These days, I often find very little news to read in the daily papers. By that I mean news of very little consequence. On most days, the papers have no worthwhile news to report. The media simply fills the pages of the newspapers with any news they can get their hands on. Some of it is self-congratulatory – a narcissistic self-fulfilment for us Indians. Sadly, India’s leading English-language daily, The Times of India, fits this description perfectly. Here’s an example:
While the whole world is talking about the killings in Kenya, where over 800 people have died in the past four days, The Times of India (in Bangalore – that’s where I am at present) today has ‘Monkey off Bhajji’s back’ as the main story on their front page. It reports about a ban on Indian cricketer, Harbhajan Singh, for an alleged racist remark made to an Aussie player in an earlier test match, being lifted and Harbhajan Singh’s name being cleared of the racial charge.
This main story is supported by other headlines on the front page: (a) ‘Tests confirm it is water contamination’ – about illness and death in Bangalore from contaminated drinking water; (b) ‘Re rise pinches IT staff pockets’ – about the rise in the Indian rupee having a negative impact on salaries of information technology employees; (c) ‘Illegal copter landing leads to mare’s death’ – about a horse in Mumbai’s Mahalaxmi race course being put to sleep when it broke a leg against a barrier while trying to escape in panic, when a helicopter landed on the race course.
More interestingly, today’s Times of India also has a substantially large picture of a spanking-new winding highway; the image spread diagonally across the bottom half of the front page. I didn’t get the significance of this picture… until I noticed some small-print text on the image bottom, leading to a full-page colour ad on Page 5 of the newspaper. The ad on Page 5 belonged to IRB Infrastructure Developers Ltd, which builds (yes, you guessed it) highways and roads in India, and is planning on an IPO to raise funds for its projects.
And, the killings in Kenya story? I couldn’t find it at all. Not even on the Times Global page (Page 21) with its ‘Love All Nations Alike’ tag line. The main story here was ‘Bush admits economy in distress, won’t take blame’.
Distress is what I feel when I read The Times of India these days. But then, will the newspaper take the blame for delivering to our doorsteps news of so little consequence?
30 January 2008
29 January 2008
Dhiraj Chawda: Reflections
Amitabh Bachchan (early career)
Yesterday I received a wonderful gift from a dear friend. It was Bollywood photographer Dhiraj Chawda’s recently-launched book, Reflections over the last 50 years. The book, a coffee-table edition, is an exclusive collection of Mr Chawda’s photographs – mostly portraits of some of Bollywood’s greatest stars (film, dance and music), and a few other Indian celebrities (e.g. Rajiv Gandhi, Ustad Vilayat Khan).
Although I have seen Mr Chawda’s work in the Indian media, some many times over, I must confess that I know very little about him and his achievements. Hence, I have reproduced below an extract from a screenindia.com article I read on the Internet today:
“Dhiraj Chawda, ace glamour photographer for over forty years, describes himself as an artist who paints with his camera. He is best known for his portraits of film stars, and is remembered for his meticulous attention to detail, his penchant for experimentation, and his ability to create an ethereal aura around his subjects. A walk down memory lane with a man who is an inspiration to photographers even today.”
The entire screenindia.com article can be accessed here.
The book, Reflections over the last 50 years, is obviously worth owning – or, at least, worth taking a look at.
[Citation: Image reproduced from Dhiraj Chawda’s book, Reflections over the last 50 years.]
26 January 2008
Kate Marshall – the artist as the model
Portrait of the Artist as an Artist, 2007
“My most recent work stems from an interest in the fetishisation of the artist and the artist/model relationship. From Vasari’s ‘Lives of the Great Artists’ to Anais Nin to contemporary celebrity culture we have been fascinated by the romanticised figure as much as their work. I have begun to realise this might now include me and that I should redress the balance with my ‘models’. Until now I have been the Madame of the house and not one of the whores. I hope these quasi-self portraits are also a reminder of the humour in my work.”
– Kate Marshall, artist
There is something erotic about Kate Marshall’s art – something that gives me a voyeuristic feeling when I look at her work. Perhaps that is her intention. For, embedded in her art is a fascination with the female nude – an exploration of the feminine ‘self’. No doubt, the simplicity of colour and form, and her experiments with the artist as the model, add to the appeal.
See more of Kate Marshall’s work on her website.
[Citation: Image reproduced from Eyestorm. Quote reproduced from Kate Marshall’s press kit from her website.]
25 January 2008
David Leeson – a means of storytelling
Peru – woman
“There’s a 1,000 stories right there in a small town. It’s just a matter of getting out and opening your eyes and caring enough about people to do it… I should mention that a prerequisite for photojournalists is caring. It’s about caring for people. If you don’t care about people you’re not going to do well in this business.”
– David Leeson, in an interview with Mark Hancock
I am a great admirer of American photojournalist David Leeson. From what I’ve read about him, like me, he is fascinated by the art of storytelling. The difference between us, of course, is simple: Leeson is a genius with camera.
