love

Certified Copy

mandy — Mon, 18 Apr 2011 20:00:00 +0000

The latest film from Iranian filmmaker Abbas Kiarostami, Certified Copy begins with the same joke twice. While waiting for author James Miller (William Shimell) to give a lecture, his translator (Angelo Barbagallo) apologizes for James’ lateness and says, “He can’t blame the traffic; he is walking from upstairs.” The restless crowd responds with no audible laughter. Moments later James walks into the room and, unknowing that it has just been said, re-uses the same joke. This time several members of the crowd emit soft laughter. Within the first few minutes of the film, Kiarostami has already laid out his brilliant thesis: that when it comes to art, history, or even comedy the copy can have meaning in a way that makes it as valuable the original.

This sets up the audience nicely for the existential journey that is to follow in Certified Copy, a rich examination of art, love, and the authenticity of life. Kiarostami’s first film away from his home country hits every note just right and creates an environment that encompasses the viewer. With beautiful cinematography, pitch-perfect pacing, and fantastic performances from both leads Certified Copy is a certified hit.

Comparable to the films of Richard Linklater or David Mamet, Certified Copy is not about where the characters go, but the discussions they have along the way. At a small café, a barista mistakes James and Elle for a married couple and is never corrected. Then, without provocation, the two characters begin to play-act as if they were a married couple, immediately challenging the direction the narrative had been leading. Have these two characters known each other before? Are they so committed to proving the value of a copy over the original that they are going to continue this “copy” of marriage? Or are they a real married couple looking for some excitement?

Juliette Binoche is brilliant as the bubbly and enthusiastic leading lady, who seems to be leading the direction of the conversation for most of the film. The story moves along like a long-form improvised scene with each character continually providing a “yes, and…” to continue the flow of the story. Just like in any improvised stage scene, even the best performers are apt to occasionally break character, and Kiarostami seems to emphasize this by having the characters look directly at the camera, breaking the fourth wall. Just like Bertolt Brecht, Kiarostami never wants the viewer to forget that they are watching a piece of art, not a piece of life, so he often has the actors look straight into the camera to distract any audience members from moments of escapism they might be experiencing.

At the conclusion of Certified Copy, the audience will be left with far more questions than answers and the discussions that will be inspired are undoubtedly one of the greatest values of the film. Unlike author James Miller’s thesis that artistic copies can have equal value to their original, it is unlikely that Kiarostami’s film will be successfully imitated anytime soon.

Read the full review at Film Misery

Written by: Alex Carlson, April 18th 2011

Rad Dad #18: Sex & Love

tina — Sat, 09 Apr 2011 20:00:00 +0000

By Tom Moniz

Microcosm Publishing

After a promising introduction I was ready to absorb the essays that lay before me in Rad Dad #18: Sex & Love, a short zine concerning radical parenting with narratives exploring issues of sex and love. Needless to say, this zine made me feel a range of emotions: offended, entertained, informed, and bored. Some of these essays do not concern love or sex or are only very loosely related to the topics in an abstract way.

Rad Dad himself falls flat in his own personal essay. Using movie script queues, he rambles from one point to the next about memories and experiences that are loosely related or not connected at all. The author's entertaining writing style, passion, and experience are worthy of better organization and editing.

The third essay in the zine, entitled “Making Love,” was bad. I'm still reeling from reading a man's recount of a newly polyamorous relationship. When his wife comes home from an arranged date with another man, the jealous husband thought about sexually assaulting her and “not caring how she felt.” Though he didn't act on these thoughts ("I didn't want to look aggressive"), it was completely unexpected and terrible, especially when it was so graphically detailed. There was no warning; just an in-your-face, deal-with-this description of how he would rape someone. He also goes into detail about cheating on this same woman, years prior. The writer's colorful writing when recounting these gross experiences only cheapens them more. For a few days after reading this, I felt nauseated whenever I’d recall the author's words.

There's also an essay about child nudity and another about a person "breaking up" with the anarchist community. Many of the writers talk about their preference for polyamarous relationships. Some even insult monogamy, which I found unnecessary and misguided. There are a few essays by radical parents who talk about sex, love, and dating in relation to being a parent. I feel that these authors truly understood the zine's topics, while offering their own personal knowledge and experiences. This compilation would have benefitted from more essays like these.

My favorite part of this zine was the last section, “An Interview With Dr. White.” The interview was engaging and interesting and I wish it went on longer and was featured more prominently.

While I am against censoring voices, I feel this zine would have benefited from basic editing. A simple "trigger warning" before graphic material would be a great start. A few snips and cuts to a rambling essay would help the reader understand the authors' intentions and sticking closer to the zine’s topics would be a major improvement.

