A couple of anecdotes from the fringes of the Screenplay Writing Seminar that took place at the Film and Television Institute of India, Pune, last weekend. This is the first seminar of its kind in the country, and high time too!
Disclaimer: I was not at this seminar. Everything you see here is reported by someone else, who presented a paper at the seminar.
So, to the Vishal Bharadwaj story that I’ve been promising to tell in the comments section.
After Vishal Bharadwaj’s paper (it would be inaccurate to call any of what was presented at the seminar, a ‘paper’; almost no one had prepared a paper. Instead, they recounted experiences in a more informal, though informative way.), one person asked him about Omkara. She asked why, in translating an issue of race into one of caste, he touched on it only lightly and almost in passing.
To which, Bharadwaj, who seemed not to understand the question, said, “People told me Ajay Devgan was dark. That is why I cast him as Omkara.” Rephrasing the question or elaborating didn’t appear to help. He insisted that because AD was dark, he would make a good Omkara.
Which goes to show two things: that one need not be equally articulate across media. Just because Bharadwaj has mastery over the visual and the aural, it doesn’t mean he can talk with equal felicity.
Second, nothing could more clearly show how popular culture is created. People often assume that directors are more conscious than they really are of the coding that takes place in cinema. I think this anecdote puts to rest any lingering doubts we might have had about how much thought is given to what goes into our cinemas. What is intended and what we read into popular films are two entirely different things.
In another illuminating anecdote, Jahnu Barua said that once, after Maine Gandhi Ko Nahin Mara, some producer type turned up on his doorstep with the intention of making an ‘award-winning’ film, and he very kindly wanted Jahnu Barua to direct it for him. Barua being the polite man he is, asked what the film was about, etc etc, at which point the producer type whipped out a DVD. ‘You don’t have to do anything,’ he said. And waved the DVD at him.
Barua, fuming but conscious of his duty as a host, offered him chai and escaped to the kitchen to make it. Watching the kettle boil, he said, I thought to myself, I am a short man, and it won’t take me long to flip my lid (this is a free adaptation of what he really said, you understand; but he did emphasise his height). So he raged and paced the floor and wondered what he could say to the man sitting outside waiting for his tea. Barua found that he was waving the offending DVD around in his agitation. Before he knew it, he had flung it into the now boiling water and watched as it rose and fell.
With much satisfaction, Barua watched the producer type drink his DVD-flavoured cuppa.
I wonder if it tasted any different. God, but the seminar must have been fun.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Saturday, August 19, 2006
It's just the teeniest bit late to put this up...
...but I rediscovered this somewhere in my computer, so here it is.
Clearly, plus ça change.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Saridon, Disprin, D’Cold
This was the first time in my life I’ve bought tickets in black to watch a film. For the last three days, I’d been trying to tele-book and book online, tickets for KANK, with no success. And because there was a fairly large bunch of us who had to watch the film this weekend, we went to one of the non-multiplex theatres. Tickets at three time the price, and no bargaining for a Sunday night show; the guy even gave us a breakdown of where the money would go. And this is what I got for all my efforts.
Rani Mukherji’s eye shadow always, but always matches SRK’s (and everyone else’s) outfits. Hell – even with her eyes blindfolded, the stripes on her whip matched Amitabh’s shirt. It’s just as well that in any given scene, almost everyone in the frame is colour coordinated. Otherwise I shudder to think what would happen to Rani’s eyelids.
Men draped in feather boas have clearly been at an orgy.
Saying ‘Dude’ is so uncool. You have to wince every time Amitabh and Abhishek address each other this way.
Favourite line: “Any message for mom?” Amitabh asks Abhishek from his hospital bed.
Spoilers Alert
So all New York is on the alert for a kidnapper whom the press – in an unbelievable fit of political incorrectness – has named The Black Beast. Because, wouldn’t you know it, the kidnapper always wears black. What innocent times we live in. Rani, who hasn’t seen SRK’s face, sees him dressed in black and uttering dire threats to his son; she snatches up the boy in order to rescue him and guess what? she’s also dressed all in black. And she waddles exactly the way she did in Black, thus allowing for some neat pop-culture referencing.
