On the Star's Gesture...

A youtube clip of Rajnikanth's iconic cigarette toss/move (Hindi film viewers probably know this only in its elaborate form from Giraftaar (begin watching at the 1:43 mark here); followed by Satyam's comment in the context of what Shankar has made/is making of Rajni, led to the following musings:

"…and the scene illustrates the nature, and hence the limits, of gesture. That is, the gesture — which, unlike the pose, is purely itself; that is, it expresses personality, unlike the pose, which seeks to express someone else’s personality and is merely a kind of imitation — operates at the level of “as if.” We are charmed by the gesture inasmuch as it is able to be enacted as if no one were watching. This is of course not true — on film, by definition someone is watching — but for the spell onscreen to be compelling the performer must be able to enact it as if it were true. (The becomes less and less true as the gesture is transformed into the star's stock move, and, as in the scene from Giraftaar, filmmakers will often try to disguise the staleness by rendering it ever more elaborate.) This scene from Ninaithaale Inikkum (a film I haven’t seen, by the way) demonstrates that even the most gestural of stars, Rajnikanth (in the sense that no other star seems so conflatable with his gestures), is undone if the illusion is undone. The “as if” element cannot be present, because, in this scene, people are literally watching him. Also, the purity of the gesture is explicitly compromised, because, instead of existing in and of itself as it does at the beginning of the scene, the cigarette trick is impressed into the service of a goal: winning the car. The gesture, in short, is undone, and all pleasure and delight drained from it, when it is transformed into a task."

I'm falling in love with a stranger...(actually, did so back in 1975)

I just love this song (the scene from the film is here)...it just grooves...hadn't thought about it in years... in fact the lyrics mimic (anticipate?) the homo-erotic -- or at least erotic -- investment of the audience in Amitabh...he is the stranger we are falling in love with. That is, his outsider-status, his strangeness, is why we fall in love with him (very different to why "we" might have fallen in love with Rajesh Khanna, SRK, or Rajendra Kumar -- those were loved because they were familiar). When Amitabh ceases to be strange, when he becomes familiar, in the way a kindly old uncle is, he continues to be held in great esteem and affection, and is perhaps even loved, but simultaneously one scorns him, loathing the betrayal...

[Related discussion at Satyamshot here.]

Lapata on Daniyal Mueenuddin (via Chapati Mystery)

A great post by lapata on Daniyal Mueenuddin, Manto, Pakistani (as opposed to Indian) fiction, and representations of women. Check the comments thread out; one of my responses is pasted below:

"A superb post, one of the best on this blog in recent times. Since Dalrymple and others (I remember Amit Chaudhuri wrote a lengthy essay in the last year or so that touched upon the difference between Indian and Pakistani writing (the complete piece is not available online; here's a link to the abstract); more specifically, it was in large part about what he felt was the desiccation of Indian art — classical music was exhibit A — by state patronage; even the Indian novel-in-English was thoroughly implicated in the Indian national project on Chaudhuri’s reading, and thus condemned to a bland liberalism (unlike Dalrymple and Mishra, then, Chaudhuri’s criticism is not based on the writer’s “inauthenticity” as on the fact that his/her artistic vision is, perhaps despite himself/herself, compromised by the Nehruvian project, pursuant to which illiberalism becomes a kind of cardinal sin)) have used Daniyal Mueenuddin as a kind of representative of “Pakistaniness”, it is a troubling omission on Dalrymple’s part that he does not acknowledge or recognize that Mueenuddin’s stories could be said to reflect the almost untouchable privilege of the z– “farm manager.” In fact, lapata’s post is the only thing on him that I have read that seems to raise questions based on Mueenuddin’s position. Not that that position prevents one from creating great art, but lapata hones in on the fact that it is a particular kind of art — no less particular than the sort of art a well-heeled urban person, whether in Pakistan or India (see the novels of Mohsin Hamid; Kamila Shamsie; and Uzma Aslam Khan) might be said to write. One can certainly say that one kind of writing is less bland, less expected, less common to English-language readers — but I must confess I am a bit uncomfortable with the idea that the latter kind of writing incarnates a “truth” about Pakistan whereas those others don’t (about pakistan or india). i.e. Mueenuddin can be considered a very good/great writer without the burden that the “third world” writer always seems to have, namely the obligation to be authentic. [Not exactly sure why, but writing this comment reminded of a funny quote from Foucault's "History of Sexuality" (Vol. 1), where he says something to the effect that women once upon a time struggled for the right to have an orgasm, and now are condemned to live under the obligation to have one.]"

While searching for a link to the Chaudhuri piece, I found a second one by him that touches upon some of these issues.

A CM thread on Indian history...

I haven't had a blog post of late, but I have been busy commenting on a discussion thread at Chapati Mystery...

My Paul-the-Octopus Moment (in Dubai)

I leave New York for a week and the Yankees win seven straight. Maybe I need to stay in Dubai...