No endeavour goes unnoticed!

Children Of Heaven (Iranian; 1997)

Written and Directed: Majid Majidi

https://www.filmslop.com/reviews/childrenofheaven

This film conjured an avalanche of memories from a forgotten time in my childhood, when poverty prevailed and every penny mattered. We, the children, were meant to be seen but not heard. We were expected to accept what was given, and demanding anything more was deemed abominable. Gifts were to be cherished and utilised until the next buying season. Shopping for clothes and footwear took place once a year, just before Deepavali. We could not complain if the items were torn, damaged, or outdated. Such complaints would be met with a barrage of insults or other forms of abuse. So, we simply made do with what we had.

On one hand, my sisters and I often wondered why we did not turn into raving lunatics while growing up in such a restrictive environment that suppressed all our opinions and desires. Perhaps we already are. Or challenging situations strengthened us, enabling us to endure numerous adversities without crumpling under hardship.

Perhaps the verse from the Quran, Surah Al-Baqarah 2:216, has merit: "But perhaps you hate a thing and it is good for you, and perhaps you love a thing and it is bad for you." It emphasises that our perception is not the best judge. There is always a silver lining at the end of hardship.

In impoverished rural Iran, nine-year-old Ali collects his sister Zahra's shoes from the cobbler. Although the shoes have seen better days, Zahra needs to wear them to school, as they are the only pair she has. Their father is unemployed, and their mother is unwell after delivering her third baby.

After collecting the shoes, Ali stopped at the sundry shop to buy potatoes, as his mother had requested. He left the plastic bag containing the shoes outside the shop, but the recycling man accidentally picked it up, mistaking it for rubbish. Ali panicked when he realised this. Despite his frantic searches, he was unable to find the shoes.

Not wanting to burden their already flat-broke parents, the children decide to share the shoes, as Zahra attends the morning school session while Ali participates in the afternoon one. Unfortunately, their respective schools are pretty distant from one another. Much of the film depicts the difficulty of getting the shoes across the village for Ali to use. They have to dash, but Ali invariably arrives at school late, receiving a ticking off from the teacher. All the running ultimately helps Ali win the cross-country race, which promises, of all things, a pair of new trainers.

In another subplot, Ali's father believes his bad times are over when he secures a job as a gardener. Unfortunately, the grand dreams he had built after receiving the money were consumed by medical bills and repairs following his bicycle accident. Man plans, God disposes!

A simple yet meaningful story, 4.8/5.

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Nothing like being free!

Kummathy (Bogeyman, Malayalam; 1979)

Director: G Aravindan

Most viewers would not have heard of this movie maker, mainly known as a legend in the Indian alternative cinema field. Unlike the masala Bollywood kind of logic-defying escapism that excites the masses, these artsy films only fascinate people who see beyond the story and what is shown on the screen. Some label this film as the best Indian movie ever made.

The movie came to the mainstream's attention after Martin Scorsese's team restored the old, lacklustre copies found in the Indian film archives in 2021. Scorcese announced this movie was one of his favourites at its restoration premiere in Italy. The original cinematographer, however, still preferred the analogue version, as he thought it had more texture and character.

It has been popularised as a children's movie and is usually screened on International Children's Day.

The first thing one notices when watching this film is that he feels like a child. Remember the time in our childhood when we were mere observers, watching and learning, seen but not heard? There is hardly any dialogue, but there is never a dull moment. Scene after scene, we are overwhelmed with the fantastic landscape of Kerala's countryside (God's own country). It draws us to a time when life was simple, running to school was fun, playing with friends was exhilarating, and days were long. Every new discovery is a new adventure. It was not so much our own antics that thrilled us; we were fascinated by the peculiarities that adults exhibited.

Chindan and his similarly aged preteen friends have a gala time. They play, run, prank, and observe the world go by. They are particularly drawn to an eccentric shaman who periodically comes to the village, singing and dancing along the way. They suspect the shaman has magic powers. They befriend him. During one of their play sessions, the shaman playfully changes them into animals, such as a monkey, dog, monkey, etcetera. Chindan becomes a dog. Before the shaman can change them back to their usual selves, Chindan is chased by another dog and goes missing.

Chindan's family goes looking for him, but in vain. By that time, the shaman had moved to another village. Chindan's family only brings back the dog; unbeknownst to them, it is actually Chindan.

A year later, the shaman returns to the village. Chindan, the dog, runs to him for an emotional meeting. The shaman recognises the dog and changes him back. Chindan returns home. Understanding the torture of being trapped, he releases his caged pet parakeet to freedom. 

