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Winding up the Millennium Trilogy

The last book of Stieg Larsson’s Millennium trilogy is not unpredictable. From the outset it is clear that the book will be about the final trial, which we know that Salander and her “Knights of the Idiotic Table” will win, despite the several new difficulties and dangers that the supporting cast face and survive from time to time. We do not even learn anything new about superhero Lisbeth Salander. But I never felt the need to complain, except whenever I had to put the book down for reasons beyond my control.

The entire trilogy is very old-fashioned, with its well fleshed out but stereotypical characters and the plainness of its themes. The reason it captivated me is because of the pain-staking research and thorough factual approach that Larsson takes. I haven’t read any of his journalistic reports in the Expo magazine, but I suspect that he was an investigative journalist very much like Mikael “Kalle” Blomkvist, in dogged pursuit of facts for the establishment of what he had reason to believe to be truth.

“Who will clean up Bhopal mess?” “Dow not liable for Bhopal?” “Could it have been averted?” “Two arrest warrants, last ignored by CBI?” “Is Digvijaya Singh targeting his own party?” “Did Arjun Singh arrange Anderson’s exit?” These are a few separate headlines and news stories about the Bhopal gas tragedy from the past few days. Recently I’ve noticed that many Indian news channels have graduated from conducting SMS polls (like “Are reporters morons?”) to posting questions as headlines (mostly rhetorical, I hope). I have been of the opinion that facts about unknowns cannot be established from opinions of a million sheep, but I confess that I am not up to date with the latest research in the applications of stochastic models on social journalism involving sheep. I may have missed the forward about the evolutionary manner of establishing facts, which probably proves that if a Twitter follower is moved enough to reply or a serious citizen to call a news desk then he or she must be knowing and telling the truth with an accurately calculable probability.

Unlike them the reporters and other investigators throughout the Millennium trilogy weren’t taught in the new methods of journalism. They start with their beliefs and gut feelings, with what they feel must be the truth, but they don’t thrum the world with persuasive reports about their perceptions of truth being true based on a long list of opinions, on historic observations, on psychological studies, nor on the ever-so-dependable instincts and intuitions. They ask questions and sieve through provable facts. In an explicit lesson Erika Berger tells a young promising journalist, “Think like a reporter. Investigate who’s spreading the story, why it’s being spread, and ask yourself whose interests it might serve.” In another lesson she rules that under her reign news reports have to deal with provable facts and that editorials (not by every person with an asshole) are the only place for opinions. Blomkvist shows them in his actions. Even though the trilogy is a work of fiction I hold it as a text-book example of old school investigation, and Millennium as a magazine of very high standards unswervingly clinging to the elements of journalism.

Another rarity is the vast number of women characters throughout the trilogy. In this last installment Larsson couldn’t have been more explicit with the numerous annotations about (sometimes mythical) women warriors like Dahomey Amazons, Libyan Amazons, Shammuramat, Semiramis, and Boudica. Were it not for those footnotes I probably would have not paid enough attention to the women in the book: Lisbeth Salander, Erika Berger, Advokat Annika Giannini, Inspector Monica Figuerola, Inspector Sonja Modig, Susanne Linder, Malin Eriksson, Ragnhild Gustavsson, and even the award-winning reporter at She of TV4. (Harriet Vanger and Mirriam Wu were strong too, but they are barely mentioned in this book.)

All these characters have a role to play, all of them are what Larsson likes to call “resourceful” in some way, all of them hold on their own and dominate male characters at sometime. Equally noteworthy is the fact that there are no women on the wrong side, no women who finally lose, no women who show cruelty towards other women (or men without justification). In one clear breach of the fourth wall Larsson through Blomkvist says, “When it comes down to it, this story is not primarily about spies and secret government agencies; it’s about violence against women, and the men who enable it.” He is very clear here that it is not about violence and injustice in general, but about that perpetrated by men against women. It is as if he is apologizing on men’s behalf, making sure that they all win. Yet in another dialogue he (again through Blomkvist) mentions that he does not believe in collective guilt, as if conscious about what appears to be so.

