Artsy Fartsy Thoughts on a Canvas

            It was a fine day.  The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, the bees were buzzing and everything seemed to be going in the general direction of splendid.  Then, my Dad did an impulsive thing, which is not very uncharacteristic of him if you’ve spent 18 agonizing years in his household.  He threw away our beloved Christmas tree. 

            The day I found out, I wept bitterly, sobbing my eyes out and making sure everybody knew what a horrendous thing my horrific father had done, a crime beyond pardon, a sin beyond salvation.  Actually, that’s a lie.  In truth, I was taking a nap and found out just after I woke up.  I noted the fact groggily, and then flopped back onto the sofa for a few more winks of sleep.  Like I said, you get used to his random acts of stupidity.  After I had sufficiently regained consciousness, I asked Mother why he had done such a ridiculous thing.  She simply retorted that he had noticed that the tree was missing its feet (our tree stands on mounted plastic feet), therefore unable to stand, giving him a perfect excuse to visit the dumpster, tree in hand.  I was aghast.  “But the feet must have been somewhere, why didn’t you tell him to look harder?”  I continued to ask, not satisfied with her feeble excuse.  “I did, I even protested saying that Christmas is just around the corner and that disposing the tree, for whatever reason, can wait until after Christmas.”  She explained that he was so persistent about the issue and bugged her relentlessly until she said yes (I wonder if this is how he got her to marry him?).  What madness!  Anyway, since the deed had already been done, he promised to take us shopping for a new one. 

            After lunch, we headed to the mall in pursuit of a new Christmas tree with which to adorn our humble abode and spread Christmas cheer (this is a bunch of baloney, we hate decorating it every year, complaining about the hassle of it all).  By coincidence, that day had also turned out to be some special holiday for Selangor, and so the roads were jammed with cars galore.  Traffic was so bad it gave the word gridlock meaning.  Father hates traffic jams (as I assume all men do), and was shaking his head and fuming all the way the mall (maybe not all the way, but he may as well be).  After some time, we eventually arrived at the mall.  Lo and behold, all the parking lots were full, and this was after we had circled the building.  So we decided that the journey was a wasted one, and started making way for home.  Miraculously, Wonder Woman flew in from some distant cloud in the sky and cleared a space for us by tossing another car parked nearby into the River Jordan.  Actually, that’s a lie too.  The car parked in front of us simply drove away, but our weary minds nevertheless conjured up this fantastic story.  We quickly parked and made haste to the mall. 

            One section of the mall was reserved for the sale of Christmas trees.  We surveyed the various options that were available.  Silver-leafed trees, foil trees, trees made of fancy net, pyramid trees, Frosty the Snowman.  Wow, the options were endless!  But wait, where were the traditional Christmas trees?  The ones whose leaves were pine and whose color was green?  Surely they haven’t gone the way of the dinosaur?  “Oh, of course we have those!” singed the young sales assistant.  “But why are they not on display?”  I can’t remember his response, but I assume gimmick is the new black for Christmas trees.  Meaning the more it resembles a Marilyn-Monroe inspired pyramid, the more popular your Christmas party will be.  We negotiated the price for the conventional tree, and although the price was reasonable, we decided against buying it for there were none available for display, and we didn’t trust what we couldn’t see. 

            We left the mall feeling rather disappointed.  After all, we went all the way, braved the traffic jam and swam through the massive crowd of people, all for nothing.  As we drove off, I asked once again, “Why in the name of banana pie did you throw such a good Christmas tree away?”  Father rattled off a slew of reasons, but most seemed to center around its lack of feet.  He kept mentioning how he had to place a pot underneath the tree to allow it to stand upright.  “That was the tree we had BEFORE the one you threw away!”  I protested.  Then it dawned on me, he disposed of it thinking it was the old Christmas tree!  I told him that, and we all realized what a terrible mistake he had made.  The tree could have been salvaged, feet or no feet.  If only we had put our minds together we could have been able to figure something out and saved time and money.  All things said and done, it was a perfectly fine tree.  “I still can’t believe you said yes to his loony request,” I said to Mother.  “Yes, yes, I am an accomplice to madness!” she lamented.  We all laughed. 

