Equatorial Pop

Enjoying Fun

2011-03-19T20:50:00.000-07:00

Voluntary Smiles

Last night I had the good fortune to attend the wedding party of two friends. It was a modest, yet elegant affair, with choice Manadonese cuisine, and ad lib beer and wine. The groom was a little worried about the quality of the wine, but the fact that I drank it ad lib the entire evening could perhaps be taken as an indicator of potability. Albeit, perhaps not a decisive one. The groom had also taken it upon himself to construct his own mix of songs for the proceedings, and the slightly retro, but largely happy, popular music suited the intimacy of the proceedings well. The music was loud enough to be enjoyed, but not so loud that you couldn't easily enjoy conversation at a normal volume. The bride and groom mingled freely with the guests, who evidently were closely acquainted with at least one of the newly weds. In fact, looking around me, none of the guests were obviously bored or irritated. The couple already being amongst the happiest and most well matched one is likely to encounter, now have the added benefit of having been married under the most agreeable of circumstances, having provided their close friends and relations with a night to remember.

Reviewing a wedding may seem odd, but to be fair, and to sum up the long-held observations of visitors to this country, most Indonesian weddings are the antithesis of fun.

I've been to a significant number of such ceremonies, although when I do get an invitation, while I have nothing but warm feelings for people I know, getting ready to embark on the next phase of their lives, I don't get out my calendar and reserve the date in question and don't often feel guilty if I ultimately don't attend. One aspect of most local weddings I've been to, is that the guest lists are so extensive, and the bride and groom in such a state of mental anguish, that it seems unlikely the presence of members of the outer limits of their spheres of influence register whatsoever. The reasoning behind inviting enough people to populate a Scottish village to a reception strikes me as being two-fold. Firstly to ensure pomp and grandeur, and secondly to pay for the damned thing. As it is a local tradition (I've been told a fairly recent one) for guests not to bring presents to a wedding, but rather an envelope containing a donation. In fact, it is common for personal gifts to be rejected in favour of monetary ones, in writing, on the invitations.

On the face of things, it wouldn't seem unusual to assume that any real festivity is denied thanks to the complete absence of alcohol when getting married in the archipelago. I once put this gaping error to a good humoured Manadonese gentleman, at least fifteen years my senior, gearing up for his second holy union. His unabashed reply was to say, 'yes, but we have macaroni schotel!'. It hardly struck me as a suitable substitute.

But, to paraphrase that popular old adage - you probably don't need drugs to have a good time. My experiences of conventional local wedding receptions have been as follows:

1. Arrive and seek out the bride and bridegroom, they will inevitably be affixed to two thrones at the centre of the room, with smiles affixed to their faces. A queue of well wishers has usually already formed, which must be joined.

2. After a cursory, congratulatory, handshake is undertaken with the newly married couple and their respective parents, the next course of action is to help yourself to food. To complete these first two steps in reverse order should trigger deeply felt, personal, shame.

3. After procuring (and I don't use that word for show) food and eating it, there might be some dessert available, but depending on how promptly you have arrived, you may have to move fast to partake of this.

4. Then you might engage in some very light banter with any other guests you know. Finding such people can be tricky.

5. I think after you've taken care of the handshaking part, you're really free to go. Not entirely courteous, but again, it's not entirely likely that anyone will notice.

6. You could choose to stay for photographs with the bride and groom. These can be quite nice mementos, especially given how easy photo sharing is nowadays, although they are invariably photos which are the opposite of candid.

7. I've noticed cake cutting some of the time, but being no stranger to deeply felt shame, I rarely stay long enough for that part.

I'd like to comment on music, but I fear that might get a bit too insulting. Suffice to say, it's rarely music that could possibly comply with the tastes of the bride and groom, nor anybody I know well.

One of my personal, favourite, truisms to impart during discussions about the moribundity of Indonesian weddings, is that the funerals I've been to have been a lot more fun. Not because they've been routinely blessed with the refreshments of an Irish wake, but rather because people are generally more relaxed, loquacious and showing signs of actually enjoying one another's company. One mighty source of mirth at a funeral I attended was the casket getting dropped as it was being moved out of the living room. No corpse slid out, but I did get the feeling that such an eventuality wouldn't have detracted from the lightness in the air. I suppose the laughter is a mechanism to deal with grief, but why can't it be applied more to what is meant to be one of the happiest days in the lives of two young people?

Coincidentally, I was speaking to a female friend yesterday. While we've known each other for a very long time, geographical constraints and the busyness of our lives had disallowed us from keeping fully abreast of the other's developments. Recently we've talked a lot, and the odd life anecdote brought forth to the table provides moment for pause. Knowing her now, married to a man who appears to have been a fine catch, with three children, I had taken it for granted that her own marriage had gone forward without easily avoidable hindrance, according to local custom. Yet it turned out that in a spate of the kind of small-mindedness which I am growing increasingly accustomed to, her fiancee had not been accepted by most of her family. As she put it to me, she was sure that this was the man for her, and they went ahead and got married regardless. Consequently, only seven guests were present to witness their nuptials. Her husband has since proved himself to be an able breadwinner, and otherwise reliable family man. Given the irrefutably of his distinguishing qualities, with the passage of time, my friend's extended family welcomed him to the fold. However, there appears to be a high probability that the nine people celebrating that life-defining occasion, with reportedly austere surroundings, will have a memory to share with one another not to be found on an assembly line of perfunctory handshakes.

Inner Freedoms

2011-02-16T19:10:00.000-08:00

"I beseech you, in the bowels of Christ, think it possible you may be mistaken." - Oliver Cromwell (writing to the Scottish church)

After governments in North Africa ignited a white hot rage in their citizens, the fury appears to be spreading to similarly mismanaged states, with Bahrain and Iran making headlines as I ate my cereal with banana at 5.00 this morning. Ever since Tunisia rocked the world, 1998 and Indonesia's own era of reformasi has been prominent in my thoughts as well as how, despite many success stories, the nation has progressed very little on a number of fronts.

While the Arab world takes centre stage, Indonesia has been making headlines for quite a different reason. The lynchings of members of the Muslim Ahmadyiah sect, justified by the sect's deviations from mainstream Islam, have been deemed too graphic for Indonesian television. Given the very low standards of local broadcasters with regard to censorship of violence, I am confident I will never have cause to seek out the footage. Shortly after these unspeakable hate crimes, riots erupted in Temanggung, Central Java, as a man was considered to have got off too lightly on charges of blasphemy; despite having been given the maximum sentence allowable by law. Nothing short of death was deemed sufficient by angry mobs burning down churches.

In the wake of the overthrowing of despots far, far away from where I now sit, too little rememberance seems to have been paid to events which took place in Indonesia thirteen years ago. When the will of the people also persevered in the face of violence, from security personnel and shady agitators alike, to dethrone one of the most corrupt dictators the world has known - the Republic's second president, Suharto. Never punished for his crimes against humanity, he died under the most comfortable state healthcare available, having retained many of his privileges as an ex-head of state.

By contrast, under the draconian, hardliner instigated, anti-pornography bill, a local musician has been sentenced to three and a half years in prison for filming himself in the act of sexual intercourse for personal usage. It goes without saying that his real crime was to allow the footage to be stolen and consequently disseminated via the internet.

In Indonesia, there is still a strong tendency to afford elders respect, no matter how undeserving they are of it, and Suharto, who ruled for 31 years, may well have come off as the consummate patriarch to many. The severely obvious hypocrisy of arbitrary judicial decisions goes unchecked by an unfortunately significant number of citizens who are easily smart enough to know better. Judgement is clouded by fear of religion (read: fear of hell) and elders, and it is in this way that despite its being able to enjoy many of the benefits of democracy, there is a marked absence of a certain kind of freedom in this country.

One casual dicussion on eternal souls which I had with one of my Muslim ex-girlfriends went approximately as follows:

Her:The existence of an afterlife is important to me.

Me: Not so much for me, I'm more into enjoying the life that is staring us right in the face as we speak.

Her: I would feel better if you could try and embrace the concept of an afterlife too.

Me: Let's look at it in a different light, many of your best friends are Christian, right?

Her: Yes.

Me: Doesn't that mean that you're compelled to believe they will all go to hell?

Her: (very pained facial expression) I don't want to talk about this anymore.

Me: Come on, surely you can see what I'm getting at?

Her: Yes, but I don't want to think about it.

And we changed the subject, partly because she was vehemently against going further, and partly because I could see that she was genuinely upset. But for me it was a pivotal point in my understanding of how a vibrant, finely-tuned, young mind can become stuck by self-serving ideologies inflicted on the young by previous generations. How can we really have freedom of expression (including freedom of religion), when we don't even have freedom of thought?

Deftones: Live in Jakarta, 8 February 2011

2011-02-10T20:35:00.000-08:00

Stephen Carpenter: guitar

Abe Cunningham: drums

Frank Delgado: keyboards/samples

Chino Moreno: vocals/guitar

Sergio Vega: bass

I was glad I had been too busy of late to spend much time anticipating the Deftones show, as I was glad that the band did not take the stage until a full three and a half hours after I had arrived at Tennis Indoor Senayan. Because when they did finally appear, the soaring energy as Chino Moreno ran on to the stage to launch into Birthmark, from their debut Adrenaline, could be felt around the room to a thunderously positive reaction from the audience. Three and a half hours of waiting eagerly was just about right to fully appreciate the quality of the two opening numbers. Without pause, the band went straight in Engine No. 9, also from Adrenaline, with the vast majority of the crowd shouting out the words as Moreno pointed the mic toward them. Admittedly the venue wasn't quite packed to the rafters, but the turnout was not shabby at all ,and plenty of noise got made. However, choosing not to enter the moshpit turned out to be a wise move on my part, as there were many reports of phones being stolen, including that which belonged to a friend of mine.

The band were by no means stingy, pounding out twenty-three songs, with few breaks and limited on-stage banter. Although they did make sure to say 'thank you' frequently during the show, and Moreno also took sips from a can of Bintang at several junctures, his professed enjoyment of it only making the concert-goers that much more in love with him. His energy as a performer was a lot of fun to witness as he raced around the stage for the fast tracks, and danced in slightly effeminate fashion for some of the more beat-laden numbers. Guitarist Stephen Carpenter, in contrast, barely moved from his corner of the stage throughout the show, his face hidden by a massive head of hear. However, his sonic assaults were much more palpable live than on record to my ears, especially when he strapped on a detuned, 7-string ESP; its heaviness tearing through the auditorium.

The band's musical tightness must be praised; the only noticeable slip-ups being when at one point Chino lost his way slightly on the Gibson SG he played for a significant number of songs, although he quickly apologized with a smile. When Passenger was played, I did get a sense that Chino struggled with the high notes as he sang both parts of the song originally released as a duet with Tool/A Perfect Circle singer Maynard James Keenan on White Pony. He definitely looked a little fatigued when done.

After a brief break, the band retook the stage with crowd-pleasers Root and 7 Words and it is not an understatement to stay that the crowd went absolutely wild, with fists all around pumping the air to the chant of 'suck, suck, suck, suck...'. To top it all off, during 7 Words, Moreno dived into the crowd, still singing Toward the very end of the song, and show, he was lifted up, every audience member in his immediate proximity hands outstretched, conjuring a messianic image. It was at this point in the concert that I felt the deepest regret at not being able to fulfill the request of a young lady whom I teach, to take pictures of the show for her perusal. I was having far too much fun to think about much else.

note: Original line-up bassist Chi Cheng has been in a near state of coma since 2008. I hope he pulls through. I was thinking about him especially, given his love for playing Iron Maiden covers with the band, a week before Maiden are also set to rock Jakarta.

Marriage - European Style

2010-12-30T18:40:00.000-08:00

Recently, when both of us had been reading the Ingrid Bergman biography Notorious by Donald Spoto, I thought my father and I would benefit from sitting down to a few of the legendary Swedish leading lady's films during this end of year holiday. I've seen most of her more well-known Hollywood ventures; all her collaborations with Hitchcock (including the great character study from which the Spoto book takes its title) and of course countless viewings of that immortal tale of sacrificed love, Casablanca. So for this Christmas's mini-Bergman season, I set myself the task of collecting some of the films which she made outside Hollywood. So far we've watched one of her very early Swedish films, which Spoto and my father heaped praised upon; Juninatten, but which left me feeling cold and perplexed in that while it was ostensibly a proto-feminist morality tale, it lacked any discernible moral centre. I can't see it having the potential to gain favour with even the least militant of modern feminists. Last night we turned to a thoughtful and interesting film which I found myself far more able to enjoy, by the man whom Bergman married in the midst of scandal - Roberto Rossellini.

Viaggio in Italia starred Bergman and that British actor with the most reliable of steady, baritone, voices; George Sanders. The two play a couple who are visiting Naples and Capri to sell a property which has been left to Sanders's character by an uncle. Early on in the film, they realize how little they know one another, despite eight years of marriage. This type of abrupt revelation is one of the weaknesses of the film, in that most of the dialogue is loaded with heavy-handed directness. Perhaps it is due to Rossellini working outside his native tongue? As, conversely, naturalism is a lauded quality of the neo-realism movement. I wanted to write something about how such naturalism may be found in other films of the movement by Rossellini and the likes of Vittorio DeSica, but stopped when it occurred to me that I had watched all of these other movies with their original Italian dubs.

Yet, dialogue aside, there is a stark modernity displayed in the camerawork, as guided by Rossellini. It relies on a minimal number of cuts, and some short, steady, tracking shots to ease the story along. There is almost no soundtrack either, with all the noticeable music occurring naturally in the background.

What is most modern about the film is the story itself - the isolation felt by an attractive, upper middle-class European couple. No matter hard they try, they simply cannot communicate with one another in a meaningful fashion. Looking at a story that was made in 1954 at the end of 2010 - with rather liberal eyes - I'm not entirely sure that it has become easier to make assumptions about the real affliction that had beset the on-screen marriage. Bergman's character seems to be pained by unfulfilled promise in her personal pursuit of knowledge; she has vivid memories of a male poet friend she once knew, and her evocations of him cause her husband to have small eruptions of petty jealousy, which is perhaps Bergman's intention, though she is clearly displeased with the result when it comes. Sanders's character, on the other hand, is handicapped by repressed male emotions, especially in the scenes where he wanders about Capri without Bergman. It's obvious that despite his pathetic attempts at philandering, he would be much happier if only he could sit down with his wife and tell her how he feels. Not even necessarily toward her, but maybe just about his apparent inability to feel happy when he is occupied by anything other than his important job back in London.

