I'm hooked. If there was a body I could steal, it would be Sylvie Guillem's (although I might just keep my own arms). Utterly exquisite, her grace and fluidity is offset beautifully by Robert Lepage and Russell Maliphant as they romp through her production of Eonnagata. Her accent, a charming lilt to her telling of the tale of Chevalier D'Eon, a soldier, spy and diplomat who was a favourite at the court of Louis XV until he was forced to flee to London and earn his living in a circus. But unlike most solder, spy, diplomats, the Chevalier was a transvestite, who not only carried out his spying missions disguised as a woman, but who also (by choice and by royal edict) wore dresses in his daily life. The story telling is vibrant, interspersed with music, sword fighting, contemplation and dancing and Sylvie effortlessly rules the stage with her charisma and presence. The ballet may miss her, but the woman has an audience all her own. Bravo! Encore!!
With that as a prelude, I was looking forward to what Carlos Acosta's retirement from the ballet to modern dance would bring. A refund. Or rather, that is what it should have brought. 90 excruciating minutes of self indulgent choreography, repetitive moments reminiscent of amateur street dancing, discordant music, tortured self expression and an utter lack of respect for a paying public. Even the sight of him semi naked, bathed in ethereal light did little to elicit a response except for the pithy comment that one could just pay auto fare for a ride to the local akkhada to see that bit of muscle flexing.... 90 minutes of my life that I will never get back for a classic case of I'm so big a star, all I need to do is show up complex. Think again. If you're not prepared to just do what the director of the dance company tells you, then leave the creativity and new productions to real talent like Sylvie Guillem and her collaborators.
Grapes of Wrath
Delicate. That's how I feel this morning. An evening quaffing an entire bottle of Rioja punctuated with nibbles at my age is obviously no longer a good idea and my tube ride home is aborted at Bond Street due to unnecessary queasiness brought on by Tfl's less than smooth conveyance underground. My red wine marinated brain sketchily envisages a graph that simultaneously attempts to plot, distance, speed, trajectory, tingling blue toe and potential weaving en route, and directs my arm to flag down a bus instead. Motion is clearly not a sensible course of action and I reflect on the last time my equilibrium was so severely challenged by a bunch of grapes. Not since Usha's wedding in 2001, and that was more of a pentathlon concluding in one glass of smushed grapes too many. Nine years and progressive drop in consumption has me firmly classed as a lightweight.
I negotiate the single flight of stairs with impunity and miraculously, the keys just slot into their holes with practiced ease, my bravura stumbling as one shoelaces decides to knot itself, nearly causing me to keel over in an ungainly attempt to divest myself of these accouterments. Inexplicably, my journey within the confines of the flat is met with unexpected attempts at bodily harm as I bounce off walls and doors. Hmmmm, it would appear that fruit is wreaking havoc with my spatial awareness. Or perhaps it is simply an inner ear problem. In any event, I do believe the pitzy line has been firmly crossed, and I'm well into tunned (with a double n) territory. I retire to the shower to mull this over, feeling rather pleased at successfully negotiating the fluctuating temperatures to an acceptably soothing waterfall, the ideal acoustic foil to my full throated rendition of pop, polli geeti and opera.
Sadly, my metabolism hasn’t kept up with my diminishing capacity, and consciousness makes a pre-dawn strike, and a horribly familiar, if solitary bokum bokum invades my slowly returning sentience. Fucking pigeon! Refusal to check the hour does little to assist my determined attempts at looking less bleary eyed, and a violent turn to the other side proves to be a deeply faulty strategy as I feel the bed sway precariously, pinging flashes to the back of my tightly squeezed lids. Hallelujah. We have a hangover! Eventually, Bach’s second rendition of Fugue in D Minor invokes a cautious vertical attempt, but my equilibrium and spatial awareness are still not operating at optimal levels and I graze my way into the kitchen for a drink. Limited lucidity allows departure, but the fresh air does little to allay the dull throb in my head or the unease in my stomach. Poetic justice prevails as I muster enough intelligence for my first 2 hour long meeting of the day, surreptitiously thinking of alternate strategies to to try and feel less fragile as the day looms ahead portending the next 4 pm client meeting.
