Last night I watched a film on, was it, Zee Studio. It was called 'Fateless'. I think Zee Studio is doing what most other 'English-language film' channels are doing - trying to gain viewers by airing previous Oscar-nominated flicks. I'm sure Star Movies has already shown 'Titanic' three or four times, haha. The difference seems to be that Zee Studio is also airing films nominated in the foreign film category. So, here we are. It's a Holocaust film in the most direct sense - we see an adolescent boy wrenched from his home, cattle-trucked to the grimly obscene irony that is Buchenwald. To do labour, not to be gassed, but that doesn't make it any easier, does it? I haven't read the original novel, and I had to divide my attention between visuals and subtitles, and I don't have any film jargon. What I can say is-

It had some especially good moments. Seen as a whole, it's more of a collection of snapshots, or of anecdotes, which is not a bad thing, but then you have the very artsy use of colour filters, and the slightly annoying way scenes have of fading into black. Abrupt cuts would, I think, have served the material better.

I have no idea what Daniel Craig was doing there.

Probably the most disconcerting thing about 'Fateless' is how beautiful the protagonist, Gyuri, played by some kid called Marcell Nagy, is throughout the whole hellish mess. Even after he's broken and reduced to this naked will to survive - and even after he comes close to wanting to lay himself down and die - he's painfully, painfully beautiful. Now perhaps I'm more of a paedophile than I'd be comfortable accepting - but really, I don't think it's what I mean. It makes more sense at the end. Gyuri goes back to face the hypocrites, the spouters of meaningless platitudes, the spooners out of empty sympathy, and the film ends with his asserting that he will go on- there was happiness to be found even in the camp, and nothing is so unbearable that it cannot be endured. Perhaps what I found beautiful in the character (I don't know how good Nagy is, but I felt for him, and it didn't feel cloying, so he was doing something right) is that. The defiance, despite it all. The will to survive, which is too often said to be 'animal', therefore vulgar, therefore ugly like truth. But this, too, is truth. Clumsy, clumsy paraphrasing. I'm teetering on the edge of dangerous words, words like 'transcend', like 'vital'. Then again, 'vital' is right, subversively, utterly right. It made me think, and I'm still thinking. I'll probably have to read Primo Levi again.


Graffiti I saw on campus today: one of the many anti-Bush slogans that have cropped up seemingly overnight. Rather unimaginative, but oh well. What made me smile, though, was that the 's' in 'Bush' was stylised into a swastika. Equating, naturally, Bush with Hitler. Whoever painted that either believes that, out of respect, the swastika should always stand as a sign for 'Nazi', for hatred, for genocide, for Evil. Or has conveniently forgotten that it's really a symbol that has been around for ages, a symbol belonging to many cultures, a symbol that was appropriated by the Nazis, a symbol that anyone walking about right here in Kolkata will find on anything from coconuts during a pujo to crusty chairs at outdoor functions. That a swastika is not always or everywhere a shorthand for 'Nazi'. There are arguments for both sides, of course, but I just wonder if they knew. If we're protesting against George W. Bush, shouldn't it be a properly indigenous, or indigenously clever, protest? Shouldn't it be more than sad little micchhils that end at the main gate? GEORGE BUSH DOORE HOTO. That walking talking steaming pile of poop? He's not coming near us, comrades, if that's any comfort (best served cold).

Prematurely senile, that's me. Someday I shall have enough decency to be embarrassed by these rants.

With the ritual breaking of glass

we begin our day.

Well, I freely admit

that today's L&OA class was tonnes better. Somehow I knew it would be the moment I heard that not-really-whoopsy drum burp 'Like A Rolling Stone' starts with. I don't want to miss tomorrow's Beatles listening party class listening party! but I do have Chaucer&Langland during that period. Sigh. Choices.

Defacing pictures in the newspaper is a highly therapeutic activity. Everyone must try it.

I saw one of the teachers doing something today I cannot get out of my head, will not for years. I couldn't believe my eyes for a moment, but six or seven other witnesses were present and now I'm wishing I had a little camera I could carry around all the time with me. It was. God. It was one of those little miracles of life. Haha.

I may be going

to College Street today. With my pockets padded. All right, not really. I'm (perhaps naively?) hoping to find exactly what I mean at exactly the price I can afford right now. The last time I was seen rummaging through piles of discarded comic books was so long ago. I'm almost nostalgic.

It occurred to me that some people at uni think I'm a class clown. I don't think anybody knows I can actually 'do' anything except say provocative things (various degrees of 'provocative', here). Which always amuses me. Unlike a few people I have to endure in class, with their constant braying need to assert their smart(arse)ness and general overcompetence, I'm so. Laidback? I work for pleasure, I am pleased by relative obscurity. I am given to understand, however, that this is no way to be, the world being what it is. It remains to be seen if not being to push my way with brute force to the front of the crowd is truly a sign of overall ineptitude. I think it's not so bad yet. Or maybe it is and I'm being optimistic, although I usually don't bother to be.

My mother just came armed with a piece of fruit for to rub on my face. Apparently it's 'good for the complexion'. Oh my sweet mummy, I am happy with my burnt brown skin, and you'll have to put up with worse once the swimming (pool) season starts this summer.

O.

I am writing.

Donut dishturb.

So we are all to be converted

to the Church of Dylan?

What can I say except announce that I am rebelling by listening to lots of J-pop. Especially songs by Gackt, who is marvellously androgynous as well a damned good musician.


I thought the Litt&Other Arts classes were going to be the best in this semester, but C&CB take the honours here. The rock lyric classes are a little tiresome, as in: I am already tired of being condescended to because I am one of those people who are not walking-talking encyclopaedae of American folkrock history or whatever. I am already tired of the effortless, empty cynicism, the gross (both senses) assumptions, the general and overwhelming sense that I am considered a loser simply because I have not had the opportunity, the privilege, of growing up with the kind of cultural capital - or hell, the capital - needed to, say, have 'heard things not on the Billboard Top Twenty'.

Anyone who knows me probably also knows how much music I listen to and how varied my tastes are. I can't exactly claim to not be a bit of a music snob myself. But the planets do not align, the spheres do not resound, I do not even bother to speak up in class because I know that even when I'm right I'm wrong.

And I'm tired of the conflicting messages. 'Think for yourself'. Well, thank you sire, I do, and I think, I really think that I do not appreciate having my intelligence no matter how indirectly demeaned by all these little throwaway oh-so-sarcastic comments.

I don't dig Bob Dylan despite the fact that he's a genius? I can deal with that. And I think it'd be good if everyone else could, too. We're not all the same.

I have to listen to Bob Dylan sooner or later? All right. In fact, I am. I like it. But I doubt the subliminal arm-twisting is going to turn me overnight into a Fan. Incidentally, why isn't all this stuff on the DL computer? Instead of retarded pop videos. Whose brilliant idea was it to load that ludicrous Guns and Roses video, by the way? the one where Axl Rose or whatever his name is cavorts around the stage wearing bright red hot pants. Such a straight man, that one. Haha. Too bad he's just a filthy mess.

Also, Simon and Garfunkel fucking suck. If I want sweetness and sensitivity I can play the Beach Boys. But for now I'll listen to ambiguous-looking popstars with lyrics I can't decipher because they're in a different language. Go me.