Bali: On Movie

I spent four years in Jakarta. It was full of consumerism, visual stimulation, hedonistic attitude, selfish sleeping occasion and a whole lot of movies. A LOT. Jakarta is heaven for sinner and movie freaks. We can find illegal DVDs in almost every mall or street, plenty movie theaters with puffy seat and new release movies that sometime even beat Down Under and all the glittering festival each year (Festival Film Perancis, Jiffest, etc). A lot of things to be exited about.

I am one of those weird people in this universe who likes to keep list of movies I saw or books I read. To proved the A LOT part, I looked back on my list of year 2004, 2005 and 2006, golden era of unproductivity and the amount quite astonishing to me.
2004 : 158 movies
2005 : 164 movies
2006 : 162 movies
So if we do the math (Thank God for calculator!) by estimating that each movie is around 2 hours, I would have spent 316 hours (2004), 328 hours (2005) and 324 hours (2006) in front of the screen. I know what you would be thinking at this point: Get a life, movie freak! Or you just have this mental image of obese greasy hair person who always munching and never bathing. I would let your imagination run wild on that one.

I am sure there are a lot of movie freak like me out there although I haven’t met them yet. I guess it is partly true that life in the big screen is a lot more fascinating than our ordinary life. We have obligation, responsibility and bill to pay and so it thwart us from always looking like smoldering Marlene Dietrich each morning. In that screen, we could witness the extraordinary. Things that we would never be able to do in this life (I would never get into blood splashing fight with sword in yellow tracksuit, for example), things we could not afford (Aston Martin, daily shaken not stirred martini, five stars hotel and OMEGA watch) and things out of this world (E.T…). It is beautiful to dream. It is so good that I dream of my life as a movie (definitely not reality show!), perhaps one of Audrey Hepburn-y movie. Gotta love the outfit.

But this year a lot of things happened. I live my life, for instance. The movie freak character must hibernating for a while. There was the final project, travel and life re-adjustment. Now I am quite adjusted and the movie freak-in-me started to wake up but mockingly there is no movie. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, there is no decent movie in this Island of God. We have many temples and beautiful white sand beaches, but when it comes to decent movie that doesn’t involve pop-up vernacular evil spirit with long black hair or puppy love ridden teenage drama king and queen, Bali is suck.

My choice here would be:
a. buying or renting illegal DVDs with minimum choices. No latest French release or festival movies,which is exactly what I am after
b. re-watch everything I had
c. private screening (read: either for close community or flamboyant big screen movie night in Kudeta)
d. go to movie theater with ONLY two screens which distressingly devoted to show gory/horror/ teenage/Milla Jovovich/six months late kind of movies. Of course this is the last option.

May the Saint of All Screen help me here!

But to my supreme joy, I read an article in a forgotten magazine about the upcoming European Film Festival this November. Naturally it would be bigger in Jakarta but at least they would show some movies in Bali (or so the article said). So I would be looking forward to November for that special reason. Check this site for detail. So for any people who residing in Bali and read this, I hope to see you in Alliance France on November!

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I Came to Paris to Live...

On my second time in Paris this July, I was crossing Pont Neuf while suddenly I remember Audrey Hepburn. I have seen one of many Audrey Hepburn movies and I remember a particular line she said when asked by Bill Holden in “Paris When It Sizzles” about why did she come to Paris. She simply said in that big magical eyes of her, “I came to Paris to live”. Perfectly said. For I feel more alive in Paris.