That apart, Leeson is a well-travelled person, having covered 60-odd countries across the world, documenting history and the pains and passions of people in conflict zones, across a 20-odd-year award-winning career.
David Leeson has successfully used still photography and video (later), creating many award-winning images and documentaries. After being nominated twice before (in 1985 and in 1994), Leeson finally won the Pulitzer Prize in 2004 for his coverage of the invasion of Iraq.
To know more about David Leeson and his work, visit his website.
[Citation: Photo reproduced from David Leeson’s website. Quote reproduced from Mark Hancock's blog.]
24 January 2008
The end of an affair
“They were young, educated, and both virgins on this, their wedding night, and they lived in a time when a conversation about sexual difficulties was plainly impossible. But it is never easy.”
So begins the story of Edward Mayhew and Florence Ponting in Ian McEwan’s latest book On Chesil Beach. And yet, these words could just as easily describe societies with their norms of arranged marriages in our modern times. For, these words not only describe a wedding night then (UK in the early sixties), they also aptly describe the embarrassment and the fears that govern many newly-weds (or courting couples) even today.
On Chesil Beach, a narrative of the events of an hour or two, is so masterfully crafted by McEwan that I didn’t notice the 166 pages it had taken to tell the story – the entire history of the couple, and their idiosyncrasies, leading to their wedding night and its consequences. McEwan’s humour is fabulous and I was chuckling to myself on many occasions. My only disappointment was the quick ending McEwan brought me to.
I wondered if the first two sentences of the novel (which I’ve quoted here) foretold the ending. That Edward Mayhew and Florence Ponting would end their affair on their wedding night on Chesil Beach. But then, Ian McEwan’s superb writing more than made up for this minor dissatisfaction. More than once, I wished I could write like this.
So begins the story of Edward Mayhew and Florence Ponting in Ian McEwan’s latest book On Chesil Beach. And yet, these words could just as easily describe societies with their norms of arranged marriages in our modern times. For, these words not only describe a wedding night then (UK in the early sixties), they also aptly describe the embarrassment and the fears that govern many newly-weds (or courting couples) even today.
On Chesil Beach, a narrative of the events of an hour or two, is so masterfully crafted by McEwan that I didn’t notice the 166 pages it had taken to tell the story – the entire history of the couple, and their idiosyncrasies, leading to their wedding night and its consequences. McEwan’s humour is fabulous and I was chuckling to myself on many occasions. My only disappointment was the quick ending McEwan brought me to.
I wondered if the first two sentences of the novel (which I’ve quoted here) foretold the ending. That Edward Mayhew and Florence Ponting would end their affair on their wedding night on Chesil Beach. But then, Ian McEwan’s superb writing more than made up for this minor dissatisfaction. More than once, I wished I could write like this.
23 January 2008
Graciela Iturbide – beauty that eludes
'Untitled' from 'Oaxaca Botanical Gardens', 2002
“The camera is an excuse to share the life of the people, the rhythm and simplicity of festivities, to discover my country. While using my camera I am, above all, an actress participating in the scene taking place at the moment, and the other actors know what role I play. I never think of my images as a project, I simply live the situations and photograph them; it is afterwards that I discover the images.”
– Graciela Iturbide, photographer
[Citation: Graciela Iturbide quote and image from Artscenecal. Read Lynell George’s wonderful article Graciela Iturbide catches the world dreaming here.]
18 January 2008
The painter girl
Her heart was full of colour. I know, not because she told me, but because she painted them for me to see. They were beautiful. All of them. In bright oranges and blues and yellows and greens. With streaks of purple and gold here and there. There was never any black. Black is a dull colour, she told me. It’s not for happy people.
She would start with empty white sheets and then daub on the colours straight from her heart; like it was some sort of magic. I could never do that. I guessed you needed to be a special person to do that. And I knew she was special. I loved watching her paint. Could watch her paint all day, if I didn’t have to go to school. But, as an eight-year-old, I didn’t have much choice, did I?
So, I let her become my Muse; and tried my own hand at art. I carried my own sketch-book, my brushes and box of colours to her place, and painted along with her. But my sketches were too dark; my paintings too messy. She laughed and said it didn’t matter so long it came straight from my heart.
Did that mean my heart was dark and messy? I asked her.
She gave me a pained look. Sometimes the heart is lonely and empty inside, she said. That’s when it gets filled with all sorts of dark and messy thoughts.
I looked at her. But…
But the mind understands this, she said, and quickly fills the heart with happy and wonderful thoughts. Then there’s no more room for the bad things. The mind has its own way of making up for the heart’s emptiness, she said. That’s why the mind is busy all the time. You’ll understand when you grow up, she told me.
My life changed soon after this conversation. We moved to Delhi and that was the last I saw of her. I did send her a few of my sketches but she never replied. I was heartbroken, of course, and thought of her all the time. But the pressures of a new city, a new school and a new set of friends overwhelmed me. Over the years she faded out of my memory.