I hated
The child abuse, which was supposed to be funny.
The songs. They were so badly picturised.
The way the camera starts spinning around SRK. You don’t need any special inducements to be made to feel ill.
Actually, the film.
But I loved
The viewing experience. It was after ages that I was seeing a film at a regular theatre. There were even curtains that went up. (When I was a kid, this was the most exciting part of the cinema-going experience). Guys were selling cold drinks and popcorn inside the theatre, their bottle openers going trrriiiing on the bottles.
Misplaced sandals were found after the film (some of us slept through large portions of the film); rude remarks were made and fun was had by all.
But the best part actually came before we saw the film. As we were waiting to be let into the theatre, we watched the people stream out from the previous show. My friend asked, “So what do you people think the predominant mood is?” Glazed, I said; indifferent, said my friend’s niece. Tearful, relieved.
And then, one kid came bursting out as if released and said to her friend, “After that, I need Saridon, Disprin and D’cold!”
Rani Mukherji’s eye shadow always, but always matches SRK’s (and everyone else’s) outfits. Hell – even with her eyes blindfolded, the stripes on her whip matched Amitabh’s shirt. It’s just as well that in any given scene, almost everyone in the frame is colour coordinated. Otherwise I shudder to think what would happen to Rani’s eyelids.
Men draped in feather boas have clearly been at an orgy.
Saying ‘Dude’ is so uncool. You have to wince every time Amitabh and Abhishek address each other this way.
Favourite line: “Any message for mom?” Amitabh asks Abhishek from his hospital bed.
Spoilers Alert
So all New York is on the alert for a kidnapper whom the press – in an unbelievable fit of political incorrectness – has named The Black Beast. Because, wouldn’t you know it, the kidnapper always wears black. What innocent times we live in. Rani, who hasn’t seen SRK’s face, sees him dressed in black and uttering dire threats to his son; she snatches up the boy in order to rescue him and guess what? she’s also dressed all in black. And she waddles exactly the way she did in Black, thus allowing for some neat pop-culture referencing.
I hated
The child abuse, which was supposed to be funny.
The songs. They were so badly picturised.
The way the camera starts spinning around SRK. You don’t need any special inducements to be made to feel ill.
Actually, the film.
But I loved
The viewing experience. It was after ages that I was seeing a film at a regular theatre. There were even curtains that went up. (When I was a kid, this was the most exciting part of the cinema-going experience). Guys were selling cold drinks and popcorn inside the theatre, their bottle openers going trrriiiing on the bottles.
Misplaced sandals were found after the film (some of us slept through large portions of the film); rude remarks were made and fun was had by all.
But the best part actually came before we saw the film. As we were waiting to be let into the theatre, we watched the people stream out from the previous show. My friend asked, “So what do you people think the predominant mood is?” Glazed, I said; indifferent, said my friend’s niece. Tearful, relieved.
And then, one kid came bursting out as if released and said to her friend, “After that, I need Saridon, Disprin and D’cold!”
Preview
Very, very soon: a review of The Cry Of Winnie Mandela by Njabulo S. Ndebele.
And many apologies for not posting, for those of you who do drop in once in a while.
In other news, I don't know about anywhere else in the country, but The Hindu in Hyderabad has lost it just a little bit. They now celebrate a half-yearly Valentine's Day. Sheesh.
And many apologies for not posting, for those of you who do drop in once in a while.
In other news, I don't know about anywhere else in the country, but The Hindu in Hyderabad has lost it just a little bit. They now celebrate a half-yearly Valentine's Day. Sheesh.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
so is blogspot down again?
I'm able to post, but I can't get to anyone else's blog.
If you're reading this, the problem must be local.
If you're reading this, the problem must be local.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Idle Spaniard
The lava lamp I got as a birthday gift is a stubborn thing. It takes at least a couple of hours to get started. For two hours, the purple wax moves imperceptibly like the hour hand on a grandfather clock. It stretches out stiff, arthritic and unsteady. I watch the rain instead. I sit at the window, waiting to be hypnotised. But what’s lashing at the trees out there is an angry thing.
The lava has to be better.
