On Doris Lessing and Feminism

When I first read Doris Lessing's 'The Golden Notebook', I failed to see why it was hailed as being 'a feminist classic'. In its depiction of women as being needy, desperate, and incomplete without the presence of a man; it seemed to be the exact antithesis of a 'feminist' novel. I was much younger when I read it. I imagine I expected to read a tale of triumph,of  unabashed sexual liberation, and of women devoid of any vulnerability. Reading Simone De Beauvoir's 'The Second Sex' has made me consider 'The Golden Notebook' differently.

Till very recently, and for that matter even at present, women have been objectified to the extent that they're not expected to think and function outside the box that defines their 'intrinsic purpose'. So here came a book with very gritty details of inner turmoil and personal strife. It spoke of thwarted attempts at sexual and political liberation. I particularly remember one of the men who went to the extent of deciding what kind of orgasm a woman was allowed to have.There is, in the book, a rather poignant line about women who allow men to treat them with utter disregard and remain passive accomplices in their own mistreatment. It goes on to say that such women deserve nothing better since it is all they ever ask for.

The purpose of literature is not always to exalt and glorify the human spirit. It can sometimes serve as a mirror, maybe even a magnifying glass, to reveal the sores and warts that we don't want to acknowledge. 'The Golden Notebook' did exactly that.

Running in New York City

Over the past week, I've been running without earphones. It is the most amazing feeling to just run without anything going on in your head (When the music plays, I tend to crunch running stats in my head). On the other hand, I can't help overhearing conversations that take place between people and their running partners. So here are some observations based on one week of listening and watching.

1. People who run along the East River seem happier than those who run along the Hudson. I suppose it's because there are fewer people running by the East River and , people running along the East River are mostly solitary runners. East River pathway runners and bikers tend to be more polite and considerate.

2. A lot of people are really frustrated and unhappy with their jobs. Runners in the Battery Park City area don't hold back from any kind of venting. Do I sense a correlation between unhappiness and working in the financial district?

3. Running with a partner can be very unnerving and annoying. I noticed a bunch of sour faced couples running near the Hudson River Park. This is understandable since it's not always possible for two people to run in sync. Things get worse if the couple in question has a baby in a stroller.

4. Men tend to talk about sports. Yes, it's been all about football statistics the past week.

5. Women tend to talk about who dated whom and who said what to whom etc. etc. (dear ladies, why must you live up to that stereotype?).

6. Dogs are the best running partners. They go out of their way to please their humans. The trouble is,dogs are generally sprinters and not long distance runners. I wish more people understood that.

7. Babies in strollers don't care how fast you run. 

8. Tourists find runners very amusing. 

The Loneliness of the Slow Runner

I move my limbs with great trepidation. Movement has never made me happy. I feel constrained, as though there is an invisible string tied to each and every muscle of my being. In order to run, I must move. In order to dance, I must move. My shoulders sag from the weight of thought. I want to be inconspicuous, invisible, non-existent even. I think all the time; my mind works like an endless oscillation, vacillating em to stop, between extremes.

I cannot look at the others. They pretend not to stare, but I see scores of eyes piercing my frame. The endless scrutiny, often a figment of my imagination, is unbearable. I want to beg them to stop, but I can't. They only do these things in my head.

P.S. Because running in New York City is never easy.

Note to Self

Growing up as an only child has often compelled me to write notes to myself. Here's a note that borders on the verbose. I wrote it a couple of months ago, and I assume that I wrote it at 3 in the morning on a glorious day in Ithaca.

Dear Self,

There is nothing to be done. Haters will hate and parents will be parents. Bigots will not change, and the world is too large, too magnificent and beautifully imperfect. Change is constant, but it unfolds at snail pace. In your lifetime, you will want to mould certain aspects of time in a way that seems to fit your purpose. Your purpose, unfortunately, is rather open ended. Time will wrap itself around you and hold you to ransom if you allow it to. Remember, as living creatures, we're inexplicably timeless. Life is a lot more bearable if you look this timelessness squarely in the eye and make peace with it. Life is not intended to be a sequence of milestones with defined boundaries. It really is a blur. It is rather vague; incomprehensible actually. The breakdown of reason and intellect is inevitable. So is the loss of faith and endurance. It is true that nothing is necessarily written, but our destinies are sadly limited by the extent of our longevity.