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The face behind the mask!

Party (Hindi; 1984)
Director: Govind Nihalani

This film remains relevant even when we have ventured into the 21st century. The issues highlighted in this movie are not only confined to Indian society but can be applicable the world over. In fact, if activism and washing of dirty linen used to be restricted to exclusive cocktail parties those days, now it is party-time anytime. At the tip of the finger, with the clattering of keyboards, people can broadcast their views to the world.

Many things are going on in the lives of the attendees of this private party. The party was held to fete a celebrated playwright, Diwakar, who was recently conferred a national award. The host, Damayanthi, a widow, is rumoured to have an illicit relationship with Diwakar. Divakar's wife, Mohini, is a much younger person than him, an actor who stopped acting after marriage is a frustrated woman. Away from the limelight, she yearns for and reminisces about the centre of attraction she used to be. Others think she was not much of an actress anyway. This is made worse by her current state, a hopeless drunk.

Damayanthi's daughter is a frustrated unwed mother. She has her own issues with her determination not to conform to societal pressures. Amrit, a talented poet, is mentioned in absentia every now and then. He had apparently left the art scene to serve the underprivileged.

As the story unfolds, we, the viewers, are shown the behaviours of some members of that performing artists' circle. Social hypocrisy is apparent. They do not preach what they represent on stage -upholding Indian culture. The demeanour does not imply such. They, as actors, put up a front of having social consciousness, but in reality, it is just the next job that they worried about, not changing the world. Everyone put up a front to maintain an image. They do not say what they mean and certainly do not mean what they say. Portraying their involvement in activism for social justice is an exercise in public relations and image building to remind fans of their existence when they are not working. 

Many of them carry a load of psychological baggage. This popularity contest takes out a lot of juices from its members. Art seems to glorify body image. Time and biology are not kind to these. There is a constant need to reinvent themselves to stay relevant. 

An exciting offering from India's parallel cinema. It is not the usual fare that one associates with an Indian movie.

(P.S. While mainstream cinema seems to portray a seemingly fair view of an issue, in reality, the real message is cryptically hidden and woven to satisfy the demands of their financiers or powers-that-be.) 

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To dance to the tune of...

Dance Like a Man (1989)
Play by: Mahesh Dattani

Thanks to MEV for the introduction.

This play has been staged around the world so many times. Managed to pick up a youtube version of a play done in 2017 by the Asia Society in Hong Kong. It was the 580th show that the group had done around the world. It was made into a film in 2004.

Everyone laments that society is patriarchal in nature. Members of the female gender often complain that their desires are clipped, and the organisation is pro-male, making things easier for them to succeed in life. Ladies achieve greater heights not because of the community's push but despite their hurdles.  

Many cultures have stereotyped gender roles. Certain professions have been typecasted. Some jobs make a man less a man. Till recently, nurses were expected to be females, and male dancers were frowned upon. In this drama, we discover the difficulties a male member of an Indian family has to fulfil his lifelong ambition of becoming a successful Bharatnatyam dancer.

It is more than just that. It also explores the misperception of society that looks at Bharatnatyam dancers as glorified call-girls. It is alright to learn it as a passing phase to ensure continuity of tradition, but the buck stops there. Even for a lady, it is viewed as an inappropriate activity for married women. Society says that a married female body, a vessel for procreation, is too sacred to be ogled by everyone. In a closed knitted community where a married lady is only for the consumption of her husband, a female dancer has to find a husband who would still allow her to pursue her dance ambition after the wedding. In other words, she has to find a partner who would dance to her tune!

The title 'Dance Like a Man' got me thinking. How is it to dance like a man? Are we supposed to be less graceful? Then it struck me.

After being subjugated to all the rules and regulations meted to curb girls' activities in society, over generations, the fairer sex (may not be a 'woke' approved term) has acquired the art of survival. They have learnt how to dominate over another without the other feeling that they are overwhelmed. It is a subtle trickery they employ to get the upper hand in deciding certain things. In reality, their victims have lost their free will, without their realisation, but are remote-controlled by the master puppeteers who control the tug strings.

Indian mothers have perfected this craft. Even though they complain that Indian societies are patriarchal, in reality, they are frequently seen utilising emotional blackmails to achieve their set ambitions. Their elephantine memories of remote and obscure events can make their men 'Dance like a Man'.

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Just do it, whatever!