Something appears to be happening. The first bubble. But its skin is thin and it bursts before it can float upward. Now the wax is a long, ropy bridge between the top and the bottom. It is never going to get soft enough to become the lava I was promised.
*
The puddles are everywhere. It ought to be fun to wear an old pair of sandals and wade through what the night has left behind, but it isn’t. These puddles are reproaches; men on cycles hesitate at the lip of the big one that occupies the entire corner of the road. One turns back and I think he’s going to take another road, but no. He’s gone to take a run-up. He cycles furiously and just as the wheel’s about to touch water, he draws his legs up to the handlebar. It’s a wonder he manages to keep his balance all the way through. Wouldn’t it be ironic if, after all the care he’s taken not to get wet, he tips over smack into the centre of the puddle?
*
There’s a letter I’m trying to save up. It came in the post a couple of days ago. Letters are rare birds these days, and this was a real-life, postage-stamped, not-on-official-letter-paper letter from a friend. The adhesive on the flap was a good one: strong but not the kind you have to take a pair of scissors to. It lifted easily and inside, one sheet of closely written paper. In the way one does, I skimmed over the page, trying to take in everything at once. What is it about letters? You can warm your hands on them on a cold day. I’ve put that letter away, but one day soon, just before I sit down to reply, I’ll take it out again and read it slowly.
*
I hate pigeons. They make gross noises in their throat and are constantly screwing. And they imagine they can build a reasonably comfortable nest out of three wisps of straw. They lay their eggs in the most unlikely places, like the edge of window ledges, or on the top of the electricity meter, and don’t seem to care one way or the other when, inevitably, the eggs get smashed. Once, a pigeon was irresistibly attracted to the narrow space – not even half a palm wide – between the AC and the wall. It managed to burrow into that space, but couldn’t get out. It flapped and screeched and got more deeply wedged. The window of the third floor flat this happened in opened out on to the other side of the AC. You could hear the pigeon flutter and flap but you couldn’t see it or reach it in any way. After some time, it gave up and just sat until a kite came and took it away.
*
Work. Got to go.
The lava has to be better.
Something appears to be happening. The first bubble. But its skin is thin and it bursts before it can float upward. Now the wax is a long, ropy bridge between the top and the bottom. It is never going to get soft enough to become the lava I was promised.
*
The puddles are everywhere. It ought to be fun to wear an old pair of sandals and wade through what the night has left behind, but it isn’t. These puddles are reproaches; men on cycles hesitate at the lip of the big one that occupies the entire corner of the road. One turns back and I think he’s going to take another road, but no. He’s gone to take a run-up. He cycles furiously and just as the wheel’s about to touch water, he draws his legs up to the handlebar. It’s a wonder he manages to keep his balance all the way through. Wouldn’t it be ironic if, after all the care he’s taken not to get wet, he tips over smack into the centre of the puddle?
*
There’s a letter I’m trying to save up. It came in the post a couple of days ago. Letters are rare birds these days, and this was a real-life, postage-stamped, not-on-official-letter-paper letter from a friend. The adhesive on the flap was a good one: strong but not the kind you have to take a pair of scissors to. It lifted easily and inside, one sheet of closely written paper. In the way one does, I skimmed over the page, trying to take in everything at once. What is it about letters? You can warm your hands on them on a cold day. I’ve put that letter away, but one day soon, just before I sit down to reply, I’ll take it out again and read it slowly.
*
I hate pigeons. They make gross noises in their throat and are constantly screwing. And they imagine they can build a reasonably comfortable nest out of three wisps of straw. They lay their eggs in the most unlikely places, like the edge of window ledges, or on the top of the electricity meter, and don’t seem to care one way or the other when, inevitably, the eggs get smashed. Once, a pigeon was irresistibly attracted to the narrow space – not even half a palm wide – between the AC and the wall. It managed to burrow into that space, but couldn’t get out. It flapped and screeched and got more deeply wedged. The window of the third floor flat this happened in opened out on to the other side of the AC. You could hear the pigeon flutter and flap but you couldn’t see it or reach it in any way. After some time, it gave up and just sat until a kite came and took it away.
*
Work. Got to go.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Osama
A friend told me about Osama almost two years ago. She didn’t tell me about it, she described the film in vivid detail to me, shivering at the memory of the horrors the film described.
