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!

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.

In the "ZONE" - A review of Andrei Tarkovsky's "STALKER" (1979)

There are Films and there are Films. Some Films move you,some evoke extreme emotions,some make you smile,some make you laugh out loud,some are just feel good and some provoke outrage through their content. A few even manage to make you think without taking the mickey out of you.

Rarely (If ever) does a Film make you remember the day you watched it for the first time. That happened to me but curiously enough, it did not end there. Long after the credits rolled, it lingered on....Indelible and breathtakingly spectacular images flashed fleetingly before my eyes ....Immaculate in their conception,startling in their beauty. I dismissed 'em away as the workings of an unusually romantic mind which was bizarre as I was (still am) anything but a romantic. I am an uncompromising realist. My curiosity was thus piqued but I was still grappling for reasons for me "coming back to the Film" time and again.

And then I dreamt of the "Zone"......

A long time ago, it was speculated that a meteorite fell on the Earth thereby sparking a mini holocaust. People passing through that area mysteriously disappeared.

Sounds like the start of a conventionally "exciting" but run o' the mill Sci-Fi, innit? But what follows is something inexplicable and thus best left experienced.

A provocative and spiritually rewarding odyssey, "Stalker" is the kind of Film that talks through its images. Images of matchless, ethereal charm that somehow manage to evoke an indescribable,almost incredible sadness and nostalgia. The eerie,haunting Soundtrack bores its way into your soul evoking feelings of a long,weary journey of a Man on the lane to nowhere. The plot is best left unrevealed (Nothing much to "reveal" anyway).

There are some stupefying,jaw dropping sequences. Tarkovsky dared to go where no one even dared to go before/after. He held shots - long enough to seem like an eternity to the uninitiated but those who were willing to share his journey and vision were/are/will be rewarded beyond belief.

No matter how many times you see this Film, it will provoke different feelings every single time. For in the absence of a "plot", Tarkovsky urges you to "feel" and understand that in a seemingly meaningless existence, the "journey" provides the meaning and is its own reward.

Dark,dank and forbidding landscapes in the Film perfectly mirror the minds of the 3 "seekers" who search for the "Room" that will ostensibly make all their wishes come true.

I have watched this Film a few times and each time, I drew a different conclusion.

Tarkovsky made other Films - deeply personal ones, spiritually moving ones, metaphysical ones, speculative ones. Kubrick made the uncompromising, devastatingly cynical "2001: A Space Odyssey" which is justifiably hailed as a Masterpiece and one of the greatest Sci-Fi Films of all time.

They all pale in comparison to the experience that is "Stalker." A Film that made me wonder...

A Film that drew me into a World where time stood still.....into a world where I took in everything,blinked and questioned the reason for existence.

Time for me to go back to the "Zone".......

The Wild Bunch (Director's Cut) [1969]

1969. The "Western" genre had just been given a new lease of life by the irascibly eccentric Sergio Leone and the landscape had changed forever. Extreme close ups, the archetypal loner who looked out primarily for himself and wasn't too fussy about how he went about his business,twanging Soundtracks accentuating the grim mood and the uncompromising atmosphere that pervades the "Spaghetti Western"....These were to add a new dimension to the structure of the Western Film. Leone and Morricone brought the European flavour into the equation and Clint Eastwood was in the right place at the right time.

However, American Cinema (especially Westerns) was still trying to escape from the stereotypical limitations plaguing Hollywood at that point in time. While they made some excellent Films, the Violence was still muted and very rarely was the "feel good" factor transcended. The Studios were unwilling to compromise and this was the scenario in the late 60's before Leone's "Dollars trilogy" began to break down barriers.

The time was ripe for an uncompromising Auteur who wanted to make his point and make it his way. And in came such a man. A man,adorned in faded jeans and bandanna. A man who looked at the world through tinted glasses to hide the wild glint in his eyes. A man who drank hard and pulled no punches. A man who was unafraid to lay bare his soul in front of the world. A man with supreme movie making skill. That man was Sam "Bloody" Peckinpah and "The Wild Bunch" is his most provocative and enduring Masterpiece.

Right from the unrelenting OST and the first scene where a group of children gleefully watch a scorpion eaten alive by a group of ants, Peckinpah tells a timeless and haunting tale of a bunch of Outlaws who desperately try to do things their way without compromising on their time tested ideals and complex codes of honour.

