Two Kiddie Movie Reviews:

(image courtesy: rediff.com)

After ages, it’s raining kiddie movies again. Chhota Bheem and the Curse of Damyaan and Arjun: The Warrior Prince. Okay, maybe two movies isn’t much of a rain-storm, but it is better than a five-minute drizzle — a few of which our hot, sweltering city would greatly appreciatiate, just by the way.

“Chhota Bheem” happens to be my five-year-old son’s hero. We, my eight-year-old son and I, just tagged along for the cheese popcorn. My little one watched with stars in his eyes as Bheem and his gang of friends learnt some cool ‘jum-jum-jum-jadoo’ to defeat the evil snake lord, Damyaan, of Sonapur. The snake lord reminded me of a certain basilisk of Potterish characteristics, a ring of evil which as golden-hued and devilish as its ‘big brother’ in “The Lord of the Rings” and a town named Sonapur, which was (not so?) strangely reminiscent of Disney’s Agrabah of Aladdin fame, complete with flying carpets, with Damyaan’s den resembling the Cave of Wonders. From a very critical, cynical, adult eye’s view, it was very clear that this story probably started out as nothing more than a made-for-TV-movie which was suddenly lengthened a bit to be released in the movie halls so that the very high popularity of Chhota Bheem could be cashed in on by some very astute producers. But, my little one enjoyed and so did his big brother (although he’ll refuse to admit it) and that makes this mamma very happy — she did get to munch on cheese popcorn, after all.

(image courtesy: desimartini.com)

Arjun: The Warrior Prince was much more sophisticated, and why not, as it was made with Disney’s blessings. The life story of the third Pandava brother is one that is full of drama, adventure, romance, human frailty and redemption. This movie focused on just a few parts, with major sequences either being glossed over or not mentioned at all. Now while I realise that huge chunks of India’s, nay, the world’s greatest epic (yes, in my opinion), are not suitable for children, I don’t agree with some of the liberties that were taken. But then again, that is, once again, my opinion. However, the movie was immensely entertaining, of superb standard and huge beacon of hope that our country’s treasure trove of stories may make it to the world of fancy-pants animation after all and reach a global audience. Definitely something to look forward to.

 

 

 

CSAAM 2012: The Forest of Dark

THE FOREST OF DARK

In the forgotten space
of Child’s imagination
there exists a black spot –
the Land of Nightmares.
Here we find
the Forest of Dark.
Mouldy mushrooms
push their way through humus;
anorexic trees
stand naked
amongst rotten leaves,
reveling in their wicked,
wanton
leaflessness.

 

Faceless ghosts
pop out from behind boulders
to grab at the dirty little girl,
shrieking with delight
at her shrieks of pain
and fear.

 

Suddenly,
the ghosts melt down
into the slime
and in a thunder cloud of fore bounding,
the devil arrives,
seated on a big,
black,
hard bed.
The devil is fat
and ugly
with yellow teeth
and giant hands.
The devil grins cruelly
and stretches forward
to pitchfork the little girl
on to the big,
black,
hard bed.

 

The devil starts laughing.
The little girl starts crying.

 

“Mummy!”

 

The little girl wakes up in her own bed,
in her own room,
in her own house.

 

Mummy’s not home.
She’s gone to work.
Daddy’s not home.
He’s gone to work.
The door slowly creeks open
and the baby-sitter stands there.
The devil leers
as he slowly comes towards the bed…

 

It’s April — CSAAM

This is a serious post and so I am going to dive right into it without any preamble.

Remember this wonderful initiative started by some admirable bloggers last year, to raise awareness about a much prevalent yet swept-under-the-carpet societal disease? Yes, I’m talking about Child Sexual Abuse and April is the month that the blogospere is abuzz with raising awareness against this hush-hush topic.

Do you have a story to tell? Do you have any questions to ask? Do you have any tips to share?

You can do it here: csa.awareness.april@gmail.com.

And yes, you can do it anonymously.

But let’s not keep quiet. Victims have suffered in silence for far too long, it’s time to be heard.

