His Master’s Toys

Return, originally uploaded by desoumal.

Trudged four hours in Camden through snow on the heaviest snowfall day in decades, and made a series out of it. Find it here: http://flickr.com/photos/desoumal

I love Saturdays. First a jamming session with a couple of musicians, (where I realized that not touching an instrument like Tabla for thirteen years can make you pretty pathetic at it, no matter how well you knew it before), followed by experiments with spinach, potato, yellow split lentils, and red wine, and eventually concluded with a couple of film viewings along with the experimental dinner.

I tend to repeat myself a lot - people complain that I praise every film I see. However, I choose my viewing list very very carefully after extensive research, and that helps keepign the trash away. Today they were ‘Man On Wire’ and ‘Gran Torino’.

Man On Wire is an exquisite film, a documentary about Philip Petit, the tight-rope walker who performed his class act by doing a high-wire walk between the Twin Towers in NYC back in 1974.

The filmmakers must have had quite a few challenges - especially since remarkable documentaries are made of stark truth, however easy or difficult that might be. Furthermore, a documentary about an (literally high-wire) act such as this, itself needs to be complex enough to stand up to the task that its trying to portray… or else, it falls flat very easily.

And yet, James Marsh proves himself in this one. Starting from outstanding storytelling to classy cinematography, from slick yet arty editing, to extreme honesty about every single detail, this film had everything. I especially loved the build up to the act, from the point they smuggle in the gear into the Twin Towers to the actual act.

However, the best part of the film of course is the man himself, a character whose mesmeric tone and passion for the insane act carries so much force, so much vehemence, that you find yourself wondering about this world — why do we have to have a why for everything?

Next up was Gran Torino, the Clint Eastwood film thats been playing foever in the theaters in the US, the man whose name they sing in the same breath as Hollywood approaching the peak of his talent as he gets older. This wasn’t a Million Dollar Baby, but it is definitely worth a watch due to its classic character reversal narrative and Dirty Harry elements.

Between 1968-1977, West Germany’s socio-political structure went through its most tumultuous era. Born as an antithesis of the Nazi era, the student protests in Germany against the spread of American imperialism began a period of chaos that would end with the infamous hijack of the Lufthansa aircraft, turning it into one of the most ironical acts in German history. Uli Edel’s brilliant film ‘The Baader Mienhof Complex‘ details the beginning, middle and end of that movement, bringing to life Stefan Aust’s work “The Baader-Meinhof Group”.

The film begins with a pleasant day at a German beach in 1967, introducing us to the gorgeous Ulrike Meinhof who was then a very well known journalist working for a left wing magazine. As the police atrocities begin against the student protesters, she finds herself empathizing with their cause, writing the following lines after assassination attempt on Rudi Dutschke.:

Protest is when I say this does not please me.
Resistance is when I ensure what does not please me occurs no more

The film the picks up a raging pace that left me at the edge of the seat till the very end, shifting constantly between the key characters of the RAF and the devolution of their entire belief structure from high idealism to rioting and terrorism. Amongst the characters, Mienhof’s story is the most fascinating, her intelligence and natural empathy constantly in conflict with the hard-hitting nature of the group. Played by Martina Gedeck, Mienhof’s beliefs and sacrifices provides an immediate contrast to the rebellious madness of the hardliner Andreas Baader, who was one of the first members of the RAF.

As I walked out of the theater after two and half hours, I realized that RAF’s tale has many parallels. Naxalite groups that originated from Bengal, for instance. (Sudhir Mishra’s ‘Hazaron Khwaishein Aisi‘ is a must-watch for anyone who is interested in similar story based in an Indian setting.) Outstanding direction, great acting, and superb screenplay all make for a very compelling watch for anyone who has the stomach for the aggressive violence that’s rampant throughout the film.

Rating: 4.5/5

Watched Quantum of Solace today. Bad, very bad climax. Actually no real climax or buildup, because the first and second act of the film itself was pretty intense and it waned off near the end.

Definitely was nowhere close to the previous one of the franchise. Still… go watch it. Its fun.

