Have Myself a Very Holmes Christmas

Sherlock Holmes. The mere mention of that name eclipses its maker, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Considered by some as the pivotal character in sleuth history of literature, even the twentieth-century greats such as Agatha Christie and Dorothy L Sayers had quoted him as an inspiration. His creator had never pictured Holmes in a rather flattering light - he abused substances, mingled with the lesser class (considered as a taboo back then), took morbid interest in death and the like, and sometimes played the violin in a second-rate manner. Yet for all the faults that he so blatantly displayed, all that was so beautifully eclipsed by the sudden flashes of humanity in his character and, of course, his ability to deduce answers from a single glance. 


Then I learnt about Guy Ritchie's project, Sherlock Holmes, with Robert Downing, Jr. as the titular character. I took deep breaths. This overtly violent director was going to grab Holmes, turn him upside down and shook the poor thing down to the last penny. The only thing I've seen from him was the Madonna videoclip 'What It Feels Like for A Girl' and little rest. The god of sleuthing pantheon was finally torn down from his pedestal, or so I thought.


When you're proven wrong for the right reasons, though, it's the greatest feeling ever. Sherlock Holmes as envisioned by Guy Ritchie was a brute force in the rather gentile yet secretive society of London. When the society wakes up, Holmes, played deliciously by Robert Downing. Jr, stays hidden in his darkened room, thinking of mundane things. Yet later on we saw the real reason why he abhorred society so much. The irresistible, all-English Jude Law was John Watson, who was the complete opposite - a true gentleman with the heart of gold, war veteran, and the marrying kind. His plans of marriage, however, is hampered by two things: his interest in crime and his mercurial friend.


Into this fray were thrown a secret society, women (one beautiful, one beguiling), Inspector Lestrade, illegal boxing ring, mechanical and chemical devices, The House of Lords, and a man with magical powers. So do they make an explosive mix or simply fizzle harmlessly? I do so give it a shining 4 out of five stars. The reasons?

SPOILERS MAY BE AHEAD!!!

YOU WERE WARNED!




There are three:

1. Some may say that Holmes did no such things in his adventures. I do believe that Holmes could have done anything that was pictured in the movie. After all, we could see this movie as the beginnings of his career, and Watson is still staying with him, and is yet to be married. As to his boxing career, I see no better way to defend and keep oneself fit than participating in illegal matches - and get side income while doing it.
2. The whole story rarely plods, and the little details that one see throughout the movies - dead frogs in a jar, a dead midget, and bones from different animals - they all make sense at the climax. Those whose attention diminishes at the first ten minutes may leave the theatre immediately because this is the essence of a detective story. You stay with the story from start to finish, hold onto any clues, and finally put them together. If you can't, then do leave so others may enjoy them more.
3. The actors. Ah, they play their parts wonderfully! Robert seems to enjoy his part immensely, while Jude becomes the embodiment of the proper English gentleman, even down to the hairy arms and mustache. And I am glad to note that not all of the smart lines are given to Holmes - Watson had his moments, too. 

The next time you see a man licking a stone, he may not be crazy. Till then, enjoy your Christmas and New Year holidays!

Steampunk: Reclaiming Tech for the Masses

Steampunk: Reclaiming Tech for the Masses

I just love the hat. Thanks to @gailcarriger!

Whitney and Toni

Mood:

I really love these two women. Their voices are unique and do I have to mention the power? The first time I heard of Whitney was of course from the world-famous soundtrack The Bodyguard 'I Will Always Love You'. How she sang that long note was anybody's guess (And I--------------- Will Always Love You------!). As for Toni Braxton, it was her first album with the wonderful 'Another Sad Love Song'. Both were at the peak of their careers before fate took them along for disturbing rides.

Whitney Houston married Bobby Brown. Enough said.

As for Toni, I still could not wrap my head around the fact that she had to declare bankruptcy after two successful albums. But then fate threw her another bone that I was happy for - she acted in Disney's broadway production of Beauty and the Beast, playing the role of Belle. 

Since then, though, both seemed to have recovered, which I was happy for, and look at them now! One had a standing ovation, the other had a new single out and it's burning off the charts. I wish them nothing but the best.

Let me tell you about: Agatha Christie's Murder on the Orient Express

Cover courtesy of Wikipedia

When I told friends that English was not my strongest subjects, let alone speak it properly during my schooldays, they stared back at me in disbelief. I really hated English, not because I am not a native speaker of the language, but rather because of the teacher. Bad experiences during my primary years led me to despise the language and subject altogether, subliminally vowing to myself that I'd never do well in the subject.