Paris keep inspiring generation after generation of writer wannabes, head-to-toe-dressed-in black-chain-smoking thinker (who hang a lot in Le Deux Magot, hoping to be inspired by the ghost of Sartre), emerging artist, hopeless romantic and last but not least, million of wide-eyed travelers who seeks cultural enlightment and je ne sais quoi Paris is famous for. I was in the last category. I came to Paris to be charmed, enlighted and optimistic that Paris would infect me with its illustrious allure…

I had one Parisian day.
I woke up in a compact hotel room, hardly a space for bathroom.
I rode in Metro. With Le Figaro-reading-workers. With crumpled, unbathed student.
I had croissant and café au lait in Chez-something. The only food I can spell correctly.
I walked through a remnant wall and entered history of civilization, Louvre.
I encountered Winged Victory, placed in the top of staircase, ready to fly.
I met Venus de Milo, whose unarmed yet bewitched many hearts.
I saw Monalisa, overrated mystery still smiling ruefully.
I was a small fish, swimming in a bowl of universe.

Then

I went out, afraid it would became too much, wreck the magic.
I crossed Pont du Carrousel, left my enlightment pyramid behind.
I watched sleepy old man sitting, watching his petit bookshop of vintage delight along Seine.
I peeked at couple stealing French kisses on Pont Neuf, bitten by romance.
I heard my stomach protesting in unison, of thirst and hunger. Even in Paris.
I kept stopping in front of shop windows selling china and exotic objects of art.

Then

I sat down on red and green rattan chair, placed my elbow on green glossy table.
I ordered Croquet de Monsieur and my second café au lait, and waiting.
I captured people walking by, in hurry, in all shapes and colors imaginable, then waiting. Still.
I savored cheese melted tenderly, mixed with black sweetness of cafein, in my mouth.
I left Café de Flore in hurry, after asked Jacquez The Waiter took my picture while smiling knowingly (Ah, touriste!).
I strutted through Musee d’Orsay, like Catherine Deneuve with Paris Museum Pass.
I gasped, stunned, tempted and fell for Monet, Manet, Renoir, Degas, Lautrec and Gauguin. All over again.
I was swimming in impression of colors for eternity, etched forever in brain.

Then

I was furiously back to the Rue on six o’clock.
I used my angry tired feet once again, chasing Hemingway shadow from many years ago.
I found him in Shakespeare and Co.
I felt myself lost, an Alice in her Wonderland of Books.
I touched dusty bonded books, perhaps once read by Kerouac.
I bought some books, wishing I was buying history.

Then

I bought a thick shwarma and found a bench near the Seine.
I scorned tourists in Batobus, hysterically blitzing whatever they thought they see.
I washed down the last piece with red wine, tipsy with Paris.

Finally

I walked back to my cot.
Half-heartedly, drunk and dreaming.
Yearning for every day of my life
It would be like this.
Moi,

Drunk of Paris.

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There's Something About Dewi Persik & Anisa Bahar

Recently I am hooked with one of the most popular invention ever created by human being. TV cable. No, I am not turning into couch potato. Well, just potato perhaps considering a rapid development I found out with utter panic on tummy area. But I got what I deserved, spending so much time being a lazy snacking goddess.

Back to the TV. For my defense, I lived my uni year with almost no access to TV. Not that I have any regret. I did just fine with stack of illegal DVDs and books but I miss TV from time to time. The news (and certain silver-hair-blue-eyed news caster on CNN), my beloved Travel & Food Channel (Tuscany!Nepal!India!) and last but not least the gossip channel. I am a sucker for the latter. Not a day passed without me clicking “Daily 10” or “E! 101 Celebrity Slimdown”. Secretly, of course (when there are people around I always put on the most serious look I could pull on and watch BBC). I thank God for cable. And of course my Father, for paying.

