The Code

A large rat scurries under piles of accumulated refuse at the sound of human footsteps. An unfamiliar disturbance has entered the Casa Alejandro disposal site. On any other night the area belongs to a large vermin population who are typically left undisturbed at this hour to carry on their feast on a banquet of infinite variety. This is to be in stark contrast to the tumult of the day when the roar of teams of waste disposal trucks line up the cordon to the mouth of this, the city's largest sanitation center.

At night the area gated off and apart for the presence of one security guard who for the most part sleeps through his shift with the sound and undeniable rationale “ it's trash man! just trash -who gets worked up about trash", the place is empty of visitors.

Tonight there are two exceptions to that general rule of one. Two men dressed in well tailored suits. They are heavy set men who manage to contain their physical presence in urbane movements and gestures, both of them now are engaged in a conversation every bit as surreal as their place in this setting.

" There are lot of different ways to kill a man" says Torrence "but you must always have a good reason to do it otherwise it's betrayal of trust"

Lakino as he steps away from a mountain of plastic bags filled with assorted waste, breaks out into laughter. He pauses long enough to say "Yeah murder is a trust alright , yep I'm sure they're all for it. Hell it's , like ..like a civil union even." He bursts into laughter again stoops a little and then straigtens up. Between breaths he adds "c'mon Torrence, I mean Listen to yourself for a moment."
Unperturbed Torrence looks on. No emotions register on his face. Standing still, a few feet away, he sizes up Lakino with one look and says.

"It's all about the code Lakino. You would never understand. Life's just a series of disconnected episodes to you."

Lakino's humor leaves him. He turns and faces Torrence and says "What wouldn't I understand? Am I too stupid to understand? Is that what you're saying Torrence?"

"Did you hear me use that word Lakino." replies Torrence
He returns his direct stare "and adds " I thought you knew by now, I choose my words very carefully, and besides it has nothing to do with intelligence. I've known brilliant men who live like you do, in state of disconnect."

Lakino no longer feels slighted, rather it's with a sense of intrigue he asks

" Torrence tell me then, what you mean by the code?"

There's a pause. Torrence lowers his head and for a moment appears transfixed by a green bottle cap pressed down into the earth at his feet. He then raises his head slowly and says " It's Self explanatory I would think . A set of principles to guide your life. What they are well, that's of your own choosing but you must remember once you've reached the point where you are ready to accept them you must never waver from your commitment no matter what extenuating circumstances might happen to arise."

Lakino nods his head turns his eyes away and then looks back at Torrence and asks
" why even this need for a code. What's wrong with just as you say living a series of disconnected episodes. I mean it works for most of us."

Without hesitation Torrence replies "Most of us don't have my artistic inclination."

Lakino looks straight ahead. He has the irresistible urge to laugh again just now but he resists the impulse. He has worked alongside Torrence for almost 10 years and knows better than to provoke him. He knows under all the affectation Torrence is serious now about what he says. And he knows when he is this way it's not good to test his limits.

Before he can pose the natural next question he cannot help but remember the start of their unique alliance.
Ten years ago Torrence had approached him with the proposition.

A midsummer day in June, June 17th 2016 the precise date. He does not forget anything about that day. The sky is an arch of clear blue, the sun blinding and hot at the high point of its westward movement. People are out in droves, the artless tourists, the young girls in various and beautiful states of undress, the young men in pursuit with all their newly acquired stratagems, people from every background some draped in traditional and others in hip and modern garb, families young and old, nuclear and extended. A variety of humanity on display, the Plaza Del Rio seems to draw them all.

The Plaza Del Rio, a two acre spread of land where automobile traffic is forbidden. A series of circles of department stores that surround a central grid of restaurants,coffee shops and tiny out door vendors. The aim is bohemian chic and to that extent it more than succeeds. Like Venice Beach were it without the expansive ocean and enclosing highway. Mountain bikes and roller blades are everywhere. A bicycle rickshaw service and light rail service covers the not so fleet of foot.

He recalls of all things he thinks the distinct aroma of food cooked in Ghee rising up from the kitchens in the midday heat from the Mauryan Palace, a neighbouring Indian Restaurant .