No one can doubt that a film that tells the story of a girl in Taliban-dominated Afghanistan will be horrifying. The girl’s mother, a doctor who is no longer allowed to practise, makes her daughter dress as a boy so that someone in the house can continue to earn money. In the new dispensation, if being a woman is a curse, becoming a man is fraught with unexpected danger. The Taliban take the girl away to a training camp where all the boys are made to undergo religious and military instruction. Inevitably, the deception is discovered and Osama – a name bestowed on the girl by a boy she knows – is taken away to prison. There is a reprieve, but it is a blessing so mixed, one could make a case for a honourable death over such a fate.
The interesting thing about the film is precisely this: the way in which it sucks the viewer into such judgements that would be otherwise unthinkable. Living as we do, who would say ‘death over dishonour’ without being ironic? But as you watch Osama’s deception discovered in the most traumatic way (She is tied up over an open well as a punishment. She screams for hours, and when she is finally brought down, there’s blood coursing down her legs, leaving no one in the military camp with any lingering doubts about her gender) you do think precisely that. Because Osama’s benefactor is an old mullah with many wives, who wants to marry Osama. Earlier, this same mullah gives the young boys instructions in how to wash themselves and it becomes clear that whatever Osama’s gender, he has his eye on her.
Would marriage have been a more tolerable solution had the mullah not been fat, bald and old? The film does not answer this in any satisfactory way. In fact, though the bleak piling up of miseries is effective, the narrative scope of the film is so narrow that the only way to view it is to accept the paradigm it offers us and allow oneself to be horrified at the lives so many people must lead.
Not that this is a bad thing, but it leads to the kind of hobbled choices that fall firmly within the same patriarchal set-up this film is attempting to critique. Perhaps those are the only choices available to the women in Afghanistan; but surely a filmmaker can have a different perspective? Through the film, the women passively accept the changes in their life. Sure, Osama’s mother attempts to continue to work. But it takes a male patient to rescue her from arrest; it is the beggar boy who sets himself up as Osama’s protector at the training camp; the only rebellion the wives of the mullah seem to be capable of is to hide Osama and be silent when the mullah comes looking for her the first night.
Perhaps it will take a few more films before Siddiq Barmak can find his feet. As first films go, Osama is miles ahead of the short film I had the misfortune to see that same evening.
But that is another story and shall be told another time.
No one can doubt that a film that tells the story of a girl in Taliban-dominated Afghanistan will be horrifying. The girl’s mother, a doctor who is no longer allowed to practise, makes her daughter dress as a boy so that someone in the house can continue to earn money. In the new dispensation, if being a woman is a curse, becoming a man is fraught with unexpected danger. The Taliban take the girl away to a training camp where all the boys are made to undergo religious and military instruction. Inevitably, the deception is discovered and Osama – a name bestowed on the girl by a boy she knows – is taken away to prison. There is a reprieve, but it is a blessing so mixed, one could make a case for a honourable death over such a fate.
The interesting thing about the film is precisely this: the way in which it sucks the viewer into such judgements that would be otherwise unthinkable. Living as we do, who would say ‘death over dishonour’ without being ironic? But as you watch Osama’s deception discovered in the most traumatic way (She is tied up over an open well as a punishment. She screams for hours, and when she is finally brought down, there’s blood coursing down her legs, leaving no one in the military camp with any lingering doubts about her gender) you do think precisely that. Because Osama’s benefactor is an old mullah with many wives, who wants to marry Osama. Earlier, this same mullah gives the young boys instructions in how to wash themselves and it becomes clear that whatever Osama’s gender, he has his eye on her.
Would marriage have been a more tolerable solution had the mullah not been fat, bald and old? The film does not answer this in any satisfactory way. In fact, though the bleak piling up of miseries is effective, the narrative scope of the film is so narrow that the only way to view it is to accept the paradigm it offers us and allow oneself to be horrified at the lives so many people must lead.