Despite many apparent shortcomings — stereotypes, unsubtleness, even clichédness if you will — Larsson with his matter-of-fact reporting style, by mixing fiction with non-fiction (real places, real scandals, real characters), and most importantly with his idealism makes the trilogy fascinating and memorable.

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Cultures in Conversation – Urban Legends

The May 2010 issue of UTV World Movies Magazine carried an article I wrote comparing Bollywood and Mexican Cinema with urbanization as its underlying motif. I am not very happy with it. I think essays of such kind need a person with greater expertise about the subject matter and with greater skill. My article reads more like a generalization extrapolated from a very limited knowledge of Bollywood and Mexican Cinema. As several friends have expressed a wish to read it, and as it is past May the month of the issue, I am posting a version of the article somewhere between my final draft and the one printed. All good parts were suggested and/or directly written by my editors.

Mexico has a small film industry. About 350 movies are released annually including Latin American, European and Hollywood ones. Hardly 60 of them are produced locally. Billion-dollar Bollywood is twice as big with over 100 movies produced and released each year in theatres alone. Even as the world cinema makes inroads into the lucrative Indian markets, it still prefers Mexico when it comes to creative talent. Names like Alfonso Cuarón, Alejandro González Iñárritu, Guillermo Arriaga, Guillermo del Toro, Gael García Bernal and Salma Hayek are a few examples. That may not be without reason.

Your God, My God
With over 85% Roman Catholics, secular Mexico is somewhat similar to India with its 80% Hindu population. Nearly half of Mexico’s population is estimated to be regular churchgoers and in India there are more religion-based programmes and dedicated channels and more temples and pujas than ever before. Gods, like their followers, prosper in the face of development. What is surprising is the steady decline in religiousness shown in Bollywood movies. Probably not so surprising.

The movies that travel across the world are often those set in urban milieus . They are the kind which portray the progress and problems of the shining economies and thus resonate better with the higher income groups at home and overseas.

Today Bollywood rarely makes movies where religion plays a major role, other than when it takes up its favourite themes of relationships beyond religions, of communal riots, or of terrorism. The clichéd scenes of a mother or a wife visiting a large idol of Lord Shiva, a Muslim stopping himself from committing a crime on hearing the echoes of a namaaz recital, or a joint family merrily standing in the mandir wearing white are mostly a thing of the past. Neither are these days for mythology, nor for atheist militancy. While increasingly large numbers of youth aimlessly vacillate between religious fervour and agnosticism, recent movies that address faith as a concept and not merely as a category hardly come to my mind. As if drowned by the din of modern machinery, conversations with God – blameful, remorseful, and thankful ones – and externalised internal debates have become antiquated and not yet upgraded.

Sins (Vinod Pande, 2005), set in a coastal town in Kerala, is one recent movie in which religion played a central theme, but it sank to such abysmal depths that its director chose to make Red Swastik (2007) next. Reincarnation is central to Karzzz (Satish Kaushik, 2008), but it is only a remake of Karz (Subhash Ghai, 1980). Interestingly, Sins may have borrowed a thing or two from the Mexican Oscar-nominated The Crime of Padre Amaro (El crimen del padre Amaro, Carlos Carrera, 2002) which was itself adaptated from renowned Portuguese writer José Maria de Eça de Queirós’ novel of the same name. Both movies are about a small-town Catholic priest who becomes infatuated with a young girl. The Mexican movie became the biggest commercial success of all time in Mexico, even after the offended Catholic organisations emphatically asked the government to ban it and the people not to see it. This is not an exception. Acclaimed director Carlos Reygadas is most known for Japón (2002), Battle in Heaven (Batalla en en cielo, 2005), and Silent Light (Stellet licht, 2007), all of which examine Christianity and its myths.

Sex and Other Stories
Unlike the controversy surrounding the “sexually explicit” topless scenes of Seema Rahmani in Sins, the controversy of El crimen del padre Amaro only had to do with them involving a Catholic priest. While exploring sexuality more “openly” is fast becoming a favourite among our directors demonstrating the urban leap of faith in movies, unabashed exploration, depiction and even reception of sexuality has been common to Mexican mainstream movies and audiences. In the coming-of-age movie And Your Mother, Too (Y tu mamá también, Alfonso Cuarón, 2001) two teenage boys learn about love, friendship, sex and life during their road trip in company with an older woman that they both become attracted to. The movie set a record by getting the biggest ever opening in Mexico and went on to become a cult classic around the world.