At an outdoor coffee shop he waits for him. Torrence an old acquaintance from his high school days. Torrence the inscrutable they used to call him. He had been a good fit he recalls , in the system and out, well liked and polished beyond his years. However, he remembers no one really knew him in the way that people were known in those aimlessly passionate days.

For so many of them the transgressions, the Alcohol and recreational drugs had often served merely as the preamble to the late night confessionals, the claims of unrequited love, old hurts and abuses, dreams of a better future, escape from a bitter past, light and dark all of it allowed and encouraged in an altered state of consciousness. Released from that web of conformity that defined their late adolescence, any thing seemed possible. For a circumscribed or disciplined cadre there was no need for illicit methods, just a mutual gathering and the hush of night would suffice. Almost all of them had formed bonds in this way, bonds that sometimes endured, but were just as often betrayed, A network of secrets and shared trusts that formed an anarchic thread through the order and studied self complacency of their their day to day lives.
In all of this Torrence had been the exception. What about you Torrence he would be asked after one or another tally found its way to him. He would smile and shrug his shoulders," nothing on my mind. I'm Just happy to be here with you wonderful people. " or some such evasive manoeuvre .Torrence deflected the attention in his easy way. The flash of the winning smile. But there where were rumors that circulated about him, rumors that no one would ever confirm.

Lakino knew why. One night he had been there, two men, drunks who had been looking for trouble. The mix: alcohol, testosterone, the night , and it seemed sparks always flew. It was almost a natural law. He, Torrence and two others walk home just a stones throw away from the outskirts of the main drag where the bars are, where trouble always centers. Then, they appear out of an alley and turn toward them and start right away with the challenge.

"Hey You, yeah you. What are you staring at" the hulking dark haired man says.

Lakino looks to cross the street, run if he has to. The others, Jacinto and Robin also contemplate flight. But Torrence out of nowhere says "keep walking I'll take care of this."

They exchange looks and and with nervous steps follow his lead

“ Hey you little fuckers ... what's going on, boys night out. Fellas looking for a good night kiss'
The men ramp up the abuse.

Ten feet away they walk on behind Torrence but slow to a stop when they see the men readying for a fight. Big fully grown men clenching and unclenching their fists. Torrence walks not slowing, oblivious to the rising tension.

Three feet, Torrence explodes into a sprint. He is launching a javelin, throws his fist in a lightning arc that collides with the dark haired man's cheekbone . All three of them hear the sickening sound of bone on bone. The man falls instantly, his head hits concrete and his arms and legs straighten out and quiver. His friend has no time to register the shock before Torrence spins 360 degrees his arm held straight out; his fist and part of this forearm strike the side of the stunned man's head. He staggers. Torrence uses the same hand to grab a fistful of his hair, pulls down on his head throws him off balance and holds him as his other fist follows through with punch after hard punch to his grimacing face. The man's nose showers blood and then he hangs limp, held up only by Torrence's grip on his scalp.Torrence releases him letting fall in a heap to the ground. Both men lye on the street out cold, their faces masked in blood. It is as if they had been pedestrians out on a walk and blindsided by a half ton truck. It has taken all of 20 seconds.

"Jesus Christ Torrence." is all Robin can say, making the representative statement for all three who are unable to utter a word

What has shocked them is the same thing that in all likelihood runs through the minds of those two men when they regain consciousness, if ,that is, they recall anything at all: There had been none of that characteristic pause before men will fight. The punches he had thrown were like they were something he had been saving for years, like an ancient and festering grudge.

Torrence turns to them his arms held wide fists still closed and says "One word of this to anyone and I swear you will end up just like them."

Who was he? It was if they had never known him.

"Hey sure Torrence. It's cool man." Says Robin raising his hands in a supplicants pose, still in shock.
Torrence then starts to a laugh relaxes at once, runs one hand through his hair sweeping it back and says "OK its cool then. Let's go to my place and watch some TV, just chill out."

"Yeah fucking chill out man.. fuck me! " Robin chimes in.

Lakino like the other two had keeps his word but he knows of the rumors about Torrence, and understands the dark humor that ran through any reference to him.


High school has finished and they have graduated and had gone their separate ways. Torrence says he is going away on a year's trip around the world and does not return. Robin and Jacinto like so many of his other friends go on to University. Lakino has done nothing. He has always been a diffident student and has no interest in going on with the exercise. He wanders from one low grade job to another, still living at home. For 6 years this the course of his life. Always filled with big dreams but without any underlying discipline, he always falters.

