Yes, I am a fan of the HP books...one of the few things I would readily pledge my allegiance to. Perhaps that is the reason why HBP the movie failed me...miserably.
To turn a riveting, ingeniously plotted, magical saga with deep emotional and philosophical undertones into an equally fascinating movie is no mean task...but HP 6 on celluloid doesn't even try. Instead one is treated to awe inspiring visuals, replete with state of the art effects and dark picturesque landscapes which come together to tell a story that contains less than one half of the original plot and misses out on its deeper meanings altogether. It could have been Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince or Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley or Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy or even Death Eaters, Horcruxes, Teenage Romance and Slughorn....big difference.
For starters, the screenplay writers, for reasons best known to themselves decided to play havoc with the story. Certain key portions entirely omitted and absolutely inane bits of originality supplanted make this a travesty of a plot. Indeed, I pitied those of the audience who hadn't read the book- even the most discerning among them would fail to realize what was going on and why. For that matter those who had read the book were as likely to forget what the original story was like, thanks to the exasperating alterations that hit you even before you can say Merlin's Beard!!!
For those of us who know Rowling's version of the story, HBP is as much about Voldermort as about Harry. The most intriguing parts of the book are those that involve tracing Tom Riddle's journey to becoming the most menacing dark wizard of all time. In the movie however, much of these trips through the Pensieve are dispensed with- the result is a disconnected narrative where one is supposed to take most of what happens for granted.
Also, the book is about growing up in more senses than one- it traces the coming of age of Harry as well as Draco, and the inevitable choices that one must make once and for all. But while Draco's anguish, his desperation and weakness is fairly depicted in the better bits of the movie, the narrow, almost puerile depiction of Harry's sojourn to adulthood disappoints the avid fan. Giggly, blushing, tearful adolescence is all very well in a small measure...but here we have dollops of it in the most unlikely places, diluting the essentially dark portents of the book besides giving the impression that Harry is the average teenager periodically embarking, superhero like, on a save-the-world-from-Voldemort mission. It is the heroic in Harry and the reasons that go into making him so that endear fans to the HP series...somehow those reasons are never clear in the movie.
So lost were the makers in their own version of HBP that they forgot to include the battle at Hogwarts. Without this crucial climax, the build up provided by Draco's clandestine activities, several accidents befalling Hogwarts' students and the gradually growing unrest about death eaters and dementors on the loose, seems redundant. The end is almost tame...very unlike the book where the supreme tragedy of Dumbledore's death, Snape's flight amidst the raging battle bring in their aftermath an indication that things will never be the same for Harry again.
The only watchable bits are those involving Draco, because they manage to grip the audience with his sense of urgency, hopelessness and desperation which were so evident in the book. Also, the makers get the dark atmosphere of the book right...at least in the visuals. Montages are creative, technical elements (at least as far as I understand) brilliant, tempo, sound and pace good, actors competent...I only wish it was more of a story and less of a superhero-romcom gimmick.
So if you ask me, give this one a miss- go waste three hours on some more satisfying pursuit. Better still, spend it going back to or even discovering for the first time HBP the book...worth it.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Of the great Indian Sport...and the Greater Victory
For the past few weeks the brand new fast food avatar of Indian cricket and the grand old juggernaut that is the Indian democracy, though colonies apart, have managed to keep us hooked, despite rising temperatures, shrinking pockets and other circumstances that make you feel like the biggest loser if you are still alive. When cricket and politics vie for your attention in what may in the agonizing Dickensian parlance be termed as the best and worst of times, it becomes interesting to draw parallels between both.
For starters there is enough drama in both to give the now ubiquitous daily soap a run for its money, or to teach the most emotionally challenged person the meaning of hysteria. Obvious cracks in a hitherto perfect team or alliance, followed by days of speculation, accusations and denials, and then a moment of revelation-could we ask more from even the longest running, most adrenalin pumping, tear jerking joint family saga?
Both have leaders who, by example, lead their team to reign or ruin, and wannabe leaders who wonder how the rest of the world could have missed the halo around their heads; leaders past their prime looking for the final encore and those in their quixotic salad days, taking risks that would put the most adventurous gambler to shame.
Both have upstarts that suddenly capture popular imagination with their skills on the field or their campaign capers, pulling rabbits out of an innocent looking hat; and old war horses that live down titles of 'has been' or 'might have been', but aren't ready for their last bow just as yet.
