Go See Slumdog Millionaire

If there's one film to cap off this year and meet the new year with more hopefulness to muster, it would be Slumdog Millionaire.

I get fuzzy-wuzzy warm thoughts just thinking about it. Maybe it doesn't help that I have a pervy crush on Dev Patel. I can't help it! He reminds me of that geeky, over-achieving 12th grader Indian boy genius (who knew far too much British History for his own good) I had a silly schoolgirl crush on when I was 11. I completely forget his name, but whatever. He was cute. On that premise, it's not totally wrong, is it? I digress.

Slumdog Millionaire is hot champorado on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Familiar, comforting, modest and absolutely delicious.

The deliberate use of saturated colors and AH Rahman as its sonic master, brought out what Danny Boyle intended of this film: nostalgic and almost romantic. The world is beautiful and yes, there is beauty in the agony of being painfully poor.

If there's any forewarning I need to issue before you do scout for downloadable links and dibidi copies, it's that Slumdog Millionaire is totally a love story. And yes, like most Indian films, there is dancing! So if you're a total grinch, don't watch this if you're bent on keeping your neo-smartass political attitude towards the third world.

Here's the trailer that gave me goosebumps:



This is a short clip from the film with the boys on the train and M.I.A. declaring her fixation over paper planes. Gah, that remix is a killer.


P.S. I am going to the Taj Majal someday. Mister Gandhi, please make it happen.

Keep On Walking

This sonic mumbojumbo is dedicated to that lukewarm, distant, unfamiliar future, wherever the hell you are. This is from the brilliant garage extravaganza, The Mess Halls.





I feel like hitting something, okay, throwing furry lightweight stuff. Or reaching out for my pinhole picture-creature. Either or. Aim and shoot, baby.

Diyeeegoh And Everything Relevant

I know, it's a crime. I didn't finish Milk.

How could I? Diego Luna was battling with all my fantasies of him and Tuscany! Or some relevant Before-Sunrise scene!

Sean Penn is nothing short of a genius with his art, but so help me Gus, I cannot stomach him and my Diyeeegoh kissing! Oi! I thought I was prepared for it, too. I hoped and prayed that I wouldn't lose my sh-t when he'd ineffectively (of course, he would be) make goo-goo eyes at Harvey Milk. But I'm not too self-possessed these days.

Milk is a little film of mass proportions on the history of gay rights movement in the US. In the little over 40 minute footage I saw, the level of awareness and activism exploding all over my monitor screen was pure magic. You gotta love men on a mission. Gay or straight.

Watching Harvey Milk calling out to the sea of angry faces to march the streets of San Fransisco sent a familiar feeling you don't normally shake off at times like these. Like impatience, nausea and nostalgia exploding in a blender at high speed.

All I need now is Slumdog Millionaire to intoxicate me with its saturated reds. Someone give me a copy, pretty please?

Tis The Season

It's the most wonderful time of the year.. to be gullible and play victim.

Three days ago, my sister lost her phone to a stealthy secondhand merchandise enthusiast. He was on the prowl for the blood of defenseless phone-toting bystanders. Today, however, offered a more interesting turn in street-no-smarts.

In a jeepney ride from Sto. Nino Church, a passenger stole my five peso coin. He took it before handing the driver the rest of the fare. It was very criminal savvy. I didn't realize what had just gone down until the driver accused us as freeloading pansies as we proceeded to flee, err, terminate the carriage contract . Not his exact words, but the 50 year old scowl on his face said so, along with a few syllables that escapes me. The shame killed all neural traffic.

Was I to curse every fiber of this coin-napper's morally revolting being? Or was I to denounce my demons and bless him instead?

I chose to be a wuss, I took pity. I'm not saying this out of my ass: if he needed that five peso coin that bad, I would have offered my last 20.

I laid down my bases for an ounce of sympathy. The guy looked lost, in need of a shower(or three) and a meal. Someone you could easily pick out of the tens of faces that haunt the dingy streets of Colonnade. I realized, I do not make a good cold-blooded executioner.

The Christmas season invites the most creative and distorted versions of giving and receiving from common criminals and petty theives.

God bless you on yer merry way.

An Ode To The Cosmos

It’s week three of post-bar depression. And I’m this close of hurling myself off the deck with the amount of review material I’ve yet to eat in haste.

Yes, Virginia, I was not on that list. I was on the other one, which my dear sister, to her avid consolation, has dubbed the “normal” people list (whatever that means).

At times like these, we all need juicy fruit gum ---- and unconditional ( and unsolicited) pep talk and a generous swig of toxin. It’s coke floats for me. What did you think?