Set during the Mexican revolution, the "Bunch" go about doing what they do best but realise that the times are changing and the old order is rapidly giving way to the new. There are countless memorable scenes of almost "beautiful" violence (A Peckinpah trademark) and stunning cinematography but it is the quiet moments that stun you as a Cinephile. No once portrayed male bonding more poignantly than Bloody Sam and scenes of the Bunch having a quiet chuckle and laugh amidst the unrelenting violence hits right on the spot.

Ironically, for a "difficult" Director; Peckinpah had an unbelievable amount of talent to work with in this Film. Bill Holden and Ernest Borgnine (Oscar winners both - Not that it matters) are in top flight here and this Film is easily the high water mark of their illustrious careers. Ben Johnson with a perpetual grin pasted on his face and the seedy Warren Oates add grit,depth and a lot of heart to this classic. Add Robert Ryan and the dusty,weather beaten Peckinpah regulars L.Q.Jones and Strother Martin and you have a cast to die for.

Nothing needs to be said much about how "influential" this Film actually was and still is. The special edition DVD contains some remarkable documentaries which gives us a sneak peek into the making of this great,great Film.

But if for nothing else, this Film has to be watched simply because it has the greatest Film climax of all time IMO. Pike (Holden) looks at his comrades and the "look" makes any speech obsolete. As Pike growls "let's go" under his breath much to the delight of the rest of the Bunch, we know something is going to happen. What follows is the best of what Cinema can offer as a medium.

The "Bunch" start the walk, grinning but knowing fully well that this was the bloody finish, eyes staring ahead with burning intensity,shoulders thrust forward and their self dignity on the line. The infamous "ballet of death" scenes are stupefyingly beautiful in their execution and symmetry and the guns rattle,growl and thunder before dust settles down on the bloodied earth. This wasn't gratuitous violence nor was it condoning it. This was Peckinpah making his observation on a Bunch who wanted to go out in their own way,justifying the kind of lives that they lived and the choices that they made. They were willing to pay the price and in a strange way, the violence that was spewed was just and appropriate (If that's possible). That's what makes this Film, a pure one-off. The Bunch went away (as they had to) but not before going out in a blaze of glory.

On screen violence will never ever be the same again.

A blood and guts Film that accentuates all the qualities of its enigmatic Director, "The Wild Bunch" is a "tone poem written in adrenaline" as one reviewer puts it. Watch it and be grateful for the experience. Watch it for the man they called "Bloody Sam" and to know what the fuss is all about. The special edition DVD is also, one of my most treasured possessions.

They don't make 'em like 'im anymore.

On Raymond Chandler - Author non pareil

The past few nights had been dark and wet with robust winds chilling the bone and whistling through the trees. With time on my hands, I did what I enjoy doing best - pick up a book that was waiting to be read.

Rubbing my hands together to create a bit of heat and get the blood flowing, I started with a short story. It started like this:

"There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge."

I was intrigued, even a trifle taken aback. I have read a few Authors in my time but the vivid imaginative thrusts here had already penetrated the lackadaisical feeling of comfort and inertia that I was feeling. I sat up, jerked wide awake. As expected; the book began to crackle into life soon enough, took on a shape all its own and started to bite. I intuitively understood that I was reading an Author rather special in more ways than one. The Author being the great Raymond Chandler.

Now I have read Classics and a wide variety of genres save for the Romantic genre which I find to be incredibly boring,insipid and incapable of evoking honestly strong emotions and thus I don't put it on par with other great works of most genres. A lot of people who read "Classics" tend to dismiss "whodunits" as merely "escape" Fiction. There is a grain of truth in that for there is a huge mass of mediocre "whodunits" which prowl the market and it is incredibly difficult to write great, even very good detective Fiction. For a detective Novel usually revolves around murder, theft or other crimes and most people do not warm to it or find it to be endearing. As opposed to the so called archetypal "Classic", detective Fiction generally concerns itself with seedy,selfish Conmen and layabouts who'll slit their mothers' throats for a buck and world weary,cynical Private Eyes who know all the answers. So essentially, a "hard boiled' Author has a rather restricted canvas.

Yet, Chandler's "Philip Marlowe" is a character as immortal as Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot. In fact, he leaves 'em both in the shade. For unlike 'em, he was a guy who was acutely aware of himself,his limitations and his surroundings and though he despised what he saw; he did what he had to do anyway with his scathing,razor sharp wisecracks acting as a "release"; his touch with reality. He is the one against whom all the subsequent PI's are judged.

