I'm for Piratebay. Screw MPAA. Follow Piratebay's accounts of the trial here.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Up the Pirates!
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Requiescat In Pace
The grand patriarch has fallen. Mother was literally flushed in tears as we watched the coffin get slid through the hollow space inside the concrete tomb. I was behind her, waiting for her to fall out of losing what little strength remained in her body after several sleepless nights and days. It never came, but she was the saddest person I've seen in the crowd, relatives and strangers altogether. We were among the last people to leave the grave; mother was on the verge of hysteria and she hesitated to go home until the man fixing the stone tablet has firmly affixed the piece with the epitaph in cement. It was a dry afternoon as we finally left. Mother lost her father to cancer. We lost him forever.
His foot was already on the grave when I've heard of the news. He was a dying man in the hospital and nothing can save him at the time. He was 72 and the prospect of death was imminent. As the turn of events would have it, I was unable to travel home the soonest time possible. I barely had the resources to finance my trip back home, and so I decided to borrow some money. It was too late when I returned for he was already dead. I got to Naga City on an unholy hour on February 18. He was already lifeless on Valentines.
He was a grumpy fellow, and for his old age it did not come as a surprise. His younger years were nowhere near perfect just as well. When my mother was still studying in college, her father would not let her join field trips for he thought the academic expenses would take its toll on the family budget. Which it did, or might have had, given the fact that their family was a galaxy away from being rich. He had this tone in his voice which, at times when he is in a fit of rage, would scare the living daylights out of the pores of your skin. A strict man that he is, he fits your conventional image of a conservative father to his four sons and two daughters and a conservative grandfather to the rest of us.
But like your ordinary circle of family, we also had moments that border between the hilarious and the insane. Despite the gravity of stressful moments that cause his wrinkles to grow faster than his thinning hair, my grandfather was one who hid a funny bone somewhere and plucked it sometimes, much to our delight. He was a man of vice, liquor and cigarettes alike, but he too was a man of virtue. For those who knew him very well, he stuck to his every word like a leech would do to skin. Each word that escaped the crevaces of his mouth was a word meant to be treated with much expectation; he would do what he would say.
He was no surgeon or physician, but he was a man who wielded the razor and circumcised those young lads whose twigs are yet to shed their barks. Pay Pino, the folks called him, and his name drew fear in the eyes of kids who saw him as the man who transformed boys to men. I can still remember the afternoon when I tasted his scythe firsthand. It wasn't a bloody mess but the pain was there. And like all the first-born boys in his family, I became one of the broods who took the bold path to the backyard and knelt before a shaved branch of guava tree. A few minutes thereafter, the ritual was complete and I was a grown boy.
To this day, I pride myself with the thought that what I carry around is proof to his legacy. Seriously.
And now that he has gone somewhere else, there are no more backyard circumcisions. No more grumpy old man in the old house. No more patriarch. The wooden chair where he used to frequent on lazy afternoons will be as empty as the sofa he used to sleep late in the night. No one to drive the rugged yellow motorbike he used for his former work as an electrician in the City. No one to tell us that any time he would soon be gone and leave us behind to look after what little is left of the family. Life in the face of death and death in the face of life can never be as real as this.
Requiescat In Pace [RIP].
Continue here
His foot was already on the grave when I've heard of the news. He was a dying man in the hospital and nothing can save him at the time. He was 72 and the prospect of death was imminent. As the turn of events would have it, I was unable to travel home the soonest time possible. I barely had the resources to finance my trip back home, and so I decided to borrow some money. It was too late when I returned for he was already dead. I got to Naga City on an unholy hour on February 18. He was already lifeless on Valentines.
He was a grumpy fellow, and for his old age it did not come as a surprise. His younger years were nowhere near perfect just as well. When my mother was still studying in college, her father would not let her join field trips for he thought the academic expenses would take its toll on the family budget. Which it did, or might have had, given the fact that their family was a galaxy away from being rich. He had this tone in his voice which, at times when he is in a fit of rage, would scare the living daylights out of the pores of your skin. A strict man that he is, he fits your conventional image of a conservative father to his four sons and two daughters and a conservative grandfather to the rest of us.