So, it was a surprise when my mother brought my attention to an article in one of the women’s magazines. Isn’t this the painter girl who lived next door to us in Mumbai?
I was intrigued. Many years had passed. I looked at the photo next to the article. Yes, it was the painter girl! She was a celebrity now: beautiful, sexy, daring; the darling of many parties; the curator of some of the most-talked-of feminist art exhibitions in Mumbai; a critic and an author; an icon of our cultural establishment, the article said. And, though it was rumoured that she was a consort to one of the richest men in the city, she hadn’t denied it.
She painted bright happy pictures, she said in her interview, because the alternative was too dark; too cruel, too painful to remember. The alternative haunted her, she said; made her feel trapped; weakened her resolution. She painted the world as she wanted it to be; not how it really was. For, she said, her life had not been as happy as she had wished it to be.
The alternative? Hmm. I thought she had a wonderful life, I told my mother; painting all day; not having to go to school when the rest of us did. What was unhappy about that?
There was a reason for that, beta, my mother replied; you were too young to understand then.
The painter girl, as my mother referred to her, had a misfortune. Her idyllic childhood was shattered at an impressionable age when she was raped by a family friend one summer vacation. The situation was made worse not only by her parents disbelieving her story of the rape, suggesting she had seduced the man and led him on, but also by her being infected with a shameful disease from the incident.
She had to be pulled out of school for medical treatment, lasting two painful years, and for the shame she had brought upon her family. She was locked inside her house. Not allowed to go out for walks or meet friends at home. The whole neighbourhood talked in whispers about her predicament. She lived through her isolation by turning to art; the only indulgence her parents had allowed at the time.
I turned to the magazine article. Where did she get her inspiration from? the interviewer asked. Fortunately, she said, she had found her Muse early in life. An unlikely Muse, she reiterated: an eight-year-old boy who had lived next door, the only friend she was allowed to have. The boy used to sit with her all day after school, encouraging her to paint in bright happy colours and applauding her work.
She would start with empty white sheets and then daub on the colours straight from her heart; like it was some sort of magic. I could never do that. I guessed you needed to be a special person to do that. And I knew she was special. I loved watching her paint. Could watch her paint all day, if I didn’t have to go to school. But, as an eight-year-old, I didn’t have much choice, did I?
So, I let her become my Muse; and tried my own hand at art. I carried my own sketch-book, my brushes and box of colours to her place, and painted along with her. But my sketches were too dark; my paintings too messy. She laughed and said it didn’t matter so long it came straight from my heart.
Did that mean my heart was dark and messy? I asked her.
She gave me a pained look. Sometimes the heart is lonely and empty inside, she said. That’s when it gets filled with all sorts of dark and messy thoughts.
I looked at her. But…
But the mind understands this, she said, and quickly fills the heart with happy and wonderful thoughts. Then there’s no more room for the bad things. The mind has its own way of making up for the heart’s emptiness, she said. That’s why the mind is busy all the time. You’ll understand when you grow up, she told me.
My life changed soon after this conversation. We moved to Delhi and that was the last I saw of her. I did send her a few of my sketches but she never replied. I was heartbroken, of course, and thought of her all the time. But the pressures of a new city, a new school and a new set of friends overwhelmed me. Over the years she faded out of my memory.
So, it was a surprise when my mother brought my attention to an article in one of the women’s magazines. Isn’t this the painter girl who lived next door to us in Mumbai?
I was intrigued. Many years had passed. I looked at the photo next to the article. Yes, it was the painter girl! She was a celebrity now: beautiful, sexy, daring; the darling of many parties; the curator of some of the most-talked-of feminist art exhibitions in Mumbai; a critic and an author; an icon of our cultural establishment, the article said. And, though it was rumoured that she was a consort to one of the richest men in the city, she hadn’t denied it.
She painted bright happy pictures, she said in her interview, because the alternative was too dark; too cruel, too painful to remember. The alternative haunted her, she said; made her feel trapped; weakened her resolution. She painted the world as she wanted it to be; not how it really was. For, she said, her life had not been as happy as she had wished it to be.
The alternative? Hmm. I thought she had a wonderful life, I told my mother; painting all day; not having to go to school when the rest of us did. What was unhappy about that?
There was a reason for that, beta, my mother replied; you were too young to understand then.
The painter girl, as my mother referred to her, had a misfortune. Her idyllic childhood was shattered at an impressionable age when she was raped by a family friend one summer vacation. The situation was made worse not only by her parents disbelieving her story of the rape, suggesting she had seduced the man and led him on, but also by her being infected with a shameful disease from the incident.
She had to be pulled out of school for medical treatment, lasting two painful years, and for the shame she had brought upon her family. She was locked inside her house. Not allowed to go out for walks or meet friends at home. The whole neighbourhood talked in whispers about her predicament. She lived through her isolation by turning to art; the only indulgence her parents had allowed at the time.