Then he receives a call. It's Torrence.
Torrence sees right through the false front," between projects, got some things in development, looking into my options" and cut to the chase.
"Listen Lakino, I know the deal. I have business proposition for you. We'll talk later.I'll set up the time and place."

That has brought him to the coffee shop. There, Lakino shows up on the hour. Punctuality is something Lakino is to learn Torrence takes very seriously. He looks like the Torrence he remembers only now dressed on a upscale budget. He wears an Armani suit, the jacket slung casually over one shoulder, thumb draped in the nape. His classic white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, he carries ice cream cone half finished in the other hand. He looks relaxed, causual and formal at once, projecting the air of an upper level suit who on impulsive moment has decided to step away from the Ivory tower.

"Lakino." His face breaks into a broad smile upon seeing him. He throws his jacket on a seat and reachs for his hand" Lakino my friend. It Looks like you've been indulgent."

Lakino registers a slight scowl. He does not like to be reminded about his accumulating girth. Like so many former athletes he has let himself go. All those hours spent making weight for Wresting tournaments, once expressed like a tight coil on his appetites has become loose without competition, the social patina of high school life and the expectations of whatever society he has known. Living his withdrawn aimless life he wears his lack of direction on the surface.
Torrence looks lean fit and more purposeful than he has ever seen him. Lakino felels his sense of adequacy take another drop.
On cue Torrence responds." Lakino, Lakino , he says laughing "Not to worry after we are finished talking today I will make sure you are on the right track. We will have the old Lakino back in no time ."
Lakino feels defenceless and weak and beholden. He presents no challenge. He may have already been in obligation before he even hears the incredible proposition.
It's not told to him there in that coffee shop. Torrence says actions speak louder than words.
( To be continued at a later date) To continue...

Yves Saint Laurent

The curators and and ancillary staff of the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts were unique among those who mourned the recent passing of iconic fashion designer,Yves St Laurent. The death of the fashion great has coincided with a grand 40 year retrospective of his work at the museum this week. What had been intended as a celebration of Laurent's storied career must now stand as an eulogy to a seminal figure in the world of 20th century design.

Born in French Algeria in the town of Oran ( also coincidentally the birth place of ZinedineZidane and Albert Camus) in 1936 into an upper class family he suffered early on from a familiar pattern of abuse from his childhood peers for his unconventional interests. Undeterred and nurtured by his mother, a life long devotee of his work, he would display a precocious talent. His prize winning design of a cocktail dress would bring him to the attention of world renown designer Christian Dior who instantly recognized a rare perspective in the young designer's work and hired him on for his own team. He was quickly to become an important figure Parisian fashion circles. Following the sudden death of Dior in 1959 Laurent's fortunes would not soon after take an unfortunate turn when he was drafted into the army. In an adult reprise of early school days the brutal hazing Laurent suffered would leave him with permanent emotional scars and a life long compensatory battle with drug and alcohol addiction.
Rescued by Pierre Berge who would become at first a romantic interest and business partner later strictly the latter, Laurent would launch his own fashion house in 1962, the YSL house.

For the next 40 years till his retirement in 2002 Laurent would completely alter the Fashion world in a way that it might even be said left other designers since limited to minor variations of the grand movements that he set into motion.
He launched the first ready to wear collection, in effect, infusing a democratic spirit into the world of Haute Couture which had up until then been the exclusive enclave of the high society world. Today the centripetal seeding out of Haute couture design in every day malls folllows in the footsteps of Laurent's initial bold venture.
He took an artist's perspective to the world of clothing design, the first to conceive of fashion shows in terms of themes with colors and design ideas from as varied sources as Picasso and the Mondrian minimalists.
Breaking down the staid walls of Haute Couture, what Bridget Bardot had called old lady clothing he would draw influences from youth culture and in the foment of the 60's it was to be the right choice for the times. He would bring ethnic elements into design previously ignored from his native Algeria and further afield from places like China and Russia

But more than anything else, Laurent has been being recognized for the revolutionary changes he introduced in the design of women's clothing. He had the striking innovation to feminize the lines of the male wardrobe to suit a female silhouette, suit jackets and pants made to challenge the conservative expectations of a female dress code. Women had been wearing pants in Western society since the 20's but in all that time till Laurent came along the idea had been met with resistance in the workplace, only allowed as a recreational indulgence away from the public world. Sensitive to the inequity of this tradition and the changing political climate he proposed that style should mirror these changes once saying "fashion was not only supposed to make women beautiful, but to reassure them, to give them confidence, to allow them to come to terms with themselves."