The apparently progressive views of the urban youth, the controversies about the morality of pre-marital sex, a greater and more open dialogue, and most importantly the emergence of the multiplex crowd have all laid a foundation for “bolder” experiments. Love’s a Bitch (Amores perros, Alejandro González Iñárritu, 2000), one of the most well-known Mexican movies in India is an anthology film in which one story deals with the forbidden love between a man and his brother’s wife, and another with the extramarital affair between a family man and a much-younger supermodel. Showcase it beside Bollywood anthology Love, Sex aur Dhokha (Dibakar Banerjee, 2010) which dealt with love and sex (although between unmarried adults) like no other Bollywood movie before it. It is common knowledge that CBFC India bisected a sex scene in LSD because it deemed it too long for the Indian audiences.

Mexican cinema enjoys a vastly more liberal censor board and a protective government. Mexico decriminalised homosexuality in 1871 — an achievement for a country with such a great Catholic majority. Violence against members of the LGBT communities (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transsexual) remains a serious issue in Mexico, but movies have moved beyond the derogatory comedian “marica” (sissy) stereotype that was common till the seventies. Julián Hernández, for instance, is making a name for himself by writing and directing movies about homosexuality, like A Thousand Clouds of Peace (Mil nubes de paz cercan el cielo, 2003) and Broken Sky (El cielo dividido, 2006). The Mexican government not only protects these movies for frictionless screenings, but it also supports efforts toward greater sexual tolerance and AIDS awareness through MIX Mexico, an annual LGBT film festival held in Mexico City.

More than a decade after venues and posters of Fire (Deepa Mehta, 1999) had been set afire by fanatics and thugs in broad daylight, Bollywood is yet to produce a movie that does more than running ludicrous gags about a couple of characters pretending to be or wrongly perceived as homosexual. Indian cinema and audiences (including the multiplex crowd) continue to squirm when a movie explores sexuality beyond the consensual intercourse between an Adonis and a Venus, with strategically-placed props and camera angles. On the other hand, Indians have for long been comfortable with graphic violence.

In the Thick of Action
The claim is undeniable. Many Indian parents take their children to theatres showing “fighting movies”. Action blockbusters are broadcast on television channels during primetime hours. Bollywood has always banked heavily on “action”, though its renditions have evolved dramatically. Extravagantly choreographed stunts featuring risk-taking heroes and their doubles have replaced dishum dishums. Cold silvery handguns which can bore neat holes or make messy spaghettis off a skull have replaced cardboard machine guns. Cavemen villains operating from beeping, kitschy hideouts have made way for the chic face of evil. Besides, even the nature of these crimes are now more urban, more sophisticated. Stories are being drawn from real-life inspirations and movies featuring the increasingly dangerous cities rife with extortion, kidnapping, corruption, the omnipresent underworld, sex crimes and now terrorism are being abundantly made.

The appetite for violence in Bollywood and Mexican cinema and of their audiences is comparable. In Without Name (Sin Nombre, Cary Fukunaga, 2009) two men force a child to carry out the execution of their prisoner, and then feed the prisoner’s viscera to dogs. In Amores Perros (Alejandro González Iñárritu, 2000) the protagonist of the first story primarily earns money through brutal dog fights, and pissed off bad men shoot their defeated dogs in Bollywood ishtyle. While crime in Mexican movies is usually about the drug cartels, corruption in the Church and the government, and illegal emigration, they have also started scratching beneath the surface with movies like The Zone (La Zona, Rodrigo Plá, 2007). La Zona is an unsentimental critique of the urban society, of the great virtual wall between the rich and the poor, and especially of the changing realities and requirements of the well-to-do to live peacefully within the confines of their secure, gated communities.

