Male Bonding: The New Casino Royale

I resisted watching the new Bond movie Casino Royale for a very long time, because I felt that the whole Bond enterprise was a stupid exercise. I was greatly disappointed when I saw my first Bond movie and subsequent Bond flicks did nothing to change that impression. The whole concept seemed to be a silly male fantasy - exotic locations, fancy cars, sexy girls, and simply awesome gadgets. The stories are generally terrible and have no sensible thread and the action scenes are rather pathetic. I always thought that Sean Connery did a much better job playing roles other than Bond. However, meta-analysis suggested than when most reviews called Casino Royale the best Bond movie ever, I had to at least give the new Bond a chance. Also, my iron resolve was considerably weakened by the powers of female persuasion.

I was not only impressed, but also entranced by Casino Royale. Casting a blonde Bond (Daniel Craig) was not the only rule that was rewritten. Compared to the old Bond who seemed more at ease sipping his martinis in a black tuxedos and seducing women, this Bond preferred real action - gleefully smashing and blowing up all kinds of objects: glass, humans, cars, heavy machinery, buildings, and whatever else. For more than half of the time, Craig is simply running, running with the frenetic energy of man being chased by hellhounds, or a person who has had too much of Red Bull. In terms of muscle and energy compared to his previous avataars, Craig stands alone; it is hard to imagine Connery, Moore, or Brosnan being able to look credible in the Le Chiffre testicle torture scene. The blonde bombshells of yore with nothing going on upstairs have been suitably replaced with the independent and incredibly sassy - Vesper Lynn (Eva Green). A girl who is capable of telling Bond, 'Back off!'.

James Bond is a remarkably adaptive beast. I was wrong. Male fantasies have not changed, only slightly modified. The basic ingredients are still the same, only packaged and served to appeal to modern tastes, like my metrosexual-macho self. Replace guns with knuckles. Keep the fancy cars and gadgets. Replace Ursula Andress arising like Venus from the sea with a chick who knows how to connect a defribrillator. Keep her looking sexy in backless cocktail dresses. Despite knowing that Casino Royale is another in the series of great packaging cons by the Bond franchise I was converted. The story was silly as usual, but does it matter?

Historical footnote(shamlessly stolen from Nature):
1953 was an excellent year, especially for the bond — the structure of DNA was discovered, the Miller–Urey experiment was carried out, and the death of Stalin. And of course with Casino Royale the other Bond, James Bond, first stepped off the page in 1953.

Winter of our content?

The winter is a curse. Before I really experienced the winter, it always conjured up images of - genial looking snowmen with carrot-noses and mufflers, and snowflakes floating like soft, white feathers. The reality is that all the feathery snow lands on places like your car and you have spend hours dusting the snow and then scraping the ice off the windshield and shoveling the driveway. On windy days the the icy chill will drive out the most romantic notions you ever had of the winter and it seems especially furious when you have forgotten your hat or gloves.

Then there are days like today when there are poems on ice and you are willing to overlook everything.

PS: After all these years, I still have not seen a snowman, I mean snowperson.

One Question

Why our culture deem it acceptable to wear torn jeans but not torn t-shirts?

Pattern recognition

Evolution has made us humans so good at pattern recognition. Recently, in India a butterfly was discovered that has an image of Khatu Shyam, an avatar of Krishna. Reuters Video.

Is it not miraculous that that I was reading Richard Dawkins's book, The God Delusion when I chanced upon the story? Apropos the story, he writes, "We easily infer a shadow for a burglar, but never mistake the burglar for a shadow." The Rev. Paley's watchmaker or design stance is: If something so wonderful and complex exists, then it presumes a designer. Such a stance has distinct evolutionary advantage but tends to trip us up not only while deifying butterflies, but also while negotiating dark alleys. But a false positive is not as fatal as a false negative.

Comments on the New Blogger

The new blogger is so much better and is belated New Year's gift from the folks at blogger.com. They have added a lot of features, most of which were long overdue, like labels. I like the new archive management that looks saner with the collapsible tabs. Blogger, I must admit, is notoriously slow in implementing changes that other services provided eons ago. It took them ages to support comments. Can you imagine, a serious blogging service that did not support comments for years?

While the new page layout, drag-drop interface is a bold step in the right direction, it lacks teeth and too many bugs. For instance, the color selection is rather limited. It should be possible to enter the hex code for the colors you want (unless I missed something). Needless to say, it was quite a bit of a pain in *SS¹ for me to migrate to the new layout and keep my old template, which incidentally has become unique by managing to survive the numerous versions of blogger. Also, if you edit one box in the layout menu then you cannot edit it again till you click on another tab and then come back to it. The rich text/html view is completely nuts and gets messed up all the time.

