The Unbearable Empty-ness of Being Cute; or How to Sweep the Oscars

Michel Hazanavicius' "The Artist" is going to sweep the Oscars tonight (and as I am posting it, the prediction has come true). Every single award ceremony this year stands testimony to that. Indeed, if it does not, we can in all justification call it a 'revolutionary' day. And all we know revolutions do not take place in Hollywood. I also suspect all 'miracles'; they belong to the lazy and the guilty.

I condemn that. I know it is slightly stupid to condemn an Oscar favourite. (Who is being naive now, Kay?) But I still condemn because it is an issue that is not restricted to one single film. I condemn a trend.
"The Artist" is an almost silent film, and IMDB lists it as a 'romance'. It was shot in colour, and then transferred into black-&-white in the post-production stage; if you observe the light flares in certain shots closely, you will be able to deduce it. Which is a godsend, because that is the only worthwhile thing you might do during the screening.

The story of the film is abysmally simple. Once upon a time--and did I tell you I hate that beginning?--there was a great silent film star. In Hollywood mythology, great male stars are always from the silent era. The concerned star here is a combination of many such real figures, but the main reference here is obviously Douglas Fairbanks. He also has a dog (reminded me of Asta from the Thin Man series), a chauffeur, a disgruntled and cold wife (Penelope Ann Miller, wasted here), and a mansion. An ordinary girl bumps into him in front of the media glare, capitalizes it to gain a foothold in the industry, and a couple of films later, the star finds himself going through the ignominy of multiple takes so that he could dance with the girl working as an extra. In the meanwhile, sound comes. The star laughs at it. Does not think it is worth a penny. We all know what happens after that: he becomes bankrupt. But the girl's love must get him back. Does she succeed? Producers love such 'succinct' scripts; you can sell it to a stone-deaf man reading it aloud!

Then there is another film which plays through this one: Singing in the Rain. In fact, the male-female duo almost explicitly re-enact the same relation. Both the stars of the film--Jean Dujardin and Beatrice Bejo--are good dancers, and there is a bravura long take of their dancing at the end of the movie. A happy account of film history: silent era transformed itself to become the Musical!

Is there anything else in the movie? Yes, there is. None of the plot mentioned above are beyond and above the mannerism of the film. Indeed, the whole film plays like a museum slide-show of lost mannerisms and quirks of silent films. Problem is, if you have seen silent films well enough, you will find them ludicrous. And isn't it sad to find a French director equating the whole of silent cinema with Hollywood, that too a very limited perception about its complexity? What troubled me even more is the fact that the film could not decide what it wanted to be: an allegory of an ego-bound man's redemption, or a discourse about silent cinema, and stardom? But that is not a fault, or even a mistake. That is the signature of certain types of contemporary film. I call them the 'cuties'.

Hazanavicius and Dujardin, both of their previous claim-to-fame was through making nice and domestic-quality spoofs. In one sense, this is also a spoof which has lost its teeth. It does not know what to bite, it might have even forgotten that it is supposed to bite. There is a contemporary euphemism for such films: homage. But let us not bemoan the collective bad taste of our contemporaneity.

Spoof, as a genre, or even pastiche or homage, are necessarily bound to their reference, thus much more topical, contemporary and thus intentionally political than other films. You can not justify a spoof simply by saying I wanted to make one; you have to show more reasons. When spoof as a genre began to emerge as a major generic force in the Western world, it was downright subversive. When Mars Attacks! was made by Tim Burton, it not only lampooned Independence Day, it took mega-size pot-shots at American politics and mass culture. What followed next was the oft-repeated story of the domestication of a powerful cinematic weapon by the industry, and a slow dissipation of its energy into other fields and interests.

By the time "The Artist" is made, a pastiche or a homage has ended up being an euphemism for the most superficial brand of nostalgia films. In one sense, The Artist is a biopic that does not even want to go through the rigour-s of one. The psychological depth of a star's narcissism is lost in the quagmire of stylistic bravura. There is a section where Dujardin's character finds himself unable to produce sound in real life as well. Brilliant touch, but does the film follow it up? No, it does not. Is the film even knowledgeable by half about the silent film industry it refers to? No. The film resembles two things, firstly, a Disneyland trip through the supposed 'old golden age', and the crowd-pleasing antics of movie-stars doing 'numbers'. And I think that is precisely why the movie 'sells' across barriers, and is a darling for both Cannes and Academy Awards. And it is a crying shame that it is the recent bed-partner of Independent Spirit awards as well. Where is the spirit, dude, let alone the 'independent' part?

