Feminaticism

I don’t generally adhere to criticizing someone else's thoughts when they diligently decide to articulate them in print. Some of them inspire, while most somehow manage to be labeled as analyzing and perceptive individuals who have made it a point to carry the gauntlet of western intelligentsia. And though most of their articles, I admit, grab my attention till the first or sometimes the second paragraph before I quietly move on to the sections that comment on the garb on Paris Hilton, it’s the dream of every writer to be a part of that elitist community.

But sometimes, even a mundane mind can’t help but resort to hollow shouts against certain so called commentators of popular culture. What’s more, they show their vanity by stressing on their over-the-top belief system and try to incorporate that system on every wordy essay they decide to ejaculate in the process of their intellectual masturbation. Like for instance, I happened to come across this particular article. And needless to say, the wonderful woman considers herself, and am sure quite proudly, as a feminist. And true to her clan, she also proves to the world, how anal and uptight the community can be.

I don’t know, whether it’s their inherent insecurity or their everlasting desire to connect everything with one single thought process, but when I read something like this in one of the most prestigious publications of the world, I can’t help but snort.

  “The director Christopher Nolan features heroes grieving their wives' tragic demise in a good number of his films: Memento, The Prestige and Inception. But he's not alone: Hollywood films contain more dead wives than Bluebeard's basement."

I am sure Ms. Gregory had a nice day before writing this. Walking down the wet stony London lanes lazily avoiding a drive to feel the wind slap her face. And then quietly typing the words on her laptop with a smirk on her face thinking that she has successfully done what feminists of the 21st century have been mentally conditioned to do --- Find out any single pin hole of an opportunity where the subject in question, even remotely signifies objectification of the female species.

Imagine a man writes a story about dreams and the prospect of stealing them, of manipulating them, of being a slave to them and trying to create a time line between the complex structures of dream and reality. Where buildings and townships go upside down, where mirrors face each other in an attempt to visually represent the concept of infinity, and then imagine a woman or a man (lest I objectify) sitting through all this, and thinking “why did he make the wife die and show the man growing emotionally”. It takes talent, to reach such levels of myopia.

The problem is, when these people watch anything that gives them the right to analyse or judge, they can’t decide which role they should take. For if they watch a film from the point of a normal viewer, they would start feeling a little run-of-the-mill I guess. “It’s a fantastic film. And so says everybody. But what about feminism?” And it gets ridiculous at such humongous levels that the ridicule ceases to invite a chuckle anymore. For am sure they would watch Kill Bill, which is perhaps the exact opposite situation where a woman is shown struggling through her emotions after the loss (in a way) of her husband, and come up with something like “Oh, Tarentino is trying to use his films to show women as a part of violent fantasia.” And perhaps some of them, who haven’t yet reached the levels of bullshit as the others, would probably ask their children to not watch it because of the violence and gore, while they scratch their heads to find an “insult to feminism” angle to it.

And it’s not like they don’t know what they are doing.

    “I don't want to sound like I'm down on any film or filmmaker in particular, just this godawful trope. Inception is an intelligent, thoughtful film that self-reflexively challenges ideas about narrative. But sometimes it seems like enjoying popular culture and being a feminist seem mutually exclusive. I don't want to have to turn my feminism off in the theatre just so I'm not niggled by the fact that….”

So it is a switch right? And every time she sits down to watch a movie with her preconceived notion worn loosely on her sleeve, rest assured it’s “turned on.” And then of course she shows off her ability to see both sides and talks of the mutual exclusivity. Well, if it is, then I don’t know what the point of the article is in the first place. And if it is as she says “sometimes” then those “sometimes” come a little too often for comfort.

If anyone thinks that finding such convoluted points in a movie that took ten years of imagination, and hard work that these pseudo idealistic uptight pieces of pop culture analysts can not even dream about, is intelligent writing, then I am happy being a daft prick. For they will sit and read  Lord of The Rings or watch Jerry McGuire, and just before they are going to gasp in wonder, they would stop and start objectifying anything and everything because they are that damn passionate about thrusting their so called thought process, just to show the world that they are different.

But then, how would one truly expect them to appreciate something like Inception. After all, it’s about dreams.