Not that this is a bad thing, but it leads to the kind of hobbled choices that fall firmly within the same patriarchal set-up this film is attempting to critique. Perhaps those are the only choices available to the women in Afghanistan; but surely a filmmaker can have a different perspective? Through the film, the women passively accept the changes in their life. Sure, Osama’s mother attempts to continue to work. But it takes a male patient to rescue her from arrest; it is the beggar boy who sets himself up as Osama’s protector at the training camp; the only rebellion the wives of the mullah seem to be capable of is to hide Osama and be silent when the mullah comes looking for her the first night.
Perhaps it will take a few more films before Siddiq Barmak can find his feet. As first films go, Osama is miles ahead of the short film I had the misfortune to see that same evening.
But that is another story and shall be told another time.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
“not silence but more speech”
Today’s Metro Plus (The Hindu’s supplement) has an article by Anand Shankar, in which he quotes Laurence Liang, who works with the Alternate Law Forum. Liang is quoted as saying, “You must realise that the answer to problematic speech is not silence, but more speech.”
He says this in the context of Nehru’s Amendment to Article 19 (1) (A) of the Constitution, which deals with the freedom of speech and expression; and Article 19 (2), which imposes ‘reasonable restrictions’ on free speech. He says that Nehru made this amendment to Article 19 (1) (A) to ‘deal with extreme right and left opinion’.
The reason why I’ve quoted him is not to argue the Amendment, about which I know nothing. I’ve quoted him because I agree with his statement that ‘the answer to problematic speech is not silence, but more speech.’
But if only all our problems were solved so easily, with a simple agreement. This whole brouhaha about the DoT blocking websites is, in my opinion, just another minor quake in our consciousness and soon we will all settle into our very democratic apathy and be moved by nothing more than the latest cricket scores.
We are rarely moved to defend free speech except where it affects us personally. So if you’re a blogger and your access to blogspot or whatever you use is blocked, you become indignant and are exercised enough to mount a protest. If you’re a filmmaker whose film has been denied a censor certificate, you gather all those who are, or might be, similarly affected and take some action.
Don’t misunderstand me. I’m all for protest. I’m all for standing up for one’s right to speak in whichever medium one chooses. I support and have supported filmmakers and bloggers alike. I would, wouldn’t I? I have been a filmmaker and now I blog.
People support causes only when they see it directly affects them. We might all be in favour of free speech in the abstract, but how many of us will get off our seats to add our voices wherever and whenever a violation of our freedoms occurs? For the most part, we react, locally, in the short term.
Not that reacting is bad. But it has to be recognised for what it is: something that loses its energy very quickly. Tomorrow the govt. will unblock its ban and this noise will subside.
When people are brought together for a very limited reason, and a short-term goal is achieved, a movement loses its momentum. Nobody wants this to happen, naturally enough. With the best of intentions, the fora that were set up to communicate with people all over the world united by a common cause, become babels of differing opinions.
This also is to be expected. If we are to function in a democratic manner, everyone has to have their say and most people have a lot to say. Every decision has to be presented, debated and a consensus arrived at before any action can be taken. Often this takes months and is a very, very boring process. Mostly it involves people dashing off lengthy letters to person or persons concerned, to which a large percentage of the collective will be happy to merely append their signatures. If you are on a list, most of your mails will consist of people saying, ‘please add my name to the list’.
I am being slightly facetious here, but there is more than a grain of truth in my account of processes. This does happen.
The larger point I am making here is that immediate action is energising and romantic. Sustained protest is nothing if not tedious. There is nothing exciting about sending faxes. (I’m reminded of that Calvin and Hobbes one where Calvin’s hopes of being a superhero in our times is dashed by Hobbes, who says, “Quick! To the batfax!”)
Most people are unable to look beyond their noses; which of us acts with total conviction about what the outcome of our actions will be?
Ben Sandilands’ article in The Guardian talks about Antarctica being the last frontier that fuel-hungry nations are waiting to claim and exploit. Do we care enough about this to act on it in whichever way we think best? We probably do in a well-meaning, woolly-headed way. But do we really believe that raising our voices against the governments involved will result in anything meaningful?
And how many issues will we protest? About how many things will we act so that we create a groundswell of opinion? It takes way to much effort to read enough about issues to really understand them, much less talk about them.
So, though I’m with Laurence Liang when he says ‘not silence but more speech’, I’m afraid I’m also rather sceptical about it happening any time soon.