However well begun, it is the slog overs -the "death overs"- that matter in both. It is then that the proverbial slip between the cup and the lip or the kursi and the …never mind… is as likely to occur as not. It is then that the underdog suddenly reveals that he is after all, Superman behind those horn rimmed glasses and can, with a grand sweep of his bat or a subtle political sleight of hand or play of words quite turn the game on its head, leaving the formidable adversary to wonder just what went wrong.
Both in the end are about winning- and hence about losing; about realizing that tons of publicity and propaganda, of thumping your chest and patting your back, aren’t enough to move you from where you started-at the bottom. That you might as well, while you are at it, mint the moolah as long as it comes-and guts and glory be damned.
Not to forget that both while they last give the average Indian the feeling that he is about to witness the "Hand of God" at work. That while he may pray for his team and vote for his leader, he might as well leave it at that, as the ancient scriptures remind him not to worry about the fruits of his action. That he might as well enjoy a good game while it lasts, cheering for his favourite, and keeping the faith through it all. That when the winner finally surfaces, the spectators, the electorate applaud not because their choice has been vindicated but because, all said and done, it was a fight to the finish.
Till next time…
For starters there is enough drama in both to give the now ubiquitous daily soap a run for its money, or to teach the most emotionally challenged person the meaning of hysteria. Obvious cracks in a hitherto perfect team or alliance, followed by days of speculation, accusations and denials, and then a moment of revelation-could we ask more from even the longest running, most adrenalin pumping, tear jerking joint family saga?
Both have leaders who, by example, lead their team to reign or ruin, and wannabe leaders who wonder how the rest of the world could have missed the halo around their heads; leaders past their prime looking for the final encore and those in their quixotic salad days, taking risks that would put the most adventurous gambler to shame.
Both have upstarts that suddenly capture popular imagination with their skills on the field or their campaign capers, pulling rabbits out of an innocent looking hat; and old war horses that live down titles of 'has been' or 'might have been', but aren't ready for their last bow just as yet.
However well begun, it is the slog overs -the "death overs"- that matter in both. It is then that the proverbial slip between the cup and the lip or the kursi and the …never mind… is as likely to occur as not. It is then that the underdog suddenly reveals that he is after all, Superman behind those horn rimmed glasses and can, with a grand sweep of his bat or a subtle political sleight of hand or play of words quite turn the game on its head, leaving the formidable adversary to wonder just what went wrong.
Both in the end are about winning- and hence about losing; about realizing that tons of publicity and propaganda, of thumping your chest and patting your back, aren’t enough to move you from where you started-at the bottom. That you might as well, while you are at it, mint the moolah as long as it comes-and guts and glory be damned.
Not to forget that both while they last give the average Indian the feeling that he is about to witness the "Hand of God" at work. That while he may pray for his team and vote for his leader, he might as well leave it at that, as the ancient scriptures remind him not to worry about the fruits of his action. That he might as well enjoy a good game while it lasts, cheering for his favourite, and keeping the faith through it all. That when the winner finally surfaces, the spectators, the electorate applaud not because their choice has been vindicated but because, all said and done, it was a fight to the finish.
Till next time…
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Indians By Chance
We are today's people...people who could have been born in any country...it would make no difference whatsoever...we would still be the same...we are men, women, children, rich, not-so-rich, beautiful, ugly as hell, stupid, smart, everything...but hello, Indians? Yup, that too, by chance.
What else would explain why we do so little about things we feel so much? Why Mumbai and Mangalore, inflation and intolerance, crime and corruption that are so much a part of our with-it generation speak suddenly take a hiatus when we go voting? O sorry, that should have read "...when we are supposed to go voting" , because, hello, when was the last time you, or I, voted?
I am in my late twenties...and I haven't, as yet, "seen the inside of a voting booth"*, nor the queue that leads to it...no. And neither have most of you, my friends, because you like me, are everything but Indians...except by chance.
But then, what am I talking about...aren't we too busy with our careers, our love lives, our children or parents, our clubs, holidays, pets, cars and gizmos to be worried about voting? Isn't it enough that we stand for every (at least public) screening or playing of the national anthem, that we buy tiny flags to decorate our dashboards or workstations from those dirty little children on the street every republic or independence day, that we forward patriotic messages (okay, cheesy sometimes) to each other on those days, that we wear tricolour clothes to theme parties thrown on those occasions? Haven't we at least heard of Bhagat Singh and watched at least one Manoj Kumar movie with tears in our eyes? And most importantly, aren't we paying taxes?
