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Reaction: The Motorcycles Diaries (filmed) August 9, 2008

Posted by K in Reviews/Rants.
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Well, I saw the Motorcycle Diaries (finally). And frankly, I expected much more than a heroes gaze turned upon a larger than life character. The film was entertaining, undoubtedly, but I expected to see what went into creating Che Guevara, what made him the revolutionary that has since catapulted him into, ironically, bags and tshirts that continue to sell like hot cakes. All I saw was a lot of anguish on the rather,er, dashing, actor’s face; a brief moment of ‘understanding’ in a briefer episode with a mining couple; and a completely unnecessary swim across a river that pleased the crowd (and was meant to). The gaze of the camera is on Guevara, throughout; Guevara’s gaze is not what is effectively portrayed.


July 1, 2008

Posted by K in Nonsense.

Everyday, on her way to college, she heard him talk.

Through the hole in the wall she heard him. A disembodied voice, talking about the weather, an advertisement in the local paper, last evening’s dance recital…

She would pause by the wall and lose herself in the melody of his voice. It wasn’t a musical voice, neither was it a stage voice; it was just a voice that immediately went to one’s heart. It held the quality of suggestion, and in it she caught glimpses of herself. It was these daily sessions that transported her to a plane of existence she had been hitherto unaware of, and was now addicted to.

For some reason, he was her secret. She did not share the story of the magical voice with her friends or family. She half thought she would be forbidden to walk that route again, if the elders at home realised she was falling in love with an idea.

It went on like this for a year. The listener and the speaker, one unaware of the other, communicating as only stranger friends can do. Sometimes she wondered why she did not step around the corner and show herself. Other times she would be horrified at herself for even thinking of such a thing.

The listening sessions had drawn for her a picture of him, in her mind. Every word would be a like a piece of a puzzle as tangible as a wisp of smoke. She thought she had the last few pieces in place, when suddenly, one day, he wasn’t there anymore.

She tried to hold her anxiety, but when he failed to appear for the next two days, she did finally step around the wall. Where did he go, she asked the first person she ran into. The man who sat here, day after day.

Oh him, came the grunt. He’s gone.

And she could get nothing more out of the man. She tried speaking to the fruit seller, the flower seller, but they were all reluctant to talk to her. Feeling sick with disappointment, she turned to go.

Psst. Over here. Came a hissed voice. You want to know about the man, I can tell you. Come with me.

She followed the child’s voice to a narrow alleyway, where she was guided to a makeshift home.

You want to know about him. I know you. You would listen to him talk everyday. I listened too, to you and him. He knew you were here as well; your shadow used to fall around the corner. He made it a point to find newer and newer things to talk about.

She didn’t know what to say.

He knew I listened? Who is he? What does he do? Where is he now?

The child laughed. Ofcourse he knew you. He knew many things.

Why did he never ask me to stop listening?

The child laughed again. You mean why did he never talk to you. For the same reason that you never spoke to him, ofcourse.

What do you mean?

He’s got leprosy, has he not? He’s a leper. You were disgusted by him too, were you not?

Now it was her turn to laugh.

I’m blind, you silly child. I cannot see.

She went home that day, curiously happy.