Ennum Eppozhum average

Sathyan Anthikkad+Mohanlal+Manju Warrier. What do you expect? Fireworks? But this one was a dampener. Average is the best description for Ennum eppozhum. And that average grade goes largely for the one wonderful classical verging on semi-classical dance performance by Manju Warrier.
A better script by Ranjan Pramod may have helped. The story by Raveendran also has too many sub plots which distract you instead of contributing to the overall good of the movie.Nowhere do you really laugh your heart out. Like Priyadarshan's, has Sathyan Anthikkad's  bag of tricks been exhausted? The situations are contrived and coincidences galore, like the hera and heroine accidentally meet at all the right places for the story to proceed. Come on, the audience has grown up! They don't swallow things as they did four decades ago any more.
Renji Panikkar's character was not delineated well enough. A villain who was later turned into a buffoon when two plus hours of the movie got over to avoid a loose end? Every other character was a hangover of old Sathyan movies. Manju Warrier did try hard enough and so did Mohan Lal.  Lena came out well, in fact, natural. The songs just did not stay in the mind. That something which the audience longed for and expected just wasn't there. The magic that Aaraam Thamburaan and Kanmadam gave us with these two will always be remembered. You can't club this movie with those. But curiosity will kill the cat and the combo works. An opportunity that has not been exploited.
Prema Manmadhan

Bhaya, not Nirbhaya

Is it the banning of a documentary, the place of women in our country, the Indian masculine mindset or the reason why rapes occur, that is troubling us?  Clashing views, outbursts, if I may say, in public and private communication platforms hardly address any of these problems. Activists, journalists and film makers have pet views which they cannot change for their own reasons. Dispassionate human beings, however, have the freedom to think and reason on our own.

I saw British filmmaker Leslee Udwin's documentary, India's Daughter, made for BBC. There has been no UK's Daughter or the Daughter of the US or China's Daughter by this film maker as yet. Why? Because she knew those governments were sure not to give her permission to meet and chat with rapists? Mukesh Singh, the alleged rapist, sits there as if he is a hero in a feature film and offers homilies. He looks very well fed. Good prison life.

For two years, says the Guardian, Udwin stayed on in India meeting and interviewing rapists, all this to find out why rapes happen and she quite concluded that lack of respect for the women was the reason. She went to town with the gory details, to put it mildly.  She could have interviewed a psychologist and found out  the answer sooner. The name of the girl is mentioned over and over again and her photo also given. Inaccuracies are also there.She was a doctor, she says, while in fact Nirbhaya (why we so carefully mask her identity when the whole world knows it, I wonder) was a trainee physiotherapist.

Do rapes happen only in India? She gives no statistics. Quite a badly made film too. Here's one instance. She goes to see Life of Pi with a friend, says the documentary and you are shown a roaring tiger from that film for some time!! The juvenile is never shown with his real face. He is the cruellest but he has not been interviewed. Why? Udwin takes Mukesh Singh's words as gospel truth? How can a rapist's words be dubbed as the opinion of the Indian male? The defence lawyer is a joke. "We have the best culture. In our culture, there is no place for a woman," says M L Sharma, holding forth. It is jokers like these who devalue India. Selective interviews have given Madame Udwin what she wants.

The poor parents of the girl have given permission, for the documentary to be made, say the credits.

A man who she says was her tutor, goes on saying what a nice girl she was etc, naming her. If Madame Udwin wanted so badly to stick to real people and real names, why didn't she meet the  friend with whom  Nirbhaya had gone out and get his gory version too? 

The reason why rapes occur are many. A rapist's is a sick mind, for heaven's sake and one cannot say it happens because of lack of respect for women. Drugs, alcohol, psychological problems or an overzealous libido may be the causes. Above all poverty and the tough life people lead, make them devoid of compassion or even plain kindness. As long as these conditions remain so, rapes are bound to occur not only in India but all over the world, sadly enough. Barbaric punishmenrs as in the Middle East may help, but then, we are a democratic country, aren't we? So we have to put up with the present state of things. Once poverty vanishes and healthy human beings inhabit the earth, we can all walk alone on the road at dead of night, fearlessly. Till then, I suggest we take care of ourseleves, because the police cannot be expected to follow each one of us whenever we go out alone every time at night. There has to be bhaya, not nirbhaya till then.

