An Ode to My Boys

Thank all the Gods for a rich inner life. I have been up nights, then rise early morning to YouTube, then muse all the live long day, and smile to myself like a crazy person while running errands because my thoughts are all of Nagron. It's the Domino effect of reading a book, then coming across Tumblr and fan sites and linking up with work that is similar to that single, and singular, book. The book is The Captive Prince, and Nagron refers to the characters of Agron and Nasir (such is the Brangelina effect of coining couple names which is seriously disturbing but what can you do) in the TV series Spartacus.

Really, Dan Feuerriegel and Pana Hema Taylor make Spartacus what it is to me: Timeless, and an ode to accomplished actors who can basically change your life by making you think about the nature of Love.

Nagron combine supreme fighting skills (gorgeously choreographed) with a romance made up of glances - that have the weight of a hundred explicit imaginings. You wish, idiotically, that the real world had heroes who fought for the unwinnable cause, merely because it is right. But, as it always is, it's the love that you remember. (Or as fans on the Net say, the Feels. So funny.)

The series is brilliantly made with that comic-book cinematography which has also placed Sin City and 300 in a unique slot, slo-mo and a chiaroscuro effect with the use of theatrical blood and gore being a part of it, but it is in Spartacus' directors that the core lies. There are nuances here that simply take your breath away.

The Castus-Agron-Nasir play had me gasping like a maiden aunt. When Agron 'commands' (he can't talk any other way) his rival Castus to remove his hand from Nasir, he holds out his own arm against Nasir's body, gently moving him away. For a man whose raison d'etre is the battlefield, that gentleness is the viewer's undoing. When Nasir makes him understand that his feelings are very real, the uncertainty in Agron's face, in that face that is so very sure of everything else, everywhere else will, I assure you, make you tear up like a putz.

But you have to see these actors in action to get their full appeal, one that thousands of disciples are languishing over as we speak. Dan and Pan (yes, we're on a first-name basis) are both straight and yet play lovers with an ease and passion that is astonishing. Cut to Colin Farrell wincing his way through a chaste and utterly uninspiring male kiss in Alexander (the way we winced through the entire movie) and you'll understand what a job my boys have done.

The entire cast, no exceptions, are the best we've seen on TV in years (I especially like Manu Bennett and Viva Bianca, and always mourn that beautiful man Andy Whitfield, the first Spartacus, lost to cancer), but they fade when faced with Nagron.

There is a reason why Dan Feuerriegel has a larger appeal than Pana, by the way.

1. While both are dropdead divine, Pana is married, Dan gloriously single.
2. Dan is an inveterate Tweeter and Instagramer. He even responds to fans' questions via webcam... is this an Aussie thing? I can't imagine an American star having such an appreciation for his reach no matter how late it was in coming. Pana is much more reserved going by his slight FB and Twitter presence.
3. Did you see Dan's photoshoot in the coffeetable tome In the Tub by TJ Scott? He was – barely – in it. 'Nuff said.

PS. A striking comment on YouTube was from someone who asked the immortal question: why do straight actors play gay characters so well? I have another: Why does gay love seem so much more intense, and so much more appealing, than hetero love? The answers may be a bit uncomfortable, so I'll give them only if you ask.

I leave you with this, (an insider thing, I'm sorry to say, but for those who have seen the show, priceless), again from fandom across the globe, a community which I really have come to appreciate: You mean we're not alone?

Superimposed over Agron's smouldering face:

“You Think I Can't Fight Because I Can't Hold A Sword?

Bitch I Survived Crucifixion.

I'm Jesus.”

My captive heart

I would like to believe that the life-changing books I discover are God's way of leading me onto the path of forgiveness. Mine towards Him. For screwing me over. But alas, there is, of course, no God. And I have to sublimate my pain over this non-life I live through wonders like The Captive Prince.

It piqued my curiousity after the third time I read a fan tribute on separate book sites, so I downloaded the damn thing just to get over another disappointment and you know, move on. (It was much like how I first read Brothers Karamazov: by stumbling across references to it in practically everything I was reading at the tender age of 16. And boy, did THAT book screw me over.)