What we have in our hands is a new cinematic trend. In one sense, you can compare it to 'political correct-ness', although it is much shallower than that. It is a cinematic practice that carefully and almost pedantically sanitizes a film of all excess, depth, decision. It is the art of making a film without making one. You tell a story, but it is not 'your' story; you have a style, but not 'your' style, but always of someone else. And it is here the spoof/pastiche/homage angle comes in. This technique of talking in other's voice and accent comes from those genres. But unlike a true generic film, films like the "The Artist" has nothing to say beyond impersonation. If you take away the stylistic and other stereotypical quotations from "The Artist", you will be left with nothing. For a spoof, that is never the case. Thus, it is obviously symptomatic of a malaise that "The Artist" sweeps the awards and "Hugo" is left with technical awards, as if one is dealing with a Harry Potter franchise here. Obviously, serious engagement with history is too dangerous for the Cinema honcho-s of our time. [My friend Iman Mitra has promised me a piece on Hugo and The Artist, which I shall publish on this blog. With his erudition, I think he will delve much deeper into the comparison. I am merely extemporizing my feelings here]

Cinema is not supposed to be 'safe', and not supposed to be 'cute'. Even the most reviled populist films of Bollywood has more edge than this one. We live in an age of empty gestures, impersonations, stylistic pirouettes, technical skulduggery. As a historical period, it reminds me more of the Mannerist period of painting in Italy. We are exhausted of the creative achievements of our periods. The sterility of our imagination finds its best use in impersonation.

I think my point is buttressed by the fact that Maryl Streep winning the Best Actress statuette. She is a great actress, but in this particular film, she is left impersonating furiously with no character build-up whatsoever. It was role which went nowhere. And now, we have a candidate who won the prize simply because she could impersonate so well! Which is however better, because the Best Actor's performance consisted of being charming and showing a good set of teeth! Yes, I understand one feels nostalgic about Gene Kelly and his peers, but that does not justify valourizing a medium-quality impersonator!

If we love cinema at all, if we believe that it has the capacity of thought and expression, if we think it is more than a joyride, we need to condemn it, not just because of personal distaste, but because we are responsible as a community.

On The Politics of an Old Nation's Foreskin: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

                I had planned to begin this blog again with a review of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, because, without any doubt, it is my favourite film of the year 2011. I first watched it at Prasad IMAX, Hyderabad, my most preferred venue; towards the end of the screening, a member of the audience got up and shouted, not addressing anyone in particular, “picture kisi ko samajh mein aya” (did anybody understand what happened in the movie)? I was feeling what I presume to be the opposite of what the man in the cinema hall felt, but I have to admit that going by the general vibe of the audience, many were uncomfortable about the fact that there were strands and suggestions in the movie that are not easily decipherable: it screamed for a second viewing (and when was the last time you watched a spy thriller back to back, that too in a multiplex?). I, on the other hand, was feeling what a really good film does to me: suddenly I could feel this immense surge of energy inside which I did not know how to utilize. Here was a film that has reportedly grossed $ 17 million at the American domestic box-office alone, despite clearly being a film not mashed and pulverized enough to be processed by any below-average intellect at any stage of slumber, and that itself is enough to give us a high, isn’t it? And yet, I dithered, I hesitated; now, in hindsight, it might have been a simple unwillingness to part with the object of one’s love. But I waited for one specific reason. I realized quite early on that this film is a brilliant example of an adaptation. By that, I do not want to repeat the obvious and known fact that it is a movie adaptation of John Le Carre’s novel Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (the comma-s were taken out of the film), but that the film is literary in a very modernist sense, and if one does not appreciate that, one does not even begin to comprehend the film.

                Generally, I do not read the literary source from which films come. By principle, I like to judge a film solely on the merit of what it shows and does not. Adaptation can be a good exercise to flex one’s analytic muscles for a film scholar, but for a film critic, they often act as unwanted sources of value-judgment that can a priori determine the outcome. It is a bit like being a Harry Potter fan: any bilge down the drain that stomps around carrying the holly banner gets an ear-splitting approval! But with Tinker, Tailor… I made an exception to this rule. Which was not really an exception, as I was not reading it because I needed to supplement my appreciation for the film or because they were needed to understand it; the film itself forced me to read the book, to experience it once again, under a different skin. This is a really rare phenomenon, and the last time it happened to me was at the very beginning of my film apprenticeship, at the tender age of sixteen, and the film was The Godfather (needless to mention, the book was inferior). Hence, I read the book. Then, I read the next two parts of the trilogy on trot. By now, I think I can safely say I have at least a beginner’s understanding of the intricate Smiley-Karla world so deftly and intricately populated by Le Carre’s details. Then, I watched the film again. It was even more electrifying than the first. In the meanwhile, two weeks have flown by.