This is where Sanders's character rings a little truer than Bergman's. Right until the last few forced lines of dialogue (which I'm guessing were foisted on Rossellini by a financier), there is no point during the film where he is able to let go of his notions of propriety, and Bergman never manages to become privy to his feelings of inadequacy in the same way that we, the viewers, are. Not just by the lines he is unable to utter, but by the strangulated expressions of frustration he displays in almost every scene.

Saying goodbye to the old neighbourhood

2010-12-13T18:48:00.000-08:00

Over the weekend I more or less got settled into a new apartment, in a new part of town. Moving has the well-deserved reputation of being a burdensome process, but we got there in the end, despite some lingering loose ends. While at this stage she may choose to shirk the issue, I moved due to a then mutual need to be closer to the woman mentioned here and here, and let me now take this moment to apologize publically for any lingering biterness I express to her; heart and head almost never being in perfect syncopation with one another.

The old neighbourhood, Kemayoran, definitely has its drawbacks when compared to the new one. The bajaj races, in what would otherwise be the dead of night, being chiefly among them! There is also the absurd number of two-stroke engined motorbikes which gather in the vicinity on a Saturday night for no good reason, and the infernal attitude toward pedestrian facilities which both local developers and planning committees conspire to perpetuate.

All that having being said, Kemayoran was the first place I lived when I first came to Jakarta in 2000, and because it was convenient, when I came back to live here again after two years elsewhere, I lived in Kemayoran again. That's a total of about nine years which will not be forgotten easily.

During my first stay, I shared a flat with a neverending list of colourful characters. Many of whom remain close friends to this day. I had several ill-fated relationships with women while living in Kemayoran too, including the woman I married. The relationships may not have been destined for longevity, including my marriage, but it just isn't possible to erase such episodes from one's life. The bad and the good. You expect to grow wiser with the benefit of age and experience, but like so many others since the dawn of time, I'm in possession of that rogue gene which dictates we treat every such situation with a wild array of irrational emotions. The last situation is definitely taking a deeper toll than previous ones, and a flat in Kemayoran was the venue for a seemingly endless number of trysts with her. And for her, an element of secrecy was indeed an issue.

The last couple of years living in Kemayoran happily involved the presence of an Indian restaurant. It isn't the most glamorous place, but whatever is wanting in frills is compensated for by the charm that only a neighbourhood restaurant can have. And, while this is often a strangely low priority of flashy, trendy eateries, the food at The Avenue was some of the best tasting Indian food I've ever had. It was also home to many a memorable occasion in the company of friends, some living in the city, and others just passing through to say hello. The curry was fine, the beer was cold and they would stay open late in deference to those who weren't done reveling. What more could one ask for?

I also spent a great deal of time at the restaurant in the company of that last special person. While she liked the food, she also wanted to keep our meals local because she said it meant we could spend more quality time together that way. That could be interpreted as meaning impending doom was always in the air, or possibly that no matter how much time we had together, it would never seem like enough.

The new place we're at means a new, and different, chapter in the lives of myself and my son. We have a lot more space to play in, both inside and out. In fact, the amenities of the new complex and surrounding area are so vastly superior to that which we previously enjoyed that on the face of it, there really is no comparison. Mind you, the traffic is worse than I'm accustomed to, but my odd working hours help alleviate this concern to a certain degree.

I can't complain too much. I am as materialistic as the next person when it comes to obvious, and needed, improvements in quality of life. But despite there being a vast variety of restaurants available, none of them serves a curry with cold beer. And among the many beautiful people whom I now share space with, so numerous as to be unavoidable, and generally dressed to kill, not one has quite the face I continue to look for.

Sometimes it's hard to be a woman

2010-12-03T15:44:00.000-08:00

In the service of sating an unhealthy appetite for beer last night, a friend and I began exchanging war stories of the personal kind. In actual fact, I remembered full well that a romantic involvement which had been going very well for him, had been denied in much the same way as had happened to me recently. And so, for one evening, I had a one-person support group. It's true that people get involved, they break up, and eventually they get over any lingering heartache. No bombs get dropped, and no children starve to death. Although in both our cases, we'd settled into what were the most rewarding relationships of our adult lives, and in both our cases there were quite sinister ideals working against us.

According to the details as I know them, my friend was barred from seeing the object of his affections for one reason only; it was because he was a Westerner. I, on the other hand, was considered a hindrance to the health, wealth and happiness of a young Javanese woman because I have baggage. That is to say, her parents deemed it unthinkable that their daughter might become seriously entangled with a divorcee (in actual fact a very long-term separatee, but it amounted to the same thing). In my case at least, there is deep-seated hypocrisy at work. I hasten to provide all the dirt on the subject. Suffice to say, whatever my perceived failures may be as a husband, among the players involved, my shaky marital background is by no means unique.

But never mind all that, what is really depressing about stories such as these in this country is that women in their mid-twenties can have their lives completely dictated by their parents. This is by no means the case for all women, but as it was put to me by the person whom I feel is the chief victim of a bad situation all around, women are not considered adults in Java until they are married. How can this be? She looks like an adult, she has completed a post-graduate degree, she earns her own money. How does the entrance of a male into her life, full-time, somehow validate that she is no longer a child? And of course, why is it that a man who hasn't passed any of these milestones can still be seen as having reached adulthood?

She tried hard, very hard, to be a master of her own destiny. I encouraged her, thinking time was still on our side. But in the end, her parents told her that the only way the union would be allowed would involve her being cast out permanently from the family fold. A solution which seemed agreeable enough, given the face of the family that has always been presented to me, but she was not willing to make such a gamble. And who could blame her? As casting aside everything you've known since birth over an affair would have been a gamble of the highest stakes.

These are the dictates of culture. Our story is nothing like as bad as that of the apparently commonplace honour killing which emerged from Iraq in 2008, and given the utterly reprehensible nature of that crime, this is not a small mercy to be thankful for. But it continues to beggar belief that in an emergent democracy - which has had a female head of state - women are regarded as some kind of subservient species. Early on in our relationship, I got the inkling that I was up against an immovable object when it became known to me that the opposing team had called upon a dukun (Javanese witch-doctor), to ascertain what kind of threat I really was to their daughter, and no doubt to cast some kind of counter-spell on me. For in Indonesia, the course of true love never runs smoothly, and is often further impeded by the medieval notion that a young person in love really has been subject to spell-casting by a malignant party wishing to ensnare her. Rest assured, the closest I've ever come to the dark arts is when listening to my heavy metal albums too loudly.

Such antiquated views would seem quainter if they weren't such a disturbing reality. A popular defence for them is you just don't understand our culture. What is there to understand in inexplicable actions? What is the point of cultural niceties whose only apparent purpose is to perpetuate a cycle of unfulfilled promise? Change is unavoidable and when people defend their mindlessness by invoking the 'C' word, they rarely take into account how different Indonesia was just short of fifteen years ago when it was the whole country being governed by strong-arm dictatorship, and not just the immediate whims of young women in love.

Three to Watch

2010-11-29T18:44:00.000-08:00

Machete

I am an unabashed fan of Robert Rodriguez, despite what many may feel about the over the top imagery to be found in all his works aimed at adults. To me this is central to his endearingness as an artist. Many directors are chameleons with the ability to work in disparate genres and while these craftsmen are bestowed with praise and awards for fickleness, someone with a more singular vision like Rodriguez remains something of an outsider. Indeed, while his work may not immediately suggest art-film, to my sensibilities he displayed real artistic integrity by quitting the Directors Guild of America over a credits' dispute concerning Sin City, precluding himself from ever receiving an Oscar.

His latest film, Machete, is based on a massively popular pseudo-trailer from the tragically overlooked Grindhouse double feature. Thankfully, the new film has had far more success with both the public and the critics , in spite of its dabbling in graphic, intestinal humour.

The titular character is played by an actor whose face is the epitome of cragginess, Danny Trejo, and it's a small miracle that distinctive features such as his are still allowed in today's sanitized Hollywood. A slightly different version of this character known as 'Uncle' Machete appeared in the family film Spy Kids, to which my son recently gave his fervent approval. In keeping with his trademark, anti-establishment attitude, Rodriguez has lined up a cast which, aside from some very familiar faces, also contains members of that most unloved category; the 80s B-movie star! Steven Seagal and Jeff Fahey, and an honorable inclusion must also go to Don Johnson, who doesn't really conform to the type if you look at his body of work, but there is something about the man which suggests he could have had a memorable second-tier career focusing on straight-to-VHS titles.

There is little point in discussing the plot, but it does involve threads of revenge and pro-immigration politics (possibly not given the best vehicle here). However, if you're offended by extremely attractive unclothed women, and utterly ridiculous, jocular violence then this is most definitely one to steer clear of. On the other hand if the thought of a never-smiling Danny Trejo turning to the camera to say 'Machete don't text' piques your interest, then treats lie ahead.

Scott Pilgrim vs. the World

Another director wholly uninterested in staid drama and Hollywood convention is Edgar Wright. He and his chief collaborator Simon Pegg have been responsible for some interesting output since they first began attracting attention with their off-the-wall television programme Spaced. Since then, they've released two very well respected comedies; Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz. Pegg has become a recognizable face in Hollywood, despite his not being able to outdo James Doohan's Scottish accent in the revamp of Star Trek (J.J. Abrams). Now Wright has made his first feature without Pegg since his debut (unseen by me) A Fistful of Fingers.

Scott Pilgrim has so far been the most surprising flop of the year - it's certified fresh at 81% on the Rotten Tomatoes tomatometer, and also contains a young, talented cast who are in perfect sync with the material. Some have said that the bold visuals referencing video games overshadow a more or less perfunctory plot, but let's face it, in what pre-existing movie must the hero defeat his newfound love's seven evil exes in mortal combat in order to secure her affections? All the unorthodox stylisations are a pleasure to behold, and it couldn't be clearer that Wright, unlike so many of his peers, is not afraid to go outside any semblance of reality in order to find ways to excite and amuse his audience. This is generally cinema's greatest weakness; so much of it is an anaemic imitation of life, when so many of us go to the cinema to escape the drudgery of our lives. I haven't read the graphic novel which the movie is based on, but somehow I'm guessing that the style employed by Wright is mandated within its pages.

Having seen three of Wright's films and both seasons of Spaced, I'd say the jury is still out as to whether he'll become a milestone figure of the movies. I like his films - they can be excruciatingly funny - but I'm still waiting for him to turn his hands to a real epic of a story, best befitting the potential evidenced in his work so far. As a relatively young Briton, he's produced some head-turning work, and Pilgrim is his Hollywood feature debut, so hopefully it will be a smash-hit on Blu-Ray, and Wright will continue to expand the borders of our imaginations.

The American

I have yet to see Anton Corbijn's feature debut, Control, about the ill-fated singer of Joy Division, Ian Curtis. Though a quick glance at Corbijn's résumé suggests that as a teenager I may well have seen some of the music videos which he'd made beforehand, when I paid more attention to such things.

In The American, he's managed to make a film that not only plays like an art-house special, but has also become a commercial success. It must be said, that without the involvement of George Clooney, and the film's outward resemblance to an action/spy thriller, it could hardly have been expected to have performed as well at the box office. This instance of betting on a long-shot suggests there is something wrong with Hollywood's usual greenlighting system. The conventional wisdom is that films targeted at teens, like Scott Pilgrim, will automatically translate to box office gold, while adults seeking more cerebral thrills don't spend much money at the movies. Omnivores such as myself seem to get the best deal out of wrongheaded decisions made by the suits watching the money, although with every successive year there does seem to be a greater proliferation of movies meant to have mass appeal that have no appeal whatsoever.

That's not to say some viewers haven't felt shortchanged by The American. Imdb has a very negative user review where the writer states that he and his wife would have both enjoyed the film had it not been falsely marketed as a Jason Bourne type thriller. It's difficult to convey in writing the dumbfounded expression which made its way to my face at the rotten logic of such a contention. Have the ad-men really gained that much control over our psyches?

I personally was a little surprised by how much fuss has been made over what many feel to be a dichotomy between the film itself and its marketing campaign. Anyone paying attention to Clooney's work would know by now that the man is just not interested in playing the roles expected of him. In 2005 he starred in Syriana (Stephen Gagan), an oil industry polemic so much more convoluted than the likes of The American that I am still waiting for a bit of extra time on my hands to watch it several times over, in the hope of getting closer to deducing just what on earth is going on.

And then there are the endless debates about slow pacing, as can be found in the movie. For me there is no debate. It's quite simple; non-stop explosions and machine-gun fire can only serve one good purpose, and that is to make you smile at the absurdity of it all in a film such as Machete. The most exciting, believable, on-screen action is served up in sparing doses, otherwise it is just flat-out dull. That's why I stopped going to see Michael Bay films long ago.

The American takes its time, and in doing so manages to tell you a great deal about the character played by Clooney without needing to give you any solid information about the actions which may have defined him prior to the film's opening scene. An opening scene, which I may add, quickly lets you know in a moment of violence on Clooney's part, that this is not going to be a typical action film. And so we are given a study of a character with a lifestyle as foreign as can be, shrouded in mystery. Yet, unlikely though it may seem, his actions rarely fail to evoke empathy.

Control is in black and white, and when the credits of The American began rolling I couldn't help but think that the film would have reached a truly dizzying level of artistry if these scenes of a tiny* rural Italian village - as alluring as they were in their colour presentation - had been filmed in gritty, atmospheric, black and white too.

Additional thought: The exquisite, spy-themed, television programme by AMC, Rubicon, was recently cancelled after one season. Chief complaint against it? Too slow! It really is time that silent films were made mandatory segments of high-school curriculums to tackle this peverse mindset, yet by now it is probably the teachers who would do the rejecting.

* Castel del Monte - population 129

32

2010-11-26T17:47:00.000-08:00

And just getting started, or so it sometimes seems.

It is my birthday today, and having been quite preoccupied of late, it would honestly have slipped my mind if it weren't for all the well wishers out there (yet again, thank you Facebook). Certain events have made me feel older than seems appropriate, such as Sony's announcement a few weeks ago that the date of birth of the original walkman actually came a couple of years after my own.

