11.08.09
Bored to death by Death’s Daughter
I picked up Amber Benson’s 2009 paperback release, Death’s Daughter, from the library because A)I enjoyed her as Tara on Buffy the Vampire Slayer and B)I loved her Ghosts of Albion books co-authored with Christopher Golden. Unfortunately (and you know it can’t be good when I start a sentence with that), Death’s Daughter disappointed mightily. Just from a story structure and writing standpoint, it became clear that while Benson is a good “idea person,” her execution is off. It seems Golden did much of the heavy lifting in that department during their collaboration.
The story itself is pretty standard and derivative, given the wealth of paranormal/urban fantasy saturating the market these days. Calliope Reaper-Jones, home & garden company employee, gets pulled back into the complex world of Death, Inc when her father, the current Grim Reaper, and his board members are kidnapped. Wackiness ensues.
And maybe I wouldn’t be so turned off to the book if said wackiness didn’t involve borrowing from Hindu mythology. It’s not that I mind the cribbing, per se. Christopher Pike did it for his Last Vampire series and I loved that. It’s how Benson chose to play fast and loose with the characterization of some Hindu figures — primarily Kali. She’s described as a temperamental sari-wearing young woman who constantly calls Calliope “White Girl.” Um…really? No. 1. If Benson had chosen to have her use Hindi and dub Callie “memsahib” or “sahiba” it would’ve made much more sense. No. 2. Kali isn’t exactly your bitchtastic high school mean girl. Out of all the goddesses in the pantheon, she’s the least likely to fit into that slot that Benson placed her in. It really rubbed me the wrong way. And tangentially, why would you pick a goddess whose name is so close to your heroine’s?
The book just didn’t “get there.” There’s too much packed into too few pages, not enough actual character development — Callie is so vapid I couldn’t even empathize with her — and what there is of a love interest plot was very convoluted. Of course, it was also the clear set-up for a series. Yep, that’s right, we get more. If Kali returns in the sequel, remind me not to have alcohol handy, because I’d be too tempted to do shots every time she calls Callie something other than her name.
Thankfully, I cleansed my literary palate by reading Saving Francesca, by Melina Marchetta. Now that was a worthwhile read, with a fully developed heroine!
10.24.09
Setting the scene for romance
When you’re talking about some of the most romantic movie sequences of all time, everyone has things that instantly come to mind. All you have to say to a fan of recent Bollywood movies is “the gazebo scene,” and they automatically know what you’re talking about: 1998’s Kuch Kuch Hota Hai; Rahul and Anjali share a dance to no music, until the tension becomes so heightened that the spell doesn’t break until Anjali sees her engagement ring on her finger and must tear herself away and bolt into the rain. It’s such a memorable moment that Tarun Mansukhani paid homage to it in 2008’s Dostana, having Kunal recreate the gazebo dance in order to woo Neha. I can safely that if any guy ever did that for me, I’d be a goner.
James Cameron’s 1984 classic Terminator has, at its core, the story of Kyle Reese’s deep devotion to Sarah Connor. And while most people quote “I’ll be back,” it’s “I came across time for you,” and “we loved a lifetime’s worth” that I remember more clearly. Battle-weary Kyle losing his virginity to Sarah in a few stolen hours of happiness is achingly gorgeous, and the visual of their clasped hands during the act is, to me, the sharpest image from the film.
Han Solo and Princess Leia’s kiss aboard the Millenium Falcon in 1980’s The Empire Strikes Back is famous, but it’s later, in Bespin, that their romance reaches its peak: when their gazes lock just before Han is dropped into carbonite and Leia finally admits she loves him…and he offers up, “I know,” with the last of his cocky bravado. The princess and the smuggler, the most improbable of partners and the most inopportune time for a confession of love, and yet one of the most resonant scenes in the entire trilogy.
Resonant in an altogether different way is how Baby seduces Johnny in 1987’s Dirty Dancing, invading his room with her potent combination of privilege and innocence, asking him to dance with her. Solomon Burke’s “Cry To Me” is one of the sexiest songs on the planet because of them, and I was one of millions of women who fell in love with the late Patrick Swayze all because of Johnny Castle’s confident moves on the dance floor and his vulnerability everywhere else.