People, lives and stories will keep changing till they reach stable ground during urbanisation. Both Mexico and India are in that stage now where the past is a powerless patriarch, impotent but an influence nonetheless on whatever the future is to bring. Change is imminent and exciting. Especially for filmmakers hoping to tell riveting stories of a generation caught in conflicts, external, internal and liminal.

ఝుమ్మంది నాదం

My introduction to Veturi began with the ETV programme ఝుమ్మంది నాదం years ago. I was so overwhelmed with his repertoire that whenever I heard an interesting song – సరళమైనవి, లోతైనవి, చిలిపివి, గమ్మత్తైనవి, అద్భుతమైన భూతులున్నవి  – whose writer I didn’t know, I attributed it to him. I still do and I might continue to for songs written long after his death. It might be because even though he may have not written those songs, it seemed that he could easily have written them with his other hand while attending another mind-numbing awards ceremony.

After his recent death, I listened to a number of his songs hoping to transcribe another of those. I finally settled with ఝుమ్మంది నాదం itself. The music director with the first sound of percussion sends a wave through the legs, and by the time it climbs up the body the lyricist with his first word sets the heart aflutter.

I don’t understand the lyrics completely, but that never hindered my pulse from rising and my mind from dancing beside Jaya Prada and Chandra Mohan. I don’t think the picturization could capture as jubilantly as the words did the resonance of the atmospheric phenomena with the emotions inside the mute protagonist’s heart. ఎల తేటి రొద probably means the sounds in a tender coconut; I don’t know what లెస in కలిత కవిత లెస and విరుపు in నీ మేని విరుపు exactly mean.

చిత్రం: కె విశ్వనాథ్ గారి సిరి సిరి మువ్వ (1977)
రాసినది: వేటూరి సుందరరామ మూర్తి
కూర్చినది: కె వి మహదెవన్
పాడినది: ఎస్ పి బాలసుబ్రహ్మణ్యం, పి సుశీల

ఝుమ్మంది నాదం సయ్యంది పాదం
తనువూగింది ఈ వేళ
చెలరేగింది ఒక రాసలీల

యెదలోని సొదలా ఎల తేటి రొదలా
కదిలేటి నదిలా కలల వరదలా
చలిత లలిత పద కలిత కవిత లెస
సరిగమ పలికించగా
స్వరమధురిమ లొలికించగా
సిరిసిరి మువ్వలు పులకించగా

నటరాజ ప్రేయసి నటనాల ఊర్వసి
నటియించు నీవని తెలిసి
ఆకాశమై పొంగె ఆవేశం
కైలాసమే వంగె నీకోసం

మెరుపుంది నాలో; అది నీ మేని విరుపు
ఉరుముంది నాలో; అది నీ మువ్వ పిలుపు
చినుకు చినుకులో చిందు లయలతో
కురిసింది తొలకరి జల్లు
విరిసింది అందాల హరివిల్లు
ఈ పొంగులే ఏడు రంగులుగా

chitram: ke viSwanAth gAri siri siri muvva (1977)
rAsinadi: vETUri sundararAma mUrti
kUrchinadi: ke vi mahadevan
pADinadi: es pi bAlasubrahmaNyam, pi suSIla

jhummandi nAdam sayyandi pAdam
tanuvUgindi I vELa
chelarEgindi oka rAsalIla

yedalOni sodalA ela tETi rodalA
kadilETi nadilA kalala varadalA
chalita lalita pada kalita kavita lesa
sarigama palikinchagA
svaramadhurima lolikinchagA
sirisiri muvvalu pulakinchagA

naTarAja prEyasi naTanAla Urvasi
naTiyinchu nIvani telisi
aakASamai ponge AvESam
kailAsamE vange nIkOsam

merupundi nAlO; adi nI mEni virupu
urumundi nAlO; adi nI muvva pilupu
chinuku chinukulO chindu layalatO
kurisindi tolakari jallu
virisindi andAla harivillu
I pongulE EDu rangulugA

Remember Me, Remember Marcel Proust

This Friday evening a friend who wanted to get out of the office told me that he hadn’t been to a theatre in a long time. Actually I haven’t been to a theatre in a long time and he hasn’t been to one in a very long time. We decided to watch some movie, any movie. Jon Favreau’s Iron Man 2 couldn’t be the one for various reasons – I watched it this morning – and after striking through every other movie playing in the nearest multiplex I stumbled upon Allen Coulter’s Remember Me. The title was desperate enough to match our impulsive neediness, and I vaguely remembered Roger Ebert’s review.

