Stitch in 9

Go see 9 because it looks fantastic and has wonderful details, the characters are touching and lovingly created, and its a great example of the amazing history and future of animation. Knowing that Tim Burton produced it was enough to get us excited (and willing to pay the exorbitant Rs. 225/- for the premiere). Way back when, I knew that I wanted to see more of this Samir Parker guy because of how passionately he talked about Scissorhands (amongst other things). We like the crazydarkquirky that Burton does with such relish and inventiveness. (The consistent use of Johnny Depp in this crazydarkquirky also makes us both very happy indeed)

The story is simple enough, a meta-tale in a sense, and bits of it reminded me of stories of experiments in social psychology from my undergrad Psychology text-books. The crashboombang is all realistic and masala, and the tension in the scary parts is finely tuned, so if the child in me had to watch some parts through a finger-mask, then I'm sure children anywhere would want to as well, so maybe you shouldn't take a sensitive six year old to it.

But here's the thing. I was surprised that it used the motif of a 'pre-history' of technology circa 1930s: from the visual rendering (beautiful of course) to a storyline that revolves around the levels and layers of the human-technology interaction. The story hinges on the 'ultimate' and final war between humans and machines, between us and our creations/frankensteins, about the frankensteins getting out of control, as frankensteins tend to do, about the 'social unrest' that the human-machine conflict will unleash. This delicious fear of the ultimate war is the reason why we also like sci-fi and tech-fantasy and put up with Arnold Schwarznegger for all those years, but it seemed a little ... dated, perhaps ... to me.

I think that despite the present moment of technophilia and upgraditis (and mobile phone companies selling us shit that we already have: i mean, 'voice SMS'', for fuckssake that's voicemail) we have fears and anxieties about how much our machines - zeroes, ones, chips, waves, static, interfaces whathaveyou - have 'taken over' our lives. I think that there's a vilification of technology (and the internet and how much time we spend on facebook ;-) which is less about technology and more about how we think we should interact with technology, with what is the appropriate distance, with a notion of time 'away' somehow being more real, about the emotions offline being more credible. (Does it matter that you continue to have a passive-aggressive relationship with your mother but do it on Facebook now?). The fear is symptomatic of the thinking that technology is still outside us when in fact, there is no offline, in a sense, and the boundaries are blurry. Your digital avatar (translation: facebook/myspace/orkut profile) is also you, haptic moments can also be intimate and erotic, and the future is now. So deal with it already. There is no us and them and this sort of positioning in the film was irritating. So why the fear? (But is the end of fear the beginning of the realization that the machines have already won? Aha.)

So, I was charmed and interested in the characters and the machines being visualized as they were: sort of low-fi, retro, childlike, historical. The funky, stitched-together and intelligent rag dolls (the word, I believe, is 'stitchpunk'), and the clunky, creaking supermachine, Cyclops-like with a massive lens for an eye. (It is just fantastic how animation can imbue the opening and closing of a lens with emotion, psychology, recognition, cognition) ... So maybe this is the thing, the visualization and the pre-history was supposed to mess with one's sense of time (click to Stella who should tell me more about the uses of Nostalgia in cinematic representation). Maybe its easier, more palatable, to assess these complex interrelationships from a distance? Maybe its told from the future and the clunking Cyclops is actually your shiny new iPhone 3G and we are ragdolls and the scientist is an aspiring trainee designer at Nokia?

But what of the next step then, which is where the movie ends... It ends ostensibly with 'hope' and 'you can choose your future', and there is all this pressure about being at some crossroads in history where what we do now could change things irrevocably. Which is a weird thing to think, because endings are beginnings are endings and the book of events is always open halfway through . .. .. Or, it could be the perfect set-up for a sequel. So yeah, the storyline seemed a little weak to me, it didn't match the force of animation. However, the fact that Samir didn't fall asleep even once and embarrass me by snoring ("its the filmmaker's job to keep me engaged, otherwise I'm catching up on zzzzs") is proof that it was an engaging tale. And we got our Burton-fix.

Artificial Tweetner

The most talked-about aspect of the current situation in Iran, is Twitter. In the past weeks Twitter has reportedly provided opportunities for Iranian protesters to send out information during that government's refusal to allow (mostly Western) journalists to report on the aftermath of the (suspect) re-election of Mahmoud Ahmedinejad. So the hottest tweet is possibly, ironically, about Twitter itself. There are many excited by it: Twitter = Democracy? However, thankfully, there are also those who believe moderation and caution are called for before proclaiming that social media promote democracy. Social media, for the most part, help mobilize large numbers of people. Democracy is a whole other gig.

What sticks with me as I follow the Iran story is the connection between life on- and off-line. An online presence easily obfuscates offline realities. The delicious tension between the two characterizes so much of the developing world. In that vein, Iranian realpolitik is being distorted by online noise. And obviously, the urban, the educated, the middle class, youth, and those on the right side of the digital divide are tweeting, everybody else is rallying around Ahmedinejad.

As far as Twitter in Iran goes (and I say this specifically with reference to Iran), what tends to get missed is the reality of the Offline Iran. Iranian people have always had a strong sense of voice. Iran may be enriching its Uranium and have an un-likeable leader, but it is not Dubai or Saudi Arabia. Iran is an ancient civilization that has reinvented itself so many times over; it has seen cataclysmic change, war, repression, purging, and yet it's people continue to be vibrant, proud and cosmopolitan. It has always fascinated me that over the past three decades of upheaval and repression, Iran produced some of the most edgy, daring and truly stellar cinema, and notably by women filmmakers. Iranian cinema appears refined, cultured and highly self-aware. So it is not really like Twitter has suddenly given Iranians a voice.