When this realization sinks in, remember to laugh , to dance, to sing, to scream, and to stretch your limbs and being till they can no longer be contained. You can only yield when you've pushed the limits of resistance. In this, you will find overwhelming peace and well deserved comfort. Hold high that head, and grit those teeth; but at the same time, keep those fists 'unclenched' and those toes warm.

The self,
From without,
Ramen!

Afterword:
1. This is reproduced exactly as it was written, right down to the grammar and punctuation.
2. It seemed so compelling and phenomenal when I wrote it. Now it sounds like a generic passage from a generic self help book.
3. Ithaca can get really cold, keeping one's toes warm is of utmost importance.
4. With this post I do concede, that although I am a fence-sitting agnostic, I often pledge my allegiance to 'His holy noodliness', 'The Flying Spaghetti Monster'. I am secretly(not so secretly anymore) a boiled again 'Pastafarian'. Ramen!

Retraction?

If this is a legitimate Twitter account, and if it is true that 'Gangarams' is moving to a new place above Koshy's restaurant, then my blog might just have its first retraction!

Apparently , this overly nostalgic post got my blog more traffic than it's accustomed to. A lot of people took pictures of the sign outside 'Gangarams' and thought that the store was closing for good. Here's the response I got from the 'Gangarams' Twitter feed. It was hard to find any decent coverage of the purported closing in any of Bangalore's newspapers, and since I don't live in Bangalore anymore, there was no way for me to get the details from the people at the store.

There are still conflicting reports coming in from different sources. This one from IBN Live says that the owners had finalized on the location above Koshy's, but there are fears that the building may not be "strong enough to hold the weight of the books".

This isn't an official retraction, but in this case, I hope there will be good reason for me to make this a first for this blog.

The End of an Era : The Closing of 'Gangarams'

'Gangarams' wasn't just a bookstore. It was a monument, a landmark, a family tradition; a sign of assurance that people in Bangalore still loved to read. When I think of 'Gangarams'; I think of climbing a somewhat steep flight of stairs, scuttling between four different floors, keeping my belongings in lockers and , as a child, ambling down a grid of book lined shelves with my parents. The only people who could navigate the store with frightening precision were members of the staff. They could whip out books from inconspicuous corners, without the blink of an eye or a whiff of judgement. It used to be common for other booksellers to say, 'we don't have this book, but you will find it at Gangarams'.

I still remember buying 'Living to Tell the Tale' by Marquez from 'Gangarams'. 'Back to school' season wouldn't be the same without a trip to 'Gangarams' for a textbook buying spree. No competitive exam preparation was complete without the acquisition of that rarely published and rather 'ninja' study guide. 'Gangarams' also had an entire floor called 'the computer section', something that my father cherished. There were times when I would leave the store empty handed and scowling, while my father beamed like the 'Magi' as he clutched a copy of  'Computers for Dummies'. The store was also a place where I would return to reminisce; to breathe in the scent of books fresh from the press, to be the six year old that clutched her father's hand, and to be the adolescent who watched her mother's eyes light up at the sight of a favorite classic.

 Today, upon hearing this, a part of me is glad that my father isn't here to see the store shut down. On the other hand, I imagine him, in all jocular pragmatism, saying, 'Everything is an illusion. Nothing is forever; not people and definitely not bookstores'. One has to acknowledge that 'Gangarams' didn't generate the kind of hype that 'Crossword' and 'Landmark' did with their literary events. It didn't organize massive, garage sale like giveaways at dirt cheap prices, and it didn't have a coffee shop. It is now an established fact, that if a bookstore is to survive, it must give readers something more than just books.

On days like this, the naive sentimentalist in me trumps over the headstrong technologist. I feel as though a part of my memory has been sliced away and that I will never have access to it for either consultation or comfort.