He says this in the context of Nehru’s Amendment to Article 19 (1) (A) of the Constitution, which deals with the freedom of speech and expression; and Article 19 (2), which imposes ‘reasonable restrictions’ on free speech. He says that Nehru made this amendment to Article 19 (1) (A) to ‘deal with extreme right and left opinion’.
The reason why I’ve quoted him is not to argue the Amendment, about which I know nothing. I’ve quoted him because I agree with his statement that ‘the answer to problematic speech is not silence, but more speech.’
But if only all our problems were solved so easily, with a simple agreement. This whole brouhaha about the DoT blocking websites is, in my opinion, just another minor quake in our consciousness and soon we will all settle into our very democratic apathy and be moved by nothing more than the latest cricket scores.
We are rarely moved to defend free speech except where it affects us personally. So if you’re a blogger and your access to blogspot or whatever you use is blocked, you become indignant and are exercised enough to mount a protest. If you’re a filmmaker whose film has been denied a censor certificate, you gather all those who are, or might be, similarly affected and take some action.
Don’t misunderstand me. I’m all for protest. I’m all for standing up for one’s right to speak in whichever medium one chooses. I support and have supported filmmakers and bloggers alike. I would, wouldn’t I? I have been a filmmaker and now I blog.
People support causes only when they see it directly affects them. We might all be in favour of free speech in the abstract, but how many of us will get off our seats to add our voices wherever and whenever a violation of our freedoms occurs? For the most part, we react, locally, in the short term.
Not that reacting is bad. But it has to be recognised for what it is: something that loses its energy very quickly. Tomorrow the govt. will unblock its ban and this noise will subside.
When people are brought together for a very limited reason, and a short-term goal is achieved, a movement loses its momentum. Nobody wants this to happen, naturally enough. With the best of intentions, the fora that were set up to communicate with people all over the world united by a common cause, become babels of differing opinions.
This also is to be expected. If we are to function in a democratic manner, everyone has to have their say and most people have a lot to say. Every decision has to be presented, debated and a consensus arrived at before any action can be taken. Often this takes months and is a very, very boring process. Mostly it involves people dashing off lengthy letters to person or persons concerned, to which a large percentage of the collective will be happy to merely append their signatures. If you are on a list, most of your mails will consist of people saying, ‘please add my name to the list’.
I am being slightly facetious here, but there is more than a grain of truth in my account of processes. This does happen.
The larger point I am making here is that immediate action is energising and romantic. Sustained protest is nothing if not tedious. There is nothing exciting about sending faxes. (I’m reminded of that Calvin and Hobbes one where Calvin’s hopes of being a superhero in our times is dashed by Hobbes, who says, “Quick! To the batfax!”)
Most people are unable to look beyond their noses; which of us acts with total conviction about what the outcome of our actions will be?
Ben Sandilands’ article in The Guardian talks about Antarctica being the last frontier that fuel-hungry nations are waiting to claim and exploit. Do we care enough about this to act on it in whichever way we think best? We probably do in a well-meaning, woolly-headed way. But do we really believe that raising our voices against the governments involved will result in anything meaningful?
And how many issues will we protest? About how many things will we act so that we create a groundswell of opinion? It takes way to much effort to read enough about issues to really understand them, much less talk about them.
So, though I’m with Laurence Liang when he says ‘not silence but more speech’, I’m afraid I’m also rather sceptical about it happening any time soon.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Blog Block
So the reason why I couldn’t access blogspot was not because of a bad connection but because blogs were being blocked. This is exactly the kind of aftermath I was afraid of. The Hindustan Times reports officials as asking, "We would like those people to come forward who access these (the 12) radical websites and please explain to us what are they missing from their lives in the absence of these sites." (link via Falstaff).
Now we’re supposed to live our lives according to what we can do without? Because, I suppose, we have to give some things up to be safe? And what happens once we’ve agreed to stay quiet though films are banned, though theatres give in to pressure and agree not to screen films? What happens to the plays we agree are to incendiary to watch, the books that we must not read just in case we’re contaminated by the ideas they present?
What do we get in exchange for our docility?