Walkman Mark I, in all its glory

This should have come as no surprise to me, as like many of my friends, I owned several of the devices growing up. I think when I got my first one I had yet to develop much interest in the popular musicians of the day, and it possibly startled my father when the first cassette I selected to go with my new acquisition was the soundtrack to The Sound of Music. I must have been eight years-old at the time, and my 'walkman' was actually made by Sanyo, who wouldn't have been allowed to use the appellation trademarked by Sony. Although it does lend itself to generic usage much more nicely than the proprietary sounding 'i-Pod'. My most poignant walkman memory however, came a few years later, and it was on an official device, sleeker and less fun-looking than the one pictured above, but decorated with much the same logos. And it isn't a musical memory either, as I was sitting on a public bus traveling from Edinburgh to Peebles, listening to the radio (to save on batteries) when the chilling news of the murder of toddler Jamie Bulger, at the hands of two adolescents, hit the airwaves. A crime so unspeakable that it perpetually lingers in the minds of the public .

Never watching broadcast television does not keep me out of touch with the news, but perhaps it does lead to my failing to stay abreast of 'what the kids are into these days'. Only this week, I tried to engage some of my teenage charges at work about a singer who had skyrocketed to fame when I first began teaching eleven years ago, and felt a little red-faced when they professed to never having heard of the man in question. Fame has always been of a mercurial nature, but when, also about eleven years ago, I met groups of teenagers who had never heard of The Beatles, it was amazement rather than embarrassment which I felt. Though thankfully since then, the most influential musical force of the 20th century have gone through more of their periodic revivals, and the young appear to be enlightened to the roots of the modern pop song once again.

Age leads to a frailer physique, which might seem a bit premature coming from someone in their early 30s, but mysterious ailments abound in my family, to which I'm no stranger, Having been pronounced acutely ill on more than one occasion during my life - with no permanent medical solutions to my maladies coming to the fore - in connection to being father to a small boy, is reason to ponder one's own mortality. It's not just me either, with all of my near-aged friends being far more susceptible to hangovers and the flu these days, and like me, choosing to pay closer attention to things such as diet and exercise. While I find much to love about living in Indonesia's capital, its dust and dirt clearly have a negatively potent affect on my system, and I must question all proponents of enviro-skepticism on this one simple point; pollution is painful!

As we near the holidays and my workload is dwindling down to next to nothing, it does seem as though the adrenaline-charged fourteen-hour days which have become my norm might actually be good for me, because since inactivity has been settling in, on my birthday weekend, I am suffering from the worst case of flu I've had in a good long while. But I still feel cause for optimism, as despite 32 jam-packed years of the good, the bad and the ugly, I still can't help but wonder at all there is around me of interest which I have yet to absorb. Being disposed to sloth-like habits when it comes to self-improvement, never mind the infinite nature of knowledge, it will happily always be an insurmountable mountain of knowledge for me. In the meantime, hopefully a couple of hours of horizontal living will make me feel bored and energetic enough to celebrate my birthday by having lunch with my son, whose table manners and conversational offerings aren't the best, but to paraphrase Bill Murray's great line in Lost in Translation; he is the most interesting person I know.

Alone in an Ultra World

2010-11-20T18:23:00.000-08:00

In the age of instant communication it is becoming more and more obvious that many among us are painfully lonely. The internet has become a vessel to escape one's shell, although to me it seems inadequate as a substitute for real connections between people. Such shells may exist for different reasons; debilitating illness, insecurity, or an unsettling physical appearance which drives others away. It's difficult to put a real gauge on it as the person in question, but the latter item has seemed to be one obstacle preventing me from connecting with as many people as I'd like. While I've enjoyed relationships with normal, intelligent people both of a platonic nature and otherwise, there does seem to be something about the imposing figure I cut which puts people off. I remember incidents when I was a child where I was accused of alcohol consumption and petty theft both at school and home, where the only evidence was that I 'looked like a criminal'. Unfortunately, I would go on to compound the suspicions because I felt that if I was going to be subject to such allegations anyway, I may as well get something out of it.

I think back in those days the seeds were planted for me to feel awfully uncomfortable in my own skin, and find it hard to forge what constitutes a full set of healthy relationships with the people around me. And now, Monday to Friday, I go to work and feel lost amongst large groups of people, and it is normal for my weekends to consist of long bouts of involuntary solitude. I am lucky in that I have a son as a focal point in my life, to take my mind off the otherwise peculiar isolation of my existence.

I use services like Facebook and Twitter frequently, and find them a useful means of keeping abreast of developments in the lives of people I know. These are not relationships, but more like portals where everyone has their own - very selective I should think - news channel. There is some kind of vicarious, voyeuristic allure in reading about the lives of others, and sometimes I wonder if it is altogether healthy. However, there have been quite a few occasions where Facebook has facilitated meetings with people who been absent from my life in body, but not in soul, for many a year, and I gained real pleasure from getting back in touch again. Before Facebook, no-frills emailing put me in touch with a circle of friends whom I thought I would never hear from again, and eventually led to my meeting one of them - an individual for whom I have great affection.

Because, to reiterate, I have had some wonderful relationships with people over the years, but in the era of globalization and high speed everything, we tend to be ships passing one another in the night. I actually have a long list of very close friends, but the vast majority of them live in different cities or countries, and having something as old-fashioned as a chat over a few beers is a very difficult proposition.

The older I get, the more I find that while purpose-driven - but largely emotionally unrewarding - relationships are increasingly bountiful, real intimacy is woefully hard to come by. I can't help feel that it is simply me, and not just my appearance, but also my worldview, which evidently is not in tune with most whom I meet. Indeed, my insistence on raising my son as a single-father has in itself proved to be a definitive obstacle when trying to change said familial dynamic, the family of the woman closest to me making the foregone conclusion that there must be something inherently dysfunctional about the parent who got left behind.

And to that woman I dedicate this blog entry.

Digitally Yours

2010-11-15T21:52:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I had some rare time alone, and decided to make use of it to go to the multiplex and treat myself to a double-bill of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (Neils Arden Oplev) and The Social Network (David Fincher). My selections were purely based on the considerable acclaim these films have received, but I also managed to chance upon two films to which information technology is central to the plot. Another connection which didn't enter into my decision-making is that Fincher has announced plans to remake Dragon Tattoo for Hollywood. Social Network deals with a controversial, but unavoidable, reality of the digital age; social networking, whereas the Swedish film, Dragon Tattoo, details how hacking may be used as a tool to find a serial killer - whose crimes are so horrific that I sincerely hope they have little to do with reality.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

I settled into the movie at first pleasantly surprised by what appeared to be a flawless picture, in perfect focus, till I realised that it was going to be a digital presentation. This seems to often be the case with smaller titles, although this time the digital projection was considerably better than when I went to see Mongol (Sergey Bodrov) at a different branch of the same group of cinemas, the most obvious difference being that the objects in the background weren't obscured beyond recognition. I still stand firm in my belief that slightly scratchy reel projection is much more satisfying than flawless digital. I'm not some kind of traditionalist who is against progress, but the inferiority of digital projection is obvious even to untrained eyes like mine.

I have a bigger complaint against the presentation, not the film itself, being that the censor had managed to remove any references to actual dragon tattoos from the screen! I'm fairly certain that something must have been redacted, given that the original Swedish title of the film translates as Men Who Hate Women. Sitting through a film which contained scenes of forced fellatio, rape and particularly gruesomely mutilated bodies (it should be added that the murders are all based on descriptions found in the bible), the best reason I can come up with for why this obviously key plot strand was removed, is that it would have involved showing some actual nudity, which evidently is more offensive than the other items mentioned. Mind you, there was a shot of a photograph of a nude corpse in the film which managed to sneak under the radar - showing the parts of the anatomy which matter. I've never seen the actual censorship criteria written down, but it seems to go something like this (from most to least offensive) nudity (but not sexuality of which there is an abundance in all Indonesian media), blasphemy, then heroin/cocaine abuse. Violence is almost never censored, and can frequently be viewed on daytime television.

That the film never failed to keep me under its spell, despite the above disappointments, is a testimony to its story and telling. It presents and solves a mystery in a way that kept even this jaded viewer interested. Noomi Rapace, the girl who might have a dragon tattoo is, as many have pointed out, one of the most compelling fictional characters of recent times, and could easily be the most compelling heroine since Jodie Foster's Clarice Starling in The Silence of the Lambs (Jonathan Demme). Her exceptionally gritty individualism, as portrayed in both her appearance and her actions is what drives the film. It's possible that many of the elements which make up the murder mystery have been seen before, but I can't remember ever before seeing, or even hearing about, a protaganist such as this one.

Despite having seen most of Ingmar Bergman's films, I don't often get to see modern Swedish films. Not that I avoid them, but with limited time on my hands, I tend to gravitate to whatever my favourite film writers are telling me to watch. There is also the fact that a large amount of my viewing time is devoted to catching up with classic, and not so classic, films of days gone by. There is at least one other modern Swedish film that I watched a few years ago, and that is the original Insomnia (Erik Skjoldbjærg). I thought about it during Dragon Tattoo, as they both suggest that Scandinavia is home to some very nasty criminals. Given the grim efficacy of these films, I also wondered why you don't see more films from Sweden taking the spotlight nowadays.

My longish day at the cinema yesterday yielded surprisingly few trailers, and I must confess, I enjoy watching trailers, even though so many of them are better films than the ones they're advertising. In fact, during two films, both longer than 120 minutes, I only saw one preview and it was the sequel to Dragon Tattoo - The Girl Who Played with Fire. A couple of things came to mind when watching the trailer in conjunction with the predecessor to the film it was advertising: there was a fleeting shot of what looked very much like a large dragon tattoo on Ms Rapace's back, while in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo itself, there is a long flashback of a girl playing with fire.

Yes, I was left feeling a bit confused, but in no way has this confusion put me off the idea of going to the sequel, nor the final instalment of the trilogy, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest, which has already been released in the West. And the estate of the late Stieg Larrson might smile slightly if they knew they had persuaded at least one punter to seek out the books written by him on which the trilogy is based, as well as an unredacted version of the first film! I understand that because the films were originally made for Swedish television, there is a version available that is much longer than that which was put into theatrical release. It's probably twice as long as the version I saw here in Jakarta.

The Social Network

The second part of my double-bill was undoubtedly the better movie, despite its most eye-brow raising imagery being some excellently dressed women and drug abuse (at least in the version I watched!), it evoked from me even greater edge of my seat anticipation than The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo had done. Christopher Nolan may be Hollywood's most popular auteur of the 21st century, and having now seen every one of his features, I can say that there isn't a bad one among them. However, it is in the works of David Fincher, a director who has been around a little longer, where I find myself losing serious track of time. Unlike Nolan, he has made at least one unequivocal stinker in the form of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, which was not only boring but also discomfiting. I was happy to see that in Social Network, Fincher has returned to the medium of an atmospherically shot movie of characters essentially doing little more than engaging in taut dialogue, a feat he pulled off equally well in the undervalued Zodiac. That film, as it happens, was also about a serial killer, but contained next to no gore.

In Social Network, Jesse Eisenberg plays the founder of Facebook and the youngest billionare in history, Marc Zuckerberg, and in doing so shakes off any lingering comparisons between himself and Michael Cera. For the portrayal of Zuckerberg is a far cry from the endearing teenagers which I had hitherto seen Eisenberg depicting in movies like Adventureland and Zombieland. Indeed, many viewers might agree that the deletive expletive with which a young woman addresses him in the opening scene of the film is an understatement. I couldn't help feeling a nagging empathy for Eisenberg's Zuckerberg. Granted, his financial success eclipses mine at least a billion times over, but on many occasions I've felt what it's like to be the outsider in the room, and be somehow socially out of sync with my companions.

And while the character has some boderline sociopathic tendencies, if you look at his actions themselves in the film, the worst things attributed to him are his public venting when spurned by a woman, and some shark-like business tactics. One should certainly be careful about how one behaves on the internet, a fact which I'm sure the real Zuckerberg is acutely aware of by now, and as for his business practices, whatever he may or may not have done (the film makes sure to avoid any certainty when it comes to assignation of guilt in the real legal battles, still unresolved), he hasn't been using his fiendish intellect to rip off this customers to the same degree as many a familiar face that has been making headlines during the last couple of years.

While Social Network is easily one of the best films of the year for me so far, as is often the case when one is close to a subject - I use Facebook every day - some moments in the film made me wince a little. Most notable of these were the eureka! moments which Zuckerberg has every time he's found a way to distinguish his product from the competition, such as publishing your relationship status. Having said that, there were definitely moments of familiarity when a character is being berated by his girlfriend for listing himself as 'single'. The one feature of Facebook which the film doesn't mention, and is generally the first thing I notice when I open my account, is its ability to let you tell your friends 'What's on your mind?' whether they like it or not. This feature would also appear to be the basis for the next big thing after Facebook, Twitter, though it's difficult to imagine a film based on the origins of the fail whale being quite as interesting as Social Network.

Much has been made of the veracity of the movie, and it's funny how the better the film, the less we care about such things. It seems clear in this case that there are indeed many instances where screenwriter Aaron Sorkin strayed from the truth. My general feeling is that anyone hoping to use a Hollywood drama as a credible source of reference is more than a bit naive. Facebook themselves have remained relatively quiet in their reactions to the film and its much publicized inaccuracies, perhaps wisely realizing that any kind of backlash from them would only serve to reinforce the negativity about the company as it exists on celluloid.

Finding Sweetness

2010-11-07T02:19:00.001-08:00

I move addresses more often than most people. As a child I had no say in the matter, and as an adult my inability to legally own property in Indonesia means I can move apartment when it's convenient, and it has been convenient to do so more often than I would have predicted. Despite these frequent changes, my parents, or rather strictly speaking my mother, has owned a little oasis of calm since the late 80s at the foot of this mountain:

Mount Ungaran

This was my permanent address during three separate periods, and living in Jakarta as I do, I'm very fortunate to still be able to return here for holidays at least several times a year. The feelings of agnosticism pervading my family notwithstanding, we have been celebrating December Pagan rituals as a family without fail for a good many years running now. My mother is in fact a staunch Catholic, but she doesn't let the heathens in her midst get under her skin too much.

A long-running joke is that many people outside of Indonesia think it's a place located near or within the island of Bali. Any amount of veracity in this claim is a shame, as while Bali is without a doubt one of my favourite places to be, the whole country is one of many and varied pleasures. Of course at the moment, the main news coming out of Indonesia is once again its propensity for natural disaster, with scenes of evacuees from the vicinity of Mount Merapi dominating televised newscasts. Mount Ungaran is a few hours north of that area where misfortune continues to erupt, and it's also a volcano, although dormant as long as records have been kept on the subject.

