Little black dress

The little black dress (actually a long black dress) worn by Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s has just been auctioned off for a record $924,588 dollars at Christies in London, on Tuesday. This was roughly six times the highest estimate for the amount of money that the dress would bring in.

The dress was designed by Givenchy, who later donated it for a sale to help the famous “City of Joy” charity in Calcutta:

The dress, an iconic piece of cinematic history, was designed by Hubert de Givenchy, who became Hepburn’s life-long friend in 1953. He donated the dress to Dominic Lapierre, founder of the charity City of Joy Aid, which helps India’s poor…

Hepburn, who died in 1993, devoted much of her time in her later life to her role as Ambassador for UNICEF, the United Nations Children’s Fund.

City of Joy Aid is supporting the work of more than 1,000 social workers, doctors, nurses, therapists and educators in India, helping more than four million sufferers of tuberculosis, cholera and leprosy. [Link]

Givenchy made 3 such dresses for Hepburn – the other two are in museums. The charity was founded by novelist Dominique Lapierre who wrote a book of the same name which later became a movie starring the incomparable Om Puri and also Patrick Swayze.

Hepburn was one classy dame. Her commitment to helping others lives on long after she’s dead and gone.

Continue reading

Smoke on the vater

Bangalore is about to have one of it’s largest live concerts ever, courtesy of aging 1970s rockers Deep Purple.

Who are/were Deep Purple? For our readers who like to listen to music originally recorded in their lifetime, Deep Purple were part of the the holy Trinity that founded Heavy Metal, along with Led Zepplin and Black Sabbath.

Their biggest hit was probably “Smoke on the Water” which reached #4 on the Billboard charts in 1972, and which is “#426 on Rolling Stone Magazine’s The 500 Greatest Songs of All Time”. If you’ve got a friend learning to play electric guitar, you’ve probably heard him or her attempt to play it, along with Stairway to Heaven.

It is commonly the first song learned by many beginner guitarists, it’s also noted for it’s extreme difficulty. However, it’s main recognisable riff is not difficult and consequently is constantly played by learners.
In fact, it’s so popular, that one famous guitar store in Denmark Street, London, used to sport a sign on the wall reading ‘If auditioning a guitar, please refrain from playing Smoke on the Water, as this is causing our staff mental torture’… [Link]

Events like this contribute to this peculiar retro-quality that parts of Indian culture have. I suppose it’s good that Indians still appreciate the retro given that they’re still receiving visits from bands whose biggest hits were over 30 years ago. Heck, Deep Purple first broke up in 1976.

Bangalore is the only Asian stop on the reconstituted band’s tour. The group will fly in from South America to play one night in India before flying on to Europe, so in some ways it’s a big deal.

But (and I’m wrinking my nose here) … don’t you think that India should be receiving more up to date acts now? I know that tickets are expensive for the average Indian, but Bangalore should have more than enough young employees of multinationals that they’re willing to pay something close to international prices for a ticket. Why is it that, despite India Rising and all that, that India attracts only 3rd string western bands on international tour? I’m sure I’m missing something.

Continue reading

Good writers finish last

There are times when we on Sepia Mutiny are happy when a desi loses. For example, when a desi author makes the short list for “one of the world’s least-coveted literary prizes – the Bad Sex in Fiction Award” [Link] (thanks Pooja!).

This year, Nirpal Singh Dhaliwal joined luminaries like former Booker Prize nominee David Mitchell and Thomas Pynchon (and five others) for consideration by the London based Literary Review for the 14th annual dishonor. I’m sure they all heaved a sigh of relief when the award went to first time novelist Iain Hollingshead instead. If you’ve never heard of the prize,

… the award’s mandate is “to draw attention to the crude, tasteless, often perfunctory use of redundant passages of sexual description in the modern novel, and to discourage it”. [Link]

Embarassingly, this is not the first time a desi writer has been nominated. In 2003, Aniruddha Bahal won the award for his novel Bunker 13. The very next year, Siddharth Dhanvant Shangvi was nominated for The Last Song of Dusk, Nadeem Aslam was nominated for Maps for Lost Lovers [thanks Red Snapper], and two non-desi writers were nominated for desi themed stories — Gregory David Roberts nominated for Shantaram and Will Self for Dr. Mukti.

