Shiny Happy Happy Shiny
As it turns out, I have been mispelling a writer’s name. Inspite of having read Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, it took me a google search to figure out that Susanna Clarke’s first name is *not* spelt “Susannah”. Damn. Which means that the teeny little disclaimer about perfect spelling on my user-info does not hold good any longer. I swear – if I had a knife nearby, and if I wasn’t so chicken-hearted, I would be slicing off my little finger in disgrace.
Couple of happy things:
- I bought myself a complete set of the six Akira graphic novels on eBay. And a set of Daredevil, issues 26-69, the delectable Brian Bendis/Alex Maleev run from the same seller.
- Discovered the joys of Berke Breathed’s lovely comic series Bloom County. Got some of the collected volumes off a sale for 50 rupees each. It was the sight of the dog pushing the wheelchair of a Vietnam vet, both quoting Star Trek, that brought me to this conclusion. Highly recommended.
- My Andrew Vachss collection is now technically complete. I have all the books until Pain Management (2001), which is fifteen books in all. I haven’t seen the newer novels in stores anywhere in India.
- Picked up a first-edition copy of Gods, Demons and Others by RK Narayan (with the dust jacket intact) for 100 Rs. This was one of the first books I bought with my own money, sometime in December 1988, and I don’t really remember where the copy is, right now. But getting this version made me real happy. I loved the delightful tone of voice in which RK Narayan narrated these stories, when I read this book the first time – inspite of knowing most of them by heart ( courtesy Amar Chitra Katha.
The more Takeshi Kitano movies I watch, the more convinced I am that the guy is the Japanese equivalent of Shah Rukh Khan, playing different facets of himself in all his movies. But then, the joy of watching a Kitano movie lies in observing the cliches that he has mastered – the silent, brooding protagonist, the in-your-face violence that launches itself in extremely creative ways, Joe Hisaishi’s scores, the wisecracking foil played by Susumu Terajima, and the self-destructive ending. It’s not a problem being repetitive ( after all, most classic rockers made a fortune out of repetitiveness), it’s a problem when the repetitiveness becomes in-your-face, loud, and crass. None of these are attributes I would associate with a Kitano movie. Fireworks was a picture-perfect film. Every other minute of the movie, I would want to pause the player and just observe the frame, each moment a cinematographic masterpiece. After a very, very long time, I have this urge to paint (which is not necessarily a good thing, I know), because of this movie.
Whoa whoa whoa, what do we have here? Francois Ozon’s Swimming Pool is all set to be released in Delhi sometime in March, and Bangalore/Chennai in April. Not bad at all, though this will be the good-bits version, or maybe the good-bits-are-hidden-but-you-can-try-make-sense-out-of-what-we-show-you-version as decreed by our hallowed Censor Board.
I live in a country where you get live albums by Isaac Hayes at book sales for 60 Rupees a CD. I don’t know whether to be glad or pissed. ( Pissed because had I been a little late, someone else would have bought that CD. Damn)
Did anyone notice the market for old comics in India? A fine example – Blossom Book House is selling copies of Indrajal comics from the seventies and eighties for 20-25 Rs each. Issues that have a cover price of 1-2 rs, and which are missing covers are being put up with these kind of prices, and surprisingly, people are buying them at those prices. Everytime I go there, the issues I saw the last time are gone, and more copies have come in, with similar prices. Makes me glad I filched all those old Indrajal comics off assorted cousins and uncles a decade ago.
The more I look at Paris Hilton, the more I am reminded of Kareena Kapoor. Not a good thing.
A minor Gaiman-related update.
Something just caught my eye a little late. I had this conversation with Navin ( mrsgollum) once, about a sex scene in Stardust by Neil Gaiman.
Seems Neil Gaiman got a mail from a fan similarly offended by the scene sometime this week, and this is how he replied to the mail. And his explanation makes sense, really, much more sense than the way I put it then. Navs, hope you are convinced now. ;-)
Random Nostalgia
It kind of gives me a kick to think that two years ago and a day ago, at this time, I was standing about eight feet away from AR Rahman. They were arranging the stage at Gachibowli stadium for the concert, and I was up on the top level of the three-tiered structure, holding a tabla in one hand, waving at the orchestra with the other, and trying very hard not to giggle/dissolve into hysterics/faint, as I thought of the two All-Entry Passes in my pocket.
Four long trips, one fight, and one heckuva concert, all in one evening. Man, that was a night to remember. And not just because of AR Rahman and the rest of the crew.
BR2, Susannah Clarke, Bone and Cerebus
Battle Royale lovers be warned – Battle Royale 2: Requiem is to the first movie what Kisna is to Lagaan. Overblown acting, choppy cinematography, less-than-a-quarter-baked character developement, and a storyline that makes you want to gouge your eyes out and promise never to overestimate a movie sequel, even though it’s Japanese and claims to be “Asian Extreme Cinema”. To think I almost ordered this movie from cd-WOW a couple of months ago, and stopped myself because of this vague hope of finding it in National Market sometime. I did,on Monday night. Watched it. Yeaagh!
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And come to think of it, I have been watching too many movies lately. 26 movies in January, and 9 so far this month. Part of this is because of the DVDs I’ve been finding at National Market.
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England, London in particular, as visualized by Ms Susannah Clarke in the exquisite Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell haunted me for a week in January. It took me that much time to read the 800-odd page book. This hasn’t really happened before, my reading a paragraph and then rereading it. Generally, it is the story that takes me forward, rather than the prose. Susannah Clarke, however, made me pause and savour the rain-soaked, fog-swept streets and alleys of nineteenth century London, a world which has some shades of our world, and some of its own; the characters – quaint, unfantasylike names ( I absolutely hate fantasy stories have an overdose of z’s and x’s and q’s in the names of the characters) and demeanour. It’s not an action-packed magicfest, nope. Reading Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell is more like a brisk walk on a misty winter morning – you know the chill isn’t going to last, and you know beautiful sights lie in store for you once the sun comes up. You shiver once in a while, wishing you were safely under your blanket in bed, but at the end, there’s nothing really like walking alone on a wintry morning. Call it English Magic, if you will.
Just when I was done with the book, I had the one-volume Bone, by Jeff Smith, delivered to me. Now I have read parts of Bone, mind you. Scattered issues towards the beginning, and a couple of story-arcs in the middle. But the joy of reading the complete story, end to end, is something that really cannot be expressed in words. Bone is funny one moment, touching the next, and the more I progress, the more of an epic heroic fantasy it’s trying to become. How can anyone not fall in love with the Moby-Dick loving Fone Bone, the guy whose hat bursts into flame the first time he sees Thorn bathing in the river? How can you not root for Gran’ma Rose as she races her cows? Yes, you heard that right, she races cows. She runs. I would kill to have a grandmother that can run neck-to-neck with a cow and occasionally pound those stupid, stupid rat creatures to a pulpy quiche.
And now that I am about to finish the Bone volume, I just got five volumes of the Cerebus trade paperbacks delivered to me yesterday. Three of them autographed by Dave Sim and Gerhard. Muhuhahahahaha.
Life is pretty much fun. I reserve the mornings for reading and the nights for movies, and I slog my ass off in the daytime. Suits me fine, I say.