Upon watching High School Musical
for the umpteenth time, I met with a strange revelation of some kind.   

I have heard numerous complaints
against this saccharine sweet, borderline unrealistic movie, essentially a tale
of two people from opposite ends of the social hierarchy who find each other
and their mutual love of singing. The
realist would say, “More idealistic than world peace, High School Musical is
one of, if not the most unrealistic movie of all time. It shows a side of American adolescence that could
only exist in the shallow minds of studio executives. Its storyline is something that could never
occur in the real world.” The cynic
would concur just as vehemently, “High School Musical portrays that which is
false to the public; a syrupy, sugared-up plot laced with an impossibly attractive
cast topped off with infectious bubblegum pop dance numbers and a happy
ending. I’d rather stuff the black and
white version of ‘The Sound of Music’ into my mouth!” The elitist might proclaim, “It is neck-deep
in populist material, created only as a cash cow laden with enough hooks to
hypnotize gullible youth. Only bored
fools could fall into such a foolish enchantment.” 

But enough with this
tomfoolery.

Alas, this is not a movie review,
but a review of self. Back to my
‘revelation’. As I viewed Troy and Gabriella (the
main characters) take to the stage for the climax of the movie in which they
sang ‘Breaking Free’, I was awestruck and astonished at what I
saw. As I’ve reminded you, I have
watched this same movie countless times. Suddenly, the cold, skeptical remarks of the world faded away. It was such an experience, one that only be achieved
by immersing oneself fully in their shared moment of song. Troy and Gabriella weren’t characters in a movie anymore; they were two people who
sang together in earnest enthusiasm. You
could see it on their faces. They were living in the moment. Nothing else mattered. And as the audience, you can’t help but be carried away into this
youthful dream of fantasy.

I admit, High School Musical is not
very probable in the real world. But
Disney never meant it to be. It was a fantasy
created to remind us of the enthusiasm we youngsters possess. Our boundless exuberance and endless ecstasy
in life and living is the thing that makes and keeps us youthful. We live IN the moment FOR the moment.  So simple, this sweet joy.  I sometimes forget this in the pursuit of
secular success.  I have become tired,
jaded, and have lost sight of the true reason for existence; happiness. 

To end the suspense, I shall reveal
my revelation. It was the sheer joy of
youth. Pure, unadulterated, untainted
happiness at simply singing together, performing together, being together. This I have found, and of all places, in High
School Musical.

“Anyone can
cook!” so says Auguste Gusteau, once the renowned chef, nay, proprietor of the
culinary art of fine cuisine, of Paris. This singular saying was the common thread
upon which Ratatouille hung, and its meaning was a truly deep and stirring
one. 

I have had
the good fortune of being able to catch this movie. It is like an exquisite piece of cake,
multi-layered and complex, yet simple and altogether complementary. 

The premise
of the story is a simple one. Remy, the
main character, loves to cook. By the
strange and mysterious power of pure coincidence, he is also a rat; cute,
fluffy, small and did I mention banned from the kitchen? A negligible fact, considering this is a
Disney-Pixar movie. Main characters
always achieve their ultimate ambitions, no? 

Yes
indeed. 

With a
story like that one could easily foresee its ending. A happy one obviously, and for all parties
too (except the villains of course, they always get their just desserts). So what makes this such a riveting
watch? Not the story, but the very
subtle and rarely appreciated art of good execution. 