I turned to the magazine article. Where did she get her inspiration from? the interviewer asked. Fortunately, she said, she had found her Muse early in life. An unlikely Muse, she reiterated: an eight-year-old boy who had lived next door, the only friend she was allowed to have. The boy used to sit with her all day after school, encouraging her to paint in bright happy colours and applauding her work.
17 January 2008
Nano hipocrisy?
Tata Nano - the people's car
“One car gets 46 miles per gallon, features fancy accessories, and sports two engines with a combined 145 horsepower. The other car reportedly gets 54 miles per gallon, runs on a diminutive 30-horsepower engine, and is positively spartan in its interior trimmings. The first is a darling of the environmentally conscious. The latter is reviled as a climate wrecker. These two vehicles are the Toyota Prius and the newly unveiled Tata Nano, dubbed “the people’s car.” Is there a double standard?”
[Citation: Reproduced from a World Watch Institute online report, titled Nano Hipocrisy?, by Michael Renner, 16 January 2008. Read the full report here. Tata Nano image reproduced from Tata Motors tata people’s car website.]
15 January 2008
Eastern Promises: unbearable tension
A man’s throat is violently slit in a barber’s shop. A young woman haemorrhages in a chemist shop, and then dies in childbirth in a hospital, leaving behind her baby and a diary. So begins the story of London’s underbelly of crime and the Russian mafia, and two characters enmeshed in it: one in the course of circumstances; the other by choice.
There’s a quiet tension about David Cronenberg’s latest film ‘Eastern Promises’ which makes it impossible to take your eyes off the screen. You realise something dark and dangerous is going to happen – as it happens in all Cronenberg films – and yet you hope for something good… to neutralise the terror and panic that you experience.
To this extent, ‘Eastern Promises’ keeps its promise as a Cronenberg original… perhaps to a somewhat anti-climactic end.
The dead girl’s diary is picked up by the midwife at the hospital, Anna, played by Naomi Watts, who feels responsible for finding the family of the dead girl in order to handover the new-born baby to them. The diary, written in Russian by the dead girl, contains incriminating evidence against the leader of the Russian mafia. But Anna doesn’t know this, and she, in her eagerness to have it translated, unknowingly steps into the heart of the Russian mafia in London.
When Anna takes help from an elderly Russian restaurateur, Semyon, played by Armin Mueller-Stahl, who promises to translate the diary for her, Anna does not realise that she is in fact dealing with the very person she should be running away from. For, unknown to her, under the facade of a respectable restaurateur, Semyon is the leader of the Russian mafia in London… and is only too keen to dispose of the diary, the baby and Anna.
But Semyon doesn’t get his hands dirty. For that he has his son Kiril, played by Vincent Cassel, and his son’s loyal friend, the driver, Nikolai, played admirably by Viggo Mortensen. It is the driver Nikolai who is really at the centre of this film: an eerie, deadly-as-a-snake, man-of-few-words anti-hero who is efficient in his work for the Russian mafia and trusted by his bosses (both Semyon and his son Kiril).
When Nikolai is assigned to retrieve the diary from Anna, you are certain Anna’s life, and that of the baby, are in danger. Yet, all through the film, the threat upon Anna and the baby is subdued – almost as if director Cronenberg wants you to agonise over it. And you do… to the very end of the film… through various twists and turns in the plot. As I’ve said earlier, the tension never goes away. And so, ‘Eastern Promises’ is a film you must see and experience.
[For Indian viewers, there’s a disappointment. A key scene towards the end of the film – a violent fight sequence in a steam bath with Nikolai, where he is mortally wounded – has been deleted… more for reasons of nudity than violence (apparently, Mortensen is totally naked in this scene). However, if it’s any consolation, there are some dialogues in Hindi in the beginning of the film.]
There’s a quiet tension about David Cronenberg’s latest film ‘Eastern Promises’ which makes it impossible to take your eyes off the screen. You realise something dark and dangerous is going to happen – as it happens in all Cronenberg films – and yet you hope for something good… to neutralise the terror and panic that you experience.
To this extent, ‘Eastern Promises’ keeps its promise as a Cronenberg original… perhaps to a somewhat anti-climactic end.
The dead girl’s diary is picked up by the midwife at the hospital, Anna, played by Naomi Watts, who feels responsible for finding the family of the dead girl in order to handover the new-born baby to them. The diary, written in Russian by the dead girl, contains incriminating evidence against the leader of the Russian mafia. But Anna doesn’t know this, and she, in her eagerness to have it translated, unknowingly steps into the heart of the Russian mafia in London.
When Anna takes help from an elderly Russian restaurateur, Semyon, played by Armin Mueller-Stahl, who promises to translate the diary for her, Anna does not realise that she is in fact dealing with the very person she should be running away from. For, unknown to her, under the facade of a respectable restaurateur, Semyon is the leader of the Russian mafia in London… and is only too keen to dispose of the diary, the baby and Anna.