Of women wrapped in measuring tapes

Some things in life exist to play a certain specific role that you just can’t avoid. They will be there. You shrug your shoulders, jerk your head, jump up and down on your new mattress when your mother is not looking, avoid, run away; they will continue to breathe your air. Take Indian television for example. It’s an accepted fact that most of us can’t really avoid watching it. Whether we demean it in front of a group of friends thereby proving our intellectual fervor for things and showing our frustration about the mediocrity that so conspicuously surrounds us, or casually make an eye gesture stating that we are not from this world, and wherever we are from, we can’t relate to this bullshit, most of us come back and watch at least a part of it. Whether it’s spy cams or glycerin, film trailers or live lottery shows, on-air weddings or shocking revelations of girls and boys put in an apparently far away island, television today exposes our penchant for all that is immoral and grey so shamelessly that one has to take a moment and bow in agreement. Who knew articulate feature writers in lifestyle newspapers would analyse, if not justify voyeurism and make people nod in appraisal in moving buses and trains. Who knew that Facebook  status messages would talk about plastic wedding shows in the pretext of mocking at them. Yes we might mock, but we do watch. And after we watch, who the hell cares what we do with them, mock or revere.

But it’s not really our fault. We watch whatever we are given. We watch whatever is deemed cool at that point of time. We watch, whatever we do not get to watch but always thought in out stolen lonely moments with a smirk on the corner of our lips that it would have been nice to watch. So we see a girl watching her boyfriend touching another girl on the roof of the same building she is sitting in, and we see her cry or get angry or feel the pain. And then we see her being asked whether she wants to go up and talk to him right now, and if she says no, we see her being given a justification for why exactly she should do that. And some of us get disgusted, while some others, suspicious. Some of us get scared, while some others, just have fun. And by the end of it all, we say hello to the new age of television.

From Nukkad and Chunauti to Emotional Atyachaar, television has come a long way in this country. I remember watching a delightful film by Tapan Sinha called Golpo Holeo Shotti, it was probably a film made in the 60’s or 70’s, am not sure, and there was this art guy in an advertising firm, sketched a woman who was wrapped only by a thin swirling measuring tape. When the orthodox middle aged protagonist expressed his reservations about such an “inane” display, the artist nonchalantly stated that it’s not supposed to pass through a moral judgment, it is supposed to sell. And then he used a term called “shockumentary”- the new age documentary that will only grow in its stature. And now, it’s all about that. Being a prude was never cool.  But so wasn’t being shamelessly mediocre. But now, as far as television is concerned, mediocrity works, and hence, it is probably the coolest thing to happen in the visual art form on the small screen. From News channels to reality shows, it’s shockumentary all the way. And we love it.

But then, why would one televisionise films? Why would one try and cash in the content that is being successful on the small screen and try and make the versions in cinema? Probably because of the same reason. But then, something tells me not to appreciate it. I don’t know. Call me a hypocrite. May be because of the hugeness of the screen, may be its all a compact storyline that actually gives a conclusion to the story, or may be, at a very personal level, cinema still has managed to earn a certain sort of respect that television has lost long ago. But suddenly, I become very uncool and touchy and aware when it comes to cinema. So when I watch a couple in love being murdered and cut into pieces on camera, I don’t call it cinema. I call it sadistic orgasm. I call it pornography. I also call it very smart business because when we read all those stories on newspapers, we keep visulaising them and wonder how they would be like, and this is the answer to those questions. I call it demented display of blood and gore in the name of art.


I love the way Scorsese shows violence as a cause of someone’s loss, or a result of circumstances. I can appreciate Tarentino’s (however controversial they may be) bordering abnormal ideas and portraying them on the big screen with mind bogglingly beautiful music. I remember a lot of arguments surfaced after the release of Inglorious Basterds. And while some could not see the point of such ruthless cathartic display, I loved the film. Because somehow, I could see a story written with a lot of care to put it on the screen. Somehow I could see a man sniffing his wife’s handkerchief once before he went on to try and save a group of jews from a vicious Nazi officer. Somehow, I could feel the pain in the rhythm of the music in the midst of the blood bath.  I could see art, in some form, and I appreciate it. But I do not understand something like Love, Sex or Dhoka. It might be grammatically perfect, but I do not see art in it. But then, who am I to judge. As Sinha said, it’s shockumentary. And so might be others, but what scares me is, it’s JUST that. Nothing else. It was made in order to shock people. I can see Mr. Banerjee going up to his producer and saying, “this time let’s make something that would just shock people, shock them so much that they might not want to watch it again… but then who the hell cares… they will remember the film as something else”. So what is next? May be the last phone conversation before a plane crashes, or may be a realistic short film on the tandoor case. And while I can accept it on television, may be I am too rigid to accept this in cinema. For you see, I actually love the latter.