I think it's interesting that the protests in Iran are immediately read as 'repressed people trying to speak out', prompting recent (neocon) American calls for (rapidly greying) President Obama to say something in support of Iranian people. What if they are angry young mobs who want a change in leadership and are irritated that their guy didn't win? And what’s new about electoral irregularities? Remember Florida?

But while Ahmedinejad is quite possibly a bellicose pig, and as-yet-unknown-manner-of-s

kulduggery goes on within and through the Guardian Council, Mir Hossein Moussavi's record of being a violent, ruthless actor in the 1979 revolution, responsible for routinely ordering the 'removal' of dissidents doesn't get as much press. He seems to be quite enjoying the mantle of ‘reformer’ thrown upon him, and now urges his supporters to exercise their right to protest. Rrrrigght.... Ironically, many of Moussavi's supporters were too young (or possibly weren't even born at the time) to have known of him in his infamous stint as Prime Minister. So, much of the hype around Iran and Twitter seems like a convenient way to align 'the West' against Ahmedinejad, as if Moussavi was some brave, new hope for the country.

In the end we all seem to know a lot more about the Twitter revolution than Iranian ones. As Bill Maher said the other day, 'Twitter didn't save Iran, Iran saved Twitter.'

We are from India

This is the only shot of anything remotely to do with the Armed Forces that I got over the eleven day period we were in Manipur. I had heard so much about the conflict in Manipur and I was eager to see; the conflict tourism factor I suppose. There were far too many moments when I wanted to take pictures of the presence of the army here, but I must admit that they made me nervous, at first, and then increasingly irritated, and I wanted to avoid them as much as possible. It was far too distressing to engage with them.
The Assam Rifles regiment is notorious in Manipur for their excesses, most commonly the rape of women, extortion, violence. None of them wear name-tags. All of them caress their AK 47s the way other men caress their genitals - in public, in full view and quite lovingly. I noticed some differences between the commandoes in the town of Imphal and up here in the hills. The men up here at checkpoints like these look bored. The ones down there look tense.

This was taken on our journey up from Ukhrul to the Changta SHIDO, just before we broke down at Kachai. Just in time before I could shoot anymore the Sergeant in charge came up to us and wanted all our details, looked over everything carefully. Anirban has traveled here extensively so he was quite relaxed and knew that most of these guys are from 'India' so lapsed into Hindi easily. The Sergeant was from Rajasthan, another guy from Ghaziabad, someone else from Indore. They were delighted with these Hindi speaking Indians but gave Tuisam the standard cold vacant stare reserved for locals. The North Indians point out one among them saying he is from the South and cant speak Hindi too well; Tamizh theriyuma Anirban says, the only words of Tamil he knows. Illa, Malayalam, the boy replies. Aah, I say. Malayalee, all the way up here in Ukhrul. You're so far away from home, boy. He shrugs.

So what do you do, the Sergeant wants to know.
Photographer, writer, NGO work, micro-finance, women. The answers are non-threatening, we are considered safe. We are from India. For the rest of that trip it was too alienating, embarrassing to be considered an Indian.

View from the Road

Tuisam, Che and Anirban. Che evoked far too much interest on this trip and I think he was one of the reasons we were looked over quite carefully.

Kachai Lunch Home

Kachai Lunch Home, originally uploaded by Maya Mem.

A photographer friend & colleague, Anirban, calls me one day and says 'do you want to go to Manipur?'
Of course, I say, always up for an adventure. There is very very little I know about the North East (and the money is good).
Day 1. Even before we begin our work, we break down in Kachai, a mere 10-15 km from where we have to go, but a journey that eventually takes too many hours up steep gradients on non-existent roads in a battered replacement jeep. We had to kill about four hours before the replacement showed up. It was unexpected, and only to be expected. An entirely charming afternoon sans cellphone signals. The local pastor and his family kindly invited us to a lunch of jungle fowl curry, sticky rice, and lightly steamed mustard leaves in their dark kitchen lit up by the afternoon sun.

Lemon Lolly

Lemon Lolly, originally uploaded by Maya Mem.

Post nap and still waiting for the replacement jeep, Ban, my photographer friend and colleague, suggested that we may be missing an opportunity to make lemonade. Kachai, we discover, is home to the famous Kachai Lemon and is the largest producer of lemons in the North East. "Travel story" Ban says, ever the businessman, his eyes shining; "interesting stories to tell from the rural North East are rare .... and consider all the great food here!".

We met Mr V. Tuime Lolly in a small roadside chai shop. Over oily pooris and chana masala he tells us of his life as a bank employee in Bombay in the 1980s. "I couldnt survive there. When you grow up in the hills, the city is a place where you yearn to breathe. My wife and I came back but my children love living in Delhi, Bombay, Bangalore." Mr and Mrs Lolly are now run a small rural agri-business training young people to be lemon farmers like themselves. They sell lemons and they make pickles and preserves as well. Here, Lolly shows us around an orchard, the late afternoon sun working its magic, the air heavy with the aroma of lemontree bark.