When I was a teenager I suppose I took the lush greenery and views of mountains much for granted, which I would say is quite reasonable, although perhaps I was even slightly more nonchalant than most during their teenage years. Nowadays, when urbanization appears to be encroaching upon all of our lives, often with much malignancy, especially in the developing world, a comfortable home in the country represents a sought after item. Not that Ungaran is entirely countryside these days. The great expanses of rice paddies seem to shrink each year as more and more housing estates are added to the landscape.

Lush greenery

Yet despite the ever ubiquitous presence of semi-detached houses, I think (hope) that it will be a long time before my little corner of Java is close to being spoiled. For starters my parents have staked claim to an ample section of it, and why it may not count as a carbon sink, it might as a carbon plug-hole. As, in contrast to most of their neighbours (there weren't really any when the property was first bought), my parents haven't filled up the land with concrete structures, but instead have kept it very green. This provides our ten or so half-wild dogs with a nice play area, and they in turn keep away would-be thieves with blood-curdling howls at the slightest rustling of leaves during day or night. It should be added that the indiscriminate barking of such a pack of dogs to guard a large garden is something which could at times be aptly described as a necessary evil, that is to say they have no qualms about waking up family members in the middle of the night for no good reason. Either that, or there is a staggering number of would-be thieves in rural Java.

Dogs are man's best friend, but the Javanese, including my mother, have much more affection for cats .When I was a child she told me that she preferred cats to human beings, and I wondered where I fit in with regard to that statement. Visitors to the house have marveled at the harmony that occurs between the cat population, - almost always more than ten - and the abovementioned pack of raucous canines. It is true that you will catch these cats and dogs being extraordinarily tender with one another, although there have been a significant number of fatal exceptions. My six year-old son Alex has taken to asking if we could have a pet for our tiny apartment in Jakarta, and I have to explain to him that even if it were allowed by the building's management, it wouldn't be very kind to the animal itself. Luckily for him, and it must be said mostly unluckily for the animals, he has a home away from home where a veritable menagerie awaits.

One of my favourite things about the garden is that it's normally capable of providing enough coffee for the whole family year-round. The luxury of truly fresh and organic coffee is something which I would be lost without, as caffeinated drinks are my one unshakable vice. I tend to do overdo it when I'm actually in Ungaran on holiday, as there is almost always a fresh pot of the stuff lying around somewhere, but I must simultaneously overdose on oxygen, as I never have trouble (over)sleeping, till those well-meaning four-legged friends decide to raise the alarm.

Much like Jakarta, the weather in Ungaran is not what it used to be. The town used to regularly be very cold for the tropics, cold to the point where wearing a jumper was a must. In recent years it seems to have been getting warmer and warmer, with cold spells becoming less and less frequent. Much like Jakarta in 2010, the rainfall has been relentless, it's just that the air remains weirdly warm despite torrential downpour. I for one believe that Al Gore has a point.

It will soon be time to worship a plastic pine tree, and I will have to get my train tickets booked. I hate flying; not so much the flying itself, but just about everything else, and there is a very comfortable and well-priced train that will take me most of the way to Ungaran. At the same time I'm having to contend with yet another apartment move, mostly for the sake of better proximity to my son's primary school. Being at once an optimist and a realist, I am hoping for the best and expecting the worst where the move is concerned, having got none of the preliminary arrangements taken care of yet, thanks to the seat-of-pants method of work employed by all the property agents I've been in touch with. Money is of course another sticking point.

It's nice to think that no matter how hard my moving will end up being, along with all the other reasons for distress 2010 has presented to me, I'll be able to sit back in a place well removed from the hustle and bustle of city life, where temperatures are rising but still comfortable, listening to the impossible racket of dogs under the impression they've made it to the happy hunting grounds already, and sip on the freshest cup of Java known to man.

This year, it will be fresh on the heels of not one, but two more tragic natural disasters affecting Indonesia, and its poorest inhabitants, whose recent suffering make my worst problems look like drops in the ocean , and it is with sincerity that I hope the thousands of Mount Merapi and Sumatran tsunami survivors at least have shelter and a steady supply of food long before the 25th of December.

Going Native

2010-11-05T18:53:00.000-07:00

In this previous post along with this one, I've tried to discuss my ambivalence on the subject of immigration. Lacking clear opinions is a weakness of mine, although I do now feel that I've affirmed my stance on the subject as one where I believe that open borders are the only answer. My position as an inhabitant of two disparate worlds has helped persuade me that I am right, because like many foreign passport holders living in Indonesia, those rubber stamps are essential to my peace of mind, and so are never too far from it. But while I am technically a British citizen, at this point in my life, I have lived in Indonesia longer than anywhere else, having spent a year as a young child in this country, and almost all of my adulthood here.

I've watched many friends who've stayed or are staying here for shorter terms struggle with the perplexities offered by Javanese life, and while, for obvious reasons, I may be regarded as a good source of information, I find myself often at a loss if asked to provide insight on the daily peculiarities of life here. It is very likely that this is partly what makes life so much more attractive to me in the country of my mother. Never a dull moment. Certainly, when I meet friends, none of us ever appears to be lost for an anecdote; a tale of the unexpected. One general observation which I am surely not the first to have made is that we pay much closer scrutiny to the actions of others when we are an outsider.

Of course, the seemingly inexplicable approaches to the conduct of the mundane can just as easily become a drag as they can be funny. While I have lived here for longer than any of my expatriate friends, I may be the least tolerant when it comes to jam karet, or literally, rubber time. In fact, I'm chronically nervous about punctuality, and am prone to arriving for appointments far too early. This has led to my having had to wait around for hours for appointments at times, and I do mean hours. What I continue to fail to comprehend is if it is considered undesirable to be on time, then what time is one meant to aim for? Ten minutes late? Half an hour? An hour? I suppose these questions bear little relevance when juxtaposed with the concept of elastic schedule-keeping itself, and it must be concluded that at least one party is going to have to wait under such arrangements.

Despite my brain apparently not functioning in a way suitable to academia in the strictest sense, I do seem to have been born with a gift for mimicry, which led me to absorb a practical understanding of Indonesian early on. Naturally, this has often been to my advantage as, when coupled with my ambiguous ethnic appearance, it has allowed me to navigate the country and its culture unimpeded. Something that makes me very happy is my large network of 'ordinary' Indonesian friends, as opposed to the creepy characters who seem to make a career of ingratiating themselves into the lives of some expats.

However, since I am meant to be a native speaker of English by profession, speaking Indonesian in a way that sounds as though I am a native speaker and looking sort-of Indonesian can work against me, as those who are partially gaining the benefit of my linguistic services can feel ripped off if they suspect I'm simply an Indonesian who speaks English well. I've learned not to try and show-off too much at work of late, but still have raised eyebrows when I've performed simple tasks like ordering food in Indonesian. There's not much I can do about that other than order food from a developing country minimum-wage worker in an exotic language, or try downgrading the standard of my Indonesian. Two options which I find patently ridiculous. When I entered the language business, I naively thought that having decent spoken Indonesian would help me in the eyes of my employers. I've learned not to assume the obvious since then.

It's difficult to put a finger on exactly why I prefer Indonesia to my father's country. It's mostly a feeling perhaps, usually a feeling of great depression when I'm back in the UK, although I haven't been back in over ten years, so the time is ripe for re-testing the waters. One of the prime movers of depression is boredom, and it's probable that this is a contributing factor. You can do more with less in Indonesia - although I'm under no illusions about the fact that my standard of life is far superior to the majority of Indonesians. I'm also partial to warm weather and sunshine, and when versus the UK, Indonesia definitely wins in these respects.

That's not to say there aren't many things about Indonesia which I don't wish were more akin to a developed European country. Constantly having religion and the supernatural (listed here separately, but they don't necessarily need to be) in your face is something I find to be trying indeed. New York Times columnist Charles Blow's findings on religion's relation to wealth were a cause of consternation to me, given Indonesia's high ranking on his chart.

Indonesia is vastly over-inhabited, and while I prefer the liveliness of Java to the long silences which are to be found in my father's native Scotland, the evident social problems caused not only by over-population, but also by a very uneven distribution of population make me yearn for a happier medium. Nowhere are these issues more apparent than in Jakarta, with its unmanaged urban sprawl and hordes of densely packed citizens.

At the end of the day, I can't call myself Indonesian as I'm neither a full-blooded Indonesian, nor a citizen. Only the latter has scope for change, though it would seem a low priority despite this still being the age of reformasi. While I can do an extremely good impersonation of an Indonesian, I am still not wholly familiar with its language or any one of its many cultures. These aspects of my existence may well be what have led me to a serious distaste for nationalism and man-made societal divisions. For having only lived eleven years in the country whose name is emblazoned across my passport (a document envied by most Indonesians), how can I call myself British? The internet, ultra-cheap airfares and the globalized workplace have been making borders increasingly meaningless, and I can only hope that they continue to do so.

What is a culture anyway? To my mind, it cannot exist as a list of characteristics defined by experts, otherwise, what would be its point? Rather it should be a living, evolving, undefinable entity which serves to enrich our lives and not restrict them.

In the meantime, I will continue to muddle my way through life here, and hope that I don't get booted out of a country that at least never fails to be interesting.

Film Festival Confessional

2010-10-27T19:48:00.000-07:00

As many who pay close attention to local news know by now, the Jakarta International Film Festival (JIFFEST) will not take place this year unless its organizers are able to secure more funds, and it seems that its very existence is in question. My Twitter feed recently informed me that the festival would have been the only venue to watch Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (Edgar Wright), and Waiting for Superman (Davis Guggenheim) in a cinema, two films that I would have gone out of my way to catch with an audience. An article in the Jakarta Globe points out some of the differences between government participation in JIFFEST as compared to the Busan International Film Festival in South Korea, and unsurprisingly, the main difference is the amount by which the festival is subsidized. Some may think it's a waste of money, but the same article goes on to point out the many fringe benefits which the Busan Festival has brought to the city. Indeed, there is a multitude of ways in which the local city administration could improve the city, not least of all being to make it more attractive to tourists. Something that also sprang to mind immediately when seeing the two festivals compared is that when comparing Korean and Indonesian films that I've watched, I must say that the former have been close to 100% better, and it doesn't take a great leap of imagination to conclude that this situation would also benefit from a higher level of government participation in terms of funding, and less in terms of mandating what cinematic content is suitable for the youth of Indonesia.

I attended JIFFEST a few years back and without a doubt, it was one of the happiest fortnights of my life. Having bought the gold pass, I had a nicely full schedule of titles to see, averaging three a day for the duration. This may seem meagre in comparison to the number taken in by an industry professional, but alas, my day job does not involve going to the movies. However, there are advantages to having to limit the number of films you watch; you are less likely to have to sit through clunkers, and you are able to fully experience the film and all it has to offer, letting your senses absorb much more of the detail being transmitted from the screen and sound system, with longer intervals for reflection.

Any notion that there is no market for this type of event in Jakarta was belied by the immense numbers of people at almost every screening, the exceptions being free showings of older movies like The Blue Angel (Joesef von Sternberg), which I went to see again as previously I'd only seen it with an English soundtrack. But despite the fact that such titles with limited popularity among modern crowds were being shown at lesser venues, via extremely poor digital projection, there was still a significant audience for them. All titles being shown at bona fide cinemas were packed to the rafters, with people even sitting on the floor at certain screenings.The festival had eschewed the usual - very agreeable - practice of Indonesian cinemas, of allowing assigned seating when purchasing the ticket, and consequently, long lines formed in front of most of the films up to three hours ahead of start times, in order that festival-goers might get optimal seats. To be a part of such enthusiasm was fulfilling in itself, never mind the fact that some of the best movies of recent times lay ahead.

While the festival was very well organized (people formed long, orderly queues! in Jakarta!), there was at least one area for reasonable complaint. Some, though not all, of the prints were in pretty bad condition, which again is testimony to the film's lack of funding if they are having to acquire prints that have been screened more than fifty times, thus showing excessive signs of decay. There were also a few films at the main venues (which cost money) that were again shown in very shoddy digital, so bad in fact, that items in the background would become completely undiscernable. The promise of classic silent films being shown with live music sounded like an unmissable opportunity on paper. So it was with deep disappointment that I tried attending one such screening of City Lights (Charlie Chaplin), only to find that it was being shown right in the middle of Plaza Senayan shopping mall, so not only did the sound of shoppers distort the quality of the music beyond recognition, but in a moment of decision making lacking any foresight whatsoever, the screen had been placed in front of a very large window, so light was streaming on to it, making the film literally unwatchable.

As for the films themselves? I will always remember watching the following films not just with a very large audience in cinemas, but with an audience who were bubbling over with an express joy at being able to participate in an important cultural event: Pan's Labrynth (Guillermo Del Toro), The Queen (Stephen Frears), Match Point (Woody Allen), 3-iron (Ki-duk Kim), Marie Antoinette (Sofia Coppola), and Volver (Pedro Almodovar). I would have liked to have seen some of the documentaries on offer, especially Murderball (Henry Alex Rubin, Dana Adam Shapiro), a film about full-contact paraplegic rugby, which I have yet to see. However, all the documentaries were being screened for free at the main venues, were subject to massive hordes of interested parties, and I couldn't see any way of getting into these screenings shy of sleeping outside the cinema's entrance.

There were a great deal of Indonesian films being shown, and other than Opera Jawa (Garin Nugroho), their titles, contents and posters all gave the unwavering impression that they were absolutely worthless. Opera Jawa was another film sans admission charge, with an inderteminable line of starved-of-art punters waiting to get in - many very young. I thought that its being an Indonesian product meant I would easily get another chance to watch it, but bizarrely its theatrical run consisted of one single day. Since then, the only Indonesian titles I've noticed playing at cinemas have been more ponderings on the supernatural, and teenage romances. Their titles alone hardly inspire confidence; Hantu Puncak Datang Bulan, anyone? Or, Menstrual Cycle Peak Ghost, not the best translation perhaps, but the source provides little to work with.

A quick look here indicates that the fate of JIFFEST is not destined to be a happy one, inevitably meaning the same for the future of Indonesian cinema in general.