We are citizens, but non-committal, opinionated but ineffective, intelligent but indifferent...is it any wonder that our leaders are the same?
* Quoted from The White Tiger , and correctly as far as I remember
What else would explain why we do so little about things we feel so much? Why Mumbai and Mangalore, inflation and intolerance, crime and corruption that are so much a part of our with-it generation speak suddenly take a hiatus when we go voting? O sorry, that should have read "...when we are supposed to go voting" , because, hello, when was the last time you, or I, voted?
I am in my late twenties...and I haven't, as yet, "seen the inside of a voting booth"*, nor the queue that leads to it...no. And neither have most of you, my friends, because you like me, are everything but Indians...except by chance.
But then, what am I talking about...aren't we too busy with our careers, our love lives, our children or parents, our clubs, holidays, pets, cars and gizmos to be worried about voting? Isn't it enough that we stand for every (at least public) screening or playing of the national anthem, that we buy tiny flags to decorate our dashboards or workstations from those dirty little children on the street every republic or independence day, that we forward patriotic messages (okay, cheesy sometimes) to each other on those days, that we wear tricolour clothes to theme parties thrown on those occasions? Haven't we at least heard of Bhagat Singh and watched at least one Manoj Kumar movie with tears in our eyes? And most importantly, aren't we paying taxes?
We are citizens, but non-committal, opinionated but ineffective, intelligent but indifferent...is it any wonder that our leaders are the same?
* Quoted from The White Tiger , and correctly as far as I remember
Monday, December 8, 2008
Of the Ideal Holiday
O I know this totally isn't the right time to talk about holidays...what with tourism sharing an alliterative brotherhood with terrorism and relaxation with recession...with "taking a break" becoming a euphemism for the pink slip syndrome...with the world being too busy doing nothing to worry about holidays. Moreover for an unemployed ...ahem...homemaker... also pretending to study...a holiday is so totally unnecessary...and even wasteful...after all, do I not get enough of "standing and staring" to want more of it, on additional expenditure and without any additional returns except the all too visible ones on my already expansive wasteline (sic, and all puns intended)?
But lets just say, that I, for sometime ignoring my work ( or the lack of it) do aspire to a holiday...here are the set of rules that I mean to follow
But lets just say, that I, for sometime ignoring my work ( or the lack of it) do aspire to a holiday...here are the set of rules that I mean to follow
- For starters, going to the right place at the right time...the right time being decided not by the lonely planet guide, but by yours truly...for example, most people would advise against going to Shillong in Dec-Jan, totally forgetting that these harrowing winters that chill your bones and freeze every drop of blood in your body also bring the most delicious smells, sights and sounds with them...Christmas carolling on streets, the smoke of coal angeethis, the mist travelling across hills, the lights of festivity, the red cheeked native infants in their colourful winter wardrobe, the oranges, O I could go on and on. To me Shillong in winter, rocks.
- Avoiding anything remotely to do with fashion, style, glamour etc. I just feel the entire point of a holiday is lost if you turn it into a narcissistic rendezvous with yourself in the mirror. For one, it wouldn't do me any good...as far as looks are concerned I have reached a point where the law of diminishing marginal utility begins to operate on any additional effort that I make to look anything better...for the other there are just too many interesting things to do on a holiday to bother about something that is , well, beyond help.
- What interesting things, you ask? Loads. Reading, for instance...anything at all...old classics that have been read several times can take on a new feel in a different place...my personal experience. Also, some of the best books I've read were while I was on the move...on flights, airports, railway stations, even at homes of more accommodating relatives.
- Which brings me to the other point: visiting-relatives, friends, old flames (kidding), friends of friends-anybody at all...is a strict no no for me on a holiday. As a kid I couldn't help it...my parents made sure, whenever they were in any particular place for a supposed holiday, that they visited everyone staying within a logistically convenient radius...even people whom they had to squint and blink at several times to recognize... meeting similar responses at the other end. I remember hating the inevitable exclamations on how I had grown ( as if I was expected to remain a prenatal embryo all my life), the polite yeses and nos and even politer smiles with which I was asked to respond to some of the most asinine questions and the absolutely humongous amounts of food, especially mishti, that would almost be pushed down my unsuspecting oesophagus. So, no offence, but NO visiting.