But like your ordinary circle of family, we also had moments that border between the hilarious and the insane. Despite the gravity of stressful moments that cause his wrinkles to grow faster than his thinning hair, my grandfather was one who hid a funny bone somewhere and plucked it sometimes, much to our delight. He was a man of vice, liquor and cigarettes alike, but he too was a man of virtue. For those who knew him very well, he stuck to his every word like a leech would do to skin. Each word that escaped the crevaces of his mouth was a word meant to be treated with much expectation; he would do what he would say.
He was no surgeon or physician, but he was a man who wielded the razor and circumcised those young lads whose twigs are yet to shed their barks. Pay Pino, the folks called him, and his name drew fear in the eyes of kids who saw him as the man who transformed boys to men. I can still remember the afternoon when I tasted his scythe firsthand. It wasn't a bloody mess but the pain was there. And like all the first-born boys in his family, I became one of the broods who took the bold path to the backyard and knelt before a shaved branch of guava tree. A few minutes thereafter, the ritual was complete and I was a grown boy.
To this day, I pride myself with the thought that what I carry around is proof to his legacy. Seriously.
And now that he has gone somewhere else, there are no more backyard circumcisions. No more grumpy old man in the old house. No more patriarch. The wooden chair where he used to frequent on lazy afternoons will be as empty as the sofa he used to sleep late in the night. No one to drive the rugged yellow motorbike he used for his former work as an electrician in the City. No one to tell us that any time he would soon be gone and leave us behind to look after what little is left of the family. Life in the face of death and death in the face of life can never be as real as this.
Requiescat In Pace [RIP].
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
FebFair Chronicles 1: The First Night
I heard the music from the giant speakers mounted from a distance the moment we crossed Palma Bridge. It was eight in the evening and the crowd seemed to have gathered right at the edges of the stage as I let my sight wander ahead. Walking across the first few meters of the upper grounds, Freedom Park hasn't much changed through the years, save for the concrete tiles that stretched through the diagonal of the wide lawn. Countless booths have already been installed although some others were still bare down to bamboo frames devoid of improvised walls and ceilings. It was the seventh time, or year, which I've attended the week-long event.
We saw an old friend along the way right before we reached halfway to the stage. A brief talk transported us back to the days when we were still studying, a time when FebFair signalled not only the days and nights of feast but also the days and nights of unwarranted and equally petrifying exams. We do not know now if that tradition still takes its toll on UPLB students these days, but we were glad we've surged through the thick and thin of it all. It's one of the rewards of having been able to graduate. Nevermind graduating "on time", that's not the stuff we were made of. But in any case, we had a brief chat, recounting the years and months gone-by in school and in what used to be our freelance job, exchanging bits of information about this and that person who we haven't seen in what feels like ages.
We parted ways.
We eventually made our way close to the stage and realized that we were hungry. During FebFair, the least of your worries would have to be the question of where to buy food ranging from a light snack to a full meal. The most of your worries would have to be the question of where to get the fucking money, but that's another story. Tens, if not hundreds, of food stalls litter the perimeters of the upper grounds offering a wide variety of food to satisfy the crowd's gastronomic urges. Interestingly, a deluge of humanity poured continuously in and out of the small shops despite the damage the items sold could inflict to their wallets. Maybe they can afford them with relative ease, earning more than they spend in this wretched part of the world. Or maybe they've saved up for these days, knowing for a fact that this annual event is, after all, a celebration of sorts.
We managed to buy a roasted corn, the cobs of which have been plucked and shoved into a miscroscopic plastic cup. No, not really miscoscopic but rather small. It was for her. As for my part, I had a hotdog warmed for several minutes on a grill and a stick impaled its one end through the other. I dressed it with ketchup thereafter, making the red fellow more red with the condiment slobbered across its outer flesh. Simply put, it was just a hotdog on a stick. After thirst gripped our throats, we bought a fruit shake—mango, specifically. It was neither too sweet nor too stale. Just the right blend, I suppose.
Then we went back close to the stage. On the way, we incidentally met the band we were supposed to watch that evening, the members of which were my friends and my fellow members of the organization of local musicians we founded. There they were, sitting on the grass several meters away from the chaos before the stage. The band was set to compete in a "battle of the bands" that night, and we were there to extend our support one way or another. They were the last to perform, a fact that graced us the luxury of time although I sensed that neither was enough to console their knees or to ease their mood. It wasn't hard to spot the tension in the way they talked and moved about, which might have been all too normal under that pressing situation they were pressed into.
