Last week we saw 'Men in Black 3' and this week 'Prometheus', on an IMAX screen in 3D. 'Men in Black 3' is by far the better movie. It is without weak spots, it is unpretentious, it is creative, the story-line is remarkable, it is involving and entertaining. 'Prometheus' is flawed, the director, Ridley Scott, tries to connect it to the Alien series which he also directed. He fails, the link is weak and contrived. Scott has attempted to explain away this failure by saying that the Prometheus story-line is only peripherally connected to Alien but is in it's own myth-stream. This doesn't really wash; the plot is still complicated and disconnected -- things happen which don't make sense and don't contribute to the story-line. In 'Men in Black 3' the story connects 'J's' childhood and K's early career -- J is Will Smith and K is Tommy Lee Jones in the older incarnation and Josh Brolin as the younger version. The story of J and K is woven together and is consistent with memories of the earlier episodes.

So, I recommend that you see 'MIB3' and give 'Prometheus' a miss.

Oh, there's another thing -- the heroine in 'Prometheus', a certain Noomi Rapace, is unappealing and the romantic episodes in the story which are designed to drive some of the plot are unconvincing and even slightly repulsive (it must be the camera-work but in one scene her legs look very stubby and unshapely; my wife leaned over to me during the film, the first time that Rapace was on screen, and suggested that she must be related to someone; there could be no other explanation for her appearance in the movie). There is no sex in MIB3 but it is a love story I believe: J and K share a strong, silent love as partners and, in the end, as a father-son paradigm; I found this hugely endearing - both Smith and Jones project an underlying warmth of real character that is more playing themselves than acting; John Wayne did this, Clint Eastwood does. Frankly, I like it.






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Location:MIB 3 and Prometheus

Death returns, this time creep...ingly

10 June 2012

This is just creepy. It's a piece from Asian New International, based in Delhi, and it was published on Yahoo Singapore. Whether true or not, I thought the juxtaposition with my ramblings about death yesterday was curious.

Kelvin Santos, a two-year old in Belem, Brazil, passed away from pneumonia on Friday. The grieving family gathered round the casket at the family home, mourning the child's premature passing.

Then suddenly, an hour before he was to be interred, on Saturday morning, the child sat up and asked his father for water. The family -- those who didn't expire from cardiac arrest -- was more than shocked, relatives swooned and screamed, there was crying, yelling, panic.

Kelvin, having made his request, laid back down in the casket and died ...again. His father rushed him to the hospital but the doctors there pronounced him dead -- again! -- and returned the body to the Santos family.

Little Kelvin was buried at 5 PM on Saturday.



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Death ...not just another day

9 June 2012

Recently I've been thinking some about death, a number of the thoughts are strange. Death is not a topic I've written about before as a principal subject because I've always suspected that I'm somehow immortal, that the opportunity to start-over, to fix the misadventures of past times, will always be there. Increasingly, however, I am coming to think this not to be the case. Like so many others, I, too, will eventually die -- sooner or later. This is the ineluctable conclusion from the evidence: little signals that litter my quotidian existence and suggest I am mortal. These proofs of clay feet include aches and pains that come from muscles that are just not as quick to recover as they were before, the fact that my sleep is less sound and the effect of it less recuperative than when I was younger, the preference I have for going home earlier rather than sticking around to watch the last dog get hung and, this one does worry me, a sort of traveller's ennui extended to life.

Don't get me wrong, my traveller's ennui is not so systemic that I've turned into a curmudgeonly cynic, I'm curmudgeonly, yes, but my cynicism is still under control, it tends to be more of an amused tolerance masking jealousy when I see younger people being enthusiastic and genuine about places, people, politics, philosophy, art, religion, literature, food and each other.

It may seem, as it so often does, that I've digressed but such is not the case; no, I am addressing death. Well, not actually addressing it in the sense of speaking to it but, rather, talking about it as a fact of human existence and that's an irony, that a fact of human existence is non-existence (at least in this corporeal form). Non-existence is one of those things that we need in order to validate or define life, without the one, the notion of the other would not make much sense -- we would simply be in a steady state without the certainty that the state will not continue indefinitely.

So death is there and it's a fact and, so far as I know, no human has escaped this coil without experiencing it. When my father was dying I remember, rather strangely, trying to encourage him to let go -- he was in pain -- and I suggested that it must be a bit like standing at the open door of an airplane, your parachute on your back, facing the unknown of your first jump. I've never done this and I have no idea why the analogy came to me but giving in to death struck me that day as possibly like letting go of the frame around the door of the plane. You just give in, release and drop. The first awful moment is making yourself let go, after that I imagined it as very quiet, peaceful even, floating down, the universe spread beneath you, infinite and beautiful.