                Thus, this piece comes already two weeks late. Now, I have a problem exactly the opposite of what has been called the ‘Beginner’s Dilemma’: I have so much and so many things to say that I do not know where to stop. Still, let is try.

                First of all Tinker Tailor is one of those very rare spy thrillers that you do not just need to understand, but feel. Today’s cinema rarely likes to demand from its viewers sustained attempts  at utilizing one’s critical and emotional faculties, and at best, emotions are only aroused when they can be controlled as a conditioned reflex: once the bell stops ringing, the dog stops salivating! On the other hand, the feel of this film can be quite depressing for the viewer longing for identification, easy cues for empathy, expectation etc. This is the first characteristic that makes this film stand out: it withholds obvious narrative clues, easy emotions, flimsy moralities. If you expect film to be like Pepsi or Horlicks, this isn’t it. This is a glass of very dry Chablis, and it demands the owner of the tongue to reciprocate the same sensitivity in kind.

                Secondly, the film uses the same sensitivity in the very look it produces. In one sense, this is a film about London, and not just any London, and especially not the London of tourism brochures. It is the gloomy and brooding London of the old Imperial “Great Game”, now bereft of its colonial glory, but still strutting imprudently into the thick of Cold War. This is a London of grey, brown and beige, and Alfredson, the director, eschews the seduction of cinematographic bravura quite comprehensively. In this age of tremendously mannerist film-making, such restraint is remarkable. The director, Tomas Alfredson, is Swedish, and he brings to the film and the film’s London the signature color palette of Scandinavian graphic designs, which, since Gurinder Chaddha, has become increasingly rare in British film-making. One of the scriptwriters of the film, Peter Straughan, has given us a glimpse into the directorial method of Alfredson here; he is found telling the cinematographer Hoyte van Hoytema the film should look like the “smell of wet tweed”, and he reaffirms it with the scriptwriter, whom he tells to write a script whose feel would replicate that of a “old man’s foreskin”!!  It is indeed a story of an old man’s nakedness, embarrassing in its brash posturing and petty little games of the aristocratic elites. That is really the crux of Le Carre’s novel, and it speaks volumes about Alfredson’s directorial precision that he managed to condense the whole spirit of the novel so poetically in those few words.

                Le Carre’s novel, the first installment of what is known as The Quest for Karla trilogy, painstakingly constructs the world of British Intelligence Service (mainly MI6) that has absolutely no similarities to Ian Fleming’s absurd glorification of the male chauvinist spy. Instead, it is a bureaucratic world per excellence, where all the exciting bits of detection happens in a department called “research”. In Le Carre’s world, no one glosses you about the typical code language of the bureaucracy; if you need to know what a “lamplighter” means, you need to read carefully and deduce on your own. And this ‘world’ that revolves around the headquarters called—very significantly—the “circus” and especially the fifth floor where the honchos sit (who are, by the way, called ‘owls’) is a microcosm of the British aristocracy, and the ‘great game’ is still played in the spirit of a Test Match at Lords in summer. There is a character in the novel (and in the film), Connie Sachs, who indeed calls the spies her “boys”. In the movie, Bill Haydon (played with an awesome, almost monstrous mastery by Colin Firth) and Peter Guillium (Benedict Cumberbach; yes, yes, the Sherlock Holmes guy. Don’t get your hopes too high; he is a side-kick here) come into the office on a bicycle and check out the new arrival in the office—a secretary of tender age and of the other sex—with a ceremonial pomp that is unmistakably British. And yet, all of these are happening in the festering air of cold war, and soon the happy delusion of the imperial game was to slip away forever. The head of the Circus, known only as Control—which is odd, since the only other person who is only known by a code-name is the arch-villain Karla—realizes that there is a ‘mole’, that is, a double-agent (the word ‘mole’ came into being with Le Carre’s work) inside the very top echelon of the Circus, but before he could intervene, something disastrous takes place, and there is a complete overhaul of power on the fifth floor. Control is thrown out, and so is his right-hand man George Smiley. Years later, and after Control’s death, Smiley is brought back to force the ‘mole’ out after fresh reports reach the ministry about the existence of the traitor. Without spoiling the tale and its suspense, I can tell you that by the time Smiley gets to this ‘mole’, every remaining trace of self-importance the Circus possessed was crushed. We so seldom realize that a cleansing is by rule more disastrous than an act of betrayal.

