Merlin's Malediction

There are ways in which a tale could be told, as in, it could literally be 'told', or alternatively, shown. But what happens when it chooses to do none, or both, at the same time? What kind of convoluted concoction does it create? Wes Anderson chose to explore precisely this phenomenon within the 39 minutes of 'The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar'; with Benedict Cumberbatch playing the titular character as perfectly as the minutely trimmed thin moustache sitting above his upper lip.

As an adaptation of Roald Dahl's (played by Ralph Fiennes) short story of the same name, the plot explores the story of the men who could "see without their eyes", a testament to Kashmir born magician Khuda Bakhsh in the 1950s. Ben Kingsley as Amjad Khan is of course a not-so-surprising select, as is Dev Patel in the role of Dr. Chatterjee. However, this story is about none of them, or yet again, about all of them, for all of them are represented by Henry Sugar, and is much more about his transition than of anyone else, and thus culmination of the transitive journey of all. Anderson chooses to employ a Russian doll structure to encapsulate his narrative, there's a story, within a story, within a story that takes place, and surprisingly all of it finds their own in due accord.

So far however, it's still basic filmmaking, and that's where Anderson steps in. He explores the inner conundrums of human psyche through the portrayal of his characters, especially by making them narrators of their own tale, each specifically the protagonist of their own narrative, and yet leaves a page behind for the audience to formulate their own opinions only to be later conflicted and pondered upon. 2D sets and structures, a surrealist use of exorbitant constant contrasting shades of colour and varied tonal range, Henry Sugar is just like the audience, and yet so much more than the audience. And of course it does have the tinge of stereotypical breezy Dahl in it, especially with the moralistic rhetoric that eventually pushes through, and there're already too many of Dahl's stories at this point doing the same. The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar then is a tale to be told not because it hasn't been told before, rather, the method of expression is to be observed, it's upon the bard to burrow into the beauteous biography-like structure, for else wise, the tale may get stale, and in the words of Dahl the narrator:

"Nothing is any fun if you can get as much of it as you want."

Spirited Away:

"It’s fun to move to a new place, it’s an adventure."

Through the rhythmic dance of wheels, the soft murmur of strangers, and the scenery weaving tapestry like a novel, we find beauty in the transient magic of train journeys—a symphony that lingers longer than the echo of departing tracks. Hayao Miyazaki takes his audience on such an exorbitant adventure where the beauty perhaps lies in its simplicity beyond the subversive questions of human and humane complexities, quite literally manifesting a transcendence into a realm unknown to the mortals, with charms and magic and friendship and tales lighting the way. As we have really come to associate with Studio Ghibli at this point, the plot following Chihiro is more about the journey of the child protagonist into maturity, and yet perhaps a retention of the newer, more subtle values of life.

Miyazaki, however, is no ordinary storyteller, and it's really a testament to his craft the manner in which he chooses to represent the pressing issues of identity construction and deconstructive theology: there's the spirit the identifies with being referred to as Faceless, and the primary source of control for Yubaba is to become the 'collector of names'. This is no mere semblance that transits into profoundness, and yet the symbolic journey becomes metaphorically represented through the journey Chihiro takes through the marshlands on the train that goes, but never comes back. There is a sense of controlled chaos within, a veneer of a lack of order within the ordered system governing the spirit realm. At its core however, Miyazaki retains the authenticity and a certain degree of rawness of emotions he's known for, all of which really culminates into Kamaji's expression:

"Don't you see? It's called... Love".

Howl's Moving Castle:

“Here's Another Curse For You – May All Your Bacon Burn.”

There is a certain beauty one learns to yearn for with the progression of time, a certain craved serenity that transcends beyond the superimposed drudgery. Howl's Moving Castle feeds exactly into that semblance, and Studio Ghibli makes sure that one is left so awestruck with the scenic beauty as not to even consider a transcendence within the initial perspective. Loosely based on Dianna Wynne Jones' novel of the same name, this movie is never to be one of initial perspective, rather as an attempt to understand its depth one must keep revisiting at regular intervals, and be pleasantly surprised at every new turn. Quite frankly, Ghibli hits right on point with its magnificent storytelling, and the culminative contrast of conflicting ideals. At an external level, this is merely the journey of Sophie and Howl (more so of Howl than on Sophie), and yet the Atsushi Okoi's magnificent camera work makes one truly wonder of the mechanical miracles.