Apparently, these were the grapes of wrath.
I negotiate the single flight of stairs with impunity and miraculously, the keys just slot into their holes with practiced ease, my bravura stumbling as one shoelaces decides to knot itself, nearly causing me to keel over in an ungainly attempt to divest myself of these accouterments. Inexplicably, my journey within the confines of the flat is met with unexpected attempts at bodily harm as I bounce off walls and doors. Hmmmm, it would appear that fruit is wreaking havoc with my spatial awareness. Or perhaps it is simply an inner ear problem. In any event, I do believe the pitzy line has been firmly crossed, and I'm well into tunned (with a double n) territory. I retire to the shower to mull this over, feeling rather pleased at successfully negotiating the fluctuating temperatures to an acceptably soothing waterfall, the ideal acoustic foil to my full throated rendition of pop, polli geeti and opera.
Sadly, my metabolism hasn’t kept up with my diminishing capacity, and consciousness makes a pre-dawn strike, and a horribly familiar, if solitary bokum bokum invades my slowly returning sentience. Fucking pigeon! Refusal to check the hour does little to assist my determined attempts at looking less bleary eyed, and a violent turn to the other side proves to be a deeply faulty strategy as I feel the bed sway precariously, pinging flashes to the back of my tightly squeezed lids. Hallelujah. We have a hangover! Eventually, Bach’s second rendition of Fugue in D Minor invokes a cautious vertical attempt, but my equilibrium and spatial awareness are still not operating at optimal levels and I graze my way into the kitchen for a drink. Limited lucidity allows departure, but the fresh air does little to allay the dull throb in my head or the unease in my stomach. Poetic justice prevails as I muster enough intelligence for my first 2 hour long meeting of the day, surreptitiously thinking of alternate strategies to to try and feel less fragile as the day looms ahead portending the next 4 pm client meeting.
Apparently, these were the grapes of wrath.
My head feels like it’s going to explode. A sleepless Saturday, and 6 hours of self flagellation on Sunday till weary, your eyes surrender. The tension in my body however, holds firm, muscles tight and unyielding, still fighting against shadows, unable to let go. The mind febrile, leaping ahead to new scenarios, different mutations of the same theme, the hurt palpable and undiminished. The recognition that it is futile clashing with the stubbornness of hope. The battle rages relentlessly within me. The hours I am occupied, spent with others, laughing, debating, watching, eating, happy. And then, alone in the empty flat, imagination stalks me, taunting, furious, wounded. The headache plagues me. They whys and what ifs linger like a bad cough. Platitudes pour in, well meaning, caring, concerned, but withdrawal preceedes hindsight, gnawing at you as is its wont.
Welcome and Dhishooom!
It is only kismet that ensures that an evening of the most ludicrous Bollywood offering a house teetering on the edge of a precipice, a swarm of bees, a collection of inspired gangsters and some other random people, peppered with inimitably delivered lines that include "Oi, Sarkari aaspataal ki tooti hui bench", "Aaae bin ped ke phal..." "Aaj kal to buiscuit ko bhi Ji bulati, jaise yeh ParleJi" and the gently inquiring "Bonnet kahaan hain?", culminates into lunch the following day at Dishoom. London's answer to Bombay's disappearing Irani haunts.