A good fix however is that the comment notification email now also tells you the post to which the comment was addressed. I have tons of comments which are like landless peasants. I still do not know to what posts they refer to. What can one do with comments that simply say, "Nice!" ?

Truth be told: We are all prisoners of our URL, too meek to complain, and too weak to design our own or implement workarounds. Sigh!

¹*SS = CSS, not what you were thinking!

If you are not okay, then I am okay!

We all know from experience, as the article suggests, that for true happiness we should have - "experiences" over commodities, pastimes over knick-knacks, doing over having.

Economic prosperity and happiness are unrelated. The Economist writes:
"Happiness, as measured by national surveys, has hardly changed over 50 years. The rich are generally happier than the poor, but rich countries do not get happier as they get richer. The Japanese are much better off now than in 1950, but the proportion who say they are “very happy” has not budged. Americans too have remained much as Alexis de Tocqueville found them in the 19th century: “So many lucky men, restless in the midst of abundance.”

Lord Layard and Mr Frank both blame habit and rivalry for this stagnation of morale. People grow accustomed to what they have—however much of it there is. Moreover, having a lot of things is not enough if other people have more. A rising tide lifts all boats, but not all spirits.

For economists, this is radical stuff. They traditionally argue that people best serve themselves and the public by minding their own business."
.

As we well know, people do not mind their own business and there is a good reason for it. Quite sadistically, our own happiness is mostly relative; we are happier if we are better off than our peers. Your misery has a lot to do with my happiness. Economic growth is good but does nothing to ensure happiness. As the leader to the article (access required) points out - Capitalism ensures economic growth, but to ask of it to also ensure happiness is to ask too much of it.

Previous post on this topic.
* * * * *

In the same edition the Economist also surveys the big questions of neuroscience:
"Modern neuroscience has taken many directions, and this survey will not attempt to look at all of them. Instead, it will concentrate on four areas that may shed light on individual identity: the study of the emotions; the nature of memory; the ways that brains interact with each other; and the vexed question of what, exactly, consciouness is."

Babel

Alejandro González Iñárritu along with writer Guillermo Arriaga completes the trilogy - that started with Amores Perros (Love's a Bitch), which was followed by 21 Grams - with Babel. Iñárritu has been hailed as the finest talent to come out of Mexico in recent years and they above more than justify the claim. The director has fallen out with his writer Guillermo Arriaga over story writing credits and this might the last time we see them work together.

Most critics seem to be upset with what they call the usual Iñárritu tricks of using a non-linear storyline, intersecting lives and coincidences. So is this cutting and splicing getting too repetitive? Is it mere idiosyncrasy? Or a conscious attempt at making it his signature style. More importantly, one should ask whether it is really crucial to the development of the story and the film? Speaking of personal style, I am reminded of an interview in which Robert Altman explained why he wanted all his movies to be certified PG-18. His maverick reason was that his movies required a lot of patience and concentration which kids or teenagers do not possess and for the sake of his craft, a PG-18 rating would keep them out. Iñárritu has a long way to go to reach the stature of Altman, but he certainly has the talent and the boldness. In 21 Grams, Iñárritu clearly went overboard with his trademark routine and the mental exercise of piecing that story together was like having to perform long division. The resulting headache tends to distract you so much that you cannot appreciate the movie. With Babel Iñárritu has achieved the correct proportion where there is more substance to the style. A linear telling of this tale would have killed many of the effects of suspense, discombobulation and confusion.

Alejandro González Iñárritu says:
"I realized that what makes us happy as humans could differ greatly, but that what makes us miserable and vulnerable beyond culture, race language or financial standing is the same for all."


The story takes place in three locations - Mexico, Morocco and Tokyo. Gael Garcia Bernal is fantastic as usual as the Mexican maid's nephew Santiago. Anyone who is not a US citizen will emphathize with the of Santiago bristling anger at the border. When the cop at the border is a little gruff, Santiago sees it as another repeat humiliation and he snaps, setting another chain of events in motion. We know shit happens, but this movie is not about that. Butterflies might flap their wings that lead to disastrous consequences, but not before we have made our choices. All people make decisions at the margin in the movie; some work, some don't. The key difference is how they deal with what happens.