I’ve taken to blogging this point in my life purely for self-serving reasons-- to keep myself in check and throw that perpetual existential question to the void, in the hopes of being answered with a shinning beam of light. Why? Why? Why?!?

I’ve resigned to the truth that I may never know exactly why. The bar exam is not only a question of intellectual fodder -- how much you know, how much you don’t know -- but an agreeable nod from the cosmos, which hapless examinees have a penchant of calling Destiny. The only thing that has kept me from believing still is that adamant quote for everyone’s one-man crusade --- “its not your time yet“. Needless to say, this sucks colossal ass. I've become a statistic.

Despite the wave of self-doubt and self-deprecation, however, I’m still slightly optimistic. This will not kill me. I still keep to heart that line from everyday philosopher Paolo Coelho. He puts, “when somebody wants something, the whole Universe conspires in their favor.” Maybe this time around, ey?

Moments like these, I wish I had taken that different route and pledged my life to the circus.

Zombies!

Hey, Kids!

Click click for a little treat: Zombies!

In this mad-evil age where subliminal videoke shampoo commercials, the Pussycat Dolls, and ultra-consumerism are confused for teenage mentality, Tiny Masters of Today reminds us that there's still hope for today's generation of me-me-me's. I refuse to believe that the kids today aren't mindless sheep or zombies.



Hologram world was directed by the fantastic, fantastic Karen O. See if you can spot her in the vid. :)

I miss the Yeah Yeah Yeah's. 'Good news though, they're recording a new album! Yay! Fever to Tell is still making my head spin. Hee.

Tokyo and Friends

Viva La Vida

After announcing semi-retirement, Coldplay is coming out with a new album this June. They’ve dubbed it, Viva La Vida. I know, I know. Excuse the Shake-your-bon-bon Martin references. Oi! In his Rolling Stone Interview Chris Martin defends it by saying that he took it out from Frida Kahlo’s painting.

This piece of news brings in a pleasant wave of memories.

I loved, no --scratch that--- worshiped them when their first album graced my unknown planet. Parachutes was the soundtrack to my burgeoning appetite for the black mood. I was 19, in my junior year of undergrad, and terrified at peeling away the drama of my untold future. Despite being told how creatively beneath they were to Travis’s melancholy or Radiohead’s genius, I embraced them even more. I dismissed every criticism as an unsympathetic slur to my person and defended them with teeth and smiles. I took in every bit of Chris Martin’s protest on people’s wasteful talk on music. I agreed with him and took it to truth-- without realizing then that it would later on shape my approach to music and my indifference to its politics. I still abide with the same rule; I have never threshed out the joy of pure sound and beautiful lyrics. You really cannot. You really just have to feel. I sang “Everything’s not lost…” under my breath and believed the promise of those words. I imagined requited love to bleed for you in Yellow’s ridiculous but magical lyrics. And I still do. An understatement, but that album made my life.

When A Rush Of Blood To The Head came out in 2002, I was starting anew with an adventure and non-fictional demons -- argumentative and non-relenting executioners as professors (he.he. I kid) and vengeful reading lists. It filled in the void. And kept me sane, however weird that might sound. It was also at this time that I suffered major crushing on Chris Martin. His whining was his charm. I had that silly grin on my face after beating out the cd player to play Warning Sign for the umpteenth time. All this, despite learning the tragedy that is Paltrow-Martin. He. He. Although, call me morose, but I’ve always said this, that marriage was Coldplay’s weak link. Chris just spun to an uncharacteristic whiner whose falsetto almost grated my nerves throughout X & Y. That album almost took out the rabid fan in me. I hope Viva La Vida rescues my delirium. I wont judge it until I hear it. I hope it offers something in the spirit of See You Soon, a really short tune that spins enchanted gibberish, and return to how I discovered them --- raw, pure and fun.

Random Thoughts Part I

Getting through a slower internet connection is like watching Gretchen Baretto's ultra-cheesefest permeate through my TV screen. It is slow and painful. Have you seen her phonetically mouthing the words to Please Dont Ask Me in her new music video? I sat through the whole clip shown at the Da Bash today, feeling something slowly dying inside in me. That debauchery reeks of violent desparation. Someone give that woman a show already. She qualifies for that, at least. You've got to give her a little credit though. She has singlehandedly hoisted herself back on Pinoy TV --- through sheer belief in her own smut, er, PR, complete with the usual hysterics a starlet could only deliver. If she's taking lessons from Gloria, I want to know.

But I digress.