One must catch the making of this
movie to fully understand the lengths they went through to create it. From the acting, music, animation, cuisine and
storyline, everything was done with a deft hand. Its creators actually took a trip to Paris to see the sights
and even attended a cooking class to comprehend the complexities of the
kitchen. They made every effort to make
this movie as plausible as possible. The
little things that go unnoticed include the positioning of the rats’ hands
nearer to the top of the body to increase the cute factor. Such meticulous detail was weaved into the
story so fluently that one fails to realize how seamless and smooth it all
is. Ratatouille could have so easily
been a cheesy coming of age tale, but it was not. Twists and turns were added at the
appropriate (read: unexpected) times, showing us that Pixar has not lost its
touch.

This is no-run-of-the-mill ‘just
believe in your dream and your dream will find you’ story. It is so much more than that. My hats off to director Brad Bird, who is
gaining a reputation as a directorial maverick in Hollywood. He handled this with wit and care, a skill so lacking in the hands of
young, over-eager Hollywood hotshots. 

I found its characters deeply
endearing. Oddly enough, it was not the
main characters of the story that struck a chord with me but the supporting
ones. Chef Skinner, the villain of the
story, took over Gusteau’s restaurant after the latter’s death. He spared neither time nor effort in making
the most out of Gusteau’s name, franchising everything from frozen food to
Chinese fare. He was the embodiment of
capitalization and commercialization. Next
we have Anton Ego, probably my favorite character in the movie. He is Paris’s
resident food critic, also known as the ‘Grim Eater’. He is so powerful he could bring down any
eatery that displeased him or his palate with one scathing review, for his
words carried the weight of law. His
grey, ashen complexion that never showed even a hint of a smile struck fear
into the hearts of even the most famous chefs. In fact, it was his venomous critique of Gusteau’s restaurant that made
it a four-star (it had five-stars previously) establishment and finally drove
Gusteau to death. ‘Anyone can cook’ was
a slogan Ego hated and despised. 

Ego’s words were a fitting end to
the story, “Not everyone can be a great artist, but a great artist can come
from anywhere.” Ironically, he had come
to echo Gusteau’s most well-known saying. I didn’t have any popcorn when I was watching Ratatouille, but I still
left the cinema with a good taste in my mouth.

 As
preparations for the country’s 50^th Merdeka celebrations reach a
feverish pitch, I begin to ponder upon its meaning, if it has a meaning! This thought struck me hard as I passed by
IOI Mall in Puchong, which was decked out in a menagerie of colorful lights to
commemorate the country’s National Day. 

 The issue
of sincerity bugged me. KL around this
time of the year is embellished with bejeweled lights and shining banners with
inspiring messages of patriotism. Skyscrapers
would proudly bear glossy scrolls depicting their owner’s wish for continued
peace and tolerance in the country. People would walk around gloriously draped in the national colors of
red, white, blue and yellow. All this
begs the question, is it real?

 I, for one,
think it isn’t. People hang flags out
their balcony because they’d like their neighbors to think they’re
patriotic. Companies sponsor messages of
good hope and goodwill so the government will have them in their good
books. Organizations understand the
meaning of good public relations, and they know how to take advantage of an
opportunity when they see one. Malls
wouldn’t mind an excuse to brighten up the premises with illumination and large
banners that read ‘Special Merdeka Sale.’ 

 Maybe I’m
just being a cynic. Or maybe I’m a
realist, one who isn’t afraid to call a spade a spade. I have never been out of Malaysia (except to
Singapore); I have basically lived here all my life. It doesn’t take X-ray vision to see the
hypocrisy of patriotism that thrives so abundantly in this nation, even after
50 years of independence. 

 But there
is hope.  Take away the pointless advertisements
trumpeting the unity in the country. Get
rid of the Merdeka concerts and fireworks displays. Abolish the rules that make displaying the
Malaysian flag during patriotism month mandatory. Put an end to Merdeka sales and ‘special
Merdeka deals.’ Eradicate all this,
because independence is a simple thing. Freedom
is knowing that we can be who and what we want to be without fear or
favor.

