Bicycle Thief

I’m a little biased when it comes to the old classic black and white movies. Irrespective of the poor film print, typical melodramatic acting and not to mention the technological aspects, these oldies have always been my thing. And to top it, there are few ‘true’ classics out there that seem to challenge the passage of time. I recently watched, as a part of my Films Studies class, Vittorio De Sica’s ‘Ladri di Biciclette’, infamously known as ‘The Bicycle Thief.’ 

The point of watching the film was to learn about neo-realism, a style movement which attempted to give a new level of realism to cinema. This meant shoots on location, non-actors in lead roles, and tackling issues of everyday life, such as economic and social difficulties.

The film is set in post Second World War, when huge part of Roman population was steeped in poverty. One of them is Antonio (Lamberto Maggiorani), a proud husband and father, whose life takes a turn for the better when he is offered a job pasting film posters on the city's walls. Helped by his wife, who pawns their bed linen, he manages to buy a bicycle. Joy turns to panic when his only means of transport, a bicycle, is stolen. The film, formerly about the search for employment, now becomes a search for the bicycle and the person who stole it.

Bicycle Thief abandons the studio for the dirt and style of the city life.

Antonio is a decent and true man, who wishes only to hold his head up high and to protect the people he loves. He is a working man who has been failed by an economic system that exploited him. He is, in 2008 as much as in 1948, a mirror to many of those people watching him.

The emotional heart of the film is Maggiorani’s relationship with his son, played by Enzo Staiola, a bond that recalls a classic cinematic father-son pairings as Roberto Benigni and Giorgio Cantarini in “Life Is Beautiful.”  There’s something elemental in the sight of a man and his boy walking hand in hand, whether in glory or defeat. This touching relationship between father and son, the father’s increasing desperation and despair, and the son’s gradual loss of innocence, all carry timeless messages. 

This is hardly enough space to do justice to one of the masterpieces of the film industry. Suffice it to say that if you’ve never seen ‘The Bicycle Thief” you’re lacking in your appreciation of what film can do.

In my opinion, The Bicycle Thief is a ‘true classic’ that can still ring with viewers even more than 60 years after it was made.  I couldn’t believe it myself that they were capable of making such technically sound and emotionally power films back in those days, especially in Italy, where they didn’t have anything close to the big budgets of Hollywood.

For a film that premiered more than 60 years ago, ‘The Bicycle Thief’ still feels fresh and vigorous. It's hard to imagine what the history of cinema would look like without Bicycle Thief. 

Psycho

 I am not a fan of the horror genre but I could simply not resist the edge-of-your-seat suspense/ horror movie Psycho. Psycho, directed by Alfred Hitchcock, is certainly one of the best films this brilliant filmmaker ever made. An excellently film, and a very, very much important and great film in the horror genre, Psycho has many thrills and many scares.

Psycho is really a ‘Horror Slasher’ movie, even if you dislike horror movies like I do, Psycho is still recommended to any classic film fan. The only real problem with Psycho is the very slow first half, it was starting to be a disappointment but I am glad that I finished the movie because it was again another movie of my Films Studies class. While many consider this a ‘horror’movie, it was not scary, however it was suspenseful and sometimes very creepy in a good way.

The first very scary scene in the movie is when the character named Marion is taking a shower. A shadowy figure of a woman appears, and repeatedly stabs Marion, and then goes away, leaving Marion to die soon. It is this movie that and exactly this is the scene that spooked every American while having a shower. This scene is so very scary with the scary background music. Before this scene, there were several other thrilling, but none of them were as shocking, as scary, as unexpected as this one. This scene had also inspired many suspense and horror movies.

Near the beginning of the movie Marion Crane, a secretary, steals a lot of money in order to help her divorced boyfriend Sam. She starts for Sam's home in California. She is exhausted. A rainstorm starts, and she is forced to take shelter at the Bates Motel. The manager, Norman Bates, tells her that hardly any visitor come here. She registers with a false name. After showing her the room, he invites her for dinner, and she accepts. Then she hears Norman and his mother arguing. Mrs. Bates doesn't want Marion to come to their house. So, she has dinner in Norman's office. Norman seems to be strongly controlled by his mother. After dinner, she goes for a shower. While taking a shower, the scary thing takes place. And she if found dead on the bathroom floor.