But really, S.U.Pacat (not, I am certain, her real name although she may indeed be a very cool supercat) can write. Practically every page sings an aria like a stab through the heart, and you read and re-read immediately, thinking, no, she can't be this good. But she is. She has created a world from long ago where duelling princes find themselves and each other, making it so much more than a fascinating account of war tactics, or good v evil.

Damen is betrayed by his brother Kastor and lover Jocaste and sent into captivity where he meets the supercilious Laurent, neighbouring prince and all-out SOB. No one knows Damen's royal identity and the revelations of character that follow are utterly absorbing.

The interesting thing here is that what is 'good' and what 'evil' disappears like the best intentions when faced with Nutella or Tyler Hoechlin; with the latter you simply cave in and indulge, with the former your worldview is wrenched from its moorings.

A very clever twist to the tale is how Supacat has made heterosexuality taboo in her world, the norm is gay pairings. How smart is that in an instinctively homophobic world/readership.

She may slip now and then, using words like pellucid and mordant; they “gaze at each other” a bit too often, and once, shockingly, the phrase 'No kidding' emerged out of another century, but I will forgive her anything.

The last word must belong to either Damen or Laurent. Their dialogues are so clever, so subtle, so funny, so, and this is what kills me every single time, whether in the real or unreal world, so True.

My favourite early scene between Damen and Laurent is in the baths (Volume 1) where Damen senses the danger for the first time, although Laurent has already done so. He tells Damen: “Don't be presumptuous”. Damen sneers, “Too late, sweetheart”.

Or “Is there anyone at this court who isn't my enemy?"

"Not if I can help it," Laurent said.

― S.U. Pacat, Captive Prince: Volume One

But the following is powerful as well:

'That isn't why. She would have chosen him even if you'd had royal blood in your veins, even if you'd had the same blood as Kastor. You don't understand the way a mind like that thinks. I do. If I were Jokaste and a king maker, I'd have chosen Kastor over you too.'

'I suppose you are going to enjoy telling me why,' said Damen. He felt his hands curl into fists, heard the bitterness in his throat.

'Because a king maker would always choose the weaker man. The weaker the man, the easier he is to control.”

'She was intelligent, accomplished, beautiful. She was everything I could have asked for in a woman. But she was a king maker. She wanted power. She must have thought her only path to the throne was through Kastor.'

'My honourable barbarian. I wouldn't have picked that as your type.'

'Type?'

'A pretty face, a devious mind and a ruthless nature.”

'He was not wearing the woollen cap. His newly minted hair was uncovered, and he looked as fresh as he had emerging from the baths the night before, as he had waking beneath Damen's hands. But he had resumed the cool restraint, his jacket laced, his expression disagreeable from the haughty profile to the intolerant blue eyes.

'You're alive,' Damen said, and the words came out on a rush of relief that made him feel weak.

'I'm alive,' said Laurent. They were gazing at one another. 'I wasn't sure you'd come back.'

'I came back,' said Damen.”

― S.U. Pacat, Captive Prince: Volume Two

Book Bites

One chapter from a book sometimes tells you everything you need to know; hell, the first page can usually do that. Into my hot little hands has come three books by Indian writers, and I gave them all the same treatment, opening chapters only, just to get a feel of where they might go. Isn't that the most exciting moment ever?

Behind the Silicon Mask

Eshwar Sundaresan

A serial killer with a distinct and gruesome style, a couple of Indian dudes and a cop whose dourness is an instant lure meant I, gasp, read the Prologue AND Chapter One. The book begins with Partho Sen who had me at his particular hello, which was seeing “the violence of capitalism” in a snowflake. I like seeing things in new ways, and writers who see things in new ways, so meeting other characters speaking in an easy-going style as opposed to the penchant for stiff oratory many subcontinent authors pitfall into, I'm optimistic that this is heading into readable territory.