To rise above the manifold limitations of the genre and write novels that actually transcend the genre and stand toe to toe with some of the best works of the past century is almost impossible. Yet, that was EXACTLY what Chandler achieved. His "The Simple Art Of Murder" makes enlightening reading.

And best of all, he wrote words that pulsate and gyrate with a bizarre,quirky rhythm all their own. They leap out of the books; creating dense,byzantine patterns that leave the reader panting for more. The metaphors and allusions breathe, hinting at a mind that is at once sharper than a dragon canine and fiendishly creative.

The Chandler prose is justifiably, one of the zeniths of 20th Century Classic American Fiction. Gotta love the man.

On Jean-Pierre Melville and "Le Deuxième Souffle" A.K.A. "Second Wind" (1966)

Among the galaxy of geniuses who have donned the Director's cap in Films, there are 3 who occupy a special position in my list of favourites. One is the incomparable Akira Kurosawa and other is an irascible,uncompromising and brilliant Auteur who went by the name of "Bloody Sam" Peckinpah. The last one in this triumvirate might be construed to be a curious selection by some but there is no doubting the coruscating brilliance of Jean-Pierre Melville and the complete control he had over his awe inducing Film Masterpieces.

Melville was evidently inspired by early American Noir classics but his own Films transcend the immediate effect that evocative Noirs have on the viewer. Peerless specialist of the "existential" Crime epic, no one mastered the "Crime Drama" genre and turned it inside out like Melville did.

The opening sequence of this brilliant Crime Film highlights the hold that Melville held over the medium. Three men crouch at the top of a prison building in forbidding darkness, grimly working out the chances of escape. Then follows a chain of events that is jaw droppingly brilliant in its precise cinematic execution, its slow escalation of hysterical tension and economy of movement.

Like his celebrated "Le Samourai" and "Le Cercle Rouge", this Film is the epitome of a "minimalistic Epic." Hunched shoulders, trench coats and wide brimmed hats appear frequently on the screen, adorning persons navigating with intent; thereby hinting at pre-occupation with problems that will take some solving. The Melvillian protagonist is a curious animal: ostensibly a simple,ruthless Criminal but one that swears by peculiar personal codes of loyalty, honesty and professionalism. His matter-of-fact, pre-occupied demeanour is consistent with the dour shadow of fatalism that pervades the Melvillian universe.

But the thing that makes a Melville Film such an aural and visual delight is his construction of impeccable set piece sequences. The Heist sequence in this Film is one of many highlights in a distinguished career.

Melville was also blessed with some of the best Actors going around at the time. The protagonist's role was tailor made for Lino Ventura. Eyes conveying brooding intensity and a mask of a face hinting at a raging inferno underneath; Ventura scorches the screen. Marcel Bozzuffi (Of "The French Connection" fame) and the redoubtable Paul Meurisse (Remember "Les Diaboliques"?) add depth and vitality to their respective roles.

A MUST-WATCH for any Cinephile.

Advaita Vedanta - A sneak peek

People who know me and my views fairly well might be aware of my interests in the great vEdAntic tradition of Advaita which when translated correctly, is "Non Dualism" and not "Monism" as is popularly known.

Personally, this great tradition has been the "solace of my life" as the German philosopher Schopenhauer once famously put it when he was asked about the Upanishads.

Throughout history, man has sought to find out the reason for existence. Why are we born and why do we die? What's the point? Our mundane and busy lives rarely allow us to pause and ponder on these questions but at one point or the other, we are bound to grapple with it.

Various men came up with various theories on the same as time went on. Some of them were accepted, some weren't. Great civilisations came up and a "way of life" soon became the norm.

However, we will focus chiefly on the Indian sub-continent here . Curiously enough, theology and philosophy became inseparable for within the vEdic framework; various schools of thought came into vogue. This is a particularly distinct trait of Indian philosophy.

To this day, the views of Advaita Vedanta have been regarded as the "summum bonum" of Indian Philosophy and thought and rightly so. For here, the onus is on the Individual himself to chart his own destiny. It is here that Mankind has reached its speculative/philosophical zenith. It is from here that I draw unfathomable mental and spiritual strength as I wade my way through the daily machinations of life.

I will be posting a Series containing my thoughts on the great and hallowed tradition of Advaita Vedanta and other allied schools. Although I'm doing this for purely mental satisfaction, I did get a few requests to put my thoughts across and I'll try to keep it simple. But as Einstein said once "Make things simple but not simpler."