However, this is merely not a love trope to be told, and set in a steanpunk world that regularly clashes with magic, it is truly a magnificent representation of the industrialised world taking over the genial theurgy. With bonds to be made, and contracts with demons exchanged (Calcifer, however, is hardly frightening), it is a tale of family and friends, of a certain contrast and a constant internal war manifested externally, the genius and ingenuity of emotions, and more importantly perhaps, the core mechanical simplicity that governs them all. At its core then, this is one beautiful interlaced tale of conflict and comfort, with a brand of storytelling excellence one has come to associate with Studio Ghibli over time, but more importantly, it is a tale of family and of the soul and heart, and in the words of Sophie,

"A Heart's A Heavy Burden."

Let's begin somewhere pretty simple. A children's story about a cannibalistic 'Captain', rightfully brought to justice. This is far from the original Dickensian content, maybe more of a creation of nostalgia than of creative intent, especially since it's his nursemaid's tale, but if you want to interpret the Captain as a metaphor for the dark satanic Britain, post structuralism is right up the alley.

My Own True Ghost Story - Rudyard Kipling

There is something awfully comforting in Kipling's writings, and this is perhaps a short story most will be acclimated to. The vivid description of the 'Dak-bunglow', a distinct feel of the post British-raj, the famous ghostly billiards game and above all, the reverberating cries of the Sahib, "Mangal Khan, brandy-pani do".

The Alchemist - H.P. Lovecraft

This title is perhaps a dead giveaway for a (dare I say, more popular) novel of the similar name by Paulo Coelho. However, this is far from the conventional Lovecraftian tale of terror, and for a short story there's quite a bit that goes into building the premise of the plot. It does follow the traditional trajectory though, there's the ancient curse, the curious protagonist and, as the title suggests Alchemy at the centre of it all.

Fat and Thin - Anton Chekhov

It has been told that Chekhov is the man to read if one is ever to understand the craft of writing short stories. Chekhov brilliantly layers his characters in the form of two childhood friends meeting in adulthood, this time with the social constraint. It is really the dialogues and their simplistic presentation accumulating to the abrupt transformation and reverence to power that represents the modern farcical society (if one is to find humour in such things). And for Chekhov the absolute delight is not merely restricted to the content, but extends to the perceptive presentation itself.

Seldom do we come across a text that does so many things all at once, and more importantly, does all of it incredibly well. I mean you can simply pick it up as a kind of detective murder mystery, a political satire, or maybe even an action thriller...? The second person narrative is a bit distancing I'll agree, but then there's this interesting sense of humour to make up for it. And obviously, it's the tale of Malinda (Maal) Almeida who's dead, and finds himself in the afterlife, with seven moons to sort his affairs on the mortal plane and pass into 'The Light'. Karunatilaka sets his plot in 1980s Sri Lankan civil war, with the Tamil and Sinhalese at each other's throats and Maali the bastard son of both. Not to mention about him being a closet gay.

Maali is not perfect, he's a debauched gambler, regular drug abuser, in his own language 'a slut', and an A+ photographer. And now that he's dead, he must find out his murderer(s), and get his photos published (that he claims can topple governments) and reach the light, all before his seven moons are over. It's impressive how Karunatilaka creates each character with such detail: The political ideologist dead JVP worker Sena, the murdered voicist professor Dr. Renne, Amma, DD, Stanley and so many others. And how all have demons, some of which sit on the bonnet of a car. It is really a narrative that must be explored by the reader on their own, mostly because each will have their own say in the matter. And howsoever you choose to read it, remember that it's not really the ghosts or pretas or monsters or demons to be feared, but in Maali's own words:

"Evil is not what we should fear. Creatures with power acting in their own interest: that is what should make us shudder.”