In the late 1970s, as my future laid bare before me, I found no time in anything but my books. I looked at watching movies as three hours of wasted time that could otherwise be spent on something more worthwhile, so I thought. At that age, everything was either black or white, factual and goal orientated. Watching the then Tamil movie which showcased hirsute stars in unkempt hair and their un-touched up face narrating mind-stupefying cheesy village stories was a turn-off. Its songs, despite be blared incessantly by my neighbours on their music devices, were just white noise. 

Actually, it was an annoyance, as something I had to run away from to find solace at the quiet corner of the cemetery or empty classroom in the school to jam-pack precious information into my grey cells. That was the time when SP Bala and Illayaraja were churning out hits after hit that just passed me by. Occasionally a song or two would come to my attention clamouring from my father rickety radio. I did not, however, give any two hoods to it till now. Deep within me, I thought they were doing just what I wanted to do; to find a footing in life, for fame and fortune and to leave our mark in the society.

S P Balasubramanyam

The recent passing of the legendary playback singer S P Balasubramanyam, and through all the postings dedicated to him, highlighted his groundbreaking feats. Having sung 40,000 songs in 16 languages must be an achievement by any standards. Many musical analysts have dissected his exploits and his collaborations with music directors to bring to the fore many of the efforts in exploring new frontiers in music-making, music compositions and voice modulations. And everyone is impressed.

                                                       

SPB was quite popular lending his voice to movie-stars as they belted their love and emotional messages in melodious tunes to plicate what could not be expressed in dialogues. And they had everlasting impressions on the minds of its audience. Sometimes the story is forgotten but not the songs.

Every single thing that we do it in life is a revolution in the making. A little experimentation here and a little pushing the borders there are all bold moves to make the frontier further. We think what we do is a mere waste of time; not going to have any effect on the evolution of mankind. Maybe not, but a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.

We do what we think is right. Let history decide its appropriateness. Generally, people are kind to the deceased.

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The lost invisible touch!

Sir Robert Hutchison
Father of clinical methods

A friend, during our stint as house officers, told me about an incident that happened during his medical student days when he was studying in Manipal, India. An American elective medical student had joined the group's ward rounds. The old Professor of Medicine was showing them the correct technique of examining the respiratory system. He laboriously punctuated the teaching rounds by asking basic science questions and snarling occasional sarcastic remarks, for not understanding the basics. He was showing the green medical students the art of inspection, palpation, percussion and auscultation.

The American student, failing to see the point of such a laborious examination of a single patient, raised his hand.

"Professor, wouldn't it be better if we just send the patient for a chest X-ray?" he quipped.

That is the state of medicine now. We have lost the art of practising medicine. It is just about diagnostic procedures and laboratory results. Clinicians no longer use clinical methods to diagnose. If it used to be that laboratory and auxiliary tests were used to confirm or disprove our differential diagnoses, now it is the primary modality of the approach of a patient. 

Pretty early in my training, I did an attachment in a Gynaecological Oncology unit. Its head, an old-timer Professor, once was in a dilemma. As part of the staging of cancer in his patients, he would perform a CT scan. This, he would do after carefully performing a complete clinical examination. The outcome of the scan would enable him to decide on the operability of cases. There was this particular cases where he was in limbo. He was unsure of the stage of cancer. After much discussion, argument and reevaluation, he was convinced that that individual patient had an early operable cancer even though scans were reported as otherwise. After much deliberation, he went ahead and assessed the patient under anaesthesia on the operation theatre. It turned out that the old Professor was correct after all. He proceeded with the surgery, and final histopathological specimen confirmed his clinical findings too.

That was how it used to be. Clinical acumen took precedence over laboratory and auxiliary investigations. Now, lab tests take precedence even over a good history taking. The recent Covid-19 pandemic is evidence of the above. Do the swab test first, then the clinician (or perhaps the technician) would decide the next course of action; whether to operate, treat conservatively or even see the patient. Just quarantine and see the outcome later - If he pulls through what was perceived as a death warrant. 

A recent case that came to my attention recently during my work made me realised that perhaps we are too dependant on lab results. Maybe it is fueled by patient expectations of wanting an instant resolution (diagnoses) and fear of litigation. The need for an instantaneous gratification in all human dealings has permeated all social activities. We do not want our results now, but yesterday.

A 30-year-old lady presented with a two weeks delay of her periods. A urinary pregnancy test showed positive findings (i.e. pregnant). The couple presented at their doctor for a pelvic ultrasound scanning. The examination did not reveal much. As she was asymptomatic, she was told to show up in two weeks for reassessment but to return earlier if she felt unwell.