Three bands and almost an hour after, it was their turn. The cold evening breeze must have reached the depths of their kidneys; they spent the last few minutes before their performance going back and forth the john. It happens. I know how it feels.
Two cover songs, one original composition and almost twenty minutes after, they were done. I do hope the guitar cables I lent the guitarist of their band served them well enough. They had a few minor "glitches", but other than that all is good. I must say, though, that the competition was stiff and tight. I wouldn't be surprised if they win, yet I wouldn't be surprised at all if they lose either. Come Thursday, it's judgment night for them.
And Saturday would be judgment night for my band as well, although we're not competing with other fellow bands. We're simply scheduled to perform the last evening of the occasion, and I do hope things will turn out good enough. My hands are itching to play I can't help but scratch them and some more. We intend to play a song that best reflects the theme of the week-long event plus one of our original compositions. In four days, I'm soon to find out what comes out of it all.
A few minutes after eleven, we went home. Not bad to start our FebFair.
Continue here
We saw an old friend along the way right before we reached halfway to the stage. A brief talk transported us back to the days when we were still studying, a time when FebFair signalled not only the days and nights of feast but also the days and nights of unwarranted and equally petrifying exams. We do not know now if that tradition still takes its toll on UPLB students these days, but we were glad we've surged through the thick and thin of it all. It's one of the rewards of having been able to graduate. Nevermind graduating "on time", that's not the stuff we were made of. But in any case, we had a brief chat, recounting the years and months gone-by in school and in what used to be our freelance job, exchanging bits of information about this and that person who we haven't seen in what feels like ages.
We parted ways.
We eventually made our way close to the stage and realized that we were hungry. During FebFair, the least of your worries would have to be the question of where to buy food ranging from a light snack to a full meal. The most of your worries would have to be the question of where to get the fucking money, but that's another story. Tens, if not hundreds, of food stalls litter the perimeters of the upper grounds offering a wide variety of food to satisfy the crowd's gastronomic urges. Interestingly, a deluge of humanity poured continuously in and out of the small shops despite the damage the items sold could inflict to their wallets. Maybe they can afford them with relative ease, earning more than they spend in this wretched part of the world. Or maybe they've saved up for these days, knowing for a fact that this annual event is, after all, a celebration of sorts.
We managed to buy a roasted corn, the cobs of which have been plucked and shoved into a miscroscopic plastic cup. No, not really miscoscopic but rather small. It was for her. As for my part, I had a hotdog warmed for several minutes on a grill and a stick impaled its one end through the other. I dressed it with ketchup thereafter, making the red fellow more red with the condiment slobbered across its outer flesh. Simply put, it was just a hotdog on a stick. After thirst gripped our throats, we bought a fruit shake—mango, specifically. It was neither too sweet nor too stale. Just the right blend, I suppose.
Then we went back close to the stage. On the way, we incidentally met the band we were supposed to watch that evening, the members of which were my friends and my fellow members of the organization of local musicians we founded. There they were, sitting on the grass several meters away from the chaos before the stage. The band was set to compete in a "battle of the bands" that night, and we were there to extend our support one way or another. They were the last to perform, a fact that graced us the luxury of time although I sensed that neither was enough to console their knees or to ease their mood. It wasn't hard to spot the tension in the way they talked and moved about, which might have been all too normal under that pressing situation they were pressed into.
Three bands and almost an hour after, it was their turn. The cold evening breeze must have reached the depths of their kidneys; they spent the last few minutes before their performance going back and forth the john. It happens. I know how it feels.
Two cover songs, one original composition and almost twenty minutes after, they were done. I do hope the guitar cables I lent the guitarist of their band served them well enough. They had a few minor "glitches", but other than that all is good. I must say, though, that the competition was stiff and tight. I wouldn't be surprised if they win, yet I wouldn't be surprised at all if they lose either. Come Thursday, it's judgment night for them.
And Saturday would be judgment night for my band as well, although we're not competing with other fellow bands. We're simply scheduled to perform the last evening of the occasion, and I do hope things will turn out good enough. My hands are itching to play I can't help but scratch them and some more. We intend to play a song that best reflects the theme of the week-long event plus one of our original compositions. In four days, I'm soon to find out what comes out of it all.
