Movie Review: Passion Fish (1992)

Cast & Credits

Mary McDonnell  (as May-Alice)

Alfre Woodard  (as Chantelle)

David Strathairn (as Rennie)

Written, Directed And Edited By John Sayles.

Running Time: 135 Minutes. 

My Rating: 3½ stars of 5

Passion Fish, showcases its 2 principal characters’ (May-Alice and Chantelle) hopefulness and hopelessness in a light which I had never realized previously. Where May-Alice relapses into a daze of misery and alcohol-induced mist of self-centeredness, Chantelle struggles alone towards her self-rehabilitation - two unlikely individuals who are connected at a very obvious level, by the conflict of their motivations for existence but at a deeper plane, related not by conflict but by identification of a shared identity.

Named after a Cajun superstition about finding love, the movie opens with a close-up of May-Alice’s eyes as she lays on a hospital bed, victim of a freak accident and now, very mean-tempered inheritor of a crippled body. Her soap acting rendered futile and raging at the seeming dithering uselessness of all hospice personnel in uniform (nurses, physical therapists, doctors, psychiatrists), May-Alice moves back to the family home by a Louisiana bayou in a clear attempt at drinking herself into oblivion. Bound to a wheelchair and perennially in front of the television with a wine bottle as an unshakeable appendage, she has an attendant nurse to look after her but her belligerence results in a steady procession of agency-sent nurses who take up the May-Alice assignment only to leave the cantankerous woman within a short time. This mélange is broken only when a feisty black nurse (Chantelle) comes into the picture – who takes up this work for far more substantial reasons than what initially appear.

May-Alice’s curmudgeonly self-indulgence in wine and TV collide with the blunt denials and admonitions of Chantelle, with decidedly un-“nursey” approaches. This conflict of wills between two strong and set women lies at the heart of this film; a conflict which does not get manifested in typical conventionally hoarse and piquant scenes. What interested me immensely are the numerous tiny battles which emerge in the course of this war of wills – a tug here, a pull there followed by a push. Several times in the movie, I expected the dam of unresolved and unsatisfied emotions to burst into a torrent of screams and the inevitable firing of the nurse. It never came.

Passion Fish intensely resists the easy transition of such a story into a likely tale of maudlin sentimentalism and spiritual upliftment. When I think of it, the movie is less of a motif for human tragedy or that of people who have suffered mentally or physically coming out of the ordeal as veritable angels. Alice-May is a self-proclaimed “bitch”, her repartess with Chantelle are stinging – you do not have to like her. Chantelle likewise, does not automatically get custody of her child because she is a reformed addict now.

Then there is the Louisiana landscape and the comic portraits of an assortment of Alice-May’s visitors, and a repressed but tender romance which materializes with an old acquaintance. To the back of the house, there are verdant and soothing wetlands teeming with herons, alligators and snakes while towards the front, the track which leads to it is dusty and decidedly un-photogenic with what I can only presume to be factories, pumping affluents into this seemingly serene lake. This two-tinged sepia is present everywhere in the movie. Chantelle appears at first, to be a strong, cool and collected customer, but later developments show all too well, the timidity in character that co-exists. This many-layered portrayal of a story of two women is marked by engaging performances all-round and a screenplay which does not veer into the realm of the tear-jerker. Some may find the movie’s duration (at 2-and-a-quarter hrs) a tad taxing, but the unfolding drama may very likely, present you with the patience to partake in its delights.

One more thing, I love the “I didn’t ask for the anal probe” monologue for its intensity and the sheer range of emotions it seeks to explore – from thrill to determination to anticipation to frustration to dismay and finally, resignation. You can take a gander at this scene here (it is titled as a comic scene in YouTube, never mind).