Lift Etiquette

2010-10-17T14:34:00.000-07:00

A Guide to Eloquent Elevator Usage

Above all else, allow passengers who have just finished their short journey to alight first. This is only good manners and will lead to lower levels of stress amongst all. Fighting one's way out of a lift is a ludicrous action to have to perform on a daily basis. Imagine a world where you know that a clear path awaits you when you get to the ground floor. The self-gratification when reciprocating this act for others should be equally rewarding. In addition, when there are fewer obstructions, the lift's progress will surely be expedited. Those of you who prefer to go barging your way into lifts full of people who are trying to get out are only slowing down everyone's day with your belligerence – including your own, which must defeat your ostensible purpose.

When calling a lift, press only the button that meets your need. Pressing both the up and down button concurrently is a road to nowhere. Even on the USS Enterprise, no one ever manages to beam up and down at the same time. Again, by doing this, you are only slowing down the lift by adding unnecessary tasks to its list of things to do. There is also a 50% percent chance of slowing down your own journey by making the lift take you up before you go down, stopping again on your own floor to pick up nobody on the way.

Only press the button once. Now, I must admit, that I've never been presented with evidence to support this one. However, when I see people bashing away at the buttons, I think, this can't be good for the lift. Perhaps there is evidence, in that said lifts are so often out of order. I think we can safely say that bashing equipment (except tube television sets on their last legs and automobiles suffering from certain problems) does not produce the desired effect. If your computer crashes, you don't suddenly start repeated bashing of the keys, do you? Well, perhaps you do, but in that case there is even less hope for you.

If there is a separate lift for goods and service, don't use it! Yet again, you are only adding to lift congestion by doing so. How? By summoning two sets of lifts at the same and therefore sending one on a fool's errand. If people carrying goods or providing service all stick to their lifts, and everyone else sticks to the other ones, both sets of lifts could presumably go doubly as fast as they would when being misused. There are exceptions for this rule. When one set of lifts is out of order, naturally you have no choice but to use the other one. Also, if the other one is waiting at the floor where you are about to start your lift journey before you have summoned your designated lift, then you will not be creating congestion by using it. This can work both ways, but construction workers bearing equipment and those carrying other heavy loads should always prefer the service lift.

In my work, I once came across a text informing me that in Japan the rear left portion of the lift is prime real estate and should be reserved for the most important person in the lift – if you are the most important person, you should wait to be directed there and profusely refuse this honor bestowed upon you, before accepting it. I don't know whether this factoid is really true or not (I'm afraid that if I research its veracity, I will be let down by what I find), but I do know that the four tips above which I have just shared with you will improve everyone's quality of lift if they become the accepted way of doing things.

The Voice of a Lady

2010-10-17T04:28:00.000-07:00

Uniqueness is a valued commodity in the world of popular art, often having the ability to outweigh the importance of artistic ability. Having said that, it is difficult to come up with the names of even a handful of real originals. Much of the time when you hear of a well-known figure being referred to as such, what is being considered is a way of life rather than artistic output. Not to diminish his work in any way, but John Huston is a name that immediately springs to as someone who lived a rather wild and colourful life very much of his own choosing. But if I wanted to recommend Huston's most famous films; The Maltese Falcon and The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, at least in the case of the former I would be able to say, 'well, if you liked The Big Sleep, you'll love Maltese Falcon', and I could go on with a long list of films that came out before and since to act as points of reference, putting aside cinematic devices that Huston is commonly thought to have pioneered on Maltese Falcon, that is. Mind you, Sierra Madre is a different kettle of fish, and could easily be described as a unique work in the annals of cinema, but having seen most of Huston's films I'd venture to say that the story, and its telling, stand alone as such amongst his works.

Yet there is one whose artistic voice can be compared to no other singer for means of reference, this is because when trying to come up with a list of names of women who sound like Billie Holiday, what you are inevitably left with is a list of singers who are doing their very best to imitate the frightening intensity of Lady Day, who was a true original.

Lady Day

Holiday's life was one comprised of extreme hardship; as a child she was abused, as a teenager she was forced into prostitution, and unsurprisingly, as an adult she became a substance addict. Throughout all of this she was a an African American woman born long before the Civil Rights Movement. At least in her case, it is possible that great suffering was the muse of great artistry.

Because not only did Holiday have supernatural timing when singing, not only was the timbre of her voice unlike that of any of her contemporaries, but the incredible despair which she was able to evoke in her recordings so long ago is something impossible to fabricate. The jazz standard, usually such a lighthearted display of escapism, becomes a crushing, passionate cry in her possession. It helped that she was often given songs with lyrics that seemed tailor-made for her talents, such as her anthemic Sophisticated Lady:

They say, into your early life romance came

And in this heart of yours burned a flame

A flame that flickers somehow, then dies

Then, with disillusion deep in your eyes

You learned that fools in love soon grow wise

The years have changed you, some how

I see you now

Smoking, drinking, never thinking of tomorrow, nonchalant

Diamonds shining, dancing, dining, with some man, in a restaurant

Is that all you really want?

No, sophisticated lady I know

You missed the love you lost long ago

And when nobody is nigh you cry

Having met a few sophisticated ladies in my time, when Billie sings the above words, I am drawn into the music as though I were staring into a pair of grief-stricken eyes.

Not all of the songs Lady Day sang were depictions of life during the Jazz Age. She is largely responsible for an early, powerful cry of protest against injustices toward her race in America. The song Strange Fruit is remarkable not only for its depth of meaning, but the fact that its primary vehicle of delivery was a young black woman, herself a resident in this age of systematic, cruelly enforced, discrimination:

Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

Who knows how much the above lyric and its delivery by Holiday influenced the general public at the time? However much, it is fair to say that taking a clear stand against these horrors took incredible guts, especially given that she was a potential target herself. To use her voice toward such an end could in no way be attributed to self-aggrandizement, and I must say that I have deep doubts about the motives behind the charitable deeds of many modern performers. And while it may seem hackneyed to point out the absence of comparable musicians among the current crop on offer, I can't help but feel that the young singers of today, with their childish behaviour and desperation to retain their spot in the sun simply don't hold a candle when compared to Billie Holiday. In 2010 is there a singer renowned on several continents simply for the pureness of her voice? In the unlikely event that there is, will that voice reverberate fifty years after its owner's passing with an inimitable hunger of the soul?

On Great Silence

2010-10-09T17:22:00.000-07:00

My world is a noisy one; I work with large groups of children who are at the peak of their powers in this respect, and when I come home it it is to a small boy with little appetite for restfulness and vocal chords similar in strength to the famously loud ones his father possesses. The streets of Jakarta are always awash with racket, and it really is a city that never sleeps. Something that I feel will be a contributing factor to an early grave for me are the two-stroke engined bajaj and the occasional races they have under my apartment window at 2 a.m. Going to the cinema is an experience often marred by people taken by the need to joke and giggle throughout a feature, loudly. Ironically, I recently sat through a sparsely inhabited screening of The Ghost (Roman Polanski), during which a couple of middle-aged ladies talked incessantly, but their banter took the form of a running commentary of on-screen events, so they couldn't be accused of not paying attention. Ewan MacGregor's unsheathed derriere drew particular interest. And then there has been occasion when I've been party to what I felt was very encouraging noise during a trip to a cinema, in the form of gasps of admiration when I sat amongst a full house on a Saturday night for a showing of Spike Lee's Inside Man, its dazzling sleights of hand having the power to impress the audience to the point where they became lost in themselves en masse.

When the cinema was still in its infancy, in an age before netbooks, ipods and smartphones, how did people behave? Like the bicycle and the radio, is it possible that silent film is actually more suitable to the modern pundit than its successors? Would someone's annoying ringtone be less irksome if it weren't interfering with some choice dialogue by David Mamet? Given that ringtones have the ability to arouse one's inner vandal whatever the setting, it seems unlikely. I only get to see silent films at festivals and art-house screenings where audiences tend to behave with greater composure than your typical crowd. It would seem that until it is realized by financiers and audiences alike that the medium would only be further enriched by implementing all of its possibilites, we will only get an extremely limited idea of how interestingly devices such as black & white and narratives sans spoken dialogue might be applied by today's filmmakers, and film will continue to be the art-form most glaringly ignorant of its past.

Silent films represent my greatest gap in knowledge of the movies, although I've watched a few, and most of them have been memorable experiences. Some films that stand out as must-see items: The Crowd (King Vidor), The Last Laugh (F.W. Murnau), The General (Buster Keaton), Metropolis (Fritz Lang), The Cabinet of Dr Caligari (Robert Wiene), City Lights (Charlie Chaplin), The Passion of Joan of Arc (Carl Theodor Dreyer) and Pandora's Box (G.W. Pabst).

I once struggled through D.W. Griffith's controversial, but much lauded, silent epic The Birth of a Nation, and felt nonchalant about whatever innovative worth it bears, its repugnant racism being the only thing capable of holding my attention. Even if you're that interested in the craft of cinema, the film could be left very low down on the list of priority. While I've heard it mentioned as a counterpart technical watershed to Citizen Kane and Star Wars, both of those films are infinitely more enjoyable; perhaps consequently making their innovations similarly easier to appreciate.

Apart from Chaplin and Dreyer, the names on the above list of silent classics are all German and American, and even Chaplin, long before he was unjustly flung out of the country, worked from within the Hollywood studio system. It would seem true that at the birth of cinema, these two nations were leaders and while Germany's UFA studios floundered after the silent era (for obvious reasons), the Hollywood juggernaut continued to capture the imaginations of people around the world for long afterward despite the difficulties of language the 'talkies' presented. Somewhere during the 80s Hollywood finally lost its way, unable to maintain the fine balance of enduring quality versus instant success at the box office. Its big budget films have got worse and worse to the point where we now appear to live in a much more democratized landscape of cinema, where small films made on small budgets from big and small countries compete against one another on the same playing field.

Louise Brooks

But back to those silent classics, and it is a German-American collaboration that to my mind is a strong contender for best silent of them all. Pandora's Box with its German director and iconic American star Louise Brooks. Many of the hallmarks of German silent expressionism are well utilized by Pabst and his status as a director would have been solidified had he made this film alone, but it must be said that the film belongs to Brooks. I am uncertain that any star, male or female, has ever had the same amount of diabolical magnetism as Louise Brooks. Every frame that she is in (most of them) is set on fire by her mysterious seductive charm. There is something about her sculpted face with its lush lips and penetrating gaze that put her in a category of greatness of which she is the only member. Some find it difficult to keep track of a silent film's narrative, and it is true that, as with books, when you are not receiving a full frontal assault to the senses, a little more patience is required. However, in the case of Pandora's Box, the story is clear enough, and its plays on morality are enough to raise the eyebrow of a modern viewer, as Lulu, the 'Pandora' of the story, essentially uses her sexuality to make her way through life, to the detriment of the men whom she encounters. This tale of a woman possessed of such spellbinding powers is wholly convincing, given that we, as viewers, are completely taken in by the silent imagery of Louise Brooks who is captivating at every turn.

The spectacle of cinema in 2010 is bigger and better special effects, which when they first began arriving on the scene were a sight to behold. But now that precedent has been set, computer generated imagery is usually perfunctory. I have no desire to watch any more 3D films having sat through a handful of blurry ones, and suffering from very bad headaches due to at least a couple of them.

But these vivid documents from the past, with the knowledge that what we are seeing was filmed nearly a century ago, actors and directors who manage to conjure mystique in ways that are often inexplicable - I am always surprised by the fact that the most surprising films I watch are the ones that were made long before I was born.

Debriefing

2010-10-01T17:46:00.000-07:00

I've been back in Indonesia as of last night, after spending a grueling three days in Singapore, and have been trying to collect my thoughts about the ordeal. After sustaining excessive mental anguish, there is some light at the end of the tunnel which I've been trying to exit to escape my immigration woes, at least for the next eleven months - after which point I may very well have to relive a similar experience.

The assignation of blame throughout the process has come up frequently, and I feel like I've been targeted for far more than my fair share by those who've been bearing the brunt of the costs attached. Not that I haven't been left far more out of pocket than anticipated. As in my previous post on the topic, I balk at describing all the sordid details involved, complicated as they are.

What I have definitely learned is I don't enjoy being stuck in Singapore with a small child who has an unparalleled ability to generate commotion. We seemed to get far more dirty looks on that well managed island country than on this wild sprawl of an archipelago, indicating that perhaps a tolerance for a lack of order does have its benefits after all.

I received no hassle from public officials on either side of the crossing, but I can't help but feel that making tired travelers jump through at least three different hoops while they're worried about making that flight on time is an unsuitable solution.

Money lost, my son's lost school days, the stress of uncertainty, having to go on an unplanned trip to another country - all caused by man-made markers, rubber stamps and a paper trail.

All of the above brings me to one conclusion and that is that after all, I agree that a world without borders would be a far saner one. I mentioned this to a friend whom I met on the plane to Singapore (who didn't have a very different reason to me for his journey). When I included the possibility that such a scheme might have a negative impact on the world economy, he replied 'who cares?'. Callous and seemingly unthinking maybe, but who really does care anymore about preserving an economy in the manner designated by those in charge? Can they really claim that it's been working?

There could well be a period of adjustment, collateral damage, and a lot of angry nativists (nationalists, whatever, take your pick of euphemisms for veiled bigotry). I don't even enjoy traveling much myself, all I'm asking is for the right to stay put where I have lived for approximately half of my thirty-one years, in the country which is my mother's native land. Preservation of ways of life be damned, culture is not something that exists by design, and only becomes richer with diversity. I have no British friends who don't rate curry among their favourite cuisines.

Who do the controls help? If they are helping anyone at all, it is obviously not those who need help the most. Instead there are people literally dying around the world due to restrictions on freedom of movement. Children going mad in detention centres for boat people. And my own hardships which are so relatively paltry that I hesitate to draw any kind of comparison. However, the fact remains that they are woven from the same cloth of absurdity.

Immigration is a Four Letter Word

2010-09-24T17:42:00.000-07:00

It undoubtedly is to every expatriate worker I've ever met in Indonesia, the overwhelming majority of whom are regular people whose only ambitions are to enjoy the experience of living in a foreign country and earn an honest salary. Some go home after a year, but many stay for much longer, marry Indonesian citizens and persevere in the face of a system that has been designed to ensnare people with red tape in one way or another.