A few minutes after eleven, we went home. Not bad to start our FebFair.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Milk on your Lips
He was loved and hated. He was in his 40s and California during the early 1970s was yet to have one of its greatest lessons in history. The rest of America hasn't heard about him, but the movement that he championed was slowly making its roots across the nation, recruiting a legion of supporters to a cause so noble yet so revolutionary that it threatened to shatter the walls of bigotry surrounding the conservative minds of those who oppose a shift in the status quo. For having been able to stare the malignancy of discrimination and look upon it like a Goliath waiting to befall on its knees, he's got the biggest balls than any other man during his time. He is Harvey Milk.
And he is gay.
The movie itself, Milk, can only go as far as retelling the horrors of what it was and how it was to be gay and to live like one in a society where law enforcers enforce anything but the law. Or more to the point, it can only go as far as recapturing the severe insanity that took away the lives of those who find happiness and satisfaction in the embrace of their own kind. The madness of it all was society's sickness elevated to kingdom come. Politicians have their hands in the perfidy and perversion of ripping gays off of their rightful claim to a life deprived of hostility towards them. John Briggs saw to it that gay and lesbian teachers, and even those who support gays and lesbians, will be removed and banned from local California schools. He failed. Anita Bryant, the conservative woman responsible for Paper Roses, went even further by seeking to repeal the prohibition against discrimination based on a person's sexual orientation. She failed, too. Both were staunch advocates of the religious bias against homosexuals, citing God in every possible opportunity they can to sow fear in the hearts and minds of those who wave the gay banner with pride.
Which makes you think if there really is a loving Christian God; for God so loved the world that he allowed bigotry and hatred to thrive. But that's another thing.
Sean Penn can only go as far as revisiting the predicaments of Harvey, of how it felt to stamp The Castro District out of its misery and to put the nation out of the threshold of a perennial addiction to sexual prejudice. Penn can only go as far as reproducing the likeness of Harvey before the camera, but it too raises Harvey's untimely death at the hands of Dan White to heroic proportions, surrendering flesh and bones, albeit unknowingly, for a bigger cause.
But the film also pays attention to how Milk's obsession with politics blinded him from the threats to his life and, ultimately, from the very reason why he sought public office in the first place. To a certain degree, Milk sank into the political pit which he vowed to fight at a time when all he had was Castro Camera, Scott Smith and several other friends both gay and straight. He became, in a way, the ogre that never dies—precisely because the slayer of the mythical creature turned into the ogre himself. I do not know if Gus Van Sant intended it to be that way, faithfully reflecting the life of Milk as it bloomed before it wilted. But whatever the case, it rings a fairly familiar tone that resonates back to where we are—either you get to clean the mess in politics or the mess in politics gets to dirty you.
I've read several reviews of the film, and quite a number of them, if not most of them, write praises about Gus Van Sant's brainchild. The majesty of the movie rests not only on the superimposition of the life of Harvey Milk within the context of raising public awareness about the troubles of the past, although it echoes that message too. Neither does it solely rests on more contemporary issues, California Proposition 8 nowithstanding. Rather, the substance of it lies on how the genuine love for humanity knows no sexual boundaries.
You're gay, you do not only have to love men. You have to love others as well. The same holds true for lesbians and straight people, senile and young. The same holds true for Jews and Muslims, Hitler and Christ, taxi drivers and business executives. The same holds true for you and I. Feel free to supply your own. The point is that you do not have to be queer or otherwise to show that your mind can be pricked by the sense of respect and compassion, or the lack thereof. You do not even have to believe in Valentines Day to show that you perfectly understand sympathy and empathy and live them beyond mere knowing.
Harvey Milk teaches us to embrace humanity regardless of personal and social differences. Now if that isn't love to begin with, then I do not know what else is.
PBA097970680
Continue here
And he is gay.
The movie itself, Milk, can only go as far as retelling the horrors of what it was and how it was to be gay and to live like one in a society where law enforcers enforce anything but the law. Or more to the point, it can only go as far as recapturing the severe insanity that took away the lives of those who find happiness and satisfaction in the embrace of their own kind. The madness of it all was society's sickness elevated to kingdom come. Politicians have their hands in the perfidy and perversion of ripping gays off of their rightful claim to a life deprived of hostility towards them. John Briggs saw to it that gay and lesbian teachers, and even those who support gays and lesbians, will be removed and banned from local California schools. He failed. Anita Bryant, the conservative woman responsible for Paper Roses, went even further by seeking to repeal the prohibition against discrimination based on a person's sexual orientation. She failed, too. Both were staunch advocates of the religious bias against homosexuals, citing God in every possible opportunity they can to sow fear in the hearts and minds of those who wave the gay banner with pride.