Prema Manmadhan

The Biennale has arrived

Art is so many things. Elephant dung arranged systematically in a way in which the artist wants to communicate is art as also painstakingly drawn fine lines that bring a scene to the viewer. When art transcends visual language, lines, race, colour, medium and more, and breaks the shackles of  what the world till then thought was art, you have the biennale.
 Everything about the biennale is new. The biennale brings to the frog in the pond that is you, art as is envisaged by the powers that be, which decides what's art and what's not. Yours not to reason why, yours not to ask, for have you gone to Europe and seen the wonderful art galleries and contemporary art there? What? How dare you ask if what Europe does is always right!
 Enjoy art? What rubbish. Art is no more to enjoy. It is to point out defects in history, not to draw a single line that the masses may, God forbid, recognise and make installations that are puzzles akin to the Gordion knot.
 To bring attention to the artist by declaring that all the world's problems are felt by the artist keenly and he suffers pain on behalf of them, that's the contemporary art scene. Ah...the pamphlet will tell you what the artist actually intended to tell you, if you think his/her work is bizarre. Well, is the pamphlet then the real art, if it communicates? Tough question that!
We were at the biennale too, paying hundred rupees each today. The first leg (for us), of the Kochi Biennale, at the Durbar Hall Art Centre. The biggest room had a few wonderful works that were new in execution and enjoyable, using charcoal, archival glue and oil.  Here is the image.  Stand far away from the huge work and you realise how well the artist worked.

.  The first gallery showed a long white table with a few white ceramic objects, that were purportedly made from a very thick Indian history book. A video showed us how the artist managed to do it, dabbing it with clay and burning off the history pages to get those white masses arranged on the long table. "They look like paratta dough," said a spectator who wondered what the brouhaha was all about. See if you agree:

 In the last gallery downstairs, even if you read what it's all about, you will be all at sea. (I have forgotten what it said. Anyway it's immaterial) Globes, globes and globes, with aesthetics missing. An ugly table below. Try hard as you might, the penny won't fall.
 Is it evolution of art or degeneration? Is it moving away from the kernal to the husk? Or is it simply embracing something new regardless of whether logic is attached to it? Or is it plain fashionable to follow the trends set by other countries and cliques that have become self-proclaimed custodians of art? A dispassionate analysis of what makes sense and what does not is called for. Aesthetics is one thing and novelty for novelty's sake is quite another.  When academics and organisers pontificate on art and criticism is balked at, art ceases to reach the common man. 

Upstairs, an artist has used the plain white rice, millions of them, glued together in a pattern on huge canvases, with teeny weeny texts making lines to demarcate the sections. The text are sometimes wise sayimgs and other times, come right from the artist's heart. A magnifying glass rests at the bottom of the work, imploring you to please read the text. There are local artists in many places who engrave full figures and write names on a grain of rice. But they are not educated enough or in the art circuit to find a place here. Or else some term it craft. Can craft be in any way a second cousin of art? Pause, ponder.
 We are yet to see the Fort Kochi part of the show. Hope it will be better.
Prema Manmadhan

