That’s Not All I Am

‘My voice sounds all tinny and fake. Like I don’t come from anywhere.’

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Riz Ahmed and Kate Hudson in TRF

And with those words, The Reluctant Fundamentalist stole my heart. Stole my heart so thoroughly that I didn’t mind seeing it twice in the space of two days.

I will be honest. I haven’t read the book and hence, cannot compare it to its cinematic adaptation. What I can do is give you my take on the movie and you can decide whether or not it is worth the same investment I made (twice).

The Reluctant Fundamentalist (based on the novel of the same name by Mohsin Hamid) is a Mira Nair film. That means it has lots of beautiful, sweeping shots of cities around the world and a pensive young man looking plaintively (and quite stunningly) for his roots. As you might have guessed by now, I am comparing TRF to The Namesake for both are, at their core, different versions of the same story. One, of course, is more politically charged than the other but when you look at their cores, they’re both about young men adrift in an adopted world that has suddenly and inexplicably turned alien and/or hostile, and it takes soul-searching (and father-finding) to set things on a new path. In TRF, Changez has it harder than Gogol ever did–not only is his name a strange sound on the lips of Americans, he happens to be of the wrong ethnicity at a completely wrong time.

Born into a culturally rich but economically parched family in Lahore, Pakistan (which, in the movie, looks suspiciously like Delhi. I wondered aloud about this and the innate similarities between India and Pakistan until my colleague assured me that they had indeed shot bits of the movie here in Delhi. Romanticism bust) Changez (portrayed by my new celebrity crush Riz Ahmed) makes the move to ‘where the money is’, the United States of America. Right after a magna-cum-laude graduation from Princeton, he joins the prestigious firm Underwood Samson and rises quickly in the ranks under the mentorship of his boss, Jim Cross (played by a deep drawling Kiefer Sutherland). He meets and falls in love with a ‘boho’ photgrapher-artist, Erica (a brunette Kate Hudson). During an assignment to Manila, he sees the news report on the WTC attack and knows that his life has been inexplicably, fundamentally changed. Nowhere, no one, he realizes, is ‘safe’ for him any longer.

Changez narrates his American dream to a foreign correspondent in Pakistan, Bobby Lincoln (Liev Schrieber). Bobby has come to him in the hope of information on the kidnapping of an American citizen. The question we are posed at the beginning of the film is whether or not Changez has anything to do with the kidnapping. The question at the end is a little bit bigger, and seems a lot more complex.

That’s all I’m going to tell you of the ‘plot’. What I can do now is tell you why you should see it.

TRF takes a complex, human story and weaves it seamlessly against the larger fabric of the War on Terror, the rise of fundamentalism as a political force/tool in South Asia and questions of identity. It uses one man’s story to encapsulate the confusion, loss and anger of a huge swathe of people affected by the events of 11 September 2001, and the manner in which the event has shaped lives in its aftermath. In the movie, Changez constantly asserts his individuality in the face of an official America that doesn’t seem to care: ‘Yes I am a Muslim. Yes, I am a Pakistani. But that’s not all I am.’ Despite his repeated claims, he gets taunts of ‘Osama’ and ‘Saddam’ and is taken into police custody at least twice, simply because he belongs to a certain community.

In a striking scene, a Turkish publisher talks to a wondering Changez about the janissary boys of the Ottoman empire, young Christian boys who were kidnapped from their homes in the opposing kingdoms and raised as soldiers for the ‘mighty Muslim army’. Once trained, the boys were sent back to their original homes to destroy and kill. The publisher, Nazmi Kemal, pauses significantly at this juncture and asks Changez ‘How old were you when you went to America?’ Upon hearing the answer he smiles sardonically and says, ‘Ah. Too old to be a janissary.’ The implication and parallel however, are very clear, fitting in and forming an echo to Changez’s early pronouncement on his own inability to recognize his voice, which sounds, to him, as though it’s speaker doesn’t ‘come from anywhere’.