But Semyon doesn’t get his hands dirty. For that he has his son Kiril, played by Vincent Cassel, and his son’s loyal friend, the driver, Nikolai, played admirably by Viggo Mortensen. It is the driver Nikolai who is really at the centre of this film: an eerie, deadly-as-a-snake, man-of-few-words anti-hero who is efficient in his work for the Russian mafia and trusted by his bosses (both Semyon and his son Kiril).
When Nikolai is assigned to retrieve the diary from Anna, you are certain Anna’s life, and that of the baby, are in danger. Yet, all through the film, the threat upon Anna and the baby is subdued – almost as if director Cronenberg wants you to agonise over it. And you do… to the very end of the film… through various twists and turns in the plot. As I’ve said earlier, the tension never goes away. And so, ‘Eastern Promises’ is a film you must see and experience.
[For Indian viewers, there’s a disappointment. A key scene towards the end of the film – a violent fight sequence in a steam bath with Nikolai, where he is mortally wounded – has been deleted… more for reasons of nudity than violence (apparently, Mortensen is totally naked in this scene). However, if it’s any consolation, there are some dialogues in Hindi in the beginning of the film.]
11 January 2008
Richard Prince’s controversial art
Richard Prince, controversial American painter and photographer, created history recently when one of his ‘untitled cowboy’ series photographs (the image featured here) was sold at Sotheby’s in New York for a little over $3.4 million – the most expensive photo sold at an auction.
According to a PDNonline news release, “the record-breaking Prince image is from his untitled cowboy series – in which Prince photographed sections of Marlboro cigarette ads and enlarged the photos to an enormous size. The photo sold at Sotheby’s measures 100 by 66 inches and was one of an edition of two plus one artist’s proof. It is dated 2001-02.”
Richard Prince’s work is considered controversial because of his use of a technique identified as modern re-photography, where he photographs existing photographs/images and then works upon them to create/construct an artwork, combining analogue and digital media. This has raised a debate over authorship, copyright laws and the authenticity of his work.
Prince is also known for his ‘nurse paintings’ series – a series of paintings of nurses created from scanned images of book covers (of pulp romance novels), which were then ink-jet printed on canvas, in a large format, and reworked with acrylic… or something along those lines… to create/construct an artwork.
Some of Richard Prince’s photography is also controversial as it is heavily riddled with sexual undertones.
Check out Richard Prince’s website here.
[Citation: PDNonline]
10 January 2008
Zhang Huan: Altered States
Skin, 1997, b&w photography
“The body is the proof of identity.
The body is language.”
“My decision to do performance art is directly related to my personal experience. I have always had troubles in my life, and these troubles often ended up in physical conflict. This frequent body contact made me realize the very fact that the body is the only direct way through which I come to know society and society comes to know me.”
– Zhang Huan, performance artist
Zhang Huan is one of the leading artists of the Chinese new wave art movement that emerged in China in the 1980s and 1990s, and combined avant-garde art practices with a new internationalism.
Zhang Huan (born 1965, Henan Province, China) began his career as a performance artist, using his body to create unique responses to specific environments; he has since moved on to photography, video, sculpture, and installation.
[Citation: Quotes/text and image reproduced from Zhang Huan’s web pages on Asia Society.]
09 January 2008
Yue Minjun and the Symbolic Smile
Untitled, 2005
“Chinese artist Yue Minjun’s recent work features the artist’s laughing face, caught between ecstasy and idiocy and projected into iconic cultural images.
Born in 1962 in China’s Heilongjiang province, Yue grew up under Mao Zedong’s reign. His father worked in the oil fields of northeast China, and Yue himself labored in the state oil sector until his director allowed him to leave for art school. He attended Hebei Normal University, studying oil painting, and witnessed the rise and fall of the Chinese art scene of the ’80s. With his distinct synthesis of the humorous and the horrific, Yue has achieved incredible success in the international art market.”
‘Yue Minjun and the Symbolic Smile’ can be viewed at the Queens Museum of Art, New York, website. You can also read Yue Minjun’s interview with Artkrush here.
[Citation: Reproduced from Artkrush]
07 January 2008
The Golden Compass
Once upon a time, our world was a different place. Humans were just like us; but their souls lived outside their bodies in animal form, accompanying them around wherever humans went. When humans were still children (presumably, their innocence intact), these animal-form souls (also called daemons) could change into other animals according to the need of the hour. With human adults, souls could not change forms, and they were attached to their specific animal-form souls until death.
The world, then, was ruled by the Magisterium – a quasi Church cum Big Brother administration. The Magisterium secretly kidnapped children and took them to a scientific laboratory somewhere in the Arctic. There, they separated the children’s human bodies from their animal-form souls and then left the children to wander around aimlessly in the cold. They did this to take away the ‘free will’ from the children – to make the children obedient to the Magisterium’s rule as they grew up into adult citizens of the world.