Which makes you think if there really is a loving Christian God; for God so loved the world that he allowed bigotry and hatred to thrive. But that's another thing.
Sean Penn can only go as far as revisiting the predicaments of Harvey, of how it felt to stamp The Castro District out of its misery and to put the nation out of the threshold of a perennial addiction to sexual prejudice. Penn can only go as far as reproducing the likeness of Harvey before the camera, but it too raises Harvey's untimely death at the hands of Dan White to heroic proportions, surrendering flesh and bones, albeit unknowingly, for a bigger cause.
But the film also pays attention to how Milk's obsession with politics blinded him from the threats to his life and, ultimately, from the very reason why he sought public office in the first place. To a certain degree, Milk sank into the political pit which he vowed to fight at a time when all he had was Castro Camera, Scott Smith and several other friends both gay and straight. He became, in a way, the ogre that never dies—precisely because the slayer of the mythical creature turned into the ogre himself. I do not know if Gus Van Sant intended it to be that way, faithfully reflecting the life of Milk as it bloomed before it wilted. But whatever the case, it rings a fairly familiar tone that resonates back to where we are—either you get to clean the mess in politics or the mess in politics gets to dirty you.
I've read several reviews of the film, and quite a number of them, if not most of them, write praises about Gus Van Sant's brainchild. The majesty of the movie rests not only on the superimposition of the life of Harvey Milk within the context of raising public awareness about the troubles of the past, although it echoes that message too. Neither does it solely rests on more contemporary issues, California Proposition 8 nowithstanding. Rather, the substance of it lies on how the genuine love for humanity knows no sexual boundaries.
You're gay, you do not only have to love men. You have to love others as well. The same holds true for lesbians and straight people, senile and young. The same holds true for Jews and Muslims, Hitler and Christ, taxi drivers and business executives. The same holds true for you and I. Feel free to supply your own. The point is that you do not have to be queer or otherwise to show that your mind can be pricked by the sense of respect and compassion, or the lack thereof. You do not even have to believe in Valentines Day to show that you perfectly understand sympathy and empathy and live them beyond mere knowing.
Harvey Milk teaches us to embrace humanity regardless of personal and social differences. Now if that isn't love to begin with, then I do not know what else is.
PBA097970680
Monday, February 2, 2009
Genius
You don't have to be a genius to know the answer, Jamal says. That certainly sparked a flame of insight into his life. He was nowhere near to being a genius, let alone someone who knew all the answers to life's toughest questions. Maybe even the simplest ones. But towards the end of the film, the point becomes clear as pristine water: indeed, you do not have to be a genius to know the answer; you just have to experience things in their candid and brutal forms to have something to say in the face of life's most troubling questions. While the story reflects answers to some questions, questions to some answers, and even more questions to questions that not even Einstein would have managed to resolve, it turns out that the movie hid more under its sleeves. It was not only the story of innocence and ignorance of two boys and a girl living in the slum recesses of India. Neither was it simply the story of how a chaiwalla seized the final answer with a guess and seized twenty million Rupees even more. It was itself a story of India.
Slumdog Millionaire has been raking awards recently, and I am not surprised at all. Save for the closing scenes in the film which I found rather mushy than poignant that they make you want to melt like cheese, the movie deserves the laurels and heaps of attention it can rightfully claim for itself. I have my hopes high for the film come the 81st annual Oscars. Of course, the film has to make its way through a thick dense of worthy competitors, all of which are by no means frail as a toothpick. And yet that is what makes this film interesting to bet on. Danny Boyle's brainchild is the underdog, but it's a masterpiece that can grip the mind of those who are allergic to Bollywood, to the point of blurring the lines that distinguish Mumbai films from Los Angeles ones.
A few minutes into the film, I was immediately hooked. Unlike other films where your interest is easily flushed down the drain right when the plot is just about to thicken, Slumdog Millionaire absorbs your attention like matter to blackhole the moment Jamal begins to supply his answers to the bewildered investigator. It was inescapable, at least on my part.