The music of the movie is wonderful, and the acting great. It doesn’t hurt that Riz Ahmed is extremely easy on the eye, and can carry a scene with confidence (and his beautiful face). Literature afficionados might recognize Pakistani novelist Ali Sethi in a blink-and-you-miss-it role as a college student in Lahore. I thought it was him at first glance, and my hunch was  confirmed by the credits. It was fun to see him outside a Jaipuri tent, without his trademark scarf.

There have been movies, there have been novels and songs and plays about 9/11, but there is something special about TRF. If you want a movie that makes you think, that provides you good visuals coupled with good acting (although I didn’t really care for Dwayne Wright, who seemed to me the stereotype of the African American with his witty one-liners), go watch this. It’s about America, it’s about Pakistan, it’s about modern day janissaries, but that’s not all it’s about.

Welcome back to Westeros: ‘Valar Dohaeris’

So I finally managed to watch Episode 1 of Season 3 of GOT yesterday. I trekked across the city to a friend’s house, where we dimmed the lights, pulled out the peppermint (yes, for some absurd reason, I wanted to watch Game of Thrones with PEPPERMINT by my side) and hurled a beautiful print onto a big TV screen. Such a change from watching it on a laptop, which, though bigger than many laptop screens I’ve seen, still does not give the kind of awe-inspiring experience that a TV screen can generate.
Now that I’ve built the atmosphere, allow me to share my thoughts on the episode:
I liked it. I wouldn’t say I LOVED it, mostly because nothing much really HAPPENED and the music was definitely not at its peak (I am partial to Theon’s theme), and the end seemed a little ‘eh’, okay. But it was good to see some of my favourite characters back on screen after what feels like ages.
‘Valar Dohaeris’ starts with a puffing Samwell Tarly running through a light blizzard, no doubt trying to get as far as he can from (what we presume) to be the aftermath of the battle we saw about to take place at the end of the season finale (White Walkers vs The Night’s Watch). Speaking of this battle, I was a little disappointed that they took the practical way out and left it to our imaginations. Sam rather fortuitously finds Mormont and the rest of the band, only to confess to them that he failed at his ‘one job’- the send out ravens to the lords of Westeros, telling them that peril draws nearer as the winds turn colder. Mormont caps off this conversation (and bit of the episode) with the melodramatic but nonetheless true statement that unless the Night’s Watch warns the world of what is coming, ‘everyone you know will be dead!’
Lovely beginning, wouldn’t you say?

Peter Dinklage plays up Tyrion's vulernable, lonely side.

Peter Dinklage plays up Tyrion’s vulernable, lonely side.