What happens after that? I've not got a single idea yet. Lots of people have written lots of things about it but I'm not sure that any of that writing is more than mere speculation. There is, as far as I know, no eye-witness account that we can rely on. Strange that; I read that there have been about 60 Billion or so humans since we first began to walk upright and I reckon, without evidence to the contrary, that all of them have died but we have no real idea what that experience of death was actually like. It's rather fun to speculate about what the experience must be like, though, at least when you're feeling reasonably good and the auguries of death are still nothing more than the minor aches and pains that accompany the aging process.

And so it goes .....

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The Conradian Gland

26 May 2012

I've been persuaded to quit smoking. This is day 1. So far I've torched an orphanage, ridiculed some nuns, tried to run over a dog, eaten too much and gone for a long bike ride. The ride was the least fun; however, it was the only thing that didn't take place in a part of my mind that has just moved front and center. No, the ride was real. I rode around the island. During the trip, a duration of about two hours -- and, it strikes me now, why isn't 'durate' a word; for instance, I could have written: 'During the trip, which durated about two hours', making the noun, 'trip', much livelier; but, admitting this time that, indeed, I have digressed, to continue -- I wandered around various jungly corners, past old British military buildings, tropically classical, that had been converted into a museum in one case and into a restaurant in another, which strongly appealed to my Conradian gland, the part of my anatomy that makes me sit and stare across the straits, seemingly mesmerized, or which takes over whenever we fly low over islands out here, endlessly fascinated.

This isn't the first time I've quite smoking. I managed it about 22 years ago when my wife got pregnant with our daughter. I stayed clean for about 18 or 19 years, not a puff during that time that I can remember. Then, about three years ago the two of them, mother & daugher, both occasional take-it-or-leave-it puffers, a subspecies that I cannot abide because I cannot be like them, were arguing loudly and I made the error of getting involved, picked up a cigarette and was off. It took me about a year before I managed to quit again. Why I started this last time, about six months ago, I don't recall; it may have had something to do with a new job, moving back to Asia, my Conradian gland (all of his characters puffed on cheroots or pipes or, if I'm not mistaken, cigarettes -- and, by the way, what is the origin of the word 'cheroot'?), or the fact that the unconscious memory of the pleasure derived from a nicotine hit with a coffee or a glass of wine is something that cannot be eradicated. Whatever it was, I was soon up to a pack a day.

No one needs to tell me they are not good things for your health but there is something that is deeply and quietly pleasurable in a smoke. I hope that I will be mourning them in the days to come and not wallowing in the pleasure of that stab of nicotine, contemplating the sinuous trail of smoke that snakes around my chair, rises and then dissipates.

By the way, to digress again, 'cheroot' come from the Tamil, 'curuttu', a roll (of tobacco) and 'curut' (roll) which morphed into both the English version, 'cheroot', and the Portuguese 'charuto' (cigar). The French also have a version, 'cheroute'. The cigars which the term refers to are open at each end and not tapered and were very popular with the British in Burma and India during the raj. I suspect they were a useful anti-malarial prophylactic. Most self-respecting mosquitos prefer a sweeter odor.


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Men in Black 4

21 May 2012 Monday There's a fungus in Oregon that covers something over 2500 acres. It is the largest living organism on earth. Frightening! People around the world, mostly middle-aged white women, report a strange disease called Morgellon's. This involves sores out of which come fibers as a result of the implantation of nano-devices in the skin of these middle-aged white women by aliens. The Centers for Disease Control call this a 'delusional infestation'. Clearly the CDC is under the control of the aliens already. Where are the Men in Black when we need them? My wife was watching a program on TV which featured irrefutable proof that the ancient Mayans, a civilization that couldn't make it past the 12th or 13th century, predicted that 2012 was going to be a rough year, finishing with a bang on the 20th of December when it will all come to some sort of watery or flaming end (I can't remember which). Despite placing an order for 13 tons of fresh water and 4000 cans of pinto beans, my wife's reaction was fairly calm and she didn't lose her sense of humor, she pointed out that our daughter, currently in university in Canada, would be flying to Asia on that day and so would have a bird's eye view of the end of the world. Me? I'm trying to remember where I put my copy of Nostradamus.

