Coming from a cold fish

Everyone, has, at one point or the other, gone through a period of moderate to extreme self alienation. For me, it’s like a goddamn disease that relapses every half a month. This is not to intellectualize what is inherently the Acute Selfishness Syndrome (ASS), and which, I’ve heard, is often never detected or diagnosed in people who have been suffering from it. This probably explains why there are headaches.

The very first symptom is, undoubtedly, desensitization to news in general. From political protests to individual disaster accounts, nothing makes a welt on the surface. Secondly, it is not wholly uncommon to lose patience with family, yes, and friends. So whenever I have the glassy-eyed look when someone is expostulating something, it’s not that I’m not interested, it’s just that I’m not interested. Shocking, but true. But more than often, when I graciously decline to participate in a conversation, it’s a matter of being desensitized to speech in general. You know, the times when there is an innate trouble with your speech development and not quite with your vocal chords? People have a curious term to describe these instances: unease in society, which invariably equates you to a social icicle without meaning to do so. Somehow, I’ve always been surrounded by people who’ve been quite vocal for their support of good conversation, which makes me something of a recluse in their company. I’ve always wondered where they derive their inspiration from, to speak, to gesticulate, to…communicate. Which sounds lame, because it is standard human behaviour, and not to mention, also a socially conditioned one. But there must be people who feel this way, and not only in times of emotional distress, but in general day-to-day life. Is social ineptness the key, then? Or is it a conspicuous lack of self-esteem and self-worth? Or a pronounced aversion to society? But it may also be a peculiar unconcernedness and momentary disinterest that has a propensity to linger. Which isn’t an explanation at all. But which is exactly what I’ve experienced myself.

This entry is a case in point. I gradually lost interest as I progressed. Like holding a conversation, when people are frequently looking away or looking at their watches, searching very hard for an important appointment, or inventing, when necessary. I’d like to think that there is a reason behind this kind of behaviour, which doesn’t blame the persons involved of being naturally frigid, or of having a roving mind. Because there are moments in life when people are saturated with thoughts of their lives, and are unwilling to relive the aching familiarity by way of talking. It is a point, when there is perfect equilibrium, in a physical sense, and no transfer of data is necessary nor desirable. But what if this state of supposed equilibrium is a permanent behavioural pattern?

It is astonishing to contemplate as to how many people do not admit, even to themselves, that they are inherently, cold fishes, and even when they do, refuse to observe how frequently they are reverting to it, as a logical explanation for social frigidity. It is, obviously, a grave discredit to one’s personality, and not an excuse to be unconcerned and selfish. So, where does that leave me? Nowhere, apparently. I’m exactly where I was when I started out.

Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince: Film Review

It was definitely electric. As a film, it stands out from the rest of the franchise with a domineering smugness. It’s almost as if David Yates was making a fresh effort to draw in his audience (not that there is any dearth of those), and thus, overspent on stupendous special effects and teenage angst, the two most potent ingredients that go into the making of a summer blockbuster.

The much talked about (and reviled) opening sequence is an exercise in excess, as sweeping camera angles take in the destruction of London’s Millennium Bridge. There is much wind-in-the-hair-and-twisted-

metal-with-airborne-villains in that scene that inspires awe like a Quidditch match, but with an undercurrent of speechless horror. Dumbledore’s vice-like grip on Harry’s arm drags us back to the sordid remains of a world ravaged by terror. The contrast between the Muggle world and the Wizarding world, both plunged into chaos by Lord Voldemort, is thrown into sharp relief by the appearance of Horace Slughorn and his apartment, where behind the shredded upholstery and blood soaked walls, there lies an acute awareness and conscious realization of the inevitable.

Halfway into the film, we are presented with Draco Malfoy and his oft-perceived dilemma, as he obsessively frequents the Room of Requirement, and fiddles with a cabinet. Harry’s doggedness in trying to get to the bottom of his strange behaviour is entertaining, at most. A dog-eared copy of a Potions book, marked the property of the titular Half Blood Prince upsets the equation and Emma Watson’s scowls tend to get better in retrospect.

The almost jerky, unsettled start eases into a smooth pace as the film focuses on the achingly familiar relationships of the various lead characters. In my opinion, much of the atmosphere of abject terror is diluted, in a manner that borders on the distracting. The film’s light moments with Minerva McGonagall do a much better job. Alan Rickman, as Snape, does not disappoint and turns in a convincing performance as a Professor with dubious allegiances. Yet, somehow, Bonham Carter’s Bellatrix does not quite break out of the eccentric villain mould, and the additional scene of the setting to fire The Burrow delivers its impact quite independent of her antics. But Jim Broadbent is clearly the actor who breathes life into the self-indulgent and ego-centric Slughorn, be it in the smug, insufferable smiles at the beginning of his tenure at Hogwarts, or the blissful calm of acknowledged senility later on.

Radcliffe, as usual, seems equipped with a default set of expressions (maybe I’m prejudiced against him for trying to portray a grudging hero, but, even then) and tries to make the best use of them in all available situations. Rupert Grint, is however, a different matter altogether. Ron was decidedly funny in the books, but Grint takes it to a tactual level and thus shows a promising future as a comic actor. Emma Watson’s Hermione develops too many emotions at once, but subtly refrains from being a caricature by another set of deadpan ‘Watson’ expressions. Yet, she’s eminently likable, and is beat by Ron by a considerably narrow margin as the favourite comic character.

The journey through the lake at the end is unceremoniously cut short, as the boat ride is given a complete miss, in favour of a riveting performance by Michael Gambon. However, by slightly altering the concluding fight in which Gambon’s character is killed, the film has gained sobriety and by choosing to underplay the event of Dumbledore’s death, it has, in effect, intensified the drama and general profundity. I, for one, never wished to see the White Tomb on screen, as something such as the funeral of ‘the greatest wizard of all times’ did not quite materialize. Although almost indecipherable to the uninitiated, the sixth movie in the series saves itself from lapsing into mediocrity by a smart screenplay and inarguably superior special effects.