We then move on to Tyrion, who is still in his lonely, dark chamber (he has been ousted from his Hand position), checking himself out in a mirror. Cersei pays him a none-too-friendly visit, where the brother and sister barely manage to conceal their mutual antipathy and distrust. Cersei is nervous about Tyrion talking to their father and demands to know why on earth he would want to. Is he planning to tell Tywin any ‘lies’ that might damage her? Tyrion helpfully points out that it ‘isn’t slander if it’s true’ and is then left in peace. Parallel to and companion to this interaction is a scene with Bronn the sellsword, ‘the upjumped cut throat’ who has developed a taste for the ‘finer things in life’ and gives us a chance for some frontal female nudity. It wouldn’t be GOT without a whorehouse scene after all, would it?
Then there are Davos and Robb Stark scenes–the former being rescued and deposited (against his friend Salladhor Saan’s will) on Dragonstone, where a beaten Stannis huddles and ‘licks his wounds’ in the company of Melisandre. Davos speaks up against her when she delivers one barb too many (‘death by fire is the purest death’, she croons to him–this after Davos has seen his son burn before his eyes on the Blackwater) and is thrown into prison for his pains. Not the best welcome home.
Robb and his minions, for whom Roose Bolton has unaccountably become spokesperson, turn up at a deserted Harrenhal, where scores of Northmen have been slaughtered for no apparent reason. To remind us that Catelyn is still in his bad graces, he demands that guards escort her to a ‘room that may serve as a cell’. Talisa the Volantene finds a living man among the heaps of dead and revives him with her ever-handy water pouch. He gasps out that his name is Qybrun.
Not what I was expecting, but it should be interesting to see how they spin this.</p>
<p> Now come two of the best scenes in the episode–Sansa and Shae play an ‘imagining game’ on the pier, guessing where various ships are going and why. When Shae attempts to insert some truth into the game, Sansa stops her, saying that the ‘truth is either terrible or boring’. That’s a great line, and a view of Sansa’s face shows us how she’s changed- she’s sullen looking and there’s a growing light of cynicism in her eyes. As she tells Lord Baelish later, when he offers her help, ‘I’m a terrible liar’. Is she though, really? Somehow with the new face I can’t believe it. She’s all grown up.
Shae and Ros have a bit of a chat while Baelish is crooning to Sansa about her mother (this reminded me so much of School of Thrones. The actor got Baelish spot on.). Ros remarks that ‘it’s not easy for girls like us’, pointing out how well they’ve done for themselves. Ros then asks Shae to look out for Sansa, which was quite touching. These women who have nothing, or have started with nothing, seem to care more genuinely for the girl than anyone in her social station does. Ros has always been portrayed as the wholesome, good-hearted woman, the ‘prostitute with a heart of gold’, so I guess it doesn’t come as a surprise that she’s probably one of the few in the entire series with her heart in the right place. Shae however…I’m not so sure.
While on the subject of Sansa, I should mention Margaery Tyrell, a woman who knows just how to play the masses. Lady Tyrell visits an orphanage in the filthy lanes of Fleabottom, the very area where the royal entourage was attacked and Sansa nearly raped last season. Here, Margaery plays the politician to the hilt, winning the hearts and smiles of young children via GOT merchandise (you can bet those soldier dolls are going to be hitting the shelves soon) and stories about the importance of their fathers in the defence of the city (these are the kids whose dads fell defending King Joffrey’s claim). It is very sweet, but one can’t help but think that Margaery is just being a smart politician. Coming after Ros’s simple request to Shae, this appears fake and contrived. The point, I suppose.
There is one person at least who is leery of Margaery’s ‘niceness’, and that’s Cersei. She warns the pretty young thing that she may need to start putting some ‘metalwork’ on her dresses once she gets more familiar with King’s Landing. Margaery acts sweet and optimistic and generally a little nauseating, but Cersei is ‘put in her place’ by her son who, it’s obvious, is spiraling far out of her lioness’ claws. Not too long before the mysterious prophecy comes into play for the Queen, then.

No, Margaery wasn’t the other ‘best’ scene that I mentioned. That honour goes to Tyrion’s conversation with Tywin, where the latter hurls his request for his ‘rights’ to Casterly Rock in his slashed face and tells him that ‘every day’ he sees him ‘waddling about’ is a punishment from the gods. Tyrion’s face loses the customary cockiness and brazenness he usually wears, in fact, the whole episode sees him scrounging for some semblance of the whip-smart attitude he normally displays. Tyrion is a man still reeling from the shock of battle, ingratitude from his family and his close shave with death. He suddenly seems to realize how very, very alone he is.

 

For the first time, I saw what others find so compelling in him. There is no DOUBT that Dinklage does a great job playing this multi-layered character. The changes that flit across his face in this one scene alone are sure to touch you. We see a man scrambling to reassemble his dignity, his bravado and seeming, for the first time, utterly utterly vulnerable.

 

The last scenes go to the Dragon Queen. Daenerys is stocking up on an army in Astapor and considering the ethical implications of buying eight thousand slaves to fight for her cause. On the up-side, the dragons are growing. On the down-side, they’re growing far too slowly for her liking. Hence the stopover in Slaver’s Bay and an interlude with the Unsullied, whose ability to bear pain is graphically demonstrated in a cringe-worthy scene.