Fifty years ago, our forefathers
fought hard to bring freedom upon the nation. They didn’t fight to create an opportunity for mall sales. They didn’t fight to create a false image of
peace and tolerance. They didn’t fight
for the fireworks and concerts that would be held in honor of Merdeka. They fought for independence. And for their sake, let us put an end to
capitalization. There’s nothing wrong
with enjoying the fireworks display. There is no sin in going to the concerts. But let not these things interfere with the
true meaning of freedom. It would be
better for us to observe a moment of silence for the sacrifice of our
ancestors, and spend the day in earnest appreciation of Malaysia’s hard-earned
independence. Isn’t that what they would
have wanted?

Yup folks, it was that bad!

A brief introduction for the uninformed; Transformers was a
franchise that owed its early beginnings to the Hasbro toy company.
Contrary to popular belief, it did not originate as a television show, the medium
of which it is most famous for, but as a toy line.  The television show
was actually made to complement the toys, but ended being a hit in
itself.  There are two main factions, the Autobots (the good guys) and the
Decepticons (the bad guys), both sides hailing from Cybertron. The Autobots are led by the magnanimous
Optimus Prime and the Decepticons have megalomaniac Megatron as their lord and
master.  The Autobots transform into land vehicles (hence the name) while
the Decepticons take the forms of various malevolent combat vehicles (i.e.
fighter jet, tank). 

I have a confession to make; I’m a diehard transformers
nerd! I used to catch all the episodes
religiously and faithfully followed the franchise through its many
incarnations. I therefore found this
version highly disappointing. The movie bears
no resemblance whatsoever to the original storyline. This is a regular occurrence in the movie
world especially for big-screen adaptations.  Directors feel that they
have to appeal to as wide an audience as possible, meaning both fans and
non-fans.  While this is a wallet-worthy scheme, they almost always end up
butchering the original material beyond recognition.

Do not be fooled by the mind-blowing trailer as it does not
depict the true essence of the story. Trailers are NOT made by the directors, but by a different team tasked
with summarizing the movie into five frilly, palatable minutes for easy
consumption and broad audience appeal.  The
trailer, in my opinion, actually showed much promise, but it is an unwritten
rule in Hollywood that 99.99% of movies shall fail to live up to the potential of its trailer. 

Anyway, back to the movie. It is essentially the story of a boy and his (first) car, and how the
car miraculously turns out to be a robot warrior from outer space (and I wonder
how we ever lost faith in the tooth fairy!). The main character, Sam Witwicky, purchased the car from a second hand
automobile store in what seems like a Herbie-inspired (the Disney Volkswagen
movie) moment. Not long after, he
discovers the Decepticons true purpose on Earth; the search for the Allspark. It is an ancient Cybertronian device that
possesses the power to create new transformers out of ordinary everyday
objects. The Decepticons are creating
havoc among the human race as they try to ‘gracefully’ retrieve the
Allspark. And the ‘good’ Autobots will,
needless to say, never let that happen. To
cut a long story short, Sam’s past is somehow connected to the Allspark thus
thrusting him into the thick of the battle.

The movie is one long cliché ridden ride, filled to the brim
with formulaic plots and shallow characters. Our main character perfectly illustrates this example. He is the typical loser-geek who yearns to be
part of the in-crowd and for the affection of the class hottie who, expectedly,
ignores him at first but finds there’s ‘more than meets the eye’ with him. His corny and silly attempts at flirting with
her made me cringe so much I wanted to sink into my seat.

Director Michael Bay should really be sent back to film school. His characterization is one of the worst I have ever seen. The titular characters were neither given
much depth nor characterization. The
Autobots who were supposedly the good guys seemed to lose their sparkle of nobility. Even the all-powerful Megatron was only given
a few lines here and there and Optimus reveled in his ‘words of wisdom’ with
utter heroism. Deep stuff, dude. Someone should tell him that cool action
scenes maketh not a movie.