For all the revolutionary elements in his career he remained true to a classical aesthetic. The essential idea that always drove him was elegance of an invisible kind. For him style was something that did not fade in the way of fashion.His clothes were beautiful, timeless and functional. This was as true for his designs for men and women.


It's partly because of Laurent I've always liked the style of early 60's in that overlap period between 1950's Cold War inhibition and the late 60's bacchanal, the equidistant point of between the polarities of the Apollonian and Dionysian extremes.

There does appear to be a nostalgia for that period. Witness the musical stylings of Welsh newcomer Duffy whose Bridget Bardot looks and soulful timbre set in early 60's retro setting evoke a different time and place.




To continue...

Retour au Tibet

Les Grandes Reportages, a daily Quebec based documentary news show last night featured a program entitled Retour au Tibet.

It was a remarkable story. An ex-pat journalist smuggles a film camera and captures rare footage of the tense state of affairs following the recent military crack down in Tibet, complete with interviews with Tibetans whom, apart from one exception, all choose to speak with their identities concealed.

It's a tale of systematic repression. In the regions outlying the capital, Lhasa, where many Tibetans have always lived a nomadic lifestyle, the communist government has forcibly moved them into constructed towns. They appear in the report like prisons with no schools or health care centers. Unemployed, living in stark poverty, cut off from the land ( it's one of the repeated complaints heard from the inhabitants- " we have no land") many Tibetans have turned to alcohol. The situation finds parallels with the marginalized state of Aboriginal populations in Canada, the US and Australia.

In another part of the story he speaks to a woman who has undergone a forced sterilization. She claims that it has happened to many others and that the practice is pushed by authorities, initially with offers of money and then later if that fails as a direct ultimatum with no option to refuse. This may be another unspoken directive of the state to ensure the plan to change the demographic make up of the country, a family at a time. She suggests that it has happened to thousands of Tibetan women. Her description of the procedure has a brutal aspect, one where none of the normal protocols of medical care appear to have been observed, no anaesthesia, no medications and no follow-up care. " They did not even give me aspirin for the pain" she says. She complains that she was in good health before but now suffers from chronic bouts of abdominal pain.

In the capital the police are constant presence. The ratio is one policeman to every 20 Tibetans, many multiples higher than in any other part of China. The film shows images of baton wielding policemen chasing down and beating unarmed monks at the time of the uprising- startling violence that looks as if is carried out with vengeance. The fear of that violence keeps everyone in check.Only one man is willing to talk without covering his face. He describes how he spent " the best years of his life from 23 to 37 in prison" but then adds that he will continue to express his views openly. Another man who does not feel so brave says that "I am no longer the man I used to be because of the torture". Beating with batons, electrocution, and solitary confinement in the dark are the commonly described methods.

Tibetans seem pushed aside always afraid of the police presence that is a constant intrusion in their lives. The images from the riots, the shattered upscale store front windows of the Han in migrants highlight as much as anything the socioeconomic divide that separates the newcomers from the endemic poverty of the Tibetans. In this way the violent reactions against the Han and their businesses seem to have a desperate quality to them as if the Tibetans were Brazilian street children wreaking havoc in the upscale plazas of Rio De Janeiro out of some dormant rage that has built up and then spilled over with nowhere else to go.

There are larger historical reasons that everyone mentions for China's tenuous claim on Tibet. China's leaders recall with remembered hostility the humiliations of the colonial age and this has always been the particular tenor of the Communist movement there, not so much class based as a reaction to foreign conquest. However,there are other reasons, more immediate ones. The Tibetan Plateau is the at the source of eight great rivers the Yangtze, the Yellow , the Indus , the Mekong, the Brahmaputra the Ganges, the Salween and the Yarlung Tsangpo . Water is a vital resource for an arid Chinese landscape. What lies below ground is equally valued.Tibet holds what has been estimated at 4 trillion dollars in oil and mineral reserves. Considering this wealth and China's appetites no-one should expect it's government will acquiesce to any demands for Tibetan independence.

