Friday, April 21, 2017

Monte Carlo diaries II

No pigeons interrupted in the quarterfinal match between R. Nadal and the newbie Argentine Diego Schwartzmann today. (It's the Monte Carlo Masters, and I care because it's the run-up to Roland Garros). Just as well, since Nadal seemed a tad distracted. In fact he began with a hideous first game, practically giving away his service game with clunky unforced errors. Schwartzman promptly gave away his service game next, and I was beginning to wonder what we were in for with this inauspicious start. 

Well things did look up from there. The sprightly Argentine stirred things up a bit, making Rafa look sluggish and out of sorts as the first set went on. Never mind that Rafa is his idol; he kept chipping away until Rafa decided enough was enough and began to take control. The same continued in the second set, and at one point Schwartzmann evened the score to 4-4. Que horror! 

In the end Rafa prevailed. He still does not look particularly dazzling though, to be honest, except for one genius shot in the second set. If he is to defeat the tricky little Belgian David Goffin ( Dav-eed Goff-an, how delightful) he'd better step it up. Goffin took out Djokovic, no less, so there.

And with that stern warning, I shall await tomorrow morning. Since he insists on playing the match at 6:30 a.m. my time, I'll have to content myself with the Google update. So be it. If the results are not to my liking I shall be very displeased indeed, purple shirt notwithstanding.

Thursday, April 20, 2017

Monte Carlo diaries I

Nothing like a little classic rivalry to lift one up out of ennui. I refer to exhibits A and B, otherwise known as Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal. 

First, they crept up to the finals of the Aussie Open early this year, shocking me out of total indifference towards tennis since late last year. Of course Fed won the whole thing, spoiling things just a tad, but the match was so close that I was overjoyed anyway. Poor Fed! He's had a heck of a year with his bum knee. And then Rafa with his never-ending wrist troubles. No one believes me when I say I adore Fed; it's just the blind adoration that gets in the way of that if the other one is on the scene.

So that was the beginning of the beginning. 

They rapidly went on to the finals of two more tournaments. Here too, Fed unkindly snatched the trophies from Rafa's waiting teeth. (It's been awfully long since we got to see Rafa chomping down on his trophy at any tournament.)

Now, thank heaven, he has stayed out of the Monte Carlo Masters. Monte who? I would normally ask, having been so far predisposed to care solely for the Grand Slams. But with age comes wisdom. Or at least the realization that since Monte Carlo is a tournament Rafa has already won 9 times, it might be something special if he went for the 10th. 

So when I watched him in the second round against one Kyle Edmund, I was rather keyed up. Too bad the high point of the match came when a rotund and very determined pigeon interrupted proceedings by perching, hilariously, on the net. Rafa vaguely waved his racket in its general direction, not looking too perturbed. No, he won the match quite coolly. Must be my spirit animal, though, that there pigeon. 

On a side note, neon purple seems to be his chosen color for the tournament. I heartily approve. So much so that I am inspired to apply for the position of his stylist; never mind if men's fashion ordinarily bores me to tears. 

Friday, November 04, 2016

Foreign movie Friday: 7 Años

Imagine you are one of four partners of a highly successful technology firm. Imagine that you become frustrated with the government spending of your hard-earned tax money in your country, Spain, and decide to overcome the problem by committing tax fraud and stashing away millions in secure Swiss accounts. Now, the Spanish tax authorities smell a rat and are about to pounce on your clandestine accounts et al. You are all certain to go to jail for at least seven years. But. There is a way out. If one of you takes the fall, not all need to be imprisoned. One can save the other three. 

How do you decide who makes the sacrifice?

This is the premise of the hot-off-the-press drama 7 Años. It premiered on the 28th of October, and thank you Netflix for bringing us this first original European Spanish production. 

So, the four friends and business partners are Luis, Veronica, Marcel, and Carlos. Rather astutely, they hire a mediator to help them solve their conundrum. (Jose the mediator  has a rather thorny task, obviously, but he's offered a cushy sum for his troubles.) The very fact that the four have hired him at all tells us something about them, and as we progress in this tight 77-minute drama, we see more and more of these characters. 

And that's all there is to it. Filmed entirely in the large and modern space of their tech company headquarters/meeting room, the camera pans from face to face, limning gestures, recording voices, extracting motivations and back-stories. In the beginning the camera-work was in fact a little jumpy, leading me to doubt whether I would be able to focus for the duration. But as it went along, the path taken by the characters becomes so engaging and wholly relevant that camera-work is relegated to the background.

All of the actors were unknown to me except for Juana Acosta who plays Vero. (She appeared in the t.v. series Velvet.) And suffice to say, I'm looking forward to seeing more of them. The performances are spot on. Understated but deeply-felt, fully meshing with the realist-minimalist vision of the director. As the minutes pass, the viewer is tempted to form their own hypothesis of the ending, knowing full-well that s/he will probably be thwarted. I had formed my own, and when the ending did arrive I was proven pleasantly off-track.

Not much more one can ask from a film.