One particular scene which I find laughable is the part where the young Jamal was having a sweet time discharging bowel. A chopper flew above him while he was taking a "shy" dump, sitting in that desolate spot of four wooden walls as his shit tried to force its way out of the backdoor, the part where the sun never shines. The actor whom he idolized to great lengths was inside the helicopter, and before you know it Jamal put his shorts on and eagerly attempted to dash out of the cubicle. Unfortunately, though, his brother Salim jammed a chair at the door and Jamal was unable to take a quick exit. Eventually, his desire forced him to abandon the pit by going straight into it. Holding the photo with his right hand high above his head, he pinched his nose, held his breath, and down he went through the hole. He literally went through all that shit. In fact, the young Jamal was severely full of shit in the most literal sense, and yet he managed to get his idol wield his pen and sign his photo for an autograph. That was gratifying at best. It was unsanitary at worst.
The lesson is that sometimes it does pay to be buried in deep shit.
Jamal and Salim rarely had the luxury of enjoying the life of a child, especially after the violent death of their mother, more so in a place forgotten by the hand of god. They became thieves and beggars, tourist guides and photographers, wandering train crooks. Name it. They witnessed little singing beggars of their kind whose eyes are spooned and blinded so that people are put in a state of sympathy in their misery. They are two of a kind; two brothers whose fate seemed to be thoroughly entangled with trouble from the authorities and those who simply can't tolerate sharing the same space of this world with them. Anywhere they went, trouble had its own way of following their footsteps.
But their sneaky tactics have placed them a cut above the rest, notwithstanding those who are years ahead of them but none the wiser. They have mastered the art of deceit and the folds of decrepit ways of living through their exposure to the real threats to body and soul. Willing to risk life and limb in exchange for the golden promise of wealth and survival, not even the Himalayas could have stood against their way. Or maybe somewhere close to that. They teach us that, in a country of struggling call center agents and goons with guns and gold, even those who rank among the lowest of the low can rise above the din and stare back at a bitter history like a lost friend. Jamal, in his misery and spite for his brother, did so and triumphed. But Salim, in his improvidence and bastardly ways, ended on the other side of the fence. And grave.
Latika, too, is a victim of religious intolerance and the throes of poverty. She was just another human being whose life seemed to stretch towards oblivion. She became a beggar and, later on, a teenager who sells meat in quite a perverted sense. Prostitution sucked the joys of living a decent and happy life out of her. She became the domestic partner to a despot who lorded over the undergrounds with wealth and wanton wretchedness. And she became the damsel of Salim, or Salim became her prince. But that is another story which I will not go deeper with.
The story isn't only the story of Jamal. Or Salim. Or Latika. More to the point, it too is the story of India. It is a story of India, a third-world country riddled with religious bigotry and intolerance amidst a rich tapestry of religions and belief systems; where Hindus kill Muslims all in the name of their gods; where hopes are pinned on television shows that promise the luster of millions at the end of the rainbow; where call centers thrive like the population; where little beggars litter the streets and sing hymns of despair and soulful poetry in melody; and where stories of rags to riches are as epic as legendary tales told only in books of fantasy.
Sort of makes you wonder if the movie itself is also a story just like ours.
I do not know if you'll feel the same way that I did for the film, but I suggest that you watch it in its full length. Try and taste a little Bollywood for a while and you'll see there's not much of a difference between our case and the case of those who live in India. It's not more than enough to know Gandhi to know India. To view the movie is to understand that India is not only a place where "five-six" is as familiar as air to lungs. To watch it is to have more questions than answers. To have more questions than answers after watching it, that is normal and expected. But to have more questions to questions, now that is genius. But why?
Well, what can I say? Jamal said it best. You don't have to be a genius to know the answer.
Or answers.
Continue here
Slumdog Millionaire has been raking awards recently, and I am not surprised at all. Save for the closing scenes in the film which I found rather mushy than poignant that they make you want to melt like cheese, the movie deserves the laurels and heaps of attention it can rightfully claim for itself. I have my hopes high for the film come the 81st annual Oscars. Of course, the film has to make its way through a thick dense of worthy competitors, all of which are by no means frail as a toothpick. And yet that is what makes this film interesting to bet on. Danny Boyle's brainchild is the underdog, but it's a masterpiece that can grip the mind of those who are allergic to Bollywood, to the point of blurring the lines that distinguish Mumbai films from Los Angeles ones.