About the whole blogspot thing, others have said it better, so go read:
Neha Vishwanathan
Bloggers Against Censorship (this will lead you to a whole lot of other relevant pages)
Now we’re supposed to live our lives according to what we can do without? Because, I suppose, we have to give some things up to be safe? And what happens once we’ve agreed to stay quiet though films are banned, though theatres give in to pressure and agree not to screen films? What happens to the plays we agree are to incendiary to watch, the books that we must not read just in case we’re contaminated by the ideas they present?
What do we get in exchange for our docility?
About the whole blogspot thing, others have said it better, so go read:
Neha Vishwanathan
Bloggers Against Censorship (this will lead you to a whole lot of other relevant pages)
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Hecht and Horace
Stumbled upon this sonnet by Anthony Hecht.
An Old Malediction
(freely from Horace)
What well-heeled knuckle-head, straight from the unisex
Hairstylist and bathed in Russian Leather
Dallies with you these late summer days, Pyrrha,
In your expensive sublet? For whom do you
Slip into something simple by, say, Gucci?
The more fool he who has mapped out for himself
The saline latitudes of incontinent grief.
Dazzled though he be, poor dope, by the golden looks
Your locks fetched up out of a bottle of Clairol,
He will know that the wind changes, the smooth sailing
Is done for, when the breakers wallop him broadside,
When he’s rudderless, dismasted, thoroughly swamped
In that mindless rip-tide that got the best of me
Once, when I ventured on your deeps, Piranha.
And naturally I had to figure out which part of Horace it reminded me of. I think it’s this. What do you think?
Odes I.25
Less and less often the roaring boys
toss their pebbles against your closed shutters,
they don’t rob you of sleep anymore, and the
door hugs its threshold
That once turned gladly all night on its
hinges. You hear fewer wailing:
“While I spend the long night dying for you, Lydia,
can you stay sleeping?”
your turn is coming: a crone alone in the street,
you will cry that your lovers all hate you,
as the North wind howls like a bacchante
and the moon is dark,
and the fire of love and longing is in you
the itch that drives a mare mad for the stallion,
you will rage with the lust that gnaws your belly
and you will complain
that the good time boys now find their fun
with the green ivy and the dark green myrtle,
and the withered leaves are tossed away
to the winter wind.
There’s the same sense of scahdenfreude…(not sure who the translator is.) I think I need to console myself.
‘I, being born a woman and distressed’
I, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body’s weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn with pity, – let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again.
Ha! Edna St. Vincent Millay.
An Old Malediction
(freely from Horace)
What well-heeled knuckle-head, straight from the unisex
Hairstylist and bathed in Russian Leather
Dallies with you these late summer days, Pyrrha,
In your expensive sublet? For whom do you
Slip into something simple by, say, Gucci?
The more fool he who has mapped out for himself
The saline latitudes of incontinent grief.
Dazzled though he be, poor dope, by the golden looks
Your locks fetched up out of a bottle of Clairol,
He will know that the wind changes, the smooth sailing
Is done for, when the breakers wallop him broadside,
When he’s rudderless, dismasted, thoroughly swamped
In that mindless rip-tide that got the best of me
Once, when I ventured on your deeps, Piranha.
And naturally I had to figure out which part of Horace it reminded me of. I think it’s this. What do you think?
Odes I.25
Less and less often the roaring boys
toss their pebbles against your closed shutters,
they don’t rob you of sleep anymore, and the
door hugs its threshold
That once turned gladly all night on its
hinges. You hear fewer wailing:
“While I spend the long night dying for you, Lydia,
can you stay sleeping?”
your turn is coming: a crone alone in the street,
you will cry that your lovers all hate you,
as the North wind howls like a bacchante
and the moon is dark,
and the fire of love and longing is in you
the itch that drives a mare mad for the stallion,
you will rage with the lust that gnaws your belly
and you will complain
that the good time boys now find their fun
with the green ivy and the dark green myrtle,
and the withered leaves are tossed away
to the winter wind.
There’s the same sense of scahdenfreude…(not sure who the translator is.) I think I need to console myself.
‘I, being born a woman and distressed’
I, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body’s weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn with pity, – let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again.
Ha! Edna St. Vincent Millay.
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