 

Blog posts with the logo (you can copy the image above), link back to our blog, with the words “CSAAM April 2012” in the title

Twitter posts or links to @CSAawareness, tagged “#CSAAM”
FB notes linking to our Facebook page
Emails to csa.awareness.april@gmail.com
Or just simply show support by displaying the Picsquare badge on your site/page/profile

This year, we hope to increase our focus and reach with our new CSAAM App and our sensitisation workshops. You’ll find both in our blog come April 2012: http://csaawarenessmonth.com/

When Memories Weep

Despite being born in New York and living there for a good part of my childhood; despite studying in Delhi for five years; despite now living in my city of origin, Kolkata, with my husband and two sons; I will always, ALWAYS, consider myself a Bangalore girl. No, it’s not Bengaluru for me; it’s Bangalore. My beloved Bangalore, my beloved Beantown.

I can close my eyes and see the familiar streets and smell the familiar aromas and hear the familiar sounds of my growing up years. City of first loves, kisses and heartbreaks. City of theatrical awakenings and classical dance feasts. Andhra biriyani, Mysore pak and filter coffee.

So many landmarks populate the landscape of my memories…

And today, two of my favourite, iconic places, are due to down their shutters and close forever — Gangaram’s and Casa Picola.

Gangaram’s Bookstore, standing straight and tall on M.G. Road, one of my all-time favourite hang-outs. Yes, true to my geek/nerd/introvert nature, my favourite hang-outs were, are and will always be, bookstores…after all, I am a bookworm, am I not? I could spend hours there, lost in a blissful state of happiness, browsing, reading, sighing, and occasionally, when my pocket-money allowed it, buying.

And Casa Picola in Devatha Plaza! Home of the Sloppy Joe and my must-have Salami Fritter! And the warm slice of marble cake with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream! Aaaah! My taste-buds are weeping…

as is my childhood :*(

Bangalore will never be the same again.

 image from: bengalurudiscount.com

 image from: deccanherald.com

 

Thank You and Please…

OMG!! I am so, soooo, soooooooo very overwhelmed by the love that has poured in for my poem. This was written straight from the heart and I am grateful that you, my wonderful readers, could sense that, feel it and appreciate it. Your love and appreciation only serves as encouragement, and I hope that I can live up to your expectations.

I now have an appeal. A very, very talented poetess, who I am honoured to call a friend, has a poem that been nominated for a competition. I have plans on doing a full post about her haunting poetry, but until I do, please trust me that she is BRILLIANT. Her name is Sharanya Manivannan and she blogs here. Visit her and drown in words, images and thoughts of unparalleled beauty.

The poem is called ‘Secret Theatres’ and you can read it here.

You can vote for her poem, here:

http://www.3quarksdaily.com/3quarksdaily/3-quarks-daily-2012-arts-literature-prize-vote-here-.html

If that link doesn’t open, then go here:

http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:http://www.3quarksdaily.com/3quarksdaily/3-quarks-daily-2012-arts-literature-prize-vote-here-.html

Thank you. For the love and the support.

 

Sing a Song of Me

Maybe I’ll paint my nails today.
Or go to the salon for some pampering.
Maybe I’ll wear a sari today,
with silver jewellery
and line my eyes
with kohl
and laughter.
Or maybe I’ll just stay in my pj’s
the whole day
with clouds of perfume
dancing above my head.

I’ll probably buy some chocolate
just for me
and eat it up whole –
every last smudge of it,
licking off the melty bits from the
shiny foil.
Maybe it’ll be Lindt.
Or Guylian.
Whichever one it is,
I’ll do it guilt-free.
I’ll do it for me.

Perhaps I’ll let the whole day slide away,
softly,
seamlessly,
from one frame to the next,
minute by minute,
second by moment,
and I’ll just let the ironed clothes be,
leave the books open,
and not care if the wet towel’s on the bed.
Again.
As usual.

I won’t care.
I won’t.
I refuse to.

Maybe I’ll write poetry today.
Or read some at least.
Buy a book.
Or three.
And I’ll read them
all together,
skipping from page to page,
character to character,
author to author
while sipping on endless cups
of fragrant tea,
spiced with
cloves,
cardamom,
ginger
and songs from the tea-gardens.

I’ll stand in front of the mirror,
naked,
and accept myself
and my body.