The hour-long schmooze before the delayed start and the three-hour-long drunk confessions after it overshadow the movie, but they didn’t need to. I wouldn’t anyway remember anything about the movie apart from its title. The good thing about the movie is that it is mediocre enough to shove me out of my slumber and tempt me to at least show the snarkier side of me. Though being snarky is my first nature, as I show every now and then, it is hardly satisfying being so for an insignificant movie that no one would remember. I am going to try something “different”, as we Indians – filmmakers and moviegoers – like to say.

Within a few minutes of the movie I got bored enough to embark on my own journey making vague references from any given scene. It was largely a purposeless and unconscious act of recalling recent movies and books through Remember Me. Being a fan of Marcel Proust’s Remembrances of Things Past (which I haven’t read) and of the concept of involuntary memory, I found the exercise engrossing enough.

Update: Below is only a list of several things that I remembered, and not a description of any of the memories corresponding to them. This makes it boring. It makes sense to delete the post, but I’m tempted to preserve it for posterity. If it stirs any of your own memories, that may give this a little more value.

When the opening scene was set in 1991 and the next scene in 2001 I remembered the many anachronisms that commonly feature in the Goofs section of IMDB.

During the introductory scene of Robert Pattinson several girls sitting beside me gasped in delight on seeing his face. When he bent across a bed to reach for the phone his pajamas fell below the hips. I remembered all the metrosexuals consciously buying low waist jeans to ostentatiously wear and unconsciously walk around in them. Once I saw his face clearly I wondered whether he looked paler in the Twilight series and I couldn’t remember how he looked as Cedric Diggory. Most of all I remembered the year-old interview in which Stephen King declared that Stephenie Meyer couldn’t write worth a darn.

When I saw Lena Olin in the next scene I remembered her tattoo in Roman Polanski’s The Ninth Gate. I was saddened to see how much older she has become in a decade and remembered Kamal Hasan in Gautham Menon’s Raghavan. Later when it was mentioned that her character is a social service worker she reminded me of Urmila Matondkar in Jahnu Barua’s Maine Gandhi Ko Nahin Mara.

During the post-funeral scene when all members pieces of the Hawkins family sat at a table, I remembered JD Salinger’s Catch in the Rye. When it was clear that the only person Tyler cared for was his sister Caroline, the image grew more intense. I quickly wrote off Tyler as the real empty phony, but continued to think of little Phoebe Caulfield whenever Caroline entered a scene. I also remembered Coraline, which I’ve neither read nor watched. (After watching the entire movie, I wish it had been about Caroline Hawkins, about her loneliness and “freakishness” and her way of dealing with the tragedies in her fragile life, because that character had a vivid story arc and because Ruby Jerins can act.)

During the classroom discussion in a Global Politics class about morals and ethics in the recent wake of terrorism (2001, before Sep 11th) I remembered the classroom discussion about the nature of fantasies in a Philosophy class in Alan Parker’s The Life of David Gale. I wondered why there is hardly ever a second discussion in a similar setting in such movies.

When I heard Steven Soderbergh’s Erin Brockovich coming from the Craigs’ TV, I was sure that Sgt. Craig must have had a better time watching that movie than I would watching this one and than Ally would with Tyler on their first date.

When Ally started getting intimate with Tyler, I wondered why and how many girls fall for the damaged types. I invariably remembered Dr. Lisa Cuddy, Dr. Allison Cameron and Stacy Warner, and winked at Dr. Gregory House. Of course, Tyler only resembles a violent vampire eternally sucked by teenage angst. Later, whenever Ally looked happily in love with Tyler, immediately after his displays of anger, I was reminded of the few such women I’ve heard about in real life and felt sorry for them.