The Owls (notice the texture of the wall)

The novel was a reaction to a real event which actually forced Le Carre to give up his real-life career in espionage and become a full-time writer. Consequently, it is Le Carre’s most topical and political novel. What Le Carre really wants to demonstrate in the novel is the fact that everybody in the Circus knew somewhere deep down there who the traitor was, but refused to accept it. They refused to accept it, because to accept it would have entailed a complete and horrible demystification of the British imperial romanticism which remained the pleasant veneer under whose cover the dirty work was conducted. In other words, it is a not-very-subtle critique of British elite class; it is the closest Le Carre came to being a Marxist. However, the strength of the novel lies in the fact that it is not so clearly propagandist. In fact, the act of criticizing is the source of all the pain: the novel undermines precisely what permeates it, what is cherished by it, what creates the only lightness in this heavy material. The sentiment here was probably best expressed by Smiley’s wife Ann in the third book: “the one thing worse than change is status quo”. Only in fiction can you hold such contradiction in such a spoonful.

                The film does not try to achieve this ‘heavy-ness’ by importing large portions of texts from the book. That is Merchant-Ivory’s period pieces for you. In fact, in a film that has very little action, there is also startlingly little dialogue. The film does not try to import the novel’s contents, not even its ‘spirit’. What it does is to import its feel, its skin, so to say. Alfredson has the unfortunately rare gift of talking visually, and his does so with an understated grace that floors me every time I watch it. I suspect the script was built around a centre-piece, a monologue by George Smiley (played by the great Gary Oldman, who will most probably again lose the Best Actor Oscar to a totally undeserving candidate like Jean Dujardin) delivered to Peter Guillium. It is a monologue where Smiley looks directly at the camera, and tells the story of his only encounter with his arch-enemy, Karla. As the monologue progresses, Smiley shuttles between the role of Karla and himself to such an extent that the moral separation between the two sides of the war vanishes. If you are looking for some sort of ‘message’ in this film, that is the closest it comes to delivering one. I suspect it is not a very pleasant message for most. Every other scene is placed around this center like interlinking mosaic, but the connection between the fragments is stoically understated. And the modernist bit about the film and the book lies there. Le Carre creates a comprehensive parallel world whose realism matches that of the outer world, but this is not the world of Christopher Nolan’s Inception. You do not get an architect who will give you a convenient lecture about the nitty-gritty-s of the complexity. There is no easy psychologizing, no exposition involved here.  The master-plan is absent. You are literally thrown into this world, and you need to be as observant as Smiley to become a part of it. It is not as radical a world as that of James Joyce’s, but the impulse remains the same. And that is precisely why I feel it is extremely stupid to ask for a more ‘fleshed out’ narrative. The point of the film lies in what it does not show, and what it merely hints at.

                You must have noticed I have not uttered a word about the protagonist, George Smiley, here. I shall not, because it is the central task of the spectator in the film to find out who Smiley is. Not who is the invisible traitor, but who the visible man is. Watch his glasses; they reflect light back and hide his eyes like a spider. You will in all probability never see more vocal a pair of glasses ever in cinema. In one sense, this is a bildungsroman about Smiley, only put upside down. Notice how ironic the sudden burst of Julio Iglesias at the end of a movie that almost always refuses to use any extra-diegetic music is.

You will in all probability never see more vocal a pair of glasses ever in cinema

                However, the adaptation does make significant changes. Although a certain homo-erotic angle was already present in the book, the script punctuates it much more explicitly. The Circus is thus not merely the last vestige of a class delusion, but also teeming with men masquerading masculinity simply to survive—I presume—internal persecution. Isn’t the pain of that repression enough to turn one into a renegade? More importantly, the topicality of the original book, by now, is really redundant; hence, the film, as an adaptation, is more allegorical than topical. In one sense, the story is no longer about cold war at all, but the very world in which we live. Let that remain there, hanging in the air, to provoke your thoughts.

