Dwelling in Dreams: 2021

Monday, 27 December 2021

3 iron (2004) - Movie by Kim Ki-duk

Sunday, 31 October 2021

Review: No Logo

No Logo by Naomi Klein
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

View all my reviews

Saturday, 31 July 2021

Into the Inferno - A documentary by Werner Herzog

Mesmerizing!

Wednesday, 21 July 2021

Another unique cinematic experience; this film somehow surpasses the boundaries of cinema and enters into realm of fine arts. The viewer is hooked or hypnotized from the very beginning with powerful imagery shot from excellent angles. On top of finely curated shots is slow indulging dissolving flow of camera. There was something really special about the movement of camera.

There is no plot or story here. Instead of form, symbolism is utilized mostly. Content is preferred. There are minutae of dialogues but what really entrances up the scenes are narrations of poetry by Arseny Tarkovsky, directors father. The mos beautiful aspect of this film is amalgamation of dreams with memories. What better things to blend up together.

Different forms of art are incorporated to display the power of cinematic art. There are references to literature like Dante's Divine Comedy, Dostoevsky etc. Background playing of classical music adds to its classical aura and imbues the scenes with even finer quality.

This is sculpting in time in literal sense which makes it a very personal film and indeed it is autobiographical.

Thursday, 20 May 2021

Review: The Vivisector

The Vivisector by Patrick White
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I would have given this book ten stars out of five if possible but then I wouldn't have been able to write this.

This book is mainly about creative process (if you can can call it a process) of a forever perplexed painter, Hurtle Duffield/Courtney. Calling himself a freak, he is closer in touch with reality than most. Indifferent to this world and its affairs, his loyalty lies only with his paintings. In painting, he has found solace, an escape from the shallowness and purposelessness of this world and its bland reality. His whole life is just a flowing subject for his artistic expression which includes everything; even his closest relations. Its just his way of surviving which he will never be sure is the right one.

"It was Sunday, and Mamma had gone next door with Lena and the little ones. Under the pepper tree in the yard Pa was sorting, counting, the empty bottles he would sell back : the bottles going clink clink as Pa stuck them on the stack."

The magical poetry in prose starts from the very beginning, the same magical "epic and psychological narrative.." for which Patrick White was awarded Nobel Prize in 1973. His interview after winning the award is quite interesting. A sort of curmudgeon, who on the day of announcement took a sleeping pill, went to sleep, while the press kept irritating him by "pastoring at his door", because he has had a very long tiring day.

The story begins with protagonist's childhood in an impoverished yet lively household. His father is an eccentric fellow who probably had an influence on the sensitive son. His household is changed somehow and Hurtle finds himself in a lavish place with an affectionate mother and humped sister, Rhoda. You feel a similarity with Great Expectations but its different, you start to discover White's power of shifting perspectives and carving delightful sentences. In his second home, entranced by a chandelier, Hurtle discovers the one inside him which makes him "...at times jangle and want to explode into smithereens". Missing his previous home, he thinks:

"And suddenly something of the same fear got into him. He would have liked to find himself running with the mob of kids down Cox Street, away from everything to do with Courtneys'. In the street where he belonged. If he belonged. He didn't belong anywhere : that was what frightened; although he had wanted it that way"

Time passes and he finds himself without a home and means; in the company of a peculiar prostitute, Nance Lightfoot. She takes a sudden sympathetic interest in this quaint personality and an uncanny relationship flourishes. He has been painting since childhood but now he starts his demented career with sponsorship and links provided by Nance. She introduces him to an art dealer, Caldicott. With the abrupt flight of artistic career, there is a creeping skepticism growing about his abilities to convey what he really experiences. The story gets interesting and quality of prose remains intact.

"(Nance)'What is it then? Explain to me. All this about modern art.'
(Hurtle)'If you could put it in words, I wouldn't have to paint.'"

"Occasionally he made drawings, little more than notes, which couldn't relieve his cynicism, nor his rage for physical exertion. He belched sour, and often wondered what had ever persuaded him he might become a painter."