Scenes ...April, May 2012

28 April 2012 Just 1'15" north of the equator. Steel-blue, mottled with darker patches of gray, the surface is ever so slightly rippled between stretches that are smoother, these latter better reflecting the early light, the Straits of Malacca this morning are quiet. South of where I sit a hundred ships, all moored, appear motionless, their lights softening as the morning grows brighter, between them and the low, small green islands more directly across the narrow waters in front of my terrace there is a stretch of open water across which, dimly, I can see the lights of Indonesia, glimmering through a low haze; across this blank canvas a freighter now glides quietly, turning a painting into a film; it slips behind the islands and makes its way northwards, up the channel, heading for the north point of Sumatra where it will turn and head West. 29 April 2012 Sunday No rain, the day began brilliantly, clear, illuminated as if the island had been dragged North during the night, to climes where the atmosphere is not so heavily laden. But it's still here, floating just north of the Equator, it continues hot and a later haze has formed, made up of sea water and low cloud, catalyzed by the sun. Visibility has dropped, not because rain or a storm has come up (though there are towering cumulonimbus clouds along the horizon), but simply because of nature's cocktail of water and heat, undiluted by any breeze. The endless parade of merchant ships appears out of focus. 1 May 2012 Tuesday, Jakarta It's been almost a decade since I was last in the archipelago. Both in physique and temperament the pleasant people of this land are similar to Filipinos. The latter may sound condescending but it is not; geography, climate, history and culture all have an impact on social values and social behavior, Indonesia is no different. Like all humans they are equally capable of genius and evil, creation and mayhem. History in this case, however, has shaped the social culture. The Dutch hand on this vast collocation of volcanic islands was necessarily light, far different from the impact of the far heavier weight of, first, the Spanish and then the Americans on the Philippines. As a consequence of historical causality, therefore, it has been more difficult for me to organize a cup of coffee this morning. The hotel puts an espresso machine in the lobby for early leavers and late arrivals. This is a simple mechanism, you put a cup under the spout and press the button for your desired version of the beverage, in my case a double shot, 'short' as the Australians refer to it. The challenge in this case, however, was that my 'short' was 'long', watery, diluted, without body. Stay with me here; it may seem I am digressing but that is a slander. You may have forgotten or your attention has drifted, but a couple of paragraphs above I mentioned that the Dutch hand was light on Indonesia. This feathery touch -- and I am being ironic here -- included language, only merchants and collaborators learned Dutch, the majority continued to live and die in Bahasa. And here's the point: when the coffee maker shoves too much water through the beans to ruin your morning coffee the solution is beyond me, my technical capabilities in this case stop at pressing the button, I must express myself in words. In a panic I looked around for help, I needed coffee. No one from behind the reception was available. I am pretty sure they were back behind the wall, huddled around a working machine, enjoying perfectly brewed coffees. Too bad because I could have spoken with them in English and communicated my distress. In my growing need, however, I found a couple of cleaning staff who were extremely friendly and full of good intentions. By gesture I was able to convey that something was wrong with the machine. They huddled over the malfunctioning device, intent and full of goodwill but, my bad, I was unable to get across to them the need for the quantity of water to be reduced.... ...the rest of the day was dreamlike and muzzy, only improved when I found a fortuitously located Starbucks (not yet arrived when I last visited). They had coffee but somehow the mere presence of the chain, however minuscule at the moment, has bleached a tiny bit of the vivid colors that are Indonesia. 20 May 2012 Sunday Some of the heat has dissipated with a breeze today that has blown the hot, wet air around and made sitting on the balcony/terrace a pleasure. The week was hectic. It began with a day in the office but then I flew overnight to New Zealand, landed in Auckland at 10 AM the following morning and drove to Taupo, three hours south, sitting on the edge of a huge caldera that is now the country's largest natural lake, as big, they tell me, as the entire city-state of Singapore. The weather was bright at first and fall-like but in the afternoon it came up a rain that turned to hail and the temperatures dropped, to 3 degrees C. Because time was tight, we drove back to Auckland in the late afternoon, three colleagues and myself in two cars. My traveling companion was bright and pleasant and full of energy and we would have dined at the airport hotel where I was booked but the other two must have grown tired of each other's company because they called us about halfway along and suggested we stop and eat. We did, at a Thai place in Matamata. Having spent the previous weekend in Phuket, this struck me as surreal. We were the only customers on a blustery, wet evening, served by a lovely young woman who was half Samoan and half American and knew nothing about Thai food. The painfulness of watching her carefully write down our order is a memory that will stick. She wrote in longhand and I'm pretty sure spelled out every one of the four dishes we asked for -- each one ending in 'prik' or something equally likely to cause teenage boys to think up clever plays on words (something I can verify that grown men will also do when they are in an otherwise empty restaurant in a rural New Zealand). The food was interesting if you look for consistency -- the duck was served in a mass of vegetables and noodles, the pork came in another mass of vegetables and noodles, ditto the chicken and, for variety, the beef was also served in the same style although it was distinguished by the presence of more broccoli than a couple of the other platters. It wasn't really bad but it wasn't Thai either, at least if the excellent curries and Pad Thai's and so on that I'd consumed in too large quantity in Phuket were examples of Thai food. At the end of the meal I wandered back toward the toilet, past the bar where sat a fairly stout, older Thai gentleman, alone and staring at a video of a new program from a Thai TV station. We got back to the airport around 9 PM, I slept deeply and quietly and next morning flew to Brisbane. In May the capital of Queensland is a good place, the days are bright and cool and the people live outdoors as much as they can, drinking coffee, eating, drinking beer, eating, drinking wine, eating some more. I like it like this, in February it's Miami, only hotter. I flew back to Singapore on Friday, leaving in the afternoon and arriving 8 hours later. Long trip, during the day, hard to sleep, you work some but mostly you just endure. It's good to get back to the island, sweltering but alive.