The House of Sand.

You can tell a film is economical by the look of the film.
No one will doubt that Batman Begins is one helluva expensive film, from the sophisticated visual effects or from many sets used in the film. On the other hand, any films like In The Bedroom is said to be ‘small’ and ‘independent’ from the limited sets it uses, or simple from the rural look.

Another way to reduce the cost of filmmaking that tends to baloon these days is by having a limited cast. In Jasmine Women, Zhang Zi Yi plays different roles through different times. There is no harm done in doing this, as long as we are convinced with their portrayal of those variety of people who surely will carry different characters to inhibit within that one singular actor.



This is the point where The House of Sand fails to lift itself up from merely being an economical film. The film, which deals with a mother-and-daughter relationship spans over more than four decades, is set entirely in a desert, sparing us a swooning cinematography, only to already feel exhausted by the first half of the film.

Yet, the film’s biggest problem lies on the choice of Andrucha Waddington, the director, to cast both leads to play different roles. Arguably, both Fernanda Torres and Fernanda Montenegro are among Brazilian’s finest thespians. However, the risky decision to cast both actresses to play both mothers and daughters within different periods of time prove to be a risk not worth taking at all, for we are hardly convinced with their performance. It is not an easy task to carry different characters within confinement of 2-hour duration, and as a result, we simply do not buy otherwise a great idea. For the actors themselves, what could be a challenging role some actors dream of, simply does not work under a half-baked direction.

Thus, this is the film at its most economical way.

Heart.

Here are the things you learn from Heart (the movie) that you should apply and consider with your mind, not only relying from your heart (the thing inside your body):

1. a contrived, forced romance should not be made for more than or close to 2-hour long, otherwise any director will run out of tacky lines to utter.
2. running on a tight budget? well, in a matter of film-making, who doesn’t? but sparing the budget for cinematography instead of adding a few necessary cast members is a sin. lucky you, the whole Bandung/Puncak citizen is currently busy tackling their garbage, and not complaining why no one else exists in that area apart from the three main casts.
3. any songs made by melly but not sung by melly should be properly put. where? on the soundtrack album only.
4. if your life is nothing but playing basketball (not even with a team, but just with you yourself and that basketball ring) and painting, here’s my generous advise: get a life!
5. oh, speaking of tacky lines, here’s the thing about teens these days: they are way smarter than that.

Unless we are talking about some hopeless romantics who storm the cinemas, making the film (gasp!) a box-office success. Yes, somehow love-themed stories work best when they despise logic and good quality of filmmaking.

Oh well. I’m out of here.

The Consequences of Love.

Watching a film made from puzzles about one’s life hesitantly scattered pieces by pieces throughout the entire film left one feeling puzzled indeed, in a good way: we get hooked.

The Consequences of Love merely revolves around the life of Titta, an old man with seemingly boring routine. He wakes up, he walks down to a lobby in a hotel where he has been staying in for a number of years. He stays there, reading newspapers until late in the evening when he has to go back to his room to sleep.

Having an almost stationery character like Titta challenges every aspiring filmmaker to bring many additional characters whom Titta will observe, or get involved with. Surely Paolo Sorrentino, the director, follows such a rule, with an underlining bait of his past that soon catches him up. Soon, the past and the present life of Titta will tangle him up, in many ways that thrill our mind, and eyes.

The confinement of space, considering the film is almost entirely set in one location, does not confine Sorrentino from exploring unusual looks which recall any of David Fincher’s works. The carefully captured images in this film is indelible enough to stay on audience’s mind, surely I do, which actually complement the impossibly great twisted screenplay and master-class performance from Tony Servillo as Titta on his commanding presence through stoic manners.

Yet, the film moves, inexplicably.

The Russian Dolls.

Picking up where The Spanish Apartment leaves us, The Russian Dolls feels fresher, as now the film solely focuses itself on the life of its singular main character, Xavier (Romain Duris in his relaxed performance), particularly in his love department. This means, unlike the predecessor, the film does not have to carry a burden of allocating spaces for multiple characters, which in turn left the first film with a little bit of misled direction.

The focusing does not come with its consequences though, and the one who suffers most from the reduction effect is Audrey Tatou’s character as Xavier’s initial girlfriend, Martine. Halfway throughout the film, the character somehow goes off the film completely, only to be revealed in a lesser scene towards the end, which does not explain or enhance her presence, except to reinstate her annoying charisma built from the beginning.