That means that a full 50% of the nominees in 2004 were either desi or writing on desi themes! The Guardian has quotations from all of the 2004 nominees [Not Safe For Work] so you can see exactly how bad the writing was. We’re talking really really bad, people.

I’m a bit perplexed about the connection between South Asia and bad sex. Is it the Kama Sutra thing that attracts preposterous sex writing? Do exotification and bad sex come not so chastely hand in hand? Is it India’s own fascination with purple prose?

That said, I’d rather that desis were associated with writing about bad sex rather than having actual bad sex. Bad sex writing is funnier, and I’m all about the laughs.

Continue reading

The Flop of Taj

kal_penn1.jpg
Kal Penn’s latest film, Van Wilder 2: The Rise of Raj, has opened poorly, at #10 on the U.S. box office. More than that, as of now it’s running an astonishing 0% approval at Rotten Tomatoes — the worst of the worst! (Even that Maha-Flop, Gigli, came in higher, at 6%). The original Van Wilder didn’t do that much box office, but became a hit when it went to DVD. But reviewers here aren’t saying things to the effect of “This was really sexist and adolescent, but kind of funny” the way they often do with gross-out comedies. Here, it seems most are basically saying “I wish I could forget the 90 minutes I wasted watching this piece of crap.” That spells no cult status and no DVD after-life: The Rise of Taj will probably just disappear without a trace.

Has anyone seen it? Is it as “bad as Badalandabad”? Is it as bad as “a day without sunshine”? Does it “not even compare three cup sizes to the half-assed original from 2002”? (Not quite sure what that means, but you get the idea.) The juiciest, ragingest five lines of snark I could find were the following:

Flavorlessly directed by Mort Nathan (2003’s “Boat Trip”) and seemingly penned on a napkin by David Drew Gallagher, “National Lampoon’s Van Wilder 2: The Rise of Taj” has direct-to-DVD written all over it. There is unequivocally no reason why such an asinine, energy-deprived waste of time has reached theaters. I have had knee-shaking, ass-skewering hemorrhoids that were funnier than this so-called comedy, which doesn’t inspire a single laugh, smirk or smile in all of its running time. (link)

Go MovieBoy. (Oh, and sorry to hear about the hemorrhoids! Ouch!)

Personally, I’m not going to go see The Rise of Taj, even though I do admire what Kal Penn has been able to do in Hollywood. Neither the reviews nor the trailers suggest anything redeeming to be found here. And no, one doesn’t go to movies just to “support” aspiring Indian American actors. Really, the best support anyone can give Kal Penn at this point is an email along the lines of “make less crap, ‘kay?” Continue reading

“An oratorio about our virtual surroundings”

And, with great frequency, we find it necessary to become the news, to participate in it, to deliver it. Perhaps this impulse is our only defense; reality television, the blogosphere and YouTube are but a few examples. These are the new narrative forms of our life. Digital reportage, punditry, and testimony are now integral to the way we define ourselves.

That’s from the introduction to their new work Still Life with Commentator, by Vijay Iyer, Mike Ladd, and Ibrahim Quraishi. The show premiered earlier this year in Chapel Hill and Salzburg and has its first major run this week, December 6-10, at BAM in New York City. The album on Savoy Records will appear in March.

Still Life involves many of the artists who appeared in Iyer and Ladd’s tremendous 2003-04 project In What Language? with the addition of avant-garde vocalist Pamela Z. I’ve heard the music and it’s terrific; Vijay has also posted this preview on YouTube.

More on this next week, but I encourage NYC-area macacas to check this show out; it’s a big deal. And considering that the artists call the piece as “an oratorio about our virtual surroundings,” it may prove fodder for discussion here in the virtual surroundings we share. Continue reading

Maximum Fugly: Nach Baliye 2

I think we can all agree that there’s enough Fugly to go around. Here’s one I spotted (and indeed, uploaded) myself:

Gotta love them back-up dancers! This clip is from Nach Baliye 2, a popular dance reality TV show on the Star One channel. The contestants aren’t actual amateurs, but professional TV actors who are taking a stab at dancing. Also, they’re all married (and most weeks, the married couples dance only with each other). Finally, every show features gratuitous brown-nosing of the star judges, including especially Saroj Khan. In short, it’s “Dancing With the Stars,” only much more conservative and twice as cheesy.