 

Trouble never leaves the Dragon Queen alone for long, and she is soon prey to an assassination attempt while strolling in the marketplace (you’d think she would have learned to avoid these things by now). Luckily, the attempt is foiled by one Ser Barristan, who has finally emerged after a full season, this time with a beard. Jorah looks distinctly uncomfortable with this addition to the ‘Queen’s Guard’, but has the wisdom not to say anything. How long will ‘the Bold’ stay mum about his treachery? I’m guessing until the end of the season, at least.

 

All in all, a decent episode, if not the best. A good return to the land of Westeros. I’m looking forward to seeing  Arya, Jaime (oooh), Bran and Brienne next week (or is it this one?). And there’s always room for new faces at the feast–people do move aside so obligingly after all.

An Ending

They say there are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time.

But there is an ending.

And what an ending it is/was/will be.

(Warning, there do be spoilers here.)

The Wheel of Time series has been, for me, many things. Best friend in the annals of high school loneliness, support in times of college strife and romantic misadventure, steady backbone of fantastic escape when all I wanted was to switch off and disappear from a mundane, workaday existence of assignments and term papers and weekly tutorials. It has seen me grow from a self-assured fourteen year old to a less-self assured twenty-three year old, from high school to a first job. It arrived shortly after my first foray into Middle Earth, and like Middle Earth, it stuck by me, and shaped me in ways that I don’t yet comprehend.

Maybe a re-read would settle those questions. Hey, any excuse works!

Given its importance in my life, reading ‘A Memory of Light’, the last book, has been a very, well, emotional experience. Not only would I constantly find myself thanking the team at Tor and Brandon Sanderson for taking up Jordan’s heavy mantle with such spirit and enthusiasm, but there were times when I had to force myself to stop reading, so that I could have one more day with this universe. I didn’t want to let go.

Jordan and Sanderson have really outdone themselves in this last book. Each of the characters shone, even the ones I had disliked (or been irritated by) in previous novels. Elayne was such a brilliant Queen, an inspiring figure that I couldn’t help but admire as she rallied her troops and gave Aragorn-like speeches in the face of certain destruction. Min finally found herself, it seemed, and stepped out of Rand’s shadow, coming into a role of her own in her office as ‘Doomseer’. Aviendha, that wonderful woman, blazed in battle, a fount of determination and strength that I am sure I will look to when I feel weak and lost myself. Nynaeve, though less vocal here than in the earlier books, stood solid and steadfast to the end.

But all of them, every single character, male or female, paled beside the one who has been steadily stealing my heart for the last seven books. The one who would not be bowed, though pressed time and time again. The one who does not, and never will know the meaning of the words ‘give up’. Honestly, I think she outshone Rand, the Dragon Reborn.

Egwene al’Vere was amazing. The immature girl who left the Two Rivers grew to hero status steadily in the course of the books, and she exited in a beautiful storm. I don’t think I’ve seen a better or more affecting death-scene in a fantasy novel. She’s risen above the rest, in my estimation, on a crystal column woven of Light, a heroine for Ages to come.

If I were to sit and discuss every character, I suspect this review would become entirely too long. So I’ll save my thoughts for a later day, and do each of them justice in individual posts. Let’s turn to more pedestrian, less emotionally charged aspects now.

‘A Memory of Light’ proceeds smoothly from the night before the grand meeting at the Field of Merrilor to the close of the Last Battle, when Rand’s body is cremated before Shayol Ghul. We get glimpses of old, familiar faces- Hurin, Juilin, Haral Luhhan, Ila the Tinker- as well as longer, more sustained rendezvous with characters like Tam al’Thor, Lan, Faile, even the until-now elusive Demandred. The central characters of course dominate the book- Mat, Perrin, Egwene and Rand. Each of their stories is followed with attention and detail, and you can see how much Jordan, and by extension, Sanderson have loved and invested in these people’s lives.