IMDb link for Passion Fish  

Death of a Balladeer in Mumbai

There was a quote I found in a newspaper some days back; reflective of the general public mood in the wake of Anna Hazare’s agitation against corruption in the echelons of power. I reproduce it here - "You chase the drunken elephant towards us, but if we people come together, we can tame him too"; said by a hypothetical commoner Assamese of bygone times to the ‘Swargadeo’, the Divine Title assumed by the Ahom king (the Ahoms ruled over Assam for more than 600 years). The words speak of the power within the common people like us, held within our throbbing hearts and pulsating blood to even subvert the will of a heavenly creature like the ‘Airabot’ (the Royal Elephant of the Ahoms). These evocative words might have been poured into a song, a book or a film – I do not know, for Bhupen Hazarika, the man who penned them, also composed songs, wrote lyrics, created screenplays, directed movies, authored books. And Bhupen Hazarika, the man who could create such a landscape of sheer beauty for us Assamese, for his country and indeed for the world, died today evening in Mumbai.

Dr. Bhupen Hazarika (1926 - 2011)

Bhupen Hazarika was a symbol of Assam, the North-east and the Assamese like nothing before has been, and nothing after probably ever will be. His songs, the wonderful poetry he wove, the music he composed are a part of the consciousness which the Assamese society possesses or lays claim to. Indeed, he could create ethereal magic out of nothing and everything. Dew drops glistening from the wires strung across telephone poles, a mother harshly admonishing her child with a switch – everything was grist to that wonderful imagination. In his compositions, this maestro consistently held aloft the motif of the mundane, the everyday into a thing of great beauty.

It is perhaps immaterial at what unthinkably tender age Bhupen Hazarika composed and sang his first song, or which were the many commendations and awards that a grateful people bestowed upon him, or who were all those great singers and musicians and artists who collaborated alongwith him to create great masterpieces. What matters is he created universal images for everyone who seeks to lend this great artist his senses, for all time to come.

For a long time (since June this yr), this great artist under the ravages of old ages, had been ill and admitted in a private hospital in Mumbai. A few days back, when the news of him suffering a complete renal failure came, the newspaper report proclaiming this carried a detail which I felt very numbing. The report stated that Bhupen Hazarika as he lay strapped onto a life-support system, seemed oblivious to everything else, but one thing. His head doctor said that the 85-year old was responding only to Bihu geet (the harvest songs of Assam) – he seemed to have just that little bit of consciousness to lightly tap his fingers to the rhythm of the song which was played to him intermittently. At 16:37 today evening, those frail fingers stopped tapping their wonderful magic into our lives.

(You can know more about Bhupen Hazarika in the following 2 links.)

Website dedicated to Bhupen Hazarika 

Wiki's Stub on Bhupen Hazarika 

When keys don’t work

It is peculiar when your work’s output is tied down to seemingly unrelated and self-indulgent idiosyncrasies. Sportsmen, artists, students, everyone – me definitely included – seek the comfort of little serendipitous joys when we set out to do something. To the young Indian hunter of the Old West setting out to track bison, an eagle in the sky would have probably meant good fortune; two eagles and it would have just as well meant something bad. The basic theme underlying this and all other ‘omens’ is one of the human mind seeking and deriving assurance and reinforcement from the external environment, whether it be a bird, a broken egg, or anything else, when it is on the threshold of embarking on action.

The reverse is also true – I forget how many times I have let random, unconnected happenings lure me away from my chosen path, with hidden, subtle messages of futility and incipient bad fortune. Human nature is also ironical in that, while it seeks assurance from a thousand and one things when it is beginning a course of action, a solitary, stray incident containing within it obscure but seemingly portent cues of “all-your-efforts-will-come-to-naught” is sufficient to dissuade one from breaking away from such a course.

So, it is with me and my blog. ‘Compulsive Pursuits into Quaintness’ ran into an unexpected blockade when my keyboard conked out on me. To be fair, my laptop keyboard had been giving me quiet hints for some time now when one-by-one, its keys stopped working. First, it was ‘O’ that simply stopped responding to the pressure of my right middle finger, then it was ‘N’ followed by ‘B’ and ‘C’ in quick succession. So, you must surely understand my consternation if I ever had to type in ‘Bacon’ – still I struggled on, using the on-screen keyboard until. Until that is, till almost all the keys gave up the ghost, leaving me stranded. I was somehow relieved at this ‘divine signal’, happy to let my blogging days take a break (fulfilling but completely unearned, I must confess).