What’s the unifying factor in all the examples I’ve brought up? Certainly not a crisp script. Most of these scenes didn’t involve much dialogue and what dialogue there was…wasn’t exactly Shakespearean in nature. The key to romance isn’t pretty words or even good direction and the right music, it’s people whose connection is just that believable. It takes a solid story, fleshed out characters, actors who embody those roles… and just a touch of magic.
And then, if you’re lucky…? Kuch kuch hota hai. Something happens.
10.04.09
Halla Bol: Pros and Khans
I love movies that get all meta about the film industry, be it The Player or Soapdish or Om Shanti Om. Rajkumar Santoshi’s Halla Bol (Raise Your Voice) is one such film, telling the story of superstar Sameer Khan (Ajay Devgan), who must confront the soul-less Bollywood machine he’s become when he witnesses the murder of a young woman at an exclusive industry party.
Through the use of an extended flashback, viewers learn that Sameer was once a struggling actor named Ashfaaq, who raged against social injustice with his street theater troupe. A passionate young man who adored his mentor, the charismatic Siddhu (Pankaj Kapur), and romanced his childhood sweetheart, Sneha (the luminous Vidya Balan), over the course of his meteoric rise to stardom Ashfaaq gets trapped in the hype. Product endorsements, awards and accolades, “auditioning” would-be heroines…somewhere in the middle of it, Ashfaaq loses himself, and his voice. An actor with his power and influence could so easily speak out against atrocity, but silence is the name of the game in Bollywood.
Halla Bol is gorgeously directed, with a tight script. And much like Om Shanti Om, there is industry cooperation and actual Bollywood stars playing themselves. Kareena Kapoor, Sridevi, and producer Boney Kapoor are just a few of the cameos, and constant references are made to Salman Khan, Shahrukh Khan and other real Bollywood figures. That actually gives the film a haunting amount of authenticity. You get the sense that, on some level, the secret keeping and back room deals and self-serving behavior is absolutely true. That the fiction of this film is nowhere near as compelling as the truth of it.
And along with the inside view into the industry —showing us how actors book “dates” in Mumbai for various films and come in to dub dialogue — there is also the message that you have to fight for what you believe in. Ashfaqullah Khan was a celebrated freedom fighter during the Indian independence movement. He was hanged in 1927, when he was only 27 years old. That Ashfaaq in this film is named for him, and that this name is changed to Sameer when he breaks into the movies, is incredibly significant. At one point, the character even rails at his father, “You forget again and again that you aren’t Ashfaaq’s father anymore, you’re Sameer Khan’s father!” So much of this film is about reclaiming your identity and your beliefs and what you’re willing to sacrifice everything for.
The second hour sort of devolves into typical Bollywood melodrama, with mob goons threatening Ashfaaq and his family and such, but the intensity of the film remains intact. I actually got chills when Siddhu resolutely tells Ashfaaq it’s now up to him to fight for the murdered girl — when he says, simply, “Halla bol.”
10.03.09
Once upon a time in India
I currently have two work-in-progress novels in play, and one of them uses a lot of storytelling to flesh out the themes for the main character. I’m trying to figure out if that’s a cop-out that takes away from what’s happening in the present/in “real time” or if it’s exactly what the story needs.
Because here’s the thing: I’m dealing with a lot of Hindu mythology, and it’s stuff that I know like the back of my hand, but my readers have no context for. And, similarly, I’ve built my main character as someone who needs major tutelage when it comes to her heritage. So, the way to educate both her and those who would potentially pick up this book is to have other characters tell her stories from our two great Sanskrit epics, the Ramayana and Mahabharata.
Oral tradition is a big part of how I know what I know. I read Amar Chitra Katha comic books as a kid and devoured C. Rajagopalachari’s translation of the Mahabharata, but it’s my mother’s stories that really steeped me in my culture. So, for me, it feels perfect natural to have stories be the avenue by which Tara (pronounced with a soft “th” sound) learns where she comes from.
Is that natural for readers, though? Is that interesting? Or is it more like, “Aw, man, I don’t care about the story of Savitri and Satyavan. Shut up.” Of course, that particular tale actually has some metaphorical resonance for my characters, as most of what I’m using does. But I guess I fear that the metaphors, the callbacks, are only going to make sense to me.
09.04.09
Taking a moment to talk Lamhe
Yash Chopra’s 1991 film Lamhe is the very definition of an unconventional love story. Starring Anil Kapoor (whom people now know as “the host from Slumdog Millionaire“) and Sridevi in a double role, it’s long been one of my favorite films. It makes me laugh, it makes me sing at the top of my lungs, and it makes me cry. And the older I get, the more it makes me think.