Yet, the same cannot be said with Kelly Reilly (that particular shining stripper from Mrs. Henderson Presents) who plays Wendy, Xavier’s English girlfriend. Arguably the only character in the film that breathes full of life, Reilly brings her character in such a charming and likeable manner. Every single turn of her moves, be them as a jealous girlfriend or while hiding her repression of pain, Reilly does them with a believable persona that draws us to her close, rooting for more of her presence.

The rest of returning cast gives a slight brush to the film, which now works as if the audience has graduated from wearing United Colors of Benetton, to a more staple line of Zara. In short, it may not that greatly colorful, but whatever available there are steady ones that will stick to your memory most.

Maskot.

If Maskot feels like a throwback to the good old 70s and early 80s Indonesian comedy, then perhaps Robin Moran, the director, feels the right to do so after watching tremenduous amount of those kind films during the preparation of making his debut film here. Again, it is only a possibility.



However, the statement above is derived as one can’t help drawing many similarities in this film to the films on the era. At the surface, the basic story premise of Maskot is in many ways applicable as if the film was made by Nja Abbas Acup, Asrul Sani or Chaerul Umam. The film revolves around a search for a hen believed to be the symbol of prosperity for a ketchup company. As the owner of the company (El Manik, in a successive roles required him lying on a hospital bed after his turn in Berbagi Suami) has a declining health, he requests his clumsy son (Ariyo Wahab) to be his successor, but he can only be so if he is able to find that particular hen to be used as a mascot for the factory. Eventually, the search trip has become some sort of coming-of-age journey which resolves in a good way guaranteed to satisfy everyone.

After all, it’s a comedy, right? And good Indonesian comedies of both abovementioned decades, think of Inem Pelayan Sexy, Bintang Kejora and the likes of them, relies on the comic presence of the cast. We are not talking about Bing Slamet, Benyamin S. or Ateng-Iskak films here, where the mere presence of these comic figures would evoke your laughter. Referring to the two aforementioned film, for sure Jalal was on the former film, but hardly any comedy actors present in the latter film, which were filled by character actors such as El Manik, Ikranegara and Amak Baldjun.
Following the similar steps, Moran gave sizable opportunities for the supporting cast of his films to shine. Particularly Butet Kertaradjasa, one of the iconic theatre figures of recent times, and Epi Kusnandar of the TV-series Kejar Kusnadi. Both are able to seize their presence with unique wits and unexpected charm that any scenes without them seem to exhaust themselves.

Thus, in the days of endless mindless teenage romance or horrifying horror, having an Indonesian film that feels Indonesian all around is a refreshing take to indulge.

the risk of addiction.

so i am addicted to this absence,
which drives me further to making numerous attempts of earning a penny or two maybe,
and not penning my own journal for free.

so i am addicted to the nights,
the companion of flesh and snack,
of two gay guys, one fag hag, and one helluva drinker,
of green teas, or normal ones in alternate.

so i am addicted to the city,
the coffee meets the riots,
leaving me stuck in the unlikely space,
of yuppies, of tough guards, of breezing condensed air.

so i am addicted to you,
the lover of my life,
the hairy bear of my life,
the shivering thoughts sending the hair at the back of my neck rising.

so i am addicted to this life,
of uncertainty, of impossible dream,
of unclear destination, of mindless people and their hopeless defense,
of ambiguity, and the likes of it.

so i am addicted to myself,
living the life i yet to lead.

where do i leave my heart?

for the past two weeks, i went back living the life i have been very familiar with. being in a comfort zone could not be more exhilarating than this, where people know you for who you really are, and you are free to roam around the city without worrying about what cannot be done to fill your time.

the friends remain the same, their dreams remain afar.

the temptation to go back is always there to lure you, and it cannot be any greater than this time around. after all, what's not to like about your own comfort zone?

actually, that's the key of treating this comfort zone. you hate it.

you loathe it by cursing it with the most comprehensive list of cursive words you can ever think of. you despise it by resisting that living in this zone would only drag you down. you hate it to death.

and by doing so, you keep on living nicely and comfortably till you love it.
and that's the point where you realize you cannot live in any other places.

and you keep on complaining.

and i wish to quit that.

i just wish to live where i can be living.

sadly, it's not here.