Written by: Jacquie Piasta, April 9th 2011

Widow: Stories

mandy — Mon, 21 Mar 2011 08:00:00 +0000

By Michelle Latiolais

Bellevue Literary Press

The collection of stories in Michelle Latiolais’ Widow pull at a common thread – shading, sketching, and putting together a picture of what it is like to walk the Earth as a woman who has lost her husband. While none of these women carry any outward signs of trauma, the lens through which each of them sees the world has shifted, leaving each of them off-kilter. In many cases, the characters are left watching as life unfolds in slow motion before them, experiencing every excruciating detail with a painful clarity and the knowledge that this may not change.

Latiolais’ mastery of storytelling colors each story with a singular kind of grief, even as it offers playfulness, pain, humor, and history. The actions and thoughts of each character are imbued with meaning and weight beyond that of any casual activity. The reader is left with a sense that every choice the widows make has been somehow tagged by the death of her husband and is made in some effort to come to terms with this new view of the world.

The author walks the fine line between becoming morbid and being flippant amazingly well. Each story is told with a measure of respect and reverence, so as to engage the reader in the tale and draw out emotion without weighing so heavily that it is painful to read.

Widow is a book for anyone who has ever been in a loving relationship and felt the sting of separation. Above all, these are poignant stories of humanity, love, and life experience that ring true and leave the reader with a deeper understanding of love and loss.

Written by: Kari O'Driscoll, March 21st 2011

What A Wonderful World

mandy — Thu, 20 Jan 2011 08:00:00 +0000

Directed by Faouzi Bensaidi

Global Film Initiative

In What A Wonderful World, director Faouzi Bensaidi attempts to bring together the incongruities of Moroccan urban life with elegance and intimacy. The film features a set of diverse characters whose lives intersect either by coincidence or choice. Thus, throughout the film one notices several intertwined little stories. However, the film’s main storyline revolves around a mercenary assassin, Kamel (who is played by Bensaidi), who falls in love with Kenza, a traffic officer by day and a prostitute by night.

Kamel’s job is driven by the world around him. Everything he sees is a potential sign he will use in order to obtain serial numbers as passwords that enable him to log onto a secure website where he gets his assignment—his next victim. Following every murder, Kamel calls Souad, Kenza’s best friend and prostitute. They meet in Kamel's rooftop apartment, which has a panoramic view of Casablanca. After he is done with her, Kamel literally dumps Souad from his bed. This scene is repeated more than once, yet Souad continues to answer his calls whenever Kamel desires.

I found these scenes to be quite disturbing because the director projects the idea that women and prostitutes are mere objects used for the sexual gratification of men. In other words, Souad’s body is transformed into an arena where institutionalized violence is accepted, and hence constitutes part of the spectrum of (dis)embodiment that is inflicted, and not determined, by the cultural, social, economic, and political setting of her world. Whether Bensaidi was conscious of the implications that this had, I cannot help but argue that What A Wonderful World reproduced dynamics of objectification and dissociation.

On another note, from a gendered perspective, one can argue that Bensaidi positions women against each other given the fact that Kamel falls in love with Souad’s best friend. Thus, rather than creating a mutual bond between women who are economically, culturally, and socially ostracized and oppressed, he constructs a form of competition that makes one question whether or not ‘sisterhood’ is actually possible. What A Wonderful World demonstrates that to survive in a world where crime is widespread and unemployment is evident, people might end up resorting to violence.

Written by: May Abu-Jaber, January 20th 2011

Blue Valentine

mandy — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 09:00:00 +0000

Directed by Derek Cianfrance

Hunting Lane Films

Let me just go right out and say it, Blue Valentine is one of the best movies of the year. It is a major accomplishment for the actors (Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams) and the director (Derek Cianfrance).

The movie introduces us to a married couple( Gosling and Williams) with a young daughter as they start another day. Just the everyday minutiae of waking up and getting ready for your day. Bit by bit the movie exposes how unhappy they are and intersects between their current status and how they met and fell in love years ago. Think of it as the anti-rom-com, the movie that answers the question that most movies shy away from: what happens to the couple after they get together? It also answers the other question that is asked when two people are clearly unhappy in their relationship: why did they ever get together?

And boy does it answer those questions. Every line and detail builds that story. There is no one explosive or particularly memorable scene, but full crescendos building. One building up to falling in love, the other building away to falling out of love. And they come together in the two fantastic lead performances.

I was not sure about Gosling at first. But his performance is very smart. With very little back story, he makes you understand Dean. The young hopeful romantic he was, and the lazy husband and father he became. His physical transformation is phenomenal, but his emotional nakedness even more so.