In Morocco, Brad Pitt takes his wife played by Cate Blanchett for a vacation in the vain hope of trying to repair their marriage. When at a roadside restaurant they are served water, Blanchett soon tosses the water and asks, "Why are we here?" This is not so much to question the quality of water in Morocco but the quality of their own relationship. It will take two brothers taking care of their goats and their subsequent fooling around with a gun for the husband and wife to rekindle and rediscover their love for each other. The most poignant story is of the beautiful Chieko (Rinko Kikuchi) who is deaf-mute and is desperately seeking a relationship, any kind of relationship. Finally, after a number of missed attempts, she and her friend have managed to make friends with some boys and go on to visit a hip disco. There are the usual frenzied laser lights, thumping electronic music and a crowd of bodies dancing like crazy. Suddenly, there is silence and we only see the laser lights moving. It is only then we realize how silent and lonely Chieko's world actually is. The realization is devastating. The movie is full of such moments wonderfully captured - sibling rivalry, the humiliation of taking a leak in public, the human need for simple affection, traditional wedding celebration. While is no surprise that the star-studded cast delivered incredible performances, the big 'discovery' was the stellar performance by the lesser known actors, such as the Moroccan Berber family, the cops investigating the scene(s), the Japanese teenagers and the two kids. While it may seem that Iñárritu's canvas has considerably expanded since the Mexico City chronicles in Amores Perros, he is really still exploring the same themes of relationships, love, loss and longing, only more polished this time around. Gustavo Santaolalla having given music for the movie makes it reason enough for me to watch. Quite clearly, this is one of the best movies of the year.

Pune, Horn Okay Please

So give me a... stage
Where this bull here can rage
from Raging Bull

If Jake LaMotta ever rode a two-wheeler in Pune he would find it an appropriate stage. In Pune, forget all the politeness that is associated with driving that one has been conditioned to in the US. On the first day, you wince every other minute because you feel that there is going to be a collison. Miraculously nothing happens. There are dangers, but foreigners and out-of-touch NRISs (Non-Resident Indian Students) tend to overestimate them. After taking to the road yourself, you see your old touch returning. Suddenly, you feel free like the caged beast who has been set free on the prairie. Only, Pune is not a prairie, but a minefield.

Donning my helmet and bestriding my rusty, but trusty M-80, I take to the streets. I can personally attest to the fact that zipping along at 30 kmph on a crowded street is infinitely more thrilling than a dull 190 kmph on the Autobahn. There is constant road construction, debris from construction sites, pedestrians spilling onto the streets, the odd cow who nonchalantly sits in the middle of the road. There are no 'STOP' signs, no question of giving way, or the hope of a friendly wave when you do. Blocking the intersection is almost an article of faith. Traffic lights are like Christmas decorations, just for show. In short - there are no rules. Riding a 2-wheeler in Pune is not for the meek, the weak or the faint hearted.

The greatest pleasure of driving, that the land of the free and the home of brave denies, is:
The right to use my horn whenever and however I want.
One cannot but admire the many innovative uses we have for the humble horn.

I use my horn:
a) to communicate to others that I too am sharing the street,
b) as an accompaniment when I sing my songs,
c) as a symphonic element at an intersection when the light turns green along with the rest of the band,
d) on empty streets to keep me company,
e) to warn others of the approaching menance of my M-80,
f) as a bell to call my friends from their third floor apartments.

The M-80 is not the kind of bike that helps you pick up the chicks. It is a veritable chick anti-magnet. The benefit is that there is rather slim chance that the mammas (or cops) will ever stop you and harass you for your license, papers, pollution certificate, etc. If you ride an M-80 with a helmet, you can ride pretty much as you please in Pune. Besides it has one of the most irritating horns in existence. Ah! The sheer annoyance of its neigh!

Dream Theater

A few days ago, I watched Almost Famous again. DVDs really spoil you and I am real sucker for all the extra material, outtakes, interviews, etc. Of course, listening to the commentaries is always informative, only if not done in the manner of Ridley Scott. The new DVD aspect has not escaped the filmmakers; they are quite conscious of shooting material with the explicit purpose of using it for the DVD version.

As I was watching the movie, I was reminded of the time I first watched it in Pune's Vijay theater. It perhaps has the lowest ratio of quality of theater versus quality of movie. The building is crumbling, the seats are bad, the sound even worse. Simply fitting a projector in the former stage theater into a movie theater is not a good idea. Yet, the box-office was often sold-out. Till the monstrous multiplexes came along a few years ago there weren't too many places to watch an English flick. The neighbouring Alka theatre, a much better theater, obliged less often and often with poorer films. Vijay theater is so bad that even the refreshments are terrible. How hard can it be to serve a half-decent wada-pav in city of Pune? Vijay has managed.

But as I flipped through all the fancy options on the DVD, I wondered if watching a movie at Vijay is perversely better. Vijay theater strips away everything that could possibly bias your judgement about the movie: plush seats, acoustically-aware design, better speakers, popcorn with seasoning, cup-holders; really the only things that the newer multiplexes have to offer. All the viewer is left with is the moviemaker and his movie.