It was heartening to see that the Shadow did have a plot, that it stood a good chance of winning, and wasn’t bested simply by the luck of the protagonists or the will of the author. I know its unfair to compare, say, Demandred to Lord Voldemort, but if only Voldemort had had some of the former’s brains and planning ability, the conclusion to Harry Potter might not have been as anticlimactic as it was. Here, the Light won on its own strength. It was a good victory, precisely because it came so hard.

The ‘true battle’ that took place in the bowels of Shayol Ghul, I’m still wrapping my head around it. At least, around its fall-out. I know people have been predicting the ‘body swap’ for ages, but I’m still a little confused on how it happened. I suppose a re-read will help sort that out. It is ironic that Moridin was forced to help seal the Light’s victory, a tongue-in-cheek manoeuvre to show that yes, no matter how long someone walks in the shadow, he can turn back to the light. Even if against his will.

I didn’t care much for how the Black Tower plotline was concluded, but it was one small smidgeon on an otherwise ‘exquisite’ canvas. Jordan has left just enough open doors for his readers’ imaginations to run wild, to wonder what happens now. Will the Aiel be safe from the doom Aviendha and Bair saw for them? Will the Seanchan chain of command collapse after the revelations that Egeanin and Min will bring to light concerning the damane and sul’dam? Will Perrin and Faile move to Saldaea, or stay in the Two Rivers and govern from afar? Will Olver really dispose of the Horn?

I’m sure someone will pick over these questions, in forums, in fan fiction, in theory blogs. But right now, all I want to do if find the ‘Eye of the World’ again, return to a time when Rand, Mat and Perrin were young and innocent and thought Baerlon was a big city. I want to follow them through their adventures once again, secure in the knowledge that no matter how dark the moment seems, they will be all right, nay, more than all right at the end.

It will not be the beginning, there are neither beginnings nor endings to the reading of ‘The Wheel of Time’.

But it will be a beginning.

 

Bringing up some Bodies, a little late

 I wrote this review of Mantel’s ‘Bring up the Bodies’ some months ago. 

Two months ago, I finished a much delayed reading of Hilary Mantel’s Booker Prize Winner, ‘Wolf Hall’. Two hours ago, I closed the covers of its celebrated and much anticipated sequel, ‘Bring up the Bodies’. I can honestly say that my reaction to both was the same: why do some books have to end?

 In ‘Wolf Hall’, Mantel began a project she claims to have conceived nearly forty years ago: to chronicle the life and times of one of England’s most famously reviled figures, Thomas Cromwell. The first book ends with Anne Boleyn crowned Queen, and Cromwell basking in what seems to be reflected glory. The second book begins with quite the opposite: Anne’s star is falling, but it is clear that Cromwell in no manner intends to be tarnished by this. His own position in court and at the king’s side only gets more strongly cemented while the Queen and her cronies (incidentally the same men who had insulted the memory of Cromwell’s former employer, Cardinal Wolsey) bleed their ‘flat little presence(s)’ out upon freshly erected scaffolds.

 ‘Bring up the Bodies’ charts what an enthusiastic blurb writer has called ‘the bloody theatre of Anne’s final days’, drawing in its full complexity the role assumed by Cromwell in the execution and disposal of the king’s one time sweetheart. Mantel’s greatest achievement is the humanization of this political genius, a figure who has all too often been viewed as nothing more (and nothing less) than the epitome of the Renaissance Machiavel. Cromwell, in Mantel’s hands, loves and incites love; loses and grieves for those lost; feels anger, betrayal, fear, but also pride, loyalty, pity. With a sure, delicate hand, Mantel weaves the portrait of a man who fashioned his daughter a pair of peacock feather wings, but never ceases to remind us that it is the same man who witnessed, indeed, orchestrated, the perhaps undeserved and innocent death of a Queen of England.