It does not appear completely hopeless for the Tibetans though it is certainly very bleak right now. The policies of the state cannot not be said to be representative of the people there any more than the natural generosity of Americans can be said to be reflected in the misguided policies of their current administration. The recent nation wide outpouring of support for the victims of the earthquakes that hit central China and have claimed so far over 65, 000 causalities has been met with some surprise in the Western media. This oversight of a civilization that has been been built on a Confucian ethical framework for over two and a half thousand years is only an example of a cultural myopia that has no doubt rankled the country's leaders in the past. This has underscored their defiance in the face of any intrusion in their domestic affairs, a desire for acknowledgement on their own terms.

The remembered grievances have played some role in the nation's antipathy toward the Western protests against the Olympic games and ultimately toward the Tibetans. But there is also a reactionary quality to the sentiment, true of both sides of the conflict. The controlled Chinese media has framed the story strictly in terms of the violence against the Han. Many reports in the West have reported the story strictly in terms of a struggle for freedom by the Tibetans. Both sides have succeeded in polarizing their audiences. While the protests against the games have been useful in forcing China to recognize to some degree the authority of the Dalai Lama there has also been something sanctimonious about them. Western nations have many skeletons in their closets, some hidden in plain sight such as the deplorable treatment of their aboriginal populations. This is not to say the protests should not go on, or that the exposes of the real story in Tibet not be sought but there does need to be a way to win over the real agents of change, the Chinese people as a whole.

Those improvements that have occurred in the conditions of aboriginal peoples in the West have occurred in the context of a public understanding and appreciation of old wrongs. They have occurred in the context of a civil society with an open press. The hope for an improvement in the Tibetans situation lies in the free dissemination of information. That's not possible yet but if it were to take place there is cause for optimism. The events in the aftermath of recent natural disasters have shown at least that the Chinese people are not any less stricken by conscience than those in the West. To continue...

The Cynic and the Dreamer

The Judicial debacle that handed G W his first term had only just gone down. 9/11 was months away. I was in Chandigarh, Le Corbusier's monstrous concrete footprint situated in some suburban comfort, lying in a large comfortable bed reading an article by a writer who completely captivated me. Far removed from the story's frame of reference, a December chill descended on Northern India, temperatures that fell below the register that had made November an eager anticipation, now another trial before the sweltering heat returned, it was here that I read Charles P Pierce's take on John McCain.

It was a dated story, had been build-up piece before the contested Republican primary where the Bush campaign machine would thoroughly savage the former war hero. Without any deep understanding of the nuances of the American electoral process I found myself entranced by the writer. I read for the style and mood and delivery, all of it exquisite. Distractions would then close up any further acquaintance with Pierce for years.

It's May 2008 the Bush presidency now in its dying embers is acknowledged as a spectacular failure, a cluster fuck of mind blowing proportions. The country is mired in a a financially ruinous foreign occupation, the economy sliding toward a slow grinding halt and the wish for change is so palpable that all it appears to need is a single catalyst to start the reaction, someone who might lift them , the betrayed masses out of the shadows, return them again to the welcoming light, the far sighted promise of the founders. But who among them will believe this man if he appears,and why should they, it's all been lies , broken promises and double-talk for so long.

I have found Charles P Pierce again and he casts his wise, talented and yes, cynical eye on the one who brings the promise and with it the prescient question, will he deliver the change?
It's a fine profile on the probable Democratic Presidential nominee, one that expresses the context of all the compromises and false steps that have paved the way for these desperate times and it's done in his inimitable style. To continue...

Les Femmes Fatales

The latest word is that Obama has the nomination in hand. He's taken the lead in super delegates and with Clinton having already invested $ 6 million dollars of her own personal fortune just to keep her campaign solvent the reality, well, it may be now setting in: that it's over. Obama believes it. He already looks ahead in his speeches focusing on MCain. Soon the next cycle begins.

The whole world is overdosed on the extended electoral battle. Even up here in Canada it's at times a bit much. After all, we have scandal right here. Our own foreign minister Maxine Bernier in the news last for making an Emperor has no clothes accusation of corruption in the Afghan government has now been returned to the spotlight for his continuing liaison with former biker gang siren Julie Couillard.