The film is about Viren, who falls in unrequited love with free spirit Pallavi when he visits his ancestral home in Rajesthan. Pallavi loves and marries another, but then she and her husband die, leaving her newborn daughter to be raised by Viren’s childhood nurse, Daija (Waheeda Rehman). Viren can’t even bear to look at the girl, Pooja, who grows up hero-worshipping him. Finally, when she’s eighteen, she’s the spitting image of her mom and a force to be reckoned with. Not realizing he was in love with Pallavi and turned into an angst puppy because of it, Pooja makes it her mission to bring happiness into Viren’s staid existence.
In ‘91, Lamhe was a scandalous film. Not only did it feature a pair with substantial age difference, but that Pooja was her mother’s doppelganger also put a seriously creepy spin on things. Watching it now, some 18 years after its theatrical release, it strikes me how fascinating that romantic dynamic is. Viren loves on such an obsessive level that it turns into tightly wound repression. He’s afraid to feel anything. And Pooja… she’s pretty much the embodiment of youth and innocence. Sridevi, who certainly wasn’t a teenager at the time, captures that vitality with perfection.
Viren goes from viewing Pooja as something to be ignored to seeing someone who looks like his dead goddess and then to acknowledging a young woman he actually loves as an individual. And there’s a really simple scene that encapsulates when Viren and Pooja achieve “pairing” status, even though neither character realizes it. They’re at the breakfast table with Daija and Viren’s best friend Prem (Anupam Kher), and Pooja pricks her finger on something. Without even skipping a beat, Viren takes her finger and sucks on it. Completely innocent? Yes. Completely erotic? Oh, hell yes. I can’t think of a single reason why the director would include such a scene, except to show the audience how intimate they are even if Viren is too thick-skulled to realize it.
And, indeed, both the viewer and Pooja realize long before Viren does that the requited love he craves so desperately is right there. It’s heartbreaking, because while he’s ostensibly in his late 30s/early 40s, Pooja, in her absolutely earnest and secure love for him, is the one who is more emotionally mature. She knows what she wants, who she wants. That’s something that terrifies Viren, who is determined to remain faithful to a memory. I spend most of the movie calling him either a “stalker” or a “dick,” because he’s so frustrating. And yet Pooja gets to him, she makes him smile; she makes him want to reach out. And she makes me believe in what they could have together.
(There’s also a lot of homoerotic subtext between Prem and Viren, but that’s a post for another day.)
The word “lamhe” means “moment,” and it’s in the little moments of this film that its story really unfolds.
08.29.09
Bollywood goes gay-friendly with Dostana
Tarun Mansukhani’s Dostana is one of the first big budget, non-arthouse — yes, Bollywood —Hindi films to deal with LGBT issues as a central subject. Not only that, the musical comedy of gay errors features Bollywood A-listers Abhishek Bachchan and John Abraham in the principal roles.
Though I’ve seen Dostana before, when a chance came up to see it on the big screen during the I-View Film Festival, put forth by Engendered, I immediately bought a ticket. Ideally, I would have liked to have attended the entire festival, but I just couldn’t afford it at this time. That said, shelling out the pittance of $18 for a 9:30 AM showing of Dostana and the brief Q&A with Mansukhani, Abraham and Boman Irani afterwards proved to be well worth it.
One thing I frequently laud Brandon Beemer (Owen, B&B) for is that he’s comfortable enough with his physique to do just about anything, wear just about anything, and let the camera catch it all. It’s savvy. Abraham has a similar sensibility about his body, which makes since sense both men have modeled. And Dostana kicks off shamelessly indulging in Abraham’s sex appeal. There are a few points where it’s literally a shot of his torso taking up the entire screen. He comes out of the water, dripping like that infamous Daniel Craig scene in Casino Royale, and the risque number, urging everyone to “bounce, baby, bounce” revels in eroticism —and homoeroticism. From the motorcycles, to the pink car that Sameer (Abhishek Bachchan) drives and the scarves the character accessorizes with, even before one word of dialogue is uttered, the film tells the viewer that Something Gay This Way Comes.