I don't know what ensues in the name of visual media. But I think it’s time I learnt to appreciate instantaneous shock therapy.

But then again, I went and watched Alice in Wonderland. And it wasn’t a smirk at the corner of my lips that followed, it was a smile that stretched the lips till it pained.

And thank god for such a smile.

Lovely. Nonetheless.

A close-up shot of a Colt revolver points towards the camera. And before the lid of your eye reaches the midway before batting, a subdued shot gets out of the metal leaving the steams of the fired bullet floating haphazardly like mist.

Camera moves real fast. Almost as if it’s competing with the wind that plays such an important part in the entire story. Yes it does. As it makes the overcoat on a chilly dusk flutter, or the hair of a protagonist flow, or in an absolutely Archemedian moment of cinematic effect, a stout screw quietly roll off a cupboard and drop inconspicuously on a kerosene filled tin. Does enough to make a few drops of oil fall on the floor, so that when a cigarette butt is thrown with stylish carelessness, the entire area blows up. And the back draft of that fire, also, is given life and character, by the same wind. Yes, wind, plays such an important part.

No scene is allowed to linger. Succinct. Sharp. Snip, snip, snip. Sudden change in the pace of narration (much like this paragraph). Make the dialogues incomplete, let the audience understand the rest of it. Actually no. Don’t. DON’T let the audience linger on the last scene even a second more than the scene gets over, throw in the next scene, next foul-mouthed-British-slang-showering rusty yet street smart witty man who is really pissed off with the moral system of this cruel cruel society comes in. And oh, the Brits make ‘motherfucker’ sound so deliciously delectably pretty. The Americans can never do that. A few powerful, manipulative and confident women later, build up a story line that should have something to do with heist. Why heist? Because it’s sexy. It’s immoral, yet, not harmful. It gives a scope to be smart, and of course, it gives a scope for a chase sequence.

Rock. Underground. Blues. Throw in a little bit of pop and package it in a way so you are making fun of it. And oh, when there is an explosion, massive bloodshed, hero (if there is/are any, because everything in life is grey and all that) is getting his ass badly kicked (and no, women don’t get raped, it’s too gory and vicious for Anglican packaged noir), then use music that would represent a mood which is exactly the opposite. So Symphonies, and some heartbreakingly romantic opera, and how the contrast works! Beautiful music, that rings in the ears long after the film ceases to. Showing the power of music in visual media. And in oh-so-British way.

Who said Brits are uptight? That they can stop a war in the middle because it’s their tea time and wear suits to dinner table? Welcome to the world of Guy Ritchie, a world that very few people will dislike. And I am no exception. So Robert Downey Jr. (may everything that has the power to bless, bless him and more) plays the king of deductive logic in surrealistic Victorian England. With perhaps, an attempt to shock audience by giving them a Sherlock Holmes that makes a mockery of the subtlety of Doyle. So he shows off his abs, oops, abdomen, and cracks outrageous jokes. No he isn’t tall. And yes, he has no qualms about making out with darn it, snogging, Irene Adler. And there he is, naked and gagged, with a pillow put on a strategic position, nonchalantly asking the house maid to help him out.

So it was the perfect Downey Jr.-meets-Ritchie-to-make-a-movie-adaptation of a dark detective classic that we have grown up reading and loving and has always reminded us of an overcast London with horse carriages and dimly lit lanterns which failed to brighten up the streets. So all those who went to the theatre thinking it would have the same mood as the book, or even the past films or play adaptations, obviously, don’t know much about Guy Ritchie, or for that matter, Robert Downey Jr.

Yet, the core characteristics of Holmes remain the same. Love for chemistry, violin (though comically shown to make fun), obnoxious nature, compulsive loner and stylishly eccentric. They were all there. But in three to four doses more than the original character perhaps. And I loved it. For me, it was such a refreshing way of seeing the world of Baker Street. And other than that crow as a symbol of murder, there was nothing really dumb or obvious in its obviousness. If Ritchie had a world of his own, then Arthur Conan Doyle would have written Sherlock Holmes just like this.

But for some inexplicable reason, I have forgotten most of the film, the minute I came out of a particularly crowded Sterling theatre. But then I realized, that’s exactly what Ritchie movies are like. Forgettable pieces of fun and gore, with razor sharp editing and a storyline that’s written to support the movements of camera. And I say to myself, that thank god it was a different story. Or imagine watching The Hound of Baskervilles, without soul.

And oh, this remains incomplete without a mention of Jude Law. The man gives a heart to even a Ritchie film.

Well, almost.