Pictures of the couple when they first appeared in the press prompted that "wow, who is that with him" reactions from the press corps and public alike. She is in fact the ex-wife of a successful drug dealer in a Quebec biker gang organisation, a man who was said to have given up a life of crime for her sake. After his untimely assassination she was linked with another figure higher up in rungs of the crime syndicate, another man who seemed to fall under her spell. A swirl of unsubstantiated rumors surround her- she's worked for justice, had a contract placed on her life. Of late, she has been a real estate agent in Montreal and the erstwhile paramour of monsieur Bernier. Her dark associations and the possible taint of corruption it leaves on Bernier in his role as a public servant has the political opposition in a furore. Bernier has claimed to have severed his ties with her but still continues to be seen on number of occasions at her side. There is no evidence of wrong doing but it has the old sheen of Mata Hari and john Profumo. There are some who will blame it on the lapsed French side of the Canadian Family.

In another story is Doug Saunders' take on French President Nicolas Sarkozy over the course of an eventful year. Seen through the eyes of women in his life Sarkozy cuts a more sympathetic figure than recent media depictions. Prior to the elections he rode the heels of a successful brand, of the outsider whose immigrant background, Jewish grand parentage, instilled in him the energy and sense of industry to break into the still protected core of French society. He then rode that drive and energy in a new collective desire for change in much the same way Obama has captured a similar zeitgeist in his campaign.

Those popular sentiments have become a distant memory. Now with his private life always in the news, a divorce from his previous wife, the cool intellectual beauty Cecilia Ciganer and the public recoil at the vulgarity of his quick engagement and marriage to ex-model Carla Bruni he has become an almost universal object of parody in the French media. Saunder's points to the image of Sarkozy as a variation of Berlusconi , the right wing playboy given to gaudy displays of his power. Yet, despite the misjudgements in taste, (Elvis and Celine Dion ) he comes across as something of a romantic in this profile, in many ways guided by the women in his life. His appointment of Rama Yade as his minister of Human Rights, young, of Senegalese origin, incidentally beautiful and decidedly left wing , and madame Christine Lagarde, France's first female finance minister who looks to take the country on a more pro- laissez faire path points to the level of faith he still places in change, at least in whom he feels will make that change.

I'm in agreement with many of the French who are not comfortable with the direction he is taking the country but he has also spoken of placing a French stamp on the free market model, one with a more humane face. This is a possible tipping point and in some ways there does look to be some promise. As Saunders describes, Carla Bruni has started to refine his maudlin pop tastes , for the better.

Which brings us back to the oppressive toll of the Primary that will morph in the coming months to a Presidential background. Here's a good politically incorrect break. Matt Tabbi writes in Rolling Stone on the campaign in the kick to the groin way. Here's his take on Hilary as Nixon. His blog is here To continue...

The Green Light

"Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them, makes them soft where we are hard, and cynical where we are trustful."
~F. Scott Fitzgerald "The Rich Boy" (1926)




If there are any among you who have not read the Great Gatsby, F.Scott Fitzgerald's Jazz age novel then you must. It's not a pedantic request like say, the recommendation that you read Ulysses or Crime and Punishment because it's the sacrifice that must be made to culture. It's rather an invitation to experience art in the way it was always intended, to open horizons, to appreciate beauty but more than anything else to simply entertain. Shakespeare were he alive today would have been a popular writer, I'm sure of it.


Step away for a moment to an imaginary barroom where all of the world's writers are gathered. In walks Shakespeare and the attendant quiet hush. As he walks and surveys the field, he nods toward all the greats, Greene and Huxley together looking a little high, Dostoevsky engrossed in a card game that looks as if it will spill over into argument , Marquez and Llosa trying their best to be civil to one another- and not succeeding, Shaw and Wilde and Rushdie taking turns telling stories to a receptive crowd, Naipaul on the very edge of the gathering trying to fit in while checking to see if his glass is clean. He acknowledges them all ,even puts his hand on Auden's shoulder and tells him all is not lost with a look toward Cohen and Neruda. As he continues his walk to the other side of the room he notices the air's become more relaxed, he makes his way past Kunzru and Camus both urbane and cool , and takes an appreciative glance toward Martin Cruz Smith, a smile and a nod to Ian Rankin, a thumbs up to Stephen King. Then, on seeing him walking back and forth looking unsure of himself to F.Scott Fitzgerald he reserves a wary expression, an appraising look at the one who showed evidence of being his equal, on the strength of one book that crossed the line between culture and entertainment- perfectly.