It took me an hour to check my email today and 15 minutes just to sign in to Multiply. Ack. the scourge of Dial-up. This absolute decision of coming home to hibernate has its limits. However, I'd give up anything for my dear mother's delirium-inducing humba--- including buffer-free viewing at Crunchyroll. Sigh. Just as I was harboring the white man's fantasy of turning Japanese...

****

Besides the humba, my trip to CDO two days ago was the highlight of the week. CDO is the city of my golden friendships. Chessy liner, I know. I couldn't resist. I am blessed to have the best people as friends. I love, love you guys!

It thrills me that everyone is up and running with their new adventures and are putting a brave front for the challenge each one is inevitable bound to take.

God bless you on your journey. Keep fighting the good fight.

***

Kudos to Manny Pacquiao. We shamelessly pumped our fists for you. He.he.

I have issues with his fame-whoring antics but I give mad props to his jabbing skills.

***

I've exactly two weeks left to relish in this long over-due vacation. I hope I have something to account for at the end of all of this.

Stop And Go

Seeing mass mobilisation in the news today puts me in nostalgic mode.

I don't really know how I've become so disillusioned with the movement and how I've succumbed to this philistine apathy I put on these days. Perhaps, I've grown numb? At times like these, when your life is somewhat on a standstill, you pause and assess whatever it is that compels you to live -- your personal truths and the youthful ideologies you swore a long time ago to keep with you to your grave -- and consider how you're going to live through when life decides to change gears.

Maybe I've taken on that silly nickname my friends used to tease me -- "Tin-Tin Burgis" to heart. It was always made in jest whenever I snubbed every guitar session of learning the chords to Rosas ng Digma and opted for poring through OLP's Naveed, or when I pulled out a tirade of English-Bisaya dribble. Somehow, I've always felt they were never far from the truth. After a few short years, I've come to this. But I've seen friends come and go, and at those moments I always feel that I've somewhat made the right choice. Maybe I was meant to trudge on a different road.

Soul-searching is a funny business. It never lets up.

Countdown To Boon Or Bust

Forgive me for being cryptic, but I'm feeling the anxiety creeping in. At the risk of sounding schizo, I have to say ---my Golden Girl and Rrriot Girl are staging a strike. They want an early vacation. They see major turbulence for at least three weeks ahead and they want a saner way to get out of the crisis. Cha, are you feeling the excitement? Hehehe... Tell the powers-that-be, we are in no condition to participate in psywar games! Oh well. Might as well join em?

I'm going to Simala tomorrow. Hope that helps out a bit to calm this madness down.

Happy Days People!

State Of the Union

I must confess, I haven't seen the news. Someone asked me a day ago what the lastest political scandal was -- the crude and petulant political mongering on the defunct ZTE deal. I had nothing substantial to say, only that, I'm sick and tired of how vile the system is.

Before you do quit on reading this, I assure you, I'm not going to go about proletyzing. I dont have that in me. Plus, its a waste of space.

I'm halfway through the second season of HBO series, Rome. And it dawned on me --- the Philippines is still stuck in the same sh*th*le as the Roman Republic. We could be living at a parallel time. It's highly disturbing. It never occured to me that honor can be found in murder and betrayal, that the common good can be brought about by corruption and the prostitution of values, and that political greed, if really peristent, is a running virtue...for the good of the Republic. When you think about it, is there really any difference with the way our so-called leaders run the country with that of Ancient Rome?

Ho-hum. Moving on...

Pansit Dreams

Drumroll please.. Presenting to you my first ever Pancit. He. he. I'm all for dramatics today.

I'm feeling especially creative. I'm writing the first pages of my screenplay. He. He. This Saturday is ripe of possibilities.

The Day Out Saga

So I wigged out.

I've settled that the next best thing to an exotic holiday is lazying around the house with a good book in tow, an unpretentious cup of tea, and India Arie quietly declaring that she is Ready For Love in the background. Nothing beats a good dose of mush to keep your spirits up.

That is at least for three good hours.
I'm out of sorts today. I have no idea why. This emotional downturn couldn't have come at a better timing. Its Leap Day; and I'm already reaching out for this year's Sappy-Angry anthem. It's Urbandub's Guillotine right now. And I'm wailing "All Hope Is Gone, All Hope Is.." after closing the book on page 33 and muffling India Arie's optimism. I cant help it. I'm too old for this shit. I know. Urgh. I blame this on hormones. Hehe.

* * *

On a brighter note, I actually accomplished something today. I actually got out of the house. I seem to do less and less of that these days. I really have no reason steeping out the front door and actually walking three feet away from the doorstep. Everything today is conveniently home-based ---working out (I really do.he.he.), fastfood mad-stuffing, connecting with friends from back home, and yes, work. Even my job is home-based. Oi! I really have to make an excuse to bask in the sun once in a while, don't I? He. He.