(Forgive the low quality of the video; a higher quality version can be found here, though you’ll have to sit through some introductory stuff. More recommended dance snips from this week’s show: Tanaaz, as Kali; Bakhtyaar, with kiddies; and Husain, rocking the Hrithik Roshan moves to a Daler Mehndi Sukhbir tune.) Continue reading

Posted in TV

InstaReview: SAWCC’s “In a State of Emergency?” Exhibition

sawccemergency.jpgEarlier this evening I checked out the opening of “In a State of Emergency? Women, War & the Politics of Urban Survival,” an exhibition presented by the South Asian Women’s Creative Collaborative here in New York. The show is up at the Alwan Center for the Arts in Lower Manhattan through December 9th. It features photography, video, multimedia and installation pieces by nine desi sisters: Salma Arastu, Meherunnisa Asad, Kiran Chandra, Mona Kamal, Bindu Mehra, Carol Pereira, Maryum Saifee, Tahera Seher Shah, and Vandana Sood.

I’ll go straight to the insta-review, dangerous as that is since I only just got back and the air-kissing, red-wine-in-plastic-cups opening atmosphere perhaps wasn’t the most conducive to critical contemplation (though I did stay away from the wine). So I hope other folks will chime in with their own impressions. Visually, I most enjoyed Shah’s “Jihad Pop” series of digital prints, with their stencils of desi and Islamic iconography set amid fields of sheer black and white. The most thought-provoking to me was Saifee’s series of “Postcards from the Middle East,” which she bills as self-portraits stemming from her experience as a Peace Corps volunteer in Jordan: as she explains in the catalog, “my skin color made my authenticity as an American up for debate. On the street, I would either be mistaken as a Sri Lankan maid or as a Bollywood film star.” And I found Arastu’s “New York and I” series frustrating: visually fabulous in their superimpositions of New York street and subway scenes with armies of unhinged, chattering silhouettes, but marred by the poems written into each piece, which struck me as trite and superfluous.

The show is a project of SAWCC, the estimable organization that is now in its tenth year and that sponsors, among other events, the annual literary conference that a number of Mutineering types attended last year. SAWCC (pronounced, delightfully, “saucy”) continues to do the Lord’s work for culturally minded macacas, and they deserve all our support.

A show like this one, however, also suffers from self-imposed boundaries. It is imbued with a very 1990s, hyper-theoretical approach to the politics of representation that makes the inherent whimsy and improvisation of artistic creation — and, importantly, artistic consumption — feel secondary. The catalog essay, and the shorter version handed out on flyers, are nearly illegible, and I’ve got Ivy degrees and a reasonably honed appreciation for theory. It frustrates me no end — and this is not a knock on this exhibition specifically; far from it, it’s a common problem — when art is “explained” by its sponsors and presenters using language like this:

These increasingly paranoid urban spaces harbour fears of the irrational violence equated with terrorism, inducing a society of control in which surveillance, intimidation, and the erosion of personal liberty forces forms of resistance that employ the strategies of the absurd. Increasingly aware of the machine that governs and questioning the methods and motives of the state, the artists in this exhibition rely on the absurd, irrational, and uncanny to produce counter hegemonic narratives to ideological, religious, cultural, and social modes of control.

Like the artists of Dada, these contemporary practitioners respond to the presence of war, excess, and other degenerate transgressions of contemporary urban life. Like the women of Dada, they also respond to issues of identity altered by male repression and subjugation, aware of a world in which urban social orders are based on the governance of space, each system of control based on meta-structuring agents, making each space, city, and response, culturally specific. Such disciplinary systems of control exude masculinity, often necessitating a physical, emotional, and psychological domination of women, placing them in a “state of emergency.”

Got that? Read it again: It’s not gibberish, it just feels like it is. There is plenty of meaning, and indeed, a viable argument or several in those hyper-extended, comma-laden sentences. The problem is, those arguments are being beaten into us with the implicit presumption that, ultimately, there is a right way and a wrong way to apprehend this art. And that, plainly, is bullshit. For one thing, taken as theory alone, the argument above merits unpacking; it cobbles together numerous assumptions and interpolations about the world about us with verbs like “induce,” “force,” and “necessitate,” that are dead giveaways of a lack of interest in, or openness to, the serendipitous and the unexpected. Rigidity and art make poor companions, as previous uses of the word “degenerate” in the context of art criticism have made abundantly clear; and I think it’s a disservice to a whole class of potentially interested viewers, as well as to the artists themselves, to fence a potentially interesting exhibition behind such a grim gateway. Continue reading

Old folk can still dance

I was thinking about the fact that, as an over 30, I am now officially old. I mean, James Bond is now a 30-something, which makes this the first time in my life that I have been in the same decade as a Bond actor.