Williams' Cindy has a lot of back story. It is refreshing to see the female protagonist get a fully fleshed out character and she does wonders with it. She has a fantastic scene on the Brooklyn Bridge where she can’t quite bring herself to tell Gosling something about their relationship. You can see and feel the fear and anticipation weighing so heavily on her. But that is just one scene. She is good in every moment on screen. I understood the young ambitious school girl, the wise daughter, and mostly the woman aching to change her life. Hers is the more unsympathetic character, but I was totally on her side because of the performance.

I’ve heard a lot about Blue Valentine being dark and depressing. I think it tells an all too human story and tells it well with open and emotional performances.

The full review can be read at Film Misery

Written by: Murtada Elfadl, January 9th 2011

Monica & David

barbara — Thu, 23 Dec 2010 00:00:00 +0000

Directed by Alexandria Codina

HBO Films

One of the many things people take for granted—Americans especially—is free will. Basic human rights. When you are able-bodied, physically able to take care of yourself, the ways to access free will seem limitless—there are plenty of things you are able to participate in, such as having a job, living on your own, and preparing your own meals. In Monica & David, novice filmmaker Alexandra Codina documents the wedding and first year of marriage between Monica and David, two adults living with Down’s syndrome.

The titular Monica is Codina’s cousin and it is clear to see why the filmmaker was interested in filming the couple. The best moments celebrate the tenderness between the couple whose love for each other is more than apparent through constant physical affection, pet-name-calling and emotional support. They exude a genuine excitement about spending their lives together and take pride in calling each other husband and wife. In an especially touching moment, Monica shares a letter she’s written to her birth father, who left when she was very young, and David sits next to her holding her hand and offering soft words of encouragement.

Codina’s footage offers a personal glimpse into issues around independence, identity, and care-taking: how we construct who we are in relationship to who we are to others. The dependent relationship in the roles of parents and children is highlighted by Monica’s mother, Maria Elena, and step-father, Bob, who are sincerely trying to offer the couple autonomy but cannot quite loosen their grip. Having both lived in their parents’ homes, as a couple Monica and David move into a separate wing of Maria Elena and Bob’s house, the parents who appear to be more financially equipped to support the couple. A discussion of financial privilege and women’s work would have been effective here, but Codina fail to flush out these issues. There is a brief mention of Maria Elena’s experience as a single mother who worked her way up from an airline flight attendant to VP of the company so that she‘d be able to provide for her daughter.

Overall, had Codina given more attention to the experiences of Monica and David’s mothers raising their children, it may have made for a richer film. Both hardly twenty years old when their children were born, the women immediately faced resistance from their doctors. Maria Elena recalls the doctor walking in to her room at her first ultrasound and announcing “Your child is a mongoloid,” while David’s mother was persuaded to give her son up for adoption. Here Codina misses an opportunity to bring this experience into a larger dialogue surrounding reproductive rights and our nation’s pro-natal “family values” narrative. Perhaps this drawback points to the flaw in researching your family, but the lack of subtext is ultimately the flaw of the film.

Written by: Alicia Sowisdral, December 22nd 2010

Sex, Power and Consent: Youth Culture and the Unwritten Rules

priyanka — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 12:00:00 +0000

By Anastasia Powell

Cambridge University Press

I have been always interested in the problems, points of view, and so much more in the lives of young people; I also decided at the ripe age of twenty that at some point in my life I was going to be a lecturer!

Despite educating teenagers (and being taught by them) for the last twenty years and more, I have not lost my enthusiasm for knowing and guiding them from the perspective of what youngsters of eighteen to twenty consider an ‘old’ wise woman!

How do young people live their lives these days? Do they have the same problems that I had when I was eighteen? So much has changed in the last twenty to thirty years. We are bombarded by a sex-crazed culture, sex-everywhere phenomena. When we switch the TV on, we are faced with sex or violence in movies, shows, talks etc. In the words of Anastasia Powell, the author of Sex, Power and Consent: “contemporary Western Culture has been described as the age of raunch, generation sex, and generation SLUT (Sexually Liberated Urban Teens)."

Being part of such a cultural make-up, what are the views of young people on sex and love these days? Do they have more sex, more sexual relationships than my so-called liberated generation of the late 1970s? Do the youth talk openly about sex? Do they equate sex with love? How long do their relationships last when they are still teenagers? What is it that they want from relationships at the tender age of eighteen to twenty?

Powell’s indisputably needed and thorough book provides most answers to my questions. Her research and interviews with 117 teens and young adults of diverse sexualities in Victoria, Australia, provides readers with a wealth of knowledge about young people of today. She limited her research to one country but unquestionably, it is the representative study of Western youth.

Her book would be of interest to young and not-so-young readers as the author answers many questions that trouble Generation Y (born in or after 1982). It explores issues surrounding youth sex within popular culture, sexuality education and sexual violence prevention. It also clearly presents unwritten rules and the gendered power relationships which have not changed as drastically as I had always thought it had over the last twenty to thirty years. I was surprised to read that despite the apparent sexual freedom, the rates of sexual assault continue to rise with ninety-nine percent of offenders being male and ninety-two percent of sexual assault victims being women (according to Victoria Police data from 2008-2009).