However, in the universe, there was a mysterious cosmic substance called Dust which embodied free will and other ‘good properties’. Once humans came into contact with Dust, they remained human forever, with their free will intact, and therefore could do whatever they pleased. Hence, the Magisterium looked upon Dust as its worst enemy – and, apart from keeping its knowledge a secret, would do anything to keep it away from entering their world.
In this world – which, otherwise, resembled 19th century England – lived an adolescent tomboyish orphan girl called Lyra. Her uncle, Lord Asriel, kept Lyra under the tutelage of the professors of Jordan College while he lived the life of an explorer. But Lyra was a free-spirited girl and she couldn’t be taught, nor managed, by anyone. She lived a happy-go-lucky life until one day when her uncle, Lord Asriel, returned from his Arctic trip with a picture of Dust entering a man’s body through his animal-form soul.
Thereafter, a chain of events began. Lyra met the mysterious Mrs Coulter, a beautiful wealthy lady, at a Jordan College banquet. Mrs Coulter immediately befriended Lyra and invited Lyra on a trip ‘up North’ on her deluxe airship. At this moment, Lyra’s childhood friend Roger disappeared. When Lyra discovered that Roger was kidnapped by the evil Gobblers (agents of the Magisterium) and taken to the Arctic, she vowed to find him and save him.
On the eve of her journey with Mrs Coulter, the Master of Jordan College secretly handed Lyra an ‘alethiometer’, or a Golden Compass, which belonged to her uncle, Lord Asriel. The Golden Compass was supposed to show Lyra the truth – or how things really were in the universe. However, Lyra was warned that she must keep the Golden Compass away from Mrs Coulter at all cost. And so, with the Golden Compass hidden in her bag, Lyra set off on a magical and mysterious journey, with Mrs Coulter, the Gobblers and the Magisterium in pursuit.
On the journey with the Golden Compass, Lyra met a group of sea-faring gypsies, called the Gyptians, who saved her from the Gobblers. She met a friendly flying witch called Serafina who gave her directions to where Roger and the kidnapped children where kept. She met an old, eccentric aeronaut called Scoresby who gave her advice and a helping hand every now and then. And, she met an ice bear called Iorek, the dethroned king of the ice bears who had to fight-until-death the present ice-bear-king to win back his kingdom and ascertain his dignity.
In the end, helped by her friends from the journey, and the Golden Compass, Lyra fought the evil forces of the Magisterium, and Mrs Coulter, to save Roger and all the children from the Arctic.
Such is the story of the film ‘The Golden Compass’ – a fantasy adventure from writer-director Chris Weitz. ‘The Golden Compass’ is based on British novelist Philip Pullman’s first volume of ‘His Dark Materials’ best-selling trilogy. Since I haven’t read Philip Pullman’s books, I cannot compare the book with the film. But, to me, the film ‘The Golden Compass’ seems to be a mix of two films I had seen earlier: ‘The Chronicles of Narnia: the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’ and ‘Stardust’. Hence, I feel, ‘The Golden Compass’ is a bit of a rehash of old themes and images.
Mind you, ‘The Golden Compass’ has plenty of fantasy and adventure to keep the boy in me excited. But some things are missing. To start with, the characters in the film are weak. They are underdeveloped. For instance, Lord Asriel (played by Daniel Craig) is not developed at all. He is there, in snatches, only for a few minutes. The same holds true for the Gyptian king John Faa (played by Jim Carter) and the flying witch Serafina (played by Eva Green). And, there is nothing extraordinary about Scoresby (played by Sam Elliot).
Of course, Mrs Coulter (played by Nicole Kidman) is given ample time on screen, and she does get into her character remarkably well. Kudos to that! To an extent, Lyra (played by Dakota Blue Richards – a new find) shines in the lead role. Well, at least, she shows enough energy and courage to keep the film going. But there is no character in the film who is endearing.
Besides the characterisation problem, there is no humour in the film. No laughs, no chuckles; nothing to deliver us from the grim cold of the Arctic – or Mrs Coulter. I feel rather cheated because of this. Hence, I can’t say that ‘The Golden Compass’ is as lovable as ‘The Chronicles of Narnia: the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’ or ‘Stardust’, both of which I enjoyed immensely.
What I mean to say is, ‘The Golden Compass’ lacks the sort of charm a film of this sort is expected to possess. Perhaps, writer-director Chris Weitz has had a tough job to do in telling the story of ‘The Golden Compass’, introducing us to a whole new world which is guided by a set of rules that are so different from what we know. Going by the number of paragraphs I had to write (at the beginning of this post) to explain this new world, I guess, ‘The Golden Compass’ is a difficult film to make by any standard.