But to my horror I found myself recently unblinking for half an hour in front of TV. The cause? Dewi Persik and his likely-soon-to-be-ex-hubbie, Syaiful Jamil. I still slap my poor sore cheek from time to time since I hardly believe I could watch the drama with full concentration (I have attention span of a cockroach). Everyone in the planet who have read US Weekly or checking on celeb goss knows that sometimes those celebs are just desperate for publication. They would do anything to get to the front page or at least, PerezHilton.com

Some of the techniques to raise his or her fame in celebdom typically employed:
*going out on a date (usually one of the couple is in the higher caste of celebdom) to the most happening venue in town. They usually caught lips-locking or holding hands in public while avoiding paparazzi. After ended up in E! Daily News, their representative would deny that their clients are dating. “They’re just friends” is the common answer
*they’re going into rehab after a stint of caught-drunk-while-driving. I am not quite sure it effective to their alcohol-damaged brain but it surely works for putting them on the spotlight. Better yet if they got into jail, like a recent blonde heiress *hint hint*. Wearing accessories from Alcoholic Anonymous also helped
*flashing public with certain body parts while getting out of cars
*wear an extremely beautiful dress or exceptionally horrendous dress on Red Carpet. Both would end up in Fashion Police
*held a public conference and admit that they’re gay
*make a bold and shocking statement (preferably something to do with sex, race, politic or did I mention sex?)
*etc (hey, if I know them all I would representating Paris Hilton by now)

But none of those celebs are willing to appear everyday for few weeks with tears on their eyes and ask forgiveness from their soon-to-be-ex-spouses (or in the case of Anisa Bahar, her once-not-her-daughter-but-now-that-she’s-famous-please-call-me-Mama-darling) on national broadcast. I honestly believe they would do better in sinetron than in dangdut, seeing how good they weep in front of camera. Seriously. Nicole Richie could learn something from them (instead of getting knocked-up with tatooed rock star, you poor thing). I was stupified in front of TV for that long not for nothing! Dewi Persik should consider an entirely new career after the divorce. If there is going to be one, that is.

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The Inconvenient Truth of Our Life

Our days on this earth are numbered. Mostly, it is our own fault or as I prefer it, our government's fault. In Indonesia's case, it is true. I hope I won't get in trouble for blogging this but let me make a small quiz:

*Which government actively involved in illegal logging by becoming the very own people who accept bribes from private companies to cut down the trees in Borneo's forest and corrupted what limited fund they have; also at the same time make their country as 'the number one fastest deforestation country in the world ' deserved to be in Guiness Book of Records?

If your answer is Indonesia, you are right. As an Indonesian, I am ashamed to admit that I didn't do anything to prevent it. Perhaps I used to think it is not my problem. It didn't cause a direct treat to my life. I was wrong. Al Gore said so (by the way, congratulation for the Nobel Prize. It is a good thing you lose the Precidency, seeing what happen with The One Who Unfairly Won nowdays. And look at those candidates racing to be The Next American President. It is overrated. Don't you agree? Nobel is more noble). I was the frog inside a boiling cauldron.

But now I realize I am that frog and the whole country is boiling (say, with all the natural disasters coming our way such as flooding and avalanches). This is about time that all Indonesian should realize that they are all that frogs! I hope it is not too late to wake up now and change all the bad habit of our lifestyle.

So here are some simple idea about what can people (and I) should do to prevent The Ice Age and perish human-kind like it did to dinosaurs:

1. Watch "An Inconvenient Truth" to understand correctly what happen to our earth right now (sadly it didn't make it to our cinema, so it is available for download or lapak DVD near you)

2. Throw your garbage correctly (even a small act like throwing a can of Coca Cola via your car's window COULD affect the environment)

3. Say NO to plastic bag. Next time you go to a supermarket or you buy anything that you able to put in your pocket or bag, tell the Mas or Mbak "NO" when they give you plastic bag (I try to always have a canvas bag with me whenever I go grocery shopping or better yet, use your real or fake Anya's " I am not a plastic bag" to its supposed-to-be-real function INSTEAD of wearing it for the sake of looking hip and cool in Citos

4.Turn off unusable electricity equipment in your house

5. Plant your garden (if your Mother haven't already done that)

For more tips on how to save the earth please click this site.