Amongst the most insane places to visit in Mumbai is Chorbazar (or, ‘thieves’ market’), where you could purchase everything from parts of dismantled ships, to statues stolen from dilapidated monuments, from original hand-sketched posters of extremely old bollywood films, to books and magazines that date back to early 1900s.

This image was taken in an anonymous warehouse that you had to enter through a backdoor…

The ‘loot’ comes from everywhere, each store has its own network spread across the country and outside (you would find stuff from Sri Lanka, parts of Africa…)…

Obviously, photography is not allowed. However, a few gentle words helped break into their world.

As I started digging into the history of the place, I found that the Wikipedia entry about the place itself had been hijacked! An excerpt below :-

Chor Bazaar is an area in South Mumbai famous for its second-hand goods. Although the name Chor means “thief” in Hindi. This area can be considered one of the tourist attractions of Mumbai (Bombay). It is a basically an “organized” flea market, where one has to rumage through junk and hopefully find treasures. The reason it is know as “thief’s market”, is because it assumed that goods sold there are stolen. Chor Bazaar if off the beaten path, but everyone knows about it.

In addition, the name Chor Bazaar was adopted by an Indie Indian Fused tshirt label based out of Brooklyn, NY with roots in, India. link title

Our designs are meant not just to be “cool” but to evoke memories of experiencing India, the India that our parents were raised in and the one that exists today. Both are far different but both are still very Indian.

Our mission is to expand the Indian-fusion art form to another realm. Most have experienced this, “fusion”, in music and literature but have hardly seen this transpire into urban apparel. We utilize the medium of our graphic t-shirts to assist in creating an identity that stems farther than mainstream’s portrayal of Indian culture.

Dang!

This image was part of the article on serial terror in Tripura as reported by Indian Express here.

What’s going on in his head?!!

In my delirium yesterday night, I dreamt that Desoumal is nothing but an extravagant jigsaw puzzle. I could see vivid glimpses through his life in sepia, spread over the years and how they fit together seamlessly to reveal a strange meaningless existence. Not surprisingly, the vision broke the moment the flu left me, but few pieces remained to haunt me today. I need to write this piece out fast, lest my memory goes completely blank.

The dream moved through time, space, and his life. Somehow I always knew the age. It was as if I was viewing his life through a camera’s viewfinder, instead of the aperture and shutter speed, I saw his age and other parameters overlaid on the happenings. In one of the pieces, there was the fragile looking disgruntled seventy year old man wirelessly hooked to the cloud, sitting on the roof of a house in Goa. His internal biological processes closely monitored by an anonymous call center employee, one whose job is to alert Des, his family and the doctors about any fluctuations in his internals.

That piece of puzzle was an exact fit with a particular event from when he was sixteen, a fateful day when he found himself fascinated by the supernatural tolerance of the himalayan yogis and the naga babas, who would completely dip themselves butt-naked every morning in the freezing water of the Ganges, and yet remain untouched by any malaise. That puzzlement sat adjacent to the piece of time later when he would practice the act on his own body through a freezing cold winter, eventually falling terribly sick and sowing seeds for years of corticosteroid dependence that would slowly eat through his body, causing him to be easily infected by any random germ floating through the wind. In this specific instance, the canvas even revealed how the flu virus traveled through the burritos cooked by his girlfriend, make their way into his blood stream, and then make him suffer and moan in pain at their will, through two largely sleepless nights of delirium, juxtaposed perfectly with the day when he’s supposed to move, for maximum effect.

I could also see him listening intently to the tales narrated by his grandfather about strange exotic lands, the seven year old child trying to piece together a scene through fragments of his tales and an atlas, the very places he would visit later in life, make acqaintances and absorb influences that would make him shift careers multiple times.

The yellow canvas was full of interconnected shapes — photography causing massive dents in his pockets in his late thirties, an expensive hobby acquired purely due to provocative images of women on photography magazines; three failed film projects which could have been something had he finished them in time, second phase of vagabondish wanderings that would deeply influence his tummy. Everything was in there, or so I felt at that time. And, of what I knew of Des, it all made sense. He tried to be everything, and thus ended up being nothing, an irony that would make him laugh on his deathbed.