Of course, everything after the item number is slightly less heightened, though the ease with sex and sexuality does continue…evidenced by how both Abraham’s character, Kunal, and Sameer are both shown waking up with women…and Kunal wanders out to an apartment balcony wearing nothing but a very tight pair of hip-hugger briefs. From there, the comic set-up ensues: These men, who’ve met at random, wind up pretending to be gay in order to score a really sweet apartment —only to realize their new roommate is a very smokin’ hot girl.
08.15.09
Born in the USA, and borne from Bengal
Cultural identity is a funny thing, the way it changes and morphs over the course of a generation or two. I identify as American or Indian-American most of the time. My roots are firmly planted in American soil, I was born here and raised here, but I’m bilingual and brown and of indeterminate religion. Most people, when they look at me, will assume I’m from another country before they assume I’m from the land of apple pie and Bruce Springsteen.
It’s especially interesting given that I live in a very immigrant-heavy community. Queens is incredibly diverse, and the odds of hearing English spoken on the 7 train are outweighed by the odds of hearing Spanish, Bengali, and Chinese. I was walking past the Laundromat last night and a woman called out to me in Spanish, saying she was selling cheese empanadas. A moment too slow, I responded, “Huh? I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish.” She then repeated herself in English. And it’s not precisely true that I don’t speak Spanish…I do…it’s just that it’s not my default language and I don’t quite understand it if caught off-guard. But in the neighborhood, it’s spoken freely and frequently and I’m often thought to be Latina by mistake.
“I’m Indian,” I tell people, when they ask. Only you know what…? That’s not precisely true either. As I sit here today, on India’s Independence Day, it occurs to me with some amount of amusement that I’m technically of Bangladeshi/East Pakistani origin.
Just as my parents moved to the US in the ’60s, their families moved from East Bengal to West Bengal. And there’s distinct cultural difference between the two. Bangal vs. Ghoti, Purbobongo vs. Poschimbongo. And, of course, it’s now Bangladesh vs. India. The accents are different, the colloquialisms, even the food.
It’s Kolkata and its suburbs I visited as a child; it’s India that I grew up connecting to. I only went to Bangladesh once, and have incredibly vague memories of Dhaka.
Independence has sticky connotations for many Indians who grew up in the border states, as it officially came with the Partition. In 1947, Punjab and Bengal were both split and divvied up between India and Pakistan. It was a bloody time, a tragic time. And I’ve never quite understood how B’desh, which is clear across the other side of India from Pakistan, ended up a territory of that country. Neither did they, because Bangladesh seceded and became its own sovereign nation in 1971.A scant seven years before I was born.
Independence is not an easy thing, to declare oneself a sovereign nation and stand on one’s own requires sacrifice: blood, sweat and tears. But I’m proud to come from not just one, but three countries that did exactly that.
None of them are perfect, none of them magically solved their problems –in fact, they created more problems — by becoming autonomous.
But that’s a life lesson for all of us. With freedom, with autonomy, comes incredible responsibility. Squander it, ill-use it, and the fight to be who you are without accountability to anyone else is all for naught.
I identify as American or Indian-American most of the time.
I identify as Mala every minute and every hour of every day of my life.
08.08.09
From Hollywood zero to Bollywood hero
When I first started seeing ads for IFC’s Bollywood Hero on the sides of NewYork City buses, I admit I cringed. I was instantly thinking of the travesty that was Mike Myers and The Love Guru, expecting something that would set my teeth on edge. But the two parts of this mini-series that I’ve seen so far have proved to be an absolute joy.
Starring as “himself” in the story, comic actor Chris Kattan is on a quest to become a Bollywood leading man, since Hollywood has never given him that chance. What ensues is a hilarious meta commentary on both film industries and a funny, poignant movie that also stands on its own. Featuring hilarious turns by Keanu Reeves, Maya Rudolph, and Jennifer Coolidge, it has proven to be a real kick so far. It really pays homage to what’s wonderful about Hindi movies, and Chris Kattan, not India, is the butt of most of the jokes. And there’s equal time given to the story of Monty and Priya Kapoor, the brother-sister team trying to keep their struggling studio and their father’s legacy afloat. Actors Ali Fazal and Pooja Kumar are fabulous…and I hope they get snapped up by a few primetime (or daytime!) series after this.
And the biggest surprise for me was how effective Kattan and Kumar are together as a romantic pair. Played with the appropriate amount of sniping banter and chaste longing (their love scene was mostly offscreen and no kissing was shown), they’re really charming.