My body,
with thunder thighs
and lightning-streaked hair;
with gravity-loving breasts,
and dimpled cheeks
(of the derriere);
with those blasted hate-handles
that a pair of giant hands
can firmly clutch on to,
to lift me up and plant me down;
and that big mound
of quivering,
dancing,
jelly-like,
lardy,
fatty tummy
slashed repeatedly with
white-hot stretch-marks.
I will
NOT
mourn the decade past,
when I was younger
and definitely beautiful,
but just didn’t have the wisdom to see it,
own it
and know it to be true.

I will not weep
at this new-found wisdom.

I will sing instead.
I will bow my head
in grace
and gratitude
and then look me in the eye
with love.

I will be
ME.

And I will sing.

—————————————————————————————————

I wrote this poem as part of the Women’s Web ‘Celebrating Myself’ contest for International Women’s Day. I hope you enjoyed this.

<a href=”http://www.zivame.com/?utm_source=blog_contest&utm_medium=blog_contest&utm_content=blog_contest&utm_campaign=blog_contest” target=”_blank” alt=”Celebrating Myself” width=”350px”><img src=”http://www.womensweb.in/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/celebratingmyself.jpg”></a>

The Artist — a film by Michel Hazanavicius

(Image courtesy: http://www.soundonsight.org/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/the-artist-movie-poster-2011-10207010171.jpg)

I don’t always agree with the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences when they dole out their awards once a year in the biggest glam-fest of Hollywood. I still love, love, LOVE watching the Oscars though, and religiously do so, setting my alarm clock so that I can catch the live telecast, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that I agree with the choices.

But this time…oh, THIS time they were absolutely spot-bang-on! And how! I mean, a silent movie — in THIS day and age! And not just silent, but black-and-white and silent! Wow!

“The Artist” is a triumph! I just loved it! It was perfect in every which way!

The look, feel and emotions of the film — perfect.

Jean DuJardin as George Valentine — perfect.

Berenice Bejo as Peppy Miller — perfect.

James Cromwell as Clifton and John Goodman as Al Zimmer and even Penelope Ann Miller as George’s unhappy wife, Doris — perfect.

The direction by Michel Hazanavicius — perfect.

Twenties Hollywood — perfect!

The music — divine! (You thought I was going to say ‘perfect’, didn’t ya, didn’t ya? Well, gotchya!)

Uggie the doggie — adorable! (Gotchya again ;-D)

It’s a simple movie about a simpler time and what happens when simple starts to get complex. Is all change good? Can everyone be expected to change? What happens to those who don’t want to or can’t? Again, the answer is simple — they adapt.

Of course the movie is also about human egos and frailties. Thoughtless or flippant remarks made without thinking about their impact on another person. About remorse, love and making-up. About stars fading away and stars being born. About saying it all without saying a word.

There are no grand, complex plot lines which require a few stiff drinks or a puff on a special cigarette to help you work out what it is the film is trying to say. No crude theatrics. No gratuitous sex, violence or nudity…not even a tiny spark except for a certain hand gesture which our young have happily picked up thanks to Ranbir ‘Rockstar’ Kapoor. No fireworks…by which I mean SFX of the ‘Avatar’ and ‘Transformers’ modules; no, not even of the ‘Ben-Hur’ calibre.

It’s a clean movie. It’s a simple movie. It’s a sweet, solid, touching movie. Jean DuJardin is classic, b’n'w, old Hollywood handsome and his smile just makes you want to be his toothbrush! (and ummm, I do mean that in a sexy-cat way, of course). And Berenice Bejo! Oh she just lights up the screen with her presence with such a mobile face that exhibits a hundred-and-fifty different emotions a minute! She looked the part of the quintessential flapper girl of the twenties and her eyes spoke such volumes that I almost forgave her for having a body shape that I last had when I was six-years-old.

Granted I haven’t seen Martin Scorcece’s ‘Hugo’ or Woody Allen’s ‘Midnight in Paris’ (which, something tells me, I’m going to love, own and claim as ‘made for me’) or even ‘The Descendants’ by Alexander Payne, but I loved ‘The Artist’ from start to finish and I think it was definitely worthy of an Oscar.

Yes, I know I’m a soppy, sentimentalist, but so, it would seem, is Michel Hazanavicius and the voting  jury of the 84th Academy Awards.

Go on. Give the movie a shot. It might surprise you. It certainly did my husband.