Getting a keyboard replacement started its own saga of dismay and frustration, involving in its wake, a kindly friend in Delhi, one less-than-knowledgeable computer parts dealer in Nehru Place, eBay India, a careless laptop accessories seller from Ahmedabad. Finally, I got my new keyboard and have now got it installed.

Equilibrium has now been restored and I feel, compulsive pursuits may now resume. So, tag along!

Tumse Acchaa Kaun Hai: The original Indian tobogganist

It was just yesterday that I was taking a drive along with a friend when I saw an Amul hoarding depicting a tribute to Shammi Kapoor who passed away on Aug 14. Like always I wondered at how promptly the marketing people at Amul react to contemporary events, incorporating them into their entire campaign. A much more heartfelt and sobering realization was that the person they were remembering is no more.

I have only seen a handful of Shammi Kapoor’s films but the images which immediately spring to my mind are enduring nevertheless. You say ‘Shammi Kapoor’ and I instinctively see him sliding down a snowy slope in gay abandon, dangling dangerously down the sides of a shikara creating ripples in the water with his fingers, and playing air guitar on a dance floor and twisting like Elvis. If anything, he was a handsome rogue with a style, a panache and nonchalant brashness that we get to see far more (and in excessively cringing amounts) in today’s lot of stars. Yes, Shamsher Raj Kapoor was the original rockstar of Hindi cinema.

It is common knowledge that Shammi Kapoor used to be a computer and internet buff and was an enthusiast long before computing and the internet revolution took shape in India. I once met a person in Mumbai who used to work for a telecom company which offers bundled broadband services. Once he was sent on a customer complaint call to Shammi Kapoor’s residence in Malabar Hills. Understandably he was nervous about meeting one of yesteryears’ greatest film idols. When he went inside the house, Shammi Kapoor himself sat down with him and explained the problem that he was facing - evidently the dongle provided by the company (required to be inserted into the USB port to activate the internet connection) was not working on his laptop. So, he was asking the company to disconnect the services.

The rep found out that Shammi Kapoor was using a Mac and the dongle provided by his company was not compatible. He explained the issue, also suggesting that if he so wanted, he could be provided with the compatible accessory which should expectedly solve the problem. The only glitch was that bringing in that part would take an additional 3 – 4 hours and so, Shammi Kapoor would have to wait. The actor agreed readily, provided the guy with snacks, made small-talk with him and the rep left, saying that he would be back with the part by that evening. When he came back, the actor himself opened the door and sat patiently till the time that the new part was installed and a demo afterwards shown to him. Work done, Shammi Kapoor smilingly led the rep outside, thanking him for his help and the prompt response. When this person told me this story, he remarked that when it is a complaint call, very few customers are so courteous to a company rep and fewer still are willing to patiently wait for a solution. An actor and a legend at that, did what even ordinary people like myself consider an unnecessary and unthinkably difficult task – treating others courteously.

Sharmila Tagore who co-acted with Shammi Kapoor says this of the actor, “It is difficult to imagine Shammiji without life, and life without Shammiji.”

The original Indian tobogganist who attempted the feat for the first time on celluloid and of course, without the toboggan in characteristic fashion, is now living only in our hearts.

A Heart Purple

With living spaces shrinking for man and wild animals, both are becoming increasingly violent and their spreading conflicts are turning progressively ugly. The loser in most cases is the wild animal. So when I read the newspaper front page on 27^th July, I was dumbfounded.

The usage of the phrase ‘into the lion’s mouth’ is merely connotative of knowingly and willfully doing something dangerous, like approaching a feared person, especially in order to ask a favour. The literal usage of ‘into the lion’s mouth’ has now been exemplified by a man, who undertook this dangerous task not to entertain an audience (à la the lion trainer in a traveling circus) but to save the beast’s life.