I offer this humbly at the holy feet of the only man I ever idolised in my life.

श्रुति स्मृति पुराणानामालयं करुणालयं|
नमामि भगवत्पादशंकरं लॊकशंकरं ||

The Good,The Bad & The Ugly (1967)

Got a Blu-Ray of this timeless epic. There's a bit of a history with this Film so here we go.

Some 14 years ago, I was a young Kid; perpetually on the go as most kids that age and restless enough to make my Mom wince and quite often at that.

It was a typically lazy Sunday afternoon and my dad opened that VCR of ours,putting on a Film that he insisted I'd love. I was and still am a natural skeptic so I was waiting for evening to get in a Cricket game and work up a sweat. Films weren't really a passion then quite obviously so I wasn't really expecting something that'd make a 10 year Kid gasp, much less introspect.

But,right from the opening credits where that all too familiar OST (Probably the most famous OST of all time) hits the ear drums; I was captivated. The eerie,wild and jagged sound was fiercely evocative even then! The first extreme close-up shot was something I had never seen or experienced before and right from that moment on, I was a dead Mackerel - hook,line and sinker! I had left the heat and dust of Madras for the deserts and was a faceless observer of cynical,leathery men preoccupied with survival; their lives fueled and obsessed by pure,unadulterated greed. It'd mystify the mind of any 10 year old bloke. It mystified mine.

I don't need to wax eloquent on the merits of the Film. By ANY yardstick, it has to be one of the greatest Films of all time. For the next 3 hours I was glued to the tube. In more ways than one, it opened up a whole new world.

After the Film was over, my dad grinned at me. I grinned back. That says it all I guess. ;-)

In The Heat Of The Night (1967)

Saw it after a good 3 years and the Film still packs a helluva wallop !

There is no denying the fact that Jewison scores a home run with this brilliant,multi layered Film that hits all the right notes with the precision of a Sten gun and then some.

That it won a clutch of Oscars is almost besides the point. The American South was still a pretty lousy place for the blacks in the '60's and to come up with this complex, ultra realistic tale on the inter-relationships between the two races was and still is, a staggering achievement.

Any Film having a clean shaven,almost handsome Oates has gotta be somethin' special ;-) :-D.

But the Film is primarily driven by stunning performances by Steiger and Poitier. Steiger's ripping effort is a study of the human condition laid bare. There he was, now furiously chewing gum....Now rolling eyes and grinning...Temper building to a burning crescendo to mask his all too human failings....He was all over the damned place ! Little wonder he snagged the Oscar !

Contrast this with Poitier....The grim,no nonsense Black who sees eye to eye and never backs down. He is smart enough to know when he's licked but that piercing glint hints at an irrepressible urge to assert himself...The vestiges of a colonial hangover.

The Direction is sharp as a tack and atmospheric. There ain't a flaw in this crackerjacker of a Film.

Fab. fab. fab. !!!

Payroll (1961)

A hard-as-nails,ballsy Brit Heist Film that is typically stoic and gritty.

The Acting is adequate without being brilliant but the engaging plot subsumes everything. The kind of film that's meat and drink to blokes like me.

'Nough said !!

The End Of A Proud Empire

By the time I'm writing this, many people will be sharpenin' their knives with glinting eyes and intent. Some may recall the past fondly while some may shrug it off and look forward to the future.

But to be sure, there is something indescribably sad and forbidding when a great Sporting empire falls. Make no mistake about that.

Peter Roebuck (the celebrated Cricket Journo whom I admire immensely) wrote " The Australians might lose, but they never lie down." I have never ever doubted that statement until today.

Australia is a fiercely proud Cricketing nation. From ever since I can remember,they played the game hard but fair (at least most of the time). They sledged, bullied and snarled but they had great skills, large hearts and were driven by a collectively unconquerable will to be the best damn Team in the world.

I started following Cricket seriously from '94 and I have seen Australia lose. But, they never went down without one hell of a scrap except a couple of times where they were just overwhelmed by a combination of circumstances. But, they always bounced back and how ?!

The mantle had well and truly passed in '95 when Reiffel,Julian, Waugh et all managed to dethrone the Caribbean Kings from their perch and though SL flickered briefly after the '96 W Cup; Australia were always hovering at the top in both forms of the game and after that epic Semifinal in '99; they pulled away from the rest of the pack.