When I saw Chris Cooper sulking alone in his apartment as Sgt. Craig, I remembered his several lonesome characters like in Sam Mendes’ American Beauty and Billy Ray’s Breach, and realized that I’ve never seen him play an upbeat character.

When the interval began I remembered an old Little Hearts advertisement. Reporter: “Which part of the movie did you like the most?” Moviegoer: “Intruvall.”

When Caroline was shading a drawing with a pencil while talking to her brother’s new girlfriend the soft scratching reminded me of couples rocking on beds, and then the scene where young Forrest Gump sits on the front yard listening to the sounds coming out of the room with Mrs. Gump and the principal inside, and inevitably of the subsequent grunts that the boy himself makes.

Pierce Brosnan showed a paunch in the movie. I don’t know whether it was a prosthetic, but the word (and he himself) reminded me of his panache, more as Thomas Crown than as James Bond. When Charles Hawkins missed his daughter’s art gallery exhibition, I imagined the irony of his Thomas Crown character enamored by Claude Monet. When he finally took Caroline to the museum, I remembered James Stewart looking dazed in Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo. When he argued with Tyler and Ally that some Yankee team member was not fat but only big-boned, I may have laughed louder and longer than anybody else in the theatre, thinking about Eric Cartman’s claim that he was not fat but big-boned and Stanley Marsh’s retort that Jay Leno’s chin was big-boned and that Cartman was a big fat ass. When the family album scrolled on Charles’ office desktop, I remembered Brosnan’s deceased first wife and their three sons. (The word ‘deceased’ is used in the movie once, by Chris Cooper.) When Tyler told Ally that he came from a family of Irish musicians, I wished that they had kept the Irish accent of Pierce Brosnan. The Irish connection sprang several other memories like its great works of literature (I recently completed James Joyce’ Dubliners. Involuntary memories play a significant role in his works like Dubliners and Ulysses.), the current golden age of Irish crime, the beautiful Irish accents, of how Meryl Streep disappointed me with her accent in Pat O’Connor’s Dancing at Lughnasa, and of the Magdalene Asylums.

During the scene in which Tyler was sitting in a theatre, apparently wondering why he is sitting there, I empathized with him. (Or did the director empathize with the audience?) I remembered another recent mirroring of the character in a movie with the audience, in a scene in James Cameron’s Avatar.

Towards the end of the movie, I remembered that namedropping books and writers was regular early on in the movie and quickly died down. Rereading this very post, I realized that it may have been for the best.

When one of the main characters died at the end of the movie, I thought not about Ramesh Sippy’s Sholay, but about K Balachander’s antulEni katha and Mark Rydell’s Intersection. I have been particularly impressed by the latter movie (which I never saw completely), where the death of a character significantly alters the outcome of the movie, and it was not how the character died but under what circumstances the character died that made a difference. After thinking for a long time I also remembered VN Aditya. In all his movies that I’ve seen he gets the hero or heroine stabbed and then promptly recovered, and it felt insignificant in all of those movies. In Remember Me as well, the death is in the Sep 11 attacks. “What a croc of shit!” I thought, and remembered the wonderful monologue in Martin Brest’s Scent of a Woman. It would’ve made no difference had that character died of dysentery (like in Clint Eastwood’s Letters From Iwo Jima), for the aftermath is only a montage of closed ones dealing with the death in due course of time. This also reminded me that I haven’t yet read any Sep 11 literature, and decided that John Updike’s Terrorist should be an especially good choice.

After walking out of the theatre I remembered that I seldom watch movies about teen angst as I can neither appreciate it nor tolerate it. This movie actually doesn’t fall under teen angst, for neither of the main romantic pair is a teen (both are college students), but the movie seems targeted on teens.

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PIFF 2010: About the Bestiality in Man

I was driving home one night. I stopped at a red signal, still thinking furiously about the movie that I had just watched. There was a long queue growing with cars coming out of the multiplex that I had driven out of. The driver in the car behind me got impatient and started honking. I tried not to let it bother me. The signal time was unusually short. I could see him in the rearview mirror, honking relentlessly, with his wife beside him. I pulled up the window glasses but my ears could still feel the blaring horn. Did he think that I was a retard who couldn’t tell red from green? It got on my nerves. I wanted to step out of my car, walk to his, and bang his head against the steering again and again while viciously looking into the eyes of his wife. I was scared. I turned up the stereo and clenched my fists around the steering.

