Children of Men: "Yeah, it's a miracle, innit?"

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Ted Chiang is said to have remarked that what distinguishes science-fiction and fantasy is possibility; science-fiction describes that which may one day be possible, whereas fantasy describes that which we can never have. So which is Children of Men?

It is 2027, and the world has gone to hell in a handbasket. Women haven’t been able to have children for more than eighteen years, and the resulting despair has pushed humanity into a chaotic frenzy of destruction. The lone holdout is Britain - bastion of civilization & rescuer of art from the pillaging hordes – but also a totalitarian regime where refugees are herded into cages and the state engages in torture. Theo (Clive Owen) has grown cynical and weary in this world without hope, when an old lover, Julian (Julianne Moore), leader of a resistance group called ‘The Fishes’, asks him for his help transporting a girl to the coast past security checkpoints. The girl, Kee (Claire-Hope Ashitey) is sullen, childish – and pregnant. Her only hope, and perhaps that of humanity, lies with her getting to a boat named Tomorrow, which will take her to the mysterious Human Project. Theo, at first recruited because his influential cousin can get them papers to get past the checkpoints, soon finds himself Kee’s de facto guardian and protector, and the two set out on a journey that is by turns frightening and moving.

Children of Men’s real power lies in the potentiality of the reality it depicts. Discard the device of the infertile women, and the rest of the picture – a world in total chaos – is one that becomes more and more possible with every passing day. In 2027, British citizens by and large ignore the human rights outrages that go on underneath their noses, just as now, developed countries turn a blind eye towards suffering elsewhere. For example, more than 52,563 Iraqi civilians have died because of war-related violence since 2003 – but if you include other effects, such as destruction of infrastructure, worsening healthcare, lawlessness, the numbers go up – massively – to 654,965 deaths, or 2.5% of the population, since 2003. And yet, Iraq remains on the periphery of our collective consciousness? But I digress. There are no flying cars in Alfonso Cuaron’s 2027 – it is our world, with way more flat-screen televisions and a lot more grime; rickshaws in the streets of London, and deer ambling through abandoned schools. That we learn a lot about the world in 2027, is to Cuaron’s credit, especially since he does it without clunky expository dialogue (which, apparently, he hates.) We hear an ad for a government-endorsed euthanasia medication in a train, or watch a message exhorting Citizens to denounce illegal aliens, & 2027 feels real, and all too possible.

Clive Owen’s Theo is as real and compelling as the world he inhabits, and rightly so, because at its heart, Children of Men is about Theo’s journey, from its beginning in London, to its end in – but I won’t spoil it for you. Theo’s actually quite like Ian Rankin’s John Rebus – a drunken sadsack one should never underestimate – but unlike Rebus, Theo never picks up a gun, and when he resorts to violence you know that he is as shocked and scared and squicked out as you are – and that’s especially remarkable considering Owen was on the short-list to play Bond and that some of his best work has involved him playing hard men (I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead, Sin City). It’s wonderful work by Owen and one hopes he gets some kind of award recognition for it. Claire-Hope Ashitey is a wonderful foil for him – Kee is irreverent, curious and wonderfully vital, picking out names for her child – Frolly, Bazooka – as gunfire blazes around them. Michael Caine, as Theo’s pot-smoking friend Jasper, is a joy to watch as always, as are Julianne Moore and Chiwetel Ejiofor as Luke, one of Julian’s Fishes.

Children of Men is not, by any means, a fun movie – but it is a great one, well worth the watch.

PS – You know how I said the movie was real? One exception – in a conversation with Jasper, Theo mentions that an ex-girlfriend of his left him to join a religious group whose members self-flagellate to do penance for their sins. Now I’m good with suspension of disbelief, but please. As if anyone who was dating Clive Owen would dump him in favour of self-inflicted pain!

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

Now Playing: Blue Oyster Cult - Fire of Unknown Origin

Because Edna St Vincent Millay makes my heart ache, and because the world is tipping over into ruin, here's a poem from Second April.