He departs from the life of city to live in a hilly hideout to continue his artistic pursuits. Living a shredded existence, irritated by ennui, eating bare minimum and cursing himself most of the time. By this you feel a similarity with Hunger by Knut Hamsun which persists with rest of the story. Nance visits him sometimes and their encounter is always interesting than before. Apart from outstanding stream of consciousness, White's mastery at building exceptional characters is magnificent. Especially the way they become victims of vivisection by the painter.

"She might have learnt it from Maman (the second one) herself, who rose like a genie of scent bottle, accusing him of faithfulness : to a class which had adopted him : to the education invested in him; to a love story not so very different, which smelled of melting chocolate and illicit brandy, instead of musty poundcake and whore's powder. Maman was sniffing, though."

"Now he was appalled by his own dirty, horny feet. In the snapshot they look deformed. Or was it distorted? Just as you distort appearances to arrive at truth"

While alive he never cared much about Caldicott and treated him with his artistic attitude, but later describing him to Cutbush (a character of another era (and reality)) he retains:

"'My friend Caldicott died a couple of years ago, after what they call 'a long illness' - in agony. In the last days of his vivisection he told me he had never held my unkindness against me, because he considered anybody in any way creative needs a source of irritation. He was happy to think he had provided me with just that.'"

With Cutbush, the grocer he meets sitting somewhere on a remote place facing the river or sea, Hurtle concocts the ideas of The Grand Vivisector and Moon, they experience together in the sky, as a giant ass sitting on the swimming lovers in the flowing water. There's more to this vision and you realize how many boundaries White has crossed in this book. It was enough for his interlocutor: Cec Cutbush was forever intrigued by this bizarre artist, though he was far away from normal himself.

"(Hurtle)'I have been accused of loving myself. How could I? When I've always known too much about myself?'"

"Most of the day he now spent steadily painting, still destroying, but sometimes amazed at a detail which mightn't have been his, yet didn't seem to be anybody's else's. There were one or two canvases he had dared keep, in which dreams and facts had locked in an architecture which did not appear alterable."

Finally he settles at Flint Street, a slummy area near the sea, where he drags his existence for rest of his life. In the dunny of the house bought from an old lady, he writes
" God the Vivisector
God the Artist
God the "
He hopes to complete the third line during his lifetime but he never did. I was really looking forwarded to that third line. In this house he plays with different variations presented by the light: of reality which he vivisects. Ultimately he achieves international fame but maintains his bohemian lifestyle. Boo Holingrake, a childhood encounter and now a rich widow, is one of his chief buyers. A period of dalliance between them and thanks to Boo, he meets Hero, a Greek woman, in a prearranged party. Its another turn in Hurtle's artistic career. He visits Greece for a supposedly transcendental and healing expedition which it never turns out to be.

Throughout the book, White never fails to surprise you with his strikingly subtle humor. His last consequential encounter is with Kathy, a teenager from his area striving to be musician. He imagines to conceive Kathy as a child inside himself but suffers abortion, though together they nourish the artist in each of them. Each episode of Hurtle's interaction with an important character can be a book in itself.

In the end, Hurtle's life is a sum of unwanted undirected obsessions, with living objects or otherwise, he experiences for the sake of his paintings. This book can be an axe for a suitable blow seeker. Makes you want to choose the road as Robert Frost propounds in his famous poem because some roads are doomed for destruction (it may have an aesthetic side). Its almost perfect how this whole story flows, with magical words and sentences. It was a thoroughly enjoyable journey for me.

"Almost everybody carries a hump, no always visible, and not always the same shape."

Note: Brackets in the quotes are not part of quotes. Its a brief summary with what I thought added in between the lines

View all my reviews

Wednesday, 19 May 2021

Aguirre, The Wrath of God

Directed by: Werner Herzog

Rating: 7 out of 10

The most beautiful thing in the movie is the playing of flute like instrument by an Indian. And then there is a good score combined with well shot scenes; trying to give the movie an enigmatic aura but, somewhat, failed. The storyline and acting couldn’t cope up with the rest — which is of course the social and philosophical points which the movie tries to convey. There is authenticity and truth; there are paradoxes and ironies; blind, egoistic, hoarding human shades in a micro amphitheater: an expeditious joinery for the riches of El Dorrado.