However, between popping arthritis medicine and obsessing about the fact that I have to settle down before it’s too late, I remembered something. Old folk can still dance. I don’t just mean gorgeous professional dancers like DesiDancer, I mean ordinary uncles and aunties. I’m not saying that they can grind, freak or krump (although I’ll bet DD can krump like a clown) I mean that they can dance which is to me a far more beautiful thing.

Herewith, exhibit A [via Vinod], Gurdas Maan’s Babe Bhangra Pounde Ne:

If I can dance like that, when I’m that age, I’ll be a happy man.

Continue reading

Straight eye for the guerilla guy

Inspired by Anna and Sin, I thought that I would try my hand at fashion criticism. But where to start? I’m straight, and hardly fashion forward. I needed somebody who was in greater need of assistance than myself somebody like … Prabhakaran. While I may not be able to wage a decades long war against the government in Colombo, and I don’t have a cult of personality of my own, I can certainly dress better than him. [Yeah, I’m brave, blogging behind an anonymous handle and making fun of the head of the Tamil Tigers.]

So, ‘Tamil Eezha Desiya Thalaivar’ (how could I call him Thambi?) Velupillai, if you’re listening, here’s what I learned from reading GQ in the gym:

  1. Stocky guys should not wear horizontal stripes. And what’s with the camo tiger stripes? That was never in.
  2. Avoid mixing different kinds of stripes. For example, don’t have a sunburst coming out of your head while wearing a hat and shirt with the aforementioned camo tiger stripes.
  3. While hipster, ironic, trucker caps were in a few seasons ago, they’re not any more. And a thundercats type logo cap is only appropriate for a press conference if you’re Ashton Kutcher.
  4. If you have to have a big grimacing cat on your flag, don’t stand in such a way as to make it seem like the cat is taking a big bite out of your arm. It’s distracting, although not as distracting as the camo tiger stripes or the sunburst coming out of your head.
  5. Belts belong close to your waist level, not up above your navel. And a wide belt like that, worn so high? It makes you look fat. Also, try to match your belt with your shoes.
  6. Don’t wear a pistol under your armpit. It makes it harder to draw, and leaves the butt smelling … like armpit.
  7. Cyanide necklaces are out this season.
  8. Don’t shoot the messenger. Or blow him to smithereens.

More images of the man on the Tiger webpage.

Continue reading

Fashion victims, unite!

Ennis and I swapped a few e-mails the other day, in which, in-between soliciting my opinions on Begum Nawazish Ali and expressing a fear of pigeon-holing me, he offered up some ideas of stuff to talk about—politics, the whole “war on terror”, fashion, South Asian politics, that sort of thing.

Naturally, having all the depth of a particularly shallow puddle, IÂ’ve opted to go with fashion.

Fashion, or what passes for it in Pakistan, really pisses me off. Of course, that doesn’t mean that I don’t somehow find myself at least marginally involved with it, but in the years since I’ve been back, it’s taken on this quasi-mystical status as an “industry”, with a mythical “council” comprising…well, I’m not quite sure who’s on the council at present, but I’m going to go with “senior”, “established”, and/or “reputed” designers, since those are generally the terms that seem to be kosher.

Now, at the risk of back-tracking, let me just mention for the record that I know most of the designer community in Pakistan. It’s all a bit of the little pink mafia, with most designers either being gay men or straight women (I’m sorry, they’re not always gay, some of them are “bisexual”, or “bi-curious” snort; I’ve yet to meet a larger group of individuals who have managed to make what they describe as a “phase” last well over a decade or two). And then the photographers, stylists, event managers and “choreographers” all tend to fall into the same gay man/straight woman alliance, so when you combine the somewhat incestuous socialising with a severely limited pool, and then further refine it into an industry dominated by fags and their hags, it’s not hard to meet them all—and be declared their new best friend—within a matter of hours. And while I’ll admit that there’s a certain amount of glitz to the whole thing, to socialising with the crowd that everyone knows (of) and being dragged from one party to another, the realisation that it’s tinsel and not actual stardust comes rather rapidly.

I know, what a shocker, right? Fashion, shallow and superficial? Never! Continue reading