Bookstores in New York : 'bookbook'

This is the first in an intended series of posts that chronicle my adventures and misadventures in New York bookstores. It has been two weeks since I've moved to New York, and I've already visited my first bookstore! The idea for this series comes from a friend who seems to have a very prescient understanding of my obsession with books, despite having known me for less than a year. This is not intended to be an authoritative reference on what bookshops to visit and which ones to avoid. The intended purpose of this series is to have a catalog for posterity (I have this irrational fear, that someday, I will lose my memory, and that I will have to reconstruct my life from scratch.). I intend to cover bookshops in Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens.

'bookbook' is a tiny and intimate shop located roughly at the intersection of Bleeker Street and Cornelia Street in Greenwich Village. I'm ashamed to admit that I discovered this place, in a rather unromantic fashion, on 'Foursquare'. The only redeeming part of my minuscule 'adventure' is that I was sitting in a park in Greenwich Village, watching squirrels, and listening to a jazz band, when I decided to pull out my smartphone and look for bookshops in the vicinity. 

It is somewhat disheartening, even for a Kindle user, to walk into a 'shop around the corner' bookstore, and to hear people whispering about buying Kindle versions of books on display. The staff at 'bookbook' are courteous enough not to chide truant customers for uttering 'the K-word' (there are bookstores where such people are publicly shamed). So here's my little tip for readers who want a nice deal; 'bookbook' houses all its bargain books either outside the store, or in the first few shelves inside the store. There maybe discounted and regular priced versions of the same book. In fact, one of the store managers went out of his way to encourage me to buy the discounted version. I suppose it speaks volumes about the state of business in smaller bookstores.

I bought two books by Murakami ('Kafka on the Shore' and 'Dance Dance Dance), and 'In Cold Blood' by Truman Capote. At first sight, 'bookbook' may not look like a place that has too much to offer, but trust me on the impressive variety for a shop of its size. The selection of books is somewhat restricted to genres like art, music, poetry, literature, and pop culture. I wouldn't go far enough to label this place as 'niche', but look elsewhere if you want books on science, technology and fast paced reading in general. It is one of those places where asking gets you around faster than just looking.

As a bonus, a friend of the store manager walked in with his pet Pitbulls, and I got to pet the friendlier one. The purportedly 'unfriendly' one had a gag around her mouth. Apparently, she bites people 'despite having only one tooth' !

This Sporting Life

In keeping with the spirit of the 'kitchen sink' tradition, 'This Sporting Life' is yet another film that I loved. I am generally wary of movies about sport, because the narrative tends to be very mundane and predictable. Lindsay Anderson's 'This Sporting Life' doesn't fit the mold of the average 'feel good' fable of triumph. Not with its unlikely cast and the interleaving of past and present events into the narrative.

Richard Harris (better known to kids and teenagers as the 'original Dumbledore') plays Frank, a young man with humble beginnings who becomes the star player of  a rugby club in Wakefield, Yorkshire. The film opens to Frank passing out after getting bludgeoned on the rugby field. It's Christmas eve, his teeth are broken and he needs a dentist. He is told that his front teeth will have to be pulled out. As he settles into the anesthesia, his subconscious rewinds through a blurry retelling of past events; of his try-outs for the league, of his landlady and of his ambition to be the best .

Frank lives in a rented room which is a part of a larger family home. His landlady, Margaret; a young widow with two little children, is pert, reserved and is in perpetual mourning for her husband. She keeps her husband's old boots by the fireplace as a reminder of her widowhood and Frank loathes the sight of them. It is quite evident that he wants her and the gulf between them seems to widen with every advance he makes. He brings presents for the children, takes the family out for rides in his car, and still sees no hint of approval in her eyes. There is tension between Frank and Margaret; a dreadful mix of longing and denial. They swing between moments of great tenderness and empathy to those of violent resistance and bitterness. Frank turns down the advances of other women. The only woman he will have is the one who won't have him.