- As for company, well reads are good enough for the most part, but I wouldn't mind human presence if it doesn't find a need to make its presence felt ( my apologies for using the neuter pronoun...nothing personal)...when on a holiday, I prefer doing as the Martians do (by which I mean doing whatever I feel like and calling it Martian culture...nobody will then assume you are trying to do anything unconventional...if that doesn't work, I might call it moonstruck madness, surreal schizophrenia...anything that sounds grand).
to be continued if my footloose mood continues
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Painting a city red
I didn't want to write this ...I know it serves no purpose other than to relieve my mind of the burden that it has borne since last Wednesday, a burden miniscule, nothing compared to those of countless people touched in innumerable ways by the sheer magnitude of the tragedy...but a burden nevertheless. It is strange how a world that is globalised and cosmopolitan finds itself torn apart in more ways than one...what is it about differences that they linger after centuries and generations have shown us that we ought to know better...what is it about pain that manifests itself in violence and leaves behind the foetus of hate to create a deadlier antagonist in the future...what is it about some causes that supersede very other claim, even that of human life...what is it about some interests that refuse to give way even after their fatal repercussions are felt far and wide...what is it about us that we see some truths as clear as crystal but refuse to see some others even if they stare us in the face...
My phone rings...a friend calls to ask if I am in for a movie over the weekend. I say yes, of course...only, one doesn't know anymore...
Praying for life and liberty...
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Of the best...and lesser things
It is the world of aspirational tastes...for almost everyone, more is better...greed is good...it is your life, make it as large as you can...never be "santusht" ...and never mind the "green monster" gnawing at your soul...pushing it to the end of its tether...it is what drives you on...gives you the kick...
As we converse intelligently-if a little nonchalantly-about prices hitting the roof, the latest gizmos, the fastest cars, the biggest apartments fly quietly out of their 'shelves' and into our humble harem. Our 'quality time' with family is measured in multiplex-hours, mall-hours, resort-hours...our 'catching up with friends' in pub-hours and disc-hours. Our conversations are "ohs", "aahs", "reallys" over pints and pegs, our gestures are diamonds, our smiles photo-ops. Our music is stiletto-tapping or manicured hands swaying, our health a heady concoction of designer diets, gym memberships, yoga instructors, salsa sessions and exotic therapies. Our ambitions are managerial, our debates international, our travels global, our cuisine continental...our children are summer campers and e-learners, nannied and foreign dictioned to perfection...our pets pedigree and exclusive.
Somewhere, not very far way, perhaps, people-not like us, o no-fight over a packet of food, their homes and lives destroyed by floods. Not designer food, not health food...just food. Somewhere close by, maybe, people-again, not like us in the least-without an inch of land to call their own and no money to pay rent, encroach on our landscaped pavements, begging and peddling dubious wares, till the cleaning-drive-before-foreign VIP-visit purges the roads (and our collective conscience) of their presence. Somewhere, a family struggles to protect its land from a multinational juggernaut...somewhere a child offers herself up for casual labour (and other, scarier professions) to feed younger siblings...somewhere the difference of a rupee in the price of rice is the difference between life and death. Somewhere around us, there are people who do not want to be the best...they just want to be...and can't.
But why are we talking about these people...it isn't as if we can do something about them, is it...and besides what difference would it make to us...we'd rather watch reality television...
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Of dreams, disaster, destiny...and a larger perspective
A certain person I greatly admire once said, " What is life but a series of inspired follies?" Although that man's genius is only a part of the dramatic repertoire of one of English literature's best known cynics, his witticisms are anything but. Sometimes comforting as two minute noodles or a cup of coffee, sometimes painful as the guilt-hurt pangs that plague the junk-filled stomach...and always pithy...it is as if you were on your 'high horse' and were brought down to the ground with a thud, so strong that your legs jar even though it is only a 'dream sequence'.
Well, inspired or not, to life's follies I am no stranger. In fact I happen to be blundering my way through life in a manner that suggests "learning mistakes" rather than learning from them:). Nevertheless, it helps that I am blessed with a sense of humour that, however quirky, gets me out of my scrapes; I am thankful to God that I discovered it in time.
Do you know, I once almost reached school when I realised that the one vital requirement-namely, the school bag, had somehow been given a miss by my plump shoulders? Or that I once started brushing my teeth in the afternoon, blissfully unaware that all I had set out to do was wash my hands? The number of hankies (I am sorry, I cannot call it handkerchief, purists may turn up their noses) I have lost would supply material for at least a dozen-ok, exaggeration-half a dozen scarves and my contribution to those "saving for a rainy day" would amount to-let me see-around five umbrellas? Ditto jewellery, money, once an entire purse, keys-things, in short, whose price more than made up for the underlying unintended but utterly altruistic motive for my actions.
