"Never Judge A Book By Its Movie"

So said JW Eagan, quoted on one of my bookmarks from Crossword, and I agree wholeheartedly with it. A stack of DVDs isn’t on my “three things you’d take with you to a deserted island” list- I like cinema only in moderation, because it somehow seems to drain my reserves of patience (and I take the blame). But there is hardly anything as off-putting as a horrendous movie made out of a perfectly good book.

It is almost criminal to watch the movie adaptation of a book before having read the book itself. Reading is an impetus to the imagination, and it is the prose that is supposed to create the first impressions in your head-this is also the measure of how successful an author has been in impacting your thoughts. Succumb to all the hype of a movie before you’ve read the book it has been adapted from, you’ve almost surely lost the excitement of the richness of language and characterisation which drew such overwhelming images in a person’s mind that, incapable of suppression and containment, they spilled onto the screen. I floundered through the movie adaptations of Wuthering Heights, Mansfield Park and Rob Roy- finishing none of them- but ravenously devoured the books.

That said, there have been a few adaptations that have made a successful transition to the screen from paper. The eternal tearjerker Little Women was almost- certainly not entirely- loyal to Louisa May Alcott’s novel, but I’m thankful I read the book first; I wouldn’t have wanted Winona Ryder’s (then) rosy face interfering with my own picture of Jo. Into The Wild was just as good in its sincerity, but I’m glad the first images of the forests, the wildernesses and the people Chris McCandless met were in my head- even though it was a real-life story. Middle Earth wouldn’t have been as mysterious and darkly beautiful if I’d seen the Lord of the Rings movies shot in the more homely locales of New Zealand first.

The movies the actors choose to do later, and their real-life adventures splashed across newspapers also ruin it for me. I really don’t like to believe that the protagonist in the Twilight series (need I explain further?) was the thoughtful young woman who McCandless almost fell in love with. Ryder, troubled and accused of shoplifting, couldn’t have been the merry, still-tomboyish Mrs. Bhaer, could she?

Then there is the publicity. I would have enjoyed Ice Candy Man more if Deepa Mehta’s characters- omnipresent on television when 1947 Earth was released, thanks to relentless promotion- hadn’t superimposed themselves on the faces I was gradually painting in my head. My copy of Vanity Fair has a photograph of Reese Witherspoon and her corseted cleavage on it. Is she to form my idea of a character as vivacious and interesting as Becky? I think not, for I certainly trust Mr. Thackeray‘s capabilities better- I’ve covered the book in paper and shut out the names of the cast, the director and the costume designer. If the wise mothers and chaperones talk of sprigged muslin, I’ll figure out for myself what it is, thank you very much.

The day I decide to turn the awe-inspiring Mexican story The Power and The Glory into a movie, I’ll let you know. But you’ll be allowed to watch it only if you’ve already done Graham Greene the courtesy of reading the book. For in this case, it is extremely evident which one came first.

Picture This

If I've been to two movies in two successive days, something is definitely wrong with the Universe. It also probably means total abstention from cinema for a minimum of six months. Spoilers aplenty ahead, so discretion is recommended.

My last movie at a theatre, before these mishaps occurred, was 500 Days of Summer during my last week in Singapore. How breezy and delightful it was! Sanity ruled then.

I saw Karthik Calling Karthik yesterday with friends. Utter joblessness and boredom were the reasons that drove me to it; everytime Deepika was on screen, I felt like I was watching an advertisement. Farhan, well, I didn't find him remarkable, and schizophrenia came as a dampening conclusion to what I was expecting to be a thriller- I wouldn't even have minded a supernatural story. The messages Farhan left himself seemed too contrived to have been recorded in hazy moments when the subconscious took control.

This afternoon came the turn of Ye Maaya Chesave (What spell have you cast on me- roughly translated), the Telugu version of the much-talked about movie Vinnai Thandi Varuvaaya (Will you cross the sky to come to me, more rougly translated). It started out as a grave, honest attempt to portray the regular religious tangles of young lovers' parents (because, of course, the kids are head over heels in love and don't mind anything at all), finally degenerating into a total farce. If the lovers did have to elope at the end of three years, they might as well have done it in the beginning and saved us all the trouble. The 'hero' resembles an infatuated little puppy, swearing to wait eternally for his mistress- sorry, Lady Love- the expression of a village idiot perpetually affixed on his face. The girl is pretty, bats her eyelids, frowns when she is angry, dresses well, goes to work, but can hardly ever make an important decision- which, to me, negates all the other advantages put together. The defining moment of the movie (sorry, couldn't find a less grandiose term) arrives when he asks her to marry him, because a few years on, she might say that the right moment passed them by and he didn't act, like she did a few years earlier. He describes how this beautiful girl who doesn't wear make-up (yeah, right- tell that to someone who actually doesn't wear make-up) rules his heart. Sigh. Lovesick people of this sort make you revel in your state of single blessedness. The only engrossing parts were the ones containing the rapid Malayalam conversations- I couldn't read the Telugu subtitles fast enough- so it was left to my Tamizh skills to try and decipher the wrathful discussions. I am glad quite a bit of the movie was shot in Kerala. Alleppey is enchanting, and I have found yet another place to add to my bucket list (when I do begin creating one).

The ordeal dispensed with, we wandered around Big Bazaar, and for once, I found something sensible there- 70% off on certain books. There weren't too many interesting titles on display, but we did find a couple of now out-of-print copies of Richmal Compton's William books. There were a number of copies of (by admission) an unauthorised biography of Hugh Grant- apparently, they haven't found any buyers. I picked up Alexander McCall Smith's The Kalahari Typing School for Men; Ice-Candy-Man by Bapsi Sidhwa (my first Pakistani writer); Thomas Hardy's Life's Little Ironies; Once Upon A Tender Time by Carl Muller (my first Sri Lankan author). A motley little collection, don't you think? All for the princely sum of Rs. 250. What a fruitful afternoon.

PS: This is my first ever post with the tag 'Cinema'.