The history of Spanish expeditions and inquisition is well known. What’s less known is the sheer level of violence committed in the name of who knows what. Almost extinction of the native population; I have heard the only time when global temperature declined was the century of American exploration or exploitation because the native population was nearly wiped out: whole generations with their culture lost.

Whenever I read about this part of history I wonder what were the conquerors thinking while this slaughter was going on. I would like to read their stream of consciousness. Did they feel any ‘pangs of consciousness’ in the later part of their life as Dostoevsky’s characters feel. I think Herzog has tried to emulate that blindness with his main character, Aquirre. Blind thirst for material riches bound to be doomed one way or the other.

Another interesting point for me in this movie is Aquirre’s daughter. Why he brought her with him all the way into the expedition. Probably it’s as he blurts out in the end while hallucinating. Maybe he was hallucinating all his life. Maybe he was just blind to his hallucination. Is this what the ego can do. The self deep into itself, becoming apathetic to what’s real.

Saturday, 15 May 2021

Clogged Streams

Wrote this piece just recently, posted first on IG, enjoyed some likes and even some encouraging comments this time. But I’m certain that in no way I like it very much myself. It was just a try not even a proper expression although it did feel quite good while writing/experiencing it. The idea was random — what isn’t — coming to my mind while swaying around nowhere in particular.

It’s an existentialist poem in some sense, a person trying to interact with his shadow — because I feel its our closest ‘being’. Trying to establish an idea around something similar to what our personality is after spending a considerable time in life. Our memories, experiences: how they influence our dreams and thoughts. Our senses through which we experience this whole world. A ‘fusion’ is what we perceive in the end. But this shadow is trying to tell some Buddhist stuff in the end; not sure how that came out to be.

——

Last night I was talking to my shadow;

Vertigo; stitched together broken leaves;

Silence of language with stifled words,

Fusion of senses, lossless dreams;

Striving to strike nuances on Being,

Perplexed heart: the clogged streams;

Attenuation in understanding yet intense;

Desires, desires, desires - it screams!

——

m.s.bajwa

In the Mood for Love (2000) - Trailer

A very unique cinematic experience; especially the innovative shots and perspectives. Added to that is beautiful, suave blend of colours keeping in mind the context of tradition and culture — which does not in anyway sets the limits on its artistic expression.

Great piece of acting and finely curated dialogues. I believe it’s a classic but just like many other great pieces of art, this might demand a specific audience.

Another example of cinema being an ultimate art: but not the greatest. That’s for me is still to be decided...

Sunday, 25 April 2021

Review: Kai Chand Thay Sar-e-Aasman / کئی چاند تھے سر آسماں

Kai Chand Thay Sar-e-Aasman / کئی چاند تھے سر آسماں by Shamsur Rahman Faruqi
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

View all my reviews

Monday, 12 April 2021

Army of Shadows - Movie

About French Resistance during WWII

Saturday, 10 April 2021

Three Reasons: Three Colors: Red

There are some movies that make you want to dream, to be part of the environment you experience in the movie; to be one of the characters in the movie. This is one such movie. It is a very powerfully executed film and the delicate story seeps somewhere deep inside you. The chance, the connections, emotions, betrayals, future, past - its the very life!

Credit goes to the beautiful score as well which, for me, reaches perfection at the ending credits. I believe this is only film in which I even watched the ending credits till the very end. Maybe I couldn't cope up with the reality of an end in this case.

This is the kind of art which makes life bearable. Many thanks to late Krzysztof Kieślowski for this classic and somber yet sweet Irene Jacob. We shall remember you forever.

Thursday, 1 April 2021

Bicycle Thieves (1948)

A neorealist classic. The tension of subjective and objective reality. The emotions involved. Father/Son relationship. No wonder Satyajit Rey was impressed. So was Slavoj Zizek. And so am I.