The book also provides practical strategies for young people and for those who work with them towards the prevention of sexual violence. This very well-researched and written study would also be a useful reading for young women who feel pressured into unwanted sex. It might help them to be more aware of their choices, which is always welcome.

Written by: Anna Hamling, December 14th 2010

I Am From Titov Veles (Jas Sum Od Titov Veles)

alicia — Sat, 11 Dec 2010 12:00:00 +0000

Directed by Teona Mitevska

Global Film Initiative

The film begins with a visual icon of the industrial world: the factory’s spires rising like a cathedral, emitting billows of smoke into the sky. Then, a woman’s legs, wrapped like a present in ribboned slippers and a skirt of delicate fabric. She is walking quickly along a wall; she is hurrying. Behind her, out of focus, a man rides on a machine in the factory yard. It becomes obvious that she is surrounded by a workers’ strike, and she sits down and suddenly notices a tiny bug on her hand. She is delighted, in awe. Her absorption with this tiny creature drowns out the noise around her, and she tilts her head back, breathing deeply.

I Am From Titov Veles is a film written and directed by Teona Mitevska, a Macedonian artist who graduated from NYU Tisch and now co-runs a family film company called Sisters and Brother Mitevski with her sister Latina, actress and star of Titov Veles, and her brother Vuk, art director and painter/sculptor who studied at Bennington college in Vermont. The film has won over fifteen international festival awards, and they are well earned. This is a precious film, a rare work of visual intensity and beauty as well as infinitely rich content.

It appears obvious that Teona Mitevska loves this film, these characters, and most of all this place. The film is “patriotic” in the truest sense: it expresses joy at the joyful parts of the place, and horror at that which is horrible. It is truly a film which replaces patriotic guns with a camera, and goes forth with purpose.

The story follows the youngest of three sisters, Afrodita (played by the sister Latina Matevska) who has chosen not to speak since they lost their parents when she was young. She lives with the two older sisters, one of whom works at the factory and suffers from drug addiction, and the other who is obsessed with gaining a visa to leave Veles as soon as possible.

Their relationship is intense and tenderly erotic, full of love but first and foremost at the service of survival. Their bodies are fiercely controlled by boundaries: boundaries of their citizenship, boundaries of marriage and connections to men, boundaries of drugs and substance addiction. They push against these boundaries, struggling to transcend, but ultimately they have little to help them. They are middle-aged, single women, without a father or patriarchal lineage to sustain them. There is little hope to escape this city, whose factory is slowly suffocating the city’s inhabitants with menacing fumes.

This film is beautifully wrought from all directions. The direction is very fine, walking along the razor’s edge to elicit both deep visual pleasure and emotional turbulence. The soundtrack is stunning; at certain points, the music is allowed to soar and take charge of the film in a powerful way (original compositions by Olivier Samouillan). The acting is both controlled and absolutely joyful, the actors breathing fully in the space they inhabit, embracing the contradictions of their characters: especially Latina’s performance of Afrodita, which is simply unforgettable.

The painterly quality of the film undoubtedly comes from Vuk’s art direction, as well as Teona’s training as a painter. There are, throughout the film, fantasy sequences with color so stunning and forms so ghastly, that they will not be easily forgotten. Careful framing and composition is a constant: the collective eye of the creators is tremendously successful at creating not only a political, challenging film, but also a remarkably beautiful visual feast.

The film is not easy to watch. The assertion of bodies is sometimes gruesome: the painful sexual encounters, the splitting episodes of drug withdrawal, the suggestion of rotting odor and burning flesh, the omnipresent suggestion of the oppressive fumes from the factory. However, the tenderness of the sisters in certain moments undoubtedly triumphs. The beauty and love that somehow prevail despite their chaotic context allows the film to float out beyond its difficulty. This film absolutely hovers in the mind at the same time that it is physically daunting to experience. There is a balance between pain and love that is completely real and completely felt. Beautiful.

Written by: Beth Fagan, December 11th 2010

Love and Other Drugs

mandy — Wed, 10 Nov 2010 16:00:00 +0000

Directed by Edward Zwick

Bedford Falls Productions

Love and Other Drugs is Edward Zwick’s latest film and is something of a peculiarity for him. He is known mostly for such films as Glory and Courage Under Fire. His most recent film, Defiance, was also a war epic. Hence, turning this direction caused many raised eyebrows. That said, he is not totally knew to the genre, he started here actually.