SAVE THE EARTH, SAVE OUR LIFE

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Lazy Hazy Paella Sun-Day

Ah Sunday! It's quiet and peaceful. Almost like Silent Day except cars and motorcycle still passing through in front of my house. It doesn't feel like Ramadhan in Bali. No endless prayers from mosque's tower around or any sign in the neighborhood that people are celebrating their victory over earthly temptation. I woke up hazily, had my coffee and muffin. Checked my e-mail. Showering. Continuing my re-reading of "One Hundred Years of Solitude". And then cooking.

Like many of previous holiday, today my Old Man and I cooked together. We made a pretty good team tearing down the kitchen with our cooking style which only could be described as 'chaotically cluttered'. This time we made paella, a Spanish version of Nasi Goreng.

Bon Apetit!

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The Chase of Rembrandt’s Chiaroscuro and Vermeer’s Light

Enter : 16:52
Out : 18.00
Date : July 15, 2007
Place : Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

I firmly believe that it is madness to spend an hour running on treadmill because I simply feel like a hamster inside a cage. I also firmly believe it is impossible to see a museum in an hour. You learn nothing in one hour. In Rijks, I learn I made a wrong personal statement. You can learn a lot in an hour.

With my untrained stamina in the field of fast-pace walk, sandwich stop and posing in front of touristy gigantic red “IAMSTERDAM” sign (couldn’t help it. I’m a sucker for cool kitsch), I made it to Rijks. A very nice guard, an Indian sikh, inside the booth took my museumkaart and kindly asked me about my origin. When I said Bali, he beamed up to me and threw an ear-to-ear smile, “I’ve been there”. At that moment, I was utmostly proud of my heritage, of my island, my country. So he launched into three minutes monologue on how he loves Bali and felt most welcomed there. He also introduced me into his buddy next booth (whom was his brother) and informed me about the Indian lady who checked my bag in the entrance. “She’s my sister-in-law”, he said, deserved to be proud. I would call that a positive nepotism. I put my hand together and said namaste. I had a good hunch that I would have a good time inside.

Rijks was under–renovation at that moment, which perhaps benefited me since I didn’t have to walk aroud the huge building to see the highlights. So after a careful study of the map, I walked in quick-step (not the dance) around the ground floor where they exhibited treasures from the Golden Age of 17th century Netherland*, such as doll house (with detailed fresco on the dining room wall where petit porcelain polly pocket dolls sit to have tea, drinked from white-and-blue delft porcelain), gold tablewares, delftwares and many more.

I climbed a staircase and arrived in gallery of Frans Hals (who?) and at last entered the world of a maestro named Rembrandt van Rijn. He was Elvis for Dutch painting scene, since they both are famous with only the forename. In the first gallery was paintings by Rembrandt and his students and after that a room for late works of him. I think what I find profoundly beautiful in his dark mood canvases is the light. It seems like giving glimmer of hope and spotlighting the very essence of his painting. He also uses alegories and symbolism which I sadly don’t understand much.

Next room was Vermeer. My memory of him, of what I have of him, would always be a long haired Colin Firth. Blast! I wish I hadn’t seen the movie. I am still mesmerized by his work, even in a shape of small postcard glued in wall beside me. I don’t have the right words for his paintings except beautiful. More than just a figure of woman doing mundane, daily task. More than interior of 17th century Dutch houses with light flooding through opened window. It was graceful, intimate and understanding. At that point, I was imagining Colin Firth gaze at me behind his easel with that romantic dark eyes. Sigh.

And there it was. Nachtwacht. It took my breath away, for its vastness and liveliness. It seemed everyone in the museum gather in that room. I savored every details. Beam of light on each figure’s face. Richness of detail in a man’s attire, subtle gold. And the only lady in the painting, her whole being is glowing tenderly yet with fright on her child-like face. I wish I could stand closer. I wish I was alone in that room, far, far, from watchful eyes of a sitting guard in the corner. I felt an ardent desire to touch it, to feel the light with my fingers. One can only see clearly with the heart, what is essential is invisible to the eye, said Le Petit Prince to me once. I saw Rembrandt’s “Nachtwacht” with my heart.