The Great Gatsby was Fitzgerald at the height of his powers. The prose at once effortless and beautiful. A story that starts on perfect ironic note and builds movement by movement. A cipher for a doomed Flapper romance that falls away with further scrutiny to offer a fleeting glimpse of an elusive and at times blinding phenomenon.The American dream caught for a moment at an angle neither glorified nor caricatured , a still of a fluid abstraction made real for an inkling, something offered shimmering and alive, the surface of a lake at dusk, filled with possibility and still in the receding light forlorn in some inexpressible way- that faint hope that fades to a line as the night falls in on the horizon.


Like someone who has looked at the sun and and tried to steal away the memory, Fitzgerald would not see in the same way again. He died still young from complications of alcoholism. In his decline he would complain his certainty of purpose was no longer there and when he was unable to tap into that evanescent spirit, the perspective and the literary gift went with it. But he has left us a body of work that includes, The Great Gatsby.
It was something more than greed for which drove Gatsby and it's the source of his appeal. He expresses another side to the dream of endless wealth and prosperity.
Thoughts of Gatsby came to me when I read this interview with Shoba De. For all the gorgeous patina and the distinct aura of a sober Patsy Stone ( high society Indian women tend to have more than a trace of Ab Fab to me) she shows herself an insightful commentator on the new rich in India in an interview in Tehelka.

;"But to answer your question, except for politically correct forums, in all these years, I have never heard the uber-rich discuss the have-nots. They are just not interested! They are in denial. It’s not a part of their scripted dream, so why must they have to deal with it? Their conversation is always about making more money and enhancing lifestyle. Clothes, exotic villas, cars, bags, price of diamonds, gizmos. The women’s distress scale is measured by whether they have bought the correct bag or not (the price of just one of these bags could feed ten poor families for a year.) But there is a reason for this. The super-rich in India today are mostly first-generation rich, so their attitude to money is very different. They haven’t quite grown into a full sense of security about it, they are almost overwhelmed by their own capacity to spend.

The lack of precedent and the vulnerability that comes with it is visible in its raw form. It's something not seen, as she says, in the contained knowledge of the old money in the West. In many ways what she says is disturbing, how the abundance is disconnected from the ever present poverty. It's such a new thing though that it hardly seems consolidated. It's a starting realisation that there continue to be cycles at play. In the same place where Sanyassis have been rejecting the worldly path since before the West recorded its history and in the same place where the Buddha would discard a princely life to endure a lifetime of suffering and contemplation there is another cycle at play, an Occidental one of booms and busts. The deficit for much of its modern history is the source of the new hunger. Having been hungry for so long the new wealth India wants its seat at the banquet table. This appears a new generation who have inherited Gatsby's quest for the Green Light.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning—— So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.


F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby

To continue...

Iron Man

As someone who's been an avid comic book reader from an early age, the rising tally of comic book heroes brought to life on the screen in the last decade have been something of a letdown. It's surprising in retrospect because had someone promised me Spider man, Daredevil, the Hulk, ( to name just three and with concessions to DC in Batman and Superman, already a Marvel snob then) in their film versions fully realized when I was a kid I would have gone manic - no exaggeration.

I can recall the wistful dreams, thoughts of seeing my superhero idols in other forms of media. It's the same way I used to imagine seeing C.S Lewis' Narnia chronicles. If only, Peter Parker or Edmund and Lucy were there on TV or film life would just be perfect. If only. Life was clearly simpler then. Now they're all there polished to a shine with computer graphic animation and I roll with them, but have not been able to buy into the hype. Much as they've tried they've all been too caught up in the myth, slow and self conscious with the delivery. It's as if they ( the film makers) were too aware and weighed down by the lofty expectations of generations of kids weaned on the various tales, not to loosen up and tell the story, have some fun. The comics are still better than the film versions even though my tastes have now changed, and I am not strictly just into comics anymore. They're more risque, with shades of adult meaning that the film versions have excised whether out of some misplaced sense of puritanical overlay or just as disappointing a censorious perspective, a deliberate sparing of young minds. From what? Life? There's no fun without edge. Everyone knows that.

