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.