My heavy foot walked sluggishly to the shop. Staring almost tearfully at glossy illustrated books on the shelf, wishing with all my heart that at that moment, I have all the money in the world and turned away. I stole few precious minutes back in the ground floor before a curteous voice boomed through speaker, asking us to leave. How I hate that voice!

I sat on a wooden bench near the gate. Staring idly into the green of carefully kept garden, into a vain stone lady and brick walled façade. I checked on my map, trying to find some place, any place where I can rest my tired feet and fill my empty stomach. I climbed up into a tram passing by and let myself lost in Amsterdam.

It was exhausting to read map sometimes and so I gazed out the glass window as well as the people sitting around me. I felt glimpse of sun rays creeping into the tram, rested upon their tired faces. People who might just finished another day at work. People who were so lucky to live and gaze at those beautiful house everyday and anytime could walk into Rijksmuseum. They can catch Rembrandt’s chiaroscuro and Vermeer’s light anytime, everytime.

Vondelpark, said a feminine computerized voice. Instinctively, I stepped down there. I wonder why.

*Around the same time when J.P. Coen en his entourage arrived in Java, chucked the ruling monarchy with bloody war, imported slaves from all around the world to planted spices, put them on board and sold them in every major European countries for the next three-and-a-half centuries. Oh and it is called colonialization.

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Bits and Pieces From Ubud Writers and Readers Festival 2007

I have to let all this words, saved inside cluttered drawers in my muddled brain, comes out. Inspiration, ideas, experiences, friendship formed, soulful solitude. Some of the words I could use to illustrate what I have been lived in last weekend, within the seen and the unseen, sekala and niskala. This is the fourth Ubud Writers and Readers Festival and shame on me, my first. To my justification, I wasn’t in Bali for the last two festival. The third, I was simply a coward chicken. So I carpe diem-ed the weekend and made it to ‘one of the six best literary festival in the world’ (according to Harper’s Bazaar U.K. February 2007).

I didn’t know what to expect, being an early 20-something with crappy English grammar, unnatural coyness when faced with native English speaker and went there sole-purposely to steal brilliant ideas from brilliant brains as well as get my bought-on-the-spot “The Inheritance of Loss” book signed by the celebrity writer of this year festival, Kiran Desai. I know, I should be mortified by myself by even admit that, but hell… Anyway, I made it to “In Conversation with Kiran Desai” discussion panel on Friday afternoon. She talks about her book, her childhood, her mother influence over her works (mother happened to be one of the famous post-colonial literature writer, Anita Desai), her fame and identity. It struck me how modest she is. One could easily be a giant-headed Booker Prize winner with all the fame that follows, but definitely not her.

By any chance, perhaps The Unseen would like us to collide that day, I met a kindred spirit. Li was her name. A petite girl, face nearly covered in black wavy curtain and adorned with sweet smile. She won a competition of writing only sixteen words essay, back in Kuala Lumpur. Here is her splendid winning entry:

“So, you’re dating him now?” The envious hairdresser said, approaching, scissors gleaming in the light.

I can still remember it by heart because I was impressed and burned in envy for it. I wish I can write razor-sharp sentence like her. I was charmed by Li and I sneaked out from the festival for few hours. We talked about our lifes, made a comparative study over Kuala Lumpur and Bali, as well as exchanging lingo and talked about books. She was my first encounter of female counter-part who reads Gabriel Garcia Marquez. What can I say? I was mesmerized. We bid farewell that since weirdly, she has to fly back to K.L that Friday evening, while the whole thing just started to heat up.