Richard Harris and Rachel Roberts turn out wonderful performances. Both had reputations for being intensely passionate people, on and off stage. For this film, some of that passion is repressed. It is repressed to the extent that it shows up unexpectedly after a rare moment of gentle acquiescence. Richard Harris has a bestial quality. One can see it in his eyes and in the twisted features of his face, famously described has being one 'of a thousand Irish navvies'. This quality leaps forth on occasion; the one thing that makes his performance so unpredictable and believable. Rachel Roberts personifies perfection with her performance. She is bitter, anxious, wild and vulnerable at the same time. She resists and yields, she loves and loathes, and a part of her yearns for all that Frank has to give.

The film ends with Frank yielding a deathly blow to a spider crawling up the wall. He is aptly described as 'nothing but an ape on the field'. It is a tag he must endure for as long as he is invincible.

Look Back in Anger

Jimmy Porter, from 'Look Back in Anger', epitomizes the 'angry young man' of the early sixties. He sweats away at a job that helps to make ends meet. He is an anachronistic relic, languishing in a time that barely makes sense to him. He is angry, very angry and uncouth. His bitterness leaps from the pages of John Osborne's landmark play, and makes the present day idea of a 'quarter life crisis' seem like a trivial example of a 'first world problem'. In his dissent he takes no prisoners. He holds his wife,Alison, to ransom for all his grouses and bullies his good humored flatmate and business partner, Cliff.

The play was a part of the 'kitchen sink' movement of the 1960s, characterized by gritty, dark and unromantic depictions of daily life,particularly that of the working class, in English film, theatre and art. It caused quite a stir and the audience is said to have 'gasped' when they saw an ironing board on stage. A cinematic adaptation of it was released in 1959, starring Richard Burton as Jimmy Porter and Mary Ure (from the original stage production) as Alison.

I read the play before I watched the film. If I have one regret, it is that I never got to watch Peter O'toole on stage. Somehow, my perception of Jimmy Porter wasn't very different from O'toole's interpretation of Henry II in 'Beckett' (yes, I'm going through an 'O'toole appreciation phase' now). It is said that John Osborne himself considered O'toole's performance as Jimmy Porter, at the Old Vic, to be the best interpretation he ever saw. I was nevertheless thrilled to know that Burton had played Porter in the film adaptation and looked forward, with relish, to hearing the same sarcasm and dissent laced with Burton's divine baritone.

For starters, Burton didn't look the part. A 33 year old with a life of hard drinking and smoking is likely to have some difficulty passing off as a young man in his twenties. I was willing to brush aside the inaccuracy of Porter's appearance. After all angst knows no age, and a man as angry as Porter might as well look a decade older. Burton's performance seemed restrained. The baritone was intact, but there was something resigned and very complacent about his rage. It was as though he had been angry for ten years and had gotten fed up of his own bickering. At times it looked as though he struggled to deliver the lines that otherwise spring from the pages of the book and make you grit your teeth.

On the other hand, I loved Mary Ure as Alison. There was something very beautiful and disquieting about her  mild mannered vulnerability. She was convincing as the exhausted young wife, who gave up life as she knew it to live with a man who put her on trial for her upper class upbringing and for every letter she wrote to her mother. A particularly poignant moment in the film is when Alison visits the doctor only to learn that she is pregnant. She asks him if it's 'too late to do anything' and the doctor says, 'Don't ever say that'. She is shifty and uncomfortable around Jimmy, her squirrel like eyes waver as she avoids eye contact with him. I also liked Gary Raymond as Cliff, but thought that he was too handsome for the part as described in the play.

Another grouse I had with the movie was the introduction of characters that weren't in the play. Here, the character in question is an Indian vendor called Kapoor who faces discrimination at the hands of the inspector. The other vendors, with the exception of Jimmy and Cliff, sabotage his business and force him to quit and move to another place. 'I'm an untouchable in my own country', he says when Jimmy asks him why he came to England. I found this addition to the script totally unnecessary and irrelevant to what goes on in the Porters' living room. Perhaps it was an attempt to rationalize Jimmy's dissent and to provide a tangible reason for his otherwise inexplicable rage. Besides, the original Jimmy Porter was meant to be an atrocious trumpet player, something to add to the consternation of the other characters and the reader. In the film, he plays like the next Louis Armstrong in the making.