The book starts off slow, well, really slow, to the point that you might almost be tempted to skip over the first seventy pages or so, but don't. Just bear with it, it gets better. The amount of time Susanna Clarke dedicates into the setting up of the house feels paradoxically unimportant yet integral, and if you're a fan of copious descriptions and painstakingly minute detailings, the first few pages are going to be a treat. The surrealist imagery of infinitism and abundance that Clarke creates, atleast for the house is both frightening and awe inspiring, with Piranesi meticulously detailing every minotaur statue, tide times and the almost indeterminable floors and halls. It almost represents the primitive man, for who the world consists of only himself and the 'Other', in perfect harmony with his surroundings.

But things change, and when they do, they change fast. And therefore within no time, the idyllic setup has abruptly withered into a chasm of identity crisis, the deified house turning into the desecrating malevolent establishment and perhaps the cause of all callousness through retrograde amnesia at the very least. Clarke creates a predominant setting that distinctly reminds one of the House of Mysteries in the DC Multiverse, only that this time the house probably is unconscious rather than subconscious. The house is not the active deterrent, and the plot itself, in first person narrative, make Piranesi the almost simplistic presenter, a deep believer whatever he pens down. Written in the epistolary format of journal entries, on many grounds you could even read it as some sort of a post-colonial representation perhaps?! And at this point there are prehaps too many interpretatios possible. A detective story perhaps? Or maybe a quest for identity? And one question for Piranesi to top it all:

"Are you Matthew Rose Sorensen?"

Well, we can't really blame Murakami for it though. His novels, especially this one, has this certain hypnotic effect that transcends beyond the naturalist to borderline magical realist, and everytime has a different perspective for the readers to ascertain. It is quite simply not legitimately possible to ascribe a dominant understanding, especially when the plot concerns itself with a 15-year old runaway and a twilight speaker with cats. And while their lives don't intertwine, Murakami ensures that none of his readers get out sane. He paints surrealism, and the oddity of suspended animation, a world where fish rains and forest contain the souls of undead (can we call them that?!) World War 2 soldiers. There's also the shadow that creeps out, who can vaguely be hurt and captured with a cucumber, well you get the general idea.

On the other side is this Derridan kid in search of his sister, the Kafka in search of the shore. He's stuck however, within the transparency of prophecy predicting patricide. So far, so good? Well, not really. See, this Derridan kid also has the Oedipal prophecy to fulfill: He'll kill his father and sleep with his mother and sister who left when he was four. There is a certain dreamlike aspect though, and you'll find yourself skimming through pages, until the jolt remind you, well, that most of whatever's so far read adds up but doesn't quite make sense. Murakami does not distance his readers (or should we call them audience, since the characters might well be performing), and it's absurd how perfectly all fits externally, yet leave stunting questions behind.

Murakami has long proclaimed his interest in Japan's role within the Second World War? Is this then a modern si-fi retelling? When Nakata then loses his memory after the school trip to the hills, is he the victim to some sort of botched science experiment (maybe initial neurosurgery)? Are the soldiers transcendental consciously or within a vaccum of self-fueling imprisonment? And what kind of peace does Kafka find in the library, abandoning his quest before it has even begun? Is there a kind of immortality then for Nakata when the soldiers as him to join them? A kind of death? Too many questions and no definite answers.

Well, the answer probably lies in the manner of expression. This is Draupadi talking to the readers, and although she is as much of an unreliable narrator as it could possibly be (and Divyakaruni ensures that), it is perhaps her flaws that breaks the dominant aura of the helpless pious woman exploited by patriarchal negligence. Here Draupadi is responsible for what happens on the battlefield, but more importantly what happens to her from an objective understanding. She is as much a party to the Kurukshetra war as are the Pandavas or Kauravas, and if she's humiliated in the court, it's really a repercussion of her humiliations of other characters in public. And mind you, Draupadi is no goddess, she's a vengeful, spiteful and manipulative woman, her actions driven by basic human instincts rather than a higher ordeal.

And this is where Divyakaruni comes through. You will hate Draupadi, and perhaps justifiably so, but take a step back and you'll realise how masterfully the character has been constructed . The foundations remain same for most of the plot and you'll not really feel like you're reading a different text altogether, but by the time you put it down, you will most probably have some sort ofa grudging respect for this character. And that's particularly because the Draupadi in Palace of Illusions is not really aspirational, awe-inspiring or a symbol of silent suffering, but if anything, she is definitely 'real', or atleast as real she could be.