The writing has not been of the quality of the enormous special effects budgets. Far from it. Stories have been telegraphed, often amazingly narrated in ponderous fashion. Recall the line from Spiderman "with great power comes great responsibility" and you might have felt the urge that I did to tell him to go fuck off. Amazingly I heard Amir Khan - Yes, the great one himself- use the line. It's sad when bad writing finds itself re-used in second hand form and even then by the best of us.

Whether the sad state of comic celluloid transformation has been fueled by a trinity of factors, a stifling reverence for the subject matter, an artistic affect grounded in the desire to beat out a mythic drum like Ang Lee's Hulk or just cookie cutter cuteness in say the Fantastic Four, its all led to the same conclusion, forgettable films and considering the lavish budgets a willful disappointment.

Don't lose hope though because Iron Man is here to lift the whole genre out of its long standing funk. This is the comic book brought to life on the big screen- finally.

It may be noteworthy to consider that there has never been a cast assembled for a comic book film equal to the talents on display here. Robert Downey Jr, who is pitch perfect throughout, Gwynneth Paltrow, Jeff Bridges, Terrence Howard in the main roles. Downey Jr is the heart of this film. He's given a great script but he enlivens every line with his own, shall we say, wordly perspective. You know he's lived every wicked line out in his own way at some time or other, and he does it without that tendency to self parody that tends to undo Jack in his similar turns of character. It's a center of gravity that allows everyone room to work. With Paltrow who plays a Julie Andrews stock character (Maria Von Trapp, Mary Poppins, Truly Scrumptious minus the three octave vocal range) with creditable elan. It's hard in these days of arch self conscious irony to play dutiful and sincere and sound like you mean it especially if it means playing second fiddle to a talented Peter Pan. Also credit Downey Jr and Howard for a dynamic in their friendship that is real and not just the standby pairing, well intentioned liberal values trying way too hard. They're finally getting it right.



The story is one of the lesser lights of the Marvel Pantheon. Iron man never seized my imagination in the way that some of the other heroes did with their familiar imbalance of super powers and larger than life vulnerabilities. Perhaps I was starting to become too aware of those formulaic elements even back then but he seemed in some way manufactured.

In this film he has a stamp of authenticity that many superheroes now appear to lack. Radioactive spider bites would unfortunately add to a probable risk of cancer as would exposures to massive doses of gamma rays or for that matter any of the other similar radiation themed mis-encounters that have thrust great powers on comic book super heroes. Sad but true. Machine exoskeletons and enhanced robotics on the other hand do allow men powers much greater than their own. This is already a reality on the battle field though to nowhere the extent that is displayed here. Technology's forward advance is relentless so what is science fiction right now is well within the realms of possibility in the future. Iron men will exist at some point barring any cataclysmic disasters.

The mythic Iron man is all on display, the man who is all mind no heart finally gains one when his own is under physical threat. The writing is excellent here serving as a reminder that there should be no one paid more on any film production than the writers. The elements of story are shown not narrated, the dialogue not stilted, situational, so with none of the ennui that falls in with a lapse into narration ( the Lord of the Rings trilogy, so bad it was almost cruel, a betrayal of the books).

In a political sense the film offered a microcosm of an impossibly large thing, the military Industrial complex and its inexorable demands on National budgets. The nameless giant cogwheel of the modern world economy is brought down to size, into one company, one arch villain but even with the oversimplification it at least offers a tangential understanding of the real thing. Companies that are beholden to shareholders, economic needs tied up with genuine national security interests in a real politic world of shifting alliances and regional power struggles, competing interests and visions. At least the bogeyman third world terrorists are not solitary parties in a terror obsessed world. It gives a more Olympian view of the whole messy overlapping process even for a comic book film and provides some perspective to the heroes re-awakening.



The technical aspects of the film were a source of intrigue. Voice activated intelligent software that enables a collection of robotic arms to assemble prefabricated parts on demand. Three dimensional virtual blueprint designs that can worn for fit before the assembly is undertaken. Arc reaction contained and infinite supplies of energy. All this and more. Music to the ears.

It's right that's it's taken an Iron Man to lift us to this the first new stage of comic to celluloid transformation. The Iron age is suitably the first to lift us out of the Neolithic times we have up to now endured. To continue...