Mariposa

Butterflies are white and blue
In this field we wander through.
Suffer me to take your hand.
Death comes in a day or two.

All the things we ever knew
Will be ashes in that hour,
Mark the transient butterfly,
How he hangs upon the flower.

Suffer me to take your hand.
Suffer me to cherish you
Till the dawn is in the sky.
Whether I be false or true,
Death comes in a day or two.

So go carpe those diems in 2007, y'hear?

"Y'know, I just realized that..."

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So there I was, minding my own business, when Rishi takes it upon himself to tag me. First the guy told me who died in OotP, then this? This means war, man. *shakes fist*

But then I thought, “If I had to learn stuff in 2006, why should my blog readers get off scott-free?” Thus, without further ado, 2006 in Epiphanies, Realizations and Lessons Learnt:

1. Having all four wisdom teeth removed really isn’t that big of a deal - Seriously. You know how people are all, “OMG, the agony!!! It was horrible!!! THE PAIN!!!” and then you get all freaked out, and you almost decide not to have the surgery done, but then it’s too late to cancel? It didn’t help that a passing acquaintance (really, I’d just met her) felt the need to share the story of her friend who went into hospital to have her cancer of the mouth operated on, but who died of a hospital-acquired infection. Also not helpful was the knowledge that some people are actually non-receptive to pain medications such as percocet. So the night before the operation, there I was, tossing and turning, imagining myself dying of a horrible infection (damn you, pseudomonas!) without the least painkiller-induced respite. Imagine, therefore, my surprise, when the whole thing went off well, and I hardly even needed any pain meds, just a few days spent recuperating at home with an icepack to the face.

2. I may not be a dog person, but I absolutely cannot stand to watch movies where bad things happen to them. It’s pathetic, really – I cried everytime I watched the trailer for Lassie! The movie itself would probably have me bawling in the aisles, sobbing about that poor dog.

3. There are some people with whom it is useless to argue. While I’d like to be able to take the easy route and say that most of these people are conservative / right-wing ideologues (Varsha Bhosle, Bill O’Reilly, Christie Blatchford), the truth is liberal / left-wing ideologues can be just as overzealous and screechy and blind to the possibility that there can be truth beyond their narrow ken.

4. I LOVE the angst. All my favourite TV shows serve it up in dollops. Grey’s Anatomy? Angsty. Supernatural? Hot AND Angsty. Battlestar Galactica? Subsists on Angst and Octagons. Veronica Mars? Noir with angst. Doctor Who? Long-running angst. My favourite movie of the year, The Prestige? Existentially angsty. Angst – the flavour of the future.

5. Doctor Who is the show that never ends. It only just struck me this year, and frankly, it’s rather off-putting. Who wants to watch a character who can just keep going and going and going (for atleast 3 more actors?) I mean, I know it’s a long-running show and a hugely successful formula, but don’t people want closure on the character?

6. I’m a Christmas Carol purist. I grew up listening to Jim Reeves & Andy Williams at Christmastime, and anyone else just sounds like an interloper to me. One notable exception is Josh Groban, whose rendition of O Holy Night is just melt-inducing. Here, have a listen.



And now I tag Hemlyn, Stephen, Beth and Maja for a bout of reminiscence. Enjoy!

Merry Christmas!

and because I am on such a Supernatural kick right now -

Everything I need to know I learnt from... Bollywood?!?

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'Twas a dark and stormy night afternoon when I heard fingernails tapping on my window. One Lockwoodesque freakout later, I realized that what I had heard was probably not the ghost of Catherine Earnshaw (for reasons geographical as well as sensible); but instead, as in the novel, simply the tapping of a tree branch against the glass pane.

Nevertheless, I was jumpy for the rest of the evening, and complained vociferously to my mother as we had our evening chai, "Argh! I'm still on edge!" To which Mum, disdainer of all things Bollywood replied, "Jo darr gaya, samjho marr gaya." (He who is afraid is as good as dead)

Three days later, I'm still laughing.