The film tells the story of Jamie Randall, a pharmaceutical sales person who has a way with the ladies. You know the drill, and as much as I hate to admit it, for a majority of the film’s run time, it pretty much just runs the drill. We have our male protagonist that loves sex but not relationships, and our quirky, hip, nonconformist woman who initially shows no interest. Then they get involved and problems emerge when emotions show up. The film’s catch is that she has Parkinson’s disease. I appreciate that the film reveals this immediately rather than trying to keep her reasoning for wanting distance a mystery. But that doesn’t make the concept any more original.

There is a subtle irony that she is sick and he works in the medical field, but the film doesn’t really develop it. And I am glad that it doesn’t because Viagra (the drug that Jamie is selling) doesn’t really have anything to do with Parkinson’s. Instead Love and Other Drugs plays on the irony that he is selling Viagra and he is a sexaholic, but he chooses her instead.

The film falls into more clichés and some of its worst moments are when the overweight, Jonah Hill-style brother of Jamie moves in because he is having problems with his lady. His purpose in the film is to be jealous of his brother, until he has sex and discovers that relationships are more important. He provides for plenty of alarmingly humorous gags.

Despite everything I just mentioned, Love and Other Drugs is good, even great if you are someone who loves romantic comedies as irrationally as I do. But it is not this year’s Up in the Air. It is a comedy at heart and it only loses sight of that to get deeply romantic. The film tells a love story and makes you laugh. And there is nothing wrong with that.

As you probably noticed, I haven’t mentioned anything about our two lead performers. I will say this bluntly: this is my new favorite Jake Gyllenhaal performance. He literally delves into the realm of Jim Carrey with this role. He is wild, charismatic, and hysterical. But he has a heart, and pulls it off even when the script can’t keep up with him.

Anne Hathaway is at the top of her game as well, but the script gives her a little less to work with. She shines in a particularly brilliant scene that shows real Parkinson’s patients gathered to share each others' stories. Hathaway sits in the audience with tears of joy, marveling at their accomplishments.

There are moments in this film where you can literally feel the sexual tension bursting from the screen. The cinematography and score work together to elevate the romantic tone. One beautiful shot in which Hathaway rejects Gyllenhaal shows snow swirling around her at the edge of an alleyway. Another shows only their skin through a blurred, steamy window, also with snow blowing around in front of them.

In the final moments of Love and Other Drugs, Jamie is required to make his cliché, final resolution request to be with her. Again, the film goes through the motions with this scene. But here, there is only one subject that needs to be touched on. And while the film stumbles a bit to get there, it goes where it needs to go, and says all that it needs to say. It ends on the right note and it is fun to watch it get there.

The full review can be found at Film Misery

Written by: Alex Carlson, November 10th 2010

Dear Sandy, Hello: Letters from Ted to Sandy Berrigan

brittany — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 16:00:00 +0000

By Ted Berrigan, Sandy Berrigan, Ron Padgett

Coffee House Press

With the post office on the verge of collapse and Facebook statuses eclipsing emails (which not so long ago eclipsed snail mail), I fret for the future of love letters. Decades from now, letters that would have been discovered in a forgotten old box will instead wither away into password-protected oblivion. We will no longer indulge our imagination in the real-life lust and longing of by-gone days, at least not in their raw, unadulterated letter form.

Dear Sandy, Hello is a relic of that (not-so-distant) past when lovers put pen to paper (or typewriter) to express their affections. In this case, it’s a book full of Ted Berrigan’s daily missives on love, life, and literature to his wife and muse, Sandy Berrigan.

Dear Sandy, Hello is also a testament to the (also not-so-distant) past when a woman’s sanity was regarded in direct proportion to her obedience. Just days after Sandy’s marriage to Ted, a struggling-artist-cum-gifted-poet, she is forced by her parents to enter a mental hospital on the basis that “on the date of the marriage she was deprived of reason and incapable of exercising rational judgment.”

It was the uncomfortable awareness that it was a mere thirty-something years ago when a woman could be institutionalized for marrying the man of her choosing, alongside my fascination with the dying art of letter writing, that drew me to Dear Sandy, Hello.

The book opens with a telegraph dated February 13, 1962 from Ted to his friend Joe Brainard: “I was married today at two o’clock in the afternoon to Sandy Alper of Miami Florida. She is nineteen. I am twenty-seven.” A letter addressed to “My darling Sandy” immediately follows—and there begins three months worth of “Letters from Ted.”

For those who do not know Ted Berrigan, as I didn’t before reading this book, he is a prominent figure in the New York School of Poets. That is, he is the poet equivalent of a Jackson Pollack. He is most widely known for a collection of poems called The Sonnets.