Banquet on the Dead

Sharath Komarraju

This reveals my own idiosyncracies. I find the whole small locality-appachan-ammachy motif painful in the extreme; they so rarely escape clichedom. Here's a murder-mystery, as they say, but whether it will rise to the Sherlock-Watson level it aspires to....Inspector Nagarajan and rogue-turned-detective 'Hamid Pasha' try. There are some brushstrokes of colour that's intriguing, as when the good Inspector tells his client exactly what Hamid's background is, the bad boy image getting its outline well-enough to intrigue, but here also is a fine example of the stiff oratory mentioned above. Many of the conversations are like meringue, whipped to within an inch of its natural consistency.

Sophie Says

Judy Balan

Emotionally shaken but not stirred Sophie Tilgum morphs from market research maven to girl-about-town Carrie Bradshaw, making a business out of straightening people's flailing love affairs as The Break-Up Coach. Like a mirror held up to Indian adult relationships these days, Balan does a fine job of showing the superficiality and need for instant gratification that goes under the guise of love. But Helen Fielding she ain't. Sophie Says is well-written froth, realistically drawn but you will learn no life lessons and come on, Bridget Jones was both funny and interesting. That marketing flavour in Balan's protagonist and writing emerges early on. You'll hear about BF Denver Cunningham, The Blah-Blah Auntyhood and colleague Botox Booma, who is the recipient of Sorted Sophie's first response which goes as follows: “He clearly has no interest in the world around him and he puts out your fire,” and her advise is to drop the man forthwith. Great. But I don't really care. Will I as the story rolls on? That's for you to find out.

Loki who?

As a wandering shopaholic, I sometimes see more than I wish to. Instead of browsing the wares in places like Debenhams at Orion Mall in peace, taking my time searching for hidden ambrosia, I will usually be pounced on by strangers asking me if they can help. Help what? Regain my lost peace of mind or my trampled-upon soul? No? Then walk away, people! This time, however, I was accosted by a man who was rather easy on the eyes so I walked into the new L'Occitane (fragrance and skincare from Provence) space. Gorge, the kind of products that come weighted with history, research and, for all us beauty-is-as-beauty-sees types, wonderful packaging. It's worth its weight in gold outside India and will, I prophesy, make no dent at all inside India, much like the staggeringly empty but equally popular-abroad Kiehl's next door, simply because it is way too expensive and not household names like Armani or Dior. Pity, because it's good stuff - and it helps that it's not just the products that are pleasing to the beholder.

Blay.....

Whoever took this got it 100% right - except for the black leather jacket.

For BDB fans' eyes only

Never, ever, wait for something so much that you think about it every day, gasping as you mark off your calendar and sighing with happiness-in-anticipation. The thing is, you will be disappointed, as sure as the sun will rise, with or without you on the planet. JR Ward's fans have been wanting the story of Blay & Qhuinn since she first started her BDB series, and while Lover At Last has a great deal of what makes Ward the best in her genre, the suckfest arrives from the very beginning. Priatkus obviously has no editors. There are mistakes and missteps. The first is painfully obvious, but the second, well that's the difference between the good and the great, and if you aren't producing great books, you may as well be the kind of 'writer' who endorses marriage websites on TV as a day job. I'll tell you the worst misstep: there's not enough tenderness, not enough of the great dialogue that Ward usually gives her lovers, and that's what we were all waiting for. Add to that the multiple story lines, some so dull they barely lifted off the page, (yes, Trez, that means you), and I failed to go to bed clutching the book to my chest in full foetus position as is my wont when reading Ward. But you know, enough whining, there is still so much to make me thrilled to have read the book. When there is the requisite obsessive love that we can feel and listen to, B&Q are lovely. I especially liked Saxton getting his when Qhuinn thinks he's a love rat, or B&Q at the gym and the club. They take too long to reach an understanding which was frustrating but Ward gives us two new, marvellous couples to keep the juices flowing: Assail (anyone who loved Rehvenge will know what I mean) and Sola, and Xcor and Layla. Alpha males, strong females, great chemistry and interaction; no one can beat Ward when she's very, very good.