I am a long time resident of this country, indeed I am half-Indonesian, making my son three-quarters Indonesian, however, while these factors would seem like normal claims to automatic acceptance by a country's government in a reasonable world, the reality of our surroundings is quite different. My son is eligible for dual citizenship until he is aged eighteen after which point he must decide between East and West, and as far as I can tell, I'm eligible for eternal visa renewals. While Alex's dual citizenship papers are pending, he must also get renewals. The convolution of the way things have been set up means that companies - like my own - who are charged with sorting out papers for their employees ,outsource the work to third-party agents who have experience dealing with such matters, and presumably know how much grease to apply to which wheels.

One of V.S. Naipaul's travel books about India, An Area of Darkness, includes an unforgettable passage describing his efforts to retrieve some spirits which had been confiscated by customs and excise. I got the distinct impression that he went through with the exercise - which were enormously distressing - to find material for his book, either that or he is extremely fond of his drink. Not having the same gift for illustrative prose as Mr Naipaul, I won't go into all the details of my very recent travails with the Indonesian Immigrasi. While there has been less sweat and tears involved so far, what's at stake for me isn't a couple of bottles of hard stuff (although I felt like some during the immediate aftermath) but rather being able to continue living in the country I've called home for most of my adult life. In my case you could say the immigration were in fact playing by the rules, but the rules which they themselves created are so byzantine and, at times, utterly nonsensical, one hardly feels like vindicating them of any blame.

My father, himself no stranger to the perils of the abovementioned bureaucracy, has long argued that the best thing to do would be to open borders and allow people to move from one country to another as they pleased, as was the case as recently as the last century for much of the world. In principle, I believe this solution, as Utopian as it may seem, would solve a lot of problems. However, modern day forms of transportation and communication are space aged when compared to the equivalents used by our ancestors of the early 1900s. Nowadays the internet has made the world an increasingly transparent place to live, and long-haul air-travel is available to all but the poorest of the poor. Without the usual demands placed on visitors to have a reasonable purpose for an extended stay in a country, a likely eventuality is great armies of the downtrodden fleeing areas of widespread hardship to turn up on the doorsteps of perhaps...Costa Rica? I can also actively imagine a world without frontiers quickly making the members of the British National Party appear to be heroes in their midst, whose warnings should have been heeded long ago. As despite my own disinclination to live there, the allures of the UK for those hitherto residing in poorly governed states are still many and varied. On the same note, Singapore would probably just collapse into the sea under the weight of all the soul-weary dissidents of nations nearby controlled by malignant despots.

But I digress, because this is not my lot.

When not faced with the throes of immigration (at least once a year), I live a reasonably comfortable, lower middle-class existence in Indonesia. The weather and the people agree with me as do many other aspects of my life here. And I feel that I can tolerate other bureaucratic machines as being part and parcel of modern life. All the bits of paper that we must keep safely around the house to prove this, that, or the other. The endless forms that must be filled out, which often include a telephone number or an address being given to an office who can't feasibly have any good use for it. But the madness imposed when it comes to my simply being here confound me. I have a job with a respectable organization, and it is one that very few Indonesian citizens are able to do. I don't have a criminal record nor do I have any intention of starting one. I have already mentioned our ethnicity, but it seems worth reiterating: I am half-Indonesian and my son is three-quarters Indonesian. I have lived in Indonesian continuously for the last ten years, he has never lived anywhere else. Why must I jump through hoops once a year, with the constant fear of falling into a fire? Why can't it be a simple matter of filling in some forms and paying a listed fee?

Indonesia's revenue offices recently went through a great deal of reform, where they wisely decided to forgive all prior tax evasions, and start afresh (a policy popularized by Nelson Mandela, I believe). Despite the odd national scandal involving their employees since the start of their reforms, I believe they have a fair chance of ultimately gaining a full commitment from the public. Why? Because their design and implementation are based on commonsense. The process is fairly transparent, and great pains have been taken by officials with a socialization programme, which has included presentations to employees at private sector companies. Most people concerned know what to do, and how to do it. The same cannot be said of the immigration department at all. In fact, most people I know are divided as to even what type of visa they should be in possession of, and very few expats know how to get any kind of visa, instead relying on the previously mentioned intermediaries to get the job done. Much of the time, we have to go an Indonesian embassy in another country to get our visas. This means we have to visit Indonesian immigration officials in other countries so that we may continue residing in Indonesia itself, which I'm sure most people will agree is patently ridiculous.

As tax officials have been saying in their public service ads aimed at tax evaders: Apa kata dunia? or loosely translated: What would the rest of the world say?

I still worship at the Temple

2010-09-18T19:19:00.000-07:00

The music of our youth is that which remains with us. Some time soon after the invention of radio, popular tunes found their way into our homes, and could be easily listened to repeatedly, allowing us to liken them to some kind of living entity with the ability to provide comfort or sorrow, or indeed, comfort us during our sorrow.

Since I was very young I have been a packrat when it comes to the popular arts, and as a teenager I had hundreds of CDs and cassettes lying around my bedroom. I went through different phases when it came to genre, and for lack of a better word, I have ended up with 'eclectic' tastes in music. But some of those albums which were in heavy rotation during those desolate teenage years are the ones whose impact, for better or worse, I can't shake away. Unlike many of my high school contemporaries, I shied away from danceable music, and generally anything with lyrics whose shallowness felt foreign to me. Instead I veered toward the more angst-ridden sounds (which some would say were merely boring and depressing) of electrified rock.

I became interested in the surge of music emanating from a rainy city in America during the early '90s. Despite the forerunners among the bands from Seattle being quite different to one another stylistically speaking - Nirvana, Soundgarden, Mudhoney, Pearl Jam, Sonic Youth - they were all unfortunately lumped together as either 'grunge' or 'alternative' music. Seattle Invasion might have been more appropriate, although genres and sub-genres are restricting, especially if one is looking for discrete qualities in a band.

One thing that the above kind of recognized movement does help to do is sell records, because it led abstract materialists such as myself to try and find all the associated albums. This was a bit more difficult during the pre-iTunes era, but given the difficulties involved, there was a greater deal of satisfaction to be found with each purchase, and it's also possibly true that greater attention was given to each CD bought; they were listened to many times over before a final verdict on their worth was pronounced.

Among the bands listed above, my favourites were Pearl Jam and Soundgarden. Mainly I was enamoured by their singers and their songwriting, not yet being in the habit of dissecting all the individual elements of a recording - it's a little sad that as we grow up we learn to stop taking our entertainment at face value, and have to puzzle over the deeper meaning. When I learned that members from both bands had collaborated on a project album, I knew I had to have it, especially after seeing a music video of one of the album's songs on MTV. The eponymous album was Temple of the Dog and the song was Hunger Strike:

I don't mind stealing bread

From the mouths of decadence

But I can't feed on the powerless

When my cups already overfilled

But it's on the table

The fire's cooking

And they're farming babies

While slaves are working

Blood is on the table

Mouths are choking

I'm growing hungry

I can't pretend to claim that I know what the above lyric by Chris Cornell means, but when he and Eddie Vedder sang these words together it had a hypnotizing effect on me - then and now. Especially when Cornell wails in the kind of high pitched voice only found among male rock singers, I'm going hungry! I didn't know what it meant, but I knew it meant something. It was around this time that I had a wise English teacher who posited to us his theory that the reason conventional poetry wasn't popular among young people anymore was because we had poetry in our music. I think it's safe to assume that such a theory wouldn't sit well with serious students of poetry, but it is one that I find myself comfortable with, especially given my own frustrations when trying to immerse myself in the kind of verse that doesn't come with an unhappy man to belt it out in song form.

I acquired the Temple of the Dog CD (three times over the years as it happens, to replace lost copies), and discovered that I could listen to it start to finish, again and again, without my interest ever waning. I learned that it was a project for which Cornell was largely responsible, and it was meant to honor a fallen light of the Seattle music scene - Andrew Wood, of Mother Love Bone - who had died from a heroin overdose. This knowledge served to make the songs ever more poignant to my impressionable teenage self. The line-up of the album was:

Chris Cornell (Soundgarden, Audioslave) - vocals, guitar

Jeff Ament (Pearl Jam) - bass

Stone Gossard (Pearl Jam) - guitar

Mike McCready (Pearl Jam) - guitar

Matt Cameron (Soundgarden, Pearl Jam) - drums

Eddie Vedder (Pearl Jam) - vocals

The opening track, Say Hello 2 Heaven, states the theme of the album in painfully explicit terms:

Please, mother mercy

Take me from this place

And the long winded curses

I hear in my head

Words never listen

And teachers, oh, they never learn

Now I'm warm from the candle

Though I feel too cold to burn

He came from an island

But he died on the streets

And he hurt so bad like a soul breaking

But he never said nothing to me

So say hello to heaven

Words that now made more sense knowing the background story, and again Cornell's soaring voice seemed to touch the heavens themselves, especially on nights when company was in scant supply. McCready's guitar solo, with its Hendrix inspired progressions were a perfect complement. Our house was quite large and I had my own bedroom so I usually joined in with my own belting. I felt like a tortured rock star.

It wasn't all misery guts though. Song number two, Reach Down, involved an extended jam session of a kind not common in the mainstream music of the '90s, and more reminiscent of a live set by Cream. Also atypical of the popular music of the day was the allowed showcasing of the virtuoso drumming and bass playing of Cameron and Ament. Cameron's jazz infused beats and fills, and Ament's monster bass sound, using an arsenal of instruments perhaps only bested by the likes of Les Claypool, were not content with being relegated to the traditional role of a rock rhythm section.

Another stand-out track, in an album without a moment of filler, is Times of Trouble:

When the spoon is hot and the needle's shot

Again telling us explicitly what was going through the mind of the lyricist, yet its chorus happily gets more ethereal:

I started singing, swinging you mother's sword

I know you're playing, sometimes the rules get hard

I think it was this song which really drove home the ideal for me that my kind of 'poetry' was not easily deciphered, if at all. Perhaps all that matters are phonetics. I don't really know, and hate to dwell.

In my twenties I went through a phase where I barely listened to music at all. For some reason most of the time it seemed like a chore to sit down and appreciate a whole album. While I was able to join in the timeless debate of good taste, and determine what I thought was good or bad, there was something preventing me from enjoying music as I did when I was a teenager. I think part of me just didn't want to be that adversely affected by song anymore, and become overly in touch with the tragedy that can be life. There were some exceptions, notably the complex jazz tapestries of Pat Metheny and the deeply grief-stricken voice of the never to be duplicated Billie Holiday. The latter's uniqueness is perhaps best exemplified by Diana Ross's portrayal of her in the very weak biopic, Lady Sings the Blues, and her misguided choice to sing Lady Day's songs herself.

I have since begun listening to music again on a daily basis, and have found that there is far too much out there which is good to listen to. Indeed, my tastes are still 'eclectic'. Long bus rides to work and back are best taken in the company of an MP3 player, although the roar of a bus's engine can sometimes mean that the more intricate riffing of Charlie Parker can become slightly muffled. However, I've never been able to recapture those wild emotions that welled up inside me when listening those sometimes angry, sometimes sad, musicians who put out albums when I was younger. Perhaps it is just as well, as there was definitely a form of sensory masochism being practiced, despite there also being the potential to concurrently heighten one's sensitivity to the world at large. So, it is with mixed feelings of relief and regret that I now listen to a touching song and linger on its beauty, rather than wallow in its pain.

Thickened Water

2010-09-17T18:16:00.000-07:00

nWhile I was staying at my parent's home over the Idul Fitri holiday, my father and I engaged in the sort of armchair philosophy so typical of adults who have relatively few hardships directly affecting them. One comment made by my father captured my thoughts; likely because a similar train had already been lurking there for some time. He quoted someone (possibly a philosopher who actually had an office to work out of) who said something about life's best purpose being to reproduce. My father seemed to have some disdain for the notion that this is all there is and we had a brief debate on the subject, drinking tea, eating dates, my legs definitely being propped up on the furniture - they almost always are when I'm at home. My contention being that to nurture another human life, rather than to reproduce one, might possibly be the highest purpose there is. I have fewer than half the years my father has, but the advent of my son was a transformative episode in my life. Things being what they were, a great deal of his care giving was left to me. Our codependency has remained steadfast, and while I am happy for the odd break, it only takes a few days without him before my thoughts start to drift toward a strange pointlessness hanging in the air.

Mother and Child

My selection of new films to watch rarely has anything to do with being attracted to a certain type of story or genre, and usually has everything to do with the people involved in its production, most significantly directors, scriptwriters and actors. Last night I had the opportunity to sit down to the above title written and directed by Rodrigo Garcia and starring Annette Bening, Naomi Watts and a name only vaguely familiar to me; Kerry Washington. What had piqued my curiosity the most was Garcia's involvement, having sat with quiet fascination through the first season of HBO's In Treatment, an Israeli programme adapted for English speaking audiences by Garcia. The minimalist aspect of the show - each episode is simply the same psychoanalyst interviewing a different one of his patients - made its stealthy power all the more impressive, and I was surprised by how addictive it became.

The theme running through Mother and Child is adoption. I have a fixed opinion on this matter, that being that more people should adopt and that all the many expensive tools medical science now has at its disposal should only be considered after attempts to adopt have failed. And indeed, if a couple is not able to secure an adoption given the inexhaustible number of deserving cases out there, one wonders whether they are right for parenthood. However, I take it that in the developed world the terms of an adoption can be rigorous, so perhaps that last comment is unfair. Surprisingly, for myself, every adult whom I've ever broached the subject with has an opposing view to mine. This strong need to leave a genetic imprint lying around after you're gone, or have the family name carried on, is one whose reason escapes me. Nature versus nurture is something I'm not qualified to discuss, but I can't help think that the most important and rewarding part of child rearing is time spent together when you are able to impart your own flawed wisdom on another human being. Obviously I can't speak for all the women who say childbirth was the most joyous occasion of their lives, but any male friend I've spoken to, interested in starting a family, has also had this strange urge to create a miniature replica of himself. And such is the attitude of one of the male characters in the film in question.

What are the things we value the most in our increasingly global society? Knowledge, power, success, fame. Like precious metals, the more difficult something is to attain, the more we praise its worth, whereas to invest oneself in family has a mundane ring to it, despite the fact that there is almost always no small amount of hard work and sacrifice involved.