I felt the constant presence of the movie at the back of my mind for the next couple of days. I felt its presence when I read about another bombing. I felt its presence when I encountered a reckless salesman in an electronics store. I felt its presence when I was chopping vegetables with the knife. A few days later when I sat down in front of the laptop to write about the movie, I quickly skipped it after a little pondering and instead watched a rerun of South Park to distract my thoughts.

Among all the movies that I watched during PIFF 2010, Dominic Murphy’s White Lightnin’ is the one that haunted me the most. It is in black and white. It is probably the movie that haunted me more intensely than any other ever. I hoped that I would be able to write about it some day. It took me this long. I wasn’t processing it all along. I was only stalling.

White Lightnin’ is a movie based on the life of legendary “dancing outlaw” Jesco White. It opens with young Jesco huffing – glue, paint, gas, booze, anything with a distinct odour – and living through phantasmagorical nightmares and horrifying fantasies. A few minutes into the movie, he has already snuffed coke and too many other things, fought with too many kids, been to the juvenile prison too many times, and spent a good deal of his life in a mental asylum. Jesco lives with his large redneck family, including his famous father Donald Ray, in the Appalachian Mountains of West Virginia. All his escapades are despite his father’s desperate attempts at thwarting them (which to me seemed weak), and the only thing that brings him sanity is when his father teaches him mountain dancing.

The father gets murdered in a gruesome manner, and this greatly worsens the already sensitive psyche of Jesco. It is an event that haunts him for the rest of his life. The doctor tells his mother that he will never be able to live without someone looking after him.

Within the first twenty minutes, while Jesco is having a meal in the asylum dormitory another ward show

. I don’t intend to gross you out, but only warn you of the extremely graphic nature of the movie. I will be glad for all those who walk out by then, for it only gets worse in Jesco’s life. I must confess that at no point did I wish to leave, and am glad to have watched the entire movie.

I won’t tell you more about what happens. It might come across as only a spiral of violence which you must have realized by now anyway. While detractors may look at the movie as an ill-connected string of one gratuitously violent scene after another, that they all happen throughout a single man’s life, and that they are shown along with the rest of the events through his perspective make a great difference. There may be many lives like this, but this one is his.

Jesco is a character with surplus energy, an energy that is very well conveyed by the music and sound effects. He never finds a reliable way of releasing it regularly. He is content while mountain dancing on an eight by four piece of plywood while wearing his father’s shoes. He is on the edge of sanity while partying with his crazy girl. He has a slippery switch in his dark grey matter. It goes on without his consent, and then all hell breaks loose. He is aware of that switch. He struggles to find it, to control it, and finally to remove it. He gets increasingly religious. He quotes the Bible. He solders fine religious woodburnings. But something elusive keeps stepping on that insidious switch. As I saw him oscillating between hope and madness, I was acutely aware of my own ignorance of that chaos and the emptiness of my empathy.

It is a bold script by Eddy Moretti and Shane Smith. I guess it comes with the territory for someone who founded the Vice magazine. The movie works because of the excellent performance by Edward Hogg who gets under the skin of Jesco White with his big expressive eyes. Clearly the movie has been overlooked. I hope that at least the fans of Carrie Fisher will be tempted to give it a try. When Edward Hogg becomes the star that many are hoping he would, the movie might get a few more patrons. I see the movie as a rare thorough (and necessary) documentation of violence through the eyes of an anguished perpetrator.

I read all I could about Jesco White, including a fine essay by Jeff Stover and a fan’s day out with him. He is very much alive, and very much seems to be the character that he was portrayed as. The eighteen-year-old documentary “Dancing Outlaw” must have helped as well. I can’t find the resources that I’ve previously read, but I remember reading that Jesco White himself helped while writing the script. As a man who truly struggled (struggles) with depression, addiction and other “distorders”, I wonder if most of the events in the movie are his attempt at exorcizing the demons in his head.

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