I also note, with pity, that mundane objects -combs, phones , matchboxes, specs,what not-somehow seem to enjoy my ...ahem...forgetfulness...with a vengeance...they will have to repose just in the vicinity of my substantial person, with an innocence so deceptive that I am absolutely clueless as to their position, until I hear a crack or another such heart-wrenching sound and realise-well, that 'another one bites the dust'. Add to that a near fatal encounter with the immersion rod (water heater), burning my mom's precious pressure cooker to a ripe burgundy in my zeal for helping around the kitchen, allowing boiling milk to spill over countless times, making a fall over or trip on every bump-on the road or the carpet or steps a weekly ritual , and you may conclude-like I do , sometimes-that the much maligned word, "carelessness" is just my middle name.
As for roads , I have never figured out how any road leads anywhere at all...to me they all look the same...and hence in every sense imaginable "they all lead to Rome". That I haven't, as yet, lost my way in my own house is a great comfort to those in the know-among them my dear, harassed husband, who vows that he has never seen such a recipe for disaster.
To sum it all, it is a bad idea to ask me for directions...it is worse to depend upon my navigation skills and follow my instructions...and if you expect that I will remember the way to a particular place and thus leave me to my devices...well all I can say is, a more delusional person there never was since Hitler.
So much for my follies...I think some of them are rather original...but make no mistake (pun intended)... I ain't one bit proud about making them except that it gives me a little more room for rubbish reminiscences...you are probably saying...what a clumsy, forgetful, irresponsible...ahem...etc.
To which I will just reply, "Who knows...maybe I was born for greater things...":)
Well, inspired or not, to life's follies I am no stranger. In fact I happen to be blundering my way through life in a manner that suggests "learning mistakes" rather than learning from them:). Nevertheless, it helps that I am blessed with a sense of humour that, however quirky, gets me out of my scrapes; I am thankful to God that I discovered it in time.
Do you know, I once almost reached school when I realised that the one vital requirement-namely, the school bag, had somehow been given a miss by my plump shoulders? Or that I once started brushing my teeth in the afternoon, blissfully unaware that all I had set out to do was wash my hands? The number of hankies (I am sorry, I cannot call it handkerchief, purists may turn up their noses) I have lost would supply material for at least a dozen-ok, exaggeration-half a dozen scarves and my contribution to those "saving for a rainy day" would amount to-let me see-around five umbrellas? Ditto jewellery, money, once an entire purse, keys-things, in short, whose price more than made up for the underlying unintended but utterly altruistic motive for my actions.
I also note, with pity, that mundane objects -combs, phones , matchboxes, specs,what not-somehow seem to enjoy my ...ahem...forgetfulness...with a vengeance...they will have to repose just in the vicinity of my substantial person, with an innocence so deceptive that I am absolutely clueless as to their position, until I hear a crack or another such heart-wrenching sound and realise-well, that 'another one bites the dust'. Add to that a near fatal encounter with the immersion rod (water heater), burning my mom's precious pressure cooker to a ripe burgundy in my zeal for helping around the kitchen, allowing boiling milk to spill over countless times, making a fall over or trip on every bump-on the road or the carpet or steps a weekly ritual , and you may conclude-like I do , sometimes-that the much maligned word, "carelessness" is just my middle name.
As for roads , I have never figured out how any road leads anywhere at all...to me they all look the same...and hence in every sense imaginable "they all lead to Rome". That I haven't, as yet, lost my way in my own house is a great comfort to those in the know-among them my dear, harassed husband, who vows that he has never seen such a recipe for disaster.
To sum it all, it is a bad idea to ask me for directions...it is worse to depend upon my navigation skills and follow my instructions...and if you expect that I will remember the way to a particular place and thus leave me to my devices...well all I can say is, a more delusional person there never was since Hitler.
So much for my follies...I think some of them are rather original...but make no mistake (pun intended)... I ain't one bit proud about making them except that it gives me a little more room for rubbish reminiscences...you are probably saying...what a clumsy, forgetful, irresponsible...ahem...etc.
To which I will just reply, "Who knows...maybe I was born for greater things...":)
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