Two of the female leads in Mother and Child, as played by Bening and Watts, live lives that are defined by a single tragic act. Bening's character having given up Watts's for adoption at the age of fourteen. Neither women can live normal lives because of the mutual loss incurred. Neither of them have the ability to form lasting relationships, whereas Bening's character, now approaching middle age, is beginning to realize that hers is no way to live a life. Watts, on the other hand, is determined to be so independent as to be downright cruel to the innocent bystander who might attempt entry into her personal life. Maybe because they are both attractive and successful women, they are not short of men willing to take up the initially unrewarding challenge. Jimmy Smits plays one of Bening's coworkers who is remarkable in his kindness and patience towards her, and it would seem that he must have spotted something deeper lurking beneath her facade of anti-socialism to take such pains to learn more about her.

Washington is a mother desperately seeking to adopt, and one who deserves to be rewarded. This rich tableaux of characters as painted with dexterous elegance by Garcia also includes Samuel L. Jackson and Cherry Jones in pivotal roles. While this method of using a large number of characters whose lives overlap in one way or another can often be gimmicky, Garcia has managed to utilize every actor to good effect, and there doesn't appear to be a moment of wasted dialogue.

The film ostensibly has some of the hallmarks of a crowd-pleasing tearjerker, but it runs far deeper than that, observing the motives and ramifications of adoption. Instead of delivering easy answers, Garcia has stepped back a little from his characters to be non-judgmental; acknowledging them as regular people, warts and all. When the battered lives of all three women finally intersect, after much bitterness and false hope, what transpires is not a plot pay-off so to speak, although it may seem as though it steps outside the harsh reality which preceded it a little, possibly to offer a picture of what is possible when our societal boxes come in more adjustable sizes.

Green for Alastair

2010-09-16T02:35:00.000-07:00

A few years ago my now octogenarian father, having long observed my all consuming interest in films old and new, asked that I seek out a film entitled Green for Danger. This was his most fondly remembered title starring Alastair Sim, a name at the time unfamiliar to me. Although, soon after looking up the film on Amazon, and Sim himself on Imdb, I realized that his was easily the most memorable dramatic turn in Alfred Hitchcock's Stage Fright - this in a Hitchcock film starring Marlene Dietrich. If I'm not mistaken, they share no screen time together in that title, and I found myself feeling impatient with Dietrich's trademark histrionics. Whether intentional or not, her character's hinting toward the plot's denouement, long before it happens, helped spoil the story for me.

I am very likely to get this story wrong, but my father's special interest in Sim is largely because the then very famous British actor was the rector of Edinburgh University while my father was a student there. At one point he delivered an address to the student body which was notable not only for its clarity, but also for Sim's ability to captivate an audience, holding them spellbound. I'm not sure my father even remembers the speech's content, he certainly doesn't mention it in the telling of the anecdote; its point being the lasting impact an orator can have when he makes proper use of his gift.

We watched Green for Danger together, and despite the Network DVD release which I acquired not having the best AV quality, we were both able to thoroughly enjoy it. On first viewing the film's manner of gently telling a murder mystery struck me as not having a modern day counterpart. The cinema of today has a tendency to alternate between serious depictions of violence which involve blood and guts splattered across a screen as well as not so serious depictions of violence which also involve blood and guts splattered across a screen. Since I first bought and watched this overlooked classic by Sidney Gilliat, it has also been released by the Criterion Collection. I haven't had the privilege of watching the latter version, but judging by the numerous superlative Criterion editions I have watched, it will be the one to best appreciate the nuances of dialogue in the film, especially as enunciated by Sim himself.

In the years that have passed since that first experience of watching one of Sim's films with prior expectations, and my eyes looking out for the man's on-screen presence, I've noticed him as the titular protagonist of Scrooge and the hilarious, corrupt bishop in The Ruling Class. I also went back to Green for Danger which cheered me up on a particularly gloomy day.

Which brings me to the present.

Yesterday I arrived home after several pleasant days in the restorative climate of my parent's home in Central Java. The journey home meant an exhausting six-hour train ride spent solely in the company of my wildly energetic six year-old son. We started out long before the break of dawn, and he only saw fit to grab about ten minutes of sleep during those six hours. As soon as we got home, he demanded that he be allowed to go out to play with the neighbour's children (four days away apparently being enough to make the heart grow much fonder). Their parent's kicked him out after about an hour which usually happens because they are children more prone to restfulness, and unlike young Alexander, are given to taking siestas. So we were left to entertain each other for a few more hours while he behaved in a way that could generously be described as 'lively'. Finally, at about the same time, both he and the sun began to fade, and to deal with my by now thoroughly knackered state, I turned to my own personal comfort food: the vintage comedy.

Among my voluminous supply of unwatched movies, calling out for attention, was The Green Man directed by Robert Day, and of course starring Mr Sim. Five minutes into the film, I was interrupted by a routine telephone call from my father, to inquire after our well-being. I happened to mention to him what I was engaged in, commenting that the film starred a very 'young Alastair Sim'. Therefore, I was surprised to learn from Imdb today that Green Man was actually produced in 1956 - around the middle of Sim's career. Despite the make-up that is inevitably employed, I largely attribute this kind of ability to youth or age one's self to acting.

The film itself could have easily been written off as a skillful, and very enjoyable, attempt to mimic the screwball comedies so popular in Hollywood during the '30s and '40s. My personal favourite being George Cukor's The Philadelphia Story starring Carey Grant, James Stewart and Katherine Hepburn.

However, Green Man visits places that were decidedly foreign to big studio Hollywood. Especially post-'30s when the Hays code began to censor segments of movies which it felt were leading American youth to moral bankruptcy. The plot of Green Man is thoroughly implausible and hardly worth reiterating - a standard feature of the screwball comedy. What sets it apart is its usage of morbidity as a humorous device. Not only does Sim play a terrorist in the film, but a dichotomy exists within the plot, whereby while more heroic leads are introduced later on, it is Sim who opens the proceedings, dominates much of the first half, and continues to receive importance equal to those of the non-villains for the duration. When Sim appears to get his just desserts close to the end, it seems to be a tacked on scene to appease the moralists in the audience. Indeed, this viewer (who has no love for bombings), would have been just as satisfied if the terrorist had been allowed to ride off into the sunset with his bombs, but that may have been a scene too far in 1956.

Based on my experience watching films from the '50s, the allowance of not just a villain, but also a remorseless assassin to have such a prominent, sympathetic role in a film makes Green Man exceptional. It seems unlikely that it would have been possible for such a work to receive financial backing or an enthusiastic public reaction had it not been for the inimitable charm of Alastair Sim. One indelible scene that had me laughing aloud, alone in the dark, was Sim's receipt of a distressing telephone call from his fiance. Despite being a scene of a telephone call, the dialogue was largely irrelevant as I focused my gaze on the assortment of facial tics which Sim managed to produce - with devastating comic timing. He was most certainly a physical actor, and this was not just relegated to his face, as his lanky frame would come alive in its entirety when a scene demanded it. In today's films I miss physical comedy typical of silent giants such as Keaton and Chaplin. The modern director often has a hard time making it past facial movement, and it is becoming increasingly true that such faces must be beautiful without room left for faces that are just plain interesting. It's difficult to believe that the likes of Humphrey Bogart would be able to become the icon that he continues to be, were he to have started acting somewhere toward the end of the last millennium, never mind Sim's looks which were so readily poised for comic expressions, yet not liable to land him on the cover of a magazine aimed at screaming young girls.

Looking down Alastair Sim's filmography I find that all of his films which I have yet to watch are titles unfamiliar to me. This is regrettable, as a lack of notoriety generally means a lack of availability when it comes to home video and I am certain that each and every one of the films he did make are worth watching for his performance in them alone.

Unequal Violence

2010-09-08T20:17:00.000-07:00

Last night I revisited Quentin Tarantino's Kill Bill, Volumes 1 and 2, more or less in one sitting. That is close to four hours of viewing pleasure, with very liberal helpings of martial arts scenes that have graphic outcomes. The films, as one entity, even merit a listing on Time Magazine's Top 10 Ridiculously Violent Movies, although the list failed to mention that the films are also heavily laced with Tarantino's idiosyncratic dialogue - a highlight of all of his movies. Volume 2 is so filled with long scenes of talking that I doubt it is universally loved by action fans. Granted, it was a cyber list, so each entry was given a mere paragraph of description, but while Time was able to point to the genres that inspired Kill Bill; kung-fu, '70s exploitation and spaghetti westerns, again it neglected to point out Tarantino's melding of influences into a singular vision, which easily rises above his muses in terms of sophistication. Although, the spaghetti westerns of Sergio Leone put him at least on par with Tarantino as a grand stager of exhibitionism.

Am I a lover of violence? The short answer would be no. If not, why did I put myself through films which are so violent as to turn up on a list honoring this quality, for a second time? The simple answer to that would be I'd read the list and remembered that a friend leaving the country had bequeathed to me a small cache of DVDs, amongst them being the ones in question. I'd also recently revisited The Matrix Trilogy and in those films had mostly admired the production design and the highly elaborate, science-fictionalized scenes of kung-fu. Everything else that lies in The Matrix is the subject for another blog post. The kung-fu in both The Matrix and Kill Bill movies was choreographed by Chinese master Woo-ping Yuen, and yesterday being a public holiday, I also had time to sit down to his directorial effort from '93 - Iron Monkey, which is also filled with scenes of stylized martial arts. So it would seem that despite my brief disclaimer at the beginning of this paragraph, all evidence points to my having had something of a blood lust to satisfy during the last week or so. At no time did I recoil in horror when watching on screen characters get beaten to a bloody pulp. Kill Bill especially provided such treats as a woman getting her eyeball ripped out of its socket during one of its numerous, blood soaked, fighting contests. In fact I have to say that I enjoyed all of these films, and I would add that it's my contention that Kill Bill will become a bona fide classic when it is old enough to deserve such cachet.

But now I would like to go back in time a few years - I'm fairly certain it was 2004. The title on the tongues of many a cineaste was Gaspar Noé's Irreversible, also on the abovementioned Time list. This was violence of a completely different nature. That most attractive and talented Italian star Monica Belluci starred with her husband Vincent Cassel in a rape/revenge where the rape scene was reported to be unprecedentedly graphic and seven minutes in length. As if that weren't enough to get them flocking to the cinema in droves, everything happened backwards, so that you got the revenge before the rape. It just so happened that shortly after I'd been reading all about Irreversible and discussing it with a friend, Paraic (who, it has to be said, was a little keener on watching it than I was), I had to go to the Indonesian embassy in Singapore to get my work permit. Now if ever such a title were to make it to Jakarta's cinemas, the copious nudity would be truncated, thus rendering a trip to see it a pointless exercise. However, to my surprise, the Singaporean censor had seemed to have relaxed its puritanical mindset recently, and Irreversible was playing. Indeed, my friend Paul living in Singapore had been to see it and he 'recommended' going to watch it, providing ample warning of its brutality. As did all the signs up next to its posters at the cinema. As did even the man working the box office. I have to say, I was apprehensive about setting foot in the theatre at this stage, and it is likely that my 2010 self would just walk away and seek out reruns of The Cosby Show on television to watch instead. The main reason for going, I think, was that my 2004 self had a burning urge to compete with Paraic for cinematic experiences, and it would clearly be something to talk about when I got back to Java. I knew he wanted to see the movie, but would have close to zero chance of ever seeing it in a cinema.

So I watched the film.

Not only was it chronologically backwards, not only did it contain the most horrific episodes I have ever seen before or since, but it also made extensive, and possibly unique, use of 'queasy-cam'. I am highly susceptible to motion sickness, and the latter device has induced great waves of nausea within me during the viewing of far more innocuous titles. As if all of this weren't enough, Mr Noé's soundtrack choices made use of noises set at 28Hz (almost inaudible) with the express intention of making people feel sick. It was and continues to be the only time I have had to turn away during a trip to the cinema, because I couldn't stomach what was happening on screen. In short, the film was severely damaging to both my senses and sensibilities. For the rest of the day, I wandered around Orchard Road before going back to my hotel, waiting for Paul to finish work, feeling quite ill and disenchanted with it all, only thankful for the small blessing that Bill Cosby did indeed pop up on my hotel room's television, making life seem less harsh for approximately 20 minutes. When Paul was finally ready for a beer, we discussed the 97 minutes of soul wrenching I had endured earlier in the day.

Neither then nor now have I been able reach a definitive verdict as to Irreversible's place in the annals of cinema, and I have no desire for reevaluation. But it must be deemed to have achieved a certain measure of success, as it has done what any serious attempt at art should be able to do; it made people talk about it. Even now, six years later, its intentions as cinema still swirl around in my mind:

Backwards

Reversing the series of events and letting us see the brutal act of revenge before witnessing the brutality it is avenging made both events seem equally unpalatable. The notion that 'he got what he deserved' never entered my mind.

Graphic to the extreme

Meant that the violence truly was violence, utterly abhorrent, and therefore could not exist as entertainment. So is it art by default ?

Which brings me back to where we came in, with the other kind of violence in films that is both highly entertaining, and has also been lauded as art by respected authorities. The likes of Kill Bill, and possibly Tarantino's entire oeuvre should most definitely be kept from the eyes of young children, while adults such as myself should be allowed to make our own informed choices, then label them as art if we see fit. But I do mean informed. My first viewing of Kill Bill Volume 1 was in a cinema in the company of a pregnant woman - who I don't think has ever forgiven me for the experience, and if we had been given better information about the explicitness it contained, she might have bowed out before buying her ticket. Just because fantasy violence is less disturbing (to some) than realistic violence, why shouldn't it come with the same kinds of spoken and written warnings that a film such as Irreversible did?

In the documentary about the Motion Picture Association of America and its capricious attitude toward censorship This Film is Not Yet Rated, the highly acclaimed director Darren Aronofsky (π, Requiem for a Dream, The Wrestler) is memorable when he is interviewed and puts forward the theory that cartoonish violence is the kind to which access should be restricted whereas realistic violence should have fewer barriers in place to prevent its dispersion. I couldn't help but agree with him, up to a point.

I try my best to wait for my six year-old son to be out of our flat before I sit down to watch something that I know will have extended/explicit scenes of violence, and I don't see much difference between endless rounds of machine gun fire and empty-handed combat. My belief is that unrealistic violence as seen by a six year-old could contribute to an understanding that inflicted pain is inconsequential. But then to allow scenes of brutality to enter the flatscreen which I myself have trouble witnessing while he is around? While there is a certain logic to educating about violence by showing its consequences, there could also be such a thing as too much reality, too soon.