Towards the end we are bombarded by an increasing barrage of
missiles, lasers and explosions before the good guys finally win (bet you
didn’t see that coming!). Bad guy
defeated, good guys repaired, peace restored. Only one thing left to do. One
last scene of Sam and his hot new girlfriend locking lips on a hill during an
oh-so-romantic sunset. Need I say more?

YEAH RIGHT!!!

Back in high school, there was this dude (not me) who was
absolutely obsessed with the color pink. This obsession tragically complemented
his other addiction, Power Puff Girls! He was the proud owner of a PINK hand
phone (which he bravely carried around in school), was rumored to own a PINK
Power Puff Girls umbrella and allegedly had his room decorated and decked out
in PINK! So you can imagine the kind of scorn he faced back in high school
where your masculinity was defined by your ability to play football.

I recently attended a ceremony in my old high school and I
specifically chose to don a PINK shirt. It was a conscious decision based on the
prediction that most of the guys would wear common colors like blue, brown,
black, white and other generic colors you usually find on men nowadays. I was
right in doing so as I was the only guy in pink and stood out among the sea of
men. One of my old (unnamed) friends let fly this statement, "John, you
look like a girl!" I was rather resentful, but said nothing in reply. The
same thing happened in college where one friend said of me, "Everyone else
is wearing black but he has to wear pink!"

My point is, PINK is just a color! It is not a definition of
who I am, neither is it a representation of a need to be feminine. It is a
truth universally acknowledged that PINK is the color of femininity, but I have
to disagree. It is a color, period. It has different effects on different
people. Some might come out looking feminine with the color PINK, some might
not. I have low opinions of the old and outdated ‘blue is for boys’ principle. Whoever
decided that colors should be synonymous with gender anyway? It is sad the way
society generalizes male PINK fans as ‘feminine’ and worst of all, ’swishy!’
The advent of metrosexuality has changed the stern and stringent mentality of
society to become more accepting of guys in PINK but some still cling firmly to
their rusted beliefs.

I would never have had the courage to write this if I were
still in high school because of the potential backlash. But coming to college
has been an enlightening experience. I have finally learned that I can be more
than the colors I wear. To my high school friend, I hereby resent your
statements. It is immature and silly to evaluate a person by the color he
favors. I mean no offense, but such narrow-mindedness will get you nowhere in
life. To all those naysayers out there, I will continue to wear PINK just to be
defiant and non-conformist.

PINK to me represents a daring spirit and a bold outlook, a
desire to be more than what society deems men to be and the aspiration to be
different.

Judge me not by the colors I wear, but by the color of my
inner being.

This being my first post ever, I have decided to write about the things I hate most about the current state of blogs the world over.  Copyright(s) reserved. 

Pet hate number 1:  I absolutely abhor putting music lyrics into blogs.  To those who do, no offense, but I do not see any reason whatsoever in this strange practice.  If I want to express my thoughts poetically, I shall write a poem of my own (not that I can, but its the principle of the matter).  I have often stumbled upon blogs with music lyrics splashed rather unashamedly all over the place.  I understand that these lyrics probably express the emotions of that blogger, but the point of a blog is to express the thoughts and feelings of its owner through the owner’s OWN words, not the copied and pasted words of others (unless its a quote used to emphasize a point).  If I wanted lyrics I could find it in abundance on the internet. 

Pet hate number 2:  I have problems with people who misspell and misshape every single word on their blog.  Text message (SMS) language seems to have leaked into every other electronic medium.  Everywhere I see people blatantly misspelling simple words (i.e. ‘u’ instead of ‘you’).  Spell check people!!! It exists for a reason.  Even Friendster Blogs provide that.  Do you know how hard it is to read twisted thrash like that!  It makes my head spin. 

That concludes another episode of John’s Pet Peeves.  Tune in next time for more of his dislikes, irritations and annoyances.  Feedback is welcome, but keep in mind that he will spare no effort in sarcastic retaliation.  Reader discretion advised.