Ode to a neighbouring green patch

And now, brick and mortar will sprout on the brown earth where coconut, arecanut, jack and sundry other trees lived, their foliage so thick and green that the morning sun never got beyond the coconut palm fronds that did a dance whenever the wind tried to pass that way to visit my house.
A rude whirr... whirr... whirr...(alto sruti), eerie and macabre, woke me up last week instead of birdsong. And when the bedroom door to the balcony was opened, like executioners they stood there, men with some kind of automatic saws, operated with a pull of a belt. And a couple of whirr….whirrrrs later, coconut trees that took years to reach that far in their ambitious journey to meet the bright blue sky, fell with a melancholy thud, lying in state, the fronds spread out like a ballerina's skirt, and the stump, yearning for that something that it could never ever have again.
 And then came the chief executioner. The JCB. With its demonic claws, it wiped out all traces of life.  All the trees had their funerals lined up and methodically, their lives were snuffed out in like fashion, so that two days of whirr....whirrs..saw a plot denuded of all things green. The last to fall was the tallest. My heart weighed a thousand tonnes.....an emptiness that refused to fill. Crows and mynah, woodpeckers and the koel, flew around like displaced orphans, directionless and disturbed, crying in silent agony. Squirrels were the only inhabitants who proclaimed their displeasure as loudly as they could. But they have all our smaller trees to live, I invited them quietly.
And the sun shines bright, walking right into our balcony at all times of the day now, warming up spots that it fought shy of gracing, all these 30 years. Dead trunks are yet to find their resting places. Today, a posse of quiet beings surrounded a nilavilakku and a few bricks. Ah…the foundation stone being laid.
 My tomorrows will be dusty, devoid of birdsong, but I will have the sun meeting me uninterruptedly and someone will have a house…maybe one of those trees will metamorphose into a window, door or even a tiny bench in a regimented garden, where plants will never have the freedom to live and grow old as they like, in whichever direction they choose, as did the trees that stood there once.
Adieu, romantic, recent Past, and welcome, practical Present!
Prema Manmadhan
    

    

T M Krishna's magic

Nobody is singing for anybody, declared T M Krishna in the middle of his concert at Madhavan Nair history museum art festival held annually (the name of the fest?). It proved to be correct for the lucky audience gathered there Sunday evening. (November 29). It was a classical and classic jamming session, when extempore took dominance. Music flowed on, the pauses and expressive voice modulations adding charm to the creative permutations and explorations of the seven swaras of world music, Carnatic in particular, often veering to the Hindusthani elements and getting back to basics with a difference so original. Charming and a feast for the ears first, the soul the utmost. No kutcheri format was binding on T M Krishna. Thaniaavartans in two instalments sans traditional 'mangalam'. Nadanam aadinaan...... came in a totally new avatar. Accompaniments, especially the mridangam, conquered all hearts present. The violin and ghatam too. The ambience and the music will stay in my heart for a long long time...thank you Priya, for inviting us!

Maiden pilgrimage to Sabarimala

I feel all new. A Malikappuram. Just returned from Sabarimala with Manu, my son.I did not even have to stand in any queue! Surprising in this season. Never expected such a lovely darshan, not once but twice, once thanks to my friend, Mohanan Pillai, of The New Indian Express, who is posted there. The policemen were very courteous and helpful. The fact that the descent was 'kadhinam  entayyappa' does not stand in the feeling of achievement and fulfilment. I never ever thought that a woman of my mass would make it there! A quick decision without much discussion to make the pilgrimage to Sabarimala made it possible. The fact that I was the only devotee in salwar does surprise, because as you age, this is the best attire for travel and such a pilgrimage. And the joke is that I wear it only when I travel and not otherwise! I believe I made it because I did not wear a sari.
The climb, darshan and descent is inspiring, educative and an eye-opener in so many ways. It just breaks your ego, teaches you to stretch  yourself  to the fullest possible and makes you understand that anything is possible if there is a will and when faced with no alternatives, you really can do it! This new learning, applied in life, can help you much, I think.
While making a maiden pilgrimage, it is strange that veterans don't tell you much! People feel that everything 'is understood'. It's not.
 I would include these among the tips for kanni Ayyappans: Climb slowly as the hoardings say. You conserve energy that way. Breathing in and out regularly helps, which I learnt only at the fag end! Use the oxygen parlours if you are so out of breath that you feel your heart will strike work. ( I did not)  Resting for some time is okay, never mind if people file past you like P T Usha.Slow and steady does win the race, as I learnt quite late.  There is no need to feel that you have to keep up with people you started out with. Circumstances, body build and weight are different. Well, next time!

Limericks

Limericks are meant to be funny, they are five lines long, they say.

Serious matter
Nobody takes you seriously?
Ha..Pop in some sleeping pills.
When rigor mortis sets in..
They'll at last take you seriously...
But you won't see it, silly!