The Centre of Wildlife Rehabilitation & Conservation (CWRC) based out of Kaziranga is committed towards the protection of wild animals; they rescue and rehabilitate animals who come into conflict with man in shared habitats. On 26^th July, a team from CWRC set out for a village near Kaziranga on hearing reports that a leopard had been trapped. The team comprised of veterinarian Abhijit Bhawal, Raju Kutu and Tarun Gogoi (both animal keepers). The female leopard had attacked a villager earlier in the day, and was now facing imminent death at the hands of the agitated villagers. Armed with sharp weapons, the mob converged at the spot and surrounded the leopard in a vegetable field, but it managed to outwit the mob momentarily by jumping into a drain. The CWRC team equipped with a tranquiliser gun and a net, attempted to tranquilise the animal when it was inside the drain but the visibility was too poor to take a shot.

The leopard jumped out of the drain and took shelter inside a bamboo grove with the mob hot on its trail. Tarun ran along with the villagers to the spot where the leopard was taking shelter, trying to persuade them not to attack it. When the mob did not pay heed to his pleas, Tarun jumped on the leopard and held it tightly to save it from being beaten up. By the time Abhijit and Raju arrived on the spot and netted the leopard, Tarun’s right hand upto his forearm was inside its mouth. On seeing the netted down leopard, the villagers calmed down and the team extricated Tarun’s mauled arm from the big cat’s mouth. Injuries to both Tarun and the leopard were not severe – Tarun was hospitalized and subsequently discharged; the leopard was tranquilised and shifted to CWRC, undergoing treatment for a minor injury. Even as I am writing this post, the rescued and rehabilitated leopard must be going through its paces back in the wild.

Tarun aiding another big cat

Speaking to the media after the fateful incident, Dr. Abhijit who was in the CWRC team that day says this of with Tarun says, “He had put his hand inside its mouth to protect his face and head. Had it not been for Tarun’s courageous effort, the leopard would have been beaten to a pulp by the irate mob.” In recognition of this extraordinary act of selflessness and superlative courage, a NGO engaged in wildlife activism, Nature’s Beckon has instituted the ‘Green Salute Award’ and presented it to Tarun Gogoi.

I wonder what citation has been presented to Tarun in the Green Salute Award but there is a very poignant commendation which is commonly used in awarding military Medals/ Decorations/ etc., especially a line which goes something like this – “….Awarded For Extraordinary Heroism above and beyond the call of duty”. What Tarun has done, the qualities that he displayed in saving the leopard in that bamboo grove that 26^th July, his sense of what he probably thinks is ‘wildlife conservation’ goes beyond any touchstone elucidated, expected and exhibited.

Appended  below is a news clipping of the incident;  it does not show actual footage of the rescue but is informative.

To Scotland & Back

I am yet to go and see the sights of Scotland, but evidently atleast one Englishman who had, came down to Shillong and fell in love with its low verdant hills, the ever-present mist and the picturesque lakes. And he must have been the one to coin Shillong with the much-beloved moniker - “the Scotland of the East”.

Shillong the state capital of Meghalaya (“Abode of the Clouds”) is perched at an altitude of 1,520 meters (4,990 feet) above sea level. Shillong was a tiny village till 1864, when it was accorded the status of the new civil station of the Khasi and Jaintia hills. During the colonial period, it was an integral part of the erstwhile British provincial states of Eastern Bengal and Assam and served as the capital even after independence. Shillong thus became Assam's capital in 1874 and remained so for a century

With Shillong being the capital even in the British heydays, it remained the epicenter of administrative affairs, followed naturally by trade and commerce ties. Officers put up residence in Shillong, their families soon followed uphill cos after all, the ‘Scotland of the East’ with its salubrious climate, was and still is a comfortable address. Schools came up, shops opened and Shillong became a city.

With the creation of the new state of Meghalaya in 1972, Shillong ceased to be Assam’s capital. Thereafter, there was a reverse influx of Assamese families from Shillong. In Guwahati, it is easy to come across people who used to work and live in Shillong, grown men and women who recall wistfully, the wonderful times when as schoolchildren in Shillong, they would roam in Police Bazaar, go trekking in the hills all around, slurp steaming hot soup in roadside stalls around Bara Bazaar and go off to the Polo Grounds to watch the archery competitions and place their bets. The Shillong of yesteryears can still be seen in their memory-laden eyes, and it makes for a very pretty sight. 