I have forgotten most of the details by now, but I do remember how it all came together, a blank canvas with images and words popping up; all I need to do is to get a chart large enough, write out all the parameters that have come to define his existence, and then extrapolate. Life’s not that hard to figure out actually… once you get a flu.

I am in fever-induced delirium today. Apparently, there is a strand of flu-virus floating around in the Mumbai air, infecting anyone who comes in contact. The body constantly feels like a battlefield in this city, with an unfolding war between the immune system, the germs and ever present pollution and dust. Its a contagious city baby, spreading its love.

The city already functions like a living breathing organism here, its individual cells in a constant biological exchange through squeezed local train commutes, its sweat and blood flowing through water, food and everything else. When the world population would have doubled in the next fifty years, more than 75% of the planet would probably be living in one for of slum or another, clustered together in highly optimal rectangular or hexagonal spaces, constantly involved in an ongoing battle for real estate against the corporates and the elite. It would then be the perfect breeding ground for newer and more evolved forms of parasites, spreading unchecked from one human-body-test-tube to another.

The fact is, its immaterial however many hours of research and innovation medical world puts in, we are simply outnumbered. The human intellect cannot win this battle against the microbes; its statistically impossible. That we are doomed to a sick fate (yes, pun intended), is of no doubt in my mind. All we can do, is to wait for the explosion and count our days.

The only hope, of course, is space. If we can simply ‘eject’ out of this ship called Planet Earth, jettison out into the cleaner space, I feel there might be hope for survival. Perhaps the space-race would yield some results in another twenty years; and if that happens, I would be the first one to take up the job of a bartender in the Virgin Galactic’s space hotel, just to escape this battle for earth conquest between the humans and the germs.

Amen.

I am back in Mumbai again. The inherent chaos of this city matches well with the ongoing chaos in my life, and so I like it here. Behind the euphoria that seduces dreamers and wanna-’bees’, there is an underbelly of constant struggle, a push-pull between creation and decadence. It keeps one occupied, but whether that occupation is productive or useful, is a question one dare not ponder upon.

Yet the most cliched question comes to mind - what would the city look like in fifty or hundred years. Would it be the future glam-town sketched by the candy-bar film Love Story 2050 (I haven’t seen the film, the trailer was sufficient)? Or a true-to-life depiction of bleak futures painted by many a sci-fi storyteller (such as Asimov in his ‘The Caves of Steel’, or even Bladerunner), a marked (walled) division is seen between ever growing ’slum communities’ and China-like SEZs (Special Economic Zones - such as Schenzen) with access-denied written everywhere?

A year ago, I saw a remarkable exhibition in Tate Modern (London) called Global Cities:

Global Cities looks at the changing faces of ten dynamic international cities: Cairo, Istanbul, Johannesburg, London, Los Angeles, Mexico City, Mumbai, São Paulo, Shanghai and Tokyo.

Exploring each city through five thematic lenses – speed, size, density, diversity and form – the exhibition draws on data originally assembled for the 10th International Architecture Exhibition at the 2006 Venice Biennale. This unique show presents existing films, videos and photographs by more than 20 artists and architects to offer subjective and intimate interpretations of urban conditions in all ten cities.

One of the art installations was 3D stalagmite-like sculptures that mapped the wealth distribution in each of the above cities. Of all, Mumbai had a few spikes that towered above and beyond any of the others, making the vast difference in wealth distribution even more apparent.

But is the ‘flatness’ desirable? I wonder. In his rapidly growing photo portfolio, my photographer friend Matti tries to capture what a friend called, the ‘post-apocalyptic Mumbai series’. Through a combination of retouched HDR photography done through in duotones, he captures the essence of its madness, the chaos that is impossible in economically ‘flat’ zones.

More on his flickr page here. Ok, time for a stroll.

Phoenix lander may have uncovered ice on Mars! From Foxnews…

TUCSON, Ariz. — Sharp new images received Saturday from the Phoenix lander largely convinced scientists that the spacecraft’s thrusters had uncovered a large patch of ice just below the Martian surface, team members said.

That bodes well for the mission’s main goal of digging for ice that can be tested for evidence of organic compounds that are the chemical building blocks of life.

More here…