Unsolved murder mystery

Auto Focus (2002)

Director: Paul Schrader

Hogan's Heroes used to be a regular feature on RTM's slot for late-night comedy. It did not leave much of an impression on our minds as it dwelled with something quite uninspiring, in our minds at least. It was about a wise-cracking American General and his staff who were imprisoned in a German POW camp during WW2. They tried to outwit their captors, spy upon them and sabotage their every move. It went on for six seasons. 

The main character, Robert Crane, or rather his death, appeared in one of the crime podcasts. Initially a family man and a church-going Catholic, he got the acquaintance of John Henry Carpenter. Carpenter was an electronic techie who introduced Crane to the then-nascent home videos in the 1965s or so.

As the film puts it, both developed a symbiotic relationship. Crane, through his good looks and contact with showbiz, got in contact with girls, and Carpenter would set the recording devices to record their sexual acts. Over the years, the sheer number of tapes in their collection hit the roof. 

Crane's offers dwindled after Hogan's Heroes. Money troubles crept in. His wife divorced him. He married his co-star, with whom he was already in a relationship. He moved around performing at dinner parties whilst feeding his sex addiction. Carpenter was his partner in crime, helping out in imprinting their trysts on tape.

Crane was found dead, bludgeoned to death and strangled with an electrical cord. Even though Carpenter was high on the suspect list, his crime was never proven. It is believed that they had a falling.

Man's (and women's) curiosity about the forbidden probably started from their stay at the Garden of Eden. Voyeurism must have ensued moments after their banishment from there when Adam became curious about Eve's appendages. As more offspring sprung, rules had to be laid, adding curiosity to the young minds. The subtle art of voyeurism found its place in society. What started as yellow literature in print and illustration has morphed to capture more minds through CCTVs, tapes and now hand-held devices. 

Apparently, there is no shame in viewing it on the sly. Due to its ease of access, everyone is watching it anyway. But God forbid if someone is caught consuming or assumes the role of performer, willingly or otherwise, the whole shebang of shaming and victimisation befalls upon them. It is now perfectly healthy to have a wedded couple in their birthday suits as part of their wedding photoshoot package. YOLO.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.

Just enjoy the experience.

Jailer (2023)
Director: Nelson Dilipkumar

This is a Thalaiva movie. Period. Nobody else matters. A trip down memory lane of what stunts he could do and how he managed to maintain a fanbase after all these years is all that made the difference. It did not matter that the services of all the great Indian actors from all char dhams of Indian cinemas had made a cameo appearance here. It is immaterial that Padaiappa’s arch nemesis, Neelambari, is made to look like a lizard on the wall, clicking occasionally. Who cares about the holes in the fantastical storyline that would make a schoolboy cringe? It is Rajnikanth. Superstar is back!

This is what I missed wondering why everyone was praising Rajni’s latest release to high heaven. Even the usually level-headed ones are also pulled into the merriment. It is not about the story or realism. It is an experience, an immersion, and something entrenched in the psyche. Blame it on Tamil Nadu’s early politics and the involvement of screenwriters, musicians, actors and lyricists with local leaders; cinema is not only an escape route to the mundane, unsettling daily lives but a direction towards how the state should be.

Overall, a Tamil masala movie embodies what life is, how justice should be served and what the philosophy of life is all about.

A lot of responsibilities were placed on the shoulders of Nelson Dilipkumar after Rajnikanth’s past few performances have not really been outstanding. Nelson is a newcomer with previous successes in action thrillers with dark humour.

The recurring opening intertitle since the 90s.

Per his usual persona, Rajni appears as a benign and unassuming retiree jailer who carries life performing his prayers, playing with his grandson and doing work around the house. He morphs into a fire-breathing dragon (@dinosaur - a side joke in the movie), just like in Basha when his son, a police officer, goes missing and is apparently put down by baddies. He does not have to create a new punch dialogue, as reminiscing his previous lines is already more than adequate.

Jailer Muthu assumes his previous avatar of a ruthless prison warden to settle the score with all the gangsters around town. He uses his remote-control tactics to mobilise his reformed gang leaders to help him out. Rajni just has to slit a few throats and fire a few shots. He does not have dance in set dances. All Muthu has to do, is wave his spectacles and snap his fingers.

