Anindita Sengupta

So we are continuing with the cheer. Look, I even changed to a Christmassy theme! I thought this was nice, sort of subtle, unlike the ones which had holly all over them. I heart WordPress more and more for making it so easy to change look. I dabbled in web design a few years back, even made money from it which qualifies it as a previous profession, and I used to enjoy playing around with typeface and colour. I don’t do that anymore so this is my consolation.

Anyway, over the weekend I watched Cheri, Stephen Frears’ film of Colette’s novella Cheri. I have a weakness for lush period movies and this one is certainly both lush and period — 19th C France and the life of the rich and infamous. Lea, an aging courtesan takes Cheri, the decadent and disaffected son of a friend, under her wing and into her bed. The relationship starts off as a transaction of sorts, the age-old exchange of wisdom and youth, and the two are so cynical about love that they don’t imagine it could happen to them. Against all expectations, they stay together for six years. When he goes off to get married in keeping with his mother’s wishes, they realise they love each other.

The movie has lavish sets and costumes. Rupert Friend looks both callous and vulnerable. Michelle Pfeiffer makes up in style what she lacks in substance, and is patently well-cast as the aging beauty. But it’s no Dangerous Liaisons so don’t expect a huge deal. It feels rushed in the beginning and abrupt at the end because they’ve crammed the entire story of the sequel, The Last of Cheri, into a four-line voiced narration. The lovers are unconvincing in bits and there’s something incomplete about the whole venture. Still, if you have an afternoon to spare and and like period movies, it’s a relaxing sort of watch.

I was struck and a little amused by something while watching the movie. Much of it is about the lovers’ suffering. And because they’re rich, they have the means to ‘cope’ rather well. So here is evidence of my flawed heart: I was finding it hard to sympathise with people who can check into luxurious hotels for weeks to get over someone. I had to remind myself of the debilitating nature of heartbreak, its sapping of colour from everyday things, its dulling. Most likely, the brilliant blue of the Atlantic seemed pale to Lea in her post-love blues. It’s unfair to not extend the same level of human compassion to everyone (including the rich) but I think it does happen sometimes.

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Movies often speed up the pace of books. In one of the essays in Art Objects, Jeanette Winterson talks about how each book has its own pace and good reading means finding the pace of a book and settling into it. Because pace is integral to any text, its deeply unsettling when it’s manipulated too much for adaptation. I think that’s why the BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice was one of the more satisfying ones because at least they gave the story enough time. Also Jane Eyre, which I watched twice for its gothic mood and for Timothy Dalton as Rochester.

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Speaking of hot men, have you seen Captain Kirk make beat poetry of Palin’s speech? Some of my happiest memories of childhood include ‘Captain Curd’ as I inexplicably called him. I was always torn about who I wanted to grow up and marry more: him or Mr Spock. Twenty years and the Star Trek movie later, I’ve decided on Spock but it was real close.

Last week, Mridula Koshy launched her book If It Is Sweet in Bangalore. Mridula was as delightful as her book and I much enjoyed her infectious chatter at the launch and afterward at dinner. The audience was larger than usual, about 60-70 people, which is rather good for a book event. Mridula read bits from her story POP and in between, she was in conversation with novelist KR Usha. Some interesting things — she compartmentalises strictly between writing and life, taking chunks of time off from one to attend to the other; she never starts a new story before finishing one; and she writes in cafes.

It was a bit of a shame that the audience was so muted during the Q&A. Of course, I’m hardly one to talk since I suffer from atrophied vocal chords at such times but Mridula is one of those writers who really has a lot to say and is not pompous or boring while at it. In fact, there was a strangely honest, intimate, even vulnerable, air about her when she talked about what drives her to sit at cafes, watching people outside plate-glass windows, collecting details. So it would have been nice if the audience had asked more questions.

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I watched Kaminey over the weekend and enjoyed it. Somebody asked me if I found the stuttering and lisping distracting. I didn’t. The plot was gripping, the action was slick and everybody was very hot — Priyanka, both versions of Shahid Kapoor, and the Bong villains. Heh. Not sure about the last actually. But I was just thrilled to see Bong villains at all.

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A friend has asked me to compile a list of must-read poets for his edification and entertainment. I also have to put down three poems under each poet. I feel like TIME magazine (100 poems you must read before you die…). But seriously, I think it’ll be a fun way to remember favourites and familiars. Poem suggestions most welcome.

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I recently read Wetlands by Charlotte Roche, which is all the rage just about everywhere for its bold content and sexual freedom. I wasn’t terribly thrilled. The book sort of leaps from one sex-filled, gunk-filled detail to another. It left me wondering why I should be so interested in someone’s propensity to eat her nose boogers.

I’ve also been reading Kay Ryan. I like the way she packs in a tight, focused thought in such a compact space. Some examples: ‘Carrying a Ladder‘, ‘Flamingo Watching‘ and ‘Repetition‘.

And finally, I got very smashed after ages last weekend. It was a friend’s farewell party. There were disco lights and a guy dressed as Mallika Sherawat with fake butterfly wings pinned to his back. There was Shahrukh Khan cavorting on the ceiling via a projected screen. There was lots of drink and some other things. The next day, I could hardly move. I’m getting old.