Just three days later, she returned with slight discomfort over her lower belly. HCG levels revealed 2000 IU/L. This time, a vague mass was seen just right of the uterus. A diagnosis of possible ectopic pregnancy was made and referred to a tertiary centre.

Based on the above findings, at the tertiary centre, Methotrexate was administered intramuscularly to medically treat the ectopic pregnancy. 

Follow-up HCG five days later was 5000 IU/L; adnexal mass still present, uterus empty. After the first episode of pelvic discomfort, she had been symptom-free except for the anxiety caused by the turns of events. 

Another three days later, HCG was 3000; still, uterus was empty, and the adnexal swelling persisted. The patient was well otherwise. 

© George Condous

Seven apprehensive days later, i.e. three weeks after her first consultation, much to the puzzlement of everyone, a small shadow was seen in the uterine cavity of what appeared like a gestational sac with a yolk sac in-situ. A diagnosis of heterotopic pregnancy (concomitant intrauterine and extrauterine pregnancy) was considered, and laparoscopic evaluation was considered.

Being confused with the whole turn of events, the patient decided to opt for 'wait and see' policy. A day after that, she passed out blood clots. She was diagnosed as had a complete miscarriage and was monitored periodically. 

So what happened here? Did the clinicians place too much trust on biochemical results over clinical findings? Perhaps not. When the HCG levels are significant, with the presence of extrauterine shadows and an empty uterus in imaging, it would be negligent to just sit on it. Did the methotrexate cause miscarriage? Possibly not. A high HCG with an absence of visible pregnancy is itself a hallmark of abnormal pregnancy, including impending miscarriage.

In anything that the Covid-19 had taught us, it would be that everybody can be an expert. Armed with statistics and articles to support the assertions, anyone can insist on having found the elusive cure for the ailment. Clinicians, who by nature, like to err on the side of caution, had been accused of selling out the whole human race for self-interests. It seems PhD doctors got the panacea for all woes. Their data analyses and textbookish method of approaching disease make them excellent armchair critiques of what is wrong with the medical services in any country. We all know what happens in the field is not what is shown in laboratory experimentations. But still, it is a free world. Anyone can say what they want. The more one delves into a subject, the less he is cocksure about anything.

Perhaps the demand for wellbeing makes medical services a lucrative business. If before, in the Jurassic era, the doctors would call the shots in the management of patients and the running of medical facilities. The ever increasing expense and the need for state of the art medical equipment make healthcare revolve around breaking even and paying the stockholders rather than being patient-centred. Law of Attraction dictates that the smell of money draws characters of reputable character. Hence, vultures and hyenas of various ferocity started flocking around. Referring to the clinical practice guidelines as their holy grail, these creatures of the dark forces scream medical negligence or even manslaughter whenever an adverse outcome ensues. In hindsight, everyone has 20/20 vision. They think that treating patients is like cooking chicken vindaloo referring to a cookbook.

Like the 1927 movie Metropolis, everyone is just a cogwheel in the big machinery of modernisation. We are mere technicians doing our designated duties for the greater good of mankind as decided by the powers that be - the businessman. The future is not bright, either. After breaking down and digitising our individual tasks, our jobs may be assigned to artificial intelligence (AI). We will be redundant and irrelevant.

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It is pre-determined!

Merku Thodarchi Malai (Westward Continuing Hills, Tamil-Malayalam; 2018)
மேற்க்கு தொடர்ச்சி மலை 


Vedantha teachings told us we are all the same, part of a bigger consciousness that is the Universe itself. We were told to treat each other as brothers as indeed our Athma (souls) are all part of the Paramathma which is Brahman itself, the Creator and the Created.

We have all been sold a broken dream. We were told that the path to happiness is through economic improvement. Like in Martin Luther King's cheque in 'I am a dream' speech, we were all given a bounced cheque. A cheque took naively at face value only to discover a little too late the stamp 'Return to drawer'! When we improve our socioeconomic standing amidst a life long struggle of sacrifice, we realise that the goal post has been lifted. We find that the separation between the haves and have nots had widened many folds over. We are to be, still, the mouth-agape child that once was yearning to be like his rich neighbours one day.