In a few weeks, I will be home and I am looking forward to seeing the latest flick there. This time I will be better prepared and will bring my own wada-pav!

Genuine or Fake?

Take the test and find out if you can tell the difference. Just for kicks, I need take a look at some group photos. I bet most of them are fake.

Amsterdam

Well-known for its poke and toke tourists, Van Gogh and bikes. Amsterdam is the only major city in Europe not to have a major landmark. This is because the self-effacing Dutch believe not in ostentation but in practicality. The celebrated liberal attitudes of city are a result of the apathetic nature of the Dutch.

On Hunters and Gatherers

If you were ever a part of the madness called the Day-After-Thanksgiving Sale a.k.a. Black Friday you know what I mean:
Malls are not for men. These are places where men are least welcome, least required and least comfortable.

There are only a few ways you can get a guy to go to a mall:
a)He was told he will surely find something nice and was 'tricked' into coming
b)He was emotionally blackmailed
c)There is a really huge sale on electronic items
d)This is his first visit

Shopping is the same, but on Black Friday, everything I describe below should be viewed at a magnification of 10x. Most stores are of little interest to men. In the big stores - Sears, JC Penny, Macy's, etc. almost all the space is devoted to women's products. Somewhere, tucked away in the corner there will be a tiny men's section. Even there you will find women furiously turning everything over and you start feeling as if you were intruding. In fact you are since you have no interest nor inclination to buy.

Then just are you are beginning to adjust you will be startled by a voice crying out behind you - "Are you finding everything okay?" It is the salesperson with a beatific smile. While you are far from feeling comfortable, you mumble that you are "Doing okay!", "Fine!", whatever. Then most guys, like me, will start playing with their cell-phones. There is no TV to watch, beer to drink, games to play, trails to follow or animals to hunt.

In the mall context women are the hunters and men are the gatherers. As women collect their various trophies obtained at an 'incredibly low price', they cannot but tell the tale of the capture of the elusive bounty. "You know I have been looking for this colour for months? I finally, finally found one and it fits perfectly. It was the last piece too!" The men patiently listen and gather the shopping bags.

If you want an greater sense of alienation then try walking into a shoe store, alone. After being bored in exactly 1 minute and 23 seconds, I decided to conduct a spot-survey. There were 35 women and exactly 5 guys (including myself). An important observation was that all of the guy captives were being escorted by women. These gender ratios would be completely reversed in say, in a Best Buy. Talk about sexism!

Another piece of advice: Never mess with women drivers in trying to beat them for parking space in the mall. You will not win on their home turf.

This tongue-in-cheek article called:How to Buy nothing, had me rolling on the floor laughing. It does have a few sensible ideas. I suspect that the page has been created and edited mostly by men.

Measuring the Unmeasurable

Natures reports on the latest scientific effort at measuring happiness.

There is further debate as to whether trying to do something about people's happiness is feasible in principle. Some researchers favour the idea that people have a 'hedonic setpoint' that stays remarkably constant in the face of bouquets and brickbats. Such a setpoint need not in principle be unalterable, but its alteration might require an approach with a pharmacological component, raising the problem that one of the things we value about happiness is its authenticity. Another is its autonomy. Governments may guarantee citizens freedom in their pursuit of happiness, but we bridle against the idea of its ever being enforced.

Further it seems that
This contributed to the notion of a 'hedonic setpoint' to which people return no matter what life throws their way. And based on studies showing similar levels of reported happiness in twins, the setpoint appeared to be genetically determined.

Determinism triumphs! Not too happy about that! :(

Is Development * Culture = K ? or, Why India =Turbans and Camels?

Most books on India have a disproportionate number of pictures and stories from Rajasthan. To outsiders, the idyllic world of camels, cows, colourful saris and handle-bar moustaches seems to convey a more authentic feel that the rest of homogenized India. While relative proximity to the nation's capital has helped, I feel that the Rajasthan theme is rather overworked and it is time that writers and cameras moved on. Simply being drawn to the visual appeal of Rajasthan is rather superficial. To me, local culture in other regions is equally rich. Reflecting on William Dalrymple's essay on the oral tradition of Rajasthan titled "Homer In India" (The New Yorker, Nov 20, 2006, Issue 38), I feel I might need to alter this view.

A young Harvard classicist named Milman Parry had a brilliant theory that Homer's works, the foundation upon which all subsequent European literature rested, must have originally been oral poems, and that they contained certain recurring formulas that he thought were a product of traditions of oral transmission. He believed that to study Homer properly you had first to understand how oral poetry worked, and that since Yugoslavia was the place in Europe where such traditions had best survived he caught a ship to Yugoslavia in 1933 to prove it in the field. Parry was described as a sort of "the Darwin of oral literature".