When I was in my Secondary years, the school library did not interest me much. I figured that the library would be no better than the primary school library, which never opened for as long as I could remember. One hot afternoon, however, I found myself unable to go home because my father was suddenly roped in by his office for some last minute problems, and I had nowhere else to go. It was either the canteen or the library. I chose the library - it was air-conditioned.

There I saw the above book. Mind you, I had no idea what it was until I started reading it, taking my time, and an hour later, I was inexorably stuck to the book. Even borrowed the librarian's dictionary to get me through. I ended up borrowing the book and as my father drove me home, talking about his day, all I could think of was when to continue reading the book.

I practically tore across the page, and when I finally got to the ending, it left me feeling like a fool - and I was officially hooked to Christie. I then went on to the rest of her masterpieces, and to anyone who's testing their waters with murder mystery, I highly recommend Murder in Mesopotamia.

Her language is so easy to understand, and even with all the British mannerisms, one - who is not a British - would easily understand the scene she was setting, the characters might as well have fallen off the book and started running around so effortlessly she made them, and the plot! Sometimes you'd be strung along for a real ride, only to have the carpet pulled out of your feet, but not without reason. And for someone who - I assumed - might be rather uptight with rules, she broke a few of her trades. Imagine turning her victim into a murderer! Or a seemingly wonderful ally into a cold-blooded murderer! And it was all done right under our noses!

I have the Dame to thank of. Her books made me want to write in simple manner that appeals to all.

A Most Wrenching Piece of Music

While I was climbing my way up the higher-learning stairs, I stumbled upon the fact that I might not be able to graduate. Thus, like any other students, I panicked. Ran around like a lunatic with no friend to turn to except for my computer. There I began to nurture my writing skills. I found release in them, by re-interpreting the incidences in my student life to within my stories, and making them disappear by solving even the most difficult dilemmas. But in real life, it was not so.

I continued to scrounge around for relief, or maybe something that might help ease my impending doom. I discovered Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings. 

I decided to play it when my roomies were gone and I was all alone in my room. For one, they would not understand. Luckily that suitable day came, and I was free to play it as loud as I could. 

When it began, I could not hear it at all. It seemed to materialise out of the air, and began to arch upward, reaching toward something, only to pushed back by another invisible force. It was less struggling and more like trying to stand up inside a quicksand that slowly sucks one in. But then all throughout the piece, one continually tries to stand up, pushing gently upward, with that invisible force still pushing in the opposite direction. 

When the strings finally rally around that invisible force, the resulting sound was almost shocking, weeping and angry at the same time, like someone saying "Here! Take it! Isn't this what you've wanted all this time!?" Said with tears, anger and force, the words simply fell flat on emptiness. We are left on a musical limbo, before the struggle began again, but with less force, as if the music finally relented to that invisible force. It even died away to a whisper.

But what a whisper. 

P/S: It was fortunate that I was alone listening to this - I cried buckets. And no - I made it through, I graduated.

Let me tell you about: Gail Carriger's Soulless

A few months ago I saw a shocking pink title on a  book spine. It had an octopus on it and the title SOULLESS on it. That got me wondering - was it another book that should remain out of my life or a keeper?

It should have remained out of my life, because I can't get enough of it! And it's not everyday for me to stumble on a story that was unfolding in the most interesting way. Let me tell you about it.

Alexia Tarrabotti was half-Italian, soulless, and worse, a spinster. The unholy trinity of sin, apparently, when you're in the turn-of the 19-century Britain. Alexia is no run-on-the-mill heroine: aside from nearly irrepressible desire to chase down the truth, she packs a mean parasol. Yep. Parasol. Not umbrella, a highly pimped up parasol. There are big differences between - oh heck, just Wikipedia it.

The world where Alexia exists accepts the existence of supernaturals, namely the vampires and the werewolves. Some even become government officials. Humans who desire to be one of these supernaturals are warned, though; not all survive the turning. However, our heroine is an entirely different entity. She has no soul, as the book trumpeted at the cover. What does that have to do with anything?

Well, everything apparently. Her condition means that she nullifies the supernatural powers of these supernatural beings. And that is where her problem really begins. One night at a private ball, she accidentally kills a vampire - and with the wit of a proper Victorian lady, falls down and faints swoons.

From here readers are introduced to the first werewolves - Professor Lyall, a Beta, and Lord Maccon, a new Alpha. Not your normal werewolves, they're neither drop dead gorgeous (New Moon, anyone?) nor friendly. Just 'civilised'. After all, that's the most important virtue anyone, supernatural or human, must have to live in London.

I am thoroughly entertained by this book. Alexia and Lord Maccon provides most of the meaty conversations, with a very, very - how should I say this delicately - loud vampire and a friend whose hat-sense needs some serious reboot time running around in the background. They all are a winsome bunch, if I should say. And I am looking forward to the next story in 2010.