But the true scene-stealer in Bollywood Hero is actress Ruma Sengupta, who plays Monty and Priya’s grandmother. My sides ached from laughing, because of her. She’s just such the quintessential snarky desi grandmother! And her interplay with Chris Kattan is absolutely brilliant and totally transcends the language barrier. I also enjoy Julian Sands as Reg Hunt, India’s go-to guy for British roles in their films. I’m pretty sure that’s a shout-out to Tom Alter, the real-life go-to guy…though it should be noted that Alter is a family man and an accomplished writer, whereas Reg is a lout.
There’s real characters here and a story here, amidst all the winks and the inside jokes. It’s so refreshing to find a movie that gets it about Bollywood and about India and does it in a humorous but obviously loving way.
Thanks, Chris! Shukriya.
07.26.09
Loving a Lost Lord, by Mary Jo Putney.
I’m always wary of picking up books that reference India and Indian heritage, especially romance novels. I mean, I have a huge pet peeve about the exotic as the erotic, and half-Indian heroes, and have blogged about it in the past. Between that and the fact that it’s been a while since Mary Jo Putney wrote a historical romance, I was wary about picking up Loving a Lost Lord. Plus, the title is hella lame and after enjoying Putney’s Fallen Angels books I didn’t have much desire to read about a new crop of childhood friends who grew up to become powerful lords. But after a few recommendations, I decided to put all my misgivings aside and give the novel a shot.
And part of me wishes I hadn’t. It’s not a poorly written book, although you can tell that Putney is rusty and the plot starts to border on the ridiculous towards the end. But it does distinctly smack of an outsider writing about a culture she’s not familiar with…in a way that threw me out of the story. The first time I found myself standing outside the pages and going, “What the Hell?” was when her hero, Adam, referenced Diwali as being a festival for the goddess Lakshmi. Uh…no. While a Lakshmi puja is a very significant part of Diwali, the actual festival generally celebrates Lord Rama’s return to Ayodhya after defeating Ravana. Then, I noticed something else that proceeded to bug the hell out of me so much I had to walk over to my laptop to write this post. Adam has a secret Hindu shrine off of his bedroom. Adam goes into this shrine a few times, even taking the heroine, Mariah, to see it.
There is no mention made of shoes being taken off.
And, okay, you can accuse me of nitpicking, but I don’t think it’s a nitpick. It’s a basic tenet of practicing Hinduism. No shoes in a temple. Period. What’s left of my CD and book collection at my parents’ house is in the same room as Mom’s shrine…you can damn well bet I slip my sandals off before going in there to get things.
06.15.09
Chariots of fire.
I was at the annual Big Apple Barbecue Block Party on Saturday, and, unfortunately, the weather wasn’t really conducive to getting my bbq love on. It fluctuated between rain and clouds, the air bearing a faint chill. But what was remarkable, unexpected, and so very New York, was a parade of Hare Krishnas and other assorted Radha/Govinda devotees down 5th Avenue, right past Madison Square Park. Desi, black, Latin, white… clad in saris and lehengas and panjabis. They were celebrating Rath Yatra, a huge Indian festival for Jaganath, a very specific version of Krishna.
It was so surreal. To be standing there, the taint of beef brisket on my tongue, reveling in meat and Americana, as the parade thundered by. I spied the rath with the Jaganath/Subudra/Balarama murthis, though I was too dumbstruck to get a picture of it. And then I found a relatively quiet patch of sidewalk and called my mother, who told me that Jaganath must have wanted me to see him, to receive that blessing. “At a barbecue festival? While I’m eating beef and pork?” I scoffed. She laughed, paraphrasing Sri Ramakrishna — a sentiment about good deeds and good intentions outweighing one’s diet.
I’ve never been a particularly religious person… at least as an adult. As a child, I was a huge Krishna fan. I had a calendar from New Vrindavan up on my wall, with a luminous picture of the baby Krishna, and I used to offer him sugar cubes and raisins and dutifully recite my prayers. Faith was so simple then, something achieved by rote and ritual, something I never questioned. The older I’ve gotten, the more of an atheist I’ve become. Too cynical, too bitter, for God and too horrified by things done in his name.
And yet… I do feel lucky to have seen the rath go by. Maybe, just maybe, I do feel a little bit blessed.