I managed to woke-up early the next day after a literary hangover to joined “ In Conversation with Shashi Tharoor”. I saw him on the Friday last session, having an animated discussion with Rana Dasgupta, Cyril Wong and the insanely witty moderator, Nury Vittachi; over alternative version of modernity which described prominent cities like Paris, London, New York as established while “Singapore sucks” (direct quote from Cyril Wong). Shashi Tharoor is “the almost Secretary General of United Nation”, lost to the current one, Ban-Ki Moon (tips to remember his name in Indonesian: Bang Imoen). It was amazing how I was able to watch and hear those brilliant minds in debate and hassled one another, of course in the way only brilliant minds are able to hassle.

For Saturday, I joined a writing workshop which I found out in the spot, was intended for intermediate writer. Great. I felt the familiar sensation of lurching stomach, sweated nausea and chilling spine. What did I got myself into? I felt worsen by the time the guest lecturer as well as writer, Jill Dawson, asked each and thirteen of us to tell a bit about ourselves. There was a journalist, a recent graduate from Creative Writing College, retired old men, two ex-pat ladies who seems like a diplomat housewives, a georgeus mixed-race lady in beautiful long blue-batik dress, a French lady and a cheerful Indian gay guy. I was the worst writer in the room, no doubt about that. I said to myself, now, you are in trouble. Big one. There is no Microsoft Word to help you automatically correcting grammar mistake or thesaurus to click when I try to make myself sounds more sophisticated and smart-like.

As well as the worst English speaker (with three exception, the rest of the people were English native speakers, I also happened to be the youngest. A real blow to my already-crumbling-to-pieces confidence). I spent the rest of the workshop scribbling furiously into my book and tried to avoid being pointed to read my writing. Much like when I was in high school and I ducked as low as possible from The Mean Eyes of Chemistry Teacher. In the end, I managed to learn something from it, especially about writing character and place which I hope would someday be put into proper writing. Jill Dawson was simply a wonderful teacher.

With one of my new-found friend, we went to Dragonfly to saw book launching which in that evening was a poem anthalogy titled ‘Terra’. There were poem recital by poet from East Timor, the georgeus Laksmi Pamuntjak and we left after a poetry reading by the sensational Miles Merrill (I was lucky to saw him before in which he performed alongside a Samoan poet (Tusiata Avia), Filipino young and happened to be cute poet (Angelo Suarez) as well as an Indonesian poet).

I treated myself with a delicious bratwurst, salad and fries dinner in Naughty Nuri’s (the most famous BBQ ribs in Bali). Hang-out a bit with the football fans who kept yelling at the poor flat screen, went back to my hotel and delved myself into books. The cricket was singing loudly from the dark rice field, heighten by croaking frogs asking for rain or simply a mating partner for that night.

The last discussion panel I attended on Sunday was “Something to Say”. The room was fully packed even before the previous session was over. Gone was the chill in the air sponsored by air-con. And so the stars arrived and no wonder it was packed. There was Deepika Shetty as moderator, Shashi Tharoor, Nury Vittachi and the Bali Bule, Made Wijaya. All stars in their own right. The same thing they have in common are they all are notorious columnist (perhaps except Mr.Tharoor who doesn’t seemed like a mean, vicious columnist bullies). It was delightfully funny, whole-heartedly honest and raucous since the finale was Nury Vittachi 'fictitiously putting himself in amorous position' on Julia Suryakusuma on the coffee table! Janet de Neefe, the founder of Ubud Writers and Readers Festival was given standing ovation for her dedication and spirit.

The festival next year would bring new leadership perhaps also bigger venues since the current one (Indus and The Left Bank Lounge) simply wouldn’t be enough with growing numbers of book lovers pouring in. To close this blog, I would simply stated that the festival live up to its publication and I do really hope I would see more of Balinese people in the crowds. What happen with all of you, my Balinese men and women? None of you showed up if you were not in press or a guest speaker or in media-relation. People came as far as Europe and Australia, especially for the occasion. We live here. I would unquestionably be there next year. What about you?

For more information, click

http://www.ubudwritersfestival.com/

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