Day Out

Today, I decided to get myself a whack on the head and went out alone in this city without any itenerary. I used to love going out by myself -- spending hours just doing nothing, hopping from one record bar/bookstore to another and hogging a table to myself at some densely packed resto. Today, the thought of it all seems debilitating. I've been reduced to chicken feed. Its been two hours and I've already gotten bored. I'm running out of ideas here. In a span of less than an hour, I've already bought two books. Milan Kundera's Lightness of Being and Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Love In The Time Of Cholera. Three minutes out of the bookstore, I was already itching to poke these keys and oggle at some Asian popstar at Crunchyroll. I've gotten so used to being cooped up inside the house that I no longer know how it is to actually have fun in the real world.

I've already cancelled my reservations for Confessional this evening. I've no one to go with. Someone bailed out on me. I want to go but it really isnt so fun going to one and not having anyone to lay your complaints of the potential litany of social and political issues the film will entail. Aaaargh, how I wish to have an actual friend right now. Cha, you interested in teleporting here for the film showing this evening? he. he.

With the whole afternoon wide open, I'm thinking... what's the best way to stuff yourself mad with Happy? Hmmmm.... Any ideas?

Spell Angry

S'kay. Im entitled to shit on the universe once in a while, right? I know it doesnt do anyone good. It magnifies and transforms your Godzilla into a different monster altogether. You meet Space Alien Turbocharge Godzilla 5000 and its downhill from there for sure. Trust me, I've gone that road too many times and it aint pretty. It takes a while to regain your wits after losing your shit ( I just have to say that). After collecting your brains, you realize the horror of it all -- the complications of one nasty little comment and the bad press that will hound you for weeks on end. But really, is it really worth it? Do we really have to be angry to be, er, authentic? It's just downright messy.

I hate being angry. I dont like what I look like when I'm all wired. I've gone through its variations. There's funny-angry, when your eyes pop out of your nostrils (oh, its possible) and your voice quake to a shrill high. The sulky-angry, when your slight pout descends to the ground while your nerves quietly throb on your forehead. And the crazy-angry, when you just get, well, u-g-l-y. At the end of it all, you've somehow managed to morph into an imitation of a lesser life form (think: single-celled amoeba). Its never pretty with these things.

I have to be comforted by the thought that it is human after all to have these tiny spats with the world and with specific persons. Whatever it's worth, it's tough. No one wins when you're angry.

The Coffee Prince Monster

Ring Ring

What if you had a mental telephone? No, I’m not talking about the ability to read other people’s minds, but a real telephone --- only it exists in your mind. If you had to call someone, or if you had to call a random number, who would you like to pick up on the other end?

Ridiculous, ey? When I stumbled on this movie, I thought, if there’s dancing and cheeky fireworks, I promise not to giggle. Luckily, there was nothing remotely cheesy in this one --no dancing ( although I secretly hoped for a teeny bit) and definitely no gunpowder feast.

Calling You is a sincere and hopeful story of a young girl coming to terms with her identity and experiencing the heartache of a first love. It’s a short film that offers to send your heart in a flurry if you’re willing to shamelessly bawl at the end. It has no Disney ending. Like almost all Asian love stories, there is bound to be a tragic twist before the credits roll.

This gem is happy, sad and beautiful.

Mental telephones. Now that’s food for thought.

Hullo? Diiiyyyeeegooo?

Long Pause

Every now and then, we fall victim to the dread of the long pause.

It is that five or --- rarely--- ten-second uncomfortable silence when your brain decides to impulsively go on holiday. In that space of time, you are alone to fend for yourself. No back-up plan, no reserve magic trick, no heat, no water.

You watch the other person cower at your gaze, or rather, watch yourself shrink back to your cave. You think to yourself --- with whatever fragment your brain bothered to leave for motor skills--- this long pause, this looooong paaauuse, wars could have stopped during this long pause. Babies could have been born during this long pause. Diego Luna could have been dialing your number during this long pause. You could have been crowned Queen of the Universe during this long pause. The world could have stopped spinning during this long pause.

It's a wretched thing this long pause.

Eyeballs In Alcohol

I’ve realized, after seeing (bits and parts) of the Suicide Club, I am not that grown-up nor hip enough to sit through a movie that promises a bloodbath.

