Ah, the joy of wearing a mask!

THIS WHOLE PIECE IS ABOUT THE ANNUAL THEATER FEST THAT WE HAVE IN OUR COLLEGE!!!

On the stage, to create a ripple?

Why, why? - you look to me and ask,

O dear, the joys of life are simple,

Ah, the one of wearing a mask!

There are those days when one feels that the starry night forgot to age, and remained young forever. The wind whistles past the tall trees that seem to dance in hallowed harmony under the mystic moonlight. Wars of flashlight commence amidst the shadows at the Hillview Stadium, as the well-lit hoarding of our Beloved remains in rapt supervision. The arms of sleep seem to have embraced all the noise around into a serene silence. Yet somewhere in the stillness, a dim fluorescence engulfs muffled voices in vehement argumentation. Listening to the voices wafting from the corridors on the C floor, one would assume that the spirits of Socrates and Plato were convening an annual meeting discussing their progress report on understanding the complex simplicities of human life! Apparitions, you say? Apparently not. The drama season has just set foot in Vidyagiri.

* * *

As I peer into the yesteryears, I see the solitary stage light up in myriad flashes, nourished with a multitude of melodies, draped in a plethora of colours. Countenances of many masked faces sweep the stage, and I watch on in gratitude at the levels of intellectual thinking they have stimulated in the august audience that has been known to never accept any standard below 10 feet over the perfection mark! Watching the wonderful elucidation of the ‘split personality’ by the talented team that took drama to new heights, I wonder if Stevenson would have re-written Jekyll and Hyde in new light! Scenes from an allegory of the dimensions of time, dappled with zesty humour, flash across the stage. As I observe the Station Master blowing the whistle to wait for yet another Train to arrive on the stage, I stay wide-eyed breathing in the poignant moment of Aswatthama embracing the liberating Light. Tempted I am to mention the names underneath the masks that lit up the stage; but I realize then that the stage is eternal, and the artists but ephemeral effigies that come and go (Shakespeare, did you say?). Year after year, in unfailing regularity, various artists – actors, musicians, script-writers, costume designers, audio-visual specialists – add color and glory to the stage, and take home lessons in talent – and in the process, leave behind trails for posterity to tend and extend. Trails of anonymity, trails of amity, trails of the travails of talent in its pursuit for perfection.

As I stare behind the stage, I stay transfixed in admiration for the toil that remains concealed behind those cozy curtains of fame. While the masked faces on stage subsume the spotlight, days and nights of anonymous effort by humble hands stay unnoticed in the shadows. Laurels greater than fame await these little acts in years to come! My salutations to that spirit of selflessness and sacrifice that silently slips away in the darkness behind the stage, but for which these events would seldom savour success.

And for once, in unanimous acceptance, I categorically state that here lies a journey where the means always stand taller than the ends. The weary weeks of conceptualization, the intense days of practice, the tense hours of final preparation, and those few minutes of unbridled show making! The seeming enormity of the reward induces a feeling that the show of the making is the fruition. Nay! The actual fruition lies in the making of the show. In the moments of togetherness, in those of creative expression. Victory and loss are but two sides of the same coin of effort – just a minor shift in perspective. And life ensures it provides opportunities for every individual to grow beyond perspectives, and view effort in its totality! For then, it does dawn - to paraphrase the famed Corinthians: O Victory, where is thy sting? O Loss, where is thy victory?

This event is but a tribute to the Source of creativity and imagination, the sole silent Motivator. Like the orange-wrapped boards on stage, He plays the witness; at every moment, a part of the show – and yet unseen, unknown.

I wonder if Darwin realized while postulating his natural selection theory that it does not take generations for favorable traits to evolve! With every passing year, the show has always got better, rendering the past further behind, and the horizons of future further beyond. Gone are the days when the titles of the event needed phrases. Brevity, they say, is the soul of life – also, the soul of imagination and abstraction. And this year, again, a ‘contest’ is certainly on the cards, and a ‘code’ certain to be cracked! Here’s wishing the stars of this year glory in their endeavour – now, and in many many years to come!

* * *

Going back to where we came from, the joys of life are indeed simple – strolling by the glistening meadows, stroking a little puppy staring in innocence into your eyes, listening to the white waters meandering their way through a creek….and why not, just the simple joy of wearing a mask!

Did I miss something? Ahem. The greater joys of life are even simpler. To peel the mask that conceals the charming countenance. And to just Be...

TICK TOCK DOC!!!

“88 minutes” is a silver screen materialization of the conjunct crusade that the thriller novels in unison purport. A Thomas Harris (Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal, etc.) method of narrative with suspense as the mainstay, the movie has anything but a moseying plot. It moves at gunpoint speed and the toast of the movie being nothing more bang-up than the master himself- Al Pacino.

The college professor role, who, while moonlighting as a forensic psychiatrist for the FBI, receiving a death threat telling him that he has only 88 minutes to live, gives Pacino a garb that suits him (He is 66!!) and yet presents him the right framework to showcase his magnetic screen presence. The “real-time” effect is merely a cliché-spawn chassis that serves as a jumping off point for the tense build-up which sews together the already convoluted plot into a thrilling fabric.

Al Pacino sizzles on a personal effort but the character does have a little fallible and error-filled haziness that proved a little too much to be overlooked. The psychologist is brought in with a semblance of intelligence but, he falling for every possible contrivance and the obvious red herring is only a little mystifying. But producer-director John Advent makes the trade off for keeping every other character excepting Gramm in the suspicion loop. The killer seems to be not only omniscient, but also impeccable in the timing and in observing the nature of Gramm's actions that he would not only notice these things, but that he would do so at just the right time. As too many plot holes abound to warrant diligent attention, the only thing left to keep your interest is what will happen at the end of the countdown, and the reason behind it all. But many of the thriller-savvy folks would easily surmise that the least shown character would salvage the spot for the “surprise” baddy. But queerly enough the reason that the culprit should be John Foreseter’s attorney and that being hinted at very subtly earlier is a good ploy.

And also Forester after being convicted a serial killer, him being interviewed on national television (which seems to be going on interminably) seems as if he is given an extraordinary amount of freedom. But this gives to that moment of pure brilliance. Pacino calling at that point of time may seem very indiscrete but from a pure acting per se, Pacino reaches his usual acme. A telephonic conversation to be made that dramatic needs, as one would say the ‘touch of the Master’ and deserves aplomb. The other wonderfully enacted scene is the part in the cab where he narrates how his sister is killed. A grotesque scene to be narrated with poise, letting emotion flow at the right time and to get it back at the end of it asking –“Is that enough?” was fabulous.