11.07.09
It’s about the journey (and sometimes the Journey)
Five years ago, on Nov. 6, I came here with three suitcases and a chest tight with anxiety. Just a small town girl (living in a lonely world, but I didn’t take the midnight train going anywhere) in the big, bad city, ready to tackle a job at Soap Opera Weekly and live some place where I basically knew no one.
I can’t believe it’s been that long already. In some ways, I feel like it was just yesterday that I was walking into my first NYC apartment — that I’d procured sight unseen — sleeping on the floor because I didn’t have a bed yet. And in other ways, I know I’ve changed irrevocably.
I am not the same girl who came here…the one who pretty much hid out in her Queens neighborhood for months, and took shelter between her cubicle walls at work. I remember bursting into tears when my flight home for Christmas got canceled because a severe snowstorm closed the airports. I sat in my cube, shaking, actually unable to believe I was that upset. I’d only been here a month and a half! I ended up spending the holiday weeks split between work and home…where I finally bought a TV and DVD player to get me through the hours.
If you ask my colleagues, they won’t even remember how quiet I was, how meek, because I’m such a freakin’ loudmouth now. The city utterly overwhelmed me back then. The subway lines, the tiny, sketchy grocery stores, and the noise. My goodness, the rattle of the 7 train going by overhead, the cars whizzing by on the street…it was such a change from Ohio. Now it’s nothing. The blaring of fire engines, the bus, the reggaeton. I’m used to it all. I thrive on the lights and the life of this vibrant city. And, yes, I can hop a midnight train going almost anywhere.
I’ve learned a lot about who I am, about what I’m capable of accomplishing. I wonder what lessons the next five years will bring.
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.
10.20.09
Women, fashion and unintelligent design
I don’t understand the upper echelons of the fashion industry. I get that, objectively, you could look at it as a form of art, using cloth as a medium instead of paints or clay. But when it comes to creating things for people to actually wear, that’s when my brain starts to shut down.
Look, I shop at Old Navy and H&M. I cannot justify spending more than $40-50 bucks on a piece of clothing. I grew up in a family where being clothed was the vital thing, not how cool you looked, and as sullen I was about it at the time, looking back I appreciate that value being instilled in me. It probably comes from having a father who grew up in a rural village, worked his way through school and didn’t buy his first pair of lace-up formal shoes until college. (My dad is awesome, and I respect him so much for what he’s accomplished!)
So spending hundreds of dollars on a pair of cute high heels? Not my thing. I just don’t understand it. Why would you spend $600 or more on a shoe or a blouse? My skin actually crawls at the thought of wearing something that expensive, when that money could go towards rent or food or a vacation. Of course, seeing as how my freakishly small feet are the only part of me that could conceivably fit into a high end design, my bank account is safe. Because as someone who fluctuates between a size 10 and a size 12 at all times, I’m definitely not the target demo of your Ralph Laurens and Versaces. Hell, according to that world, I’m a fattie. Gasp.
This is hardly a new thing, what with sizes getting smaller and department store chains vanity sizing to make double digit women feel comparatively better about ourselves. But these past few months have been a truly eye-opening time when it comes to the fashion design biz. It’s like they’re not bothering to hide it anymore. Their ideal female is one grossly underweight and disproportionate. Beauty is less than a size zero. Beauty is too rich and too thin and way beyond the reach of the average woman.
Karl Lagerfeld thinks no one wants to see curvy women. Filippa Hamilton, the model infamously Photoshopped so skinny that she looked like a bobblehead doll, was fired for being overweight, when she’s 5′10 and weighs 120 pounds. Sought-after shoe designer Christian Louboutin created shoes for Mattel’s Barbie and thought Barbie’s ankles were too fat and altered her already ridiculous proportions. And then there’s October’s issue of French Vogue,featuring Dutch model Lara Stone in blackface, which is a whole separate level of WTF that I could go on and on about.
Perhaps all these cutting edge designs are tailored to make it easier to show one’s ass?
Read the rest of this entry »
10.12.09
The sleeper awakes…or maybe not
It’s been days since I’ve posted an entry, but it feels like an eternity. Writer’s block, that pernicious lack of inspiration, is a dangerous thing to give into. Couple that with a city that’s steadily growing colder — that’s always anonymous and bustling and its own immovable force —and I get a crystal clear sense of why so many animals hibernate for the winter.