The softly whirring ceiling fans, slanting mirrors over the counter, gola machine, a vivid poster announcing Sabitadevi in Dr. Mahurika or Modern Wife... with Motilal is the perfect foil for kheema pau (reminiscent of the kind served up by the smiley men at the Xavier's canteen) washed down with Thums Up as we suavely fling insulting filmi gangster dialogues at each other between slurps. Sadly, apart from a Berry pulao, the main menu slides into the Punjab, and the passion fruit/ginger and pomegranate/chilli golas are far too sophisticated for a kalakhatta trained palate. Still, the cutting chai in the requisite glass does the trick, as do the chunteys in their leftover mousse bowls with aluminium chamchas, and we pfaff, happily nostalgic, warbling the tunes for Fanta (brought on by the sight of a Vimto poster). A sali boti, dhansaak, cutless and caramel custard would render this eatery sublime. The rules of the house declare All Castes Welcome, so I shall return with Mr. Walker this week for another round of nostalgia.
The softly whirring ceiling fans, slanting mirrors over the counter, gola machine, a vivid poster announcing Sabitadevi in Dr. Mahurika or Modern Wife... with Motilal is the perfect foil for kheema pau (reminiscent of the kind served up by the smiley men at the Xavier's canteen) washed down with Thums Up as we suavely fling insulting filmi gangster dialogues at each other between slurps. Sadly, apart from a Berry pulao, the main menu slides into the Punjab, and the passion fruit/ginger and pomegranate/chilli golas are far too sophisticated for a kalakhatta trained palate. Still, the cutting chai in the requisite glass does the trick, as do the chunteys in their leftover mousse bowls with aluminium chamchas, and we pfaff, happily nostalgic, warbling the tunes for Fanta (brought on by the sight of a Vimto poster). A sali boti, dhansaak, cutless and caramel custard would render this eatery sublime. The rules of the house declare All Castes Welcome, so I shall return with Mr. Walker this week for another round of nostalgia.
Confluence
A meeting of two water bodies, a vision of churning foam, silt leaching into the pristine blue, a clash of wills or a harmonious dance, a burgeoning of excess, unity. Either, both. Oddly enough, Wednesdays performance by Akram Khan and Nitin Sawhney was more a damp squib than the Confluence it was billed as, and a global bid at work an eddying mass of opinions and thoughts instead. Art and life, yet again overlapping as is its wont.
The opening piece was inspired, a seamless, fascinating dance creating maya, a hand linking with another, their own or the others, whose arm, whose leg unclear, but coherent as one, a creature of two parts but still a single creature. Exquisite and riveting. Unfortunately, that was the highlight, with a fair amount of pretension creeping in, that the crowd lapped up, an amusing piece about immigration that had neither dance nor music, but honest and resonating, a compelling set of kathak spins by Akram Khan but otherwise an indifferent show.
Unlike the call which inspired slammed desks, exasperated sighs, ferocious jabbing of the mute button, voices changing cadence, thoughts surging and ebbing, a constant drone in the background, obstructive, creative, tedious, helpless, frustrated.... an urgent second offline call harmonious, productive and calming. Those boys should've taken notes.
The opening piece was inspired, a seamless, fascinating dance creating maya, a hand linking with another, their own or the others, whose arm, whose leg unclear, but coherent as one, a creature of two parts but still a single creature. Exquisite and riveting. Unfortunately, that was the highlight, with a fair amount of pretension creeping in, that the crowd lapped up, an amusing piece about immigration that had neither dance nor music, but honest and resonating, a compelling set of kathak spins by Akram Khan but otherwise an indifferent show.
Unlike the call which inspired slammed desks, exasperated sighs, ferocious jabbing of the mute button, voices changing cadence, thoughts surging and ebbing, a constant drone in the background, obstructive, creative, tedious, helpless, frustrated.... an urgent second offline call harmonious, productive and calming. Those boys should've taken notes.
I hate love storys
and atrocious grammar! I feel the spirit of Lynn Truss gouge at me as I wince at the opening titles. A moment of weakness, and now I'm 45% of the audience in a dank smelling auditorium at Cineworld, paying for the privilege of Bollywood's latest. Clearly, I lie. It was either this or the vacuum cleaner....