 Though she is the pivotal point about which events in the book turn, Anne Boleyn herself has very little screen time. She is reported on, spied on, eavesdropped upon and repeated in third person, her words filtered through a number of (not entirely impartial) speakers before they are fed into Cromwell’s and the readers’ ears. In contrast to this stands Jane Seymour, who speaks considerably more, but is spoken of less. Jane, for all her quiet sharpness, remains an enigma, as mysterious and difficult to pin down as her unfortunate predecessor. Does she play a willing game with Henry, or is she a mere pawn in a political ploy much larger than herself? Much like the truth of Anne Boleyn’s crimes, the answer is what the reader chooses to make of it.

 It’s not every day that a writer can take an event that is so celebrated and investigated and hold it up to flash an entirely new light. Mantel takes over the history, takes over the once-living characters and gives them a verve and vitality that is all her own. It takes magic to make a reader sit on the edge of their seat in suspense when he or she knows (or is a mere Wikipedia page away from knowing) how the ‘story’ will end. For all the background reading I had done, all the pages of Anne Boleyn related text I had read, I was still waiting, breathless, for the sword to swing, hoping against hope, like Anne herself, that I would be mistaken: that history would rewrite itself in Mantel’s flowing language and that she would be saved.

 Alas, that did not happen. But it is a mark of Mantel’s genius that for a few moments, I forgot the bloody tracks of history.

 ‘Bring up the Bodies’ resounds with creative energy, its language compressing deeper allusions and metaphors that spangle out of the readers’ grasp just when focus is brought to bear upon them. The best way, I believe, to describe Mantel’s style is to quote Mantel herself. Here, Cromwell reflects on the work of Thomas Wyatt:

 When Wyatt writes, his lines fledge feathers, and unfolding this plumage they dive below their meaning and skim above it. They tell us that the rules of power and the rules of war are the same, the art is to deceive; and you will deceive, and be deceived in your turn, whether you are an ambassador or a suitor. Now, if a man’s subject is deception, you are deceived if you think you grasp his meaning. You close your hand as it flies away. A statute it written to entrap meaning, a poem to escape it. A quill, sharpened, can stir and rustle like the pinions of angels. Angels are messengers. They are creatures with a mind and a will.

 The inability to grasp and pin down meaning is exactly what the reader encounters in Mantel’s language. The narrative seems to skim the surface of a wealth of emotion and intrigue, dipping daintily into this swelter in order to paint a quaint picture of a bygone time. Beneath the words and the half-glimpsed gestures lies the morass of desire and danger that laces this court, a morass that Cromwell, like his creator, negotiates with grace and ease, giving hardly a hint of the scum his finely tailored robes have brushed through.

 Mantel seems to strive to be impartial, privileging neither Jane Seymour nor Anne in her novel, not making it clear whether she herself believes Anne to be guilty as fearfully charged. This is no easy feat- scores of novels and films have been built around this fantastic episode, each weighted either with blind admiration or withering disgust for the executed queen. Anne is passionate, but given to childish outbursts, admirably courageous but stupid and (at the close) self defeating. Jane is plain, quiet, but strangely acerbic. Her intelligence, cloaked for the most part behind placid boredom, is revealed in razor sharp repartee with Cromwell and her brothers. Witness this exchange:

 ‘My belief is,’ Edward says, ‘this modesty could pall. Look up at me, Jane. I want to see your expression.’

 ‘But what makes you think,’ Jane murmurs, ‘that I want to see yours?’

 I am a woman who wholeheartedly loves reading about and celebrating Anne Boleyn, and would throw my support behind the contemporary move to absolve her of all allegations (for more details, read Alison Weir’s excellent chronicle of Anne’s final days, ‘The Lady in the Tower’). And yet, even I could not hate Jane in this novel. I found myself admiring her, rather grudgingly, true, but admiring her nonetheless.