Celebration

Yep. I'm talking about Madonna, that ageless mutton. I should be very lucky if I had her level of stamina when I hit 50!

My first encounter with Madonna was when I was still a young, impressionable teenager of 13. A friend bought a cassette and I happened to see the cover. It was a heavily made-up woman wearing very skimpy negligee. I thought nothing of it and played the cassette.

I didn't like the first track, and fast-forwarded it to the next track. When the next song began, I slowly savoured the lyrics, the slow-paced music, the guitar works. It was refreshing, it was new, and not to mention sensuous. Top it off with 'Bedtime Story' and finish it off with 'Take a Bow' - I was captivated. Totally captivated. I ended up borrowing and playing the tape for a week.

Much later, I found out that this singer, whose voice charmed me, was once a seemingly wayward artiste whose fore never seemed to extend beyond overt sexuality and total debauchery.

However, in retrospect, I realised how smart this woman was, and how she dared to push the envelope for performance art in an era where artists were mostly cowed by their contracts. Not saying that there were none, but as far as I am concerned, Madonna was a prime example of artists pushing and breaking boundaries. Not only in songs but also in video-making. She elevated it to an art form. See below.

Madonna dared, in an era where sex and the like was hidden behind doors, to showcase sex as an integral part of her art, and not to feel ashamed of it. Which is why I think her music is as fresh it is now as it was back then. You might not agree but there's the comment button free for you to abuse. Meanwhile, I'll just kick back and listen to the double CD CELEBRATION.

Life in Narration

I always felt a need to write since I was very young. Maybe because I did not talk a lot back then. I was an introvert (still am) and always had my attention somewhere else.

My very first output was a poem, of all things. The memory was sketchy at best, but all I could remember was how very surprised I was at that piece of work. Surprised, because I was a very bad English student. I loathed the subject, or more precisely, the teacher.

Back to the poem. It had something to do with a swan gliding across a tranquil lake before stopping under a bough beside the lake. It could have been around three stanzas at most, and I remember thinking to myself, 'What in the world had just happened?'

A few days ago I saw a newspaper article lamenting the existence of Twitter and SMS and how they could spell the end of novels, short stories and the art of narrative. Life nowadays wants everything to be short but leaves a great impact. Ours is a generation that relies on speed, no matter how it comes about.

Storytellers and poets used to hold important social standings in the society across the history. When newspapers came about, they were replaced by reporters who more or less had that kind of gift, the gift of narration, albeit a bit terse and impersonal. (Objectivity sans emotions, or something like that.) Now, the writer continued, with the advent of Twitter and SMS, it destorys the urge to narrate the reality around us and replace it with several near-unintelligible words and symbols as such:

W8 4 me @ d stre! C wat I mean?

I really miss the days when the postman came and shove the postbox full of letters. Penpals were the object of envy back then. Someone you barely knew actually took the time to sit down, get pen and paper, and start writing about what he did that day to how the dog bit off his shoe.

My father once bought a typewriter - an Olivetti machine - but he rarely used it. Every time I sat in front of it, I imagined myself a writer and began typing away, taking pains to get the spelling and grammar right. Not because I wanted to practise my English, but more out of necessity - when you spelled the words wrong, there was no UNDO button. That also meant you'd waste the ribbon and paper.

Stories came out of the typewriter like nothing I have read before. Whenever I pulled the paper off the typewriter and read what I'd laboured upon, I questioned myself inwardly - Did you really write this? - then went off to play.

To be continued...

Oh My --- Gawd.

It's official - I'm on the path of becoming a teacher.

Run and hide, parents.

I just hope that nothing else would come in my way - myself included. I really, really want this. Not only because it is a noble profession, you also get to travel around, meet and live with people you don't know and become friends.

We went through the unavoidable orientation (1 week) and met lots of colourful characters. And soon enough, cliques and friendship began to bud and blossom. (Not to mention distaste, but that's an entirely different story.)

And there is also the fact that I want to lose weight. Yes people, this weight-challenged airhead is trying to lose weight so I would look good in a Red Crescent/Red Cross uniform. No, really.

Also I swear to try anything that I have never done anything before. Like becoming a Red Cross. My reason was I wanted to smooch people. And also, I became the head for my sports house cheer leading squad. Do cheerleaders dance to Vivaldi?

They warned us that everything will be super fast, because this was supposed to be a 2-year (at minimum) compressed to a year. And it's not actually one year as in 12 months, because most of the time will be spent out of class. Yep. I will actually missing classes for valid reasons.

And by the way, I am doing three of my favourite subjects: Maths, Music and English. Yes, yes!

New year, new outlook, same ole me. Just maybe better and younger.