That is Thalaiva for you. A must for die-hard fans who yearn for the serotonin-infused feeling they felt during Rajni’s blockbusters of the 80s, Murrattu Kaalai and Muthu, for one. It does not matter if it defies logic. It is an experience. Indulge. Nerupudaa! Atharluthuleh? ஆதரத்துலே?

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Match made in heaven!

As part of the ritual after marriage, newlywed Brahmin couples are told to search for Arundathi-Vasishta pair of stars (Alcor-Mizar). These double stars make part of the Great Bear constellation and named after a great sage, Vasishta, and his philosopher wife, Arundathi. They were an exemplary couple that complemented each other, without one dominating over the other. 

Unlike most double stars where one star would be revolving around the other, the Arundathi-Vaisishta pair orbits around each other. The Hindu traditions believe that that is how a husband-wife pair should be - the couple should work together; not one exerting dominance over the other!

Varaha

It is beyond comprehension how ancient Indians knew so much about astronomy. These traditions have a long history that predates Corpenicus and Gallilee. At a time when the world was arguing about flat Earth and imprisonment of scientists whose discoveries clashed with the Church, the Indians knew that Earth was a sphere. Varaha, Vishnu's boar avatar, tried to save a spherical Earth from the major floods on his snout. (Not a disc)

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.

Spoilt for choice

Spoilt for choice
But Then Again

By MARY SCHNEIDER

Can’t stomach it: Too much variety can result in indigestion.

It’s great to have choices – in moderation.

VARIETY is not always the spice of life, because too much of it can result in indigestion and regret. Choice is a good thing, but only in moderation. When I’m presented with too many choices, I usually end up in a confused state of indecision that either causes me to make all the wrong choices or renders me paralysed and incapable of making a decision.

I mean to say, there’s nothing worse than paying for the latest iPhone while having the features of the latest Samsung phone dancing tantalisingly around the inside of your head. Or lying on a beach in Turkey while wondering if the ski holiday you considered might have been a better option. Or looking at facelift packages when your butt is sliding down the back of your thighs and could be made perky for the same price.

And don’t get me started on food choices. I try to avoid restaurants that have a menu the size of a telephone directory. Any decent restaurant, in my opinion, shouldn’t diversify to the extent that its options take up more than three pages.

I once had dinner at a restaurant where I was presented with a complimentary bread basket containing 20 different types of bread. This baked abundance came with five different types of butter, resulting in a whopping 100 possible bread/butter combinations. I felt an ulcer coming on just thinking about it.

Restaurants should really confine themselves to only two choices of bread: Brown and white. I’m not a big fan of white bread, so I’d be laughing all the way through my first course. Of course, that’s assuming I could decide whether to have the pate de foie gras, or the barbecued prawns, or the fresh air-flown oysters, or the grilled peppers…

In fact, the more I think about it, the more I feel that first courses should be outlawed altogether. We should just cut to the T-bone, or the pork loin chop, or the rack of lamb … And while we’re at it, let’s confine menu options to just a few dishes made from each type of meat.

Whenever my son comes home to visit, he loves to go to a certain restaurant that boasts about 50 different steak options. We can study the menu until our eyes glaze over, and our waiter considers ejecting us from the premises because no order is forthcoming after half an hour, and we still won’t be any closer to making up our minds. After much hemming and hawing, we usually end up ordering two different steaks, so we can try each other’s meal, declare the other’s more superior, and switch plates before we’re done – proving that indecisiveness must be genetic.

I think my indecisiveness stems from a childhood that was lacking in choice. My mother was an excellent cook, but she had a limited repertoire. Indeed, if someone had bashed me on the head with a blunt instrument way back then, causing me to fall into a coma for several days, upon regaining consciousness I would have been able to tell you which day of the week it was just by asking my mother what we were going to have for dinner.

You see, although we had something different for dinner every day of the week during the latter more affluent days of my childhood, the day on which a particular dish was presented never varied. There was beef stew on Monday, haggis on Tuesday, Shepherds Pie on Wednesday, bangers and mash on Thursday, fish on Friday, a fry-up on Saturday, and a roast on Sunday.

There are some people who might regard this as culinary boredom, but I never tire of this predictable diet. Indeed, if it wasn’t for my need to watch both my cholesterol and my waistline, I’m sure I could easily revert to this weekly dinner menu.