The world, then, was ruled by the Magisterium – a quasi Church cum Big Brother administration. The Magisterium secretly kidnapped children and took them to a scientific laboratory somewhere in the Arctic. There, they separated the children’s human bodies from their animal-form souls and then left the children to wander around aimlessly in the cold. They did this to take away the ‘free will’ from the children – to make the children obedient to the Magisterium’s rule as they grew up into adult citizens of the world.
However, in the universe, there was a mysterious cosmic substance called Dust which embodied free will and other ‘good properties’. Once humans came into contact with Dust, they remained human forever, with their free will intact, and therefore could do whatever they pleased. Hence, the Magisterium looked upon Dust as its worst enemy – and, apart from keeping its knowledge a secret, would do anything to keep it away from entering their world.
In this world – which, otherwise, resembled 19th century England – lived an adolescent tomboyish orphan girl called Lyra. Her uncle, Lord Asriel, kept Lyra under the tutelage of the professors of Jordan College while he lived the life of an explorer. But Lyra was a free-spirited girl and she couldn’t be taught, nor managed, by anyone. She lived a happy-go-lucky life until one day when her uncle, Lord Asriel, returned from his Arctic trip with a picture of Dust entering a man’s body through his animal-form soul.
Thereafter, a chain of events began. Lyra met the mysterious Mrs Coulter, a beautiful wealthy lady, at a Jordan College banquet. Mrs Coulter immediately befriended Lyra and invited Lyra on a trip ‘up North’ on her deluxe airship. At this moment, Lyra’s childhood friend Roger disappeared. When Lyra discovered that Roger was kidnapped by the evil Gobblers (agents of the Magisterium) and taken to the Arctic, she vowed to find him and save him.
On the eve of her journey with Mrs Coulter, the Master of Jordan College secretly handed Lyra an ‘alethiometer’, or a Golden Compass, which belonged to her uncle, Lord Asriel. The Golden Compass was supposed to show Lyra the truth – or how things really were in the universe. However, Lyra was warned that she must keep the Golden Compass away from Mrs Coulter at all cost. And so, with the Golden Compass hidden in her bag, Lyra set off on a magical and mysterious journey, with Mrs Coulter, the Gobblers and the Magisterium in pursuit.
On the journey with the Golden Compass, Lyra met a group of sea-faring gypsies, called the Gyptians, who saved her from the Gobblers. She met a friendly flying witch called Serafina who gave her directions to where Roger and the kidnapped children where kept. She met an old, eccentric aeronaut called Scoresby who gave her advice and a helping hand every now and then. And, she met an ice bear called Iorek, the dethroned king of the ice bears who had to fight-until-death the present ice-bear-king to win back his kingdom and ascertain his dignity.
In the end, helped by her friends from the journey, and the Golden Compass, Lyra fought the evil forces of the Magisterium, and Mrs Coulter, to save Roger and all the children from the Arctic.
Such is the story of the film ‘The Golden Compass’ – a fantasy adventure from writer-director Chris Weitz. ‘The Golden Compass’ is based on British novelist Philip Pullman’s first volume of ‘His Dark Materials’ best-selling trilogy. Since I haven’t read Philip Pullman’s books, I cannot compare the book with the film. But, to me, the film ‘The Golden Compass’ seems to be a mix of two films I had seen earlier: ‘The Chronicles of Narnia: the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’ and ‘Stardust’. Hence, I feel, ‘The Golden Compass’ is a bit of a rehash of old themes and images.
Mind you, ‘The Golden Compass’ has plenty of fantasy and adventure to keep the boy in me excited. But some things are missing. To start with, the characters in the film are weak. They are underdeveloped. For instance, Lord Asriel (played by Daniel Craig) is not developed at all. He is there, in snatches, only for a few minutes. The same holds true for the Gyptian king John Faa (played by Jim Carter) and the flying witch Serafina (played by Eva Green). And, there is nothing extraordinary about Scoresby (played by Sam Elliot).
Of course, Mrs Coulter (played by Nicole Kidman) is given ample time on screen, and she does get into her character remarkably well. Kudos to that! To an extent, Lyra (played by Dakota Blue Richards – a new find) shines in the lead role. Well, at least, she shows enough energy and courage to keep the film going. But there is no character in the film who is endearing.
Besides the characterisation problem, there is no humour in the film. No laughs, no chuckles; nothing to deliver us from the grim cold of the Arctic – or Mrs Coulter. I feel rather cheated because of this. Hence, I can’t say that ‘The Golden Compass’ is as lovable as ‘The Chronicles of Narnia: the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’ or ‘Stardust’, both of which I enjoyed immensely.
What I mean to say is, ‘The Golden Compass’ lacks the sort of charm a film of this sort is expected to possess. Perhaps, writer-director Chris Weitz has had a tough job to do in telling the story of ‘The Golden Compass’, introducing us to a whole new world which is guided by a set of rules that are so different from what we know. Going by the number of paragraphs I had to write (at the beginning of this post) to explain this new world, I guess, ‘The Golden Compass’ is a difficult film to make by any standard.
