desperation, hope, jubilation and tension were all evident. Yours truly wasn't completely spared either. But at the end of it all, all I felt was relief and complete contentment rather than naked,unbridled joy. I slept well, anticipating the sheer pleasure of reading the papers and Cricinfo articles the next day.

Like every Indian Fan, I cannot contemplate watching Cricket without Sachin Tendulkar playing it. The piece on him and what he means to me and a whole generation of Indians will have to wait for a few more years hopefully but to see the "Bombay Bomber" hold the Cup that counts amidst swirling emotions symbolized the culmination of possibly, the largest collective dream in history.

The Old Blighty, the Caribbean and Down Under tours beckon later this year. But for now, WE ARE THE WORLD CHAMPIONS. Ruminate on those words and voice 'em out loud whenever you want. The deed has been done.