------------

who are you? i am a writer.
what do you do? i write.
how do you live? i live.

one of the highlights

Your Birthdate: April 11

Spiritual and thoughtful, you tend to take a step back from the world. You're very sensitive to what's going on around you, yet you remain calm. Although you are brilliant, it may take you a while to find your niche. Your creativity is supreme, but it sometimes makes it hard for you to get things done. Your strength: Your inner peace Your weakness: You get stuck in the clouds Your power color: Emerald Your power symbol: Leaf Your power month: November

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

a forecast of a birthday.

i know i'm supposed to continue telling you all about my bali trip, but the past few days were quite busy days for me.
who says one can relax in a comfort zone?
but then again, as i'm turning 27 in less than 24 hours, i'd like to pen a few words to commemorate this special day.

commemorate?
i don't know if i'm entitled to apply such a big word to describe my life, but here goes.

------------------------------------------

In the past, and until now, my dad has always stressed this point to me:

“No matter what you do, be responsible for it.”

Thus, he left me choosing what I wanted to become by enrolling myself in theatre and linguistic as my subjects during my hectic college days. He left me embarking on a corporate work-life, because he knew that soon enough, I got tired of it. He left me cooking on my own, because he knew that he could not eat what the food I made, somehow against his metabolism.

And he left me living the life I am doing now.

While like any common father-and-son relationships we hardly talk about our private life, we have one common faith to each other to keep the trust of being responsible in everything.

Of course, that includes love department.

After more than three decades of marriage, my mum and dad retain their romance, which by now has blossomed into longevity. Sticking to each other for more than half of their lives, I could not stop wondering if it is the same feeling when they began falling in love in those heydays of early 70s, or the love has diverted them to the direction of responsibility.

I used to believe that there are things greater than love in the forte of relationship, one of them being respect. Respect our companion, but more importantly, respect myself as the carrier of consequences in choices. Thus, it leads me to the responsibility itself.

Now, in the passage of my life that soon reaching the number of 27, have I been responsible for what I’ve chosen?

I may need a generous help of other people to give an objective review for that. But what I know from what I’ve been through, I can’t be more comfortable with the life I’ve led so far.

For sure, it has never been easy with the ups and downs, more with my recent decision to leave my comfort zone, and start a new life in what seemingly a chaotic place. The struggle to get through the harshness of life on a daily basis seems to be getting harder only to realize that no matter who I am with, the journey has to be taken all alone.

And losing my own identity to be replaced with being known as somebody’s friend, somebody’s boyfriend, almost takes the meaning of ‘whoring’ to a literal level.

Yet, at the end of the day, I can always look at them with laughter of relief, gladness and other jovial expression to which I can’t always describe vividly. I can always kiss my pillow, sometimes with a teardrop or two, while switching on my laptop to play some meaningful tunes. I can always send an email or two, blurting out whatever things I feel like telling to my friends. They are never away.

A cup of coffee or two, an hour or five, a lifetime unlike any other.

Here’s to my solemn birthday tomorrow.

That, just like any relationships, no birthdays would ever be so perfect. That no matter what, I guess my ultimate birthday wish will never get fulfilled.

That I’ve gotta be more than ready to be responsible of what I choose to be in life, and whom I choose to be with.

Of course, I always have the right to choose who and who I will have my birthday dinner with this year.
I doubt if they are my blog readers, hahaha!

Cheers!

Nauval.

pre-bali trip: it's all about the style

the journey had started a day earlier actually, right at the heart of the chaotic city, and it's none other than ... plaza indonesia!



being cosmopolitan people who refuse to downgrade the class by shopping at middle-class supermarket with fake french names like carrefour, why didn't we just settle to the privilege nearby? after all, we stayed in pejompongan, and this made our whole preparation easier by acting posh while shopping in such a luxurious place.

there it went, filling our bags with staple of food that included two loafes of bread, jams, crackers, snack, and complete the stylish shopping with snatching a pair of sunglasses with white frames. it is really a smaller version of the one audrey hepburn wearing in 'how to steal a million'! finally my goddess, we share something in common, after years of worshipping you.



and i'm sure, audrey, whenever you travelled during the heydays of hollywood, you always had it with you your fabulous collection of clothes, hats, bags, scarfs, the whole closet of yours. while we are not in the same department, i'll just settle with bringing my precious whitey, my tiny weeny silvery, and the connector to the world.

i was set, nyottie was set, we were all set!



and this time, bali would never be the same.

in a(nother) nutshell

from
the 4-hour delay. ogoh-ogoh. benoa. the silence day. the korean guest officer. beaches. double six. sand on martini. kudeta. seaside. bye bye nokia. honeymooners. ryoshi. ubud. welcome ericsson.

to
esplanade. holland village. west side story. gay plays. hostel. nude bars. hectic meetings. rushing deadlines. full-time jobs. sight and sound.

... let me have a little sleep, please ...