mAVerICK mem'ries:

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Soumik.

If I'm over the moon
It's because I'm over you
A day at a time
And I'm tickety-boo
I don't carry on
The way I used to
Whoop de doo
Whoop de doo

If I'm doing great
It's because when I get home
I don't go straight
To my answerphone
And the tears don't come
The way they used to
Whoop de doo
Whoop de doo

So many little things
Are so much better now
They were only the little things
Anyhow

If I'm over the moon
It's because that's what I am
Funny that once
I used to give a damn
And I'd do anything
In the whole wide world for you
Whoop de doo
Whoop de doo

Anything
Anything you'd want me to
Whoop de doo
Whoop de doo

Days turn to minutes
And minutes to memories
Life sweeps away the dreams
That we have planned
You are young and you are the future
So suck it up and tough it out
And be the best you can.

- John Mellencamp.

With the current events in Singur, not to speak of so many current events the world over thats being fed to us in authorized versions for so many yrs now, especially the last five-ten odd ones, not having watched this can leave you with a state of shame for your overlook once you're done watching it the first time. At least it did for me. Being a film freak, and someone interested in the political shape of this world (jus' like many other armchair thinking good-for-nothigs I'm sure), I now admit it's been a crime I haven't seen this film so long. It is by far the greatest love story and political film I've ever seen. Period. Yes one of the most fucking perceptive political statements to be put on film ever, right up there with Costa-Gavras' "Z" and Pasolini's "Salo", if not higher, which would be tantamount to saying the highest.
















"Give me back my broken night, my mirrored room, my secret life
it's lonely here, there's no one left to torture
Give me absolute control over every living soul
And lie beside me, baby, that's an order!
Give me crack and anal sex, take the only tree that's left
and stuff it up the hole in your culture
Give me back the Berlin wall give me Stalin and St Paul
I've seen the future, brother: it is murder.

Things are going to slide, slide in all directions
Won't be nothing Nothing you can measure anymore
The blizzard, the blizzard of the world has crossed the threshold
and it has overturned the order of the soul
When they said REPENT REPENT
I wonder what they meant
When they said REPENT REPENT
I wonder what they meant."

- Leonard Cohen, 'The Future'

Well the direction is Oliver Stone, and yet the script is Tarantino, and I think that's equally important for this movie. And I'd like to quote from a comment made on IMDB about this angle: "Quentin Tarantino, the reigning postmodernist "King of Cool" who plays with pastiche of pop culture genres, wrote the script for Stone's Natural Born Killers, but then criticized the way the film was directed. Ironically, Tarantino then copied several formal film techniques and innovations straight out of NBK for his later "Kill Bill" films. -- with the key exception that Tarantino continues the tradition of glamorizing violence. The Tarantino crowd sees itself as properly aesthetic and cool, far above the ham-fisted Stone! Creepy isn't it?" That's not really so much a statement on Tarantino the lovably obsessive intertextualising film-geek that he is, as on our publicly accepted perceptions about the medium concerned.

But I can't pin it down to who are the great minds at work and who does what with what degree of honourable mention yadayadayada like we do with most creative outputs, thereby making an individualistic hogwash of it all and insulating it in a real tight candy-shell so it's safe and fit for the world's consumption. Cos it's far more than that, and it reaches you at your junked-up, twisted, by-now-shoulda'-been-apathetic-n-jaded nerves like a baby's first blink, and it hits such a right chord. If anything we can talk about, it's the music, cos it sums up the the visual content. you got Bob Dylan singin' "You Belong To Me" (and he can make you forget Dean "cool" Martin just like that), you got Peter Gabriel and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, and most of all like a running refrain, you got four amazing prophecies from the great Leonard Cohen's "The Future." It's easier to talk bout such things, than to talk bout things which we are all in a consensus to be silent about. I'm jus wondering, how the hell did they ever get this released, and how did consumerism and the 'empty time-bubble of capital' manage to digest even this (and this digestion has been well-covered, both by the print media and the academia), and yet not Salo? And yet this speaks far more direct and brutal. I jus wished I'd seen this many many times already.















"We asked for signs, the signs were sent:
the birth betrayed, the marriage spent
Yeah the widowhood of every government --
signs for all to see.

You can add up the parts, but you won't have the sum
You can strike up the march, there is no drum
Every heart, every heart to love will come
but like a refugee.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in."

- Leonard Cohen, 'Anthem'

[credit for the quote: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0110632/]

(Mark James - Elvis Presley)


Well, it's hard to be a gambler
Bettin' on the number
That changes ev'ry time
Well, you think you're gonna win
Think she's givin' in
A stranger's all you find
Yeah, it's hard to figure out
What she's all about
That she's a woman through and through
She's a complicated lady,
so color my baby moody blue,

Oh, Moody blue
Tell me am I gettin' through
I keep hangin' on
Try to learn the song
But I never do
Oh, Moody blue,
Tell me who I'm talkin' to
You're like the night and day
And it's hard to say
Which one is you.

Well, when Monday comes she's Tuesday,
When Tuesday comes she's Wednesday,
Into another day again
Her personality unwinds
Just like a ball of twine
On a spool that never ends
Just when I think I know her well
Her emotions reveal,
She's not the person that
I though I knew
She's a complicated lady,
so color my baby moody blue,

Oh, Moody blue
Tell me am I gettin' through
I keep hangin' on
Try to learn the song
But I never do
Oh, Moody blue,
Tell me who I'm talkin' to
You're like the night and day
And it's hard to say
Which one is you.

by Percy French (1896)



















Oh, Mary, this London's a wonderful sight,
With people all working by day and by night.
Sure they don't sow potatoes, nor barley, nor wheat,
But there's gangs of them digging for gold in the street.
At least when I asked them that's what I was told,
So I just took a hand at this digging for gold,
But for all that I found there I might as well be
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

I believe that when writing a wish you expressed
As to know how the fine ladies in London were dressed,
Well if you'll believe me, when asked to a ball,
They don't wear no top to their dresses at all,
Oh I've seen them meself and you could not in truth,
Say that if they were bound for a ball or a bath.
Don't be starting such fashions, now, Mary McCree,
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

I've seen England's king from the top of a bus
And I've never known him, but he means to know us.
And tho' by the Saxon we once were oppressed,
Still I cheered, God forgive me, I cheered with the rest.
And now that he's visited Erin's green shore
We'll be much better friends than we've been heretofore
When we've got all we want, we're as quiet as can be
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

You remember young Peter O'Loughlin, of course,
Well, now he is here at the head of the force.
I met him today, I was crossing the Strand,
And he stopped the whole street with a wave of his hand.
And there we stood talkin' of days that are gone,
While the whole population of London looked on.
But for all these great powers he's wishful like me,
To be back where the dark Mourne sweeps down to the sea.

There's beautiful girls here, oh never you mind,
With beautiful shapes nature never designed,
And lovely complexions all roses and cream,
But let me remark with regard to the same:
That if that those roses you venture to sip,
The colours might all come away on your lip,
So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waiting for me
In the place where the dark Mourne sweeps down to the sea.

[interpretative version excluding the third verse: by Don Mclean]

WHEN to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear times’ waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unus’d to flow,
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish’d sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor’d and sorrows end.

- Sonnet 30, William Shakespeare.

And if I put my arms around you,
Turn you in from the storm,
From your autumn through winter
Darlin' I'll keep you warm -

My overcoat's empty,
Deep, wide and long,
And I got room for you darlin'
Till your winter is gone.

- Chris Rea, 'Winter Song'