Celebs gone bad

*Amanda Bynes is simply doing what all actors who have slipped off Fame's slippery slope do: get any publicity they can. She's smart, though. She picks on major stars, like Rihanna, to 'insult', so she can get the widest media coverage possible while she talks plastic surgery, police molestation, etc etc. The only thing is, Bynes is not Britney. They both have very little talent but at least Spears has some charisma even when shaving her head.

*Michael Douglas saying going down on women is what gave him oral cancer is about as low as you can go. Does he have no concept about how people will now think of Catherine Zeta-Jones? The first wife has already leapt out of the woodwork claiming to be 100% disease-free (gag), all of which only makes me think everyone needs to be on medication. No surprise at all that now Douglas is saying that wasn't what he meant. Perhaps English isn't his first language; sensitivity certainly is not.

*It's the worst thing that can happen to you, yet Angelina Jolie manages to make a PR exercise out of her preventive surgery. Although it has to be said that being open about her health can only be positive for other women who will follow her example and hopefully live longer, there is something about this woman that is utterly untrustworthy. It's as though she thought to herself, 'This is happening, how do I spin it?' Your breasts don't define you? Really? Sounds great, very PC, but the truth would have sounded better.

We just don't believe Jolie's public presentation of Self. Why is that? Her doublespeak on adultery? The fact that she has no friends? Her one-role-fits-all acting chops? Her expression when out and about? Who knows.

And yet. This is the kind of thing where you feel nothing, in the end, but sisterhood and sympathy. 

If I had one wish it would be to allow all of us to go gently into that good night.

Reality Bites

http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2013/04/25/why-is-it-so-hard-to-be-a-reality-tv-host.html

Apropos the above.

The Kardashians are possibly the signal on the hill that there are no more hills to climb and we are, in fact, in the last trough of civilisation. It's all downhill from here on in. Good-looking broads with a fabulous fashion sense, I'll give them that, but are they going to rock my world on this alone? I think not. I'll leave that to Jo Nesbo, thank you very much.

So really, Khloe had to go. (How I wish the rest of the family would follow, but one out of dozens ain't....yeah, it is.)

But talking of TV hosts. I've said it before and I'll say it again, no one does it like Seacrest. He's funny, empathetic, cute and APPEARS to not take himself too seriously (although I think he takes his hair more seriously than I do mine, to begin with). He makes it all look effortless and that's the X Factor which puts him on top of the heap. When we're watching a reality show, we want to be relaxed; we want to have as much fun as the host should be having.

But I have to say, although I like Cat Deeley, I liked Steve Jones, too. He's not the Ice Queen aka Padma Lakshmi, or the too-earnest Davina McCall, or Carson Daly who has everyone watching his mouth and not the words coming out of it. Why they got rid of Steve who is also extremely easy on the eye is beyond me.

Other toppers, strangely all in the realm of food:

*Man v Food host Adam Richman, for his mot justes and love of the bite

*Anthony Bourdain for his cynicism and brave foray into culinary unknowns

*Nigella Lawson for her deliberate play on the sensual aspects of cuisine

*Masterchef dudes in Australia and US for their sense of theatre and straightforward passion for the subject.

Of course, in India meanwhile, we have Twist of Taste with Vineet Bhatia.

I like it Chubby, this once

There was something comforting about it as I passed by; like a fragrant cherry pie cooling on a windowsill. The colours came close, too, watermelon, raspberry, orange sherbet. So I gave in to my need for a metaphorical pat on the head and bought the Broadest Berry lip balm from Clinique - which is rapidly becoming one of my favourite beauty companies. Their Happy fragrance is like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart and their concealers and foundations seem to have a close resemblance to one's actual skin tone, but it's the Chubby Stick that drew my eye. It's moist and dewy, has no distracting fragrance and has an amazing built-in sharpener so no worrying about searching for one that fits the unusual contours of the product. How clever is that. What's not so clever is Clinique's unfortunate packaging. Blah. And their technicians in lab coats that sit at the stores. If I wanted to be wheeled away in a straitjacket I'd come here but not when I'm thinking in terms of Beauty. How many millions in ad money went down the tubes paying the marketing non-geniuses who came up with THAT strategy? Well, never let it be said that I don't have an open mind. Which is why I'm thinking of snaffling the Watermelon next.