04 January 2008
Edward de Bono on ‘Exploration’
Argument is a primitive, crude and inefficient way of exploring a subject. It is inadequate for a number of reasons.
First, if there is 5% wrong with the opposing position, then all the time is spent attacking that 5% on the basis that error at some point suggests error throughout.
Second, both opposing positions may be weak. There is no mechanism in argument for designing better positions. A position may be weak but difficult to prove wrong. So that view prevails, even though it is very weak.
Third, there is no design energy in argument. It is assumed that both positions are opposed and will always be opposed. There is no constructive energy in argument.
Fourth, there is a lot of ego in argument, because proving someone else wrong is a sort of victory which indicates superiority.
Fifth, argument takes a long time, because relatively minor points are picked out and attacked.
Parallel thinking is a much better way of exploring a subject. In 1985 I designed the Six Hats method.
Each of the Six Hats represents a mode of thinking. For example, the white hat represents information. Under the white hat, the participants look at available information. They look at the information that is needed. They can ask questions and see how the needed information can be obtained. Information that is contradictory needs to be put down without argument.
The green hat is for creativity and new ideas. The green hat asks for alternatives, possibilities and new thinking. The green hat encourages modification of an idea or perception.
The other four hats cover different aspects of thinking. What is important is that, at every moment, all the participants at the meeting are wearing the same hat and thinking in ‘parallel’.
The method challenges each person to use their thinking fully. In a normal meeting a person who is against the idea being considered will spend the whole meeting seeking ways of attacking the idea.
In a Six Hats meeting, the person will be invited, under the black hat, to attack and criticise the idea as fully as he or she can. But when it is the turn of the yellow hat, that same person is expected to focus on the values in the idea. If that person is unable, or unwilling, to see the values, but everyone else is finding value, then that person is seen to be stupid.
There are formal training systems for the Six Hats method, and trainers can be trained to work within their own organisations.
I find it extraordinary that it has taken us 2,400 years to realise that argument is a very poor way of exploring a subject.
[Citation: Edward de Bono, Letter to Thinking Managers 3 January 2008 newsletter (along with Robert Heller)]
First, if there is 5% wrong with the opposing position, then all the time is spent attacking that 5% on the basis that error at some point suggests error throughout.
Second, both opposing positions may be weak. There is no mechanism in argument for designing better positions. A position may be weak but difficult to prove wrong. So that view prevails, even though it is very weak.
Third, there is no design energy in argument. It is assumed that both positions are opposed and will always be opposed. There is no constructive energy in argument.
Fourth, there is a lot of ego in argument, because proving someone else wrong is a sort of victory which indicates superiority.
Fifth, argument takes a long time, because relatively minor points are picked out and attacked.
Parallel thinking is a much better way of exploring a subject. In 1985 I designed the Six Hats method.
Each of the Six Hats represents a mode of thinking. For example, the white hat represents information. Under the white hat, the participants look at available information. They look at the information that is needed. They can ask questions and see how the needed information can be obtained. Information that is contradictory needs to be put down without argument.
The green hat is for creativity and new ideas. The green hat asks for alternatives, possibilities and new thinking. The green hat encourages modification of an idea or perception.
The other four hats cover different aspects of thinking. What is important is that, at every moment, all the participants at the meeting are wearing the same hat and thinking in ‘parallel’.
The method challenges each person to use their thinking fully. In a normal meeting a person who is against the idea being considered will spend the whole meeting seeking ways of attacking the idea.
In a Six Hats meeting, the person will be invited, under the black hat, to attack and criticise the idea as fully as he or she can. But when it is the turn of the yellow hat, that same person is expected to focus on the values in the idea. If that person is unable, or unwilling, to see the values, but everyone else is finding value, then that person is seen to be stupid.
There are formal training systems for the Six Hats method, and trainers can be trained to work within their own organisations.
I find it extraordinary that it has taken us 2,400 years to realise that argument is a very poor way of exploring a subject.
[Citation: Edward de Bono, Letter to Thinking Managers 3 January 2008 newsletter (along with Robert Heller)]
03 January 2008
As years go by
“How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d.”
[Lines from Alexander Pope’s poem, Eloisa to Abélard. These lines were also quoted in Michel Gondry’s film, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.]
As years go by, I am filled with memories of the years gone past. Some are happy; some are not so. Sometimes I wish I could erase a few unpleasant memories from my mind... in the hope that life will be happier then. Then, I remind myself of Michel Gondry’s wonderfully tragic film, ‘Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind’ and...
The world forgetting, by the world forgot
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d.”
[Lines from Alexander Pope’s poem, Eloisa to Abélard. These lines were also quoted in Michel Gondry’s film, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.]
As years go by, I am filled with memories of the years gone past. Some are happy; some are not so. Sometimes I wish I could erase a few unpleasant memories from my mind... in the hope that life will be happier then. Then, I remind myself of Michel Gondry’s wonderfully tragic film, ‘Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind’ and...
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