His letters document the emotional ups and downs of two lovers torn apart in the height of their lust. As days pass, Ted shifts from zen-like compassion, insisting “that even those who seem to be hurting you love you... that is why I can bear them no malice,” to unforgiving, cold fury. Although written in reference to the specific injustices of their separation, the letters persuasively and poetically articulate a more general struggle against the majority that is hostile to the unconventional. Ted likens himself to Henry Miller and others—artists who resist comfort to be more alive and who ultimately are the “true prophets of the future.”

“Sandy’s Letters to Ted”—amounting to forty pages as opposed to his 200—only appear, incongruously and as though an afterthought, at the end. I read Ted’s letters with a nagging sense that I was missing something, and in the end I wished it’d been left that way. The Sandy of my imagination was more nuanced and intriguing than the woman captured in a few scant letters.

Whether professing his undying love, railing against society, or recounting the most recent book/museum/poetry that he’d explored, Ted’s letters flow as poems do—a web of vivid imagery and thoughts, impressions superseding logic. Taken as I was by the writing, ultimately I couldn’t stomach his artistic hubris overshadowing her injustice.

Written by: Alicia Simoni, October 11th 2010

There Was No One at the Bus Stop

mandy — Sun, 19 Sep 2010 02:00:00 +0000

By Sirshendu Mukhopadhyay

Penguin India

The twelve hours that pass in this slim novella are some of the slowest and hardest ever—both in the lives of the characters and for the reader as well. Set on one day in the lives of two people in a not-so-secret affair, There Was No One at the Bus Stop builds the strained context of their lonely lives, takes you to a point of emotional climax, and then holds you there just a few pages too long, leaving you tired and frustrated. But that’s the price you’re going to have to pay for a deepened understanding of human relationships, it seems.

The form of the novella works well to create, in very few pages, the story of Trina and Debashish. It explores the reasons for the dissatisfaction in their lives, their growing loneliness, and an inability to limit their relationship to one corner of their brittle lives. Debashish’s young son expresses a wish to live with his aunt after his mother’s death, and we witness Trina’s painful alienation from her entire family. To make the decision to live together, to take comfort in the love they have found, seems like the simplest and most obvious yet, at the same time, most difficult thing to do. Over the day, we see their actions, hear their thoughts, and watch them tremulously step over boundaries created by society and themselves. We are frustrated by them, saddened, and made to feel oppressed by the walls closing in, even when they try to escape from within them.

It’s not entirely clear if something in the story is lost in translation (from the original Bengali), but the characterisation in the book—especially of Trina—prevents it from working, entirely. I felt a strongly misogynist undertone, despite efforts to understand what was going on in her mind. Trina appears to us in bits and starts, first as an attractive, vivacious, and intelligent woman, strikingly drawn against her background of middle-class ennui. Before you know it, however, this image shifts to one that is sad, guilt-ridden, and self pitying, the object of impatience and revulsion of her family. Since we remain mostly at the realm of the emotional throughout the short narrative, we don’t have much in the way of explanation as to how her personality changes, or why most responses to Trina are so extreme.

This portrayal of Trina as so self loathing and whinging takes away from the insight the author seems to be making about the complexity human relationships, and it grossly overplays the guilt and shame of a woman who has found love outside of what seems to be a cruel and intolerable family. What we end up with in There Was No One at the Bus Stop is a very disturbing sense that, although cracks and loneliness there may be, there are no good reasons to step out of the all-powerful institution of marriage.

Written by: Disha Mullick, September 18th 2010

Jack Goes Boating

mandy — Sat, 18 Sep 2010 18:00:00 +0000

Directed by Phillip Seymour Hoffman

Overture Films, Anchor Bay Entertainment

I had no idea that Phillip Seymour Hoffman had such a devoted fan base. Yeah, he won Oscars for his work in Capote and Doubt and he did liven up overrated stinkers like The Talented Mr. Ripley and Magnolia. Still, I was shocked by how many people streamed into the theatre to see his directorial debut, Jack Goes Boating. Nearly all the chairs in the 600-seat space were filled.

Adapted from Bob Glaudini’s play of the same name, Jack Goes Boating revolves around the doings (or, more accurately, not-doings and undoings) of a group of forty-somethings in New York City. The movie opens with limo drivers Clyde (John Ortiz) and Jack (Phillip Seymour Hoffman) discussing Jack’s upcoming blind date with Connie (Amy Ryan), the co-worker of Clyde’s wife, Lucy (Daphne Rubin-Vega).

Connie and Jack are sad sacks, having only their jobs and their relationships with their co-workers cum friends to give their lives any type of purpose. Although Connie and Jack are anxious about romance, the two feel an attraction to each other and embark on a snail’s pace courtship. Jack decides to learn how to swim so he can take Connie on a boat ride the coming summer. (The film begins at the cusp of winter.)