I have so far not been able to bring myself to put on Pier Paolo Pasolini's Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom nor Lars von Trier's Antichrist, despite having huge admiration for these director's other works (most of those that I've seen are things of beauty, and all have been devoid of gore), and fully believing that their intention with the aforementioned titles was not to create infamous video nasties, despite many a renters probable desire to see something shocking.

Which is the real problem. The culprits are not the movies themselves, but rather the people who watch them. Pasolini was a fringe character; a homosexual Marxist in a time and place where these traits were most unacceptable, murdered in what was probably a sexual encounter with a stranger gone awry. During his shortened life he created some deeply introspective pieces of Italian cinema, including his direction of a superbly endearing Anna Magnani as the titular prostitute of Mamma Roma, and what is regarded by many as the superlative Christ biopic - The Gospel According to Matthew. Both of these titles are as arthouse as can be - and not the revisionist exploitation kind. Yet the film that Pasolini has been remembered the most for is the one that I can't seem to sum up the courage to slip into my DVD player: Salò. I find it difficult to believe that all the people who seek out this title do it because they're interested in the plight of Italian peasants under fascist rule - and it is well publicized that this is what Pasolini found the Marquis de Sade's 120 Days of Sodom analogous to. Instead, there is little doubt in my mind that the reason Salò is a relatively easy disc to buy at Jakarta's bootleg markets, next to clearly less nobly minded flights of horror fancy, is because of what it has in common with these other shockers, and not for what it doesn't.

Obviously we cannot regulate taste, and even if we could, we shouldn't. Therefore, we must regulate the media itself. Here I'm brought back to what Mr Aronofsky had to say on the subject. Why is it that cartoon violence is so easily accessible to our children? I don't mean the slapstick of Tom & Jerry, which is so far removed from any kind of reality that I find it highly unlikely to have any kind of damaging effect. But there are other more lifelike cartoons out there, aimed at primary school-aged children, where characters shoot guns at each other and engage in hand-to-hand combat. There are also plenty of feature films with stories obviously directed at small children, yet containing similar scenes of fantastical action.

There aren't easy answers to such questions, and I certainly don't have a point by point plan which I could offer to the people in charge. However, whenever I watch any kind of action on screen, I remind myself that pain exists, and that a violent death is one of my chief fears in life. I do believe that some of the titles I have mentioned above only serve to reinforce such values, though they are strictly not for young children. While the vast majority of Joe public may well be interested in perverse pleasure at the outset, I believe that same majority will glean a small amount of indelible revulsion to physical cruelty after watching it expertly and realistically rendered, then followed - or preceded - by its aftermath.

An Unsharpened Perspective of Traffic Congestion in Jakarta

2010-09-07T17:55:00.000-07:00

aLocal media here in Jakarta has devoted much time in the last few weeks to a problem which the city administration has been focusing on. A problem which any sane person would have deduced long ago was the problem most worth spending time and resources on. It would seem that in recent years the ridiculous spike in the number of two-wheeled vehicles hitting the streets, thanks to increasingly friendly financing schemes, has allowed those who travel around in private automobiles to turn around and say, 'we've got to do something about all these motorbikes bottlenecking the roads'. It doesn't take an overly logical train of thought to reach the following conclusions: a) those who have benefited the most from motorcycle sales are those who are chauffeur driven around the city in luxury cars and b) private cars are still the worst problem out there; that they are slightly more attractive to look at and much safer doesn't alter the fact that the worst traffic jams are caused by endless lines of cars containing their driver alone.

From what I've read, the recent special brainstorming session to combat traffic congestion, involving various related government personnel, could be best described as how to expensively state the bloody obvious. As a daily user of the busway, and other forms of public transport available in the city, I feel vaguely qualified to state my own opinions on the issue. The internet is chock full of lists already, and they can be annoying, but I feel a list is a useful way of trying to articulate what will ultimately still be an unsharpened viewpoint.

1. Forget about other forms of public transport and keep developing the busway

The busway obviously has plenty of friends, the fact that it is so popular is evidence enough. However, its detractors are many and varied. In such instances, I can't help but be suspicious of powerful individuals with agendas working behind the scenes to derail a public project for the greater good. One commonly voiced complaint that rallies much support is that the busway's dedicated lane means worse traffic in other lanes. Again, it doesn't require a very analytical mind to realize that this is a patently false argument. A quick glance at any backed-up queue of cars in Jakarta will show that most of the cars are occupied by one person, whereas the busway buses, including the articulated bendy buses, are rarely not filled to capacity. Citizens of Jakarta: get out of your cars and on to buses. Those members of the public who think a more agreeable alternative is a mass rapid underground train service, as has been scheduled for construction, don't seem to be wearing their thinking caps. If they are worried that traffic got bad when the busway lanes were under development, wait till they see what happens when an enormous network of tunnels is being built under the city.

In a city where infrastructure has crossed the minds of those in charge so late in the day, the busway is the only option that makes sense. So what if it pushes private motorists off the road? Isn't that part of the overall objective?

2. Tax them

I have met both motorcycle and automobile owners in Indonesia who consider themselves to be 'poor'. It is possible that such groups of people face cash flow problems, and it is also possible that they don't spend their Saturday nights eating swordfish soup, but in a country such as Indonesia, they don't quite fit my definition of 'poor'. If you are climbing the vehicle ownership ladder, you are upwardly mobile, albeit at times at a very gradual rate of ascent. I do know that every minimum wage earner I've ever encountered has a first priority of converting money earned into a motorcycle, and while it may seem like callously crushing the dreams of the underprivileged, it shouldn't be as easy as it is for minimum wage earners to get that dream off the ground. The figure most often quoted is IDR 500,000 to pay the down payment on a two-wheeler, which by today's exchange rate is just over US$55. It is also approximately half of the lowest legal monthly salary for Jakarta. While I don't believe motorbikes are the only problem, nor the biggest one, plaguing the city's roads, they need to be more heavily taxed, with that money going straight back into the coffers of the department of transportation. It's naive to imagine that the public officials in charge will then go on to use the funds to make visible improvements to public transportation in a seamless process, but the ideal has got to be in place before it can be realized.

People who drive cars should be dealt a more stinging blow to their wallet in the form of taxes. I don't know what it presently stands at, but whatever that figure is, it needs to be increased ten-fold.It should get more and more painful with each addition to a private fleet of automobiles. If someone can afford to own more than one car, they should be able to afford prohibitive taxes. If not, they need to be thinking about taking that money and investing it in a higher education fund for their children instead.

3. Teach them how to drive first

I have acquired two driver's licenses in Indonesia, so I can speak with personal experience when I say that it is easily done. All you need is enough money, pure and simple. At no point was I ever asked to go near a vehicle, let alone display my driving prowess. Nor was I ever asked to complete any kind of written test. If memory serves correctly, the most attention was paid to making sure I looked neat and tidy for my license photograph. Imagine how many motorists in Jakarta would be instantly removed from their wheels/handlebars if asked to submit to the kinds of rigorous testing procedures extant in the UK? Most of them. Extremely poor adherence to a highway code also means more congestion. Zigzagging especially, but also the idea that a traffic light is there to give a hazy reminder that this is in fact an intersection, and if traffic charges forward blindly from all directions, it will become gridlocked. So often do you see a picture on Jakarta's streets which could be placed under the word 'bottleneck' on Wikipedia. That is, a vast number of vehicles congested at a central point, with a wide open space on the road behind it.

This is one area where outside help is called for, as the people currently issuing licenses would fail to obtain one in any country where knowing the highway code is a prerequisite to getting behind a wheel. Perhaps the prospect of calling in foreign professionals to teach the local professionals how to do their jobs properly has issues of pride attached. Swallow it.

4. Stop charging peanuts for parking

In most parts of the city you can park a car for a flat fee of between IDR1,000-2,000. Even in better regulated carparks, this is somewhere near the hourly fee. Again, why are the very people who are causing all the traffic problems not being charged for it? The more expensive it gets to drive a car, the more people will be forced to think about carpooling, public transport, or simply just going for a walk if they get really bored.

5. Outlaw jalopies in all shapes and forms

It's no secret that many of the vehicles currently taking up space on the roads are hardly fit to be there, they are eyesores, deathtraps, and the worst polluters. The only way this can be resolved is by dealing severely with the worst offenders. Cars that are apparently better suited to act as fog machines at a discotheque should be immediately impounded, as should public buses which are such rust buckets, that it is only the rust which is still keeping the bodywork together. Again, it may seem as though these are the people who can ill-afford to lose their means of transport/livelihood, but they have had ample warning. The first legislation put in place to regulate emissions emerged nearly a decade ago. The three-wheeled Bajaj with their two stroke engines are deadly polluters as built by their manufacturers, yet they can be neatly converted to gas powered engines. Why hasn't the administration made this easier with tax breaks and subsidies? The blue gas Bajaj, which have also had their interiors refitted to be more spacious and pleasant, are in too scant supply, while their filthy red antecedents are still a boon to many who need a relatively cheap means of traveling a short distance.

6. Enforce laws for more than a month at a time

Herein I believe, lies the real key to cleaning up the mess that are the roads as used by Jakarta's motorists. Time and again, laws get passed, and time and again after a brief burst of activity where people are ticketed for infractions, laws are forgotten and we are left with streets that more closely resemble scenes from a science fiction dystopia than the capital city of a country whose economy has been going from strength to strength in recent years. The recent 'sterilizing' of the busway lanes is a case in point. While many offenders were punished for invading the busway's space at the start of this month, during the last week, most of them seem to have crept back into the lanes, in plain view of uniformed policemen. It seems as though there are set lists of violations to watch out for during one month, which don't necessarily carry on into the next month. As though traffic ordinances were of a temporal nature. In recent memory, motorcyclists have been asked to make sure they wear proper headgear, yet at the same time, children riding pillion bareheaded go unchecked. Clearly there is something wrong with the attitude toward highway code enforcement, and as with a better method of testing for licenses, outside help seems like the only answer.

The New Loneliness

2010-09-06T06:20:00.000-07:00

This is my first foray into the blogosphere - a term with a curiously unpleasing ring to it. With that in mind, a few words of introduction. I live in one of the most densely populated corners of the earth, I'm half British/half Indonesian, I watch a great many films and episodic television and similar amounts of music. Also; I'm a single father of one with a full-time job, trying to better myself through study. The study part leaves little time for the reading of books, although I used to do quite a lot of that too.

The purpose of this blog is to turn what goes through my head during hours of bus rides into something with actual purpose. I have a strong desire to write about film, largely in the hope that I may provide a take that I don't find in the articles of professional critics, although I hold nothing but reverence for the many well-known writers on film whose articles I consume on a daily basis. What I don't want is for this to be a 'now playing' set of recommendations, as apart from anything else, my own tastes simply wouldn't allow for it. Instead, I would like to be able to write about anything, perhaps not only cinema, that invoked a desire to get busy with a keyboard. And if that something is film, it could easily be in relation to a title from the '20s or onwards.

Solitary Man and The Yellow Handkerchief

In the last two days, I was surprised to watch two recent films which I enjoyed. Not only because they were both very well made, which they were, but also because they contained an element which I've found wanting of late: surprise. It's a difficult thing; to surprise the seasoned moviegoer, and let it be said unequivocally that I have watched far more movies than is healthy during my relatively short time on earth. Frankly, it's not something I get from watching the horror or thriller genres very often, and indeed, I'm more likely to be taken off guard by the actions of a character in a drama, often because something good has happened. Negative actions tend to translate well as drama, which may be why we've seen the same unpleasant scenarios expertly played out far too often. When a character conveys a greater sense of his or her worth to an audience, it is most likely thanks to intricate mapping on the part of a screenwriter, or emotional restraint by a director. To such craftsmen who choose to deliver slow enjoyment to our senses, rather than a quick fix tonic, we should be grateful.

A common strand that was to be found connecting the two titles in the above heading was their underlying theme of loneliness, and their respective handling of it was both admirable and yes, surprising. In Solitary Man, Michael Douglas and Danny Devito both handle their roles by evoking sympathy in ways that I'm fairly certain I hadn't seen from either of them before, and I have seen most of their major performances in feature films. This is made stranger by the fact that they are essentially playing versions of themselves; two college friends who were great confidantes in their formative years. The difference here is that Douglas's character went off and got his face on the cover of Forbes, while Devito's (who has much less screen time) was content to stay in his hometown and inherit/manage the family restaurant. They reunite because Douglas has begun to crash and burn, epitomizing that too much is never enough. Because of his increasingly reckless behaviour, he finds himself eventually working at Devito's eatery - and not in a management position. As a plot synopsis it all sounds simplistic, riches to rags to all kinds of wetness. However, what co-directors Brian Koppelman and David Levien manage to do, using a script also written by Koppelman, is deal with this subject matter maturely, in a way that is not wholly realistic, but does contain important overlaps with the realities of life. Their final accomplishments are to gain real poignancy from the title toward the end, and to provide an ending not typical of films starring Michael Douglas and Danny Devito.

Just before I sat down to type, I watched The Yellow Handkerchief, a film starring that most difficult to pin down actor - William Hurt. He is one of the few people who can be watched just for the sake of watching his acting, and in most of his films, you often get the sense that he is the film, and everything else is just props and scenery (not really fair to the rest of the cast and crew, but, you get the picture). Again, here is an actor with a rich and vast resume, who appears to have created an entirely new character. The accent, the facial expressions, the physical movement. I wouldn't fault someone less familiar with Hurt for failing to recognize him from another film. In Yellow Handkerchief, he is reunited with his co-star from David Cronenberg's modern classic, A History of Violence, Maria Bello, although their story is a subplot to the main event. To give away much more about the relationships among the characters would be spoiling things, but this is essentially a road movie where Hurt is one kind of societal loner who finds himself thrown together with two others played by Kristen Stewart, of Twilight fame, and Eddie Redmayne. These three share a journey together, and while Hurt has much knowledge to pass on to them - thanks to his seniority - they end up repaying him in kind. This last item seems to be what has provided fodder to the films detractors, complaining of formulaicness. Admittedly, formula is depended on at certain stages, but I found the film to be so much more about the interrelationships among the three who share a journey: one old, two young, that most of the formula went largely unfelt. They are apart from one another not only in years, but also in that they are very different people. It could be that they eventually bond because of their differences, and these moments are played out gracefully by director Udayan Prasad, who manages to make them by far the most interesting parts of the film, not least because this type of slow character development is so scarce among most new releases. Characters developing in ways that we can truly identify with is something that always surprises me more than a giant insect managing to devour half the cast.