Even on those special occasions when my parents took my siblings and me to a restaurant to eat, we would always order the same thing. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it did leave me ill-prepared for the myriad choices that would confront me in my adult life.

Now, just in case you’re thinking otherwise, my indecisiveness doesn’t mean that I’m not adventurous when it comes to food; quite the opposite, in fact.

If there are deep-fried octopus hearts on the menu, I might be persuaded to give them a try. So long as the restaurant doesn’t also offer stuffed sea slugs au gratin and pickled ostrich beaks under the same section, I’ll be fine.

The 50 somethings are people, not cadavers!

Monday September 17, 2012

Fashion not only the domain of the young

BUT THEN AGAIN
By MARY SCHNEIDER
star2@thestar.com.my

Who says fashion is the exclusive domain of the young?

MY mum wears my T-shirts,” said a teenager during a call to a local radio station. “She’s 50. That shouldn’t be allowed.”

“I recently saw another woman about the same age wearing a pair of tight shorts and high heels,” responded the deejay, who was inviting callers to talk about the issue. “That shouldn’t be allowed either.”

Had I not been driving at the time, I might have phoned the radio station and asked them what all the fuss was about. Living in a world that is facing global warming, starvation, human rights violations, land degradation and racial tensions, surely there are more important things to worry about than the clothes that the over-fifties are wearing.

My choice: A woman should have the freedom to wear whatever she wants, no matter what her age.

As I continued to listen, I realised that the majority of people calling the radio station felt that older folks should dress in an age-appropriate manner. For example, it seems that some young people are traumatised, or so they would have you believe, by the sight of their middle-aged mother wearing a short dress, or showing cleavage, or sporting loud designs.

“She looks like mutton dressed up as lamb,” some of them said.

As if it’s okay for anyone to refer to their mother as an old sheep.

It seems to me that if a woman raises someone to have opinions of their own, and instills in them the confidence necessary to call a radio station to express those opinions, the least her offspring can do is respect her and her fashion choices.

I’m not sure who came up with the idea that fashion is the exclusive domain of the young, but I feel we should all have the freedom to wear whatever we want, no matter what age. Why are women of a certain age expected to become invisible, to blend into the background with their middle-aged uniforms? Since when did middle age diminish a woman’s right to be noticed?

I’m not a fashion slave, but I do know what I like and what I think looks good on me. And that’s all that matters to me.

When I look in the mirror, I can see that I’m in my fifties, but I still smile at my reflection on those days when I think I look good – something that much younger person might find difficult to understand.

Many years ago, when I was in my early 20s, I remember walking into a Scottish pub behind two old ladies. I’m not sure how old they really were, because anyone over the age of 40 was immediately thrown into the “old” category, but I do remember they had grey hair and were a little overweight.

As I walked through the front door of the pub, they stopped in front of a large mirror on the wall, removed their coats and studied themselves. One of them patted her hair and examined her lipstick, while the other smoothed down her dress, a bright red number that seemed out of place on someone of her years.

“Is that a new dress?” asked the lipstick lady.

“Yes,” said her friend. “Do you like it?”

“It’s lovely. You look gorgeous in it.”

“Thanks. You look gorgeous yourself.”

With a final pat of their hair they both disappeared into the bar, confident that they did indeed look gorgeous.

“What does it matter?” I said to myself. “It’s not as if anything is going to happen. There will be no admiring glances, eyes making contact over a crowded room, offers of drinks, telephone numbers being exchanged, possibilities of romance …”

How naive of me. These things do matter, but I just didn’t have the wisdom to realise it at the time.

I think more and more women of a certain age are defying stereotypes in a way that makes some people feel uncomfortable. However, the more women go against societal norms, the more expectations will change.

We will surely become more accepting of our aging bodies, which will surely benefit everyone. Because let’s face it, none of us can escape the effects of gravity and the lines that time and life’s experiences leave on our bodies.

But we can choose what we put on our bodies, and how we want to express our personality through clothes.

If I want to wear a sunshine yellow mini skirt and crimson tank top, because they make me feel bright and happy, don’t spoil my day by telling me that I’m looking like an old sheep pretending to be a lamb.

Baaaaaaaa!