Sure, I could stomach Battle Royale or Azumi, the least, but Suicide Club and all of its fake blood left me squeamish. When I do finally get the nerve to finish it without hitting the fastforward button post-haste, I would have to soak my eyeballs in alcohol after it’s over.

Suicide Club is a disturbing Japanese movie that came out after the Ring series (I think) and came out in 2002, when everyone was too thrilled enough to jump into the Asian Horror bandwagon. Its notorious moment is at the beginning of the movie when 54 schoolgirls leap into their deaths into a speeding train. With that prelude, that’s saying something about the number of horrifying deaths that follow.

It exploits over-the-top violence to back up what it seems as art and social commentary, but in the end, at least on my part, it was just an absurd mess. It was purely for shock and awe. Whatever relevant point the movie wanted to come across, it was lost at the sight of rolled up skin the audience was treated to.

Moving up

I’ve finally decided that I will enjoy these last few remaining days of being unattached and unperturbed by the modern world’s nuisances for a healthy young modern girl like me -- i.e. stress. I am willing to treat this downtime as a period for learning and discovery. What’s ironic is that this couldn’t have come in a better time. It’s parallel with the imperialist US’s recession. What a way to mark this significant period of quarter life. Hope this is temporary. I want to work dammit. He. he.

To celebrate this newfound freedom, I've switched homes...well, kinda. I've moved over to multiply too. Here's the link: tin the optimist

Hope to see you there!

The New Obsession

Low quality video streaming has become this week’s mild obsession. Crunchyroll.com is to blame for it. I love that site.

In an attempt of rekindling my interest in human history and restoring my faith in commercialism, I did the next best thing to college education. I went to see the movies.

I now honestly can say that I love Asian cinema and television. I am a convert.

Its amazing how much ridiculous and socially brazen plotlines Asian filmmakers can think of. The kind of material I’ve come across so far has managed to thrill, shock and confuse me altogether. We are a diverse continent, but the myriad of cultural differences we have makes you think: how can a slight change in location bring about such alienation? Okay, stupid question. But you have to agree, granted that it is heinous to judge a country not on its own terms but off of another‘s cultural standards, still, we cant help ---- as people who don’t know any better---- quiz the social norms of another based on our beliefs and our personal truths. That is at least what I did. Seeing a Japanese schoolgirl getting the hots for a man thrice her age in youth-oriented programming (and vice versa) isn’t necessarily amusing. In my side of the world, that’s what we call perversion. However, I am resolute in enlightening this half-assed wit.

I’ve developed a system. I go through the morbidly tasteful and frighteningly beautiful movies --- which really are the bulk of my serious education. I then wash them all down with fun, frilly and happy-scary dramas at the end of the day to rid of the heebie-jeebie vibes I get from watching heads decapitated. On some days I just go straight and enjoy a series with a Disney ending. It’s a solid, foolproof plan for people like me who have yet to develop profound sensibilities for sitting through Battle Royale without cringing. And yes, I have seen it. Beyond the bloody gore, it is what its fans claim it to be --- a brilliant cinematic feat. The Japanese do not kid around with the switchblade, I tell you. Go and see it. It is that good.

I can’t seem to finish All about Chou Chou though. I just know the kids in the movie spiral into a horrible fate. Call me crazy, but I’m not ready to see it just yet. Maybe in a week or so, after I've stuffed my brain with enough pop sugar of Coffee Prince and the Yukan Club.

Tokyo Tokyo

Tokyo snores.

The cat has talents, mind you.

It bites unwanted guests, melts you into goo with one look, and now, apparently, snores.

I fear it might be a symptom for something deathly serious. I hope not.



Who cannot resist a face like this?

Jan 01, 2008

Hello World.

So here I am again. Out to face another year full of challenges, the occasional mishap and the deliriously brief surprises which make up most of my eventful calendar. I am short of making good of all the promises I’ve kept over the last year, but I’m somewhat happy that, at least, I tried. There’s so much to do, but somehow I get stuck in midair and almost paralyzed by the thought of accomplishing everything in so little time. I’ve also taken to wallowing as a hobby. Being idle is like stuck in recently declared non-existent purgatory. It contaminates everything. Case in point: I’ve almost given up writing. I hope I don’t do that definitely. It would be crazy to harbor all these demons and keep it all in the head. Not very good. So here I am again, grasping for words to exhale every bothersome and gnawing thought. I hope to correct myself this year. Rather, cure myself. For real this time. I’m already 26 and the universe wont exactly be waiting for me to finally have the enthusiasm for changing. That’ll take too long. So I’m imposing these therapy-sort of writing sessions upon myself, hoping that when half the year goes by, I’ll be pleasantly at peace with myself.