 One closes ‘Bring up the Bodies’ with a sense of having run a lengthy, tiring race. Your brain has been spinning alongside Cromwell’s for four hundred pages, watching its ceaseless convolutions as it churns out a plan to depose one queen and raise another. Your emotions have ravelled and unravelled through complicated skeins as you watch Henry and Anne pull together and then pull away from each other, a six year long courtship soured in what seems an instant of marriage. It is an exercise well worth undertaking, and one that I cannot wait to repeat when the third and (alas) final instalment of the Cromwell trilogy arrives.

 Until then, it’s back to the History books for me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In a boat with an adult Bengal Tiger

Three nights ago, I watched the Life of Pi movie.

In preparation for it, I read a bunch of reviews, whatever I could find online. One of them (Vulture) called it ‘transcendent’, another said it was ‘not long enough’ and yet another applauded the stunning visuals and noted that Ang Lee, celebrated director of Oscar winning films, had outdone himself. None made too much mention of the actors or the effectiveness with which Martel’s story had been translated on screen. I’ll make that my business then.

And just to get it out of the way- yes, the film is beautiful. It is spectacular, in the true sense of the word. There were so many moments at which I thought Ang Lee couldn’t possibly do better, only to be proved wrong within the next 15 minutes. It is visually probably the most lovely film you will ever see.

(The actual sinking of the ship and one shot within a swimming pool impressed me in particular.)

Though he is by no means the focus of the film (no actor is, really), Suraj Sharma does a wonderful job. It was so heartening to see that a first time teenage actor can be GOOD, that not all of them are cut of the cloth that made Kristin Stewart or Alia Bhatt. He was innocent and troubled when he needed to be, angst ridden and drained at other times, and overall, gave no indication that half the time, he was all alone in the filming sequence. He LOOKED like there was a tiger with him at all times, giving greater reality to the CG animal.

But again, like I said, the movie was certainly not actor-reliant. What propelled it was the overall cinematography. They could have cast any newcomer in the role, and if he had done a half-decent job, it would have worked. Kudos to Suraj for doing a more than half decent job.

The story- like I said earlier, when I read the book, I didn’t really ‘get’ it. The impact of that statement ‘When you look into an animal’s eyes, you see only the reflection of what you feel’, didn’t hit  me at all. In the movie however, there is a particular sequence that brings it out beautifully and vividly. I’m not going to spoiler it for you and tell you which one- but sufficeth to say that that was my favourite, favourite sequence of them all.

Richard Parker was amazingly lifelike. The friend I watched the movie with turned around at one point and asked ‘How did they train a tiger to DO all that?’. He didn’t even realize it was a CG device! While some may laugh at his naivete, I choose to look at it as a comment on the incredible richness and perfection of the CG animals in this movie. There was never a moment at which Richard Parker wasn’t moving or making a sound that a real Bengal Tiger wouldn’t have made. From little purrs to hacking roars to deep-throated growls, Richard Parker, or his supervising team, delivered.

The movie left me feeling curiously adrift and thoughtful, much like Pi was for most of its 125 minute length. It neither confirms nor denies the assertion that Pi’s father makes somewhere near the beginning, that animals do not have souls. Richard Parker is there for Pi at the most trying moment of his life, and without him, or whatever he represents, Pi would certainly not have survived. At the same time, you are never led to think of him as anything OTHER than a Bengal Tiger, a dangerous animal that you cannot turn your back on without great risk. He is not a pet, not a dog who will feel something like gratitude and look after you in turn. No, Richard Parker is a beast of the jungle, and he will never let you forget that.

‘Life of Pi’ is definitely a movie worth watching, and worth watching well, on the big-screen in 3D. Whether it’s the childish pleasure derived from watching flying fish nearly hit you, to appreciating the pure beauty of a whale breaking the ocean surface (and causing Pi to lose most of his provisions in the process), every image demands star treatment. It caters to everyone- those who want to be jolted into thinking about the deeper questions of the meaning of life, and those who just want to watch a good seafaring/adventure tale. Go see it, if you haven’t already.