At the end of the day, the film manages to stay within the basic framework of the play. It still is, in my opinion, a classic case of the play being better than the movie. There have been other remakes of 'Look Back in Anger' and I'm pretty sure that I won't be watching any of them. I'll make an exception if someone goes back in time, and brings back footage of the Old Vic production starring O'toole.

The Ruling Class

When I think of 'The Ruling Class', the first word that comes to my mind is 'bizarre'. Critics and movie goers alike tend to remain divided over whether to call this film a work of genius or just plain monstrous insanity. The film didn't necessarily conform to the notions of cinematic brilliance at the time of its release. On one hand it was a commercial failure and on the other hand it garnered Peter O'toole his fourth Oscar nomination for 'Best Actor'. These days, 'The Ruling Class' is regarded as a cult hit; one of those films that was way ahead of its time and now deserves the distinction of belonging to 'The Criterion Collection'. Rumor has it that a severely edited version was released in the United States in the seventies. The 'Criterion' edition is supposed to contain all the original and uncut footage and is freely available on 'Hulu'.

'The Ruling Class' chronicles the trials and tribulations of the aristocratic Gurney family as it struggles to resume a 'normal upper class English existence' following the embarrassing death of the 13th Earl of Gurney. The dead Earl, in his will, has appointed his son, Jack (Peter O'toole), to be his successor. Fairly routine, one might assume, except that Jack is paranoid schizophrenic and believes himself to be the second coming of Jesus Christ and refers to himself as 'The God of Love'. As 'The God of Love', Jack preaches about 'truth and universal love';  he cavorts around, breaks into song and dance, spends most of his time propped up on a giant cross that he calls 'the Watusi walking stick', declares that pomp and riches are the root of all evil and even attempts to perform a miracle or two. The family, his uncle in particular, aren't too thrilled about a takeover by a potential Bolshevik. In order to save themselves any societal embarrassment, they decide that if Jack can be made to produce a male heir and can be declared 'insane' by a 'master of lunacy', then he can be locked away in a facility and lose all say in matters of the family estate. A hasty, and rather dubious, wedding is arranged between Jack and a gold digging young woman. As a last resort, Jack's psychiatrist performs some unconventional experiments on him in order to find a 'cure'. Following a particularly harrowing encounter with another paranoid schizophrenic, Jack is 'cured'. Except that he now thinks he is 'Jack the Ripper'.

The film takes a rather dramatic turn at this point, as does Peter O'toole's performance. It is as though there are two actors playing distinct characters in two completely different films. The new, 'improved' and misogynistic Jack is the  model of perfection. He laments the decline of social mores and the abolition of capital punishment. He appeals for a return to the glorious days of the aristocratic reign of terror. The latter part of the film is as disturbing as the first half is amusing. 

One thing that is quite evident, is that Peter Medak, the director, gave the actors complete artistic freedom to interpret their roles as they pleased. The acting tends to be rather theatrical. Proponents of the 'avant garde' and 'film noir' movements are likely to find this movie annoying and overly histrionic. It is said that the actors drank themselves to oblivion while filming, and it's amazing that they got any work done at all. One can appreciate and marvel at the sheer versatility of Peter O'toole's talent. From his impeccable comic timing to his decidedly dreadful mania,with all that singing and dancing in the bargain. Peter Barnes' script swings from being witty to being ridiculous. It takes a very blatant dig at the English ruling class and is not very subtle in depicting 'The House of Lords' as a room full of cadaverous old fogies who yearn for lost power. The supporting cast is simply marvelous. My personal favorites are Alistair Sim, who plays the blundering bishop, and Arthur Lowe, who plays the brazen and secretly anarchic butler.

Irrespective of whether one likes or loathes 'The Ruling Class', how such a film passed through the censors and the moral police is inconceivable. As someone once pointed out, present day actors would think twice before accepting a role that Peter O'toole played for free. I leave you with two clips from the film. The first one is of Peter O'toole playing 'The God of Love' and the second one is of him playing 'Jack the Ripper'.