A newspaper article last month about the beauty of monsoon in Shillong and the accompanying inflow of tourists that it invariably brings, prompted a family visit in the 3^rd week of June. Shillong is 104 km from Guwahati but for all the difference between the sweltering heat of Guwahati and the coolness of Shillong, you might think that the two places are in two different continents. It is presumptuous to assume that any beauty, even the beauty of a place is meant for consumption of the soul cos beauty and natural beauty at that, should not be cumbersomely burdened with a ‘purpose of being’. But for whatever it is worth, I drank in through my senses, the sights, smell, tastes and sounds of most that Shillong offers.

We put up at Umiam Lake (or Barapani) near Shillong; nestled among all the pines, with the turquoise waters of the lake in the background. For an all-too-brief period on that 1^st day, the lights went out and we spent some blissful moments in candle-light, with the crickets singing in the forests beyond and a starry sky above. A ritualistic visit to Shillong for most includes a trip to Cherrapunji village, now called Sohra, which our school GK books never tired of reminding, was ‘the wettest place on earth’. The sobriquet now belongs to Mausynram (another village nearby). The trip to Cherrapunji often comes accompanied with spray-like rain, which if you playfully poke your face out of the car and heavenwards, drenches it with cool, invigorating minuscule beads of water. In this journey again, more often than not, you will drive through cottony wisps of cloud which descend suddenly upon the road, just like long-lost friends. Of course, with all the driving rain and clouds, you might or not get to see the majestic waterfalls that dot the panoramic landscape, and fall out like so many petulant rivulets from high plateaus into the deep ravines below.

To end on a light note, with all the inherent attractions of falls, peaks and lakes, Shillong also holds enough charms to entice the shopaholics in the form of ‘Police Bazaar (called ‘PB’ by the locals) and Bara Bazaar. Stalls laden with goodies with grim-faced proprietors in the front apt to quote any price which catches their fancy, hard haggling with vehement remonstrations delivered with hand gestures and shame-faced expressions and the joy afterwards of carrying home the fruits of a hard-fought battle in a cheap blue/ green/ pink/ what-have-you plastic packet – all these appeal to the deal-sniffing instincts of my mother and brother.

We trudged onwards through many stalls, finally coming onto ‘Grand Tibet Market’ near Bara Bazaar.  With my brother scanning the goods from one stall to another, mother and myself stopped at one stall to catch our breath.

It was then, that I saw the black tee with a silhouetted Slash (from GnR) with his favourite Gibson Les Paul guitar. Well, one thing led to another and I learned a thing about myself – that I was not so different from my mother and brother, after all. So, I ended up buying 2 tees and a pair of jeans from that one stall. On the jeans front, the pleasant-faced lady proprietor shows me pairs in slim fit, narrow fit, ‘crotch-gripping’ fit with the usual line, “Brother, this here is the latest fashion.” She felt a little let-down when I asked for a straight fit pair which I normally wear, and began rummaging around the bottom shelves, obviously stocked much below the ‘latest fashion’ stuff and came up with exactly 7 pairs of my specification. She looks up and smiles wanly at me, asking me if I would like to try them on.

I glanced quickly over the pairs, realizing one thing I’d missed; so I tell her, “Didi, my waist is 34” and most of these are too small.” Poor didi’s eyes rolled up and in a voice mixed in equal measure with irritation and reproach, she says, “Brother, 34” is too big. You should slim down.” To be fair to didi, I am hardly representative of the local populace of Shillong. The people here are lithe, wiry, slender and of average height. Didi’s looks and words have the effect of making me feel like a outsized giant with a waist liable to attract litigations and summons issued in public interest. To add insult to injury, I am now left with precisely 2 pairs to choose. So, I gulp down my wounded pride and choose.

Afterwards, I found myself thinking of an act by stand-up comic Russell Peters (bit reproduced here) about a similar situation he says he faced in China. This is mirth about girth!!

Great Greta Greatest

“GRETA GARBO!” – The name itself sounds enigmatic, reminiscent of half-hidden, half-tangible visions of wonderment. If the silver screen be the oracle of all that is sparkling and lucent, then Greta Garbo indeed, is one of the greatest goddesses in its pantheon.