A few days later, Marion's sister Lila is very worried about her. A private detective, Milton Arbogast, is searching for Marion. Lila meets Sam, Marion's boyfriend. Arbogast questions about Marion in different hotels and finally reaches the Bates motel. Then such things start happening that makes the movie more shadowy, more mysterious. And until the very last scene of the movie, the film just kept me looking at the screen.

The film is in fact, a great one truly. The combination of everything makes it so great. The story is wonderful and as the film goes on it gets more mysterious and makes the viewer more curious. It has got thrills, it has got scares.

I would like to give special praise to the music. The musical effects contributed much to make the film more scary, more thrilling..  

The performances are quite excellent. Janet Leigh as Marion, Vera Miles as her sister Lila and John Gavin as Marion's boyfriend Sam Loomis, all play their roles excellently. But the most remarkable performance in this film is given by Anthony Perkins as Norman Bates. I won't go into details about this character.

In short, ''Psycho'' is a great movie, and a great film in the horror or suspense genre. 

Pushing, Shoving, Twisting and Turning in Mumbai

Mumbai local trains are popularly known as the lifeline of this financial hub. I remember, long back in school we learnt in Geography that India holds some 3^rd or 4^th rank for having the largest railways in the world. Carrying more than a million passengers daily, the local train is the fastest mode of transport available. It requires great skill, technique and determination to get in and out of a Mumbai local train. If you have not travelled in a Mumbai local, you have not visited Mumbai and you have not lived and certainly you lack the adventure spirit...

 Mumbai is a sea of people having a basic need of, and a motto of ‘travelling’ in chaos. For Mumbaikars time is money. They have the mentality of completing 30 minutes journey in 3 minutes. Time running out of situation, jostling of the regular travellers, cacophony of the sellers in the trains, cheap transport , over used to the core of heart making an addiction, neglected out of love and the unwillingness of privatization and the unpredictability of the train timing is what Mumbai local trains are all about.

 For all 12 months and all the hours of the day the stations are like one big fish market itself with abstractly creative spit stained walls and floors. The stations are pretty old, deteriorating day by day and outstandingly suitable enough to be displayed in any paleontological museum.

           

People, the beauty and beast of Mumbai, speak of anything they think of, be it some college students having the latest gossips on college couples, school students discussing about studies, working women commenting on some fellow passengers dressing, exchanging food recipes, men playing cards, quarrels over window seat with few Mumbai slangs ,etc. etc. etc. The peak hours or the rush hour is the most wonderful times to travel in a Mumbai local train. You actually get to witness the life of Mumbai and I bet you would be astonished to watch the variety of life existing in this city with the local slangs and the shoving, pushing, twisting and turning.

          

Women have separate compartments to avoid the annoying pack of wolfs. Women wait patiently at the platform like all others, but checking out what the women beside her is wearing, be it clothes, jewellery, tops, jeans or shoes, they would see it with all the attention they can. With magazines or newspapers wrapped with utmost care or with a bulky 700 page novel and hand bags so carefully held near chest with secure arms wrapping the tinny tiny 500 bucks bag as though carrying 1000 carat diamonds, they glide into the train.

          

The environment on and around the platform is not so decent. The atmosphere is warm, filled with dust, irritating pungent smell and evaporated sweat odour making it difficult to recognise what exactly is the smell and as to from which direction it is coming.

         

As the royal train makes its way onto the platform, people get away and immediately take up the best spot to make their grand entry into the royal ride. While people in the ride, simply just jump off with merriment seeing the concrete platform as their task for the day is accomplished.

          

The fans in the trains are a joke or a prank set up by the government to entertain its passengers. The fans are simply meant to burn electricity and won’t work unless you shovel a spin into its blade. Thanks to the brand new trains having fans with a power of throwing out a skinny person on a spin.  The handles in the trains are of great importance. It avoids your elbow from resting on the next persons shoulder or accidently hitting the persons head or face. Sometimes you could also stand or kick someone’s feet without making him realise that you have kicked him, for this you don’t have to be good at juggling or something, the crowd does it all for you. Sometimes you may also get the opportunity of standing at the door while some people fight over that door spot. It is a heavenly pleasure for such people as they get to have a crystal clear view of the world along with the dirty tracks full of shit and puke and enjoying the dusty air that runs through their hair.