The farmers in India are having it bad these days. For centuries, they had had their own way of farming which kept with the local demands. With their meagre income, they led their simple lives, contended with the peace that they had. For recreation, they had Nature games, folk music and songs. Bullfighting was their way of promoting strong bulls to impregnate cows to produce resilient farm animals suited to their environment. Recycling was practised even before it became fashionable in the modern world. Fertilisers were eco-friendly. They did not need the Haber process to increase the nitrogen content in their soil. The sun grows the rice, rice is harvested, stalk in fed to cows, excrement goes back to nature to start the cycle.
Modernisation spoiled all that. Multinational companies, using local businesses as their proxies, moved in to press for sky-high yields, mixed crops, genetically modified seeds and introduction of foreign cows. Using their influence and lobbying skills the world has been hoodwinked that their way is the way to go.

The joy of acquiring a property.

Colonialism never really left our shores. It has come back in economic colonialism. With new rhetorics like environmental pollutions and the need to conform to new legislation, farming is no more profitable.

The recent air pollution over Delhi recently that cancelled flights in and out of the city was partly blamed open residue crop burning in Haryana. On the farmer's side, they complain that their animals do not want to eat the genetically modified stalks as they are unpalatable.

This award-winning artsy film is reminiscent of the 80s Tamil movies where an outdoor shooting was the norm and day-to-day living of common man was the theme. It tells its story slowly, setting the mood for viewers to grow fond of the characters, until... WHAM! the movie hits high gear. Renga is a porter who transports cardamom over the hills bordering Tamil Nadu and Kerala. He is a nice person whose life-long ambition is to do what his father failed in his lifetime, that is to own a piece of land. He is an affable chap who gets around with people and go out of his way to help people. A day in his line of work shows us the miles that we walk, the breathtaking paths that he takes daily and the mountain people. On the other side, we see estates, workers' exploitation, the union movement and the communist party of Kerala.

We are not all the same.

The world clearly favours some and discriminate others.

All under the watchful eyes of the Maker? Are we accidents

of Nature or made in handpicked to assume His mould?

To cut the long story short, he acquires a piece of land, becomes a farmer but his first harvest is damaged by torrential rains. Meanwhile, Renga gets entangled helping retrenched workers who were sold out by the Communist Party leaders. He is implicated in the leader's murder and is imprisoned. His wife and young son are left to fend for themselves. Due to financial difficulties, he has to sell off his land to a conglomerate.

The last scene of the film, which was executed so poetically says it all. Renga is employed as a security guard by the same company to guard his land. Coincidentally, his land is used as the site for a giant windmill, not farming.

Renga was seen dressed in a guard's uniform. In sociology, the uniform is viewed by a sign for exploitation and enslavement. A person in uniform has no identity. He is just an extension of his employer, doing things for the benefit of the State or MNC in this case. A human is just a tool of the system; a dehumanised coolie dancing to the tune of others.

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Medical science and medical crime!

Kuttram 23 (Tamil; குற்றம் 23, Crime 23; 2019)

It looks like the trend these days in the Tamil movie industry is to make films with a social message using contemporary issues. You have to appreciate the story overlooking the fact that the filmmakers still use the same old time tested masala flavours. You have to stop asking why the hero is the only policeman who seems to be doing actual work. The others are just there to fill up the numbers and crack jokes to entertain fellow policemen and the viewers. You have to ignore how a single lone wolf unharmed policeman can always bring down bands of hardcore criminals, physically with brute force every time. The hero will do this even if he is injected with botulinum toxin. But wait! When the villain is imbued with the same, he succumbs to the effects almost immediately.

Pushing aside all the technical issues, not wondering how clomiphene citrate (a fertility drug) can be traced in the fluids of a cadaver of a mother, what more in an advanced stage of pregnancy, or how paternity test can be on done dead tissues, it, nevertheless, breathes new ideas into storytelling.

Is it not ironic that society gives so much importance to the continuity of progeny, of passing down the genetic imprints that they are willing to go through great lengths to achieve parenthood? This they do, despite knowing that many orphans are present among us yearning for homes to grow in. On the one hand, there is a significant push to use and misuse medical breakthroughs to achieve fertility, to shed the social stigma of being barren, whilst on the other hand, offsprings are discarded heartlessly as an unwanted by-product of attaining man and woman's carnal pleasure.

Is the passing of genetic pool and achieving fantastic outcomes so important that unscrupulous people would go to any length to attain their goals? The next question is the use of donor gametes to achieve conception. 

Scientists do unimaginable feats just because it is difficult to do, to push the boundaries of human capacity. Can advanced fertility treatments be considered a kind of overindulgence? Just food for thought.

(P.S. 23 in the title refers to the 23 pairs of chromosomes that form the axis of life. Man in their greed to attain fame and power, would monetise, criminalise and abuse any new knowledge that comes to him.)

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