This, as it turns out, is the first Hindi film where I’ve actually enjoyed the second half more than the first! Predictable? Entirely! But the unknown faces were refreshing, the scrip light hearted, witty with a generous dollop of self deprecating humour, the supporting cast hilarious! The classic ‘ladkiyan buses ki tarah hote hain….’ is delivered with such panache, matched only by the ‘sexy butt’ exchange between the two heroes. Superb! My favourite moment though has to be the best mates succinct graph plotting the profit and loss relationship between a babe’s hotness vs her batameeziness, the two mothers, a charmingly successful director, a sultrily comical hot babe, not to mention a shockingly hard, tight, hot male body that’s on display every now and again. Much to be said about the new boys hitting the gym - You go Imran!
Paisa vasooli I’m thinking….
This, as it turns out, is the first Hindi film where I’ve actually enjoyed the second half more than the first! Predictable? Entirely! But the unknown faces were refreshing, the scrip light hearted, witty with a generous dollop of self deprecating humour, the supporting cast hilarious! The classic ‘ladkiyan buses ki tarah hote hain….’ is delivered with such panache, matched only by the ‘sexy butt’ exchange between the two heroes. Superb! My favourite moment though has to be the best mates succinct graph plotting the profit and loss relationship between a babe’s hotness vs her batameeziness, the two mothers, a charmingly successful director, a sultrily comical hot babe, not to mention a shockingly hard, tight, hot male body that’s on display every now and again. Much to be said about the new boys hitting the gym - You go Imran!
Paisa vasooli I’m thinking….
My family and other animals???
A woman of my word, I dial home to check up on the folks after their second consecutive weekend away at Lonavla. A more enervating trip sans ludicrous first time parents cloying, gushing and hovering over a not especially bright 18 month old. Pity, no pnpc to report, so I struggle to remember what my weekend was like, my hemming and hawing endeavours stalling with every full throated instruction yelled at the various domestics in and out of my mothers line of sight, and a sudden flurry of barking.
I resist the Shakespearean urge to go, 'Hark! Was that a bark?!' Barking? We Guhas of 14 Iris may have doggie bagged foodstuff for a number of years, but we've always stated upfront it was for Mim.... I wait and listen to the scary one scolding a mutt of some description, who retaliates by making off with her yellow dolphin. And to think the Beatles got flak for Lucy in the Sky - I didn't even know my mother had a yellow dolphin! Undaunted, Mommy dearest shouts at me over the cacophony attempting to elucidate upon the soundtrack. It would appear that my parents have acquired a 30% timeshare in the neighbours dog. A larger than usual spaniel, the one I've apparently seen before, usually confused about which door to head for. The scene is a familiar one and my mind races in an attempt to recollect the creature under discussion and fails miserably. "Black and white?" "Brown. You must remember him. You've seen him." I acquiesce demurely, with a soupçon of absentmindedness. "I must have."
"She's asthmatic, and they were thinking of giving the dog away, but the boys were really sad and Mr. Singhania really loves the dog, so they asked if we'd like to keep it, but I said, No! we're old, but he can spend some time at our place. Actually, I just don't think she likes dogs at all and she's a hypochondriac. The whole flat is being done and there's cement all over, so obviously she doesn't like dogs." Clearly. I ask what the dimwit is called. "Cuddles." I shudder delicately. Perhaps it's the breed that encourages daft names like this (like Sweetie is to Poms, Cuddles and Flakes is to cockers).
The sloppy spaniel is apparently still trying to come to grips with it's equation with Ba. His ultimate mission is to win over Ba. It is an uncertain relationship - Ba is happy to say "Ha ha, hellooo doggie...", even wave and chuckle at it, but doesn't like to be licked or have dog attached to his persona. Naturally, it makes the mutt even more curiously determined to know the big man better, albeit trepediaciously (I believe the story justifies a creative juste mot!). I grin, remembering the sight of a 6'3" suited man waving goodbye to two tail wagging 8" puppies, yipping around his briefcase, with strict instructions to behave.