From '99 to 2007, watching Australia play was an experience in itself. And I'm no Aussie fan either. A couple of blips notwithstanding; Australia played Cricket from the front. They batted with naked aggression and took the game forward and were blessed with two of the greatest bowlers ever to draw breath. Yes, they won a lot but they did it with a lot of flair and panache which made for great viewing.

Its worth one's time to look back at some of the players that made up the team. Langer and Hayden. One a gutsy customer who worked out his game and the other, a big,intimidating guy who hit the ball with an almighty thump. One drop was Punter; the greatest Aussie batsman of his era who pulled,drove and cut with a flamboyance tempered with ruthlessness. The next batsman was the silken Damien Martyn, who was my personal favourite of all the Aussie batters. He was instrumental in Australia winning in SL and India. Stephen Waugh, Gilchrist and the bowlers need no introduction. They were a fearsome, formidable unit.

Those days are gone, the players have left. Only Punter remains, gamely and grimly carrying on the legacy and trying to push the next generation forward with all his might. He neither has the tactical nous of Taylor and the ruthless efficiency and aggression of Waugh but he is still the most successful Captain in history although the halo has already faded away with alarming rapidity of late.

They have lost a game to SL today but they lost it after the opponents were 107 for 8, chasing 240 to win in a ODI game. They lost the Mohali Test but atleast they had Laxman to contend with. Here, they were up against Angelo Mathews (Admittedly, a hugely talented player) and Malinga. So, what's wrong?!

Plenty but that's for another day. I have grown up watching Australia look a close game in the eye and take it by the scruff of its neck. Today, I saw a hesitant Australia groping in the dark and look blindfolded for lost treasure.

It wasn't pretty. The bubble has burst. It is inexplicable but such things are best felt than explained. And it left me strangely subdued and infinitely saddened.

The Looking Glass War (1965) - John Le Carre

While the "Smiley" trilogy is rightly feted as one of the greatest Fiction trilogies of the 20th Century, this Novel is my personal favourite of Le Carre's formidable and rather intimidating catalogue.

Strictly meant for lovers of serious Fiction,this is easily the bleakest book that I have ever read in my life. Written at the height of the Cold War, I remember taking a shower at midnight after I was done with it to "cleanse" myself. A hard, bitter,relentlessly cynical and disturbingly realistic peek at the sordid workings of an Espionage network.

Le Carre begins in his customary languid style, setting the tone and mood before the plot begins to tighten almost imperceptibly; culminating in a claustrophobic and an almost schizophrenic climax that leaves you numb, stunned and pondering over the astonishing capacity of the human mind to weave webs around itself.

A small piece of seemingly important information comes into the hands of "The Department", an almost defunct Brit Espionage network that is gasping for breath and hanging on by the skin of its teeth. The "Circus" (Le Carre buffs will be familiar with the term) starts to flex its muscles and what ensues is a painstakingly precise Espionage procedural and an intense struggle for establishing individual identity which will inevitably be brushed aside with ruthless efficiency keeping the "larger interests" in mind.

Le Carre admitted that this was his most realistic,nihilistic and hard hitting book and suggested that the stiflingly bleak tone may have been too much for even most hardened readers. He was damn right !

Do not pay heed to the average ratings here and follow the herd. They don't count for cow crap !

Likely to be enjoyed and savoured by discerning,mature readers who can separate the wheat from the chaff.

Harakiri A.K.A. Seppuku (1962)

For sheer compelling theatre, feral intensity and emotional depth; few Films (if any) match this savage,uncompromising Masterpiece that can stake a legitimate claim to being the greatest Film of all time.

Oh yes, its that damned good ! Tatsuya Nakadai (Those who watched the brilliant "Yojimbo" will remember him) delivers a startling, infernally inspired performance as an old ex-Samurai warrior who is looking to commit Hara-Kiri (A suicide ritual considered sacred among Samurai warriors) for reasons that reveal themselves slowly but surely.

An understanding of Japanese History in the 17th Century may help in better appreciation but even so, this is a Film of rare,breathtaking beauty and matchless appeal. The final 15 minutes of swirling Samurai swordplay with the raging emotions bubbling forth is probably one of the greatest Climaxes ever.

It may not be as well known as "Citizen Kane" or "Seven Samurai" but watch this Jewel and decide for yourself.

In Japanese with English Subs.