I mention Uma Thurman's breasts way way way at the end of this post.

I've gotten totally lax in my discipline regarding keeping up with my film-viewing-and-then-blogging project. I know I really only write about movies because they're a readily accessible art form that tends to reflect other issues going on out there in the world. In effect, I only ever wanted to write about the world-- but movies are a good spot from which I can begin my descent. However, when life-related activities of a non-aesthetic nature begin to occlude my engagement with films, I tend to write round-up posts. But I've been seeing such juicy pictures lately that I think I'm gonna opt for a quick succession of short-ish posts instead... because a couple of lazy-ass readers (you know who you are) have mentioned to me that they don't want to read to the end when I write really long stuff (hence my alluring title above). Sound Bite Nation, I'll tell you what!

But anyway, here we go:

The Namesake

I actually saw this movie with Jon when I was home in Nashville for the Film Festival. It seems that neither of us could get quite enough movies, even though that's just about the only thing either of us did for the entire 9 days I was there! But a couple weeks before I saw the movie, I got into a blog-debate with my illustrious friend Jai over on his blog, in which I was primarily talking out of my ass... because I have neither read Jhumpa Lahiri's novel, nor had I seen the film at that point. I had, however, read Lahiri's Pulitzer Prize-winning collection of short stories, The Interpreter of Maladies, and deemed it highly overrated--I was both bored and felt a little too keenly that I, liberal white reader of multi-culti writers that I am, was more the target audience of the book than I should have been. I mean, I had a creepy sensation, as I plugged through those stores, that I was being fed a prettily-packaged idea of the "Indian-American Experience" so that I might find a "deeper understanding" of a minority group of which I was not a member. In the end, I don't particularly enjoy being pandered to when I'm in audience of something of which I am, by default, not a part. I WANT to feel alienated by a depiction of a life I could never fully understand, but Lahiri's work makes me feel coddled and congratulated for my supposedly enlightened, bleeding-heart seeking-out of culturally diverse writings. Spare me. She'd have done better by me to flagellate me for my ethnic blind spots-- of which I still have many. At least that way, I'd have been made more keenly aware of those blind spots so that I could DO something about them, right?

Also, one of the girls with whom I work is in the process of writing her dissertation on writers of Southeast Asian descent and I'll admit, she'd colored my feelings about the novel, The Namesake and, by extension, the film. This particular colleague HATES this book... but feels slightly warmer towards the movie. So, I went to the theatre a little skeptical. My colleague's reasoning for liking the movie better than the book is that the book spends too much time on the life of Gogol, our faithful protagonist, while the real heart of the story resides in the romance of his parents.

And to the movie's credit, the movie is much more a sweet and sumptuous love story than it is the story of an Indian-American misfit trying to negotiate his "other-ness." Which isn't to say that it doesn't dive into its fair share of bemoaning the ways in which poor Gogol perceives himself as "among the downtrodden" because his primary concern in life is deciding when to be Indian and when to be American. I did not feel as though I was watching a film about an interesting person. I was watching a film about an ethnic person... about whom there was very little interesting BESIDES his ethnicity. In other words, it's difficult to engage with a narrative about a person who lacks character traits beyond what makes him part of some marginalized group.

For another example, I once met a girl who introduced herself to me and then immediately informed me that she was bisexual, Japanese-American and her father had abused her when she was a kid. Clearly, these three things were the things that she thought made her interesting. The only thing that really made me engage with her, at that point, was that I started wondering about what motivates a person announce the ways in which she labels herself so early in an acquaintance in lieu of presenting a more free-formed, albeit messier, public persona-- one in which someone might discover deeper layers than that she was 1. a Bisexual, 2. a Japanese-American and 3. an Abuse Victim. I never really got to know this girl well enough to uncover her nuances... partly because I think she'd already told me all I wanted to know (or at least all she wanted me to know about her)... but also because I found her labelling system rather impenetrable. And that's kinda how I feel about Lahiri's Gogol. He behaves in ways that I understand only because all his motivations stem from his cultural heritage--either to sync up with it or to rebel against it-- and he really doesn't exceed those expectations so as to become a real person. And there's another character-- his white girlfriend-- who sort of mirrors his behavior in this way. She is hopelessly oblivious to his need to participate in his family's traditions in a way that belies her white privilege... and thusly, she becomes the very paragon of white privilege and therefore, must be dumped! She has no personality beyond her whiteness in the same way he has none beyond his brownness. Tell me again why I'm supposed to care about these folks?

I should mention that the actor who plays Gogol is Kal Penn, of Harold and Kumar go to White Castle fame. The same aforementioned colleague and I have had a discussion about why we both like this silly stoner flick (for me, this is somewhat momentous because I so rarely find comedies to be actually funny)-- and my colleague claims it's because it's a dumb mainstream-movie type of plot, in which the two main characters are a Korean-American and an Indian-American, but their racial identities bear virtually no relevance to the plot whatsoever. They're simply a couple of polluted kids who get their car stolen by Doogie Howser and make love to giant bags of weed. This isn't to say that they don't make a few jokes about racial stereotypes along the way, but overall, racial identity isn't the SUBJECT of this movie about a some non-white people. Yes, Jon, I'm finally owning up to the fact that I am quite the Harold-and-Kumar fan. The spoils of war resulting from your subtle-yet-perpetual attack on my film-snobbery go to you, my friend-- this round, anyway.

Now, the overall presentation of the film was a little disappointing, considering what I've come to expect from Mira Nair, the director. Mississippi Masala is a totally gorgeous film--Sarita Choudhury has never been sexier... and Nair really knows how to make a girl look hot in a mundane setting. And speaking of hot, Kama Sutra, anyone? OK, so, this film is a little short on plot... but you really can't do better in terms of arty soft-porn unless you go watch Dangerous Liaisons for the billionth time (Need I remind anyone of Uma Thurman's 18-year-old breasts (there!)?). But The Namesake is just the most straightforward of narratives that I've seen in a while. It's still pretty and we do have several distinctly sensory scenes full of sari silks but that, for me, wasn't enough to keep maintain engagement throughout. I suppose there are certain trademark styles I come to expect from certain directors and I feel kinda let-down when they underplay those trademarks. I mean, Julie Taymor's Frida totally sucked because it was all Salma Hayek and very little Taymor and even less Frida Kahlo. I like Kahlo and LOVE Taymor for their respective freakishnesses-- and that movie had very little of either. And I discussed a similar situation in my post about Fur, Steven Shainberg's movie about Diane Arbus. This guy freakin' directed Secretary and then you give him a total weirdo like Arbus for subject matter and all you get is a Nicole Kidman vehicle? Come. On! So, basically, I wanted something luscious and confectionary from Nair in The Namesake and I got something more understated and sincere. That's not bad, I guess, but I left the theatre with a still-achy sweet-tooth.

They should really put cupcake kiosks in movie theatres. I'd rather eat those than that disgusting butter-esque oil they put on the super-salty popcorn any day. GodDAMNit, why am I so obsessed with cupcakes???