Director: Roger Gual
Overall rating: 7/10

Thursday, November 03, 2016

Hazel and buckthorn in the dells

Quite appropriately, J has picked up a book by John Muir to read. Appropriate because he (J, not Muir) is taking me to see the Yosemite valley soon. Finally, I will have seen this legendary place. 

I feel fortunate to have seen a good slice of the national parks in this country. In fact the entire system owes its origins to the passion of Muir. And some 125 years later, the lands remain untouched by interference of any kind, available for all to enjoy and learn from. This is remarkable, especially in this extremely commercially-oriented society. Sometimes I wonder, if not for Muir, what would have become of Yosemite and countless other wilderness areas? Many would be hosting pipelines and townships, I suspect. (But then, Muir himself was in fact a Scot, heh, heh, a fact I poke at J rather unkindly at times.)

Incidentally John Muir is an extremely fascinating figure. Once while watching a documentary on him I became quite taken with him. His writings on nature and botany aside, those eyes! 

Sigh. Someone should come up with a version of Tinder for people long dead. (I borrowed the title of this post from a line in one of his writings.) 

Wednesday, November 02, 2016

When history was the present

My maternal grandmother was 19 when India gained independence from the British in 1947. How I long now to ask her about life then. Of course, being 19 then was vastly more 'adult' than it is now. She'd been married a year and was pregnant with her first child, my mother. Her husband was 11 years older than she was. She was not expected to pursue a career, although she had a razor-sharp brain and came from a long line of distinguished lawyers. 

Sadly, that never-told first-hand account of life in British India is lost to me forever. Why did I never have those talks with her? During the last years of her life I saw her quite frequently. Those were the good days of cheap flights in India (I once got a ticket for a rupee) and it was a short hop away. We developed a friendly, almost mischievous relationship in which I would tease her mercilessly about her various suitors and the effect of her cleavage in obtaining super-fast and efficient home-delivery for her groceries. 

Now I'm finding that I am simply blazing with curiosity to hear about what India was like in the 1940s. It's one thing to watch a glitzy t.v. show or read a well-crafted book, and quite another to hear it from someone who lived it.

Maybe this sense of lost history is another insidious way of realizing that I am now older. History means something entirely different to me now. 

Tuesday, November 01, 2016

Sweets for beasts and the kindness of vampires

Last night there was a rather urgent knocking on our door. Now this has happened perhaps just once in the time that I have lived here, so it was quite a momentous occasion. In keeping with the pitch blackness outside and the rapidly-gathering cold, it was a monster who'd come calling. 

Covered in coarse grayish fur with red glowing eyes and an impressive tail, the monster breathed heavily through a large black snout. "Trick or treat?" he then pronounced, somewhat anti-climactic in his tentativeness. 

And we were not even prepared, oh how inexcusable of us. Still I managed to rustle up some dark chocolate in a fancy bowl, of which the beast timidly took just one. Go on, I urged, have more, have it all! "I can have it all?" he squealed, again belying the ferocity of his appearance. If only his father, watching from beneath the staircase, hadn't urged him not to be greedy, the poor creature would have had a good-ish supply of fine dark chocolate flavored with heavenly raspberry. Still, he trotted off quite contentedly.  

This year we simply stayed home in our pajamas. (Next year I really need to come up with a costume.) Last year J and I set out to get ourselves some. And, overcome by the profusion of cheap colorful goods in the store, for no particular reason purchased a couple of frizzy purple wigs and set off for the Carnaval downtown. Only on the bus, crammed between dozens of wizards, ghouls, Incredible Hulks, pumpkins, serial killers, mermaids and jedis, did we begin to realize the shallowness of our planning when asked what we were going as. Finally, a plump, good-natured vampire christened us Thing 1 and Thing 2 and we gratefully latched on to our given identities when we disembarked, in the midst of the half-million strong crowd. 

Maybe we should start planning right away. There may not be a vampire next year to rescue us and we will have to bear the ridicule of all the monsters in the universe. Or in all of L.A. county, at least.

Monday, October 31, 2016


Half of the enjoyment of a festival is the anticipation of it. If there is no anticipation, the day can just come and go like any other. 

I was saddened this year by the realization that I'd been oblivious of the impending arrival of Diwali. In India this is my favorite festival of sorts. The weather changes to a crispness, if not a coldness, in much of the country. Most cities are lit up with a variety of multi-colored lights, people are out shopping or are cleaning house, and on the big night there is a delightful multitude of fairy lights on virtually every dwelling. Still, my favorites were always the rough clay lamps called diyas, filled with sesame oil and lit with simple cotton wicks. In my youth my sister and I would be the ones to prepare the diyas by soaking them in water a few days before, drying them in the sun, preparing the wicks by hand, then laying them out in every conceivable nook of the house and garden, and finally lighting them all one by one. 

This year, I only woke up a couple of days before. Diwali is Sunday, October 30th, Google told me coldly. I had missed the entire window of anticipation and preparation. 

Still, last night, J and I put on some variety of finery and laid out a few cosmetic diyas and a few fairy lights. I made a rice kheer

I'd better be well and truly alert next year. Perhaps we will actually be in India, that would be the most meaningful thing of all. 
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