The weekend was full and exciting but I’ve been a bit sick for the last two days and relaxing with Neil Gaiman (have almost finished the Sandman series), and reading poetry. Also tried to get into Stephen King’s Dark Tower series but couldn’t. I’m a fan of good horror and have enjoyed quite a few of King’s guts-and-blood fests but this one was so pale even 150 pages in that I gave up. I mean, where were the ravens slurping eyeballs? (I borrowed that image from Neil Gaiman’s The Kindly Ones, which is really deliciously gruesome in bits).

Will blog about other things when I have more energy but in the meantime, here is Jane Hirshfield reading ‘For What Binds Us’.

On the surface, Iris Murdoch’s A Severed Head is about a bunch of tangled relationships. At the centre is Martin Lynch-Gibbon, a man who’s comically deluded about a vast number of things in his life. He’s sleeping with smart and sexy Georgie, a young academic who pretends to be much freer and easy-going than she is actually is. His wife Antonia is beautiful and elegant. Overall, he’s quite smug. Except, all kinds of things are going on around him that he’s unaware of, and as the novel progresses and more characters enter the picture, it’s hard to keep track of who’s fucking whom. So I can imagine the poor man’s bafflement.

But of course there’s much more to this than sexual shenanigans. The book is really about power and information, how closely the two are related, how they are exchanged between humans, and how quickly, surreptitiously and unexpectedly these exchanges can flip lives around. There are also huge Freudian subtexts with Oedipal instincts and incest forming an important part of the relationships. The book’s also extremely funny in bits.  Murdoch uses irony and farce to deal with Martin’s predicaments and despite the fact that she touches on infidelity, childlessness, depression and suicide, the book is quite entertaining. I would recommend it for a lazy afternoon. It’s quite a romp.

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Phyllis Bose did an incredible job bringing Gertrude Stein alive yesterday at Ranga Shankara. Her dramatic monologue Gertrude ran for nearly two hours. It had a simple set dominated by reproductions of famous paintings done by Bose herself and there was little movement. Yet she managed to hold interest. Part of the credit must go to the script, carefully woven together from Stein’s own texts and notes but a lot of it was the energy and intimacy she brought to the telling. The focus of the script was Gertrude’s famous friendship with Picasso but there was lots of other stuff in there–insights into Leo Stein (Gertrude’s brother) and Alice Toklas (her partner), anecdotes about the Saturday Salons, and Stein’s views on life and art. Bose was funny and convincing and, quite often, transporting. It was a pleasure.

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Afterward, some of us went to Koshy’s where among other things, we talked of how the place elicits such extreme reactions from people. Some love it and others just don’t take to it at all. Often, the same things about it bring out such diverse reactions — the ancient and faintly dingy air of the place, the lacklustre furnishings, the lack of general hipness, the sense that someone built it a long, long time ago and then forgot to do anything for it ever again. This time-warped air is exactly what some of us love about it. It lets us feel we’ve stepped into a different world, a world where things never change. It makes us feel secure. Also, the sheer variety of human type and activity at these tables — people talking, staring, drinking, gorging, playing some board game, having meetings, sharing quizzes, discussing art — is terribly interesting. Some people like these things. Others don’t. Everyone likes the potato smileys though.

As an aside, Gertrude talked about identity and memory and what happens to them in the face of eternity. I think Koshy’s was rather apt in the circumstances.

This is a picture I took some time back of the place.

Should audiences refrain from booing?

Etiquette is not, these days, a growth industry. The Internet is inundated with bile in the name of free expression. Television reality shows encourage a thumbs-up, thumbs-down mentality. The allure of instantaneous reaction makes Twitter the talk of the town. Meanwhile, the economic meltdown is melting down manners: More than ever, people who pay good money to see a show feel they have every right to express righteous anger.

Art isn’t easy, but booing is. A mind-closing activity, it tends to be the expression of rigidity in the face of invention. Artists are almost never booed for incompetence (no one can deny the craft of Freyer’s stagecraft). They are booed for intent and out of partisanship. I don’t necessarily advocate acclaim for nothing more than mindless effort, but in a lifetime of attending the performing arts, I have encountered an insignificant number of truly insincere artists.

Not everything works, but at least in the noncommercial realm of the concert stage and the opera house, I credit nearly everyone with trying to say something. And when they actually manage to, the meaning may not immediately sink in.

Booing may be pointless but I’m all for honest panning. Art isn’t easy, true. It’s not meant to be. But is sincerity enough to merit applause, let alone money? I don’t see why I should credit “nearly everyone with trying to say something”. In poetry, we are repeatedly told that it is clearly not enough to just say something. What matters is how you say it. Why should this be different for the performing arts?

In Bangalore, I’ve seen disastrous plays that were touted as good. There are times when I’ve cared less about the money spent and more about how I’m going to make it through the next hour or so before they open the doors and let me out. (It’s difficult to walk out midway at Ranga Shankara though in situations of extreme boredom, I’ve even done that.) Few things are as tortuous as a play with banal lines, flat humour or terrible acting. Being stung to death by bees, for instance.

If the state of literary reviews is not top notch, the state of theatre reviewing in the English language newspapers is even worse. Most feature supplements in the city have degenerated to celebrity-obsessed rags. There are few play reviews and most are written by rookie reporters who know little about art or performance or performing arts. Under these circumstances honest audience reaction is not only healthy, it’s necessary.

Having said this, I must raise a thumb (in typical trigger-happy fashion) for Butter and Mashed Bananas, which I finally managed to catch. They had a clear premise and they managed to communicate it. Their funny lines were actually funny. There was movement and energy. And oh yes, a script that actually seemed to have some thought behind it. All good things.