For most of it, Ishiguro did what he does best: exploring the concepts of friendship, love, and jealousy among others laced within the lacuna of si-fi understanding. Unfortunately though, it's the si-fi that supersedes the exploration upto a point, and the trio of Tommy, Ruth and Kathy and left to fend off for themselves. Narrated from the perspective of Kathy, Ishiguro does an excellent job in description of those individual incidents that appears to ascribe the narrator with a certain relatability context. And therefore when 'clones' fall for each other, it really becomes an exploration of the 'souls' within. If you're looking for a piece of writing that breaks away parts of your heart slowly until one fine morning you realise it's all but gone, look for further than Ishiguro. For all we know, this man can really burn the heart from within, much like the tape that plays in the background, "Never let me go. Oh, baby baby. Never let me go'.

For one, this is not the modern psychological horror that King has been trying for quite sometime now, but features a real vampire in the most traditional way possible. This is no wronged martyr, King's vampire is bloodlust driven insatiable monster that will stop at nothing but drain the last drop of blood from everyone that chooses to cross his path ( even children), and is more of a destructive force ending in the classic King way.

The monstrosity is therefore real, as well as the setting, so much so that you will probably need a moment of magic to even believe in your chances of escaping the dreaded Lot.

Shusterman had already set the bar high enough in the previous two installments, and this book simply capitalises on the exquisite storytelling to create an almost-perfect well rounded end. With a lot of things to praise and one minute fault, The Toll is really a tall piece of literature.

(Spoiler Alert) With Mid-Merica gone, and no sign of Rowan or Citra (or should we say Scythe Lucifer and Scythe Anastasia), this book finally philosophises on the human fallacy and delusional confidence in its ability to control the forces of nature. Yet another compelling image presented where Neil paints a picture of a world without death and the final resolution, where Scythes would be rendered obsolete, and my only complaint is that the resolution came a bit too soon.

What I really mean is, despite the ingenious idea of a new death order, the system devised does not essentially feel fair at its core. And for a novel that inherently talks of morality as a chief construction, the proposed system could have had a better mechanism.

What the system is, you really have to find out for yourself. And in the meantime, the magic that Shusterman spreads with this series makes it a remarkable read: not only as criticism to society but also just for the fun of it.

Because that's what it feels like if humanity gives up all control to a super-processor, a cloud that has evolved into a Thunderhead.

Frankly, from the perspective of a software that is programmed to provide all beneficial ideals to mankind, the Thunderhead is strangely aloof: atleast to the scythes. The first book ended with (spoiler alert) Citra taking up her role as Scythe Anastasia, but also Rowan being spared owing to a calculated move by Citra.

So now, where exactly is Rowan? How good of a Scythe is Anastasia? What is the Thunderhead planning? Is it going to go The Terminator haywire way? How far of science is magic? Too many questions with no definitively answers.

From the perspective of the machine comes the second book of the Arc of Scythe series in Shusterman's elusive career, where things finally begin to make sense but still has a long way to go before reaching The Toll.

A society that has transcended beyond the death and decay of mortality where killing remains the only resort to keep the growing population in check, gleanings are performed as more of a necessary evil by the Scythes. Only that the two apprentices of Scythe Faraday, Citra Terranova and Roman Damisch, do not want to kill.

But again, neither of them want to die.

However, only one of them would get to be a Scythe at the end, and the other executed. Among all the corruption and chaos, who will rise to the challenge and conquer their inner demons (or rather, destroy their own moral compass) in this battle of friendship and survival, raising deep questions on the concepts of existence itself. A must read for all who believe that there is still a tiny bit of magic yet to be worked out.

If this sounded confusing, wait till Blake Crouch takes you on a tour of the infinite identities of Jason Dessen. And mind you, Blake is no generous guide: he will grind and grill your grey cells and throw you off into the cold vaccum of nothingness, from which you may never emerge. So adventurers beware - quantum mechanics can only help you so long as you have that little magic within to fulfill the quest and return.