He writes:
While I was staying at Rohet, I heard about what seemed to be the most remarkable survival of all: the existence of several orally transmitted epic poems. Unlike the ancient epics of Europe--the Iliad, the Odyssey, Beowulf, and the Nibelungenlied (the basis of Wagner's "Ring Cycle")--which were now the province only of academics and literature classes, the epics of Rajasthan were still very much alive. They were preserved by a caste of wandering bhopas--shamans and bards--who travelled from village to village, staging performances.

It is perversity that the most backward, conservative regions are often culturally the richest? More than any other part of the country, large chunks of Rajasthan remained under the authority of the local hereditary rulers. It was only after the abolition of the privy-purses in 1971 that the age-old feudal structure started to really erode. This raises a difficult moral question.

Moreover, the Gujars are very often illiterate, and illiteracy seems an essential condition for preserving the performance of an oral epic. It was the ability of the bard to read, rather than changes in the tastes of his audience, that sounded the death knell for the oral tradition. Just as the blind can develop a heightened sense of hearing, smell, and touch to compensate for their loss of vision, so it seems that the illiterate have a capacity to remember in a way that the literate simply do not.

This was certainly the conclusion of the Indian folklorist Komal Kothari. In the nineteen-fifties, Kothari came up with the idea of sending one of his principal sources, a singer from the Langa caste named Lakha, to adult-education classes. The idea was that he would learn to read and write, thus making it easier to collect the many songs he had preserved. Soon Kothari noticed that Lakha needed to consult his diary before he began to sing. Yet the rest of the Langa singers were able to remember hundreds of songs--an ability that Lakha had somehow begun to lose as he slowly learned to write.


In the Yugoslavian case the recordings survived, but the actual oral tradition did not. Death of oral tradition takes along with it an entire subset of culture, leaving behind only a skeleton of words preserved in mummified form on CDs. Sad, but can it be preserved in a living form? If it can, then what about the moral implications as suggested above?

I agree that it is a bit of a leap to generalize from oral tradition to culture in general; but, are more developed regions of India culturally shallower than more backward regions like Rajasthan? Local culture in other regions are equally rich, but not as well preserved. If so, then I should not begrude Rajasthan's preeminent position on the covers of those books.

When I read about traditions dying, I feel that I am personally responsible in a way.
Yet, culturally we are relatively better off as this paragraph from the essay suggests,

Anthony Lane noted in this magazine in 2001, in the aftermath of the attacks on the United States, that the people of New York again and again compared what had happened to them to films: "It was like 'Independence Day' "; "It was like 'Die Hard' "; "No, 'Die Hard 2.' " In contrast, when the tsunami struck at the end of 2004, Indians were able to reach for a more sustaining narrative than disaster movies: the catastrophic calamities and floods that fill the Mahabharata and the Hindu tradition in general.


But then, we might have much more to lose too.

(If want a copy of the article write to: A C H I L L E S - G M A I L)

The Game

I am not much of a spectator when it comes to sports. But today is different, so I am told. Michigan (ranked No.2) plays arch-rival Ohio State(ranked No.1). The rivalry is like India vs. Pakistan in cricket. This is not taking the analogy too far, since supporters are equally fanatic and these two states of the union have also gone to war against each other. While the two states have since sublimated their mutual animosity on the football field, it is not unusual to get honked at if you happen to drive in Columbus, Ohio with your blue Michigan plates. The breathless excitement is well conveyed by this local newspaper:

But never has there been so much at stake.

This is the first time they have met as No. 1 vs. No. 2. Both are 11-0 and the winner will earn the Big 10 championship and a spot in the Bowl Championship Series title game on Jan. 8.

This meeting, in my eyes, is the de facto national title game.

It's No. 1 vs. No. 2.

What else could you ask for? It doesn't get any better or bigger than this.

This can get pretty crazy. At the community wrap-up event for the Royal Shakespeare Company Residency the audience was asked to sing the Michigan fight-song for ESPN. Why ESPN chose the people who come to a discussion of the plays for singing the Michigan fight song was strange to me? It was a personal shock to observe that I was perhaps the only one in the audience who did not know the words to the song and I was raising my hands at the completely wrong times. In Ann Arbor lovers of the stage also seem to know the way to the stadium.

Today, I will watch the game and proudly announce the score to my labmates on Monday. (I have been threatened that I will not be given my Ph.D. degree if I don't know the fight song.)