Ma believes the poor chap is bored. He wants to play, but my folks are too old to be arsed and launches into his support system; The gentleman is hardly home, the boys have squash lessons, tuitions, school, blah, blah, and aunty hates dogs, but the money they spend on the critter. The mutt has his own maid, personal trainer and weekly beauty salon appointments. Hmmmm. I suggest with the utmost seriousness that my mother edify his mind with some duet chanting. Nam myoho renge kyo, arf arf arf arf, Nam myoho renge kyo, arf arf arf arf.... Her gurgle of laughter somewhat ruins her admonishment of my frivolity. Her ear splitting demand as to who the dog was left with negates my curiosity as to the lack of canine vocalisation in the background. They've been leaving the mutt with the folks longer and longer each day, so Minu the Scary has taken an executive decision and sent him straight back.
Reluctantly, I confess to a concall in 90 seconds and bid my parent a fond farewell. What yellow dolphin?????
I resist the Shakespearean urge to go, 'Hark! Was that a bark?!' Barking? We Guhas of 14 Iris may have doggie bagged foodstuff for a number of years, but we've always stated upfront it was for Mim.... I wait and listen to the scary one scolding a mutt of some description, who retaliates by making off with her yellow dolphin. And to think the Beatles got flak for Lucy in the Sky - I didn't even know my mother had a yellow dolphin! Undaunted, Mommy dearest shouts at me over the cacophony attempting to elucidate upon the soundtrack. It would appear that my parents have acquired a 30% timeshare in the neighbours dog. A larger than usual spaniel, the one I've apparently seen before, usually confused about which door to head for. The scene is a familiar one and my mind races in an attempt to recollect the creature under discussion and fails miserably. "Black and white?" "Brown. You must remember him. You've seen him." I acquiesce demurely, with a soupçon of absentmindedness. "I must have."
"She's asthmatic, and they were thinking of giving the dog away, but the boys were really sad and Mr. Singhania really loves the dog, so they asked if we'd like to keep it, but I said, No! we're old, but he can spend some time at our place. Actually, I just don't think she likes dogs at all and she's a hypochondriac. The whole flat is being done and there's cement all over, so obviously she doesn't like dogs." Clearly. I ask what the dimwit is called. "Cuddles." I shudder delicately. Perhaps it's the breed that encourages daft names like this (like Sweetie is to Poms, Cuddles and Flakes is to cockers).
The sloppy spaniel is apparently still trying to come to grips with it's equation with Ba. His ultimate mission is to win over Ba. It is an uncertain relationship - Ba is happy to say "Ha ha, hellooo doggie...", even wave and chuckle at it, but doesn't like to be licked or have dog attached to his persona. Naturally, it makes the mutt even more curiously determined to know the big man better, albeit trepediaciously (I believe the story justifies a creative juste mot!). I grin, remembering the sight of a 6'3" suited man waving goodbye to two tail wagging 8" puppies, yipping around his briefcase, with strict instructions to behave.
Ma believes the poor chap is bored. He wants to play, but my folks are too old to be arsed and launches into his support system; The gentleman is hardly home, the boys have squash lessons, tuitions, school, blah, blah, and aunty hates dogs, but the money they spend on the critter. The mutt has his own maid, personal trainer and weekly beauty salon appointments. Hmmmm. I suggest with the utmost seriousness that my mother edify his mind with some duet chanting. Nam myoho renge kyo, arf arf arf arf, Nam myoho renge kyo, arf arf arf arf.... Her gurgle of laughter somewhat ruins her admonishment of my frivolity. Her ear splitting demand as to who the dog was left with negates my curiosity as to the lack of canine vocalisation in the background. They've been leaving the mutt with the folks longer and longer each day, so Minu the Scary has taken an executive decision and sent him straight back.
Reluctantly, I confess to a concall in 90 seconds and bid my parent a fond farewell. What yellow dolphin?????
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