Despite that inherent sluggishness and sloth, I’m trying to get out more, trying to experience the city and dig into it with both hands. I’ve lived here for years but it feels like I’ve barely seen anything —too consumed by work to lift my head and look. On Friday, I went out to Water’s Edge in Long Island City with some friends for Queens Restaurant Week. My fascination with the place pretty much comes from the fact that every Hindi movie that’s filmed in New York does a location shoot there, taking advantage of the gorgeous Manhattan skyline across the river. And, well, you’re pretty much paying for that view. Much of LIC is under development, but not nearly enough…especially along the river. It’s all industrial lots, and walking to Water’s Edge definitely screams, “Hi, please mug me!” (Of course, the restaurant’s target demographic is people who can afford to have a car in the city and, therefore, don’t have to walk to get there.) We split a bottle of wine, enjoyed delicious three-course meals, and entertained our waitress, but I couldn’t help but notice how most of the tables were empty. Whether that is because of the economic crisis or because of the restaurant’s location, I don’t know.
Saturday, I went into the city to meet my group of Bengali friends from back home. We chilled out at The Ginger Man, traded stories, and just generally indulged in that shorthand that comes from hanging out with people who’ve known each other for years. No one else in this city knows our parents, our cultural group, and understands us in that context, so it’s always lovely to touch base. But despite those hours of camaraderie, I was soon back home and in my pajamas…content to be antisocial once more.
Even going out on Sunday for work — to cover Daytime Stars and Strikes at Leisure Time Bowling — felt like too much. I had a great, productive time while I was there. I loved getting to speak to people from several shows. But even so, there was a tugging sensation inside me that said, “Go home. Crawl into bed with a book.” And several hours later, I did exactly that.
Sometimes I feel like I’m already ancient, like my bones are old, but realistically, I am too young to be this exhausted.
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.
The obligatory disclaimer post.
There’s been an increase in traffic of late, so I just wanted to have the obligatory talk about the purpose of this blog.
This is my personal blog, where I review books, talk politics, and also dish what I watch on TV. Nothing I say here represents the views of my place of employment and my comments should not be attributed to SOW. It’s just Mala being Mala. Obviously I can’t stop people from quoting me left and right, and I am the same exact person who works there and then comes home to blog here, but bad necklace is hosted at WordPress for a reason: to be my own forum.
Thanks for reading!
09.29.09
Can I just boycott and blacklist LIFE?
Woody Allen, Pedro Almodovar, Wes Anderson, Darren Aronofsky, Alfonso Cuaron, Jonathan Demme, Terry Gilliam, Taylor Hackford, Isabelle Huppert, Neil Jordan, Wong Kar Waï, Milan Kundera, David Lynch, Sam Mendes, Mike Nichols, Salman Rushdie, Martin Scorsese, Steven Soderbergh, Tilda Swinton.
These are just some of the big names from film and literature who have thrown their support behind Roman Polanski, a man who admitted to engaging in sex acts with a 13-year-old girl and then fled the country to avoid facing the consequences.
Let me say this in simpler terms: These are people who support a rapist. And not just a rapist, but a man who raped a child, someone one year into her teens.
Why? Because he’s a brilliant director who was going to Switzerland to accept a Lifetime Achievement Award and arresting him there was mean and unfair. Or something. My brain exploded reading all the articles. I’m still cleaning pieces off my hardwood floor. After a while the rationalizations turned into the teacher from the Peanuts cartoons going “wah wah wah wah.”
Polanski’s name, his celebrated catalog of films, has given him more notoriety than millions of molesters and rapists the world over whose crimes have long been forgotten. No one cares about the statute of limitations for their acts, is pursuing them or demanding their extradition, because they are non entities. By the same token, Polanski’s name gives him an absurd protection, this legion of voices crying out in his defense, signing their names to a petition to see him freed. People whose names have weight, saying that something that happened 32 years ago doesn’t matter now, that it’s his accomplishments in films we should remember and not one mistake. That, too, is something your average child molester or rapist doesn’t have either, right?
I’m honestly at a loss as to what to say. I look at those names above and I’m shaken. Almodovar, Cuaron, Gilliam, Scorsese, Soderbergh…these are people whose work I respect, and they are seeking mercy for a man who committed an ultimate act of disrespect. How do I reconcile that? How do I pick up one of their films or their books knowing that they think the rape of a 13-year-old is something Polanski shouldn’t face the music for? Aren’t some of these people parents or siblings? Would they sign a petition asking to absolve a man who fed their daughter booze and drugs and had sex with her?
Roman Polanski is a French citizen, a renown and international artist now facing extradition. This extradition, if it takes place, will be heavy in consequences and will take away his freedom.
That’s what the petition says. Extradition will take away his freedom. Do you know what an act of sexual violence takes away from the victim? Dignity. Self-respect. Confidence. Peace of mind. Privacy. The feeling that you deserve to be loved. A sense of happiness. A sense of the future. And countless other things that are are heavy in consequences.
I don’t care if it’s been thirty-two years. I don’t care that the victim herself has spoken out in Polanski’s defense. An act of rape, an act of molestation, should never be waved away as something less important than directing Rosemary’s Baby. And extradition shouldn’t be made out to be a bigger offense.