Getting into the local train is an art in itself. You have to wait patiently while the people inside the compartments jump out. You don’t really have to take any effort of getting in. All you have to do is stand in the right spot and at the right time, the energetic Mumbaikars will do the rest of shoving you in with all their love and verbal respect which you will certainly find hard to resist.

However terrifically the Mumbai locals are, but it is almost impossible to imagine a day without it. Mumbai has seen it all, right from its fall during the riots and terrorist attacks to its rise in various sectors. Few weeks back the nightmare of ‘no local’ came true. People were stoned. The platforms were horribly crowed with regular passengers hoping that someone might just pinch and wake them up from this nightmare. That’s the importance of Mumbai locals, my friends.    

     

So this is how I look at the Mumbai local trains, wonderful, full of amazing people who always have something to share with their fellow passengers about anything anytime, full of filth, the stink. It’s all in there my friend.

A Tale over Tea

Its a damp cold rainy midnight. Pitch black out the window. With bunged doors and blocked windows I can still get the sweet smell of the presently wet mud. My family is on their dreamy tour with a big ‘Do not disturb me, I’m peacefully asleep’ board on their face. In the darkest of dark, it is just me at my study table, a burning lamp, my ‘high tech notebook’ and a cup of hot tea to keep me awake and warm. The only audible sound alive in the house is that of my dad’s railway engines like snoring, my sister taking in between her sleep, my fingers puncturing the high- tech- notebook keyboard, Rocky howling in between the continuous dripping of the awful rain and my slurping of the hot tea.

Time to start the blog, I said to myself. The moment I started building my blog for New Media credits, a window popped up asking for the title of my- future- blog- to- be. There I was blankly glaring at my laptop screen for a while now. Originally, I wanted my- future- blog- to- be named as ‘Memoir of an Enigma,’ but I had already one blog named that so I couldn’t think of anything for that moment at least.

I got a few crappy suggestions from my sister and friends, though. They said I should name it ‘The Return of Memoir of an Enigma’ or ‘The Rise of Memoir of Enigma’. Guess, they must have known what an inactive blogger I am. My little over smart sister, the miracle marvel of our house, went to heights of calling it ‘Memoir of an Enigma Dwitiya’ (Meaning Part 2). That was it then! The thought of having any other damn name, anything, other than Memoir of an Enigma ‘Whatever’ was good to me.

It’s half past twelve now. I’m at a war with myself. Wasn’t the cold damp climate enough to numb my brains than the over thinking of name for my- future- blog- to- be freezing it like a slow death. The swallow of hot tea and the warmness it generates while holding in between my palms is already making me feel better. Honestly I haven’t felt this cosy and warm in a while now. And there it is. A sudden moment of epiphany. I’m eye balling my hot tea cup in my hand and back at the laptop screen. The tea and the laptop screen. Tea and screen. Tea. Screen. With a jolt of sliding my tea cup on the table, I write on the title space provided- A TALE OVER TEA.

I Blog

Blogging is something that I’ve been doing for the past 3 years. Just so you don’t get a wrong impression – ‘I’m not an active blogger.’ Ha! There, I said it. Out loud. Already feeling lighter.

Blogging for me started for college credits and ended on report cards. It’s not that I don’t write or I’m lazy. I super active and I do write but in the best possible primitive ways. When the world was running behind e- notebooks and e- pocket books, I literally used notebooks. Again when the world was head over heels in love with laptops and tablets, I was and still in love with my tree- made- paper- diary. Quite anti- eco of me, no? But it is something I just can’t get over with. I am more of a snail mail or pen pal than the faster- than- cheetah- speed- emails.

Anyways, again this blog may start for college credits but certainly it would not end on report card. What I mean to say is that I intend to continue it as long as possible. I have no clue how I had this epiphany, but you may call me an overnight turned blogger J