Boston and after

How simple the world once was. We could say America was the perfect place to live in, that Indians understood empathy best, that money was the root of all evil and, alas, that Gerard Butler was a gentleman. Don't get me started on that last one. But after Boston and the Delhi rape of a 5-yr-old, all bets on black-and-white generalizations are off.

I'm sorry to say that my first reaction to Boston was complete and utter admiration on the lines of 'Man, these yankees are kick-ass mofos'. Do Americans know what it's like to live in a country where the police, by and large, actually protect you? I'm sure they take it as much for granted as having electricity and water without interruption. The US authorities shut down a city, used thermal imaging, literally laid down their lives, to deal with terror on their soil. These are the type of guys you want on your side; they understand the need for swift justice, and still talk of Miranda rights. In the American's hour of darkness, there is a still a light that shines on them. In India, the police will shine their fists on you if you are a teenage girl protesting the rape and brutalisation of a minor. Sunil Khilnani and I knew many moons ago that this a country where you are on your own in times of trouble. The only number you dial when you need help is God's. Just ask the 5-yr-old if he's listening.

But what has happened to India that we are now not only Third World in terms of lifestyle but also mindstyle? Once, when we lay bleeding in the street we knew someone would help us to a hospital; if a man looked at a woman sideways she could make such a ruckus he would never dare do it to anyone ever again. Today, people watch, perhaps upload a YouTube video. Indifference lives side-by-side with a MeMeMe blinkered vision.

Not that America is the promised land, it was never that. It was once the better of very few options but if you're not white, this would not be a preferred destination. I can just imagine, as we speak, people doing a doubletake at anyone who looks Chechen/Czechoslovakian/Indian/MiddleEastern and is walking down the streets of Boston. Ignorance should not be a preferred destination. But I wouldn't mind John McClane living in my neighbourhood.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, money is not the root of all evil (unless you're Paris Hilton and don't know what to do with it). Money is Power.

Laugh for the day

Maggie Smith bemoaning a trip to India in Best Exotic Marigold Hotel - "You know who'll be there, don't you? Indians. Brown of face, black of heart and reeking of curry." 

In a galaxy far, far away...

Hong Kong blew my mind. Just returned after 9 glorious days during which I visited my old school and enjoyed the fundamental rights to ordinary life like paved roads, public transport and HBO movies with no ads. HBO movies with no ads? What are you saying? What are these words coming out of your mouth? In India, we can make dinner during commercial breaks.
Saw American Idol which I can't this side of the civilizational divide because it's on CBS Love, a channel Tata Sky will not deign to include in its packages. And I have to say, Nicki Minaj's nasal voice and diva performances on the judge's chair may just put the final nail in AI's coffin. The likely winner is Cree (and Keith Urban who's beyond cute in looks and persona) but I don't know that anyone cares.
Life, as everyone experiences first-hand, is not fair. While Bangalore is grappling with power cuts in literally breathtaking heat, in HK just taking a bus is an exercise in luxury travel. Yes, it's air-conditioned, too. If you're not in the mood to wait for the four minutes in between buses, take the metro why don't you, where they wisely have partitions in between the train and you. You can kill yourself in the subway in New York and London but the Chinese frown on such shenanigans.
The city is a dreamscape of towering buildings and the most serene neighbourhoods, or both at the same time; you'll find a Central Park lookalike where a turtle will bask on a rock in a pond overseen by the Koala buildings (an Aussie architect designed a complex to look like the bear is hugging the building, say no more).
Both a Faberge and Warhol exhibition are on as we speak, (there are locals there, not just tourists!), food is sublime and fashion as easy as grabbing a striped tunic off a street stall.
Right now, I'm checking Cathay Pacific schedules again like a secret addiction.