                Consequently, the Smiley of the film is much more brutal than the book. Some people pointed out their preference for the TV version starring Sir Alec Guinness. I personally found it to be too close to the book, and thus, too talkative. But more importantly, the Smiley of the film is a slightly different man, which might have a very different political significance to our times. Notice how he wins over the chair in the crown room of the Circus with background applause in the very last shot of the film. But his table is empty. He has cleansed it so thoroughly he is left with none. His triumphant look at the end thus attains a slightly delusional aura. This Smiley is much more disturbing than the original. And much more thought-provoking.

                It is always a pleasure to watch ensemble films with British cast; that nation, backed up by its formidable theatre traditions, produces great actors at a mass production rate. The same applies to this film also. The center-piece obviously is Gary Oldman, the greatest living actor who has not received an Oscar yet. Here, he acts stillness, one of the very difficult things to do onscreen, especially when you are there in almost 80% of the movie. But the most surprising part of the movie belongs to Mark Strong as Jim Prideaux. After his interminably long stint as comic book villains, here he finally manages to pocket and execute a role which does not have him hamming inconsolably. I hope this marks the arrival of a potentially great British actor. Colin Firth manages to empty his considerable charms enough to suggest a sickness, an anger, and an aggression covering up a hollowness inside. And then there is John Hurt, who no longer acts, but lends the absurdly aged crevices of his face to the physicality of the film.

                Tomas Alfredson is a serious contemporary auteur, and his two feature film—the other one being the awesome Let the Right One In—stands testimony to that. He does not belong to the now-antiquated art house-cinema crowd; and his auteur-ism has nothing to do with those large and apparently philosophical issues. He is more concerned with genres, and both his films signify significant contribution to their respective genres. I shall wait for his next, although he has already announced his retirement from film-making once, even before this film was conceptualized!

                Such brave films do not win Oscars. They are a little too difficult, a little too uncompromising. They have no message, nor are the favourites of some at-the-moment fashionable political group or cause. Instead, the Oscar will in all probability go to “The Artist”, the hollowest and sensationalist film to become big in a long, long time, and even if it does not win, the Best Actor will surely go to Jean Dujardin, who will be eligible for the honour for nothing but raw charm and a good set of teeth. I shall be glad if I am proven wrong, but in all probability, that will not happen. And let us be glad of such certainties. There will always be commercial films that are too dangerous for such conservatives like the Academy, and they shall remain in our memory, unaided, by their sheer excellence.

And I leave with this video of the Julio Iglesias song (what went wrong with the son, eh?). Enjoy.

PROLOGUE: ANOTHER ‘GENERATION’ OF BLOG POSTS, OR, A NO-NONSENSE PRACTICAL GUIDE TO HOW TO LOSE YOUR READERS EVEN BEFORE YOU START TO WRITE

It is difficult to characterize my latest attempt at starting to post my write-ups on, about and around cinema once again on this blog as a ‘rebirth’. You do not get out of your grave after more than three years; even by “Twilight Saga” standards, that is highly unhygienic (and let us—civilized and decent people—not talk about the supposed real-life lack of personal hygiene of the uber-famous male star of the franchise—please!). Rather, this is the second ‘generation’ of this blog. Well, first of all, generation because my monomaniac ego is tickled by the prospect of trans-generational hyper-activity. There is also the minor glitch that even craps—that too of my standard, or the utter lack thereof—need to be ‘generated’ (see, I refrain from becoming scatological already!). And lastly, I hope and I fear that the newest ‘avatar’ will denote significant shifts from the older mode of looking at cinema. My purpose here is mainly to provide a tentative road-map of these potential changes.

But before that, I—in all honesty—need to provide the subjective background that pre-empts this change. And the simple matter of the fact is that when I last posted on this blog, I was truly and pathetically caged and repressed within a ‘corporate’ world (note: in third-world countries, that word actually stands for corporeal punishment), and hence, I was trying my pathetic best to please all parties concerned in the reviews. I did not want confrontations beyond a certain tolerable level; I was being house-trained in finding garden-variety ‘positives’ everywhere (Think positive!). Now, more than three years later and living in a very different city, I cannot possibly—even in my worst nightmares—begin to imagine doing that again. Three years ago, cinema was my escape; today, it is a part of my profession and everyday thought (which does not denote intellectual advancement at all; simply, now I am a student of films). Hence, I am afraid, the very tonality of my readings of films will be different. Secondly, I fear that more and more my thoughts will tend to move from the particular to the general, and readers will often find me looking at films as symptoms of the very health of the society to which such artefacts belong. Thirdly, and most importantly, I shall from now onwards also include a lot of analyses of Bengali and Hindi cinema, and—if the chance arises—other Indian cinemas from other industries.