Clyde and Lucy’s long-term marriage is slowly disintegrating under the pressures of sexual betrayal, resentment, and boredom. Lucy is quietly ambitious, railing against her husband’s inertia. Clyde attempts to please her by half-heartedly attending business school. Clyde and Lucy distract themselves from their own unhappiness by coaching Jack and Connie's newly forming relationship.

The four inhabit an urban landscape that is strangely devoid of noise, excitement, or other people. This could have been intentional, a subtle way of depicting the isolation of its characters, but it is an iffy creative choice, forcing the audience to focus exclusively on characters who aren’t fully developed.

The film has other flaws as well. While many of the sly jokes in Jack Goes Boating hit the mark, its glacial pace undercuts the film's overall effectiveness. It takes too long to reap the meager payoff and, like many movies that are based on plays, has entirely too much dialogue.

Jack Goes Boating grated on me for political reasons, too. A woman who is willing to ask for more, Lucy is depicted in a quasi-villainous manner, as she’s the one who breaks the tenuous bond of the foursome. The scene where Connie requests to be “overpowered” by Jack before they have sex wouldn’t have bothered me so much if I hadn’t seen the bloody aftermath of her victimization by a subway pervert earlier in the film… or watched her boss touch her in a highly questionable manner. (Is Glaudini suggesting that some women invite victimization?) And the fact that Lucy and Clyde re-enact the workplace sexual harassment in an impromptu sex game left a bad taste in my mouth.

I did enjoy Jack’s visualization and cooking sequences, though. Exquisitely scored, they have a haunting beauty to them. I also appreciated the defiantly downbeat depiction of a fortyish single woman. Connie is anything but Carrie Bradshaw, and Jack Goes Boating avoids being even remotely similar to a rom-com cliché.

All told, Jack Goes Boating is a grown-folks movie. It doesn’t have a feel good vibe, despite its relatively happy ending, and anyone in search of light fare should skip this thinking person’s romantic comedy.

Written by: Ebony Edwards-Ellis, September 18th 2010

Tiger Hills

mandy — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 10:00:00 +0000

By Sarita Mandanna

Penguin India

We used to argue as young literary critics that it wasn’t possible to have feminist romantic writing: the terms were contradictory by their very definition. Love stories were necessarily fissured by unequal relations of power, vulnerability, and injustice. This has always been troubling to me, as a diehard romantic, a firm believer in love stories, and a feminist. It was a niggling worry, too, as I read, and was instantly absorbed in, Tiger Hills.

Tiger Hills spans over fifty years, in the lovely region of Coorg in south India—from the last few decades of the nineteenth century until the buildup to the Second World War. It follows the destinies of two large clans from neighbouring villages, but the fulcrum of this epic novel is surely Devi. The story follows her life, from the heavily symbolic moment of her birth, and evolves around her relationships with three men: Devanna, who becomes her close friend and almost-sibling when his mother returns to their village from her marital home, and then dies; Machaiah, the larger-than-life "tiger killer" of the neighbouring Kambeymada clan; and Appaiah, Machaiah’s son. These individuals and their passions for each other, inextricable from the physical and cultural landscape of Coorg (belonging in the novel is almost always used interchangeably for person and place), form a gripping and emotive narrative.

The story would not be without Devi, and yet ironically, its three parts are named after the men in her life. The beauty of the story lies in the way fate, a strongly patriarchal family and custom, and the foreclosing of choices for Devi over and over again are interrogated by Devi’s own will and restlessness with her situation. At points in the story she recedes into an overly romanticised backdrop, and yet, the crucial turns the plot takes are when she emerges from this passivity, and fights for spaces and moments of happiness. What also keeps you drawn to the narrative is how the characters grow and change, both with tumultuous events that happen in their lives but also, subtly, with the movement of time and the accumulation of hurt and loss. So Devi’s changing relationship with Devanna is quite fascinating to follow, from close friendship to bitterness and repulsion, and these must intertwine in the end to reach a point of acceptance, despite painful past circumstances.

An excessiveness in language and plot notwithstanding, and a thinning hold over the reader’s attention, especially towards the last third of this expansive novel, Tiger Hills is a love story that absorbs you. It makes you angry when Devi—so willful, ostensibly strong, and controlling—seems trapped in her own life, giving in to the silences that patriarchy necessitates, and not articulating the injustices she suffers. But if it is frustrating, it also reflects our own love stories. and seems to understand the complexity of relations that come with love: the intense vulnerability, the often painful negotiations we make along the way, and the tenuous hold we ever have on happiness.

Written by: Disha Mullick, September 16th 2010

Bijou Roy

admin — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 16:01:00 +0000

By Ronica Dhar

St. Martin's Press

Bijou Roy reminded me a bit of Sameer Parekh's Stealing the Ambassador. Both novels feature a young Indian American who visits India after his or her father's death in an attempt to understand the father better, especially his motivation for leaving his home country. Both are quintessential second-generation novels, I feel, because they attempt to recover the lost homeland through a kind of false nostalgia—a desire for a place that was never theirs, but rather of their parents and of the past.