I’ve never been so ashamed to be an avid fan of film and literature.
09.14.09
Paying attention to the jerk behind the curtain
The morning after the 2009 MTV Video Music Awards, people could be talking about the amazing tribute to Michael Jackson that kicked off the show: Madonna’s speech and Janet Jackson’s performance combined for a truly moving experience. People could also be dishing Lady GaGa’s…well…Lady GaGa-ness or how Russell Brand needs to not ever host an awards show again in his life. And, well, somewhere, I’m sure somebody is discussing all of these things. But what has grabbed everyone’s attention? What’s the sound byte making the rounds on the news? Kanye West rudely cutting off Taylor Swift’s acceptance speech for Best Female Video to tout that Beyoncé should have gotten the accolade.
Regardless of whether you’re a Swift fan or a Beyoncé fan, that display colored the entire evening and will be what everyone remembers from this broadcast. It was completely uncalled for, did no service to Mrs. Jay-Z whatsoever, and certainly didn’t raise West’s stock. Thankfully, the crowd responded with consistent boos every time West’s name was mentioned throughout the evening, and artists like Pink and Katy Perry tweeted their disgust with West’s behavior. And Beyoncé, in a show of class and solidarity, invited Taylor Swift back to the stage when she picked up her statue for Video of the Year.
But the lesson remains: All it takes is one bad apple to spoil the barrel, one guy showing his ass to make an entire industry look bad. I can’t venture to speak for the music industry, but I work in a niche entertainment industry myself, and I know how tightly knit the group is, even if it seems like everything from physical miles to basic philosophy separate people. It’s like being in a really big dysfunctional family. And I would imagine that on some level, the music biz is the same way. Everybody collaborates with each other; everybody’s “people” know one another, etc. So what do you gain from publicly humiliating someone in the family like that? Especially someone as young as Taylor Swift, who has done nothing to deserve it. She’s had amazing success in such a short time, and she’s worked hard for it. This is a woman who has gotten nothing but kudos and rave reviews and has never said a harsh word to anyone. It would have been rude regardless of who West pulled the stunt on, but Pink probably would have punched him. With Swift, we had to watch her stand there stunned, as seconds ticked by and her perfect moment was shattered in front of millions of people. It was awful.
That, to me, is an ugliness that an audience doesn’t need to see. It pulls away the curtain, takes some of the magic away from why we watch TV or listen to a great album. And I don’t understand why anyone would want to do that. Why? What do you gain? Fifteen more minutes of fame? I don’t think it’s worth it. Maybe that makes me hopelessly naive?
09.13.09
Hold the rice, but hand over the cannoli!
Last night I had the chance to attend a one night only performance of Anthony Wilkinson’s off-Broadway show, My Big Gay Italian Wedding, at the gorgeous, historic St. George Theatre in Staten Island. Writer/lead actor Wilkinson led the charming cast in a hilarious story of a young, gay Italian man’s quest to have the perfect wedding. (The title sort of says it all!) Intrigue, drama, musical numbers and a hyperventilating mother ensues! It’s a show that plays with cultural stereotypes of both Italians and the LGBT community and just goes the extra mile and has fun with it.
Coming from a wacky ethnic family myself, a lot of the tropes rang true. But I have to admit one thing: I do not understand The Chicken Dance AT ALL.
At the crux of the story is neurotic Anthony’s desire to marry Andrew, the biggest player in Brooklyn (now reformed). Andrew was played by One Life to Live’s Scott Evans (Fish), who wasn’t the only soapster involved in the process. Wilkinson is an associate director on OLTL, while MBGIW’s co-directors Sonia Blangiardo and Teresa Anne Cicala are at ATWT and OLTL respectively. With that in mind, it’s no wonder the production was so soapy!
I had a really wonderful time. Evans got to showcase his singing voice, which, as my colleague and I learned from his awesome mother, Lisa Evans, was what led him into theatre in the first place. (She makes her OLTL debut as Barbara Fish this week, and I can’t wait!) I hope OLTL head writer Ron Carlivati, who was in attendance, filed away some notes for a future musical episode featuring Officer Fish coming out with those amazing pipes! Evans’ co-stars and pals, Brett Claywell (Kyle) and Tika Sumpter (Layla) were at the show as well. I told Claywell that Kyle has been much-missed by fans of late, and he laughed that it must mean he’s doing something right. Didn’t get much more than a quick hi with Sumpter, but she looked amazing.
It was a great group of people, coming together for a great cause (the performance benefited the Lustgarten Foundation for Pancreatic Cancer Research) and I’m glad I trekked out to a borough I’d never been to before to be a part of it!
As for planning a big, gay Kish wedding… well, I think the consensus was that the guys should actually get together before anyone starts picking out china patterns! LOL.
