Part Two of Rejection Served Up Three Different Ways.
When I first wrote that entry and discussed Liz Bennett's declining Mr. Darcy's affections, I had thought that there wasn’t an equivalent scene in Bride and Prejudice (Gurinder Chadha, 2004). There is a parallel; it just occurs much later in the narrative development than the other versions I've analyzed. This film oscillates between scenes of extreme hilarity and scenes of extreme awkwardness (funny for the wrong reasons); however, the rejection scene isn’t too bad.
Lizzy here, who is named Lalita (Aishwarya Rai) and Will Darcy (Martin Henderson) have just gotten over their mutual pride and prejudice and have started falling for each other. They walk into Lalita's best friend Chandra's wedding together only to run into Darcy’s mother. She’s opposed to Darcy’s liaison with Lalita not on account of the fact that she’s Indian (misunderstandings of that nature between Darcy and Lalita occurred at the beginning of the film, but they’d been gotten over by this point), but because Lalita’s family is far less wealthy. Darcy’s girlfriend, which it should be noted Lalita didn’t know he had, is also present. Lalita has also just discovered that it was Darcy who discouraged Balraj (Naveen Andrews) from proposing to Lalita's sister Jaya (Namrata Shirodkar) and is primarily devastated by this knowledge.
Given these immediate circumstances, the rejection scene takes on an extra poignancy and understandably, Lalita is angry. Rai is not an amazing actress, but Henderson isn’t a superb actor either, so their combined ingenuity makes the scene feel very natural. Instead of going off into a long, frustrated speech, Lalita’s brevity of response to Darcy’s confession of love is quite refreshing. She says, cool as cucumber, “Only you could say that you love me and insult me at the same time.” Lalita handles the scene with maturity and level-headedness that is distinctive from the other Lizzy’s.
The rejection scene actually starts at 2:30, but I provide the entire clip for context. Chadha was sharply tongue-in-cheek in including Ann’s mispronunciation of Lalita’s name. A similar circumstance has happened to me on a few occasions too. Except for me, it’s been “Evita… like Don’t cry for me Argentina?” My reaction: [. . .] followed by awkward laugh.
There’s also something very definitively Indian about Rai’s posture, tone, and manner in which she handles the scene. I’m not sure I can explain this properly -- perhaps some mix of keeping anger under wraps, wanting to save face, and just needing to leave an embarrassing situation -- except to say that I probably would have reacted the same way.
Lalita has more agency in this scene than the other Lizzy Bennet’s. She’s the one who walks away. The dramatic vocals that begin at 4:32 are quite typical of a Bollywood/Indian film. Lalita’s exit in the sheer white sari is also well done – although it’s not clear exactly where she’s going.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
On Chennai: my retrospective
In December 2008, I returned to Chennai, India for the first time in 12 years. The minute I felt the thick humidity and sandy dust even in the midst of cool winter, it was like coming home.
But a decade changes any place. Lattice Bridge Road, the main road off the street where I had lived in Thiruvanmiyur, was nearly unrecognizable. If you asked me to give directions to my favorite bookstore Odyssey, which still existed, I could no longer do it. The roads were overflowing with cars, traffic was exponentially worse, and once plentiful bicycles were few and far between. I used to bike to nearby destinations every now and then just for fun – I’d never risk it now.
I think the most startling changes were the ascending of tall glass tower buildings, the kind you see in technology parks, which were almost all call centers, the disappearance of slums (I think they were just hidden or pushed out), and the profusion of cell phones – everyone, rich and poor, seemed to have one. At least at the urban level, there appeared to be some breaking of inter-generational cycles of poverty.
I lived in this chaotic metropolis for three years in the mid 90s. Even then it was a bustling city of four million (the population has since doubled), a drastic contrast from the manicured spaces of suburbia I had inhabited in Georgia. At the time there, the uphill battle had been proving I was American, whereas, in India, I couldn't downplay my U.S. nationality if I tried.
I went to a school that was run by Christians, so we had a daily assembly which ended with the singing of a hymn. I even had a hymn book – in fact, you were thrown out of line if you didn’t have it in your pocket. We were otherwise totally secular and multireligious. The student body was almost evenly split between Hindus, Muslims, and Christians, so we got out for all of the holidays. And instead of snow days, we had rain days during monsoon season, as the streets were sometimes so flooded that I dreamed of kayaking down them.
We had school from 8 a.m. to 1:40 p.m., with only a 15 minute break in-between. I was picked up by our driver and at home by 2 p.m. I would have lunch, breathe, change, and would be out the door again by 3:15 p.m. in order to make it to my 4 p.m. French class downtown at the Alliance Française. The journey took me 45 minutes. It takes well over an hour now. My peers in French class were mostly college kids – sometimes they took me out for ice cream after class. There were of course no cell phones, so I would ask the administrative office for a favor and call home hastily to let my mother know I would be late. I was 12 and 13 years old. Our poor driver was also my ad-hoc chaperon.
In many ways, my social life was far more vibrant and free than the one I had before, and more than the one that would follow later in high school. I had an unprecedented level of mobility. With my school friends, I was always going to houses, lunches, and dinners and parties in malls, recreational clubs, and restaurants in the city centre. I was quite aware I was moving in high circles compared to people living in abject poverty around me. This troubled me – in fact, I think the knowledge of this disparity pervaded so much into my conscious, I would later gravitate towards work in international development.
Even then, I placed a high premium on my freedom and independence. I had a bicycle, a purple Huffy mountain bike, which looked ridiculously out of place on the streets of Chennai, where bicycles were colored neutrally and built for speed and transport, high and with thin wheels. But the bike served me well across the uneven roads. Amidst great protest and total lack of understanding as to why I’d used it for transport when I had access to an air-conditioned car, I would bike to stores, to my math tutor’s house for classes, and on occasion to a friend’s house.