Dhar's novel seemed to try to touch on a number of cultural issues, too, in the contrast between the United States and India in the Indian American's perspective. One example is that Bijou, the title character, is somewhat obsessed with Ketaki, her aunt's maidservant. Bijou sympathizes with this fifteen-year-old and wants to befriend her because the stark class difference of her aunt and uncle from this maid rubs against the ideal of class mobility that she is familiar with having grown up in the United States.

Bijou's name is French for jewel, a word her father picked up when he visited France. He also met Bijou's mother, Sheela, while in France, and this diversion from a more direct India-to-United States path for the parents is interesting for creating a more complex sense of diasporic movement. The France moment in the parents' lives also brings in Billie Holiday as a favorite singer of the father and Bijou (the father first heard Billie Holiday in France as well).

Bijou Roy also has a number of sections from the perspective of the father, Nitish Roy. (The narration is in the third person throughout, though the character's voices emerge in free indirect discourse.) As in Parekh's novel, there is a past (of the father, of the grandfather) haunted by revolutionary and Communist zeal. Nitish was involved with the Naxalites, a revolutionary group that refused Gandhi's nonviolent tactics for social change. I think it's fascinating how newer fiction by Indian Americans (and Indians in the diaspora) seem to be marking a post-independence moment of political contestation rather than the moment of independence from British colonial rule and the trauma of the India-Pakistan split. It definitely seems generational—that the memories of the authors' parents are what make the substance of the fiction.

There was a kind of interesting relationship between Bijou and her younger sister Pari, too. Dhar sketched out subtle differences in how they perceived this trip to India (due perhaps to age difference but also to the different relationships that they had to their parents).

Ultimately, I think Dhar's novel also aims to explore differences in gender norms in the United States versus in India. That exploration isn't fully fleshed out, though, and gets subsumed by the love triangle subplot, which somewhat predictably forces Bijou to puzzle through her relationship with a White American man and her attraction to an Indian man who is the son of a close friend of the father.

Cross-posted at Asian American Literature Fans

Written by: Stephen Hong Sohn, August 21st 2010

Buddha's Orphans

admin — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 00:00:00 +0000

By Samrat Upadhyay

Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

I’ve been behind the ball in the sense that I haven’t had a chance to read any works by Samrat Upadhyay. Upadhyay is a Nepalese-American writer, who has already published three full-length works of fiction, including Arresting God in Kathmandu, The Royal Ghosts, and The Guru of Love. His latest novel is called Buddha's Orphans, and since it was just published, I felt it would be the perfect place to address my reading oversight.

Buddha's Orphans is exemplary of a book that entwines the political upheaval of Nepal with a personal love story. The emotional core is the fragile romance that blooms between Raja, an orphan, and Nilu, who hails from an upper-middle class background. One might read the novel through the frame of a Jamesonian allegory, but there are really too many layers and too many subplots to consider that already fracture our understanding of the novel, where post-colonial allegory is perhaps one of many competing concerns.

What makes Upadhyay’s novel a success is not so much the romance narrative itself, but the concluding arc in which Upadhyay makes clear that Raja’s experience is not singular. Indeed, there is an incredibly interesting repetitive narrative motif that emerges toward the novel’s end that makes it unclear whether a certain portion is occurring in one time period or another. Yet the point is dynamically made: the “orphans” that populate the novel are many in form and character, and the novel imagines a way in which to interrogate the cycle of expectation and caste that are the mainstay of other works situated in the field. Indeed, Raja and Nilu embark on a love marriage, rather than the more traditional forms that arise out of arrangements and matchmakings.

There is also a very interesting occupational trajectory for Raja, as he begins to work for a publishing company that produces tourist guides. Here, I couldn’t help but think about the way Upadhyay “domesticates” the Nepalese fictional terrain so that we might move beyond the touristic gaze that reduces the local population to “local color,” so quaint as to be purchased through trinkets and souvenirs. To be sure, Upadhyay does grant the reader uninformed of Nepalese contexts an engaging narrative, but it is not without its political heft and Raja continually considers the nature of his own political activism and his desire to produce social change.

Given the additive impulse that still sustains many of our teaching interests in Asian American literature, Upadhyay offers us a narrative which calls attention to a country often overlooked with the pan-ethnic rubric that situates the field. In this regard, his works are a welcome addition to syllabi looking to extend into national territories deserving of more representational inquiry. I enthusiastically look to catching up on his previous works!

Cross-posted at Asian American Literature Fans

Written by: Stephen Hong Sohn, August 16th 2010