A few minutes into the film, I was immediately hooked. Unlike other films where your interest is easily flushed down the drain right when the plot is just about to thicken, Slumdog Millionaire absorbs your attention like matter to blackhole the moment Jamal begins to supply his answers to the bewildered investigator. It was inescapable, at least on my part.
One particular scene which I find laughable is the part where the young Jamal was having a sweet time discharging bowel. A chopper flew above him while he was taking a "shy" dump, sitting in that desolate spot of four wooden walls as his shit tried to force its way out of the backdoor, the part where the sun never shines. The actor whom he idolized to great lengths was inside the helicopter, and before you know it Jamal put his shorts on and eagerly attempted to dash out of the cubicle. Unfortunately, though, his brother Salim jammed a chair at the door and Jamal was unable to take a quick exit. Eventually, his desire forced him to abandon the pit by going straight into it. Holding the photo with his right hand high above his head, he pinched his nose, held his breath, and down he went through the hole. He literally went through all that shit. In fact, the young Jamal was severely full of shit in the most literal sense, and yet he managed to get his idol wield his pen and sign his photo for an autograph. That was gratifying at best. It was unsanitary at worst.
The lesson is that sometimes it does pay to be buried in deep shit.
Jamal and Salim rarely had the luxury of enjoying the life of a child, especially after the violent death of their mother, more so in a place forgotten by the hand of god. They became thieves and beggars, tourist guides and photographers, wandering train crooks. Name it. They witnessed little singing beggars of their kind whose eyes are spooned and blinded so that people are put in a state of sympathy in their misery. They are two of a kind; two brothers whose fate seemed to be thoroughly entangled with trouble from the authorities and those who simply can't tolerate sharing the same space of this world with them. Anywhere they went, trouble had its own way of following their footsteps.
But their sneaky tactics have placed them a cut above the rest, notwithstanding those who are years ahead of them but none the wiser. They have mastered the art of deceit and the folds of decrepit ways of living through their exposure to the real threats to body and soul. Willing to risk life and limb in exchange for the golden promise of wealth and survival, not even the Himalayas could have stood against their way. Or maybe somewhere close to that. They teach us that, in a country of struggling call center agents and goons with guns and gold, even those who rank among the lowest of the low can rise above the din and stare back at a bitter history like a lost friend. Jamal, in his misery and spite for his brother, did so and triumphed. But Salim, in his improvidence and bastardly ways, ended on the other side of the fence. And grave.
Latika, too, is a victim of religious intolerance and the throes of poverty. She was just another human being whose life seemed to stretch towards oblivion. She became a beggar and, later on, a teenager who sells meat in quite a perverted sense. Prostitution sucked the joys of living a decent and happy life out of her. She became the domestic partner to a despot who lorded over the undergrounds with wealth and wanton wretchedness. And she became the damsel of Salim, or Salim became her prince. But that is another story which I will not go deeper with.
The story isn't only the story of Jamal. Or Salim. Or Latika. More to the point, it too is the story of India. It is a story of India, a third-world country riddled with religious bigotry and intolerance amidst a rich tapestry of religions and belief systems; where Hindus kill Muslims all in the name of their gods; where hopes are pinned on television shows that promise the luster of millions at the end of the rainbow; where call centers thrive like the population; where little beggars litter the streets and sing hymns of despair and soulful poetry in melody; and where stories of rags to riches are as epic as legendary tales told only in books of fantasy.
Sort of makes you wonder if the movie itself is also a story just like ours.
I do not know if you'll feel the same way that I did for the film, but I suggest that you watch it in its full length. Try and taste a little Bollywood for a while and you'll see there's not much of a difference between our case and the case of those who live in India. It's not more than enough to know Gandhi to know India. To view the movie is to understand that India is not only a place where "five-six" is as familiar as air to lungs. To watch it is to have more questions than answers. To have more questions than answers after watching it, that is normal and expected. But to have more questions to questions, now that is genius. But why?
Well, what can I say? Jamal said it best. You don't have to be a genius to know the answer.
Or answers.
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