I would bike to vegetable markets and convenience stores to fetch groceries for my mother if no one else was around, picking up a bar of Nestle Crunch or Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut as my prize. Consumer choice was somewhat limited. I think toothpaste choice was generally confined to Colgate. At a time when quality baked goods were rare, I would run all over town to find the best cakes. Though, as the years went by, the presence of international products increased. It was the beginning of trade liberalization, market reforms, and deregulation of television and radio. Now you can get anything and everything you want. No need to smuggle Head & Shoulders shampoo and VCRs through customs, as we used to do.
Could I live here again? Of course. Chennai is modern, yet as my friend who I met with whom I had not seen in 12 years noted, it has managed to maintain its “rustic” quality in comparison to Mumbai. I was sitting outside at a café on Arundel Beach Road in Besant Nagar with her, chatting as we used to chat, enjoying a strawberry milkshake, and I felt completely in place. The only thing that truly bothered me was that with the traffic and lack of sidewalks, the main roads were not very safe to walk on anymore. I nearly got run over by a few auto rickshaws. I hesitated to come back for a decade, and I could take it no longer. I will never let another 12 years pass. My heart currently resides in Atlanta; I left a huge chunk of it in London and go back regularly; but I also think I left a part of it in Chennai.
But a decade changes any place. Lattice Bridge Road, the main road off the street where I had lived in Thiruvanmiyur, was nearly unrecognizable. If you asked me to give directions to my favorite bookstore Odyssey, which still existed, I could no longer do it. The roads were overflowing with cars, traffic was exponentially worse, and once plentiful bicycles were few and far between. I used to bike to nearby destinations every now and then just for fun – I’d never risk it now.
I think the most startling changes were the ascending of tall glass tower buildings, the kind you see in technology parks, which were almost all call centers, the disappearance of slums (I think they were just hidden or pushed out), and the profusion of cell phones – everyone, rich and poor, seemed to have one. At least at the urban level, there appeared to be some breaking of inter-generational cycles of poverty.
I lived in this chaotic metropolis for three years in the mid 90s. Even then it was a bustling city of four million (the population has since doubled), a drastic contrast from the manicured spaces of suburbia I had inhabited in Georgia. At the time there, the uphill battle had been proving I was American, whereas, in India, I couldn't downplay my U.S. nationality if I tried.
I went to a school that was run by Christians, so we had a daily assembly which ended with the singing of a hymn. I even had a hymn book – in fact, you were thrown out of line if you didn’t have it in your pocket. We were otherwise totally secular and multireligious. The student body was almost evenly split between Hindus, Muslims, and Christians, so we got out for all of the holidays. And instead of snow days, we had rain days during monsoon season, as the streets were sometimes so flooded that I dreamed of kayaking down them.
We had school from 8 a.m. to 1:40 p.m., with only a 15 minute break in-between. I was picked up by our driver and at home by 2 p.m. I would have lunch, breathe, change, and would be out the door again by 3:15 p.m. in order to make it to my 4 p.m. French class downtown at the Alliance Française. The journey took me 45 minutes. It takes well over an hour now. My peers in French class were mostly college kids – sometimes they took me out for ice cream after class. There were of course no cell phones, so I would ask the administrative office for a favor and call home hastily to let my mother know I would be late. I was 12 and 13 years old. Our poor driver was also my ad-hoc chaperon.
In many ways, my social life was far more vibrant and free than the one I had before, and more than the one that would follow later in high school. I had an unprecedented level of mobility. With my school friends, I was always going to houses, lunches, and dinners and parties in malls, recreational clubs, and restaurants in the city centre. I was quite aware I was moving in high circles compared to people living in abject poverty around me. This troubled me – in fact, I think the knowledge of this disparity pervaded so much into my conscious, I would later gravitate towards work in international development.
Even then, I placed a high premium on my freedom and independence. I had a bicycle, a purple Huffy mountain bike, which looked ridiculously out of place on the streets of Chennai, where bicycles were colored neutrally and built for speed and transport, high and with thin wheels. But the bike served me well across the uneven roads. Amidst great protest and total lack of understanding as to why I’d used it for transport when I had access to an air-conditioned car, I would bike to stores, to my math tutor’s house for classes, and on occasion to a friend’s house.
I would bike to vegetable markets and convenience stores to fetch groceries for my mother if no one else was around, picking up a bar of Nestle Crunch or Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut as my prize. Consumer choice was somewhat limited. I think toothpaste choice was generally confined to Colgate. At a time when quality baked goods were rare, I would run all over town to find the best cakes. Though, as the years went by, the presence of international products increased. It was the beginning of trade liberalization, market reforms, and deregulation of television and radio. Now you can get anything and everything you want. No need to smuggle Head & Shoulders shampoo and VCRs through customs, as we used to do.
Could I live here again? Of course. Chennai is modern, yet as my friend who I met with whom I had not seen in 12 years noted, it has managed to maintain its “rustic” quality in comparison to Mumbai. I was sitting outside at a café on Arundel Beach Road in Besant Nagar with her, chatting as we used to chat, enjoying a strawberry milkshake, and I felt completely in place. The only thing that truly bothered me was that with the traffic and lack of sidewalks, the main roads were not very safe to walk on anymore. I nearly got run over by a few auto rickshaws. I hesitated to come back for a decade, and I could take it no longer. I will never let another 12 years pass. My heart currently resides in Atlanta; I left a huge chunk of it in London and go back regularly; but I also think I left a part of it in Chennai.
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