There is something expressly maniacal about a blog-writer starting his blog: he writes presuming an absent readership, with the attendant existential angst of an egg behaving like a chicken. Thankfully, however, I belong to an utterly schizophrenic field called academics where things are presumed that can make Norman Bates blush. I am blessed. Anyway, there are two ways in which a blog-writer’s mania operates: either, he tries too hard to please his—absent, at that—readers, or, he tries to use pass Esperanto for English. Orson Welles once said that he found it disturbing that his younger generation used such long words; the younger, the longer the word got. My generation is even more absurd. Take this favourite cuss-word of film students for example: HETERONORMATIVITY (if you thought it is a horror movie in the league of ‘Arachnophobia’, you are profound). I first heard this word at a classroom from a hyper-urban, metro-sexual woman whose dimensions can easily challenge a strip of spaghetti; I came out with my castration complex in hand! I solemnly vow I shall not use such secret codes; and indeed, one of the pleasures I want to derive from writing this blog again is to enjoy the freedom of speaking simply. Which does not mean things will be simple; simpletons and simplifications are two of my pet allergies. However, even complex arguments can offer an equal chance of decipherment to everyone; I can and want to promise any and every reader that and only that.

More alarmingly, the readers of blogs can be even more maniacal. There is a whole dictionary of new codes that designates these new cyber-beings; for example, trolls, moles, snots, globs, gluttons, sea-calf-chattering-at-basso-profundo etc. I do not need them. If I have explained why I have found some actor’s work tedious, please do not comment to the effect that you love him/her and think that the sun comes up his/her...anyway. That is not a debate; it is basking in ‘contraries’. I do not like to wallow, and worst of all, I do not like to watch others wallow. If—let’s say—I have presented a critique of ce

rtain kind of ‘Art Cinema’ as politically and/or creatively dangerous, please do not comment that you love such films and you find them profound. I know that. I have been to Film Festivals. I am working my ass off here to present arguments; if you need to engage in a conversation, try to reciprocate that gesture. I believe I can demand that in all fairness. And, please, if you expect political correctness here, I am an impenitent criminal. If you are looking for a fellow traveller, try communicating with the ghost of Mr William Hayes (and convey our regards).

But then, why write the blog at all? In other words, what is the relation between maintaining this blog and the work I am expected to churn out within the field of film scholarship? Well, I personally hope that the relationship will prove to be complementary. Film Studies, as a discipline, is clearly the result of a historical sundering from the field of firstly film criticism and then film activism, and this division-of-labour has been global. Consequently, these are things one can and cannot do within the field of academics. Worse, there are things one cannot say within the field of academics, at least in certain forms. For example, one cannot really judge a film anymore; even if one can, one cannot condemn. The self-assured inferiority complex of a practice-less field necessarily wallows in false humility; my attempt here is to find out whether it is still possible to short-circuit the division. To do so is precisely to write a different language. It cannot be simply the language of the academia or the language of a half-baked rancid Bollywood “Adarsh Critic”; one needs to find a synthesis, one needs to envision a change in the diction in both directions. Is there a possibility of a ‘public sphere’ of film criticism that can maintain a relative autonomy vis-a-visthe simplifying language of th e contemporary market? Can we envision a community of people actually thinking (and not fact-finding, collecting, obsessing, culture-bashing, author-worshipping) in/of/about cinema, anymore? These are the loftiest expectations of my limited attempt;

I am almost convinced that it will fail. But there is a satisfaction to be derived even if one freely chooses the losing side, even if the hand in the game is forced by fate.

I have reserved the last words for the fans of the “Twilight Saga” movie fans. We will—I swear—talk about your favourite movie series and your favourite stars all the time. Indeed, it might seem we are obsessed with them. They will be our favourite garden-gnomes, goitre-d ghouls, etc etc. We will compare their flavours with ten-day old dry bogies. So, repressed boys-&-girls, would-be-spinsters-with-rolling-eyes, fake-leather-sugar-candies, chastity-fixated virgin-seekers, stick to this page, although your mental health will hereafter not be our responsibility.

I do not believe in copyrights, and shall be using relevant pictures from the internet. Please note that these will not be used for any commercial purpose whatsoever.

Lastly, this is a slightly belated birthday gift for Chandrika Acharya. I hope she will approve of it.

Amen.